I fed the boss’s wild, ‘untameable’ beast garbage scraps—what happened next ruined his elite hunting event.

Part 1

I fed my boss’s wild, ‘untameable’ beast garbage scraps—what happened next ruined his elite winter hunting event.

The water in the copper vat was always just shy of boiling.

I knew this because the skin on my forearms had long ago stopped peeling and simply hardened into a permanent, shiny pink scale.

I plunged the heavy wooden paddle into the murky water, stirring Arthur’s fine linen shirts through a thick slurry of rendered fat and lye soap.

Down in the laundry cellars of Highfield Manor, there was no autumn breeze.

There was only steam, the rhythmic slosh of heavy wet fabric, and the bone-deep ache in my lower spine.

Upstairs, the estate was entirely unhinged.

Arthur, the wealthy owner of the estate, had returned from his northern campaign.

He hadn’t brought back a bride or gold.

He had brought back a massive, wild gyrfalcon.

I didn’t care about the bird.

I cared about the sudden influx of mud, horse sweat, and blood that now covered the garments thrown down the laundry chute.

“You’ll end up in the apothecary’s room,” muttered Brenda, the older washerwoman beside me, wiping condensation from her sagging jaw.

She told me the beast had taken a chunk out of the head falconer’s arm, ripping straight through boiled leather like it was wet paper.

I said nothing, hauling a dripping mass of white linen from the vat that weighed as much as a dead dog.

Later that evening, after the linens were wrung out, the head housekeeper found me.

Mrs. Higgins was a woman made entirely of sharp angles and sour moods.

She pointed a skeletal finger at my hunched form and ordered me to clean the mews.

Refusal wasn’t a concept that existed in my world.

I picked up my wooden bucket, my knees popping loudly in the damp corridor, and walked out into the freezing courtyard.

The mews were located at the far edge of the estate, smelling fiercely of ammonia, raw meat, and dry dust.

Usually, the estate’s hunting hawks were quiet, hooded, and calm.

Tonight, the building vibrated with a low, clicking hiss.

I nudged the heavy oak door open with my hip.

In the center of the room, perched on a heavy iron ring secured by thick leather ties, was the falcon.

Its feathers were a stark, mottled silver and ghost white.

It was unhooded, the leather cap lying shredded on the stone floor below it, mixed with a puddle of dark, congealing blood.

When the door creaked, the bird snapped its head around.

Its eyes were pure, fathomless black.

It opened its hooked beak and let out a sharp, grating shriek that felt like a needle driving straight into my temples.

The bird flared its massive wings and lunged, thrashing against the leather ties in a raw display of pure panic.

I didn’t flinch.

Not because I was brave, but because I was so chronically exhausted that adrenaline was a luxury my body could no longer afford to produce.

I set the wooden bucket down on the flagstones.

“Scream all you want,” I muttered, my voice a flat, deadpan rasp.

“It won’t make the water any warmer.”

I ignored the lethal predator and dropped to my sore knees, dipping my stiff brush into the bucket of lye water.

The harsh chemical smell immediately overpowered the copper scent of blood.

I began to scrub the stone, the rhythmic scratching of the coarse bristles filling the silence.

I didn’t look at the bird.

I didn’t offer it soothing words or extend a hand in some foolish attempt at kinship.

The manic thrashing stopped.

The frantic clicking slowed.

It cocked its head, assessing the hunched, lye-scented creature on the floor.

For the next hour, the only sounds were the scratching of the brush and the quiet, rhythmic breathing of a wild thing realizing it was not currently being hunted.

Days passed, and the beast was starving itself to death.

Arthur was furious, threatening to dock the wages of anyone who couldn’t force the bird to eat.

His elite handlers tried offering it premium cuts of quail on silver tongs, only to be driven back by violent strikes.

One evening, I walked in to fetch soiled rags and saw the fresh meat rejected on the floor.

The bird’s keel bone was starting to protrude through its white feathers.

It was starving.

Arthur was standing in the shadows, his jaw tight with anger, holding a heavy leather gauntlet.

He told me to collect my rags and go.

I didn’t run.

I reached into the deep pocket of my apron, pulling out a severed chicken head and a stringy piece of discarded liver I had saved for the barn cats.

I simply tossed the garbage onto the stone floor about three feet from the bird’s perch.

Arthur opened his mouth to berate me for littering his pristine mews.

The words died in his throat.

The falcon didn’t shriek or thrash.

It dropped from its perch like a stone, pinning the chicken head beneath massive black talons.

It tore into the liver next, swallowing it whole.

Arthur stared in absolute silence as a nameless girl in a damp apron fed his most expensive bird with garbage.

From that day on, Arthur commanded me to feed the bird twice a day.

Two weeks passed.

I brought it scraps from the butcher’s block, and we existed in a space of mutual, exhausted tolerance.

Then came the day of the winter solstice hunt.

Highfield Manor was overflowing with visiting lords, ladies, and the suffocating stench of musky perfumes.

Arthur intended to debut the falcon to his elite guests.

I was crossing the far end of the courtyard, carrying a massive wicker basket of freshly pressed tablecloths meant for the evening banquet.

My arms shook from the weight as I kept my head down.

Near the mounting blocks, Arthur sat atop his massive stallion, the hooded falcon perched on his thick leather gauntlet.

The noise was deafening—baying hounds, stomping horses, and shrill laughter.

Arthur gave a sharp nod to his head handler.

The handler reached up and carefully pulled the leather hood free.

The sensory overload hit the falcon like a physical strike.

The sudden explosion of light, the terrifying roars of the dogs, and the sickeningly sweet cloud of perfume was too much.

The bird didn’t just panic.

It exploded with a shriek that cut through the courtyard clamor like a jagged piece of glass.

The falcon lunged violently upward, snapping the heavy leather ties.

Suddenly, the massive bird was free.

Pandemonium erupted.

The falcon didn’t fly into the sky; it was too disoriented, swooping low over the crowd.

Nobles screamed, horses reared, and hounds strained furiously against their leashes.

It circled the courtyard in a frenzied, chaotic loop, looking for a still, familiar perch.

Across the courtyard, I had frozen, pressing my back against the cold stone of the laundry house wall.

The falcon made another frantic pass over the fountain.

Its black eyes scanned the chaos, and then it saw me.

The bird tucked its wings and dropped.

I didn’t even have time to scream before a heavy, solid mass slammed onto the rim of my laundry basket, and razor-sharp talons sank straight through my wool dress into the meat of my shoulder.