The Huntsman's Tale (Oxford Medieval Mysteries Book 3)

by Ann Swinfen

  When at last I was able to retire to my small chamber under the eaves, I waited until I had shed my clothes – still prickly with bits of straw – and donned my night shift. Then I sat down on my bed, with a rush dip standing on a stool at my side, and drew out the packet Geoffrey Carter had brought for me.

  Using my small knife, I lifted the seal. It would be that of Sir Anthony Thorgold. I had not consciously remembered it, but I must have seen it when I visited him earlier in the year, to appeal for his help on Emma’s behalf. The beautiful flowing script on the outside was unmistakeably Emma’s hand.

  I unfolded the outer layer carefully, and discovered that there were several sheets inside. I unfolded these in turn, and flattened them out on the bed beside me.

  Three were drawings.

  One showed her grandfather’s house. It was a meticulously detailed drawing, including every window, corner and crenellation. She had even managed to give an impression of depth, a trick only the best artists can achieve. The grounds around the house were also shown, though in less detail, the trees lightly sketched, so that the house took prominence. The whole was done simply in black ink, with nothing but thick and thin lines, and some hatching, to give texture. Of course, at her grandfather’s home she was unlikely to have coloured inks, although his own scribes might possess red ink for initial capitals in legal documents.

  In the second picture, the estate’s servants were occupied with their tasks in the farm yard. It was a busy scene, with much to examine. A woman collecting eggs, while hens pecked around her feet. A man sharpening a scythe on a circular grindstone like the one in Edmond’s barn. One maid milking a cow while another carried a bucket toward the house, just glimpsed at the end of the picture. Two lads wrestling with an escaping pig. A puppy (who looked remarkably like Rowan) about to trip up a pompous man, perhaps the estate steward, who could not see it over the ample swell of his well-fed stomach. At the edge of the scene, on the opposite side to the house, a recognisable tall man with a quill behind his ear was looking on in some bewilderment. I grinned. I hoped that I did not always look so bemused.

  The third picture was a harvest scene, men and women bent over, weary with labour, the field half cut, but still stretching away in the distance, with so much bone-aching work still to do. Two rabbits and a hare were bursting out of the field, and almost out of the picture, at the very front.

  I looked at the three pictures, laid side by side. There was no denying that she possessed a remarkable talent. How unfortunate that her sex and her rank prevented her from employing it.

  As a kind of self-discipline, I had kept the fourth sheet, the letter, till last. Now I unfolded it and tilted it toward the light of the rush dip.

  Dear friend, it began. I smiled. She had chosen her opening wisely.

  As you will see, I have arrived at my grandfather’s house without mishap and find him well. He wishes me to send you hearty greetings. There is little for me to occupy myself with here, and so I have been wielding my pen and ink to pass the time. As evidence of my humble skills as a scrivener and illuminator, I am sending you three of my drawings.

  I laughed aloud – ‘humble skills’ indeed.

  Like any poor suitor for employment, I hope that they may serve to recommend me for a position as scrivener, should the house of Master Elyot, bookseller of Oxford, be willing to engage me.

  It is my hope that you and your family find yourselves in good health and that the harvest proceeds apace, as it does here.

  Your friend, Emma Thorgold.

  I laid the letter down and stared across into the shadows of the room. Now what, exactly, did she mean by this?

  Chapter Five

  After a restless night, I rose before dawn, to a chorus of birdsong. Although it was well past the season for the pairing of bird with bird, it seemed the winged population of the farm welcomed the aftermath of the storm, the oppressive heat banished, earth and heaven washed clean. I dressed hurriedly, but with some care. I had no wish to appear too rustic in the eyes of Edmond’s new neighbour and thus to bring disgrace on him, but I had no garments with me that might pass muster with this Master Mordon and his grandiose ideas of his own importance. I did, however, have a pair of good russet hose and a dull green cotte, slit at the sides for riding. Lord de Vere had always advocated clothing for the hunt which blended well with the woodland, since it was less likely to alarm the quarry. He would have approved of my choice, I was sure.

  In the kitchen I found only Margaret, Susanna, and one of the maidservants, busy shaping the morning’s loaves.

  ‘You are too early, Nicholas,’ Margaret said. ‘There will be no breakfast for another hour.’

  ‘That is no matter,’ I said. ‘I did not expect it. I have remembered that one of Rufus’s shoes seemed somewhat loose. I want to take him down to Bertred Godsmith in the village before riding him to the hunt. I’ve no wish for him to suffer harm. The shoe might come half adrift and cause him to stumble or even fall. I should be back before we need to set out.’

  ‘Aye,’ Susanna said, ‘Bertred is likely already astir. He will have been summoned to the hunt.’

  This was what I had counted on. It is always wise to have a blacksmith at hand during a hunt, in case any of the mounts needed care. Like many of his calling, Bertred Godsmith was also something of a horse doctor, and the demands of the hunt can often prove a strain on the horses, with cuts and bruising, or pulled muscles.

  In the barn I saddled Rufus quickly, for he was always patient and biddable, and as I led him outside into the yard the first flush of dawn was brightening the sky. There was very little cloud, nothing but a few wisps, almost transparent, though the heat we had suffered before the storm still appeared to be held at bay. As I rode down the track to the village, I was surrounded by more birdsong, and the trees, which had previously worn the tired droop of late summer, now gleamed, with every leaf freshly washed.

  The smithy stood almost in the centre of the village, across the green from the church. The green itself held a small muddy pond, where a few ducks were floating, as if half asleep, and someone’s goat was tethered nearby, tearing at the grass and regarding me sideways from a cold yellow eye.

  Susanna was right. There was smoke rising from the cottage beside the smithy, and from the smithy fire itself. As I slid from the saddle, an overgrown boy peered from the open door of the smithy and Bertred himself emerged from the cottage, a chunk of cold pie in his hand.

  ‘You be about mighty early, Master Elyot,’ he said, through a mouthful. ‘Need me, do you?’

  ‘Aye. We are bidden to the hunt today, and I’m not sure about the horse’s off fore.’ I nodded toward Rufus. ‘He’s not mine and I don’t want him coming to harm. Will you take a look?’

  ‘I will, surely.’

  He stuffed the rest of the pie in his mouth and led Rufus into the smithy doorway. The boy went to the bellows and began pumping, to raise the heat of the forge. I took over Rufus’s head, holding the reins close under his jaw, so that he would not twist about and turn his head, while Bertred donned a thick leather apron, its front pocket bulging with the tools of his trade.

  As the smith clamped Rufus’s off forefoot between his knees, I tried to make out whether the shoe was indeed loose, but could not see past his broad shoulder.

  ‘Was I right?’ I asked.

  ‘Aye, ’tis loose, right enough, and worn down on the outside edge. It will be setting him off balance afore long. I can fix it firmer. Or I can fit him with a new shoe. Which is it to be? If he’s not your horse, mebbe you’ll not be wanting to spend the money.’

  ‘Fit a new shoe,’ I said. ‘I don’t want him going lame. As well as the hunt, he has to carry me back to Oxford. Best check the other three shoes as well.’

  Bertred let Rufus’s foot drop and set about hunting through his half-made shoes to find one which could be shaped to fit. When he had found one to his satisfaction, he seized it with his long-handled tongs and began to heat it in the fire. Soo
n there was the ring of hammer on anvil, followed by the throat-catching smell of singeing hoof as he shaped and tested the new shoe, finally securing it with nails, driven through the side of the hoof, the excess length snipped off and bent flat. Then he checked the other shoes.

  ‘They’ll do,’ he said, ‘but you mebbe should let me take another look before you ride back to Oxford. When do you leave?’

  ‘Oh, not for another week at least,’ I said. ‘We are here lending a hand with the harvest.’

  ‘Aye. I heard.’

  Of course. Everyone in the village would know.

  ‘Will you be at the hunt?’ I asked.

  He grimaced. ‘Aye, the new lord has commanded me.’ He gave the word the same sarcastic emphasis I had heard from others. ‘I owe him no service, whatever he may think, but I’ll be there.’

  Like Geoffrey Carter, Bertred Godsmith was a free man, master of his own living, indeed like many others in recent years, even in small villages like Leighton-under-Wychwood. Fewer and fewer villagers were held in villeinage to an overlord, tied to customary labour and boon days. The de Veres had respected this and paid the blacksmith for his services. If the new man at the manor did not understand the way of it, he would soon learn his lesson, for Bertred was a big man and proud of his independence. He would not see his rights trampled under foot.

  I paid for the new shoe, and told Bertred I would see him later at the hunt. He had a small portable forge and anvil that he would take with him, in case any emergency farrier work was needed. As I rode away I saw the boy – who had spoken never a word – pick up the old shoe and throw it on a heap of scrap iron. From time to time, Bertred would melt this down to make new shoes in various sizes, to be shaped and trimmed like the one he had fitted to Rufus.

  Back at the farm I found everyone at breakfast, despite the fact that we would soon be enjoying a lavish meal in the forest. I ate little. Ever since I was a boy I have felt somewhat sick before the excitement and danger of a hunt, for in truth it could be dangerous. A blow to the head from a low-hanging branch when you were galloping at speed, or a heavy fall, or any other of a number of accidents could kill you. None of us, however, mentioned these possibilities before the children. I collected my hunting spear, my bow, and a quiver of arrows from my bedchamber, where I stored them when I was in Oxford, having no need for them in town. I tested the bowstring and arrows, and checked that I had a spare string. All seemed in order, but I decided to leave the spear behind. Unlike some, I never carried a crossbow to the hunt, finding it too heavy and unwieldy on horseback.

  Soon after this we set out, all but Edmond’s two little girls, Megan and Lora, who were deemed too young to risk in the forest and were left behind with all the maid servants, save the one girl, Elga, who would help carry some of the food we were providing for the hunt breakfast. All the horses had saddlebags filled with the less fragile items, while the rest of the food was placed in baskets brought by the women. Philip lifted Stephen before him on to his horse, to save the boy the long walk. I thought our lively procession would make a fine subject for one of Emma’s drawings as we made our way down to the village and the turn to the manor house. The girl Elga was alight with excitement, not being much more than a child herself.

  ‘I have never seen a hunt, Master Elyot,’ she said as we set off. ‘Imagine! That I should be off to a hunt in the royal forest!’

  I smiled at her. She would enjoy the hunt breakfast in the open greenwood, but I knew she was unlikely to see much of the actual pursuit and killing of deer.

  I had left Emma’s drawings and letter behind, slipped between the pages of one of the books I had brought for Stephen to read. He was already engrossed in the other. By the time he moved on to the second one, I should need to find another hiding place, for I was reluctant to leave them lying about, for anyone to see.

  What did Emma mean, about employment as a scrivener? She knew I could not employ her. Was she merely teasing? Probably. Although I should have preferred to see her face as she said it. I should have preferred to see her in any case. Although she was but over the border of south Oxfordshire, she might have been in Cornwall or Northumberland, she seemed so far away. How should I reply? It would be easy enough to send a letter – by Geoffrey Carter to Mistress Farringdon, who could then despatch it by the other carter to Emma’s grandfather’s house – but I could not imagine what I could say in response to such an odd letter.

  My troubled thoughts were interrupted by our arrival at the road leading to the manor. As I had noticed on the evening we arrived, the neglected and overgrown bushes had been cut back, so that the way up to the manor house looked much as it had done in Yves de Vere’s time. We were to gather at the manor and meet our host, then proceed, along with his household and guests, into Wychwood by a path which led out from behind the house into the fringes of the forest.

  ‘Do you suppose we will take our meal in the usual place?’ Edmond had ridden up beside me. ‘That clearing by the stream?’

  ‘Probably.’ I nodded. ‘I do not suppose Master Mordon could have found it for himself, but if Alan Wodville is in charge of the hunt, he will have marked it out for him. There is nowhere else so well suited.’

  As we drew near the manor, we could see the signs of busy activity all about both house and stables. I was curious about those ‘improvements’ Geoffrey Carter had mentioned when he had come to Oxford. Most likely they were mostly withindoors, but I could see that the rampant ivy, which had climbed over the outside of the building, even fingering its way into the windows, had all been cleared away. The daub between the timber framework had been freshly lime washed, and there was new mortar between the bricks of the chimneys, all of which were smoking, even on this August day, a sign of careless wealth. The stables and other outbuildings had likewise been restored and newly thatched, so the man Mordon had done something worthwhile at least. Left as they had been by the absentee heir, both house and outbuildings would soon have begun to collapse past saving.

  I noticed Alan standing amongst a group of hunt servants, gesticulating and looking worried. He would be anxious that the hunt should go well, even if he was carrying on his duties by force. It had always been a matter of pride with his family that the hunts from the manor should be conducted in a seemly fashion, with good sport, a successful haul of game, and no more than a few minor hurts amongst the hunters. With a crowd of unknown and untried strangers to be managed, it was little wonder that he looked worried.

  Edmond, Philip, James, the students, and I dismounted as we reached the house, and Philip lifted Stephen down. The womenfolk, Thomas, and Jordain, following more slowly on foot with the children, would be here before long. We nodded to friends amongst the crowd – some from the village, some from neighbouring manors. It seemed Master Mordon had sent out his invitations widely. Another reason for Alan to look worried. Too many horsemen crowded together, galloping through the dense woodland, was a likely source of collisions, falls, and injury. The new man had little sense of such dangers, it seemed, preferring to flaunt his right to the chase before as many people as possible.

  A well-built man, of middle years, in a lawyer’s black gown, came hurrying down the steps from the house and strode over to Alan, where he seemed to be giving him orders. Alan stood perfectly still, his face blank, then he nodded once, briefly, and turned away. There appeared to be no sign of our host.

  ‘Time we were on our way,’ Edmond murmured in my ear, as the others of our party came up. ‘What is the delay?’

  I shook my head and shrugged. ‘I saw a party of servants leaving, loaded down with cushions and rugs, and a handcart of plates and flagons, so I suppose they are gone to set up the hunt breakfast.’

  ‘But we cannot make a start without our host. Where is the man?’

  As if in answer, the door to the manor house was opened again, and after a pause, a man stepped forth. He was a big man, but heavy with fat, not muscle. In his middle years, perhaps fifty, with the oily, well fed – not
to say over fed – look of a successful merchant. I hoped he had a strong horse, to bear such a weight.

  But what drew the eye, and caused me to clap my hand over my mouth to hide my incredulous grin, was not so much the man as his clothes. He had dressed for the hunt in purple hose and the kind of shoes with exaggerated pointed toes such as foolish gallants half his age could sometimes be seen wearing, strolling about Oxford, instead of the sturdy riding boots such as the rest of us wore. His long houppelande was of so bright a crimson it hurt the eye, and was trimmed at neck, hem, and trailing sleeves with braid of gold thread, beneath which a shirt of fine white silk could be glimpsed. He wore a gold chain about his neck, and his hands were heavy with jewelled rings. Crowning all was an enormous capuchon of bright yellow, the long liripipe twisted atop his head like the nest of some monstrous bird.

  He paused at the top of the steps that all might gape in admiration.

  Despite the hand clasped over my mouth, I could not entirely suppress my snort of laughter. Behind me, I could hear Guy and Giles sniggering, while Edmond had been obliged to turn his back, and Philip was gazing intently at the sky, as though he was concentrating on some sight of great interest, far above the smoke of the manor chimneys.

  ‘He is proposing to hunt, dressed like that?’ Giles whispered.

  ‘He will fright all the deer,’ Guy said, smothering a laugh. ‘We shall never be able to draw near enough for a clean shot.’

  Edmond had his face under control now. He took me by the elbow, urging me forward as Mordon descended the steps in a stately fashion. Seeing him now, as it were, on a level with the servants milling about, I guessed that the elaborate headdress was intended to make up for his lack of height.

  ‘What’s afoot with you?’ I muttered to Edmond.