Edward Marston
The Hawks of Delamere
This man, with the help of many cruel barons, shed much Welsh blood. He was not so much lavish as prodigal. His retinue was more like an army than a household, and in giving and receiving he kept no account. Each day he devastated his own land and preferred falconers and huntsmen to the cultivators of the soil and ministers of heaven.
Prologue
It took three strong men to help him into the saddle. Hugh d’Avranches, Earl of Chester and master of all he surveyed, was now so fat and cumbersome that he could barely waddle along.
When he came lumbering into the courtyard, he supported himself on the sturdy shoulder of Dickon the Falconer. The rest of the hunting party were already mounted and they waited patiently until the three servants hoisted their master on to his horse, a mighty destrier specially chosen to bear the excessive weight of its noble rider.
Hugh gazed around the assembly with a twinkling eye. ‘Are you in the mood for sport, my friends?’ he asked.
‘We are, my lord!’ came the unanimous reply.
‘Sport by day and more sport by night, eh?’ said their host with a lecherous grin. ‘Hawking in one forest then hunting in the dark in another!’
Crude sniggers greeted the ribald comment but Hugh’s own laughter rose above it. Like the man himself, it was vast and overwhelming, beginning somewhere deep in the cave of his lungs before spreading quickly through the crevices and valleys of his mountainous frame until he shook uncontrollably with mirth.
The sound reverberated throughout Chester Castle.
Earl Hugh was amused. It was a good omen.
They were all there. Robert Cook, Richard Vernon, Hamo of Mascy, Gilbert Venables, Ranulph Mainwaring, William Malbank, Reginald Balliol, Bigot of Loges and Hugo of Delamere were leading barons in the shire, holding their land directly from the earl and regular members of his court. Dozens of other important guests had come from far and wide to enjoy the fabled hospitality of Chester Castle and to share in the pursuits and appetites of its notorious master.
‘Are we ready?’ boomed Hugh.
‘Ready and waiting, my lord,’ said William Malbank, acting as spokesman for all. ‘We will lead where you follow.’
‘You will have to catch me first!’
Pulling sharply on the reins to turn his horse’s head towards the castle gate, Hugh jabbed his heels into its flanks and set off at a canter. Taking up the challenge, the rest of the party went after him amid a cacophony of yells, giggles and hoofbeats. They were soon scattering the crowd uncaringly in the streets of a city which had long ago been taught never to complain at the antics of the earl and his retinue.
By the time they reached their destination, the cavalcade had slowed to a trot. The Delamere Forest was a wide stretch of woodland which ran all the way from the River Mersey in the north to the southernmost fringes of the county. Bounded on the east by the River Weaver and on the west by the River Gowy, the forest was a series of woods, coppices, clearings and open land where several hamlets or small villages had taken root.
Delamere was the favoured hunting ground of Earl Hugh. Those who dwelt in the forest feared his visits and always took care to keep well out of his way.
Riding beside Hugh at the head of the long procession was William Malbank, a tall, thin, wiry man in his thirties, wearing the distinctive helm and hauberk of a Norman baron. Malbank was in a boastful mood.
‘You have met your match at last, my lord,’ he said.
‘Never!’ replied the earl with chuckling confidence.
‘My gerfalcon is a magical creature.’
‘No bird can compete with my hawk.’
‘This one can,’ argued Malbank. ‘I have not met a creature who can take partridge, snipe and rabbit with such speed. She comes out of the sky like an avenging angel.’
‘There is nothing angelic about my hawk,’ said Hugh, glancing over his shoulder at the bird carried on its perch by his falconer.
‘She is the devil incarnate and leaves havoc in her wake. No other bird is safe in the air when she is on the wing. Hares, squirrels and badgers are no match for her and I would even back her against a wild cat.’
‘Do not wager against my gerfalcon,’ warned the other.
‘She is a mere sparrow beside my hawk.’
‘We shall see, my lord.’
They plunged into the forest and followed a winding path through the undergrowth until they emerged into a heath. Earl Hugh raised an imperious hand and the raucous banter which had marked their journey ceased at once. Hawking was a serious business. It demanded quiet and concentration. The noise of their approach had already frightened most of the game away. A watchful silence was now needed so that prey might be lured back to the area.
They waited for him to begin the day’s sport. Nobody dared to unleash his hawk before Hugh d’Avranches. In everything he did, the earl had to be first and foremost. A stillness eventually fell on the Delamere Forest, broken only by the song of invisible birds and the occasional jingle of a tiny bell as one of the hawks shifted its feet on its perch. Hugh remained alert, his piggy eyes scanning the heath in all directions, his ears pricked for telltale sounds.
When he was ready, he gave the signal and Dickon the Falconer untied the hawk, coaxed it on to his arm, then passed the bird to his master. Its claws sank into the thick leather gauntlet as it settled on its new perch but it did not stay there for long. A crane went flapping across the sky in search of marshland and Hugh responded swiftly. Slipping the hood from his hawk, he flicked his arm to send it soaring up into the heavens after the larger bird.
The crane saw the danger in time and altered its course to dip and weave but the hawk did not go in pursuit. It had spotted a more enticing prey in the long grass and it hovered above its target for a full minute before descending with stunning speed.
The hare had no chance. The impact knocked it senseless and the talons squeezed the life out of it. One more hapless victim had been claimed by the earl’s hawk.
‘Did you ever see such a strike?’ he asked proudly.
‘Let my gerfalcon have a turn,’ said Malbank.
‘What will it hunt — mice?’
‘Do not mock, my lord. My bird has been trained to kill almost any prey. She is the equal of your hawk.’
‘Impossible, William!’
‘Do you wish to place a wager?’
‘It would be an act of cruelty against a friend.’
‘Can it be that you are afeared?’ teased the other.
‘I fear nothing!’ retorted Hugh, his voice darkening to an angry snarl. ‘Are you accusing the Earl of Chester of being frightened, William?’
‘Only in jest, my lord.’
‘Then I will throw that jest back in your teeth. If you invite a wager, you shall have it. Pit your gerfalcon against my hawk, if you must, but offer a stake worthy of the contest.’
‘Whatever you suggest,’ said Malbank with an appeasing smile.
‘Name it, my lord, and it is agreed.’
‘Very well,’ decided Hugh, stroking his flabby chin. ‘If your bird proves to be the finer of the two, you can have the best horse in my stables.’
‘That is a worthy prize indeed!’
‘I will take something of like merit from you.’
‘My own best horse?’
‘No, William,’ said Hugh, slapping him on the back. ‘Your best mistress. Every time I ride her, I will reflect on your folly in parting with such a sublime creature.’
Malbank writhed in discomfort and wished that he had never been so bold as to offer the challenge, but the wager had been set and it was sealed by the general hilarity of the company. It would grieve him to lose his mistress and she would never forgive him if she were subjected to the merciless attentions of the man who was nicknamed Hugh the Gross for reasons not entirely related to his sheer physical bulk. There was no turning back now. Malbank was trapped.