Free The Owl Killers by Karen Maitland

gatekeeper sullenly stirred himself to open the gate at the boy’s cry, before scuttling back to his smoking brazier.
    Beyond the gate, the courtyard was almost deserted. I glimpsed a couple of servants lurking in the dark doorways or slinking about their duties in shadows, but it was strangely quiet. Not even the dogs and chickens rooting about in the mud seemed interested in our arrival. The kitchen, bakehouse, and stables were well enough appointed, but the leaking, ill-thatched huts in the corner of the courtyard were evidence that Robert D’Acaster paid better heed to the comfort of his bloodstock than to that of his servants.
    In contrast the sturdy grey walls of the Manor were lavishly adorned, though
adorned
hardly seemed the right term for the carved grotesques of men and imps grimacing down as if turned to stone in the very act of shouting “Go back!” These human figures were similar to those on the village church, but on the Manor house, between each distorted human head, were carved the figures of hounds, wolves, lions, and birds of prey all captured in the act of killing, doubtless to remind all who saw them that there were some powers on earth they should fear more than those in Heaven.
    The page raced ahead of me up the stone staircase on the outside of the building and into the great hall. He gabbled something through the open doorway, then fled past me back down the stairs, as if he feared an arrow would come flying after him.
    I don’t know to whom he made his address, for when I entered the great hall it too appeared to be deserted. The hall was long and narrow. Tapestries of battle and hunting scenes lined the walls, the bloody wounds of man and beast congealed to brown by the smoke of long winters. Wax from the night candles still hung in yellow waterfalls from the spikes and long tables still bore the platters and beakers from the last meal, but there were no servants busy clearing up the mess. Only the fire had been repaired and the flames were roaring over the logs as though someone had been poking at them violently and repeatedly.
    Something moved in the dark corner on the raised dais at the far end of the hall. A peregrine falcon sat on a perch behind the largest and most ornate chair in the room, the one which Lord D’Acaster would surely occupy at meals. The jesses fastening the bird to the perch were long, and it was unhooded. It swivelled its head, watchingme, its bright dark eyes ringed with amber. Doubtless it amused Lord D’Acaster to feed the bird during meals, though I had heard some men kept a falcon close by for fear of an assassin’s hand. Such creatures can be trained to fly at the face of anyone foolish enough to lunge at their masters.
    The bird’s wings beat furiously as a man burst out from behind one of the tapestries that I now realised concealed a small door. He strode down the length of the hall towards me. I’d seen him often enough to recognise him as Lord Robert D’Acaster, but I had never before had occasion to waste words with him. Well, let him come to me, I thought, for I would not go running to meet him.
    “You took your time, Mistress,” he bellowed.
    He offered me no courtesies of chair or drink or even greetings. So I stood and waited for him to approach near enough for us to hold a civil conversation. I had no intention of raising my voice.
    Though I would not presume to judge the way God designed any man, I couldn’t help thinking if there was a design, it now was unrecognisable beneath the weight of loose flesh that sagged upon my host’s bones. Robert D’Acaster had perhaps been handsome enough in his youth, but what remained of his yellow hair clung to his pate in thinning tufts, like a moulting fowl, and his small eyes had almost disappeared under the florid folds of his puffed face.
    He came close and thrust his face into mine, scowling. But if he was hoping I would flinch, he was sadly disappointed. I was a good half a head taller. Clearly