Tim Severin - The Book of Dreams

‘Bertha’s reputation as a man-eater,’ said the count curtly.

I gaped at him.

‘But she’s the king’s daughter!’

‘Precisely. She gets what she wants.’

A hollow feeling grew in the pit of my stomach. I had been cherishing what had occurred between me and Bertha, every moment of it. I was smitten with her.

Hroudland saw my distress.

‘Patch, don’t take it to heart. Bertha and her sisters treat the court as their private hunting preserve, rather like this forest around us.’

‘But surely their father does not allow it,’ I protested.

‘Rather the reverse.’ Hroudland was matter of fact. ‘The king knows his daughters have a healthy appetite in that direction. They’ve inherited it from him. He prefers they indulge themselves casually, rather than marry and produce children who would complicate the succession.’

I was speechless.

Hroudland lowered his voice.

‘A word of advice, Patch. The king looks the other way, but he does not want to be made a fool of. So be discreet. And remember that you are not the only one.’

I turned aside, unable to face my friend. I was appalled that my affair with Bertha was neither secret nor special. I wondered how many of my companions had been her lovers before me. At the same time I wanted desperately to believe that what had passed between the two of us was genuine. Buffeted by these conflicting thoughts, I had to admit that I knew very little about women, least of all what to make of Bertha’s behaviour. I angrily kicked my horse into a canter.

At length our cavalcade turned off the road and made its way down a grassy track, which widened in a broad clearing. Here the advance party of our servants, including Osric, had set up tents and pavilions, dug fire pits and latrines. There was a park for the wagons, which had brought in supplies of food and wine, stacks of fodder and firewood, a line of temporary stalls for our horses, enormous barrels with water for drinking and washing. The place resembled a small village.

We dismounted and were assigned to our tents. I was put with Hroudland, Berenger and Ogier. I was glad I did not have to share with Oton, for the thought that he had lain with Bertha sickened me.

‘The head huntsman will explain about tomorrow,’ Hroudland said to me. ‘Listen carefully because my uncle takes his hunting very seriously.’ He had thrown off his riding cloak and cap, and stretched to ease his muscles. ‘The king likes the first hunt of the season to be by lance, though God only knows why he chooses to risk his life in that way.’

‘Have there been many accidents?’ I asked.

Hroudland ran his fingers through his hair.

‘Not yet, though it’s only a matter of time.’

At that moment a brief note sounded on a hunting horn.

‘That’s our signal to assemble. Come on! We want to be where we can see what’s arranged.’

Together we walked to where the company was gathering in a circle. Standing in the middle of a patch of bare earth was a small, grizzled-looking man dressed entirely in leather that had been dyed dark green. Around his neck hung the metal hunting horn that had summoned us. Hroudland pushed our way to the front and I looked across the circle to see the king himself, directly opposite. Some five or six places to his left was Ganelon, Hroudland’s stepfather. As at the banquet Ganelon caught my eye, before looking away to where Hroudland stood.

The green-clad man held up his hand to quieten the chatter of the onlookers.

‘That’s Vulfard, the king’s chief huntsman,’ the count explained.

‘Your Majesty and my lords, Greetings!’ The huntsman spoke with the confidence of a man who knew every detail of his profession. ‘Tomorrow we should have good sport — a hart of eighteen points.’

There was a collective intake of breath among the spectators.

‘A once-in-a-lifetime beast!’ Hroudland hissed in my ear.

I saw the king perk up. He straightened his back and shoulders, standing even taller.

‘My men have been watching this animal for months, long before the rut began,’ announced the huntsman. He stepped to one side of the circle, pulled a long hunting knife from his belt, and leaned down to mark a small cross in the dirt.

‘This is where he is now. . and here-’ he moved across the circle to stand directly in front of me ‘-is where we plan to bring him.’ The point of the knife made another cross in the earth. ‘With His Majesty’s permission, I propose to establish our line from here to here.’ The knife described an arc extending out in each direction from the second mark. ‘The final sector has been fenced with hurdles to bring in the quarry.’ The blade scratched a V-shape leading to the second mark. ‘Until the hart has started between the hurdles, strict discipline must be observed. Otherwise he turns back and we lose him.’ The little man paused and looked up at the king.

Carolus nodded at him to continue.

‘I have three dozen men to drive the beast. Their hounds will be on leash. They will move him by gradual stages. We already know the tracks he favours.’

Vulfard gazed around our faces. Raising his voice and speaking slowly, he said, ‘This hart is uncommonly wary. He may surprise us and leave his normal paths. If he comes your way, you must turn him back, but carefully. On no account panic him. Once he is turned, you may sound your horn as a signal. Just once and softly, like this.’ He raised his hunting horn to his lips and blew a short, gentle note. ‘Then we will know how the beast moves.’ He frowned at us. ‘Allow other creatures to pass, be they boar, hind, or any stag of less than twelve points.’

Many in his audience were nodding their agreement, clearly excited.

‘What about an urus?’ someone called out.

There was laughter as the huntsman answered, ‘You’ll have no choice. You’ll be flattened.’

The king himself now stepped into the circle and addressed us, his high-pitched voice carrying clearly.

‘Fellow huntsmen, this hart is a noble quarry. Tomorrow, when he falls, the death notes will ring out loud and clear so that all living creatures will know of his passing.’

‘What are death notes?’ I muttered to Hroudland.

‘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.’