the string, and drew the bow. But the quarry was suspicious. Step by step it advanced, anxious to follow its group of hinds, yet wary of danger.
The stag was within killing range, yet I waited. My arms and shoulders aching with the strain, hoping for another mortal shot. Then Osric called to me to hurry to join him before all the food was gone. His shout caused the stag to wheel round and take a great leap towards the safety of the treeline. I loosed.
My arrow caught the beast in mid-air, striking well back along his body. I saw the hindquarters twist and droop as the injured beast landed. Then it gathered its strength and sped away among the beech trees, the crashing sounds of flight growing fainter and fainter in the distance.
‘What was that?’ demanded Osric, emerging from the brushwood behind me, a cheese rind in his hand.
‘Another hart, almost as big. I wounded it.’
‘Badly?’
‘I think so. It was running crookedly.’
‘Quick, before you lose it. Walo and I can bring on the horses.’ He ran back and fetched the lance that Walo had stuck in the ground and handed it to me. ‘You’ll need this to finish him off. In the woods it’ll be more use than the bow. But take care.’
Alone, I set out in pursuit of the wounded quarry. I ran at first, a slow jog because the trail was easy to follow and I did not believe I had far to go. The hart had left a line of marks on the forest floor where its hooves had scuffed up the leaves. Here and there were sizable splashes of blood. In a few places I saw fresh scrapes on tree trunks where the wounded creature had blundered into the trees, and the antlers had knocked away the bark.
But gradually the trail grew indistinct, and I slowed to a walk. I was being drawn deep into the forest. The dense foliage filtered out the daylight and made it difficult to pick out the tell-tale signs. I worried that I might walk past the carcass of the beast if it had dropped dead. Worse, there was the risk of stumbling upon the wounded animal, as it was ready to attack. I recalled how my father had insisted that no trackers ever went after a wounded stag unless they were accompanied by dogs. So I looked about me carefully, peering into the dark shadows as much for ambush as for signs of blood or hoof prints. I kept a firm grip on the lance.
I had almost given up all hope of finding my quarry and was ready to turn back when I heard a sudden panicked thrashing not far ahead. I had come up upon the beast, and once again scared it into flight. I broke into a run, determined not to let it escape. But after a short distance the sounds suddenly stopped, and I was at a loss. I stole forward, taking each step quietly, straining my ears.
I came to the lip of a narrow, steep gulley. A dense tangle of ferns and brambles choked the little stream which ran through the bottom of it. I heard a bubbling, wheezing sound, looked down and saw the wounded stag. It was lying sprawled on the stream bed, deep pink froth coming from its jaws. My arrow must have pierced the lungs. A fresh scar in the earth bank showed where the creature had tried to leap across and failed. It had tumbled into the gully and, unable to rise, was very near death. Very cautiously I eased myself over the edge. The bank was too steep for me to stand upright so I sat back on the slope and allowed myself to slide down the bank. The sides of the gully were slick with wet leaves, and I dug in my heels to control the speed of my descent. When I reached the bottom of the gully, I circled round, keeping well clear of the antlers to where I could get a clear thrust with the lance. Not taking my eyes off the quarry, I sidled into position and drew back my weapon. I was about to stab down when something whipped past my head and there was a soft thump just beside me. I turned my head and was shocked to see the haft of an arrow sticking out of the earth bank to my right. It had buried half its length into the soil.
I yelped with anger and fright, just as a second arrow whizzed past, so close that I felt the wind of its passing. ‘Watch out, you fool!’ I screamed. I looked up at the bank above me to see a figure duck back out of sight. All thought of killing the stag had gone from my mind. I scrambled my way up the slope to confront the idiot hunter. But by the time I reached the crest there was no one there. Whoever had aimed the arrows had fled and there was no hope of catching him.
I waited to get my breath back and for the pounding of my heart to ease. If the archer had been a hunter, he would have stayed. My thoughts went back to the thief who had tried to rob the eel wagon. The forest was home to brigands and outlaws, but I could see little reason why one of them would want to kill me. This was not the time of hunger, and there was plenty of game in the forest so it could not be for the stag’s carcass. Possibly I had stumbled on the outlaws’ lair. If so, I was not aware of it.
Lying on the ground was a hunting horn. The cord had snapped. I picked it up, wondering if it was a clue to the archer’s identity. But it was a commonplace instrument, made of wood with a mouthpiece carved from bone. Many foresters carried them. Thoughtfully, I knotted the broken cord and hung the horn around my neck. Then I slid back down into the gully to collect the two arrows that had so nearly killed me. Genuine hunters identified their own arrows with dabs of paint or coloured thread. It allowed them to reclaim spent arrows and settle conflicting claims about who had slain the quarry. Both the arrows I extracted from the soft earth carried broad iron tips, capable of killing man or beast. But neither had any distinguishing marks so there was nothing to be learned from them. Angrily I snapped them across my knee and tossed the pieces into the undergrowth. Such arrows were expensive, and at least the mysterious archer would be denied their use in future. At the same time I was increasingly uneasy that what had happened might not have been an accident.
There was no longer any need to despatch the stag. While I had been dealing with the mystery archer, the animal had died. To make sure, I touched a fingertip to one of the huge, wide, unseeing eyes. There was no reaction and I turned away. The splintered stub of my own arrow protruded from the animal’s side. It had been snapped when the animal fell. I left the arrow where it was. Osric and Walo could retrieve it later, and I would fit the broad head to another shaft. I wanted to keep my lucky arrow.
I clambered out of the gully and set off back the way I had come. I held on to the lance for defence but I had the feeling that there would be no more trouble that day. Instead, after an hour of walking, I knew that I had a different problem: I was completely lost. The forest track I had chosen to follow had petered out. All around me the trees looked the same. Suddenly I was thirsty and fiercely hungry. I had not eaten since before dawn and even then only a few mouthfuls of bread. The day’s events had been exhausting, and it was now well into the afternoon. I was tired and did not relish the prospect of spending the night alone in the forest.
I had not seen any large game animals during my walk so I did not risk ruining the king’s sport. I raised the hunting horn dangling against my chest and blew a soft double note, hoping Osric and Walo were somewhere quite close and would hear me. There was no reply. I tried again, louder. This time there was a response, a single short call. Relieved, I turned in that direction and began to walk.
Half an hour later I had not reached my companions and was again losing confidence. I feared that I was walking in a circle. Once more I sounded the hunting horn, and to my relief it was answered. I headed in that direction.
So it went on. Every five or ten minutes I blew a single note on the hunting horn, heard a reply and used it as my guide. I pressed forward, more quickly now, walking confidently. I was intent on catching up with Osric and Walo and returning with them to the main camp before dusk. I noticed how the forest around me was different. Previously there had been wide open spaces between the great trunks, now there was more undergrowth and brushwood. Occasionally my way was blocked and I was obliged to turn aside. When this happened for the third or fourth time, I looked more closely. I saw I had walked into a line of wicker hurdles, artfully covered with fresh branches.
I had blundered into the fence that Vulfard’s men had erected to guide the game towards the king.
By now I was too exhausted and hungry to care. Besides, the day was so far advanced that the hunt should have been finished some time ago. I trudged forward, following the line of the fence, until I heard the sound of voices. Soon afterwards I emerged into a clearing and stopped dead. The king and his royal hunting party were standing together in a group, their backs to me. Attendants were serving food and drink from trays.
Hroudland was the first to notice me hesitating at the edge of the forest. He came forward, his face full of anxiety. To my surprise he did not ask where I had been. Instead he blurted, ‘Patch, make yourself scarce. The king is furious.’
I was utterly taken aback.
‘What have I done?’
‘Played the noisy fool and ruined the hunt for everyone else.’ My friend sounded resentful.
‘Bring that oaf over here!’ ordered an angry voice. It was the king and he had a face like thunder. Vulfard, in his green garb, lurked behind him, looking devastated.
