The Silver Falcon Read Free Page A

small for his age, people often thought he was younger than he was. But he was certainly old enough to know every tool in the smithy, as well as how to use them. But tongs, burins, and hammers—these things did not interest him in the slightest. Round-jaw and wolf-jaw tongs were almost identical, apart from the shallow serrations on the latter. Unless you looked closely, they were easily confused, and he just hadn’t looked. William rolled his eyes. He really didn’t have the slightest wish to become a smith.
    Ellenweore wiped her face with the back of her hand, leaving a broad streak of soot around her mouth. William giggled. The streak looked just like a beard. He struggled with all his might not to laugh.
    “You should be ashamed of yourself, instead of grinning,” Ellenweore went on, now furious. “You really are good for nothing.”
    His mother’s hurtful words cut him to the quick, but the last thing William wanted was for the other apprentices to notice. He bit his lower lip and stared at the ground, focusing on a small piece of hammer scale. Once he had composed himself, he looked up again, but Ellenweore had turned back to the anvil.
    “You poor thing.” Adam mouthed the words silently behind Ellenweore’s back, his expression mocking. He was the oldest and cheekiest of the three apprentices. Smirking, he poked Brad, the guildmaster’s son.
    “Luke, give me the wolf-jaw tongs,” Ellenweore ordered the youngest apprentice. She raised her eyebrows as Luke, who had been learning the craft only since the beginning of the year, handed her the right tongs. She looked reproachfully at her son.
    William knew he had disappointed her yet again, even though she ought to be proud of him.
    “I hate the smithy, and the stupid tongs, too. I don’t need them because I shall never be a smith!” he blurted out defiantly.
    Ellenweore looked at him in astonishment.
    William glared at her, turned on his heel, and rushed out of the workshop without another word.
    As the door latched shut behind him, he took a deep breath.
    October’s glorious sunshine and light breezes had stripped the dry leaves from the trees and piled them up in rustling heaps. A gust of wind swept them about the yard in miniature whirlwinds, as if they were dancing a lively round. But even the sight of this was not enough to lift William’s spirits. In search of a little affection and security, he went over to Graybeard, who was still lying in the same position in the yard. He knelt down beside his old friend and pressed his cheek against the dog’s rough gray fur, stroking behind the animal’s ears.
    “I can’t do anything right as far as she’s concerned.” William was still upset. He plucked a stray twig from the dog’s hairy chops.
    Graybeard looked at him with devotion, his left and right eyebrows twitching alternately.
    “And it’s not even what I want,” William growled stubbornly. “I’m going to be a falconer.”
    The dog whimpered, suddenly uneasy, and rose to his feet despite the obvious pain it caused. William listened, too. He couldhear horses’ hooves approaching quickly. William stood up as the first rider burst into the yard holding a banner. The bright-red cloth, with its three lions passant in gold, fluttered proudly in the autumn wind. Every child in England knew whose colors these were. The continued clattering of hooves indicated that many horses were approaching the smithy. Before the man could address him, William ran off, the quarrel with his mother immediately forgotten. He rushed to the smithy, tore open the door, and called excitedly into the workshop, “The king! Mother, the king!”
    After a few blinks, his eyes adapted to the darkness inside and he saw that his mother’s cheeks had turned red—presumably from joy. William knew how deeply she wished that King Henry might order swords from her.
    “At last,” she gasped, visibly relieved, awkwardly pushing an unruly lock of rust-red hair back beneath her