by Karen Myers
While the fire was creating a good pile of embers for cooking, Rhys helped George with the basic dressing of the carcass. They worked for a few minutes in silence. George had done this work when deer hunting with a rifle as a teenager, and later when helping the Rowanton huntsman break up dead horses for the hounds, so he knew his way around an animal carcass.
“When we foxhunt, we can give an award to a field member who was in at the death, or who saw his first blood.”
“Yes, we do that, too.”
“For a fox, it’s a pad or a mask. Isn’t it a front foot, for a deer?”
“That’s right.”
George paused to wipe his blade on the grass, then he cut off both the front feet just above the joint. They were surprisingly bloodless, and all too reminiscent of Iolo’s severed hands. He put them aside in a low tree crotch out of reach of the hounds and returned to help Rhys with the gutting.
By severing the organs at strategic points and taking care, they were able to pull a fairly tidy pile out of the carcass without making too much of a mess and began to roast the organs on sticks over the fire. The outdoor exercise in the crisp air made the aroma appealing enough to stir everyone’s appetite and the hounds whined to be released to feast.
The gutted deer would still need to be drained of residual blood, but now they could tie it on one of the horses. Rhys volunteered his, since Mosby wasn’t used to the task, and they lifted it up to tie it on behind the saddle with rope from his saddlebag. The trickiest part was turning the head of the carcass back on its shoulders and securing it so that the antlers faced backward away from the rider and didn’t dangle over the horse’s haunches. The horse snorted at the smell, but stood still for it.
Rhys picked up the large intestine and attached meat with a long stick, and draped it high on a bush in the clearing, then pulled up some grasses to wipe his hands. Crows had already gathered, watching with interest.
Only about half an hour had passed since the death and the hounds were eagerly awaiting what came next. George and Rhys pulled the tidbits off the sticks where they’d been roasting and made a cooked gut pile on the ground, then George stood in front of it and called the hounds to their reward, blowing and cheering them on the horn as before. They snarled over the spoils and contended for their favorite bits, but there was enough for everyone to get a taste.
He thought about the awards and went in search of some large leaves from a sycamore on the edge of the clearing. Let’s hope they’ll like this, he thought, as he wrapped each foot tidily in leaves.
He went on foot first to Rhian, who had moved up with the hounds. “I’m sure this isn’t your first award since you’ve been hunting for many years, but this is your first time with me, and I would like to recognize the excellent work you did here today with this hunt.” He presented her with the trophy and her face lit up.
“Thank you, huntsman. I’m very honored.” He was pleased to see that she hadn’t expected this.
He then walked over to Angharad. “I wouldn’t presume to guess how many years you’ve hunted but today you are first in the field, for my first deer hunt, and I wish to honor you for it.” He bowed and gave her the trophy.
She said, amused, “First in the field, and the entire field indeed.” George could see that she appreciated the gesture nonetheless as she reached down and accepted it.
George mounted up and turned back to the west to hit the road and the river, calling “Pack up” to the hounds. They fell into place in front of him, and the whippers-in spread out to either side. Angharad turned to follow as they passed.
As they pulled out, George thought, this wasn’t so different from foxhunting. The strangest part was the enhanced senses with both hounds and quarry. He was sorry he hadn’t thought to see how the sheep felt about the whole affair, and chuckled privately.
The paths leading to the road were clear enough, and they reached the river soon. The hounds splashed in and drank their fill, and the riders let the horses drink. George and Rhys dismounted to do some cleaning up. Rhys scooped some water onto his horse’s hindquarters to wash off the blood slowly draining from the carcass, and wiped the dampened area down with some pulled grasses.
Eventually they reached Two Pines from the north, on the road. George called up to Owen, where he sat dismounted with his men, killing time with some dice.
As they passed by, Owen and his men mounted and swung into place, wedging themselves between George and Angharad, so that she had to rein in to let them by. George could see the deliberate rudeness behind him but let it pass for now. He was working on the rest of his plan to evict them altogether in two days.
Humiliation, he thought, that was the key. Public laughter would be best.
CHAPTER 18
Ives greeted them at the kennel gates with a broad smile. “What a fine buck. And from Two Pines?”
“That’s where we started him. What happens to the carcass?”
“We’ll hang him to finish draining and cooling. The hide and shoulders properly go to the huntsman, the neck and shanks to the hounds, and the rest of the meat to the manor for its use. The head goes to the hounds, and the antlers to you.”
“What am I supposed to do with all that meat and goods?”
“Well, if you’re not eating the venison yourself, the shoulders are usually donated to staff or others that have done well for the hunt. The skins and antlers are useful to us in kennels and the surplus can be sold or traded to others. We do that all the time with the leather craftsmen and armorers.”
“What did Iolo do?”
“Since he ate in the great hall, he gave the shoulders to the whippers-in or the kennel-men, sometimes others.”
George had a thought. He didn’t want to present a hunt award to Benitoe as he had Rhian, since Benitoe was operating as a professional, but this gave him an idea. “I’d like to do something special for Benitoe. Would he like the rack, as a trophy, to memorialize the first time a lutin has served on the staff of the great hunt?”
“That’s well thought of. It would be a special honor for him to show his friends.”
George called over to Rhian. “What happened with that shepherd?”
“Angharad and I calmed him down. He looked over the sheep and decided none was actually injured, just shocked. Normally Gwyn makes a payment for damaged goods or property, or sends someone to repair it. In this case, I don’t think he has a real claim for compensation.”
“Still, I’d like to keep good relations with everyone. Does he own the sheep, or does he work for someone else?”
“They’re his flock. He grazes common lands.”
He turned to Ives. “Can I give him a shoulder in compensation without disturbing anyone?”
Ives pursed his lips for a moment. “He’d be surprised, but certainly appreciative.”
“Then let’s do that, on behalf of the hunt.” Ives nodded.
George turned his horse to face the kennel yard and asked Ives, “Please call all the kennel staff over.”
Ives passed the word for a hasty assembly in the kennel yard. George waved Benitoe to him, waiting for all of them to quiet down.
He pointed at the deer still on Rhys’s horse as the last of the hounds had just been cleared from the yard. “We were fortunate today. I wanted to thank all of you for the hard work you’ve done for Iolo and for all the help you’ve provided to me as a stranger, for the sake of the hunt and the hounds. This was my first hunt with you, and I have a lot to learn. But it’s also the first hunt with this pack for Benitoe, and I wanted to welcome him formally, both for the work he has done, and also as a symbol of what else can be achieved. The rack’s his, as a reminder of this occasion.”
He turned from the surprised and flushed whipper-in and leaned over his horse to talk privately with Ives, “Think you can make use of the other shoulder as a gift to the kennel staff?”
Ives smiled broadly. “We’ll have our own private feast on it in a few days, after it’s aged properly.”
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After everyone had cleaned up at the kennels, George joined Angharad, Rhian and Benitoe for the ride into Greenhollow. Benitoe and Rhian rode together discussing the morning’s hunt from their different views of it, leaving George with Angharad to follow behind. Mosby had been left at the stable for a rest and George was trying out Iolo’s mare, Llamrei, in his place.
Angharad looked over as they cleared the manor gate. “Thanks for letting me come this morning. I quite enjoyed myself. You seem to be doing well building a rapport with the pack.”
George was still excited and couldn’t help bubbling over enthusiastically. “It’s different from what I’m used to, feeling the hounds and quarry so directly, but very illuminating, too. I can’t wait to do more of it and experiment.”
Reining himself in to more formal matters, he continued, “I wanted to thank you for helping Rhian deal with that shepherd. I couldn’t leave the hounds, and this is something she’ll need to learn to do anyway. In a foxhunt, the protocol would usually be for a master or other prominent member to pull aside for that purpose, but I don’t know the custom here.”
“You did the right thing. She had him well in hand, and with two of us, there wasn’t much he could do except give us the truth of the damage. He was still too surprised to bluster.”
He thought about the plans he’d been considering on the way back from the hunt. “I suppose you noticed Owen the Leash’s, um, behavior issues?”
“I was pleased to see you challenge him. He’s gotten away with far too much these last many years.”
He glanced at her. So, she apparently didn’t approve of him, either. Good.
“I mean to be done with him in a couple of days, with Gwyn’s blessing. What can you tell me about him, and how it all started?”
“About twenty years ago, the hunt staff for the great pack was as reduced as I’ve ever seen it. Iolo had always had two or three of the family in hand as whippers-in, some on a permanent or long-term footing, and others passing through as part of their training, as Rhys is doing now. This was reduced to two, when Rhodri completed his time and took to his travels, then just one when Islwyn was unexpectedly killed. That left only Merfyn, and Iolo had trouble controlling the hounds with just one whipper-in.”
Angharad was letting her horse pick its own way into town as she settled into telling the story.
“How did Islwyn die?”
“His horse took him over a cliff. It was a great mystery, since he was an excellent rider and looked to grow into a great huntsman somewhere. No one was around when it happened.”
George raised an eyebrow, and glanced at her skeptically. She returned the look with a shrug.
“What happened when the staff was reduced to one whipper-in?”
“Creiddylad spilled word after word into her brother’s ear about how dangerous it was that there should be only one, how the hounds were likely to harm someone without more control, and other such pointless warnings. Gwyn was preoccupied with other affairs, and he let her give him assistance in the form of Owen the Leash and his two cronies.”
“Uh-oh. And how did Iolo take that?”
She regarded him earnestly. “You must understand that Islwyn was his great-great-grandson, and he was still stunned by the death. He was dismayed about the invasion of these uncouth and unnecessary strangers, as were all of the regular hunters like me, but he didn’t have his heart in the fight about it. Gwyn’s always had a soft spot for his sister, and she manipulates his guilt like the viper she is.”
George looked at her. “What’s he guilty about?”
“That’s a long tale for another day. The short version is that he kidnapped her from her husband Gwythyr many a long century ago. It’s why she has no home of her own, other than her modest dwelling in this new world. And she enjoys milking the grievance most thoroughly for maximum advantage.”
She gathered up her horse as they approached the bridge.
“With Owen in place, for a while the situation restabilized, and when Rhys came and reached the age Rhian is now, we had two whippers-in sometimes, but that didn’t last long. A sudden attack on his father lost us the services of Merfyn, and we were back to one.”
George frowned. “Again? Who attacked? What happened?”
“I’m not sure. It was unexpected and there was some mystery about it.”
“And then we lost the huntsman,” George said.
“Yes, and then we lost the huntsman. No huntsman, only one temporary whipper-in, and Owen the Leash with his lads in place,” she agreed. “There were smiles on their faces that morning, I tell you. Then you showed up.”
“And spoiled what seem to have been some very long-range plans.”
‘Yes, I think that’s right, that there were schemes in place operating too slowly for us to notice. If that’s true, then you’re now the number one obstacle in the way. When the news of this morning’s successful hunt gets around, along with Owen’s exclusion, you’re going to become the prime target, to get them back on track.”
“That’s the plan,” he said.
She looked hard at him. “Ah. You and Gwyn want them to expose themselves more plainly.”
“Yes. But Rhian’s a concern. I’ve warned her about the danger but it doesn’t feel right to have her in the midst of it.”
She smiled. “Don’t worry about Rhian. She’ll surprise you, I think.”
The riders pulled up in front of Mostyn’s house. George turned to Angharad and said, “I won’t be long, just dropping these two off for a fitting.”
“I’ll go on ahead and get lunch ready,” she said.
George knocked on the door with Rhian and Benitoe in tow, and Mostyn let them in.
Rhian walked over to the wall of shelving with cloth and began fingering materials.
“I’m not here for my fitting just yet,” George said, “not till after lunch, if that suits you. But these two need livery as well, at Gwyn’s request.”
He looked at Rhian and Benitoe. “Both of you will be pioneering versions of the standard hunt staff clothing. Remember that you’ll be a model for others when you tell Mostyn what you want, and don’t request anything too extreme.”
“If you can,” George told Mostyn, “use the same colors as for mine, but they don’t have to be identical otherwise. I’m looking for a similarity of look that marks us all as hunt staff together, not for complete uniforms like soldiers.”
“When do you want this?”
“I need all three of us clothed appropriately before the hunt on Tuesday morning next, even if we have to come back for adjustments afterward. Is that possible?”
“Easily.”
“Alright, then.” He looked seriously at his two companions. “I’ll see you all back at the manor. Travel home together, though—I don’t want you riding alone. Understood?”
“I’ll make sure of it,” Benitoe said.
CHAPTER 19
George rode into Angharad’s work yard and dismounted. Angharad stepped out of the kitchen door and called, “Put her away in the nearest empty stall.”
He led Llamrei to the stable, into a loose box with fresh straw next to the horse Angharad had been riding this morning. He removed the saddle and saddle cloth, hanging them on a wall mount in the corridor to air out, and brushed her down lightly to make her more comfortable. Hanging the bridle on a hook outside the stall, he left her to a bit of grain and some hanging hay, with a bucket of water.
At his knock on the kitchen door, Angharad summoned him in. Cabal wagged at him from under the table and bounced up to give him a greeting. Ermengarde tumbled out of her basket with a high-pitched “yip” and wriggled over to be admired.
He hadn’t expected a cooked meal, since Angharad had been out all morning with the hunt, but clearly she’d kept something heating slowly the whole time for the kitchen smelled wonderful. “What is that?” he asked, delightedly sniffing the air.
“A rabbit stew, with apples and dried fruits. I fried up some corn cakes to d
ip in it which are just ready now, so come and sit down. Tour afterward.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, taking his hat off and running his fingers through his hair. He hung the hat on the back of a chair post, and she took it away to hang on a hook near the door.
“Sink’s over there, if you want to wash your hands.”
He cleaned the dirt off from the ride, looking around the tidy kitchen while he did so. The kitchen stove was providing plenty of heat.
They sat at a table across the room from the stove, surrounded by windows with a view of the Blue Ridge on a bright autumn day, and the dogs lay at their feet. The stew steamed unpretentiously in an iron casserole on a wooden trivet, a large spoon alongside, and the fried corn bread lay crisp on a platter next to it, with butter and honey for condiments.
George paused to admire the plates, sturdy stoneware with stylized game animals running along the rim. “Yours?” he asked, looking over at her.
“Yes. I wanted to see if I could blend the different sizes of animals into a rhythmic line.”
George could see what she meant; the line went from small game to large in a pleasing but unpredictable flow. It had the lively feel of Celtic art with running animals, but the stylizations were different, more natural. “I like it very much.”
He spooned some stew onto his plate and added a piece of the bread. Taking a bite while it was still warm and crunchy, he smiled. “Fried in bacon fat?”
“What else? You like fried corn cakes?”
“They’re a favorite of mine. Whenever we went camping, we brought along the makings, along with a rasher of bacon, and cooked them up in an iron skillet. We have a name for them, I wonder if you use it.”
“What’s that?”
“‘Hush puppies’ we call them, ’cause that’s what the leftovers are used for.”
She laughed delightedly, and the dogs at their feet kept an eye out for every crumb.
After lunch, Angharad offered George a tour of her workshops. She carried Ermengarde and Cabal joined them. “You’re not worried about the puppy getting into trouble?” George asked.