Kevin passed the satchel to me and withdrew farther into the glade. A dove flapped away as I climbed higher into the tree. I could see the hunters coming on, hear the dogs calling—not the baying of the hunt but a pleasant gossip within the pack. The hunting party was coming at a slow walk, the horses and men tired with their morning exercise.
The quickbeam’s berries were turning red with autumn. The wind chuffed overhead, rattling the dry leaves. I pulled the writ from my pocket and took a firm grip on my leather satchel with its cargo of meat and cheese.
The horn blew another recheat. I heard a door bang from the direction of the house, as the servants bustled out to assist the hunting party.
The staghounds scented their home and bounded into the lead, barking amiably as they arrowed for the kennels. Like a gray-brown river they poured along beneath my feet, followed by some of the grooms. The hounds, grooms, horses, and hunters were all spattered with mud from crossing the causeway.
Sir Stanley rode in the middle of the party, a big man with a thick neck and long gray mustaches that reached halfway down his chest. He wore heavy boots and hunting leathers and a goodly coating of mud, and he held the reins in one hand and a braided whip in the other. His horse was heavy-framed and yellow where it wasn’t spattered by ooze. Behind came the grooms, one bearing the straight sword their master used to kill the stags once the dogs had cornered them, and another with the gun used for hinds, who were less sport because they had no horns with which to defend themselves, and therefore could be shot instead of attacked on foot. Behind came sumpter horses bearing the bodies of the kill, already cut up and packaged and ready for the kitchen or the smokehouse. The trophy heads were carried in a basket: a red stag and a fallow buck, and a small but angry-looking boar.
My pulse beat high in my throat. I calculated my moment, then made my leap and landed in a crouch just ahead of the rider, and to his left, on the side away from the whip. The big horse reared and bellowed in surprise. The rider clutched at the reins.
“Sir Stanley! Sir Stanley!” I called out. I waved the satchel near the horse’s head and provoked more rearing. The hooves lashed out. Sir Stanley cursed, sawed the reins, and finally backed the yellow horse down. Rage turned his face a brilliant scarlet. He turned to me and roared.
“What do you mean, waving that damned thing, you jack-in-the-box!”
“Hold this, sir. You may have broke the martingale.”
I held out the writ as I feigned an interest in the horse’s bridle; the yellow horse backed away again, and out of exasperation, Sir Stanley snatched the writ from my hand.
“No, I see the martingale is all right,” I said. I gave the knight a brilliant smile. “And sir, that is a writ in your hand, and you are commanded by the justice of the peace to the Assizes.”
Sir Stanley stared. The hounds had seen me appear as if by sorcery and came bounding back; they surrounded me in a rough, boisterous crowd, as if in admiration of the trick I’d played on their master. I am fond of dogs, and they of me, and I laughed and scratched their ears. Sir Stanley lashed at the dogs with his whip.
“Down!” he said. “Down, you bratchets!” He snarled. “Stop that fawning! Tear him, tear him! Ahoo! Ahoo!”
I danced away from the whip, the excited hounds still bounding around me. I pointed at the grooms who were starting to gather, themselves equipped rather ominously with whips, guns, or bright boar-spears. “These gentlemen are all witnesses!” I said. “And if they are not enough, I brought a witness of my own!” I brandished the satchel in the direction of Kevin, who—with what seemed a degree of embarrassment, or perhaps well-grounded reluctance—emerged from behind his tree.
One of the grooms blew on his brass horn to call the dogs but was ignored. Sir Stanley made a few more slashes with his whip before grooms rode into the melee and deftly separated me from my pack of admirers. I ghosted away from the trail, found a groom behind me, as if to cut me off, and ducked under the horse, which snorted and lashed out with its rear hooves. The hooves were no threat to me, but they kept the other horses clear.
“I have done my duty, Sir Stanley!” I said, backing. “I will forego the customary tip an it please you, and wish you good day.” I waved. “The Compassionate Pilgrim save you, Sir Stanley!”
“Damn your Pilgrim!” The knight shook his whip in the air. The staghounds bounded and gave excited voice. The groom blew another useless recheat.
“Good day, Sir Stanley!”
The knight propped his fist on his hip and glared after me.
“Who in hell art thou, thou impertinent louse?”
I left the question unanswered as I turned and made for the landing. Kevin joined me. We walked briskly.
Kevin adjusted his broad hat. “Dare I look over my shoulder to see if he’s taking aim with his gun?”
“It is a lovely gun,” I said. “I saw it in the hands of his bearer. Wheel-lock, the lock and barrel chased with silver. Rifled, I daresay. And we know he is a good hunter.”
“You offer no comfort.”
“There is no comfort till we are out of range.”
We left the shade of the grove and returned to the green, sunny domain of the sheep. Shepherds and sheepdogs watched us with professional interest. Another recheat sounded from the grove.
“They summon the dogs,” said Kevin. “Walk faster, thou impertinent louse.”
I said nothing but increased the pace. Then from the grove, instead of the barks of excitement and interest, came the baying of a hunting pack, and it was time to run.
Alarmed sheep gave their staccato bray and scattered before us. Sheepdogs barked warning. The sound of the baying pack came closer.
Surely, I thought, he does not mean to kill us. If he wanted that, he would have used his gun. A few ounces of flesh torn by the fangs of his staghounds should satisfy him.
Not wanting to be shredded, I ran and fumbled with the straps of the satchel. I heard oaths from the shepherds, who feared the dogs would savage their charges. I considered lunging for one of the shepherds and seizing his stick to use in my own defense, but decided that this was no time for the pack to catch me wrestling a herdsman.
My throat ached as the cool air froze my gullet. I dared to cast a glance over my shoulder and saw that the lead staghound was a mere twenty yards behind.
I reached into the satchel, retrieved a piece of ham, and hurled it into the air. I didn’t look back, but the tone of the yelping behind me changed: there was a short cry of interest as the lead bratchet saw the offering and changed direction, then a peremptory bark as she challenged another dog for possession of the treat. I heard a scuffle as a number of hounds disputed possession of the ham, and excited barking as other hounds stayed to watch. I was surprised how long it took the dogs to remember their business and begin their baying again.
Another slice of ham delayed the dogs a second time, and then a third; and after that, I was out of ham, and resorted to the sausages. After the sausages were gone, I broke off pieces of cheese and tossed them, and found they interested the dogs equally. By the time the pier was in sight, I was out of cheese. I began flinging bread.
“Run for the boat!” I gasped at Kevin. “I’ll keep them busy.”
Tossing bread over my shoulder, I ran straight into the water, the cold so shocking that I would have stopped dead if momentum hadn’t carried me on. A wave heaved me up, and I plunged in, the water a salt slap to my face. When I was chest-deep, I turned to face the pack of gray-brown staghounds baying at me from the shore. I reached into the satchel and heaved a chunk of waterlogged gingerbread into the midst of the pack. They were habituated to food flying to them by now, and the bread disappeared into a seething gray-brown mob.