Anybody up for a story contest?
Who does this falcon belong to? Is he medieval?
Submit your story (under 7,000 words) to firstname.lastname@example.org by July 25th for your chance to win publication in my Little Corners newsletter and the ebook of your choice from among my titles!
I'll write a little starting tidbit of my own...
A Squire's Falcon
Richard cast a swift glance over his shoulder. Just a few more moments. Just-
"Richard de Beauside, thou lazy buffoon!"
Richard whirled around, feeling the clamping fingers of a strong hand burrow into his shoulder. Towering nearly half a head over him, he looked up into the indignant eyes of his master's squire-of-honor, Allard.
"I haven't done anything," he muttered, as boldly as he dared. Apparently, his new lord, Sir Wilfred of York, was not keen on his vassals showing Allard anything but the utmost respect.
"Nay? Then why art thou hither, at the falconry, rather than attending to thy duties?"
Richard shrugged. "Cleaning Sir Wilfred's armor can't compare with watching the falcons."
Allard cocked a brow. "I agree. One is thy duty, the other will displease thy lord."
Richard looked down. Since he had been chosen as Sir Wilfred's secondary squire three days ago, he had made every excuse for avoiding him. Was it fear? He didn't know. Perhaps it was the uncertainty of how life would be in his lord's service that kept him from learning more about his new master and the life he was destined to lead.
Or maybe it really was the falcons. He was fascinated by the way they glided on the currents of air, of the messages they could carry, of the powerful way they hunted. They were distracting.
"Well?" Allard's grey eyes seemed to bore holes through him. "Wilt thou return to thy tasks?"
"Yes, master." Richard tasted acidity in his own sarcasm. And the shame of his own foolishness. What was he thinking? Was he deliberately trying to get himself into trouble?
Allard didn't say anything for a moment. Richard dared a quick look upwards. Three years older than him and undoubtedly stronger, Allard was more than his match if he chose to belt him one.
"Thou aren't truly impudent, Richard," Allard said at last, and Richard saw something like an amused twinkle in his eyes. "Nor art thou very wise. But, we won't discuss it. I'll aid thee in thy tasks, then we may return hither."
"For what purpose?" Richard's breath quickened. Allard's quiet return was warming to his heart.
Allard lifted a brow. "Why, to show thee Sir Willard's personal falcons, of course. I happen to know that he is expecting some new eyasses. Perhaps he can be persuaded to give thee one."
Richard's heart leaped into his throat. "A baby falcon? Truly? But-"
Allard thumped him hard on the shoulder. "Not if thou don't get to work. Hasten thee, churl."
Richard swallowed, a grin nearly splitting his countenance in twain. Allard wasn't nearly as formidable as he had thought. And, perhaps, with time, he would discover that Sir Wilfred wasn't either.
What happens next? Complete the story as your entry or submit your own!
Alicia A. Willis is a home-school graduate, published author, and avid historian. She is a firm believer in the principle that one can accomplish anything by substantial amounts of prayer and coffee. Visit her at her blog or Facebook to view her historical-fiction novels and all the goings-on between writing!