The Art Of Hunting With Birds Of Prey
And in September, O what keen delight!
Falcons and astors; merlins, sparrow hawks;
Decoy birds that shall lure your game in flocks;
And hounds with bells; and gauntlets stout and tight.
Folgore da San Geminiano (12th century)
Usually, Adela loved September.
During harvest season, the air was rich with the scent of ripened apples. Other fruits were swelling on the trees. Her favorite were the fragrant golden green pears. She didn’t care for the drink that the monks made from pears called poirĂ©, but stewed pears were wonderful. Best of all was eating the pears fresh so that the sweet juice would run down her chin. From the window in the room where they had their lessons, she could see carters trundle oak barrels through the town on their way to the cider mills. The sight of the well-worn oak encased in bands of iron made her think of the dense, pungent odor of wet leaves in the forest during a hunt.
When the sisters allowed the girls to walk into the town on market days, they would marvel at the stalls overflowing with apples—red, golden, even green. At the abbey, some Benedictine monks, mostly occupied with brewing ale, worked on fermenting apple cider. The nuns complained that the monks spent too much time experimenting, using different types of barrels and extending the time of fermentation. Then, when they were finished, they tried out the fruits of their labor and would get drunk. The nuns locked the girls away during those days. Adela had to pinch herself from laughing at them. She had watched them sing and sway with abandon in the cloister hallway, their habits slipping and smelling strongly of spilled cider. Evidently, they enjoyed it as much as the monks did.
September meant crisp mornings and clear days warmed by the sun. On days when she was not at the abbey and her father was at home in Caen, he allowed her to come along on hunts. Her father showed her how to fly her merlin. While everyone in the castle feared his harsh, grating voice when he lost his temper—and this happened frequently—he never once raised his voice when teaching Adela during a hunt. He was always patient when showing her how to handle her bird, when to remove the hood, and how to use the lure.
“Why can’t I fly a falcon?” Adela asked, enviously eying the peregrine falcon her father was training for Henry. She liked the bird’s nearly white throat above the mottled black and white belly and its stark yellow-ringed eyes. Her kestrel looked less dramatic, with its soft golden-brown plumage with black spots and black-tipped tail; she had named it Doucette for her best friend at school.
“Children fly kestrels,” her father responded. “Falcons are for kings and emperors. When you are a lady, you can fly a merlin. That’s the order of the world. You should know this by now. Repeat the list for me.”
“How often do I have to do this?” Adela protested.
“Until you remember.”
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See you on your next coffee break!
Take Care,
Mary Anne xxx