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 past 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.
‘What do we do now?’ I asked him. I could scarcely believe that it had all ended so quickly.
He stopped his jig and fumbled for the hunting horn dangling from the cord around his neck. Putting it to his lips, he blew three or four unsteady notes. The effort was beyond him, and he tried a second time. On the fourth attempt he succeeded in completing what I supposed was the death call.
There was no response from the silent forest.
We began to gut the huge animal. It was a mammoth task. By mid-morning we were not halfway through butchering the carcass, though we had succeeded in retrieving my lucky arrow, undamaged. It had slid between two ribs and pierced the heart. We sliced and cut, pausing to pass a whetstone between us and sharpen our knives and to listen for other hunters. We might as well have been alone in a wilderness. We worked until we were hungry, and Walo went to fetch bread and hard cheese from a saddlebag on the pony and a leather bottle of ale. I wandered off in search of water to clean my hands made sticky with blood. I took along the arrow to wash and smooth the blood-stiffened feathers.
Among the willows was a shallow puddle left by the summer rain. I knelt down and was washing the fletching when I heard the sound of a hunting horn. It was very far in the distance, several short calls followed by a longer note. I stood up to listen. The forest had fallen silent. Next came the alarm call of the jay, and then the sound of animals on the move, coming in my direction. As I watched, a group of half a dozen hinds moved across a gap in the thickets some fifty paces ahead of me. They were walking quietly, unhurried and unafraid. Cautiously I backed away, not wishing to frighten them. Varnulf had instructed that all lesser quarry must be allowed to pass freely. I reached the spot where I had left my bow when I happened to look toward the line of beech trees.
For a moment I thought I saw a ghost. A great stag was stepping out from the treeline. I shut my eyes tight and opened them again, thinking it was the fetch of the animal I had just slain. But this animal was slightly smaller, a lighter brown, and the rack of antlers was not as broad. Nevertheless I counted fourteen tines.
Instinctively I reached for my bow. My movement alerted the stag which turned its head to look in my direction. I stood stock still until the stag took a few more paces. Then slowly, very slowly, I set my lucky arrow to
