‘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 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.