I had little opportunity to brood on what I should do with the book. Two days later I was riding out of Aachen with a cluster of courtiers, setting out for the first royal hunt of the season. The company fairly buzzed with excitement. An untold number of verderers, trackers, dog handlers and huntsmen had spent weeks preparing for the great occasion. The weather was clear and crisp, with a lingering trace of early morning mist, and the tall figure of king was in the lead. He was mounted on a towering, big-boned stallion and setting a brisk pace.
After two hours in the saddle we were deep within the royal hunting preserve. I recognized the road; it was the same track that the eel wagon had travelled to reach the capital, and I wondered if we would get as far as the place where the brigands had attempted to rob us. I doubted if I would be able to identify the exact spot because everything looked so different from what I remembered of those rain-sodden days. Then the forest had seemed heavy and foreboding, pressing in on us. Now it had an awe-inspiring majesty. The centuries-old trees were enormous. Their upper branches thick as a man’s waist were still green with the last of the summer foliage. But the leaf fall had begun so the ground below them was russet and brown stretching away between the huge moss-covered tree trunks as far as the eye could see, deep into the gloom of primal woodland. Our cavalcade was no more than a temporary disturbance in this immensity. We brought a bubble of cheerful noise and activity — the thudding of hooves, creaking leather, snatches of conversation, bursts of laughter, a sudden oath as someone swore at a clumsy horse that stumbled. Yet as soon as our company had passed, a vast and timeless silence would seep back, only broken by the brief, ancient noises of the forest.
I was thinking how insignificant was our intrusion into such surroundings when Oton rode up beside me. He reined in his horse so we were riding knee to knee. His chubby face was pink from the rattling motion of our trot.
‘Patch, how are you and the delicious Bertha getting along?’ he asked.
I was startled out of my reverie.
‘I haven’t seen her since I left the royal household,’ I answered.
‘Berenger tells me that she was at your bedside,’ he said with a spark of mischief in his eyes.
‘She came to see how I was getting on,’ I retorted, trying to keep my voice dispassionate.
‘Only as far as your bedside?’
I coloured.
‘I have no idea what you mean.’ I knew I sounded less than convincing.
‘Bertha is not easily denied,’ he said, laughing.
I gritted my teeth. The truth was that I would have much preferred to stay back in Aachen with the chance of meeting the princess again. But that had been impossible. All royal guests were required to attend the hunt. Only Gerard had been excused, on the grounds of ill-health.
‘Oton, leave off teasing him. You’re just jealous,’ said Hroudland’s voice, and the count rode up on my other side. His roan stallion stood several inches taller than my bay, and I found myself looking up at my friend.
‘Jealous?’ Oton sniggered. ‘Not me. But perhaps you should tell him. Could save him from a broken heart.’ He pulled his horse’s head aside and dropped back out of earshot.
‘What’s he talking about?’ I asked Hroudland.
‘Bertha’s reputation as a man-eater,’ said the count curtly.
I gaped at him.
‘But she’s the king’s daughter!’
‘Precisely. She gets what she wants.’
A hollow feeling grew in the pit of my stomach. I had been cherishing what had occurred between me and Bertha, every moment of it. I was smitten with her.
Hroudland saw my distress.
‘Patch, don’t take it to heart. Bertha and her sisters treat the court as their private hunting preserve, rather like this forest around us.’
‘But surely their father does not allow it,’ I protested.
‘Rather the reverse.’ Hroudland was matter of fact. ‘The king knows his daughters have a healthy appetite in that direction. They’ve inherited it from him. He prefers they indulge themselves casually, rather than marry and produce children who would complicate the succession.’
I was speechless.
Hroudland lowered his voice.
‘A word of advice, Patch. The king looks the other way, but he does not want to be made a fool of. So be discreet. And remember that you are not the only one.’
I turned aside, unable to face my friend. I was appalled that my affair with Bertha was neither secret nor special. I wondered how many of my companions had been her lovers before me. At the same time I wanted desperately to believe that what had passed between the two of us was genuine. Buffeted by these conflicting thoughts, I had to admit that I knew very little about women, least of all what to make of Bertha’s behaviour. I angrily kicked my horse into a canter.
At length our cavalcade turned off the road and made its way down a grassy track, which widened in a broad clearing. Here the advance party of our servants, including Osric, had set up tents and pavilions, dug fire pits and latrines. There was a park for the wagons, which had brought in supplies of food and wine, stacks of fodder and firewood, a line of temporary stalls for our horses, enormous barrels with water for drinking and washing. The place resembled a small village.
We dismounted and were assigned to our tents. I was put with Hroudland, Berenger and Ogier. I was glad I did not have to share with Oton, for the thought that he had lain with Bertha sickened me.
‘The head huntsman will explain about tomorrow,’ Hroudland said to me. ‘Listen carefully because my uncle takes his hunting very seriously.’ He had thrown off his riding cloak and cap, and stretched to ease his muscles. ‘The king likes the first hunt of the season to be by lance, though God only knows why he chooses to risk his life in that way.’
‘Have there been many accidents?’ I asked.
Hroudland ran his fingers through his hair.
‘Not yet, though it’s only a matter of time.’
At that moment a brief note sounded on a hunting horn.
‘That’s our signal to assemble. Come on! We want to be where we can see what’s arranged.’
Together we walked to where the company was gathering in a circle. Standing in the middle of a patch of bare earth was a small, grizzled-looking man dressed entirely in leather that had been dyed dark green. Around his neck hung the metal hunting horn that had summoned us. Hroudland pushed our way to the front and I looked across the circle to see the king himself, directly opposite. Some five or six places to his left was Ganelon, Hroudland’s stepfather. As at the banquet Ganelon caught my eye, before looking away to where Hroudland stood.
The green-clad man held up his hand to quieten the chatter of the onlookers.
‘That’s Vulfard, the king’s chief huntsman,’ the count explained.
‘Your Majesty and my lords, Greetings!’ The huntsman spoke with the confidence of a man who knew every detail of his profession. ‘Tomorrow we should have good sport — a hart of eighteen points.’
There was a collective intake of breath among the spectators.
‘A once-in-a-lifetime beast!’ Hroudland hissed in my ear.
I saw the king perk up. He straightened his back and shoulders, standing even taller.
‘My men have been watching this animal for months, long before the rut began,’ announced the huntsman. He stepped to one side of the circle, pulled a long hunting knife from his belt, and leaned down to mark a small cross in the dirt.
‘This is where he is now. . and here-’ he moved across the circle to stand directly in front of me ‘-is where we plan to bring him.’ The point of the knife made another cross in the earth. ‘With His Majesty’s permission, I propose to establish our line from here to here.’ The knife described an arc extending out in each direction from the second mark. ‘The final sector has been fenced with hurdles to bring in the quarry.’ The blade scratched a V-shape leading to the second mark. ‘Until the hart has started between the hurdles, strict discipline must be observed. Otherwise he turns back and we lose him.’ The little man paused and looked up at the king.
Carolus nodded at him to continue.
‘I have three dozen men to drive the beast. Their hounds will be on leash. They will move him by gradual stages. We already know the tracks he favours.’
Vulfard gazed around our faces. Raising his voice and speaking slowly, he said, ‘This hart is uncommonly wary. He may surprise us and leave his normal paths. If he comes your way, you must turn him back, but carefully. On no account panic him. Once he is turned, you may sound your horn as a signal. Just once and softly, like this.’ He raised his hunting horn to his lips and blew a short, gentle note. ‘Then we will know how the beast moves.’ He frowned at us. ‘Allow other creatures to pass, be they boar, hind, or any stag of less than twelve points.’
Many in his audience were nodding their agreement, clearly excited.
‘What about an urus?’ someone called out.
There was laughter as the huntsman answered, ‘You’ll have no choice. You’ll be flattened.’
The king himself now stepped into the circle and addressed us, his high-pitched voice carrying clearly.
‘Fellow huntsmen, this hart is a noble quarry. Tomorrow, when he falls, the death notes will ring out loud and clear so that all living creatures will know of his passing.’
‘What are death notes?’ I muttered to Hroudland.
‘The hunting call that signals the death of the quarry. Sometimes the king sounds the horn himself. It means the end of the day’s hunt.’
The king left the assembly and began making his way towards the largest of the pavilions. It was a massive affair, larger than most cottages, striped in red and blue.
An assistant to the chief huntsman approached Hroudland and asked him to attend the dispositions. I accompanied him to where Vulfard was assigning each person to a place in tomorrow’s line. He recognized Hroudland immediately and put him close to the king. He looked at me doubtfully.
‘Have you hunted hart before?’ he asked. His tone was polite but cautious.
‘At home we hunted deer for meat,’ I answered.
‘By force or by stable?’
I looked confused, so he explained: ‘Was it with a bow and on horseback, following hounds? Or waiting for a driven beast?’
‘On horseback, with hounds.’ I was exaggerating. I had seldom gone hunting, leaving the chase to my more sporting brothers.
Vulfard chewed his lip.
‘Do you know the basic calls?’ he demanded.
I hesitated, and then guessed.
‘A single note if the quarry is passing to your left. Two quick blasts if he goes the other way.’
The huntsman shook his head.
‘Wrong.’
‘Perhaps he can stand beside me in the line,’ suggested Hroudland.
Vulfard shook his head.
‘No, my lord. Only the most experienced hunters will be near the centre. A novice could ruin the day for everyone.’
‘I’m sure you can find a spot somewhere for him,’ Hroudland coaxed.
Vulfard acceded grudgingly.
‘He can stand there.’
He jabbed his knife point in the dirt. I saw he had put me at the extreme left-hand end of the line, farthest from the centre and the least likely place to see the great stag. Vulfard fixed me with a stern look.
‘Just remember, stay quiet and do not disturb the drive. I’ll send my son with you to help out. You’ll need to be up early.’ He turned away and began to interrogate the next man.
‘I fear tomorrow is going to be very tedious for you,’ said Hroudland as we strolled back to our tent.
‘Well, at least I’ve been placed out of harm’s way,’ I said lightly.
‘I’ve tried to persuade the king to change his routine but he insists that his first kill of the season is by lance alone, and the quarry has not been run until exhausted.’
‘I would have thought that facing a boar would be much more dangerous than a stag.’
The count frowned at me.
‘That shows how little you know about hunting. Tomorrow, if all goes to plan, a great hart will be guided to where the king waits with a lance in his hand.’
‘And then?’
‘There’s an old saying that if you are injured by a boar, call for a healer. If hurt by a stag, call for a priest.’
‘Why does the king expose himself to such a risk?’
Hroudland shrugged.
‘To demonstrate that he still has courage and skill with weapons. It has become a ritual.’ He made a sweeping gesture with his arm, taking in the entire forest around us. ‘More than a hundred men, packs of hounds, weeks of preparation. Let us hope that all goes well tomorrow, and the king makes his kill. Otherwise he will be in a bad humour for months.’
‘And what if this monstrous stag avoids the drive and escapes the hunt?’
Hroudland laughed and slapped me on the shoulder.
‘Then, Patch, it will be up to you. If you see the stag escaping, you are allowed to shoot it with an arrow.’
‘Why the laughter when someone asked about an urus? What is it?’
‘A wild cow, but bigger than the biggest ox. Horns twice as long. Only a few left in the forest, if any. If you see one coming at you, just climb the nearest tree.’
A tickling sensation on my ear woke me next morning. I opened my eyes to find a faint pre-dawn glow seeping into the tent. The previous evening, knowing the night would be cold, I had lain down under my cloak, fully dressed. I sat up and irritably brushed aside the long feather that had been used to rouse me. Someone was squatting beside me.
‘Time to go,’ said a stranger’s voice.
There was something not quite right about the words, but it was too dark to recognize the dark shape that scuttled out of the tent ahead of me.
The morning chill ate into my bones as I pulled on my boots. Outside, the ground was wet with dew, and I could just about make out Osric’s distinctive limp as he came across the camp ground. He was leading two horses. I paid a quick visit to the latrines and, seeing a glow in the kitchen tent, found that the cooks were already up and preparing breakfast for the hunters. I carried a loaf of good barley bread and a flask of hot ale across to where Osric was waiting for me, holding the reins of my bay gelding.
‘Eat it while it’s still warm,’ I said to Osric, tearing off a chunk of bread and handing it to him. Slung across his back, he had my bow and its arrow quiver, the leather flap securely fastened against the damp. The stranger had his back to me as he tightened the saddle girths of a large, shaggy pony. When he turned, I saw he was a lad in his teens.
‘Farthest to go, soonest to start,’ he said in that same blurred manner of speaking. He was a big, strapping youth, though his arms and legs were too short for his body. Belatedly I noted the round face and almond shaped eyes, the lids half-closed.
I supposed him to be an ostler, employed to help at the hunting camp. Then I noticed the battered hunting horn dangling from a cord around his neck, also the greasy cap he was wearing. It sported a long feather, the one he used to wake me, and was dyed forest green. I guessed it was a cast-off from his father, Vulfard, and the young man was our escort for the day.
‘What’s your name?’ I asked.
There was a heartbeat of a pause.
‘Walo,’ he blurted, bobbing his head awkwardly.
‘Then, Walo, show what we must do,’ I said encouragingly.
My words were met with another duck of the head, quick and enthusiastic this time. Without warning he stepped forward, took me by the leg and threw me up on to my horse. He was surprisingly strong. I had scarcely settled in the saddle when he had done the same for Osric so that he was astride the pony. Then, to Osric’s astonishment, Walo vaulted up in front of him, gathered up the reins, and banged his heels into the pony’s ribs. We crossed the camp site at a fast trot, Osric almost falling off when Walo swerved the pony to one side to lean over to pluck up a lance he had left stuck in the ground. Moments later we plunged into the forest.
We rode in near-silence, the spongy ground absorbing the sound of hooves, the air heavy with the musty smell of rotting leaves and damp soil. Even in the dim light Walo was absolutely confident of our path though I failed to discern any sign of a track. The trees, mostly huge oaks, were widely spaced and allowed us to travel unimpeded but they offered no clues of our progress or direction. Once, when I turned in the saddle, I could not make out from where we had come. In every direction the forest was the same — full of shadows, brooding, limitless. There were a few signs of life. A late hunting owl flew up from behind us, gliding low over our heads, and then swooping away without a sound, a pale blur that vanished into the trees. A little while later, a dog fox loped across our path, nose close to the ground as it followed a scent. The creature was so intent on its prey that it failed to notice us until we were almost on top of it. It stopped, one paw raised, and turned its head to inspect us. It stood there motionless and unafraid as we rode past. I could make out the slanting yellow eyes, alert with interest.
The land ran level for the most part though occasionally we had to ride down into a small gully, splash across a rivulet of dark-stained water, and then up the far bank. After the best part of an hour, Walo reined in. We had arrived at a gap in the woodland, an open space dotted with clumps of birch and willow. Apparently this was the place allotted to me for the hunt. Pointing off to our right into a stand of beech trees, Walo explained that the line of hunters extended in that direction as far as the king’s position in the centre of the line. If we were to see any game, it would come from ahead of us or to our right.
We dismounted and tied the horses to a tree stump hidden behind a willow thicket. Osric strung my bow and handed it to me. Walo jammed the butt end of the lance into the ground, squatted down on his heels and waited beside it. I wandered about, seeking the best spot to give me a clear view of any game that might come towards us, however unlikely that might be. I had just found a suitable location when I saw Osric bend down and pick something from the ground. I went across to see what he had found.
‘Death cap,’ he said. He held out a pale golden-yellow mushroom.
The mushroom looked harmless. I would not have hesitated to eat it.
‘This is what poisoned me?’ I guessed.
‘The vomiting and dizziness were clues. But I wasn’t sure if it grew locally.’
‘Perhaps it got into my food by accident.’
‘Perhaps,’ he said, though he sounded unconvinced. He tossed away the deadly fungus and brushed all traces from his fingers. ‘Yet it was the ideal poison. No one would notice a mushroom added to your plate.’
‘What about Gerard? He too was sick.’
‘Maybe someone wanted him out of the way as well.’
Behind us Walo uttered a low, clucking sound. I turned to see him gesturing that I should pay attention to the hunt. I walked back to my place, carrying my bow and took up a post facing into the line of beech trees.
For a long while nothing happened. The forest was silent. The only activity was from a flock of small dun-coloured birds. They were feeding in the willows to my left. They twittered and chirruped, hopped restlessly from branch to branch, then abruptly flew away, wings whirring. I thought I heard the distant sound of a twig snapping. A foraging jay chattered, and I caught a glimpse as it winged its way through the tops of the beeches.
To pass the time, I attempted to reconstruct what had happened during the banquet when I had been poisoned. I tried to picture the bowl of pottage as it was set in front of me, whether I had seen any slivers of mushroom mixed in my food, and who had served me. But inevitably my memory kept sliding away to the happier image of Bertha seated at the high table, and how beautiful she had been with her braids looped up and held in place with a headband. I recalled in vivid detail how she had looked at me when I completed my tale of Troilus and Polyxena.
A deep, rasping cough jerked me out of my day dream.
Directly in front of me, not thirty paces away, stood a colossal stag. The giant creature was staring at me belligerent and challenging. I had never seen such a towering animal. At the shoulder it was as tall as I was, and the rack of antlers rose another four feet above that. I was so close that I could see the nostrils opening and closing as the creature tasted my scent. The animal’s head and thickly muscled neck was in proportion to its immense size. A broad, shaggy pelt of matted grey-brown hair covered the chest. I had no idea how it had emerged from the forest and appeared right in front of me.
I froze.
For a long moment the creature gazed directly at me. I felt small and puny. Then, slowly, the majestic spread of antlers, six or seven feet across, swung away as the hart turned its head and began to walk slowly past me. I had been judged as harmless.
I felt a nudge on my elbow. Osric had crept up behind me the moment the hart had turned away, and was prodding me with an arrow he had taken from the quiver. I looked down. It was a war arrow, the heavy iron head three inches broad and designed to pierce scale armour.
The hart was moving to my left, away from the line of waiting hunters. There was no hope of turning it back toward them. I took the arrow, nocked it to my bowstring, and glanced across at Walo. The lad was half-crouched, mesmerized, his mouth slack and his gaze fixed on the great deer. He turned to face me and saw the question in my face. He nodded.
I drew back the bowstring, felt the heavy shaft slide smoothly across my left hand, and in the same movement, released the arrow.
I had practised my archery so often that there was no need to take deliberate aim. Some instinct told me exactly where to place the shaft, and the heavy arrow slammed into the ribs, just behind the shoulder.
Until that moment I had never appreciated the force of the curved bow. My arrow struck at the perfect angle. It plunged deep into the body cavity and ripped through the vital organs. The huge beast ran less than fifty paces, and then with a hoarse grunt, buckled at the knees and sank to the ground.
Walo was on the stag in a flash. He darted behind the stricken animal, dodged the kicking hooves, and crawled under the sweep of the antlers. At risk to his life he drew his hunting knife across the throat. It took three deep cuts before twin bright red spouts showed he had succeeded in despatching the animal.
The great head dropped to the ground and lay there, twisted at an ugly angle by the massive antlers.
Walo got to his feet unsteadily, his face and jerkin splashed with blood. He gazed down at the great corpse, and a tremendous smile spread across his face. Then he broke into a gawky dance, capering up and down with delight.
‘What do we do now?’ I asked him. I could scarcely believe that it had all ended so quickly.
He stopped his jig and fumbled for the hunting horn dangling from the cord around his neck. Putting it to his lips, he blew three or four unsteady notes. The effort was beyond him, and he tried a second time. On the fourth attempt he succeeded in completing what I supposed was the death call.
There was no response from the silent forest.
We began to gut the huge animal. It was a mammoth task. By mid-morning we were not halfway through butchering the carcass, though we had succeeded in retrieving my lucky arrow, undamaged. It had slid between two ribs and pierced the heart. We sliced and cut, pausing to pass a whetstone between us and sharpen our knives and to listen for other hunters. We might as well have been alone in a wilderness. We worked until we were hungry, and Walo went to fetch bread and hard cheese from a saddlebag on the pony and a leather bottle of ale. I wandered off in search of water to clean my hands made sticky with blood. I took along the arrow to wash and smooth the blood-stiffened feathers.
Among the willows was a shallow puddle left by the summer rain. I knelt down and was washing the fletching when I heard the sound of a hunting horn. It was very far in the distance, several short calls followed by a longer note. I stood up to listen. The forest had fallen silent. Next came the alarm call of the jay, and then the sound of animals on the move, coming in my direction. As I watched, a group of half a dozen hinds moved across a gap in the thickets some fifty paces ahead of me. They were walking quietly, unhurried and unafraid. Cautiously I backed away, not wishing to frighten them. Varnulf had instructed that all lesser quarry must be allowed to pass freely. I reached the spot where I had left my bow when I happened to look toward the line of beech trees.
For a moment I thought I saw a ghost. A great stag was stepping out from the treeline. I shut my eyes tight and opened them again, thinking it was the fetch of the animal I had just slain. But this animal was slightly smaller, a lighter brown, and the rack of antlers was not as broad. Nevertheless I counted fourteen tines.
Instinctively I reached for my bow. My movement alerted the stag which turned its head to look in my direction. I stood stock still until the stag took a few more paces. Then slowly, very slowly, I set my lucky arrow to the string, and drew the bow. But the quarry was suspicious. Step by step it advanced, anxious to follow its group of hinds, yet wary of danger.
The stag was within killing range, yet I waited. My arms and shoulders aching with the strain, hoping for another mortal shot. Then Osric called to me to hurry to join him before all the food was gone. His shout caused the stag to wheel round and take a great leap towards the safety of the treeline. I loosed.
My arrow caught the beast in mid-air, striking well back along his body. I saw the hindquarters twist and droop as the injured beast landed. Then it gathered its strength and sped away among the beech trees, the crashing sounds of flight growing fainter and fainter in the distance.
‘What was that?’ demanded Osric, emerging from the brushwood behind me, a cheese rind in his hand.
‘Another hart, almost as big. I wounded it.’
‘Badly?’
‘I think so. It was running crookedly.’
‘Quick, before you lose it. Walo and I can bring on the horses.’ He ran back and fetched the lance that Walo had stuck in the ground and handed it to me. ‘You’ll need this to finish him off. In the woods it’ll be more use than the bow. But take care.’
Alone, I set out in pursuit of the wounded quarry. I ran at first, a slow jog because the trail was easy to follow and I did not believe I had far to go. The hart had left a line of marks on the forest floor where its hooves had scuffed up the leaves. Here and there were sizable splashes of blood. In a few places I saw fresh scrapes on tree trunks where the wounded creature had blundered into the trees, and the antlers had knocked away the bark.
But gradually the trail grew indistinct, and I slowed to a walk. I was being drawn deep into the forest. The dense foliage filtered out the daylight and made it difficult to pick out the tell-tale signs. I worried that I might walk past the carcass of the beast if it had dropped dead. Worse, there was the risk of stumbling upon the wounded animal, as it was ready to attack. I recalled how my father had insisted that no trackers ever went after a wounded stag unless they were accompanied by dogs. So I looked about me carefully, peering into the dark shadows as much for ambush as for signs of blood or hoof prints. I kept a firm grip on the lance.
I had almost given up all hope of finding my quarry and was ready to turn back when I heard a sudden panicked thrashing not far ahead. I had come up upon the beast, and once again scared it into flight. I broke into a run, determined not to let it escape. But after a short distance the sounds suddenly stopped, and I was at a loss. I stole forward, taking each step quietly, straining my ears.
I came to the lip of a narrow, steep gulley. A dense tangle of ferns and brambles choked the little stream which ran through the bottom of it. I heard a bubbling, wheezing sound, looked down and saw the wounded stag. It was lying sprawled on the stream bed, deep pink froth coming from its jaws. My arrow must have pierced the lungs. A fresh scar in the earth bank showed where the creature had tried to leap across and failed. It had tumbled into the gully and, unable to rise, was very near death. Very cautiously I eased myself over the edge. The bank was too steep for me to stand upright so I sat back on the slope and allowed myself to slide down the bank. The sides of the gully were slick with wet leaves, and I dug in my heels to control the speed of my descent. When I reached the bottom of the gully, I circled round, keeping well clear of the antlers to where I could get a clear thrust with the lance. Not taking my eyes off the quarry, I sidled into position and drew back my weapon. I was about to stab down when something whipped past my head and there was a soft thump just beside me. I turned my head and was shocked to see the haft of an arrow sticking out of the earth bank to my right. It had buried half its length into the soil.
I yelped with anger and fright, just as a second arrow whizzed past, so close that I felt the wind of its passing. ‘Watch out, you fool!’ I screamed. I looked up at the bank above me to see a figure duck back out of sight. All thought of killing the stag had gone from my mind. I scrambled my way up the slope to confront the idiot hunter. But by the time I reached the crest there was no one there. Whoever had aimed the arrows had fled and there was no hope of catching him.
I waited to get my breath back and for the pounding of my heart to ease. If the archer had been a hunter, he would have stayed. My thoughts went back to the thief who had tried to rob the eel wagon. The forest was home to brigands and outlaws, but I could see little reason why one of them would want to kill me. This was not the time of hunger, and there was plenty of game in the forest so it could not be for the stag’s carcass. Possibly I had stumbled on the outlaws’ lair. If so, I was not aware of it.
Lying on the ground was a hunting horn. The cord had snapped. I picked it up, wondering if it was a clue to the archer’s identity. But it was a commonplace instrument, made of wood with a mouthpiece carved from bone. Many foresters carried them. Thoughtfully, I knotted the broken cord and hung the horn around my neck. Then I slid back down into the gully to collect the two arrows that had so nearly killed me. Genuine hunters identified their own arrows with dabs of paint or coloured thread. It allowed them to reclaim spent arrows and settle conflicting claims about who had slain the quarry. Both the arrows I extracted from the soft earth carried broad iron tips, capable of killing man or beast. But neither had any distinguishing marks so there was nothing to be learned from them. Angrily I snapped them across my knee and tossed the pieces into the undergrowth. Such arrows were expensive, and at least the mysterious archer would be denied their use in future. At the same time I was increasingly uneasy that what had happened might not have been an accident.
There was no longer any need to despatch the stag. While I had been dealing with the mystery archer, the animal had died. To make sure, I touched a fingertip to one of the huge, wide, unseeing eyes. There was no reaction and I turned away. The splintered stub of my own arrow protruded from the animal’s side. It had been snapped when the animal fell. I left the arrow where it was. Osric and Walo could retrieve it later, and I would fit the broad head to another shaft. I wanted to keep my lucky arrow.
I clambered out of the gully and set off back the way I had come. I held on to the lance for defence but I had the feeling that there would be no more trouble that day. Instead, after an hour of walking, I knew that I had a different problem: I was completely lost. The forest track I had chosen to follow had petered out. All around me the trees looked the same. Suddenly I was thirsty and fiercely hungry. I had not eaten since before dawn and even then only a few mouthfuls of bread. The day’s events had been exhausting, and it was now well into the afternoon. I was tired and did not relish the prospect of spending the night alone in the forest.
I had not seen any large game animals during my walk so I did not risk ruining the king’s sport. I raised the hunting horn dangling against my chest and blew a soft double note, hoping Osric and Walo were somewhere quite close and would hear me. There was no reply. I tried again, louder. This time there was a response, a single short call. Relieved, I turned in that direction and began to walk.
Half an hour later I had not reached my companions and was again losing confidence. I feared that I was walking in a circle. Once more I sounded the hunting horn, and to my relief it was answered. I headed in that direction.
So it went on. Every five or ten minutes I blew a single note on the hunting horn, heard a reply and used it as my guide. I pressed forward, more quickly now, walking confidently. I was intent on catching up with Osric and Walo and returning with them to the main camp before dusk. I noticed how the forest around me was different. Previously there had been wide open spaces between the great trunks, now there was more undergrowth and brushwood. Occasionally my way was blocked and I was obliged to turn aside. When this happened for the third or fourth time, I looked more closely. I saw I had walked into a line of wicker hurdles, artfully covered with fresh branches.
I had blundered into the fence that Vulfard’s men had erected to guide the game towards the king.
By now I was too exhausted and hungry to care. Besides, the day was so far advanced that the hunt should have been finished some time ago. I trudged forward, following the line of the fence, until I heard the sound of voices. Soon afterwards I emerged into a clearing and stopped dead. The king and his royal hunting party were standing together in a group, their backs to me. Attendants were serving food and drink from trays.
Hroudland was the first to notice me hesitating at the edge of the forest. He came forward, his face full of anxiety. To my surprise he did not ask where I had been. Instead he blurted, ‘Patch, make yourself scarce. The king is furious.’
I was utterly taken aback.
‘What have I done?’
‘Played the noisy fool and ruined the hunt for everyone else.’ My friend sounded resentful.
‘Bring that oaf over here!’ ordered an angry voice. It was the king and he had a face like thunder. Vulfard, in his green garb, lurked behind him, looking devastated.
My stomach growled with hunger as I walked forward. The group of courtiers nervously cleared a space around the infuriated king. Only Hroudland had the courage to step out and accompany me as I approached his uncle.
Carolus was fuming. He caught sight of the hunting horn dangling against my chest.
‘Hroudland, take that away from him. I never want to hear its note again,’ he stormed.
‘Your Majesty, I beg forgiveness,’ I stammered. ‘I was lost and trying to find my way.’
‘No wonder, you numskull. You couldn’t find your arse with your own hands.’ The king swung round and confronted Vulfard. ‘You said you sent your son to keep an eye on this buffoon!’
‘I did, my lord,’ answered the huntsman. He was shrivelled up with embarrassment. ‘The lad will get a whipping when he gets back.’
‘Walo is not at fault,’ I intervened.
‘He knows well enough not to blow the death call in jest, and wreck the hunt,’ snapped Vulfard.
‘But the hart was dead,’ I said.
There was the pause of a heartbeat, and then the king growled, ‘What hart?’
‘A large one, maybe eighteen points.’
I saw derisive looks appear on the faces of the royal party. Ganelon, Hroudland’s stepfather, was smirking.
The king narrowed his eyes.
‘You claim that you killed a hart of eighteen points?’ He sounded incredulous.
‘Yes, Your Majesty.’
He turned to Vulfard.
‘Can this be true?’
The huntsman shifted uncomfortably.
‘Possibly. We never saw the beast ourselves.’
‘I know that!’ the king snapped. ‘Your dimwit son and this lout frightened off every creature for miles around, puffing away like low musicians at a fairground.’ The king swung back to face me. ‘When did you kill this wondrous beast?’ His voice dripped with sarcasm.
‘Shortly after we reached the place in the line assigned to us, Your Majesty.’
‘And you are sure it has eighteen points?’
‘The rack was larger than the other one.’
The royal eyebrows shot up.
‘What other one?’
‘Back there, it appeared a little while later,’ I said weakly, indicating the forest behind me. ‘It had only sixteen points.’
‘Are you saying that today you killed two beasts, each fit to be royal quarry?’
‘I intended no disrespect.’
The king studied me for a long moment, scowling. Then Vulfard coughed discreetly.
‘I think he tells the truth, Your Majesty.’ He indicated to one side. Walo and Osric were entering the clearing. They were on foot and leading the two horses loaded with great slabs of meat. Dangling from the saddle of my bay gelding was an immense rack of antlers.
The king turned back to face me. He scowled, and for a moment I thought he was going to strike me. Suddenly he threw back his head and burst out in a great roar of laughter.
‘I hereby ban this young man from our forests and any future hunt of ours.’
I bowed my head obediently, and stared at the leaf mould on the ground. If I was forbidden from the forest, then I was unlikely ever to learn the identity of the mysterious archer who might have been an assassin.