Donning hose or stockings was an impossibility without assistance. He rammed his boots on and succeeded in swinging a warm cloak over the top of his night shirt. The door latches were a struggle, but Martin had bandaged and padded his injured hands so well that he felt no additional discomfort. Soon, he was in the walled garden, ascending the brick pile and doing his utmost to avoid having to use his hands.
It felt good to breathe the fresh air again, though its chill made his lungs ache. He was fortunate to be alive and would never cease to give thanks for that fact. Life was precious, and he meant to live it to the fullest.
The sunset tonight was disappointing. There was little cloud to reflect the sunlight and, high above, the moon was gradually coming into view. In the gloom, he could see an odd, huddled shape in the walnut tree.
He waited for his eyes to adjust to the dusk. It was a bird, a roosting owl, mayhap, that had yet to set about its nighttime feeding routine. It was certainly a bird of prey—the head was too large to be a pigeon.
Then, with a shock of recognition, he realized there was something dangling from the bird’s feet. Leather jesses, perchance? Excited, he stared at the bird, then called its name softly. “Charlemagne?”
The dark shape made a clicking sound, but there was no shuffling of wings, no adjusting of its feet. Its position looked hunched—miserable, even. Its outline was not as smooth and sleek as it ought to be—feathers were sticking out at angles, and from what he could see in the ever-decreasing light, there were bald patches of skin.
Cecily would be devastated to see her bird in such a terrible condition. Just because it was still alive was no guarantee that it would last much longer. How distraught she would be if Charlemagne could not be saved! Would it not be better if she continued to think her feathered friend was dead?
“Charlemagne.” Allan called again, held up his forearm, and gave an experimental whistle. “Will you come to me?” He tried to imitate the sounds he’d heard Cecily use when flying her peregrine in the meadow.
Suddenly, to his enormous surprise, the bird unfolded its wings and glided down, landing unsteadily on his bandaged hand and digging in with its talons. Thank heaven for those bandages, or the bird’s blade-like claws would have drawn blood. Allan just stared at it in amazement, and it stared back at him, waiting.
He discovered he was no longer afraid of the creature. It was small, weighed virtually nothing, and was pitifully bedraggled from its encounter with the fire. It was no demon and no threat. He recalled Cecily telling him how Charlemagne had boldly taken on Kennett and made him drop the key.
“I believe, my friend, that I owe you my life,” he murmured. Charlemagne clicked his beak and continued to stare at him, unblinking.
“Well then, if we are now to be friends, I suppose I had better nurse you back to health. You’re too proud a creature to want your mistress seeing you in this state. Let’s see what can be done.”
Edging gingerly down the pile of bricks, he stole out of the walled garden and made his way through the encroaching dusk to the old malthouse. He would have to admit one of the men into the secret of Charlemagne’s rescue—with his hands useless, he couldn’t nurse or feed the peregrine himself. But if the bird survived, he would present it to Cecily as a pre-wedding gift.
It was the most fitting thing he could think of to give her, for he had already given her the most costly gift of all. His heart.
Chapter Twenty-Four
By Easter, they were wed. Cecily could not have been happier—her husband loved her, and she returned his love with every fiber of her being. Each new day brought a new revelation, a fresh discovery about him that made her love him—if it was even possible—still more.
He was generous to a fault and loved to surprise her. The first surprise was when he came to her proudly wearing a new hawking gauntlet on his fist. He had found her on her knees in the walled garden, wearing thick gloves as she harvested nettles for soup. This had been fortunate, because as she gazed at him in puzzlement, knowing how much he disliked hawking, he gave out a shrill whistle, and a peregrine falcon dived into the garden.
She stood staring in disbelief as the bird hovered above the two of them for a moment, then darted toward her. Instinctively, she put out her arm, and the bird landed on her glove, eyeing her laconically.
“Charlemagne? It can’t be.” She looked closer, and the bird made a soft, welcoming sound.
Gasping in astonishment, she turned to her new husband. “It’s Charlemagne? It’s really Charlemagne?”
The beam on his face said it all. “Aye. I wanted to make sure he was back to full health before he was restored to you. I know that you dote on that bird more than you do me. And with the brethren now departed to France, I feared you would be lonely.”
How could she be lonely when they spent virtually every day and, indeed, every night side-by-side? The commandery was now full of people, it seemed: agricultural laborers, Lettice, Simpkin, Master Swaffham, builders, local farmers, and merchants. Being entirely alone had become something of a luxury. But the brethren had been her only family until now, so she appreciated Allan’s thoughtfulness.
Still dazed in wonderment, she stroked the soft, speckled feathers on the falcon’s breast.
“He looks finer than ever. How did you find him?”
“I discovered him in the garden a couple of days after he first disappeared and have been
