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

by Ann Swinfen

  ‘I’d best present you to our host,’ he said, ‘before we set off.’

  We made our way through the crowd as more people descended the steps from the house. By their equally unsuitable dress, these were his guests come from London. There were more women than men amongst them.

  ‘She that is wearing the dark blue cotehardie,’ Edmond whispered, ‘that is his wife.’

  The woman must have been twenty years younger than her husband, nay more, and would have been pretty, had her face not been marred by a discontented frown. This was one person who seemed not to be looking forward to a day in the greenwood. At her elbow was a young man of her own age, perhaps filling something of the position of a squire to this Mordon who was no knight. He might have been a merchant’s clerk, although there was nothing clerkly about him. It appeared he was to take part in the hunt, since he carried a bow. And to my surprise, so did the woman.

  When we reached Master Mordon, Edmond presented me, and I bowed – ironically rather more deeply than his rank merited. He gave a curt nod, his eyes passing over me dismissively, and seeking some object of more interest over my shoulder. In spite of myself, I found I was flushing with annoyance. Edmond noticed, and patted my arm.

  ‘Even a nod,’ he said with a wry smile as the man moved away, ‘is more than he affords to some.’

  Herded into some sort of order by Alan Wodville and his assistants, people began to mount and ride round the side of the house to the track leading into Wychwood. Alan rode ahead, no doubt to ensure that all was in order for the meal. A huge stallion was led forward from the stables and Mordon heaved himself inelegantly astride. His houppelande was so long it seemed it might cause the horse to stumble. He ignored his wife, who was helped on to her palfrey by the young man. Did she intend merely to ride to the meal, or did horse and bow mean that she planned to join the hunt?

  ‘What do you think?’ I asked Edmond, as we mounted and prepared to follow. ‘Will the lady ride to the hunt?’

  He shrugged. ‘All I know is that she comes from a noble family in Northamptonshire, so she may have been bred up to hunt. In some of these great families a few of the bolder women ride to the chase. It is said that Mordon bought her of her father, wanting an aristocratic alliance for his descendents. His first wife died of a fever, and this one has given him no children, so it seems he made a bad bargain.’

  Alan’s nephew Rob appeared from the direction of the outbuildings, accompanied by the eager baying of the alaunts, held on a tight leash by their handlers. They, at least, were eager for the day’s sport. The tracking lymers, trained to silence, padded alongside.

  As we rode in our ill assorted crowd to the forest, a flock of crows rose squawking with indignation from the trees. A tawny owl, disturbed from his daytime rest, swooped across in front of Mordon’s horse, caused it to shy and swerve. He hauled it back with a vicious jerk, and landed a stinging blow from his whip across its hindquarters. It jumped and fretted, but was so savagely held back, its chin nearly touching its chest, that it could not move. The man rode like a fat porker, but it seemed he was master of the big stallion.

  It was several years since I had been in Wychwood. The last time I had ridden to the hunt here had been in Yves de Vere’s time, before the Death, when I had brought Elizabeth and Alysoun to visit my parents. Alysoun must have been about a year old then. Despite the recent neglect of the manor house, the nearby woodland had been cared for, and it was clear that this was not simply since the arrival of the new man. Undergrowth had been kept down, smaller trees removed to give light to the rest, so that they should produce fine straight timber. The manor’s hereditary forester was a cousin of Alan’s, and I knew that in the past the two families had worked together to maintain the woodland at its best for both the production of timber and the breeding of game. I wondered whether the forester still retained his position under the new regime. Perhaps his post came instead under the royal warden of the entire forest. Rights of chase in the forest also carried responsibilities for those who held them, but the whole forest belonged to the king.

  The path through the outer fringes of the forest was a wide area of turf, and the trees here were widely spaced, straight and well grown, forming an aisle like the pillars in a church, but at a short distance from the path, on either side, there were occasional thickets of bushy undergrowth. A townsman like Mordon might suppose that they were a sign of neglect on the part of the forester, but in fact these clumps of untrimmed bushes had been left deliberately for the wild boar, who would use them for covert.

  There were still some boar in Wychwood, though they had been over hunted in recent years. It was not unknown for the king to send out orders to the royal huntsmen to provide several hundred deer and boar, to be produced at court, with very little warning. In such a case, any noble who had rights of chase in a royal forest must give way to the king’s men. For some reason I do not understand, the herds of deer seemed to recover quite quickly from these massive depredations, but the boar did not. All over England, it was said, the boar were declining. As for wolves, I had not heard of any being caught in Wychwood in my lifetime.

  Not far into the wood, the trees drew back, opening out to reveal a wide, grassy clearing as neat and tended as a lady’s bower. The turf was short – surely it must have been scythed – and at the far side of the clearing a swift, chattering stream ran silver over pebbles, eventually emerging from the wood near the manor house to join the debatable mill stream. Off to the left side of the clearing, a temporary paddock for the horses had been created with withy hurdles. In the centre, the manor servants had set up one large trestle table, covered with a cloth of white linen, while several more cloths had been spread on the short grass, surrounded with cushions. The most favoured guests would sit at the table on stools, while the rest of us (amongst whom I included myself) would sit on the ground.

  There was even a fire, sheltered from draughts by an iron screen, where a cook’s boy was stirring something in a pot suspended from a framework of iron spikes and hooks, while other servants were laying out dishes – silver for the table, pewter elsewhere – and linen napkins. Flasks stood along each cloth, surrounded with silver or pewter cups. These were embossed with some sort of device, though I was too far away to make it out.

  Mordon had already dismounted and was shouting orders as a groom ran up to take his horse, which had simply been left standing, his hooves practically on one of the table cloths. We followed the groom and turned our horses into the enclosure. I noticed that Stephen was looking about him, wide eyed.

  I grinned. ‘I hope you are hungry, Stephen,’ I said. ‘Look over there.’

  Two more handcarts were being trundled up, piled high with food of every sort, from fancy breads to dishes of delicacies like roasted larks on skewers.

  ‘Look,’ Stephen said, his voice lowered to a whisper, ‘there is even a swan!’

  There was, indeed, a swan.

  All swans in England are heavily protected, most reserved for the king, but I have heard that the livery companies in London have the right to some.

  ‘It must have been sent from London,’ I said to Stephen. ‘In the hot weather we have been suffering, it may not be fresh. I should have a care, if you are offered any. The meat may be rotten.’

  I doubted whether a lame child, clearly of no importance in the eyes of a man like Mordon, would have any chance to taste the roasted bird, which was being carried with great ceremony to the centre of the table. As is the way with these ostentatious dishes, it had been made to look as much like the live bird as possible. The neck had been twisted with wire to hold it upright, the wings had been pinned back on to its sides, and the feathers painstakingly reaffixed to its body – by what means I am not sure. The attempt was not altogether successful. Perhaps it had suffered in being transported from the manor kitchen to the woods. The neck drooped sideways, the head hanging at an unnatural angle, one of the dead eyes turned skyward. A patch of feathers had been rubbed off, and one of
the servants was attempting to restore them. I thought the whole thing repulsive.

  Fortunately our own party arrived with our contributions to the meal, and these more humble (but at least edible) provisions were soon laid out on one of the cloths spread on the turf. Food from the manor was also provided for us, but I noticed that some of the other guests, come from Shipton and Ashton, had also taken the precaution of bringing their own supplies. Those of highest rank were soon seated at the table, but their households joined us on the cushions.

  The hunting dogs had been tied up near the horses and were making a fair clamour, for certainly they must be able to smell the food. No huntsman, however, will feed the dogs before a hunt, for he has no wish for them to lose interest in pursuing the quarry. A sleek, well fed dog is of no use at the hunt.

  ‘Well,’ said Margaret, as we passed around the pies and cakes we had brought with us, ‘this brings back memories of times past, does it not, Nicholas?’

  ‘Aye,’ I said, washing down a mouthful of game pie with some of Mordon’s wine. ‘But I never remember such crowds of people in Yves de Vere’s day. Nor such elaborate fare. And clothing.’

  She grinned. ‘Perhaps we are under dressed for such a grand gathering.’

  ‘He will scare every deer from here to Burford,’ Giles grumbled. ‘Is the man quite mad?’

  ‘Best keep your voice down, lad,’ Edmond said, for there had been a brief lull in the chatter and it was possible Mordon might have heard.

  ‘It is Alan who will be fretting most,’ Susanna said.

  ‘Aye.’ Jordain set down his wine cup. ‘I am thinking we might have done better to spend the time trying to salvage the oat crop.’

  I studied my own cup, trying to make out the device. It seemed to be a coat-of-arms. Had Mordon earned the right to one? It appeared to depict a crude set of scales and some anonymous blobs. Peppercorns, perhaps.

  Edmond shook his head. ‘I must live neighbour to the man, Jordain. I do not want to risk offending him by refusing his invitation to the hunt. There is still the matter of the mill stream to be settled.’

  ‘It seems you are not the only one with matters to be settled,’ Philip said, ‘from all I have heard. Dismissed servants. Free men threatened with villeinage. Villagers forced to labour they do not owe, yet forbidden the right to glean. Charges at the mill doubled. Disputes over land holdings and rents. Maidens assaulted.’

  I glanced at him, surprised. Had he heard about Alan’s sister? Or were there other assaults? During our days of field work it seemed Philip had kept his ears open to the villagers’ talk.

  ‘Even his own party seems somewhat discontent,’ Susanna murmured, nodding her head toward the table.

  I turned and glanced where she indicated. Most of the neighbouring gentry and even the party from London looked bored or contemptuous, eating in silence while Mordon held forth, waving one of those skewered larks to emphasis some point. Hardly anyone else seemed to be speaking, although Mordon’s wife and the young man had their heads together at the end of the table.

  Despite the pleasant day, sunny but not unduly warm, despite the elaborate preparations and the ostentatious food, an uneasy atmosphere hung over the hunt breakfast. Matters would improve, I was sure, once the hunt itself was underway. There would be none of this awkward politeness barely covering an under-layer of discomfort. Once we were mounted and the tracking lymers were set to their task, all our minds would be turned to the pursuit of the quarry. It was the very start of the deer season and Alan had promised us good sport.

  As people finished eating and drinking they stirred, rose from the stools and cushions, and began to mill about. I noticed that the favoured guests from manors round about lost no time in leaving the table and joining their own households or seeking out friends amongst the local people, leaving the London party somewhat isolated. Sir Henry Talbot, who held a manor not far from Burford, made his way to us, kissing Margaret and Susanna, and bowing to Edmond and me. He had been a lifelong friend of my father, never standing upon rank.

  ‘Well, Edmond,’ he said, ‘how goes the harvest with you? Word is, you had some difficulty securing enough day labourers.’

  Nothing remains long a secret in the country.

  ‘Better than I had hoped,’ Edmond said. ‘Nicholas has brought a party of friends to lend their aid. Without them I would have been sore pressed.’

  ‘Hard times, hard times,’ Sir Henry said, ‘ever since the Death.’ He grinned at me. ‘So you are not grown too fine in your Oxford ways, Nicholas, to swing a scythe?’

  I grinned back and held out my hands to him. The ink stains had been augmented by blisters and calluses raised by scythe and flail.

  ‘Nay, Sir Henry, I have not forgot the skills of my father and grandfather. Without wheat, who shall eat bread? And without barley, who shall drink ale?’

  ‘Aye, that’s a good lad!’ He clapped me on the shoulder. I suppose to him I still seemed the boy he remembered. He lowered his voice. ‘And what think you of this new man? I’ve heard tales. Causing trouble, is he?’

  Edmond shrugged. ‘He has yet to learn our country ways, I suppose, but, aye, he has been causing trouble in many quarters.’

  ‘And as for his dress!’

  Sir Henry rolled his eyes, and we all laughed.

  ‘One of the students fears he will fright away all the game,’ I said.

  ‘Aye, he will, and provide a clear target in that bright red houppelande.’

  Sir Henry himself was dressed modestly in similar clothes to my own, brown and green, like any experienced hunter. He looked around now.

  ‘Where has the fellow gone? I begin to think we shall never be on our way. Sitting over that fool of a roast swan while he discoursed on the fame of his pepper shop.’

  Sir Henry’s tone conveyed a country gentleman’s contempt for such an occupation as the selling of pepper.

  ‘Did you eat of the swan, sir?’ I asked, curious.

  ‘Never fear! I like nothing better than a roast goose I’ve shot myself that morning over my own marshes, but some rancid fowl stuck all about with feathers–! This is a hunt breakfast, not a meal at court. And at court at least the bird would be fresh.’

  He shrugged. ‘I have come for a day’s sport, with but my one manservant. Tomorrow I’ll ride home to watch over my own harvest. And there, you may be sure, we eat no fancy delicacies, all show without and rotten within.’

  I looked around to see whether I could spot Master Mordon, but that yellow turban and eye-blinding houppelande were nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Well, I think I shall fetch my horse,’ I said, ‘to be ready as soon as we are able to make a start. I suppose Mordon wants to lead the hunt.’

  ‘That is what he has been saying.’ Sir Henry shrugged. ‘I fear your student has the right of it. If he leads, we shall trail along behind, like the tail of a blazing comet, through a wood quite devoid of game.’

  Suddenly a scream pierced the peaceful woodland, and the idle conversations stopped abruptly as everyone turned toward the direction of the sound. It seemed to come from the opposite side of the clearing from the horse paddock. The handcarts, baskets and bundles had been left there, out of the way of the meal. Alan Wodville was nearest and started forward, but Edmond and I were close behind, followed by Sir Henry and Philip.

  ‘An adder, do you think?’ Edmond said, as we ran after Alan. ‘There could be little else here to fright a woman. No boar would come near, not with all these people and our noise.’

  It might be an adder. But most countrywomen would not be so frightened by a small snake as to scream like that. The London women might be, but they were all still clustered by the table.

  As we neared the carts, there was a thrashing amongst the bushes, sounds of a man cursing, and a whimpering cry from a girl. It was clear enough what was afoot even before young Elga burst out, her hair tumbled, her face streaked with tears. She was clutching her gown at her throat, but we could all see that it was ripped down
to her waist.

  I grabbed one of the table cloths which was lying in a cart and wrapped it around her, while Edmond steadied her with an arm about her shoulders. He was white with anger.

  ‘Who did this, lass?’ he demanded, but the girl only wept the more.

  ‘I have a shrewd guess,’ Alan said, pushing through the bushes.

  There was the sound of a struggle, accompanied by more swearing, then Alan dragged Mordon out into the open.

  ‘You bastard!’ Alan said, shaking the man till his teeth rattled and his carefully folded liripipe tumbled down about his ears. ‘Not content with my sister, you would defile every helpless maid you can lay your hand upon.’

  Mordon was red in the face, but every mite as angry. ‘I’ll see you strung up for assault, you churl!’ he said. ‘Take your hands off me.’

  ‘Assault!’ Alan shouted. ‘It is you who have assaulted this maid, and this time there are witnesses.’

  Mordon spat contemptuously, barely missing Alan’s face. The man’s lowbred origins were revealing themselves.

  ‘Her? ’he said. ‘She’s nothing but a worthless serving wench. She probably feels the honour of attention from her lord.’

  ‘You are not her lord.’ Edmond’s tone was steady, but cold. ‘She is free, and a member of my household.’

  ‘Enough,’ Sir Henry said. ‘You have misbehaved grossly, sir, but if the day is not to be ruined for all, I think we should say no more now. You will apologise later to the maid.’

  Mordon glowered at him, but looking round at all of us he clamped his jaw shut.

  Few had followed us all the way to the carts, although we were the cynosure of all eyes. Edmond led Elga over to our womenfolk, and Sir Henry was urging Mordon back to his own party when the man whirled about and jabbed a finger at Alan.

  ‘Do not think I will forget this, fellow.’ His face was still suffused with the red flush of anger, although the comical disarray of his headgear robbed the threat of some of its impact.

  When I joined our household, the women were discussing what was best to do.