Corembeck, who was nearest. 'To the side, sir,' Avery said quietly but clearly. Corembeck guided his horse slowly to the left, smiling with tense excitement. In a second the stag had shot through the resulting gap, back down the path, the massive muscles of its hind legs flexing as it ran. Avery blew his horn and we all followed him, urging our horses on. Barak grinned, his face alight. 'Jesu, this is something!' he called out breathlessly.
We chased the stag down the track. A group of men stood on the road, calling 'Hey! Hey!' and waving their arms to make it turn right, towards the archers. It shot on down the path and we careered after it. At one point where the trees thinned the stag turned aside, but a big wooden hurdle had been erected across the gap. It turned back to the path and fled on, precious moments lost. As it turned I glimpsed the whites of its eyes, full of terror.
The stag picked up speed, outrunning the horses. I had to focus every sense on riding, watching for overhanging branches. Barak might have been enjoying this but I was not; I feared the dangers of riding so fast in a forest; dreaded the crack of a protruding branch against head or knee.
Then the great beast turned its head towards another gap in the trees, and plunged sideways. There was another hurdle there but it was low. The stag crouched; it was going to try and jump, but villagers had appeared beside the hurdle, waving and shouting. But the stag did not run on; it turned and stood facing us. The riders skidded to a halt. I was still at the front, next to Hobbey now. The stag made a sound, more like a bellow than a grunt, lowered its head and waved its great antlers from side to side. Avery blew his horn, the note that would summon the archers. Then the stag lowered its head and charged.
It ran straight at Hobbey's mount, catching his horse on the neck. The horse screamed and reared; Hobbey gave a loud cry and toppled backwards, onto me. Oddleg plunged and I felt myself falling, Hobbey on top of me. We landed in a thick bank of stinging nettles, their softness saving us from serious injury, Hobbey's weight driving the breath from my body. I pushed him off, before he suffocated me, sharp nettle stings biting at my hands and neck. Then I heard a loud 'thwack', a soft grunt from the stag and a crash.
I drew deep whooping breaths as Barak ran across and helped me into a sitting position. Avery was helping Hobbey to his feet. Gasping, I looked round. A villager was holding Oddleg, who did not seem injured, though Hobbey's horse lay kicking in the undergrowth. The men from the village were running up to us. In the centre of the path lay the stag, surrounded by the hunters, an arrow protruding from its chest. As I watched, it took a long, shuddering breath, twitched and lay still. Hugh came up and stood over it, bow in hand, his face a sheen of sweat. Young Master Stannard ran up and clapped him on the shoulder. 'Well done, Master Curteys. What a shot!'
A slow smile of satisfaction spread across Hugh's features. 'Yes,' he said. 'Yes, I did it again.'
Hobbey was breathing fast, clearly shaken. Hugh glanced at him, then looked at me. 'You are hurt, sir,' he said. 'There is blood on your wrist.'
I touched my arm, there was what felt like a deep cut below the elbow. I winced. 'I must have landed on a piece of wood.'
'Let me look,' Barak said.
I removed my doublet and rolled up my sleeve. There was a nasty cut on my forearm, blood leaking fast. 'You need that bound up,' Barak said. 'Here, let me cut off that sleeve, the shirt's ripped anyway.'
As Barak tended my wound, Hobbey stepped over to his ward. 'Hugh,' he said, his voice shaking, 'thank you, you saved the hunt. Maybe even my life.'
Hugh gave him a wintry smile. 'I told you, sir, I would make a good shot on the field of battle.'
A horn sounded from somewhere deep in the wood. 'They've killed the does,' Sir Luke said. 'Here, you men, move the stag to the side of the path so the cart can come up. And help Master Hobbey's horse.' The fallen animal was brought to its feet, fortunately uninjured though trembling violently. Four villagers grabbed the stag by the antlers, and dragged it, trailing blood, to the verge.
THE HUNT DISPERSED, Hobbey ordering everyone to walk or ride back to the clearing. A servant led his limping horse away. Hugh left with the two young gentlemen, enjoying their congratulations. Avery went up the path to fetch Fulstowe and David, who must have been too far up the path to have heard the horn. Hobbey stood, dusty, his clothes torn, rubbing his pale hands. 'I am sorry I fell on you, sir,' he said. 'Will your arm be all right?'
'I think so. Come, Barak, let us go back to the house.' I stood, but at once the wood spun round me. Barak helped me sit down again.
'You've had a shock. Rest here awhile.'
Dyrick laughed. 'Be careful, Nicholas, or he'll find some way of suing you for trespass against the person.'
'Be quiet,' Hobbey snapped. Dyrick's face darkened and he looked as though he were about to say something, but then he turned and stalked away down the path, just as Avery reappeared with Fulstowe and David. David looked at the stag, the arrow stuck deep in its chest. Fulstowe stepped close. 'A fine shot,' he said admiringly. 'We should raise cups to Master Hugh tonight. He deserves the heartstone as a new trophy.'
'Had the stag run on to us,' David said sulkily, 'I would have got him. It should have been my kill.'
'God's death, boy,' Hobbey snapped. 'It knocked Master Shardlake and I over. It could have hurt us badly! Fulstowe is right, you should be congratulating Hugh.'
David's eyes widened. I had never heard Hobbey shout at his son before. David cried out, 'Oh yes, Hugh is always better than me! At everything. Hugh, Hugh, Hugh!' He glared at me. 'Hugh that the hunchback thinks so badly treated.'
'Go home!' Hobbey pointed at his son with a trembling finger.
David muttered an obscenity and crashed away into the wood, clutching his bow. I glimpsed angry tears on his face. Hobbey turned to Fulstowe in time to catch him smiling at the exhibition. His eyes narrowed. 'Go, steward,' he said. 'Meet the cart and tell them to get this stag loaded up.'
'Yes, sir,' Fulstowe said, an ironic touch in his voice. He too walked away.
'Agh, my hands,' Hobbey said. 'I need to find some dock leaves. Avery, come with me, you know these woods.'
Avery's eyes narrowed at being addressed like a household servant; nonetheless he accompanied Hobbey down the path. Barak and I were left alone with the dead stag. The birds, driven from the scene by all the clamour, slowly returned to their roosts, and their song began again.
'This'll be some story to tell Tammy when I get home,' Barak said.
'Dyrick offered me a deal on costs before the hunt,' I said quietly. 'If we leave tomorrow after Priddis's visit, each side will pay their own. I think it's because of David. I think I must accept.' I sighed. 'The mysteries of this house will have to be left to themselves.'
'Thank God for that.' Barak looked at me, a rueful smile on his face.
Creaking wheels sounded on the path. Half a dozen men guided the big cart we had seen at the clearing down the lane. It was dripping blood from the does and fauns, which must already have been taken to the clearing.
'Come on,' I said. 'I'm all right now. Let's go.'
We rode slowly down the path, the servants with the cart doffing their caps as we passed them. It was further than I had realized. My arm throbbed painfully.
I was thinking we must be at the glade soon when Barak touched my shoulder. 'Look,' he said quietly. 'What's that? Through there?'
'Where?' I looked through the trees. 'I can't see anything.'
'Something bright, like clothing.' He dismounted and walked into the wood. I dismounted too and followed, then almost walked into him from behind as he came to a dead stop.
'What is it?—'
I broke off at the extraordinary scene before us. Ahead of us was the little dell I had found that morning, with the fallen log leaning against a tree. For a second my mind whirled, for it seemed I was seeing the unicorn hunt on the tapestry in Hobbey's hall brought to life. A woman with long fair hair sat on the log, her back against the tree, arms folded on her lap. She stayed quite silent, not moving at our appearance. The images were mixed up and for a second I thought I saw a unicorn's horn projecting from her brow. Then I realized what was really there. Abigail Hobbey, pinned to the tree behind her by an arrow through her head.
