The Book of Dreams s-1

by Tim Severin

  At length our cavalcade turned off the road and made its way down a grassy track, which widened in a broad clearing. Here the advance party of our servants, including Osric, had set up tents and pavilions, dug fire pits and latrines. There was a park for the wagons, which had brought in supplies of food and wine, stacks of fodder and firewood, a line of temporary stalls for our horses, enormous barrels with water for drinking and washing. The place resembled a small village.

  We dismounted and were assigned to our tents. I was put with Hroudland, Berenger and Ogier. I was glad I did not have to share with Oton, for the thought that he had lain with Bertha sickened me.

  ‘The head huntsman will explain about tomorrow,’ Hroudland said to me. ‘Listen carefully because my uncle takes his hunting very seriously.’ He had thrown off his riding cloak and cap, and stretched to ease his muscles. ‘The king likes the first hunt of the season to be by lance, though God only knows why he chooses to risk his life in that way.’

  ‘Have there been many accidents?’ I asked.

  Hroudland ran his fingers through his hair.

  ‘Not yet, though it’s only a matter of time.’

  At that moment a brief note sounded on a hunting horn.

  ‘That’s our signal to assemble. Come on! We want to be where we can see what’s arranged.’

  Together we walked to where the company was gathering in a circle. Standing in the middle of a patch of bare earth was a small, grizzled-looking man dressed entirely in leather that had been dyed dark green. Around his neck hung the metal hunting horn that had summoned us. Hroudland pushed our way to the front and I looked across the circle to see the king himself, directly opposite. Some five or six places to his left was Ganelon, Hroudland’s stepfather. As at the banquet Ganelon caught my eye, before looking away to where Hroudland stood.

  The green-clad man held up his hand to quieten the chatter of the onlookers.

  ‘That’s Vulfard, the king’s chief huntsman,’ the count explained.

  ‘Your Majesty and my lords, Greetings!’ The huntsman spoke with the confidence of a man who knew every detail of his profession. ‘Tomorrow we should have good sport — a hart of eighteen points.’

  There was a collective intake of breath among the spectators.

  ‘A once-in-a-lifetime beast!’ Hroudland hissed in my ear.

  I saw the king perk up. He straightened his back and shoulders, standing even taller.

  ‘My men have been watching this animal for months, long before the rut began,’ announced the huntsman. He stepped to one side of the circle, pulled a long hunting knife from his belt, and leaned down to mark a small cross in the dirt.

  ‘This is where he is now. . and here-’ he moved across the circle to stand directly in front of me ‘-is where we plan to bring him.’ The point of the knife made another cross in the earth. ‘With His Majesty’s permission, I propose to establish our line from here to here.’ The knife described an arc extending out in each direction from the second mark. ‘The final sector has been fenced with hurdles to bring in the quarry.’ The blade scratched a V-shape leading to the second mark. ‘Until the hart has started between the hurdles, strict discipline must be observed. Otherwise he turns back and we lose him.’ The little man paused and looked up at the king.

  Carolus nodded at him to continue.

  ‘I have three dozen men to drive the beast. Their hounds will be on leash. They will move him by gradual stages. We already know the tracks he favours.’

  Vulfard gazed around our faces. Raising his voice and speaking slowly, he said, ‘This hart is uncommonly wary. He may surprise us and leave his normal paths. If he comes your way, you must turn him back, but carefully. On no account panic him. Once he is turned, you may sound your horn as a signal. Just once and softly, like this.’ He raised his hunting horn to his lips and blew a short, gentle note. ‘Then we will know how the beast moves.’ He frowned at us. ‘Allow other creatures to pass, be they boar, hind, or any stag of less than twelve points.’

  Many in his audience were nodding their agreement, clearly excited.

  ‘What about an urus?’ someone called out.

  There was laughter as the huntsman answered, ‘You’ll have no choice. You’ll be flattened.’

  The king himself now stepped into the circle and addressed us, his high-pitched voice carrying clearly.

  ‘Fellow huntsmen, this hart is a noble quarry. Tomorrow, when he falls, the death notes will ring out loud and clear so that all living creatures will know of his passing.’

  ‘What are death notes?’ I muttered to Hroudland.

  ‘The hunting call that signals the death of the quarry. Sometimes the king sounds the horn himself. It means the end of the day’s hunt.’

  The king left the assembly and began making his way towards the largest of the pavilions. It was a massive affair, larger than most cottages, striped in red and blue.

  An assistant to the chief huntsman approached Hroudland and asked him to attend the dispositions. I accompanied him to where Vulfard was assigning each person to a place in tomorrow’s line. He recognized Hroudland immediately and put him close to the king. He looked at me doubtfully.

  ‘Have you hunted hart before?’ he asked. His tone was polite but cautious.

  ‘At home we hunted deer for meat,’ I answered.

  ‘By force or by stable?’

  I looked confused, so he explained: ‘Was it with a bow and on horseback, following hounds? Or waiting for a driven beast?’

  ‘On horseback, with hounds.’ I was exaggerating. I had seldom gone hunting, leaving the chase to my more sporting brothers.

  Vulfard chewed his lip.

  ‘Do you know the basic calls?’ he demanded.

  I hesitated, and then guessed.

  ‘A single note if the quarry is passing to your left. Two quick blasts if he goes the other way.’

  The huntsman shook his head.

  ‘Wrong.’

  ‘Perhaps he can stand beside me in the line,’ suggested Hroudland.

  Vulfard shook his head.

  ‘No, my lord. Only the most experienced hunters will be near the centre. A novice could ruin the day for everyone.’

  ‘I’m sure you can find a spot somewhere for him,’ Hroudland coaxed.

  Vulfard acceded grudgingly.

  ‘He can stand there.’

  He jabbed his knife point in the dirt. I saw he had put me at the extreme left-hand end of the line, farthest from the centre and the least likely place to see the great stag. Vulfard fixed me with a stern look.

  ‘Just remember, stay quiet and do not disturb the drive. I’ll send my son with you to help out. You’ll need to be up early.’ He turned away and began to interrogate the next man.

  ‘I fear tomorrow is going to be very tedious for you,’ said Hroudland as we strolled back to our tent.

  ‘Well, at least I’ve been placed out of harm’s way,’ I said lightly.

  ‘I’ve tried to persuade the king to change his routine but he insists that his first kill of the season is by lance alone, and the quarry has not been run until exhausted.’

  ‘I would have thought that facing a boar would be much more dangerous than a stag.’

  The count frowned at me.

  ‘That shows how little you know about hunting. Tomorrow, if all goes to plan, a great hart will be guided to where the king waits with a lance in his hand.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘There’s an old saying that if you are injured by a boar, call for a healer. If hurt by a stag, call for a priest.’

  ‘Why does the king expose himself to such a risk?’

  Hroudland shrugged.

  ‘To demonstrate that he still has courage and skill with weapons. It has become a ritual.’ He made a sweeping gesture with his arm, taking in the entire forest around us. ‘More than a hundred men, packs of hounds, weeks of preparation. Let us hope that all goes well tomorrow, and the king makes his kill. Otherwise he will be in a bad humour for
months.’

  ‘And what if this monstrous stag avoids the drive and escapes the hunt?’

  Hroudland laughed and slapped me on the shoulder.

  ‘Then, Patch, it will be up to you. If you see the stag escaping, you are allowed to shoot it with an arrow.’

  ‘Why the laughter when someone asked about an urus? What is it?’

  ‘A wild cow, but bigger than the biggest ox. Horns twice as long. Only a few left in the forest, if any. If you see one coming at you, just climb the nearest tree.’

  A tickling sensation on my ear woke me next morning. I opened my eyes to find a faint pre-dawn glow seeping into the tent. The previous evening, knowing the night would be cold, I had lain down under my cloak, fully dressed. I sat up and irritably brushed aside the long feather that had been used to rouse me. Someone was squatting beside me.

  ‘Time to go,’ said a stranger’s voice.

  There was something not quite right about the words, but it was too dark to recognize the dark shape that scuttled out of the tent ahead of me.

  The morning chill ate into my bones as I pulled on my boots. Outside, the ground was wet with dew, and I could just about make out Osric’s distinctive limp as he came across the camp ground. He was leading two horses. I paid a quick visit to the latrines and, seeing a glow in the kitchen tent, found that the cooks were already up and preparing breakfast for the hunters. I carried a loaf of good barley bread and a flask of hot ale across to where Osric was waiting for me, holding the reins of my bay gelding.

  ‘Eat it while it’s still warm,’ I said to Osric, tearing off a chunk of bread and handing it to him. Slung across his back, he had my bow and its arrow quiver, the leather flap securely fastened against the damp. The stranger had his back to me as he tightened the saddle girths of a large, shaggy pony. When he turned, I saw he was a lad in his teens.

  ‘Farthest to go, soonest to start,’ he said in that same blurred manner of speaking. He was a big, strapping youth, though his arms and legs were too short for his body. Belatedly I noted the round face and almond shaped eyes, the lids half-closed.

  I supposed him to be an ostler, employed to help at the hunting camp. Then I noticed the battered hunting horn dangling from a cord around his neck, also the greasy cap he was wearing. It sported a long feather, the one he used to wake me, and was dyed forest green. I guessed it was a cast-off from his father, Vulfard, and the young man was our escort for the day.

  ‘What’s your name?’ I asked.

  There was a heartbeat of a pause.

  ‘Walo,’ he blurted, bobbing his head awkwardly.

  ‘Then, Walo, show what we must do,’ I said encouragingly.

  My words were met with another duck of the head, quick and enthusiastic this time. Without warning he stepped forward, took me by the leg and threw me up on to my horse. He was surprisingly strong. I had scarcely settled in the saddle when he had done the same for Osric so that he was astride the pony. Then, to Osric’s astonishment, Walo vaulted up in front of him, gathered up the reins, and banged his heels into the pony’s ribs. We crossed the camp site at a fast trot, Osric almost falling off when Walo swerved the pony to one side to lean over to pluck up a lance he had left stuck in the ground. Moments later we plunged into the forest.

  We rode in near-silence, the spongy ground absorbing the sound of hooves, the air heavy with the musty smell of rotting leaves and damp soil. Even in the dim light Walo was absolutely confident of our path though I failed to discern any sign of a track. The trees, mostly huge oaks, were widely spaced and allowed us to travel unimpeded but they offered no clues of our progress or direction. Once, when I turned in the saddle, I could not make out from where we had come. In every direction the forest was the same — full of shadows, brooding, limitless. There were a few signs of life. A late hunting owl flew up from behind us, gliding low over our heads, and then swooping away without a sound, a pale blur that vanished into the trees. A little while later, a dog fox loped across our path, nose close to the ground as it followed a scent. The creature was so intent on its prey that it failed to notice us until we were almost on top of it. It stopped, one paw raised, and turned its head to inspect us. It stood there motionless and unafraid as we rode past. I could make out the slanting yellow eyes, alert with interest.

  The land ran level for the most part though occasionally we had to ride down into a small gully, splash across a rivulet of dark-stained water, and then up the far bank. After the best part of an hour, Walo reined in. We had arrived at a gap in the woodland, an open space dotted with clumps of birch and willow. Apparently this was the place allotted to me for the hunt. Pointing off to our right into a stand of beech trees, Walo explained that the line of hunters extended in that direction as far as the king’s position in the centre of the line. If we were to see any game, it would come from ahead of us or to our right.

  We dismounted and tied the horses to a tree stump hidden behind a willow thicket. Osric strung my bow and handed it to me. Walo jammed the butt end of the lance into the ground, squatted down on his heels and waited beside it. I wandered about, seeking the best spot to give me a clear view of any game that might come towards us, however unlikely that might be. I had just found a suitable location when I saw Osric bend down and pick something from the ground. I went across to see what he had found.

  ‘Death cap,’ he said. He held out a pale golden-yellow mushroom.

  The mushroom looked harmless. I would not have hesitated to eat it.

  ‘This is what poisoned me?’ I guessed.

  ‘The vomiting and dizziness were clues. But I wasn’t sure if it grew locally.’

  ‘Perhaps it got into my food by accident.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ he said, though he sounded unconvinced. He tossed away the deadly fungus and brushed all traces from his fingers. ‘Yet it was the ideal poison. No one would notice a mushroom added to your plate.’

  ‘What about Gerard? He too was sick.’

  ‘Maybe someone wanted him out of the way as well.’

  Behind us Walo uttered a low, clucking sound. I turned to see him gesturing that I should pay attention to the hunt. I walked back to my place, carrying my bow and took up a post facing into the line of beech trees.

  For a long while nothing happened. The forest was silent. The only activity was from a flock of small dun-coloured birds. They were feeding in the willows to my left. They twittered and chirruped, hopped restlessly from branch to branch, then abruptly flew away, wings whirring. I thought I heard the distant sound of a twig snapping. A foraging jay chattered, and I caught a glimpse as it winged its way through the tops of the beeches.

  To pass the time, I attempted to reconstruct what had happened during the banquet when I had been poisoned. I tried to picture the bowl of pottage as it was set in front of me, whether I had seen any slivers of mushroom mixed in my food, and who had served me. But inevitably my memory kept sliding away to the happier image of Bertha seated at the high table, and how beautiful she had been with her braids looped up and held in place with a headband. I recalled in vivid detail how she had looked at me when I completed my tale of Troilus and Polyxena.

  A deep, rasping cough jerked me out of my day dream.

  Directly in front of me, not thirty paces away, stood a colossal stag. The giant creature was staring at me belligerent and challenging. I had never seen such a towering animal. At the shoulder it was as tall as I was, and the rack of antlers rose another four feet above that. I was so close that I could see the nostrils opening and closing as the creature tasted my scent. The animal’s head and thickly muscled neck was in proportion to its immense size. A broad, shaggy pelt of matted grey-brown hair covered the chest. I had no idea how it had emerged from the forest and appeared right in front of me.

  I froze.

  For a long moment the creature gazed directly at me. I felt small and puny. Then, slowly, the majestic spread of antlers, six or seven feet across, swung away as the hart turned its head and began to walk slowly p
ast me. I had been judged as harmless.

  I felt a nudge on my elbow. Osric had crept up behind me the moment the hart had turned away, and was prodding me with an arrow he had taken from the quiver. I looked down. It was a war arrow, the heavy iron head three inches broad and designed to pierce scale armour.

  The hart was moving to my left, away from the line of waiting hunters. There was no hope of turning it back toward them. I took the arrow, nocked it to my bowstring, and glanced across at Walo. The lad was half-crouched, mesmerized, his mouth slack and his gaze fixed on the great deer. He turned to face me and saw the question in my face. He nodded.

  I drew back the bowstring, felt the heavy shaft slide smoothly across my left hand, and in the same movement, released the arrow.

  I had practised my archery so often that there was no need to take deliberate aim. Some instinct told me exactly where to place the shaft, and the heavy arrow slammed into the ribs, just behind the shoulder.

  Until that moment I had never appreciated the force of the curved bow. My arrow struck at the perfect angle. It plunged deep into the body cavity and ripped through the vital organs. The huge beast ran less than fifty paces, and then with a hoarse grunt, buckled at the knees and sank to the ground.

  Walo was on the stag in a flash. He darted behind the stricken animal, dodged the kicking hooves, and crawled under the sweep of the antlers. At risk to his life he drew his hunting knife across the throat. It took three deep cuts before twin bright red spouts showed he had succeeded in despatching the animal.

  The great head dropped to the ground and lay there, twisted at an ugly angle by the massive antlers.

  Walo got to his feet unsteadily, his face and jerkin splashed with blood. He gazed down at the great corpse, and a tremendous smile spread across his face. Then he broke into a gawky dance, capering up and down with delight.