Hawk Quest by Robert Lyndon

huntsman scratched his head. ‘The hounds say they crossed here.’
    Drogo slid off his horse. ‘Don’t be an imbecile. The current would have swept them over the fall.’
    ‘One of them crossed.’
    Drogo jerked. ‘Wayland?’
    The huntsman nodded. ‘I saw him course a deer once and he leaped a chasm I wouldn’t have set a horse at.’
    ‘Then where are the rest of them?’ Drogo surveyed all around. ‘It’s a ruse. They must have backtracked. They can’t be far.’
    ‘They’re not here. The scent’s fresh. They’re on foot. We should have caught up with them long ago. Wayland’s leading us a dance.’
    Drogo clubbed the huntsman to the ground. ‘Where did we lose them?’
    The man felt his jaw. ‘I don’t know,’ he mumbled.
    Drogo kicked him. ‘Tell me, damn you.’
    ‘Back at the wall where the hounds checked and Ostine began following a different line. I thought that sheep had led her astray because the others went on stronger than before. Since then they’ve run steadfast.’
    Drogo stared back in a frenzy of disbelief. ‘By now they could be across the Tyne. They could be in the next county.’
    Wayland notched arrow to bowstring.
    Drogo’s eyes switched. ‘Who’s got the freshest horse? Guilbert, ride for home and send parties in all directions. Raise the alarm in Durham. Send word to York. I’ll follow you direct.’ He caught hold ofhis horse and dragged himself up. He stared across the river, his eyes burning like coals. ‘The bastard can’t be far away. He’s probably watching us.’
    ‘We’ll pin him another day,’ Roussel said.
    Drogo’s gaze skewered him. ‘None of this would be necessary if you and Drax had dealt with the Frank. Well, now the two of you can make amends. Take the huntsman and four others.’ Drogo gathered his reins. ‘Nothing less than the falconer’s head on a spike will make me forgive you.’
    Wayland stood, drew, aimed and loosed. The arrow skewed off Drogo’s mailed shoulder. His horse reared and the other riders milled, grasping for their weapons.
    Wayland bellied away through the heather. Aimless bolts hissed overhead. When he was out of range, he stood up. Drogo sat clutching his shoulder, though the arrow hadn’t penetrated. The riders had closed up in combat formation, shield to shield. Wayland brandished his bow. He threw back his head and spread his arms in a wordless display of triumph.
    In slanting afternoon sunshine, he sat at the edge of the wildwood and watched his hunters far below picking their way across the South Tyne. The huntsman carried lame Marteau over his saddle, and the other hounds quested in silence. When all seven riders had crossed, Wayland rose and massaged his aching calves. Since dawn he’d covered more than twenty miles. He yoked his bow across his shoulders and went into the trees, up through the childhood smells of violets and wood anemones. The dog remembered the forest and stuck close to heel, its tail drooping. Wayland entered the home clearing with the weary tread of a mourner. Ash and hazel had colonised the cultivated strips and the place where the house had stood was a riot of nettles.
    Behind the house a byre had collapsed into a tangle of poles choked by ivy and brambles. He pushed between them. They weren’t stout enough to stop a charging horse, but the weeds grew dense enough to screen him from sight. He’d passed several spots where he could have ambushed the Normans without much risk to himself, but he wanted them to know why he’d led them here. Roussel and Drax had been members of the gang that had murdered his family; he wanted to see recognition flare before he killed them.
    While he waited, he picked burrs from between the dog’s pads. He took six ash arrows from his quiver and planted them to hand. The sun sank into the trees. Blue dusk suffused the air. Rooks cawed on their nests. It was very peaceful.
    A jay squawked in the wood and the rooks lifted from their nests. A wren scolded at the