The Book of Dreams(39)

‘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.