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.
My stomach growled with hunger as I walked forward. The group of courtiers nervously cleared a space around the infuriated king. Only Hroudland had the courage to step out and accompany me as I approached his uncle.
Carolus was fuming. He caught sight of the hunting horn dangling against my chest.
‘Hroudland, take that away from him. I never want to hear its note again,’ he stormed.
‘Your Majesty, I beg forgiveness,’ I stammered. ‘I was lost and trying to find my way.’
‘No wonder, you numskull. You couldn’t find your arse with your own hands.’ The king swung round and confronted Vulfard. ‘You said you sent your son to keep an eye on this buffoon!’
‘I did, my lord,’ answered the huntsman. He was shrivelled up with embarrassment. ‘The lad will get a whipping when he gets back.’
‘Walo is not at fault,’ I intervened.
‘He knows well enough not to blow the death call in jest, and wreck the hunt,’ snapped Vulfard.
‘But the hart was dead,’ I said.
There was the pause of a heartbeat, and then the king growled, ‘What hart?’
‘A large one, maybe eighteen points.’
I saw derisive looks appear on the faces of the royal party. Ganelon, Hroudland’s stepfather, was smirking.
The king narrowed his eyes.
‘You claim that you killed a hart of eighteen points?’ He sounded incredulous.
‘Yes, Your Majesty.’
He turned to Vulfard.
‘Can this be true?’
The huntsman shifted uncomfortably.
‘Possibly. We never saw the beast ourselves.’
‘I know that!’ the king snapped. ‘Your dimwit son and this lout frightened off every creature for miles around, puffing away like low musicians at a fairground.’ The king swung back to face me. ‘When did you kill this wondrous beast?’ His voice dripped with sarcasm.
‘Shortly after we reached the place in the line assigned to us, Your Majesty.’
‘And you are sure it has eighteen points?’
‘The rack was larger than the other one.’
The royal eyebrows shot up.
‘What other one?’
‘Back there, it appeared a little while later,’ I said weakly, indicating the forest behind me. ‘It had only sixteen points.’