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“Marie-Jeanne!” Father called.
Marie-Jeanne bound the last cord around her soft boot top and tied a firm knot, then rushed out of the door of the mews into the cold spring air. Her brown braids danced on the shoulders of her gray woolen smock.
Father looked impatient, his thinning black hair even more disarrayed than usual. He leaned on his crutch for strength. The Comte de Velay, a bulky man who would have made two of Father and Marie-Jeanne combined, loomed over the much shorter falconer. His broad, bearded face was set in a grimace. On his wrist, killer talons gripping the leather gauntlet, stood Mistinguette, the valuable young kestrel on which both Father and Marie-Jeanne had been lavishing endless attention and care. The huge white bird turned its head toward the sound of her flapping footsteps. Her fierce eyes were covered by the embroidered blue leather hood.
It seemed that the blindfolding had not been enough to keep the kestrel from striking. Blood ran down the side of the Comte’s face. A gouge the shape of Mistinguette’s beak almost beside the liege lord’s eye told the tale. Marie-Jeanne ran for the box of clean lint and the earthenware jar of Frere Benedict’s salve that they kept in a chest just inside the door.
“You told me she would be ready by today! Why is she not enchanted for obedience?” the Comte demanded, as Marie-Jeanne stretched her meager height up to wipe away the blood and dab the green paste on the wound. He hissed at its contact, but the pain would subside in moments, as the holy salve healed swiftly. Nothing would be left but a tiny scar.
“As I have explained, my lord, to instill obedience in a hawk is to damage its natural instincts toward hunting,” Father said, bobbing his head humbly. No matter how many times he had told the lord that, it did not remain in de Velay’s memory. “It must keep its wild tendencies. If it becomes too tame, it sees prey animals as its equal, not its inferiors. She is ready, I swear to the good God.”
The Comte thrust the bird back toward Father. “If it bites me again, I shall strangle it, whether it is worth two hundred livres or not!”
“Perhaps, then, it should not go out today,” Father said, gently touching the kestrel on the backs of her legs to make her step up onto his gauntlet. “I will get your goshawk Remy ready for you.”
“No! His grace the Bishop of Mende joins me on the field today. He brings his own falconer and his white gyrfalcon. I want to show him I have as fine a bird as he. The kestrel comes.”
“Yes, my lord,” Father said, in resignation. He thrust Mistinguette toward his daughter.
Marie-Jeanne accepted the bird on her unprotected arm and withdrew well away from the Comte’s reach. She cooed calming words in the kestrel’s ear and stroked her soft, speckled breast feathers. Mistinguette’s wings bated slightly, then settled into place. The hawk liked her, though its way of showing it did was kind of painful. Marie-Jeanne tried not to cringe at the sharp talons’ grip poking pinpoint holes in her skin through her woolen sleeve. She didn’t dare cry out, or the Comte might decide the hunting bird wasn’t worth his time after all. Father was the one who knew all the enchantments to communicate with and guide his charges, not she. He and the journeymen were vague when she asked them what the training entailed. Someday she would learn all of the secrets of falconry, but she had not yet!
“Prepare it to depart,” the Comte said, grandly. “That and the minor birds for my sons and the ladies. We leave at first light. Coneys are running wild across the barley meadows. It should be a good day’s hunting.”
“Yes, my lord,” Father said, his head keeping time with his words. “I am not yet fit after my fall during the last outing, my lord. Er, may we not await my son Emile’s return? He ought to be back today after bringing your kindly gift of the white merlin to the Bishop’s palace at Chartres?”
“You have other apprentices,” the Comte said, dismissively, without a care for Father’s injury, though Marie-Jeanne knew that his carelessness was the reason for it. “Send one of them.”
Father hesitated. He and Marie-Jeanne knew that though they had been trained in the spells and cantrips of falconry, none of the young men in his employ dared get near Mistinguette.
“My daughter will go,” Father said, projecting an assurance that Marie-Jeanne was sure he didn’t feel. “She will do well.”
“That girl?” the noble asked, his disdainful gaze searching her from her thick brown braids down the heavy woolen smock and hose to the soles of her worn leather shoes. Like Father, she was small-boned, and looked years younger than her fourteen summers. “I have seen her running in the fields like a wild animal herself. Has she ever aided on a hunt? There are dangerous creatures out there that also hunt rabbits.”
“She will do well,” Father said again. “Only wait here a moment while I kit her up.”
Limping on his crutch, he dragged Marie-Jeanne into the mews.
“Shoes tied? Yes,” he said, pulling bags and boxes down from shelves on the wall opposite the falcons’ perches. “You’ll need a hat for the sun and a bag for the kills. You’re strong. You can carry plenty of coneys and small game birds. Let the men take on anything larger. Wear a heavy cloak. It looks as if it might rain. Draw the hawk under cover with you. Her temper will fray if she gets wet.”
“Why me?” Marie-Jeanne asked, although she took her cloak down from the wooden peg on the wall. “The day is fine. I could gather strawberries for Mother. Or mushrooms. I know where there are morels.”
“I need you to go. Today is not a day to run free. Do your duty!”
“Send Simeon or Pierre. They have experience.”
“Mistinguette will not behave for them,” Father said simply.
“Father, this is the season of La Bête!” Marie-Jeanne protested. Stories of the terrifying shaggy, fanged beast that was part boar, part wolf, who tore apart the unwary and unholy, had kept her up at night after many a bonfire party. “I heard that she was spotted again in Gévaudan, and left a body torn apart, but with no blood in it.”
“You know the comte does not believe in such legends,” Father said. “Perhaps the bishop’s prayers will keep the monster away.” He shook his head and ran a knobby knuckle down Mistinguette’s feathery breast. “The best defense you have is here. Follow her lead. She will guard your life.”
~*~
“So, have you heard the latest rumors, my lord?” the comte asked his honored guest as they trotted along together. “La Bête has struck again, it seems.”
“Pah!” the clergyman said, waving a gorgeously gloved hand. Clean-shaven, the bishop had a long, narrow face with high cheekbones and a thin, pointed nose with arching nostrils that made him look disapproving even when he smiled. “The court of inquiry is already looking into it. The man who was killed was unpopular and rumored to have cheated many of his customers. You will see, it will turn out to be one of those. No supernatural beasts stalk here!”
“But, my lord bishop,” put in Comtesse de Velay, “there have been many incidents of brutal killings, including innocent children, all torn apart as if by a beast.”
The bishop crossed himself. The rest of the party followed suit immediately.
“We fear the wolf and the boar for a good reason, my lady,” he said. “One does not have to look to Satan. Those poor children might have fallen afoul of a real beast. And we are far from Gévaudan.”
The nobles’ huntsmen and servants shook their heads, careful to keep their skepticism out of sight of their lords. The bishop might be anointed by God and protected by divine hands, but the rest of them feared what Satan might have set loose on Earth for the rest of them.
Marie-Jeanne had no time to tremble or look around for the fabled man-killing monster. In the trail of the nobles on their great horses, she sat astride a donkey saddled with nothing more than a couple of flour sacks padded with straw. She had to admit how fine her lord looked in his red hat and surcote, astride the steady chestnut stallion that was almost as red. The horse’s saddle looked large enough to sail on and glinted with silver. The saddlecloths were embroidered with the crook and sword symbol of Velay. The bishop had the wheatsheaf of Languedoc on his garments and his dark bay horse’s trappings, but in gold and surrounded by a shield to show his status as the overlord of the province. The ladies and gentlemen all looked so impressive in their silks and fur-lined cloaks. Servants leading or riding beasts of burden carried baskets of food and jugs of wine for an open-air feast when the sun reached its height. A pack of fine hounds milled around them, yelping to one another in excitement. Marie-Jeanne was both honored and terrified to be in their number.
With every bounce on the rough road, Mistinguette’s claws tightened on Marie-Jeanne’s wrist. Even the thick gauntlet she now wore to protect herself from the kestrel’s talons only blunted the points, not the fierce grip. She would have bruises, she knew it. The thought of punishment by her father and the hope of a gift of money and a share of the kills from the Comte or the Bishop were all that kept her from slowing down so that the hunting party would disappear out of sight. On her back flapped the enormous leather bag to hold prey. At her hip, she had a small creel containing the lure that would attract Mistinguette back should she stray after being flown. It was baited with pieces of pigeon, which were beginning to stink in the growing warmth of the day. The kestrel could smell the meat and tried to climb down from Marie-Jeanne’s glove to get at them. Only the hanging jesses in the girl’s fist kept her from getting away.
Spring in the Languedoc came earlier than it did to most of France. Tiny, yellow-green leaves festooned the dark brown branches of beech trees. The oaks still stood proudly naked, their shaggy, gray-brown bark silver in the slips of sunlight that penetrated through the thick forest. They were making for the barley fields, where the growing grain had already attracted pests. While the hunt would cut down on the number of rabbits, it would also trample a good portion of the crop. Father’s friends grumbled, saying they did not know which was worse. Flies swarmed to her sweating flesh. With one hand for the reins and one for the hawk, she had to ignore the itchy bites.
“Ho!” called the hunt master. Marie-Jeanne kicked the donkey to hurry it to join the rest of the group. As soon as she could stop, she scratched her bites. The donkey lashed his tail to rid himself of the flies.
They had paused on the outskirts of a field, next to a small house. The farmer and his family bowed and scraped apprehensively. The farmer’s wife offered small beer to the hunters to refresh them after their ride. The Comte made a face, but he didn’t spit it out. If the bishop had not been nearby, he surely would have. It was too early in the year for new wine, and peasant beer often tasted bitter.
True to the report, brown rabbits ran to and fro among the bright shoots of barley. The Comte grinned.
“My lord bishop, would you care to make the first strike?” he asked.
The bishop bared his big white teeth. They made him look rather like a hare himself.
“I shall. Robert! Bring me Matilde!”
The bishop’s falconer sprang off his small brown horse and presented himself at his master’s saddlebow. He held up the shimmering white gyrfalcon to his lord. Before the Comte could make a similar cry, Marie-Jeanne clambered awkwardly from the donkey’s back and dragged it behind her as she hurried to present Mistinguette to his gauntleted wrist. With a quick swipe, she removed the kestrel’s hood. She got a grudging glance of approval for her pains. So far, so good. All she wanted from the day was not to disgrace herself or her father.
“Smooth and easy, my lord,” she said. “She’s had as much jostling as she can take.”
“I know, I know!” the comte grumbled.
The bishop lifted his hand to the sky. The gyrfalcon needed no more urging. She opened her great wings and rose up like an angel toward the blue heavens.
All the smaller birds in the field scattered like ashes in the wind. The rabbits continued their frolicking, unaware of death hovering above. The white falcon held in the sky for a moment as if she was painted there, then dove straight for the biggest, plumpest coney. An audible crack sounded as the hawk broke its prey’s neck. The huntsman jumped down from his horse to retrieve the dead rabbit and present it to the bishop.
At the shock of the feathered killer, the rest of the herd scrambled for safety. Little was to be found as the rest of the party released their hawks in pursuit. Smoothly, the Comte raised his arm and loosed Mistinguette into the air. She floated away like a leaf. Lady de Velay sent a kiss after her favorite merlin. The tiny bird arrowed after the lead rabbit, veering off just as the beast leaped into a hole at the field’s edge. A dozen of its kin followed it, vanishing like drops of water down a drain.
At once, the dogs went after it, digging at the dirt and warbling like out of tune choristers. Marie-Jeanne smiled. The rabbits would be miles away in a minute, vanished along the endless corridors of their warren.
“Heel, sirrah! Heel!” The huntsman called in the dogs, who had caught nothing. But Mistinguette fluttered her pale wings on the air, and dove into the barley, halfway across the field. She didn’t come up again.
“A strike, by Jesu!” the Comte said, with a laugh. “Go get it, girl.”
“Yes, my lord!” Marie-Jeanne said. With a look for apology at the farmer, she sidled into the young grain.
It didn’t do to charge in upon a hawk with its kill. One had to approach the bird carefully. Marie-Jeanne neared the row where she heard the sound of satisfied peeping. She parted the stalks of grain. Mistinguette looked up at her with fierce eyes, standing on the belly of the rabbit she was disemboweling.
“Now, now, my chick,” Marie-Jeanne said in the most soothing voice she could. Father always said that hawk magic began with eyes, hands, and voice. She began to stoop low and eased a gloved hand toward her charge. “Come to me, then. You’ll get your treat. Let me have the rabbit.” She felt in the lure pouch and brought out a chunk of pigeon flesh. “Look here! This is for you.”
She extended the gobbet of meat toward the fierce beak. Mistinguette snatched it from her gloved fingers, leaving a gouge in the leather. Marie-Jeanne took the kestrel onto her wrist and hastily stuffed the rabbit into her bag. Flowing blood was said to attract La Bête. She glided out of the barley field and presented the hawk to the Comte.
“A fine catch,” the bishop praised him, as Marie-Jeanne displayed the dead coney. “A bit smaller than mine, though.” The huntsman took charge of the prey, handing it off to one of his apprentices. Marie-Jeanne curtseyed and drew back.
The Comte smiled, showing his teeth through his beard. “The day is young.” He hefted the falcon so that her wings flipped. “She will catch many more fat rabbits for me today.”
Mistinguette shrieked in protest at the mistreatment.
“Hand to her strings, my lord!” Marie-Jeanne cried, alarmed. “She’s going to bolt!”
Her warning came too late. Before the comte could grab for the jesses, the kestrel shot away from him and flew into the nearest treetop.
“Come back here!” he bellowed. “I swear, I will kill that hawk! Get her, girl!”
Marie-Jeanne pressed her lips together. No word of criticism must escape them, but he knew how flighty the kestrel was! Keeping Mistinguette in plain sight, she went out into the open and took the lure from her bag. On a twelve-foot cord, the leather bag had been made to resemble a flying dove, but years of being stooped upon by countless birds of prey had torn it into a figure more like a blackened hedgehog. Still, the hawks recognized it and came to it, most of the time. Marie-Jeanne played out the cord and began to swing the lure in a wide circle. Mistinguette’s head went up. She saw it, of course she did, but the stubborn kestrel hunkered down again, clinging to her branch. Marie-Jeanne sighed. If only she knew the chants and spells that would bring the hawk to her wrist!
A keening wail rose from the forest behind them. All the horses and donkeys bucked or danced at the sound. The huntsman plowed in among his dogs, cuffing them to make them stop howling at the mournful noise. Marie-Jeanne froze. The lure dropped to the ground.
“What in hell was that?” the comte demanded.
“Some poor beast being torn by a wolf,” the bishop said, with an expression of disapproval at the noble’s blasphemy. “Nothing to do with hell at all, my good comte.”
“Very well, then,” de Velay said, sulkily. He did not like to be corrected, even by Holy Mother Church. “Let us go on with our hunt.”
But the cry had alarmed Mistinguette. She lifted from the branch and fluttered into the woods. The bishop laughed.
“Curse it, let her go!” the comte barked. “She’s of no further use to me. I have better birds.”
Marie-Jeanne knew better. Once out of sight of his illustrious company, he would demand that Father reimburse him the price of the costly falcon, meaning that the family would work for years with catastrophically reduced pay. It would be a horrible way to reward Father for sending her on her first hunt.
“I will find her, my lord,” she said, gathering up the lure. De Velay waved her away impatiently. Marie-Jeanne marked the direction that the kestrel had flown, and ran after her, hoping to spot a glimpse of her white feathers against the dark trees.
The lure was of no use among the undergrowth of the forest. Mistinguette had not yet learned to come to her name. Without Father’s cantrips for finding and trapping, all Marie-Jeanne could hope was to find the kestrel on a low branch and coax her back onto the glove.
The forest was usually alive with the sounds of birds and small animals, but it was eerily silent that day. Marie-Jeanne could not help but think that the terrifying cry had silenced them all with fear. Her own heart beat hard against her ribs. What if La Bête was real? What if it came upon her in the woods all alone? Would anything be left of her to tell her grieving parents what had become of her? Her blood ran like ice in her veins.
Behind her, the rest of the hunting party had carried on. The nobles shouted encouragement at their birds as they flew after rabbits and pheasants that the dogs flushed from cover. Soon, their voices died away in the distance. Marie-Jeanne crossed herself, hoping that she would not become lost. She had scavenged in the forests for mushrooms and nuts all her life, but usually in the company of friends or siblings, one at least who knew the way home.
A reassuring peep sounded from far ahead.
“Mistinguette!” Marie-Jeanne called. “Come back, chick!”
Another peep, as if in answer, gave the girl a direction, at least. A well-worn deer path led her that way. She pushed aside branches, scaring a squirrel up the nearest tree, where it scolded her as she passed. More peeps made her turn left, then right, then right again, stepping over humped roots and avoiding the piles of scut left by animals.
“I’m coming, chick!” At last, the plaintive sound seemed to come from above her. Marie-Jeanne looked up. Mistinguette clung to a branch high over her head. The girl held up her wrist and the lure.
“Come down to me, chick!” she called, keeping her voice soothing.
The kestrel rose a handspan, then dropped back, scrambling to clutch at the branch. She tried again, swung upside down, and flapped hard to right herself. Marie-Jeanne realized with horror that the hawk’s jesses were caught. If she struggled too hard, she could break her neck.
The thought of Father shamed and impoverished struck Marie-Jeanne with shame. She had no choice. Fastening the big leather pouch tight to her back, she found a handhold and pulled herself up against the stout bole. She felt for a toehold and boosted herself up another foot. The first big branch was still over her head. One long stretch with her right arm, and she managed to hook a hand over it. The gloves kept her from skinning her palms on the rough bark.
Mistinguette’s flapping and calling became more frantic. One long feather, dislodged by her struggles, floated down past Marie-Jeanne’s head.
“Don’t struggle, dear one!” the girl pleaded. The hawk could do herself a mischief, perhaps even break a wing! “Oh, how I wish I could tell you – all you need to do is sit calm!” That was unlikely. Mistinguette would probably tear her face in her hysteria. What would Father or one of the boys do? She had seen Henri, the eldest journeyman, soothe an eagle from insane fits to cooing affection with a few soft words. Not that the bird was tamed, far from it, but she had never understood how he had done it. When she asked, the boys put her off. Did they seem...embarrassed as to how they had learned to communicate with the hawks? In all the years since Father had let her begin to handle the birds, she had been bitten, screamed at, battered by wings, soiled upon, scratched, and coldly ignored by them. What more could they possibly do?
It didn’t matter. Her duty was clear: save the bird then go back to face whatever punishment the comte chose to subject her to for not controlling it. He was not a bad man, only impatient. If she was successful, he would calm down. She’d receive no money, but at least Father would not be the loser on the day.
A warm stream rained down on her unprotected head. Marie-Jeanne touched the liquid and looked at it. White and pasty. She groaned. The bird had soiled on her hair! Stifling her resentment, she gritted her teeth and felt for the next handhold, and the next. Mistinguette was upset. She understood. Suddenly, a mad golden eye glared at her. Marie-Jeanne recoiled just in time from a strike by the deadly beak.
“There you are!” she said, in the same tone Mother used to talk with babies. “Hold on, my chick. I’m here. I’ll help you.”
Mistinguette couldn’t understand her or didn’t believe her. The kestrel swung upside down, bating and flapping helplessly. Marie-Jeanne pulled herself up to the branch above the falcon, and gently drew her up by the tangled jesses. The kestrel shrieked, a sound that penetrated the girl’s ears like a spike.
Mistinguette fought hard. She beat her powerful wings, trying to take off through the treetops. Marie-Jeanne held on, keeping up the stream of calm nonsense words, all the while desperately hoping she wouldn’t tumble off the narrow branch.
“There, there, my chick. You’re fine now. Look at what you’ve done to your feathers! So untidy. You don’t want anyone to see you like that, do you? No, of course not. Let me smooth them down. You’ll feel much better when you’re neat.”
As she spoke, she gathered the wild kestrel into her lap, petting and petting at the skewed feathers, patting them down into place. Mistinguette panted, her beak half open. Marie-Jeanne closed the heavy cloak about them both, enveloping them in a tent of wool. It smelled familiar and comforting to her. She hoped the hawk found it so.
Gradually, the kestrel stopped struggling. Marie-Jeanne’s hands found her crouched in her lap, in the hollow formed by her smock’s skirts. Mistinguette scratched with one foot after the other, making herself comfortable. She fixed the girl with a searching look, then very deliberately hunched down, her tail feathers held high.
She’s going to soil again, Marie-Jeanne thought, in despair. Mother will make me wash all my clothes in the brook.
But no white stream issued from the hawk’s backside. Instead, Marie-Jeanne felt a warm spot in the bottom of her skirt. When Mistinguette rose, a small white sphere lay where she had been crouching. An egg!
“Well, aren’t you the clever girl?” Marie-Jeanne exclaimed. Father would be pleased. The kestrel was old enough to produce eggs! They would have to find her a mate. She reached for it to put it in the lure bag. The shell was still soft. It deformed slightly against the glove leather.
The kestrel jumped up on her wrist and nudged at the egg.
“You don’t want me to take it? Why not?”
Mistinguette looked up at her, then rolled the egg toward Marie-Jeanne.
“You...want me to have it?”
The kestrel shrieked. She bent down with her beak open, then looked up at the girl again. Her meaning was clear. Marie-Jeanne gasped.
“You want me to eat it? Father would be furious!”
Mistinguette nudged the egg again. Marie-Jeanne raised it to her mouth.
“No, I ca—”
She had no time to finish her protest. The falcon shoved the small sphere into her open mouth with its hard, little head. Marie-Jeanne almost vomited. The shell tasted bitter and salty. It was very small, though, about two inches long. She might be able to swallow it whole. But, ugh, the shell collapsed and broke on her tongue! The slimy insides, all still hot from the falcon’s body, filled her mouth. She gagged, ready to spit, then she caught Mistinguette’s eye. For once, it was patient, waiting and watching.
Suppressing her disgust, Marie-Jeanne swallowed once, twice, and the mouthful of slime and shards went down.
“There,” she said. Her voice sounded weak in her own ears. “Happy? Now, may I take you down so that the comte does not wring both of our necks?”
Mistinguette peeped like a new-hatched chick and climbed up from the woolen skirts to take a post on Marie-Jeanne’s right shoulder.
The girl could not believe her eyes. The kestrel understood her!
It peeped at her again, as if to tell her to hurry. Marie-Jeanne didn’t hesitate. She tied the hanging leather jesses to the neck of her cloak and turned to face the trunk. Slowly, she felt her way down. It seemed years before her foot crunched onto the fallen leaves and twigs at the base of the tree. Marie-Jeanne sighed and dusted her gloves together.
Then, she winced.
“I don’t know which way is home,” she said. “I followed your calls. I turned this way and that, and I can’t really see where the sun lies. We could be lost in here for days!”
Mistinguette almost chuckled as she trod on Marie-Jeanne’s shoulder. She took hold of a lock of the girl’s hair in her beak and tugged.
“What, you want me to go that way?”
Another tug.
Marie-Jeanne trembled at the notion that a miracle was occurring. A beast that could understand the speech of men? Or...was this the secret that the falconer’s apprentices refused to share? Had they eaten an egg that made them bird-kin? She must ask Father, but first, she must return home safe and alive.
She turned in the directions the kestrel indicated. To and fro, to and fro, Mistinguette guided her, not even protesting or crying out when Marie-Jeanne tripped on a root or raised her arm to swat at biting flies.
The forest was still quiet, but it was a waiting silence. The animals sensed some kind of danger. Could it be La Bête? Marie-Jeanne drew her belt knife. She walked faster through a small clearing, feeling eyes on her back. The villagers complained of wolves in the woods. Had she rescued the falcon only to be eaten by a beast?
Snuffling noises broke the silence. Marie-Jeanne heard them off to her left and diverted to avoid the source. A musky odor filled the air. It could be her imagination, but her senses seemed keener than before. Every leaf had a sharper edge. Every smell had intensified so much she might have had her nose pressed to everything she passed. Sounds, too, reached deeper into her ears, creating a landscape in her mind. This was magic, then. Marie-Jeanne felt the sort of awe she experienced during mass, of something so great that her poor small brain could sense but a dust mote of a distant mountain.
A sudden burst of sound and smell erupted before her. Marie-Jeanne stumbled backward and fell against a tree, moments before a great gray boar hurtled into the clearing, no more than twenty feet away from her. Its tiny eyes had a mad glint. It saw her and bared its teeth. The sharp, pointed tusks at the sides of its mouth gleamed. It pawed the ground like a bull. She couldn’t fend it off with only a knife. If only she knew some of Father’s protective spells!
“Jesu preserve me,” she prayed, clasping her hands together. “Oh, God, I will be dutiful!”
The boar lowered its huge head and charged toward her. She was doomed.
An earsplitting cry erupted in her right ear, rising higher and higher until she feared her skull would split. Marie-Jeanne dropped to her knees. The boar, whose approach threw clods of earth up on both sides, stopped so suddenly its front legs buckled. Mistinguette shrieked her hunting cry again, louder than ever. The boar charged at them, but a yard from Marie-Jeanne, it rebounded as though it hit a stone wall. Marie-Jeanne gasped. The boar scrambled up, bellowing angrily, but it hurtled out of the clearing, avoiding them in a wide arc.
She stared at the kestrel. Mistinguette tilted her head and chuckled again, as though to say, “It was nothing, really. You could have done it yourself.”
Marie-Jeanne shook her head. Magic. The world was full of wonders. She had so much to learn.
In between steering her toward home, Mistinguette let out her hunting cry any time an animal approached them. Marie-Jeanne tried to imitate the sound, but the kestrel sounded as if it laughed at her efforts.
“You must give me a chance to learn,” she told the bird, sternly. “No one has ever told me what it was really like to be falcon’s kin!”
They emerged from the forest by the barley field. The farmer and his workers were doing their best to repair the damage done by the hunting party. By the position of the sun, more than two hours had passed since the falcon had flown away. Marie-Jeanne sighed. She could discover no sign of the comte and his guests but footsteps and hoofprints. If she was lucky, perhaps they had stopped to dine, and she could retrieve her donkey. Otherwise, it would be a long and a disgraceful walk home. She wished for some of that promised feast, even a crust of bread and a sip of watered wine.
“A raw egg is hardly a meal,” she pointed out to the kestrel. “Too bad I didn’t keep the coney. I could have cooked it for us.” Mistinguette peeped in reply.
At least the path was dry. Marie-Jeanne trudged up a gentle hill, following the broken branches left by the party. She hoped they weren’t far ahead.
A distant murmur met her enhanced hearing. That was the comte and comtesse, and the bishop! She had found them!
With an apology to Mistinguette, she began to trot down the hill. A strange smell met her nostrils. So strong it made her eyes water, she knew it wasn’t dog, horse, or human.
As she looked down the road, she saw it: a beast the size of a large man, but on all fours, with thin black fur over gray skin. It could have been a boar bred with a she-wolf. Marie-Jeanne’s heart wrenched. La Bête! It held the entire hunting party at bay.
“Spread out, men,” the comte said, his voice amazingly calm. He had his arms out to his sides, his sword in one hand and a dagger in the other. Two men lay on the ground. At first, Marie-Jeanne thought they were asleep, but one of them had no head. “Keep it from charging the ladies. Madame,” he said to his wife, “ride hell for leather. Go home and summon all the men-at-arms!”
The comtesse turned her horse this way and that, looking for a way around. Any time she moved, La Bête growled at her, making as if to charge. With a wrench of the poor beast’s head, the lady kicked her steed. It leaped into a gallop. La Bête sped after her. It was fast as lightning.
A page in red livery sprang into its path.
“You shall not harm my lady!” he cried. The horrible beast cannoned into him. With one bite, it severed his head then plunged its jaws into his heart. The men charged at it with their hunting weapons. Like a whirlwind, La Bête tossed one after another onto the ground. The comte brought his sword down on its spine. The blade bounced off as if it had been a stick. La Bête jumped onto his chest and opened its jaws.
“No!” Marie-Jeanne screamed. But instead of the word emerging, a deep-throated scream came from her lungs, rising higher and higher into the sky. Mistinguette added her shriek.
In a heartbeat, the beast sprang off the comte’s body and hurtled toward the girl. Marie-Jeanne didn’t know where the courage came from, but she found herself running at the monster, her arms wide as if they were wings. She screamed and screamed, feeling herself fill with power. The kestrel kept up her cries as well, creating a veritable wall of sound into which La Bête hurtled. And fell.
It rose to its feet, looking shaken but angry. Marie-Jeanne saw its face clearly for the first time. Its teeth were as long as her fingers, and its tiny eyes gleamed with evil.
“You monster!” Marie-Jeanne shrilled. “Foul beast of Satan! Die! I will break your neck! Die!”
La Bête charged her again and again and again. It could not penetrate the kestrel’s spell. Marie-Jeanne faced an impasse. If she stopped screaming, it would devour her, and destroy the comte and the others. She glanced at Mistinguette. The kestrel kept up her cry, keeping her safe, keeping them all safe, but for how long?
By now, all the hawks had joined their voices to Marie-Jeanne’s. Seeing hope, the comte rallied the hunting party. They mustered all their weapons.
“I’m sorry, girl!” the comte called. He dropped his hand, and the huntsmen loosed quarrel after quarrel at the monster. The arrows bounced off the invisible wall, but also from La Bête’s hide.
“It is an unholy monstrosity,” the bishop declared, regaining his wits at last. “Robert! Bring me Matilde!”
With a puzzled look, his huntsman ran to him, bearing the crying gyrfalcon. From a saddle pack, the bishop took a small bottle. He uncorked it and put it into Matilde’s talons. The gyrfalcon looked as confused as the hunter, until Mistinguette raised a call higher and shriller than ever before. Matilde lifted from the bishop’s wrist and flew over La Bête. It dropped the bottle on the beast’s head.
Holy water poured down the black-furred creature’s body. Where it touched, it left red runnels like fire. La Bête leaped in the air, trying to catch the gyrfalcon, then it rolled on the ground, keening in pain.
“At it, men!” the comte shouted. He led the charge at the monster, with all the men, horses, and dogs behind him.
Despite its agony, La Bête sprang up. With one final snarl at Marie-Jeanne, it galloped into the undergrowth. Cracking branches and threshing footsteps disappeared in the distance.
Marie-Jeanne dropped to her knees and let her voice die away. Mistinguette leaned over and chucked her in the cheek with her head, as if to say, “Well done.”
“Well, then,” the comte said, swinging out of his saddle and striding to her. Unlike his usual bluff self, he looked abashed. “It seems that not only the falcon, but the falconer is full of surprises. I apologize for doubting your father when he said you would do well. You have done more than well, child.” He held out a hand to help her up.
“Thank you, my lord.” Marie-Jeanne discovered that her voice was no more than a hoarse croak. Mistinguette peeped.
The comte smiled.
“Say no more,” he told her. “I think we’ve all heard enough from both of you for today. I see why I cannot control your falcon. I’m not enough of a wild creature. But it seems it takes one wild spirit to defeat another. You and your kestrel shall ride with me again. I have more to learn from you.”
“And I from her,” Marie-Jeanne said, stroking Mistinguette’s soft speckled breast. “So much more.”
~***~
Jody Lynn Nye lists her main career activity as “spoiling cats.” She lives near Chicago with three feline overlords, Athena, Minx, and Marmalade; and her husband, Bill. She has published more than 50 books, including collaborations with Anne McCaffrey and Robert Asprin, and over 165 short stories. Her latest books are Rhythm of the Imperium (Baen), Moon Tracks (with Travis S. Taylor, Baen), and Myth-Fits (Ace). She teaches the annual DragonCon Two-Day Writers Workshop, is a judge for the Writers of the Future Contest, and writes book reviews for Galaxy’s Edge magazine.