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
