‘And now I wish to unsign. I cannot take part after all.’
‘I see,’ said Andolph, laying down his quill. ‘I am afraid there are no allowances made for withdrawals. I take it you are seeking your money back?’
‘Yes. Why pay for something I cannot do?”
‘Why indeed? However, the rules are quite specific. If a falcon becomes ill, or the falconer fails to appear, then his entry fee is forfeit. You see it is the entry fee that creates the ultimate prize.’
‘I only signed an hour ago,’ she said, smiling sweetly. ‘Can you not make an exception for a poor mountain girl?’
Andolph blushed. ‘Well… as you say, it was only an hour since.’ Reaching into the box at his left hand, he removed a silver penny and handed it to her. Abby baited once more and the little man dropped the coin in Sigarni’s palm and snatched his hand away. ‘I really don’t like them,’ he confided. ‘I prefer the hares.’
‘Hares were created for sport,’ said Sigarni.
Four riders came galloping across the field, their horses’ hooves drumming on the hard-packed clay. Abby fluffed up her feathers, but Sigarni held tightly to the flying jesses. The lead horseman, a man dressed all in black, dismounted from the grey stallion, tossing the reins to a second horseman. Sigami stood silently, for all the men were now waiting, stiff-backed. Even the little cleric had risen from his seat. This then, she knew, must be the Baron. Inwardly Sigarni cursed herself for bothering about the entry fee, for the man was staring intently at Abby. He was a tall man, with sleek black hair drawn back tightly over his brow and tied in a short pony-tail at the nape of his neck. He sported a thin, trident beard that gleamed as if oiled, and his eyes were large and wood-ash grey, hooded, and bulging from their sockets. His lips were thin, the mouth cruel, thought Sigarni.
‘Where did you get the bird?’ he asked, the voice so low that it was a moment before Sigarni realized he had spoken.
‘A gift from a friend,’ she answered him. The other riders dismounted and gathered in close. Sigarni felt hemmed in, but she stood her ground.
‘In return for some sexual favour, I don’t doubt,’ said the Baron, his tone bored. ‘Ah well, I expect you are here to sell the creature. I’ll give you ten guineas for it – assuming you haven’t ruined it.’
‘She is not ruined, my lord, and she is not for sale,’ said Sigarni. ‘I trained her myself, and was planning to enter the tourney with her.’
The Baron appeared not to notice she had spoken. Turning to the man behind him, he called out, ‘Ten guineas, if you please, Leofric. I’ll reimburse you later. And remind me to speak to the black man next time he visits the town.’
‘Yes, my lord,’ said the blond rider, fishing in his purse for coins.
Sigarni stepped back. ‘She is not for sale,’ she said, her voice louder than she intended. This time the Baron turned and for the first time looked into her eyes.
‘You are a Highlander, aren’t you?’ he announced.
‘I am.’
‘There are no noble houses in the Highlands, merely a motley group of inbred savages scraping a living from the mountain-sides. The law is simple, woman. A yeoman may raise a goshawk. That is the only bird of prey allowed to those not of noble blood. The bird you hold is not a goshawk; therefore you cannot own the bird. Am I speaking too fast for you? Now take the money and hand the bird to my falconer.’
Sigarni knew that she should obey. It mattered not that it was unfair. Grame was right, the Baron was the law and to deny him would be futile. Yet something flickered deep within her, like the birth of a fire.
‘I am of the blood of Gandarin the King,’ she said, ‘and the hawk is mine.” Mine to keep, mine to free!’ So saying, her arm swept up and she released the jesses. Surprised by the sudden movement Abby spread her wings and sailed into the air. Not even a glimmer of anger showed on the Baron’s face. For several heartbeats no one moved, and all watched the hawk gliding up on the thermals. Then, without speed, almost casually, the Baron’s black-gloved fist cracked against the side of Sigarni’s face. Half stunned, she staggered back. The Baron moved in. Sigarni lashed out with her foot, aiming for his groin, but her aim was out and she kicked him in the thigh. ‘Hold her!’ said the Baron. She found her arms pinned and recognized the soldiers who had first spoken to her in the market square. The Baron hit her in the stomach, and she doubled forward. His voice echoed through her pain; it was not a raised voice, nor did it contain a hint of emotion. ‘Stupid woman,’ he said. ‘Now you have forfeited your right to the ten guineas. Any more stupidity and you will face the lash. You understand me? Call the bird!’