Another technique involved diving between the antlers to thrust the sword down between the shoulder blades and thereby reach the heart, or perhaps one of the major arteries. Several tried this, but only one man succeeded, the buck dropping at his feet. All others who tried the technique were hurled to the ground.
The man who triumphed was roundly applauded, and he raised his dripping sword on high in acknowledgement. When he left the enclosure, he ended in my vicinity. He was a tall, burly man only a little older than me. His black riding leathers had fringes, and he wore his long dark hair braided with red grosgrain ribbon. As he cleaned his sword with a cloth, he looked up at me from beneath the brim of his leather hat.
“You are the Pudding-Man, are you not?” said he.
My nerves sang a warning at a glimpse of the predator gazing from his eyes. “My name is Quillifer,” I said.
“Yes. Quillifer the Pudding-Man.” His lip curled beneath his dark clipped beard. He nodded at the enclosure. “Will you take a turn in the ring, and slice something more challenging than syllabub?”
I looked down at him from my horse and considered how best to deal with this rude monster.
“I do not know who I am addressing,” said I.
“I am the Lord of Mablethorpe Cross.” He threw his bloody rag down with an air of contempt, then was handed a sheepskin by a groom, and began polishing his blade with the fleece. His cunning eyes glimmered up at me from beneath the brim of his hat. “What say you, Pudding-Man?” he said. “Will you take a sword into the ring and show that your heart and stomach are not made of blancmange?”
Out of the slant of my eye I could see the duchess looking at me in horror. She gave a little shake of her head, and I responded with a minute twitch of an eyelid to show that I understood, and had no intention of risking myself.
“I am no great hand with a sword,” said I to the lordling—and then, in hopes that I could flatter my way out of this difficulty, I added, “Not like you, with that diving lunge of yours.”
“Ah.” His sheepskin glided along the bright steel. “That’s right, you are a Butcher’s son, are you not? Would you rather do the business with a meat axe?”
Apparently, I had been more discussed at court than I thought, for so much to have reached the ears of some bravo from Mablethorpe Cross, which judging from its lord’s dialect was in the far northwest of the country. I mentally considered a meat axe, and what it would do to the lordling’s skull.
I tried to keep my voice offhand, though my blood was pounding hot in my ears. “You say ‘Butcher’s son,’ ” I said, “as if it were something of which I should be ashamed.”
“Were I a Butcher’s son,” he said, “I would wonder what I was doing here among my betters, and perhaps live ashamed that I had not the proper breeding to grace the court.”
“Perhaps my breeding is insufficient for noble society in Mablethorpe Cross, wherever that might be,” said I, “but I have been welcomed here, by kind friends.” And with that I looked at Their Graces of Roundsilver, both of whom were paying close attention, the duchess pale with concern, and duke looking down, with pursed lips, as if trying to decide how to intervene and when.
“But Butchers,” I continued as I turned to the lordling, “do not ply their trade without payment. You want a stag brought down—very well. What am I offered for this piece of work?”
He looked up at me sharply, his mouth slightly open as if reaching into the air for a word that was not there. Finally he spluttered, “You want to be paid?”
“For my work,” said I. “I am a tradesman, as you insist on pointing out, so therefore let us trade. If you want me to kill an animal for you, you should expect to pay my fee, which will be higher than normal because the work puts me in some danger. So, if you are unwilling to pay the twenty royals . . .”
The lordling turned crimson. “Twenty royals! To a Butcher!”
“You think I would risk my life for white money?” I asked. “Besides, if you find my fees high, you are at liberty to negotiate a lower fee with another.”
“Ridiculous!” he said, and spun on his heel. He went to his horse, mounted, and spurred away, savagely digging silver rowels into the poor beast’s sides. I watched him depart, then turned to the duchess.
“Thank you for your concern and good advice,” I said.
Her lips were narrow and tight. “I’m glad you escaped hazard. I wonder if that man is mad.”
“I would not have fought a buck hand-to-hand,” I said. “There was no danger of that—and as for the insults, I should probably grow used to them.”
We continued watching the combats, and I was very surprised, ten minutes later, to see the Lord of Mablethorpe Cross gallop to my side, draw rein, and hold out a purse.
“Here’s twenty royals for you, Pudding-Man! Let’s see you kill a stag for me!”
I took the purse while I considered a response, and saw in the bag enough silver crowns and half-royals to make up the fee I’d quoted. I held the heavy purse in my palm, and it felt as heavy as a tombstone.
“D’you lack a sword, Pudding-Man?” asked the lordling. “I brought a spare.”
I turned and handed the purse to the duchess. “Her grace can hold my money,” I said.
“Quillifer,” said her grace. Her blue eyes were wide. “You may not do this.”
I gave her what I hoped was a confident, confiding smile. “Fear not, your grace. I am not unskilled.”
I turned back to the lordling and saw him offering a sword. “I’ll take one of those spears instead,” said I.
My heart was racing in my chest as I slipped from my saddle and went to the group of gentlemen clustering about the gate. They had all taken at least one run against the deer, and I was able to borrow one of their lances. I chose the shortest one I could find, eight feet or so of straight ash, with a stout triangular blade that would not easily snap. I would have preferred a haft shorter still, about my height, which was the length of the pollaxe to which I had become accustomed.
I hadn’t been lying when I assured the duchess of my skills. During the course of my apprenticeship with my father, I had killed hundreds of cattle with the pollaxe.
A pollaxe has a spike on either end, as well as an axe-blade backed either with a hammer or with another spike. The axe-blade can be used from the flank to cut the animal’s spine, or to cut its throat from below if you do not mind wasting the blood. But by far the best way to kill a cow is from the front, by using the weapon like a spear and driving the spike through the animal’s forehead and into the brain. The animal drops in its tracks and does not suffer, and the animal’s heart will continue to beat for a while so the blood may be recovered and used in cooking.
While I had never killed a stag this way, hunters had brought deer into my father’s shop, and there I had butchered them enough to understand their anatomy. The brain was more or less where I would have expected it to be, and the skull was if anything more delicate than that of a cow.
There were some other gentlemen ahead of me, so I waited for them to take their turn while I studied their encounters, and particularly the way that the stags attacked and the best way to avoid their charge. Thus it was that I failed to notice that the Lord of Mablethorpe Cross had entered the ring ahead of me, and had some speech with the grooms who organized the fights, and very likely bribed them.
For when I entered the enclosure, grinning grooms on horseback cut out from the mass not a fallow deer, but a red buck—and not just any red buck, but the largest of all, what is called a “hart of ten,” with a great complicated thicket of antler dripping with torn velvet, like old trees laden with moss. All ten daggerlike points were brandished toward me, and bore a reddish color, like old blood. A thick dark mane wrapped the animal’s neck, and its eyes rolled with mixed terror and aggression. A guttural roaring was already sounding from its throat.
This beast came trotting toward me, and it seemed as big as a horse. My heart leaped into my throat while my hands ti
ghtened on the spear. I held the weapon over my right shoulder, as if intending to throw it, with the point dropping slightly toward the target, the same posture adopted when killing cattle with the pollaxe.
It occurred to me, far too late, that when I killed a cow in this way, there were generally a couple burly journeymen holding the animal still.
“That’s the way, Pudding-Man!” called the lordling. “Earn your fee, now!” His voice was full of self-approval, and caused a stir of laughter in his audience.
The enclosure reeked of blood and the rut of the stags. Somehow, I managed to make my feet move, and I moved toward the hart in a shuffling glide without my feet ever quite leaving the ground. I was having a hard time catching my breath, and was almost panting for air. My head swam. I tried to measure the distance between the spear point and the animal’s forehead.
When the stag charged, it caught me by surprise, for it didn’t attack with head lowered, but rather reared up on its hind legs, hopping forward while slashing with its forefeet. I was so startled by this assault that I failed to realize that I could thrust for the animal’s throat, and by the time the thought occurred to me it was too late, for the flying hooves had batted the spear out of the way. I bolted and ran madly to the side, dragging the spear along the ground, to the laughter both of the lordling and his claque.
I gathered myself again and readied my spear. My heart was leaping wildly against my ribs, and I clenched my fists on the ash spear to keep them from trembling. The animal’s eyes had followed me, but on its hind legs, the hart couldn’t turn fast enough to spin and charge, and so it dropped to all fours again and turned to face me, bellowing. Behind the hart I could see the faces of onlookers, the Queen as impassive as ever, Floria with keen-eyed interest, and the duchess pale with fright.
The stag’s war cry came to an end, dying as an echo among the trees. We regarded each other for a brief moment at a distance of about five yards, and then the great hart lowered its head and charged. I marked my target and lunged forward, putting as much of my weight into the spear as I could.
The impact knocked me back six or ten feet. My teeth clacked together and my eyes lost all focus, but I managed to retain my feet and my spear, and it took me a second or two to recover and realize that the spear dripped blood and that the great hart had fallen to the turf with a three-sided hole in its forehead.
Shouts and cheers went up. My knees felt suddenly weak, and I lowered the butt of the spear to the ground and leaned on it for a moment while I caught my breath. Then a surge of triumph went through me, and I raised a hand to acknowledge the cheers of the crowd.
I returned the spear to its owner and accepted congratulations from the gentlemen clustered around the gate. None had ever seen a stag despatched in that way, and they thought it a novelty. “What call you that strike?” asked one.
“I don’t know that it has a name,” I said.
“The coup de Quillifer,” one admirer suggested, and I graciously allowed that this name might serve.
By and by, I rejoined my horse, which had been held for me by one of the Roundsilver grooms. Her grace had been joined by her husband, who gave me a speculative look. I believe I had succeeded in surprising him. I reclaimed my purse of twenty royals.
“I feel as if I’ve earned it,” I said, and grinned, and then my grin broadened as I saw their graces looking at me with identical expressions, brows furrowed, lips pursed in concern.
“Quillifer,” said the duchess, “you must promise me you will never do such a thing ever again.”
I laughed. “It is an easy promise to make.”
Her look was unsmiling, her blue eyes shards of ice. “Make me that promise, then.”
Her stern tone caught me by surprise. She had been so gracious and kind to me that I had never seen her in her more formal style as a high noble and relative of the Queen, born a member of a conquering dynasty bred to command. That I towered over her, or that we were of an age, now scarcely seemed to matter. At her tone I found myself straightening in the saddle, as if in response to an order. Yet despite her severity I found myself flooded with warmth at the realization that she—and the duke, I hoped—cared whether I prospered or failed, lived or died. Cared enough to extract this promise from me.
I took off my cap and held it over my heart. “I shall obey, madame,” I said. “I promise never to fight another stag, on foot or on horse, without your grace’s express permission.”
“Which I shall not give,” said the duchess.
“That’s as your grace pleases.”
Her look softened. “You have work to do here and in Ethlebight,” she said. “You must not throw your life away.”
I put on my cap. “Your grace places a higher value on my life than I, and therefore I shall strive to live up to your expectations, and not my own.”
I turned at a gasp from the crowd. One of the hunters had attempted the coup de Quillifer with a lance against a fallow deer, and been knocked sprawling for his pains.
I watched for a while longer, and accepted a congratulation or two from a well-wisher, and then I had an idea how best to end the morning. I excused myself, rode to the stables, and groomed my horse after its adventures. After which I went to the kitchens.
For the most part the cooking was done out-of-doors, the spits turning over great fire pits built on one side of the old lodge while a hundred servants labored over the preparations. I found the appropriate cook, a tall Aekoi who spoke in the accent of Loretto, and managed to bribe her to produce a pair of frumenty puddings.
Frumenty is traditional with venison, of course, but the venison would not be roasted till supper, where it was planned for frumenty to be served as a pottage alongside the meat. Yet all the ingredients were there, the cracked wheat and so on, and while my dishes were being prepared, I went to my room, changed out of my riding leathers, and washed as much as a pitcher of water permitted. I donned my sober brown suit and went looking for some footmen to bribe.
Two hours later, and the day being fine, the entire company had sat down to a banquet out-of-doors, on the lawn between the lodge and the lake. Tables were set up in a U shape with the Queen and high nobles gracing a raised platform on the end. Berlauda presided from one of her thrones, and a boys’ choir from one of capital’s monasteries sang morally improving songs in a complex polyphony. I claimed a seat among the actors and musicians, drank half a cup of excellent wine, then rose and brought in the footmen I’d paid to undertake a special task.
I donned my pompous-magistrate face and we marched up the sward to the platform where the royal family sat, Berlauda and her throne at the center. I was aware of the Marchioness of Stayne, near the head of the company, watching me with her long eyes and a frown on her lips. I knelt to the Queen, or perhaps more properly to her throne of majesty, and then rose and brought a groom forward with a covered dish, which he presented to the princess Floria. With a flourish I removed the chased silver cover, and revealed there a frumenty that formed a perfect hemisphere, made with eggs, sugar, and saffron, dotted with almonds, and scented with orange water.
“Your pudding, highness,” I said. “May I give you some?”
Floria seemed too surprised to reply, so I took a spoon and put a generous sample of the pudding into a dish. I laid the dish before the princess, and found her studying me with her sparrow’s eyes.
“You’re lucky I didn’t ask you for a mess of larks’ tongues,” she said.
“Surely, there are tongues enough buzzing about the court,” said I.
“Pity they’re not all in aspic,” said Floria.
The Queen turned her bland countenance upon me. “Lord Quillifer,” said she, “what is this business with the frumenty? We thought the frumenty was to be served tonight.”
It occurred to me that perhaps I had committed an error of protocol by failing to serve the Queen first. I turned to her at once and bowed.
“The frumenty will be served with the venison tonight,” I said. “But thi
s morning, during the hunt, her highness asked me for a frumenty. While I thought she most likely spoke in jest, I did not wish to cause any offense by failing to act upon her wishes, and so I have procured the dish.” I offered the dish to the Queen. “Does your majesty desire me to serve you?”
“Thank you,” said she. “We do.”
But then her mother, who sat beside her, put a hand on her arm and said in an urgent whisper, “Remember the Yeoman Pregustator!” Who was the unfortunate man assigned to taste the royal dishes, and therefore the first to be blasted by any poison.
On hearing this advice Berlauda reconsidered, and shook her head. “We think we shall not have the frumenty after all.”
“As your majesty wishes,” said I.
She raised a hand to dismiss me, then lowered it. “We saw you strike down the hart this morning,” she said. “Your blow was most original. We wondered if it has a name.”
“I have no name for it,” said I, “but I heard others refer to the coup de Quillifer.”
A faint smile drifted across the Queen’s face. “That is appropriate,” she said. “We approve.”
Again her mother touched her on the arm, and whispered something in her ear. Berlauda’s faint smile turned to a faint frown.
“I am told that we have addressed you incorrectly,” she said. “That you are not entitled to the appellation of ‘lord.’ ”
“I did not wish to correct your majesty,” said I, “on such a trivial matter.”
The Queen’s expression suggested that whether a man was noble or not was not a trivial matter to her, but she said nothing more and dismissed me. I knelt again, and then I and the footmen retired to collect my second pudding. This I delivered to my Lord of Mablethorpe Cross, who sat at a bench with some of his cronies.
“Compliments of the Pudding-Man,” said I. “I urge you to eat it all, for you have assuredly paid greatly for it.”
He glared at me, but his friends thought this a capital jest, and were repeating it loudly as I retired.
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