But they had been attacked after leaving that place, on their return to Valeroy.
Not to mention the assault outside Mathilde’s hut, when he had carried naught at all. Nay, he was himself targeted, and Duncan must deduce the reason why.
Though it was true that Duncan had been entrusted with the burden of the reliquary, accosting him would simply mean that another in the party carried it. It could not be that.
He had to believe the matter was more personal.
He also believed the man did not intend to do him a mild injury. Nay, his goal was to kill Duncan.
But why?
Either someone needed him dead to see Fergus undefended or Duncan’s own past caught up with him. Duncan, to be sure, found both possibilities unlikely, which was why he had refused to discuss the matter with Radegunde. There was no cause to alarm her when he had only speculation to share.
That strategy had made more sense before he heard the sounds of stealthy pursuit.
He galloped his destrier after the hunting party. He had to reach Gaston in time and being with others would also be his own best defense. The party rode toward the shadow of a forest, and by the time Duncan reached its perimeter, the large group had disappeared inside. A wagon was left at the side of the road, doubtless because the path through the forest was too narrow. Whatever horses had drawn it had been taken onward with the party.
Duncan entered the cool of the forest, slowing Caledon’s pace. The party was far ahead of him, so far that he could not see them. He halted at a fork in the path beneath the forest’s shadow and listened.
Caledon was breathing heavily but still tossing his head, ready to run again. Ahead, to both the left and the right, Duncan could hear dogs bay at intervals and the sound of scrub being trodden. He heard a shout in the same moment that a horse’s hooves clattered to silence behind him.
The hair stood on the back of his neck, and he urged Caledon quickly to the right path. He gave the steed his heels, not caring whether he interrupted Lord Gaston’s hunt or not. The people of Châmont-sur-Maine would have far more to mourn than an empty trencher two days hence if Duncan did not reach Gaston in time.
* * *
Fergus could not shake his sense of pending doom.
He had slept poorly for several nights, haunted by nightmares that he could not recall when he awakened. He knew they were nightmares, though, or portents because he could not shake the cold grip of terror. He had awakened every time with his heart racing, cold sweat on his flesh, the urgent need to flee with all haste.
Who was threatened? How and why? That he had dreamed of danger in the future seemed more curse than blessing when he could not recall any details of his vision. Did he fear for himself? Fergus could not imagine that it was so. He was far from home and from any who might wish to challenge his inheritance or have any other quibble with him.
Did he fear for Duncan? It was true that his companion had been entrusted with the burden of the reliquary, and Fergus did fear that Everard might have eluded Wulfe.
Did he fear for Gaston? This seemed the most likely possibility as the dreams had begun after the decision was made to leave Valeroy for Châmont-sur-Maine. He had noted Millard’s reluctance to surrender the seal to Gaston and wondered at the truth behind the gloves that man had given to the new lord of the holding. Had they truly been prepared for Gaston’s arrival? Fergus doubted it. They were beautifully made and had been expensive, to be sure. Millard did not strike him as a man who spent coin on those other than himself. Fergus suspected that they had been made for Millard, perhaps to celebrate his own claim of the signet ring for Châmont-sur-Maine, and come to mind when the man had felt obliged to offer some gift to Gaston.
Fergus noted also that Ysmaine’s father, Lord Amaury, ensured that he rode between Gaston and Millard at the head of the hunting party. Fergus was not alone in his suspicions. Fergus rode at Gaston’s left, wanting to be alert for any threat but fearing his recent sleeplessness would leave him slow to respond.
He was so very tired.
“And so, these are the woods where you most often hunt,” Amaury said to Millard. “What do you find here?”
Fergus suddenly saw a boar in his mind’s eye. He blinked and scanned the undergrowth on either side but there was no such creature to be seen. He felt unease, for boar were known to be great fighters and as likely to injure the hunter as to be felled themselves.
Was a boar behind his dreams?
“Hares, of course, and pheasants,” Millard said. “There are deer aplenty.”
“No boar?” Fergus asked without meaning to do so.
“Boar!” Gaston nodded approval. “That is what I should like to take back to the hall. A great boar, five or six summers of age.”
“Not a sow, for you will need them in your woods to breed for future hunts,” Amaury advised.
“And the male will be bigger,” Millard added.
And more fierce. Fergus felt his lips tighten.
“A boar would be ideal,” Gaston said. “Think of the quantity of meat! A boar would make for a feast to remember.”
And this was his friend’s ambition, Fergus understood, to make his return to his family holding cause for celebration for all pledged to his hand. Would Gaston’s desire be his undoing? It would not be the first time Fergus had witnessed such a situation, and he had difficulty believing that Gaston had much experience hunting such wily creatures. There were none in Outremer, after all, even if the Templars had hunted.
He feared that Millard also doubted Gaston’s experience, for that man showed a suspicious enthusiasm for the notion. Fergus could only recall Millard’s tepid greeting of Gaston the day before and wondered whether that man expected Gaston to be wounded in such a hunt.
“You speak aright, Gaston,” Millard said warmly. “People would talk of a feast of boar for months to come. I have not seen one in many years, but it was long said that they could be found deeper in the forest. This way.”
Millard took the lead, urging his horse along a narrow path that wound away from the wider route. Fergus did not like the look of the path. Gaston seemed untroubled. He turned and shouted to the servants in the party, telling them of his plan, and three hastened forward on foot to scout for a suitable animal. They disappeared into the shadows of the forest within moments, moving silently through the woods. The dogs ran with them, noses to the ground and tails wagging. Millard rode onward, Amaury behind him.
Gaston spared Fergus a smile that spoke of his confidence and followed his wife’s father. The entire party fell quiet, moving steadily forward through the undergrowth. They fanned out, each horse picking its own path. Soon Fergus could see only the three knights ahead of him.
A whistle carried high and clear from far ahead, then another.
Followed by the unmistakable grunting of a boar.
“Mine,” Gaston murmured. His destrier shouldered past Millard and Amaury, forcing their steeds from the path. Millard, Fergus noted, loaded his crossbow and Amaury drew his sword. Fergus also drew his sword, his sense of unease growing by leaps and bounds, and followed Gaston.
A servant appeared in the greenery ahead, beckoning to Gaston. “There is a clearing ahead, sir, with a rock wall on one side and a stream on the other. Guillaume says we will corner him there.”
“Excellent,” Gaston agreed, his words a low murmur. He nodded to the servant and followed at a canter, Fergus fast behind. The trees seemed too dense and the shadows too dark for there to be a clearing, and Fergus feared a trick.
Until they suddenly burst forth into a cleared space. As promised, there was a face of rough stone on one side and a stream running past it.
Fergus did not see the boar until they were into the clearing and it charged them.
It roared with fury then, and Gaston’s destrier turned in the open space as if he perfectly anticipated Gaston’s desire. Gaston struck down low and hard with his blade, even as his steed turned out of the boar’s path.
His
sword was driven into the boar’s shoulder, but the beast never missed a step. Indeed, it tipped its head back and Gaston’s destrier shied as the tusk grazed its belly. Gaston tried to pull out the sword but the boar did not halt. He was forced to release the weapon and gain control of the destrier again. The boar turned at the far side of the clearing, its eyes as red as the blood that streamed from its wound.
To Fergus’ relief, the rest of the company had claimed safe refuge to watch the battle. Many were on the far side of the river, while still more had climbed the trees and perched in their lower branches. Lord Amaury had guided his steed so that the trees were between it and the clearing, though Millard remained in the clear. He lifted his crossbow, but Lord Amaury seized his elbow.
“It is not your kill,” that man declared, and Millard lowered his weapon with obvious reluctance.
Gaston’s destrier’s nostrils flared and it pranced in place. Fergus knew Fantôme had been valiant in battle and did not spook at the scent of blood, but he feared for the steed against such an opponent.
Fergus had steered his horse to the other side of the clearing—indeed, the creature had needed little encouragement to skirt the boar’s path—and watched as the boar prepared to charge again. Its small eyes were fixed upon Gaston, and Fantôme stamped in place. From his vantage point, he could see the other two knights, and the expression on Millard’s face convinced him that his doubts about that man’s intentions were right.
Of all of them, Gaston seemed the most serene, even though the boar clearly meant to attack him. Gaston patted the destrier’s neck and dismounted, seemingly on impulse. He slapped Fantôme’s rump and the destrier ran to the cover of the forest where a servant caught its trailing reins.
Gaston pulled his knife and smiled as he faced the boar. He walked slowly toward it, which seemed to confuse the beast.
“Was it your forebear I watched my father kill, all those years ago?” he murmured, as if to taunt the boar. Fergus was reassured that Gaston had at least witnessed a boar hunt. But then, it was Gaston’s nature to fully understand his foe before he entered a battle.
The boar heaved and grunted, pawing the ground as it watched Gaston’s approach. It was wary. Fergus could almost taste its suspicion. To its thinking, Gaston should have fled. The boar sniffed the air, but Fergus doubted it could smell fear on Gaston.
Indeed, Gaston smiled.
He turned his knife, letting the blade flash in the light, as the company watched rapt. “That one tried to claim a good blade, too, but I am no more ready to relinquish my weapon than my father was.”
The boar charged suddenly. The company gasped but Gaston alone did not seem surprised. The knight held his ground and the beast’s gaze, as if daring it to attack him. It charged directly at him, but Gaston spun out of the way in the last moment, as graceful as a dancer. He drove his knife into the boar’s side as the creature sailed past him, putting all his weight behind the blow. He sank the knife up to the hilt and blood flowed onto his gloves. The boar wailed in pain and twisted so that Gaston could not remove the blade.
Fergus saw him grimace as the hilt slipped from his fingers, the blood doing little to aid his grip. The boar leaped at Gaston again. Its tusk tore Gaston’s chausses before the knight spun and kicked at the boar’s head. When the beast stumbled, Gaston seized the hilt of his knife and tugged it forcibly out of the wound. The flesh ripped, the wound gaping wide, and Fergus could see the white glimmer of a rib. The boar ducked its head to gore Gaston, but he drove the short blade into the creature’s small red eye.
The boar faltered, but Fergus knew it would rise again.
“Say the word and I will finish it!” Millard whispered, lifting his crossbow.
“You will do no such thing,” Amaury declared, then seized Millard’s weapon.
Meanwhile, Gaston kicked the boar twice more, then reclaimed his dagger. The boar leaped at him, albeit more slowly than before, and Gaston appeared to fall beneath it. Every man gasped, but Gaston struck upward. With a savage gesture, he sliced the boar’s gullet open and the boar fell heavily to the ground.
Atop him.
Gaston grunted and shoved the weight of the boar aside. His tabard was marred and there was blood on his fine new gloves, as well as his chausses and boots. He stared at the beast as it bled, then removed both of his blades.
The creature did not stir.
There was silence as all watched and waited, in case the beast should rise again. It would have defied belief, but the vigor of boars was well known. After several moments, Gaston leaned close to the creature, then placed a hand on the beast’s chest.
“His other eye is closed,” he said. “And his heart beats no more. So falls a mighty king of the forest.”
“All hail, Lord Gaston, Baron of Châmont-sur-Maine!” Lord Amaury cried and the cheers of the servants rang through the forest, as Gaston made to wipe the perspiration from his lip.
“Do not touch the glove to your lips!” a man cried and to his astonishment Fergus recognized Duncan’s voice. He turned at the sound of a steed racing through the undergrowth and soon enough, Duncan appeared, pushing the rump of Millard’s steed aside in his haste to reach Gaston.
Gaston had frozen, the back of his gloved hand a finger-span from his lips.
“It may be poisoned!” Duncan declared. Shock rippled through the company, and yet again, Fergus wondered whether this was responsible for the shadow in his dreams.
“What madness is this?” Millard demanded. “At whose behest do you tell such lies?”
Duncan recovered his composure, undoubtedly because Gaston shed the gloves. “There is a tale in these parts of a knight felled by doing just as you were about to do, sir, for his gloves were laced with poison in anticipation of that gesture.”
“What tale?” Millard demanded. He laughed. “Surely you do not make your decisions based upon such tales, Gaston?”
“There is no cost to being prudent,” Gaston said, his tone more mild than Fergus’ own might have been. “And they are badly soiled at any rate.”
“But…” Millard sputtered.
“It was Conan of Breton,” Duncan said. “Radegunde’s mother Mathilde told her of it. It seems that she regards a gift of gloves to be a bad omen.”
Amaury’s smile was cool as he tucked Millard’s crossbow beneath his arm. “How interesting. I recall the tale of Conan’s death, but not the detail of the gloves.”
“But it is no more than a tale,” Millard protested. “An idle rumor spread by ignorant peasants.” He laughed again, though the sound was strained. “You are as cautious as an old woman, for a knight who has battled in Outremer.”
“I learned in Outremer to listen well and proceed with care,” Gaston said quietly.
“I would take Mathilde’s advice on matters of poison,” Amaury said, his tone robust. “She has shown much wisdom and given good counsel all the years she has lived at Valeroy.”
“But surely this rumor can be proven to be wrong,” Millard scoffed. “Surely you will not insult me by spurning my gift?”
Gaston smiled thinly, his eyes dark. Fergus knew he was angry, but Millard evidently did not perceive the signs. Gaston held up the gloves and turned before the company. “A pair of fine gloves for any man so bold as to touch his lips to them first.”
There were no volunteers.
Millard’s face reddened. “But this is madness,” he began, then shook his head. “Gaston, I must admit that the gloves were ordered for my own use. I apologize for any indignity done to you, but I did not prepare them for you as I said earlier.” He looked fully discomfited now. “I simply felt on this day that a gift should be made to you, to welcome you home, and only the finest item in my possession would do. If the gloves are poisoned—which I highly doubt—then I was the target, not you.” He laughed lightly. “If you would cast aside such fine garb, do not see them destroyed.”
“Indeed, I would not endorse such a waste of good craftsmanship.” Gaston strolled acr
oss the clearing and offered the gloves to Millard. “Perhaps you would like them returned to you,” he said smoothly. His gaze was hard and Millard could not hold it. “For I confess I will never don them again.”
Millard reached eagerly for the gloves, and Fergus feared that Gaston surrendered the sole opportunity to learn their truth. Millard never claimed them, though, for Lord Amaury plucked them from Gaston’s outstretched hand.
“Perhaps you will indulge my curiosity, Gaston,” that man said. “I would like to know for certain whether Duncan’s charge is true. I would seek the counsel of Mathilde.” He tucked the gloves into his own belt, but Fergus could only see the fear in Millard’s eyes.
It was true, then.
“I see no reason not to have the truth ascertained.” Gaston smiled at the company. “In fact, I would gladly learn that my loyal comrade had been mistaken.”
“As would I!” Duncan cried and the company cheered. He urged his steed forward. “Did you fell this boar on this day, Lord Gaston?” he asked. “For I have never seen its equal.”
“He did,” declared Lord Amaury. “And by himself. Such valor is rarely witnessed.”
“Such a feast we will enjoy,” Fergus contributed and the men in the company cheered.
Their merry mood was restored, though some eyed Millard with concern. Fergus did not doubt that Gaston had been saved with only a moment to spare, and he hoped his dreams would be less dark.
The company jested as the boar was gutted at Gaston’s command. The offal would be left for other scavengers in the forest. Several men hastened back to the wagon and returned with a heavy pole and some rope. The boar’s ankles were trussed to the pole and its weight hung from it.
Six men hefted its weight to carry it back to the wagon, and Fergus could see that the weight was considerable. They called for a song to aid in their labor and the larger part of the company trudged through the forest to the wagon. The air was turning chilly and it seemed there was little taste for more hunting at this hour.
Indeed, any other prey would be anticlimactic to the taking of the boar.
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