Stuart, now nearing the age of manhood, loved the birds, and his father, he was convinced, knew more about hunting falcons than any man in England—even more than the king himself. He held the bird named Sky on his wrist and felt the power of the talons as they clamped down. “There’s a good bird,” he whispered. The hawk was hooded, but when Stuart ran his fingers along its throat, it opened the wide beak, a signal that it waited to be fed. With his free hand Stuart got hold of a small fragment of meat and held it up. The hawk took it daintily enough but then gobbled it down. Putting the hawk back on its perch and removing the hood, Stuart looked over all the birds. The mews had been in terrible shape when his family arrived, but Stuart and his father had worked to make it clean and suitable for the noble birds. Stuart then took over as much of the work as possible, giving his father time to regain his health. “You have a gift for the birds, Son.” Stuart quickly turned. His father had come in silently, his feet making no noise on the litter—mostly sawdust and reeds—beneath the bird cages.
