by E. M. Powell
‘How gallant.’ Rosamund raised her eyebrows. ‘And yet how more gallant was Benedict yesterday.’ She halted and fished around beneath her wrap. She drew out a twist of fine silk: bright blue, pink and gold strands woven together in a string. ‘For your bravery.’ She quickly tied it round the fastening of his cloak. ‘And for good luck and good hunting today.’
Geoffrey raised a hand to pull the favour off Palmer’s cloak.
Rosamund continued, her look defiant. ‘I shall tell Henry I sent Sir Benedict as my bravest champion.’
Geoffrey dropped his hand. ‘And you wonder why I forbid you from the Blessed Sacrament? Come. Your tower awaits.’ He set off, robes swishing from his rapid steps.
Unseen by him, Rosamund blew Palmer a kiss. ‘Good luck,’ she whispered. Then she followed Geoffrey away.
The early sun sat low in a clear, cold sky, and dew still dampened the air. The courser Palmer rode today was far finer than any mount he’d ridden for years. A breakfast of boiled mutton and small beer sat in his belly. A barking, baying pack of twenty dogs led the field, controlled with sharp whistles and commands by Geoffrey on a huge destrier. Their brindle-and-white forms surged along the green grass.
Palmer’s hunting blood was up.
The rider ahead of him turned in the saddle. ‘Any advice if we corner the thing, Palmer?’
‘Stand in front of me.’
The man laughed, matched by others. ‘No thanks, good sir. That would be ill mannered. I insist you go first.’
A dozen men took part, nobles all, except for a couple of dog handlers. Geoffrey had clearly chosen the most able. Except for Hugo Stanton. The King’s messenger stood out like a boil on a pig’s behind, hunched silent in his cloak as all the other men bantered and called to each other.
Helped by the fresh, chill air, the pain in Palmer’s head faded to a dull ache, enough to remind him that he sought revenge. His hand went to the crossbow hung from his saddle. Geoffrey had made sure every man was well armed and prepared.
Scanning the lands around, Palmer searched for any signs of his sharp-clawed foe. So far, nothing. Not that that meant a great deal. There were wide areas of woodland as well as wall-edged fields, any of which could hide it. Yet Geoffrey led them as if he had a plan. And if he did, Palmer wanted to know it too. He hated traipsing along like a dunderhead.
Overtaking the other riders in a fast trot, he brought his horse alongside Geoffrey’s. He raised his voice above the dogs’ constant noise. ‘We ride in a planned course?’
‘We do,’ said Geoffrey. ‘And why do you question my actions?’
‘I don’t,’ said Palmer. ‘I just like to think ahead.’
Geoffrey snorted. ‘You don’t need to think. Only do as you’re ordered. But if it helps you carry out your task, we’re going to search as much of the countryside as we can.’
‘You’ve not thought of searching in Oxford? The supervisor said it’s only a couple of miles away.’
‘Why do you ask? Not wanting to hide out for the day in a warm alehouse, I hope?’
‘I wondered if the leopard might try there for food. There’d be many people, plenty of places to hide. Markets with meat. Middens.’
‘If it does, it will soon be discovered,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I have ordered the town guard to be on watch for the creature, or any signs of it. They are undertaking extra patrols.’ He broke off to whistle to a large dog that had separated out from the rest. ‘Talbot! Come here!’
The dog returned as Geoffrey carried on. ‘But I believe the leopard is far more likely to make for the countryside, where the pickings will be easier. Pickings such as you, if you don’t keep your attention on the task.’
Palmer dropped back again, aware of his dismissal.
He spotted the unhappy Stanton bringing up the rear and hung back to join him. Alone, the slight young messenger would be the easiest target.
‘Sir Benedict.’ His curt greeting lacked his usual swagger.
‘Not enjoying this ride?’ Palmer grinned. ‘I thought you loved the saddle.’
‘When I know my purpose, my destination. Today that could be to serve as a beast’s dinner.’ His eyes went to Palmer’s chest. ‘What’s that?’
Palmer glanced down. Rosamund’s brightly coloured favour fluttered in the breeze. ‘Only some falderal from the lady Rosamund.’
‘Is that all it is?’
Palmer took a quick glance ahead, around. None of the other riders were in earshot, and the dogs remained in full voice. ‘Are you forgetting yourself ? You know of my love for my wife.’
‘What I also know is the talk of Rosamund’s attraction to you.’ Stanton gave him a sour look. ‘She speaks of no one else. Folk have noticed how she seeks you out.’
‘She’s only young. And light minded.’
‘Is that how I should word this news to Lady Theodosia?’
Palmer’s fists tightened. That the little churl would dare to spread idle gossip to Palmer’s home? ‘None of my work here is your business, Stanton.’ Palmer kept his furious tone low. ‘It is all the King’s business. And if you don’t stop your mouth, I’ll stop it for you. For good. Understand?’
Stanton’s shoulders sank lower. ‘Yes, Sir Benedict. Sorry, Sir Benedict.’
Ahead, a howl came from the dog Talbot. The pack’s noses went to the ground, to the air and their pace picked up. The dogs had found a scent.
The day had not lived up to the promise of the fine dawn. Heavy, low clouds gathered soon after and sent driving rain sharp against Palmer’s face. The dogs’ first finding had gone unrewarded. Every horse had slowed, heads lowered against the weather as their riders hunched in the saddle.
Yet the lead dog pushed on, its rough, wiry coat flattened and wet on its leggy frame.
‘My lord!’ one of the men called to Geoffrey. ‘I fear that hound leads us in folly, that he has scented a hare or field mice.’
‘Talbot has never led me wrong yet,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Not in eight years.’
The dog had led them across more and more isolated countryside, with the occasional rise of pale, soft-looking rock. Palmer reckoned he’d seen the last small cottage over an hour ago. Though they travelled across an open meadow, only thick woodland faced them.
They reached its outskirts. The high trees gave a bit of shelter from the rain as they gathered together in a throng of wet horses and dogs.
‘Maybe today is the day Talbot finally fails,’ said another man.
Palmer watched the hound. It still had purpose. Then with a surge of its long legs, it disappeared into the thick evergreen undergrowth.
‘He’s found something.’ Geoffrey pointed with his whip.
Palmer peered in, along with the others, trying to see through the dense foliage. A sudden burst of barks came from within, answered by the waiting pack outside.
‘He’s definitely found something.’ Geoffrey collected his horse, scanning the trees for a way in.
Palmer did too but could see nothing. ‘The growth is too thick and these clouds let no light.’
The dog called again, urgent and persistent.
Palmer dismounted and untied the crossbow from his saddle.
‘What are you doing, Palmer?’ said Geoffrey. ‘I gave no order.’
Talbot barked on.
‘I don’t know your dog.’ Palmer walked to the trees. ‘But I know what the leopard seeks. It likes trees, cover. And I won’t get a horse in there.’
The barks cut off. The pack quietened in response.
‘By God.’ Geoffrey swung from his mount and signalled to the other men to do the same. ‘Talbot!’ He blew a long whistle through two fingers.
Nothing.
‘A hare couldn’t silence my animal,’ said Geoffrey, throat tight.
‘I doubt if much could.’ Palmer pushed a dripping branch aside.
‘We need to go in.’
Geoffrey pointed at the dog handlers. ‘Wait here until you get the call. Then let them loose.’
Palmer stepped into the shadows, wet leaves and branches hitting his face. He could hear the noise of the other men too: rustles, twigs snapping. He paid little mind. He knew the leopard waited without such sounds. His ears were sharp for the saw-like call, the low rumble of a growl.
The wound on his forehead throbbed anew with the thud of his heart.
And still, no sound from Talbot.
Hugo Stanton pushed his way into the shadowed trees, his fast breath loud in his own ears. He’d thought being soaked by the rain for hours, as they trailed the crapping, pissing, howling dogs, bad enough. At least that was only dull.
He was bored no longer. He was terrified. So terrified, he’d be the one losing control of his innards next. The crossbow he held trembled in his hold. He kept it pointed away lest he shoot himself in the face. He tried without success to wipe the sweat from first one palm, then another, on his soaked cloak.
How had it come to this? He was no warrior. A lover, as he would murmur to Rosamund as they lay abed together. And now, thanks to bloody Sir Benedict Palmer, he hunted a leopard in a place where he could barely see six feet ahead.
Benedict. The hero. Yet he, Hugo Stanton, had actually been inside Rosamund last night, satisfying her as only he could, when she’d called out the man’s name. She’d recovered quickly, told him her wits were scattered from the terror of the attack, that she’d make it up to him by allowing him to use her like the filthiest harlot. How could he refuse?
A rustle.
That wasn’t his own movement. Stanton paused, offering up the fastest confession he’d ever made.
Then a sneeze. A human sneeze. One of the other men.
Stanton pushed forward, his legs without strength. He spotted a small cave set in a rise of tree-covered rock. Suppose he went and sheltered in there, waited for the call from the ferocious Geoffrey that the creature lay dead or the hunt had been abandoned?
No one would know. He wasn’t cut out for any of this. He wasn’t paid for it, either.
He took cautious steps towards the cave’s opening, checking left, right. Everything in his world had been fine when Palmer had been stuck in that village all those miles away. He’d had Rosamund all to himself. Well, except for Henry. And he’d had the honour of being the King’s trusted messenger, a job he did better than any. Henry wouldn’t want one of his best post riders carried off by a rogue animal. He was sure of it.
Bent low, Stanton stepped into the cave. It stank of animal leavings but was dry. It went a lot farther back than he’d thought, opening up higher as it went deeper into the rock. He could stand upright when a few steps in.
Now he only needed to cover the entrance. Not try to look all round, above, below, all at the same time but with the fear he always faced the wrong way. In fact, he could keep watch sitting down, prop his crossbow on his knees. He prepared to do so. Then froze.
A low, deep animal sound came from the back of the cave.
There was a creature in here with him.
Chapter Eleven
Palmer made his way through the bushes, crossbow at the ready, his gaze sharp for signs of the leopard and alert for any sound of it. Where evergreens sheltered the ground and had dropped a thick covering of yellowed dead leaves, he moved more quickly. He knew he’d find no tracks on them: the only sign might be the animal’s droppings or the very obvious signs of a kill.
He stepped into a gap in the cover created by a newly fallen tree, its trunk blackened from the lightning strike that had felled it. It still gave out the faint smell of burn. A few muddy patches surrounded it, dotted with puddles filling from the rain.
And he saw it. Outlined in the soft mud. A single paw mark.
Palmer bent low. It must belong to the creature. It was almost the length of his palm. No wonder he’d taken such a clout to the head. He took a quick look round to make sure he wasn’t being watched by the track owner’s bright eyes. Examining the track again, he could see no sign of the long claws that had raked his skin. But when he’d seen the leopard in the pen, its blades had been sheathed. It must only use them for attack, like any cat. He peered closer. The mud had a patch of dark discolouration. Impossible to tell if it was blood. He straightened up and did a careful check of the nearby surrounding sheltered areas, not sure in which direction the animal would have walked. Then he found it. On flat, dry, amber leaves. Splash after splash of blood. He tested it with his fingers. Still wet. It wasn’t the splash that would have sprayed from slaughtered prey, but drip followed by drip.
Palmer nodded to himself. He’d put more damage on the beast than he’d received in their encounter. He stood up.
Then a squeal as if from hell itself echoed through the trees. The anguished yells of a young man.
Stanton.
Palmer took off for the sound of the noise. Through the trees, he caught sight of Stanton crashing through the bushes, making for the clearing where the horses were. Another squeal echoed out.
That was no leopard. That was a wild boar.
As if conjured by his thoughts, he saw it, its black muscular form thudding after the King’s messenger, black broad head low, shrill in its anger.
Palmer lifted his loaded crossbow, took aim. But he couldn’t get a clear shot, not in the dense growth. Lowering his weapon, he charged for the open, grassy ground and his only chance to shoot.
Palmer ran out as Stanton broke cover and headed for his horse, the boar closing on the messenger. Summoned by the racket and headed by Geoffrey, the rest of the hunt appeared with shouts, calls.
‘To your horses!’ yelled Palmer. ‘That beast could kill you!’ He clambered up onto the back of his panicked courser.
Geoffrey whistled a command.
The hounds erupted into full voice and rushed the boar, slowing its charge.
Its gnarled tusks swiped one, then another, with hard, deadly gouges. The injured dogs fled with a yowl. The rest dropped back but kept up their noise.
‘Hold it off !’ Geoffrey made for his horse with long strides and leapt onto it.
The other men scrambled to remount as Palmer fought to control his own horse, the dog handlers charging past for the safety of tree branches.
Another dog streaked past and leapt for the pig. Its tusk drove deep into the dog’s shoulder, and the hound howled in agony.
The boar shook the dog away into a clump of tall, brown weeds, screaming with rage as its furious small eyes sought out another victim.
‘Draw back, men!’ shouted Geoffrey. ‘It could spear my horses!’
‘Stand still, you bastard!’
Palmer saw Stanton jumping at the side of his own horse, just one foot up in the stirrup, his whinnying mount trying to turn and flee.
With a strangled grunt, the boar gathered speed.
Stanton’s hands slid from the wet saddle.
The wild pig bore down on him.
His horse saw it too. It reared in panic, sending Stanton flat on the tufted grass before taking off.
‘God alive, Stanton! Run!’
‘It’ll kill you! Get your knife!’
The shouts from the men did no help. Stanton froze.
Palmer was closest. And he had a clear shot. He raised his cross bow again, lined it up. And pulled the trigger.
It jammed. The bolt sat in the tiller. Palmer struck the nut to release it. Nothing.
Cursing, he flung himself from his horse and ran towards the paralyzed young messenger. ‘Hey!’ He waved the crossbow, tried to distract the boar’s deadly charge.
No use. The animal opened its snout wide and its pink tongue arched in a foam of spit. The dog’s blood showed vivid on its pitted yellow tusks as it bore down on Stanton.
‘God help me!’ Stan
ton flung his arms over his head.
‘Hey!’ Palmer couldn’t reach him in time.
‘Palmer!’ Geoffrey’s shout.
The whisper of moving air. Palmer jerked back.
A sound like a nail thumping into wood stopped the boar dead. It gave a ferocious squeal, its tiny eyes gleaming in shocked surprise. It collapsed onto its side, its hooves paddling wildly as if it thought it could run, charge, kill. Then it gave a series of terrible jerks and grunts and was suddenly still, a crossbow bolt buried in the side of its neck.
Stanton lay next to the huge carcass, his hands lowered but still yet to move.
The sound of cheers echoed across the meadow.
‘Hell’s teeth, what a strike!’
‘A shot without measure!’
Palmer looked over.
The other men on horseback cheered the shot. The shot that had missed him by a whisker.
Geoffrey sat on his animal, crossbow still raised. ‘Lucky for you your reactions are razor sharp, Palmer.’ He lowered his weapon.
Palmer steadied his breathing lest his anger show. The crossbow Geoffrey had given him was faulty. If he’d had to rely on it, he’d be dead. ‘Lucky, indeed. Luckier that you didn’t miss. My hide is thinner than that boar’s.’
Geoffrey shrugged. ‘You needn’t worry, Palmer: I never miss.’
Palmer held in the string of oaths he wanted to call on Geoffrey’s head. ‘Your dog did right to summon us to the woods. I found signs of the leopard in there.’
‘Then curse Stanton for kicking up such a storm,’ said Geoffrey. ‘There’s no chance of tracking it down now after the chaos. It’ll be long gone.’ He pointed to a couple of the huntsmen. ‘Bring the boar back to the palace. We shall feast on it tonight.’ The men acted on his order. ‘And Palmer, show me those tracks. I want to see them for myself.’ His look darkened. ‘And my dog is still missing.’
Moving rapidly, Theodosia made her way along her well-worn track in the silent woods. Dusk closed in, so this would be her last visit for today. She could be quicker than usual, for Joan watched the children in the warmth of the cottage. Matilde loved playing a singing game Joan had devised with little sticks. Tom was as sulky as ever, barely muttering two words to his aunt. An aunt who had ensured they were all kept fed, but Theodosia’s conscience was troubled that Joan had stolen the food from Lord Ordell.