by Janet Lynnford
by Janet Lynnford
Charles Cavandish is 14, and he's an excellent falconer. So great is his skill in flying wild birds of prey, he's showing his friend George how to fly his small marsh hawk. As a heron flies over the marsh, Charles has George set his hawk at it. And Charles gets the surprise of his life.
(This excerpt is from the prologue of the 1997 book issued by Topaz, an imprint of Dutton Signet. Copyright by Janet Lynnford, 1997. All rights reserved. Topaz books are always available, always in print. Readers, order a copy from your favorite bookseller.)
A black blur shot out of nowhere and cut into his bird's flight path. Thrown off her mark, the marsh hawk wavered and fell back. Rude as a cutpurse, a female goshawk of enormous proportions cannoned toward the heron.
"What the--" Charles leaped forward.
"That's my heron," George cried.
The second hawk hit the heron like a load of brick, breaking the heron's neck. Locking her talons into the back and wings, she rode it to the ground and disappeared into the reeds bordering the marsh.
Stagnant water flew from beneath his heavy boot soles as Charles ran through the marsh pools. "I'm going to kill whoever owns that bird."
"That makes two of us," George yelled, pelting after him.
"Stay where you are and recover my bird," Charles ordered over his shoulder. "Swing the lure and she'll come to you."
George stopped dead and searched the sky for the hawk.
Charles ran on, knowing he should recall the bird himself. But anger drove him. He would confront whoever dared steal his prey.
A dog broke from the reeds to his right, making straight for the heron and the hawk. It was the same great black hound he'd seen earlier, Charles noted, as he thrashed through the reeds. He reached the bird mere seconds after the dog.
Perched on the heron's back, the goshawk cocked her head at him. Her sharp, haughty eyes and the arrogant tilt of her head seemed to say, "This one's mine. Too bad for you." The black dog assumed a protective stance beside the heron and stared at Charles, a fierce expression in its eyes.
"That's what you say now," Charles snarled, his gaze searching the woods. Since the dog had come from that direction, so would the owner. It was part of the old Morley property, but no one lived there these days. Not since Lady Morley had died some years ago.
The dense woods shivered as someone pushed through the overgrown bracken, coming down the hill. Charles clenched his fists and shifted on his feet, ready to fight. At fourteen, he was strong enough to beat any lad, though this wouldn't be any boy he knew. In fact, no one in this area possessed such a perfectly trained bird.
As the interloper drew nearer, Charles froze, puzzled by the high, pure notes of singing.
Snatches of some wild song echoed eerily among the trees, wending their way to him on the wind. The branches parted, and a slim figure stepped forth.
Charles stared, dumbstruck. It wasn't a lad, but a girl.
Or was it a nymph?
She had hair the color of night wind, rich and smoky the tendrils curling around her face like a dark nimbus and hanging to her waist. Absently, she reached up to pull a lock free from a branch and brush away leaves that clung to the strands. Snowy feathers tucked behind her left ear gleamed white against the dark wings of her hair. A rent in her plain, dark kirtle skirt revealed a slim ankle. And her smock hung nonchalantly off one shoulder, as if she didn't care in the least that it bared her white skin. Or that it drew his gaze to her small, firm breasts beneath the thin cloth.
Oddest of all, the nymph wore a thickly padded falconer's glove.
Charles swallowed hard, fighting the excitement that stabbed through his loins. He shouldn't feel this for a strange girl met in the wood. Especially one who had just snatched his prey. Yet he thought a good deal about females these days. So much so, he often couldn't sleep at night.
This female seemed aloof and calm. Her appearance was free and wild . . . and inviting.
Lifting her gloved hand, she sent him a ghost of a smile. Then she pursed her lips and let loose a sharp, shrill whistle.
The hawk left the heron without hesitation, flapping straight to her wrist. It settled contentedly on her arm, the tiny bells on its jesses tinkling. Drawing a chunk of raw meat from the pouch at her waist, she fed the bird. While it gulped the reward, she wiped her bloody fingers on a rag.
Her gaze meandered back to rest on Charles again. As bold as you please, as if she had a right to snatch his prey from beneath his nose without so much as a by your leave.
"That was incredibly rude, you know," Charles called out, determined to overcome the ridiculous excitement he felt at her appearance. "I expect an apology."
Without answering, she strolled down the hill toward him, her step stately and confident. "Pharaoh's foot, but you're a cross one," she said as she drew up opposite him. With a low growl, the dog placed himself between them.
"I'm not cross," he snapped at her. "I'm furious. You stole my prey."
"I did not," she said calmly. "You sent up your bird too late."
To return to Janet Lynnford's main home page, click here.