Tame Weorth, 757 AD
“You can"t make someone a falconer. You either are one or you aren"t,” King Æthelbald said, looking fondly at his strapping twenty-one-year-old son, Æthelstan. “Is it not so, Master Falconer?”
“Ay, sire, but Lord Æthelstan"s a born falconer, if I may say so.”
“And yet, he has never captured and trained his own hawk.”
“For lack of opportunity!” Æthelstan"s indignation flashed in his blue-grey eyes. “I would trap a gyrfalcon if I had the chance.”
The king"s smile was indulgent. His sense of guilt at not legitimising this fine image of himself from bygone days drove him to shower the young man with favours.
“Where"s the nearest place the gyrfalcon breeds?” he asked the expert.
“Among the crags of the fells to the north-east, sire.”
“Can you teach Lord Æthelstan to
