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

by Ann Swinfen

  ‘I will take you home,’ Susanna said, her arms around the girl, who was still sobbing, but more quietly now.

  ‘Nay,’ Beatrice said. ‘You should remain. Your absence might cause comment. I am a stranger here. I will take Elga home and we will have a quiet afternoon together. We can salt more of the beans, can we not, Elga?’

  The girl gulped and nodded, and they set off together, back along the grassy ride, Elga still wrapped in the linen cloth.

  Edmond wiped his face. ‘Jesu! That was unpleasant. What was that about Alan’s sister?’

  As we walked toward the paddock, I gave him a brief account of what Alan had told me about his sister. Since he had shouted it out before all of us, I felt I no longer needed to keep silence about it.

  ‘That child!’ Edmond exclaimed. ‘She is even younger than Elga.’

  ‘Best we get to horse.’ Sir Henry had come up behind us. ‘Mordon has sent for his stallion. After the hunt, I will speak to him further.’

  Edmond gave a grim nod, but we said no more about the matter, busying ourselves with checking our horses’ girths, and mounting, ready to set off on the hunt. Rufus was no hunter, but he could sense the excitement in the air, snorting and tossing his head in anticipation.

  The clearing was now a mass of circling horses, all afire and nervy. The women and children, and the men who were not riding to the chase, had withdrawn to the edge of the open space to allow the horses more room and all remnants of the meal had been cleared away. Alan was astride his powerful stallion, his most treasured possession, and had sounded his horn to warn that we would shortly be off. A servant handed Mordon a horn on an embroidered baldric, which he slung over his shoulder and across his chest. At a distance it looked as though it was bound with gold, but surely it must be brass. There was the wink of red stones in the sunlight filtering slantwise through the trees, but probably they were no more than coloured glass. Certainly the man had demonstrated that he was rich, but who would lavish real jewels on a mere hunting horn? I hoped he knew how to use it. If he sounded calls that conflicted with those Alan would use to control the hunting party, it must lead to confusion and chaos.

  A large number of villagers had now joined the party of observers, slipping silently into the woods and forming an outer circle beyond those who had been invited to the breakfast. Some carried their own hunting gear of bow or spear. I had already noticed some villagers amongst the servants at the meal, and others acting as hunt assistants to Alan. One of these I recognised as Matt Grantham, the man Mordon was attempting to reduce to villeinage on account of some of the land he held. Over near the empty paddock, Bertred Godsmith and his boy were setting up his temporary forge, ready if they should be needed.

  ‘There are too many of us,’ I muttered to Philip, whose hired horse was shifting uneasily from side to side, next to me.

  ‘Aye.’ He looked worried. ‘We shall never be able to keep together, and even if we do, there will be injuries.’

  ‘Well, let us ease our way to the front,’ I said. ‘If we can get clear of the crowd, we shall have a better chance.’

  He nodded and we began to edge our horses through the throng until we were quite close behind Mordon and Alan. I was surprised to see Mordon’s wife nearby, and the young man still in close attendance.

  ‘I see Lady Edith does intend to ride to the chase.’ Sir Henry had joined us, no doubt with the same intention of keeping to the forefront, clear of any unskilled riders. ‘She’s a bold woman, so I’ve heard.’

  ‘Who is the man always with her?’ I asked. ‘Do you know?’

  ‘Some cousin or other of Mordon’s. Inherited a small estate in Buckinghamshire and so thinks he outranks Mordon, though ’tis Mordon holds the purse strings. What’s the fellow’s name?’

  He scratched under his hat with the butt of his whip. ‘Dunston? Dunstable? Aye, that’s it. John Dunstable. His great-uncle was squire to one of the last king’s knights.’

  That could mean almost anything. The history of our present king’s father and his knights was best forgotten.

  Alan’s nephew now made his way to the front, herding the hunt dogs and their handlers past Mordon’s great stallion, who shifted uneasily as the dogs brushed past his legs. Some of the dogs were barking excitedly, but the tracking lymers, as always, were silent. The alaunts, trained to pull down a wounded beast, were making the noise, though their handlers hushed them and struck a few with the slack of the leather leads to silence them.

  When all was as much in order as one might hope from such a motley gathering, Alan lifted his horn to his lips and sounded the signal, a quick double note – To the deer! To the deer!

  The lymers, knowing the signal, leapt to the scent, their handlers running beside them. Later they might be loosed, but for now they were kept on their leads.

  I leaned forward, gave Rufus his head, and we broke into a gallop behind Mordon and Alan. The hunt had begun!

  Chapter Six

  Alan had been tracking the deer for the previous few days, and again early that morning. He was now leading us toward the part of the wood where the herd had last been seen. At least, he was attempting to lead us, but Mordon constantly jostled him roughly aside, his big stallion shouldering across the path and blocking Alan’s way. I could hear the huntsman muttering curses under his breath, but not so quietly that Mordon would fail to hear them. He glared at the huntsman, but continued to behave aggressively, ignoring the respect due to the huntsman’s skill and experience.

  To begin with there was an open ride through the trees, a way which had been cleared by the forester and his servants to aid the removal of felled trees. Our whole company was able to stay more or less together as we galloped over the turf. The dogs were silent now, noses down on the scent, the only sound the dull thud of the horses’ hooves on the turf and the panting of the dog handlers, running along either edge of the ride, the alaunts held back, the best of the lymers loping just ahead of Mordon and Alan. I hoped that Mordon had sufficient control of his mount to prevent him from running down the dogs and crushing them.

  Sir Henry and Edmond were close beside me, but I could not see Philip now, or James or Guy. Giles was not far behind me, and riding so near to him that their horses’ shoulders almost touched I saw, to my astonishment, the Lady Edith. I had never hunted with a woman in the company before and had supposed she would have kept to the rear. Instead, she stayed with the leaders, riding astride like a man, and seemingly fearless. As I glanced over my shoulder I saw that John Dunstable was immediately behind her, and was trying to force Giles off the path. I felt a spurt of anger. Hunting is dangerous enough without playing the fool games Mordon and his man were indulging in. I wanted to shout a warning to Giles, but feared he was too far back to hear me through the thunder of the hooves.

  I found that I was beginning to fall a little behind. Rufus was not built for speed and the pace set by Mordon and Alan was almost too much for him, though even so I found myself grinning with excitement at the heart-pounding gallop. In this wide avenue there were no low hanging branches, so one could give oneself up to the chase with little fear of injury. Then I became aware of some confusion ahead. The two leading horses had slowed to a stop, as had Sir Henry. The rest of us reined in, a tumble of sweating and excited horses and breathless riders. The lymers were milling about, some straining forward along the ride, others turning eagerly aside towards dense woodland, where the only way through was a zigzag route between the trees, which grew close together here.

  Alan sounded the Come back on his horn, a series of long repeated notes. The hounds gathered about his horse as more of the hunting party caught up with us, Lady Edith and Dunstable pushing through to the front, with little concern for others. As well as the dog handlers, Alan’s other assistants were taking conference with him, amongst them Matt and his brother, both carrying bows. Several of the dog handlers sank to the ground, trying to catch their breath. Mordon and Alan appeared to be arguing.

  ‘What’s
to-do?’ Edmond asked Sir Henry, who had reined back beside us.

  He grimaced. ‘Your huntsman wants to follow the main avenue until we are close to the herd. Safer, he reckons, with this large company, many of them inexperienced. However, the hounds have scented a short cut through the wood and Mordon is demanding to go that way, as though he thinks that following the avenue is some kind of insult to his courage. Fool! Taking some of these folk through close set woodland will mean injuries. Bound to.’

  While the argument up ahead continued, more of the riders came up, and villagers who had been following the hunt on foot drifted silently into the fringes of the wood on either side of the ride. Many of them also carried bows, for they had the right to shoot down any lesser game, does or fawns, which came their way, as long as they left the stags to the hunt party. They would be given a share of the meat, provided Mordon observed the custom of the manor, and good eating it would be, for the beasts would be well fed and fat at this time of year. Some of the venison would be eaten fresh, but most would be smoked or salted for the winter, a precious provision laid aside for the hungry months.

  I could see Alan leaning down from his horse, giving instructions to his hunt assistants and the dog handlers. He was just raising his horn to his lips, to signal the resumption of the chase along the broad ride, when Mordon suddenly jerked his horse aside into the woods, and gave a blast on his own horn, the urgent sound of the Gone Away, which sends a shiver up the spine. I had not expected him to know the hunting calls, but the hounds recognised it, for it was their signal to pursue the quarry. Some leapt away after Mordon so suddenly that they tore their leads from their handlers and bounded away into the trees, following the scent they had discovered, the short cut to the herd of deer. Within moments they were out of sight.

  Alan swore loudly and swung his horse in pursuit. Most of the remaining lymers and the alaunts, the handlers, the hunt servants and even some of the village followers crowded after him. Several more of the hunt servants, however, urged on by Alan’s angry gestures, continued along the ride, taking some of the dogs with them and following Alan’s intended route. By the time Edmond and I had our horses under control, a crowd of riders was in front of us, including the Lady Edith, Dunstable, and Giles, while Sir Henry was just behind us. He too was swearing as we turned aside to follow Alan. The rest of the horsemen continued up the ride. I thought I glimpsed Philip and Guy amongst them, but in the confusion I was not sure.

  ‘No way,’ Sir Henry gasped, between breaths. ‘To keep. Folk. Together. No clear path.’

  He was right. Within a few minutes the whole company of hunters had spread out and dispersed through the woodland, each trying to find a way through the trees, which here grew so close together. I soon lost sight of the last of the dogs, though I could hear the calls of a hunting horn in the distance, but whether it was Alan’s or Mordon’s I could not tell. Giles, Edmond, Sir Henry, and I kept together, but apart from the crashing of brushwood I could not be certain of anyone else’s whereabouts. With the noise we were making I thought every deer within a mile of us would be off and away before ever we could draw near.

  I crouched close over Rufus’s neck, for there were low branches a-plenty in this part of the wood and I had no wish to be brained by one, and perhaps swept to the ground under the hooves of a following horse. I had just dodged one with barely inches to spare when I heard a crack and a yelp of pain. I reined Rufus in and looked over my shoulder.

  Giles had pulled up and was swaying in the saddle, looking as if he was like to fall at any minute. There was blood on his forehead, and his cap was skewered on a twig of the oak tree beneath which he had halted.

  Sir Henry and Edmond joined me as I rode back to him.

  ‘Didn’t duck low enough,’ Giles gasped, shamefaced. He was dabbing his bleeding head with a handkerchief.

  ‘How bad is it?’ Edmond asked. ‘Should you go back?’

  ‘Nay.’ Giles shook his head, then thought the better of it. ‘’Twas just a glancing blow. I saw it, and nearly missed it.’

  ‘I said there would be trouble, coming this way.’ Sir Henry reached up for Giles’s cap and unhooked it from a sharp twig protruding from the branch. ‘Your good fortune this did not spear you in the eye.’

  He handed the cap to Giles, who poked a finger through the hole in the brim. ‘Aye,’ he said, ‘better my cap than my eye.’

  ‘You were fortunate not to take a fall.,’ I said. ‘but are you sure you are fit to ride?’ In Jordain’s absence, back with the observers, I felt some responsibility for the boy.

  ‘Quite sure,’ he said, jamming the damaged cap back on his head.

  ‘No need for us to rush,’ Edmond said. ‘We shall never overtake the leaders now. Have you any idea where they are, Nicholas?’

  I shook my head. ‘I think they were headed in that direction.’ I waved my arm ahead and to the right. ‘At least, that is where the most noise seemed to come from, but it can be deceptive in woodland.’

  ‘Aye, I think that is the way,’ Sir Henry said. ‘Let us try in that direction, but keep our ears pricked.’

  We set off again at a gentle canter. There was no point in a faster pace. If the huntsman and the main party had managed to overtake a stag despite all the noise and commotion, it would have been despatched long before we could hope to reach them.

  Sir Henry was picking a route through the trees in the general direction which we hoped would lead us back to the hunt, with the three of us following behind him. I kept to the back, still somewhat afraid that, after the blow to his head, Giles might turn dizzy and fall, even now. I had half my attention on him and half on the way through the trees, for there were still branches dangerously low, so that it was only from the corner of my eye that I thought I caught a glimpse of something red a little distance away on the left, mostly concealed by the undergrowth where a covert had been left for boar. Perhaps some of the villagers were still making their way on foot, trying, like us, to catch up with the hunt.

  Yet even as I twisted my head to look again, it was gone. Odd, for I thought all the villagers had been wearing green or brown. And red is an expensive dye. But before I could give it further thought, Giles swayed in the saddle, and looked like to fall. I rode forward and seized him by the arm.

  ‘Take care!’ I said, and called to the others to stop.

  ‘’Tis nothing,’ Giles said, as they rode back. ‘Just a moment of dizziness.’

  Then he gave it the lie by leaning over his horse’s side and vomiting, fortunately on the side away from me.

  ‘From now on, we hold the horses down to a walk,’ I said firmly, and so we did, while I kept my reins in one hand, the other retaining my grip of Giles’s arm.

  Before we had ridden much further, we heard the hunting horn again, close at hand now. A long wavering, wailing note, bidding farewell to the spirit of the stag and praising the dogs for their skill.

  ‘’Tis over,’ Edmond said. ‘Despite everything, they have made a kill.’

  I nodded. In view of all that had happened it was surprising that Alan had managed to track down and kill a quarry, but his family had all the skills of the hunt bred into them, blood and bone. After such a triumph, Mordon should grant Alan his position as manor huntsman again, unless he was even more of a fool than I took him to be. Yet he also seemed like a man who would nurse a grudge lifelong. Not only had Alan struck him after the assault on his sister. He had this very day humiliated him before both his important friends and the watchful, hostile eyes of the villagers.

  As we came out from amongst the trees, finding the hunting party gathered on the turf of the ride, the undoing of the stag had already begun. The dogs were growling and fighting over their curée – the humbles, chopped and mixed with bread and blood, then spread for them on a piece of the stag’s hide – their reward for the day’s work.

  Alan had set aside, on a broad dock leaf, the share left in the woods. It was another pagan custom that lingered on – an offering
to the spirit of the woodland, whose meaning was lost in time. Perhaps it was meant to signify a lack of greed on the part of the hunters, presenting a share to the forest. Or perhaps by returning a part of the stag to his native woods, it was intended as a token of peace to the creatures of the woodland. It was known as the corbyn bone, the fee paid to the crows and ravens, dark, winged spirits of the woods, gathering watchfully in the surrounding trees. Alan had lodged it in the crook of a branch, too high for the dogs to reach, and was now dismembering the quarry according to the exact ritual of the hunt.

  Close on our heels, Lady Edith and Dunstable arrived, and she exclaimed in annoyance that she had missed the kill. Most of the London party were here, I saw, some of them having had the good sense to keep to the wide avenue, instead of crashing through the trees, although a few were still drifting out of the wood. I could not see Mordon anywhere. Philip and Guy were away on the far side of the crowd, and I raised my hand to them.

  ‘Our host appears to have failed to witness the kill on his own first hunt in Wychwood,’ Edmond said, not without a touch of satisfaction.

  ‘Man’s own fault,’ Sir Henry grunted. ‘Should always follow your huntsman’s advice. He knows what’s best to do. Your man would have taken us all along the main ride until we were near the herd, and there would have been a clean kill of the quarry, without all this senseless roaming about. One of the hunters could have been killed amongst those trees, and the lad has certainly a bad bump on the head. Would not surprise me if there are a few more injuries as well.’

  As he was speaking, we could hear the creak of a cart coming along the ride. It was drawn by a mule, and the hunt servants began to load the butchered carcass into to it, ready to be carried back to the manor. Before they were done, two of the villagers came out of the wood, carrying another kill slung from a pole – a yearling stag by the look of it. Several more of the villagers were with them, including Matt Grantham, who must have decided to do some hunting on his own account. They all looked pleased. Venison to enjoy now and provide for the winter.