Pagan in Exile (13 page)
Yes, but what kill? I don’t like the way Beelzebub is eyeing my ankle.
Suddenly Raven lifts his head. The other dogs stiffen. They bare their teeth, and a growl ripples Samson’s throat.
Is it them? Is it the pack?
Peering through the undergrowth, through the light and shade. Can’t see anything. Can’t hear anything, either. Oh wait. Yes I can. Was that the sound of barking?
‘
Woof!
’
‘Shut up, Samson!’ How can I hear with all that noise going on? Waiting and waiting. The smell of hot dog. The smell of crushed leaves. Flapping away at a cloud of gnats, my heart pounding in my ears. There! No. Yes! A rustle – 110 sticks breaking – something heavy crashes through the brush nearby.
‘
Woof! Woof-woof-woof!
’ The dogs give tongue. They strain at their leashes and gnash their fangs. ‘Raven! Samson! Sit!’ Another dog answers, from somewhere to the south. God! It’s them. And that noise – it must have been the stag. It must have passed us!
Fumbling for my horn with one hand, trying to hold those damned dogs with the other. They’re going to choke themselves, if they carry on like that. ‘Samson! Sit!’ My mouth is so dry. Can you blow a horn, with a dry mouth?
Suddenly a dog leaps into sight. Heavily jowled, large ears: a typical lymer hound. And another. Their tongues flapping like pink flags. And there’s a man, too, but I can’t make out who it is. He’s moving too fast. Someone in blue? He disappears again, as more dogs shuffle through the grass, panting and sniffing.
‘Samson!’ Too late. He’s jerked out of my grip, and plunged after the others. Oh well, I suppose he knows the game better than I do. Just hope he doesn’t catch that leash on something and strangle himself.
Time to release the other two.
Bending down to let them loose. They disappear before I have time to draw breath. Quick! The horn! Lips on the thin end. Fill your lungs and:
Paaarp!
I did it! I did it! Praise ye the Lord, praise him with the sound of trumpets! Suddenly, from far away, a chorus of other horns. What –? Who –? Wait a moment . . .
They can’t have got that far.
Shouts from someone close by. Can’t make out what 111 he’s saying. Perhaps I should join him? Moving forward, dodging a low branch, stumbling on a tangle of roots. I’m not used to forest like this. It’s so thick and misleading.
‘You!’ Isoard bursts out of a thicket. ‘Did you blow that horn?’
‘Which horn?’
‘It was you, wasn’t it? Damn your eyes!’ His hair is plastered with sweat. His clothes are torn, and his chest is heaving. ‘You butter-brain! You fool! Can’t you tell the difference between an alaunt and a lymer-hound?’
‘Of course I can –’
‘Then why did you unleash? We’re with Isarn and the lymers! We’re driving the damn thing! The hunting party’s down there, waiting!’
Uh-oh. He grabs my sleeve, and we push our way through a clump of hawthorn. The ground’s very rough underfoot. Ouch! That hurt.
‘I can’t believe it.’ (Muttering to himself.) ‘There were only five hounds. No horses. I can’t believe it.’
Dogs, frantically barking. Voices raised. Staggering into a cleared patch, carpeted with thyme. Isarn’s there, waving his arms at somebody dressed in red, who shoots up the nearest slope, whistling. The dogs mill around in widening circles.
‘Isarn!’ Isoard cries, and Isarn turns.
Gulp.
‘So it was you! You stupid little tick!’
Oh God. ‘I’m sorry, Isarn –’
Oof!
A blow across the ear.
‘Are you blind, you castrate? Didn’t you see me? I’m the huntsman, God curse you!’
Crack!
Stars. Lurching. My knees give way.
‘Do you see what you’ve done, you miserable Turk?! Your alaunts have outrun my lymers and chased the hart off to the east! To the east! The cover’s as thick as a ram’s fleece, over there!’ (Grabbing my hair. Ow! Ouch!) ‘Alaunts aren’t trackers! They’ll have lost it for sure!’
‘Let go –’
‘Let go! If we’ve lost that hart, you dung-worm, I’ll send those dogs after
you
!’
‘Isarn.’ It’s Isoard’s voice. And what’s that? Something else. A horn. More dogs. More voices.
Suddenly the clearing’s filled with people on horseback. Lots of stamping and snorting and tossing heads. Berengar wants to know what’s going on. One of the dogs comes up and sniffs at the blood on my hand.
Where’s that from? My nose? No, my lip.
‘. . . it wasn’t my horn. It was his horn. We weren’t ready . . .’ (Isarn, explaining that it was all my fault.) ‘. . . we were driving it south, towards you, but the alaunts pushed it east. I sent someone after them . . . should be able to catch up . . .’
‘You mean we’ll have to start again?’ Berengar’s booming protest.
‘Oh no, the hart can’t have gone too far. It’s nervous, but it’s not running hard, yet. The slots on the tracks are too close together.’
‘Get going then,’ Galhard exclaims. ‘Hurry.’
Better stand up, I suppose. (If I can.) Scratched knees. Throbbing ear. Four dusty black legs appear in front of me. Raise my eyes, and it’s Roland. Mounted on Galhard’s spare hunting hack.
‘It this true, Pagan?’ He doesn’t look very happy. ‘Did you let those hounds off the leash?’
‘My lord –’ (Don’t
you
start! It wasn’t my fault! I didn’t know!) ‘I thought – I thought –’
‘Weren’t you listening? I explained it to you at least three times.’
‘That Turk’s not handling any more dogs,’ Galhard declares. ‘He’s out of the hunt. Get rid of him.’
‘Here.’ (Joris.) ‘Let me.’
‘No, let me.’ It’s Berengar. ‘I’ll tie him by the ankle and drag him the rest of the way!’
‘That’s far too good for him. I vote we let the dogs loose.’
God preserve us. I’m dead. They’ll kill me, and I’ve ruined everything. Trying to stand still. Trying to blink the tears away. Blood all over my hands. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’
Someone spits, and it’s deadly accurate. Lands on my forehead.
‘Dirty Turk.’
‘Infidel.’
‘That’s enough!’ Roland, crisply. ‘Leave him alone.’
‘Good idea,’ Aimery says. ‘Let’s leave him alone. He can find his own way back to the castle.’
‘No he can’t. Come here, Pagan.’ Roland reaches down and extends a hand. ‘You can sit up behind me, out of harm’s way.’
‘You’re not bringing him along?!’ Berengar cries.
‘I’m not sending him back on foot.’
‘But you’ll never keep up!’
‘I will if the hart’s running tired. He won’t be any 114 trouble: I’ll make sure he’s well out of the way. Come on, Pagan, hurry.’
How can you talk like that? How can you sit there and look so – so – can’t you see what I’m feeling?
‘Come on, Pagan.’ He puts a hand under my elbow. My foot on his stirrup. Hups-a-daisy! Squeezing into the saddle. The poor mare staggers slightly under our weight.
But she’s a tough old girl, and meets the challenge heroically.
‘Who struck you?’ Roland inquires. He speaks in a low voice, so as not to be heard. ‘Was it Isarn?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll have a talk with him this evening.’
(Don’t bother. What’s the point?) ‘Forget it.’
‘Pagan –’
‘Can’t you see it’ll just make things worse? Leave it alone, will you?’
He twists his head, trying to look at me. You can feel all the muscles bunching and sliding in his back.
‘What’s wrong?’ he says. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘I’m a stupid, dirty, Godless, cowardly Turk, that’s what’s the matter. You must have realised. Everyone else has.’
‘Pagan –’
Suddenly the sound of a horn echoes across the clearing. Roland stiffens. A murmur runs through the hunting party. ‘That’s it!’ Galhard exclaims. He puts his own horn to his lips and trumpets a reply. Jordan and Berengar and Joris follow suit. The dogs begin to howl.
Putting my hands to my ears.
‘Hold on to me, Pagan!’ (Roland’s practically shouting.) ‘Don’t let go, or you’ll fall!’
Grabbing him round the waist as we lurch forward, Galhard in the lead, baying dogs running like a river around stamping hocks. Across the clearing and into the trees. Branches scraping and slapping. Horses stumbling.
God preserve us. This is going to be rough.
Put my head down and hold on tight. There’s nothing else I can do, except keep my balance. Roland’s not forcing the pace, because his mount’s overloaded. Trailing behind the others. Struggling through to a second clearing which is bigger than the first (mauve flowers glowing on yellowish grass), and swerving off westwards. Following the dogs. Following the hunt. Trying to keep my balance.
This is all so confusing.
Jolt, jolt, jolt. The thud of hooves. Horns blaring. Roland’s muscles tight and controlled: he’s such a good rider. There’s Jordan’s back, up ahead. He’s a good rider, too. Everyone is, except me. Jordan looks around and yells something, but it’s impossible to hear.
Swerving, again.
More trees, but thinner this time. That would make sense. I remember someone said that the object of the hunt is to force the stag out of its forest haunts and into open county. Jolt, jolt, jolt. I wonder how long this is going to last?
Slowing, suddenly. The dogs have stopped barking. Raise my head from Roland’s back, and there’s Isarn, waving his hands around. Where did he come from? What’s happened?
‘What happened, my lord?’
‘Nothing.’ Roland’s panting slightly. ‘It’s a hart’s ruse. We’ll pick up the scent again in a moment.’
‘What ruse?’
‘It retraces its steps and then leaps to one side, trying to break the scent.’
Poor thing. How clever. But not clever enough. Isarn’s leading the lymers around in ever-widening circles, urging them on with clucks and wordless shouts. Look across and see Berengar, drinking from a wineskin. God, but I could do with a drink. This sun is hot.
‘How much longer, my lord?’
‘What?’ His mind is far away.
‘How much longer will this take, do you think?’
‘I don’t know. That depends on the stag.’
A dog’s sharp, excited yap pierces the air. More dogs join in. Isarn shouts something at Galhard, who wheels his horse around, kicking it forward.
And the hunt continues.
Riding, riding, riding. On and on. Across a track. Through a stream. Up the slippery bank on the other side. Roland’s voice: ‘Come on, girl! Come on!’ Aimery tries to jump it, and ends up in the water. (I hope he drowns.) More scrub and slapping branches. Sweat stinging my eyes.
There’s nothing fun about this. This is terrible. I feel as if my head’s going to come off.
‘There! There!’ Someone screaming. Joris? Surely not. Look up, and get a stick in the eye.
‘Ah! Ah!’ Let go of Roland, and nearly fall off. Grab him again. He clutches my wrist.
‘What?’ he exclaims.
‘It’s my eye –’
‘Is it bad?’
‘I don’t think so.’
All at once, the most hideous noise. Like the fall of Jericho. Dogs howling. Horns trumpeting. People shouting.
The sound of a stag at bay.
W
hat a mess. What confusion. Baying dogs and bleating horns and a knot of milling horses, all sweating, all wild-eyed, all trying to jostle each other out of the way. Roland bringing up the rear, circling the crowd, dodging trees and clumps of bush.
And suddenly, there it is. The stag.
By God, but it’s big. Look at its antlers! Bucking and diving. Charging and retreating. Its neck streaked with foam and blood, its flanks shiny with sweat. The dogs are all around it, teeth bared, hackles raised, yellow-eyed. When it lowers its head they back-off, yipping. One of them darts forward, snapping at its haunch.
Crack!
A leg shoots out and the dog catches a terrific blow on its skull.
‘Roland! Roland!’ Berengar makes some sort of signal. Why’s he dismounting? Roland shifts in front of me.
‘Take the reins,’ he gasps. ‘I’m getting down.’
‘But –’
Whoops! There he goes. Throwing me the reins as our mare shies and whinnies. Nervous, poor thing: it’s the noise and the smell of blood. Shouts of encouragement as Roland draws his sword. Berengar draws his own almost simultaneously. And there’s Jordan, in his brilliant Italian brocade (so impractical, yet somehow so appropriate), a long and beautiful blade in his hand, following Roland around the snapping circle of dogs.
Berengar moves in the opposite direction.
What are they doing? I don’t understand. All three of them so intent, so absorbed, as smooth as ducks on the wing, each one’s actions either linked to or mirrored in the actions of the others. It’s like watching a single person split in three as they station themselves around the frantic stag: Berengar in front, Roland and Jordan behind. The tension’s so bad, I feel as if I’m going to be sick.
Berengar. He lunges. The stag ducks and whirls, charging at him, tossing its head. He leaps back, moves sideways. The stag follows, jabbing, retreating, jabbing again. It doesn’t see Jordan. It’s too busy with Berengar. Jordan edges up behind, carefully, carefully, the dogs scattering, the stag grunting, and Jordan, so close, his face as cool as dew, his sword catching the sunlight . . .
There! It’s so quick! What did he do? He cut something in the hart’s hind leg. It screams and lurches (oh God, poor thing), swings around, staggers, crippled in one leg, blood on its rump, throwing itself at Jordan who jumps back and catches his heel. Falls. Rolls. One arm shielding his face from the thrashing antlers.