The Book of Dreams s-1 Page 12

  ‘What do we do now?’ I asked him. I could scarcely believe that it had all ended so quickly.

  He stopped his jig and fumbled for the hunting horn dangling from the cord around his neck. Putting it to his lips, he blew three or four unsteady notes. The effort was beyond him, and he tried a second time. On the fourth attempt he succeeded in completing what I supposed was the death call.

  There was no response from the silent forest.

  We began to gut the huge animal. It was a mammoth task. By mid-morning we were not halfway through butchering the carcass, though we had succeeded in retrieving my lucky arrow, undamaged. It had slid between two ribs and pierced the heart. We sliced and cut, pausing to pass a whetstone between us and sharpen our knives and to listen for other hunters. We might as well have been alone in a wilderness. We worked until we were hungry, and Walo went to fetch bread and hard cheese from a saddlebag on the pony and a leather bottle of ale. I wandered off in search of water to clean my hands made sticky with blood. I took along the arrow to wash and smooth the blood-stiffened feathers.

  Among the willows was a shallow puddle left by the summer rain. I knelt down and was washing the fletching when I heard the sound of a hunting horn. It was very far in the distance, several short calls followed by a longer note. I stood up to listen. The forest had fallen silent. Next came the alarm call of the jay, and then the sound of animals on the move, coming in my direction. As I watched, a group of half a dozen hinds moved across a gap in the thickets some fifty paces ahead of me. They were walking quietly, unhurried and unafraid. Cautiously I backed away, not wishing to frighten them. Varnulf had instructed that all lesser quarry must be allowed to pass freely. I reached the spot where I had left my bow when I happened to look toward the line of beech trees.

  For a moment I thought I saw a ghost. A great stag was stepping out from the treeline. I shut my eyes tight and opened them again, thinking it was the fetch of the animal I had just slain. But this animal was slightly smaller, a lighter brown, and the rack of antlers was not as broad. Nevertheless I counted fourteen tines.

  Instinctively I reached for my bow. My movement alerted the stag which turned its head to look in my direction. I stood stock still until the stag took a few more paces. Then slowly, very slowly, I set my lucky arrow to the string, and drew the bow. But the quarry was suspicious. Step by step it advanced, anxious to follow its group of hinds, yet wary of danger.

  The stag was within killing range, yet I waited. My arms and shoulders aching with the strain, hoping for another mortal shot. Then Osric called to me to hurry to join him before all the food was gone. His shout caused the stag to wheel round and take a great leap towards the safety of the treeline. I loosed.

  My arrow caught the beast in mid-air, striking well back along his body. I saw the hindquarters twist and droop as the injured beast landed. Then it gathered its strength and sped away among the beech trees, the crashing sounds of flight growing fainter and fainter in the distance.

  ‘What was that?’ demanded Osric, emerging from the brushwood behind me, a cheese rind in his hand.

  ‘Another hart, almost as big. I wounded it.’

  ‘Badly?’

  ‘I think so. It was running crookedly.’

  ‘Quick, before you lose it. Walo and I can bring on the horses.’ He ran back and fetched the lance that Walo had stuck in the ground and handed it to me. ‘You’ll need this to finish him off. In the woods it’ll be more use than the bow. But take care.’

  Alone, I set out in pursuit of the wounded quarry. I ran at first, a slow jog because the trail was easy to follow and I did not believe I had far to go. The hart had left a line of marks on the forest floor where its hooves had scuffed up the leaves. Here and there were sizable splashes of blood. In a few places I saw fresh scrapes on tree trunks where the wounded creature had blundered into the trees, and the antlers had knocked away the bark.

  But gradually the trail grew indistinct, and I slowed to a walk. I was being drawn deep into the forest. The dense foliage filtered out the daylight and made it difficult to pick out the tell-tale signs. I worried that I might walk past the carcass of the beast if it had dropped dead. Worse, there was the risk of stumbling upon the wounded animal, as it was ready to attack. I recalled how my father had insisted that no trackers ever went after a wounded stag unless they were accompanied by dogs. So I looked about me carefully, peering into the dark shadows as much for ambush as for signs of blood or hoof prints. I kept a firm grip on the lance.

  I had almost given up all hope of finding my quarry and was ready to turn back when I heard a sudden panicked thrashing not far ahead. I had come up upon the beast, and once again scared it into flight. I broke into a run, determined not to let it escape. But after a short distance the sounds suddenly stopped, and I was at a loss. I stole forward, taking each step quietly, straining my ears.

  I came to the lip of a narrow, steep gulley. A dense tangle of ferns and brambles choked the little stream which ran through the bottom of it. I heard a bubbling, wheezing sound, looked down and saw the wounded stag. It was lying sprawled on the stream bed, deep pink froth coming from its jaws. My arrow must have pierced the lungs. A fresh scar in the earth bank showed where the creature had tried to leap across and failed. It had tumbled into the gully and, unable to rise, was very near death. Very cautiously I eased myself over the edge. The bank was too steep for me to stand upright so I sat back on the slope and allowed myself to slide down the bank. The sides of the gully were slick with wet leaves, and I dug in my heels to control the speed of my descent. When I reached the bottom of the gully, I circled round, keeping well clear of the antlers to where I could get a clear thrust with the lance. Not taking my eyes off the quarry, I sidled into position and drew back my weapon. I was about to stab down when something whipped past my head and there was a soft thump just beside me. I turned my head and was shocked to see the haft of an arrow sticking out of the earth bank to my right. It had buried half its length into the soil.

  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.’

  ‘Are you saying that today you killed two beasts, each fit to be royal quarry?’

  ‘I intended no disrespect.’

  The king studied me for a long moment, scowling. Then Vulfard coughed discreetly.

  ‘I think he tells the truth, Your Majesty.’ He indicated to one side. Walo and Osric were entering the clearing. They were on foot and leading the two horses loaded with great slabs of meat. Dangling from the saddle of my bay gelding was an immense rack of antlers.

  The king turned back to face me. He scowled, and for a moment I thought he was going to strike me. Suddenly he threw back his head and burst out in a great roar of laughter.

  ‘I hereby ban this young man from our forests and any future hunt of ours.’

  I bowed my head obediently, and stared at the leaf mould on the ground. If I was forbidden from the forest, then I was unlikely ever to learn the identity of the mysterious archer who might have been an assassin.

  Chapter Ten

  Next day I was dismissed. I was ordered to Aachen while the king moved camp to a different area of the forest for another week of hunting. Hroudland later told me that his uncle’s good humour was restored when he personally killed a pair of wisents, bull-like animals with great shaggy hides, which ran wild in the forest.

  I would have been happier if the king had stayed away even longer. Discipline in the royal household was slack in the king’s absence, and that made it less of a risk to continue my relationship with Bertha. Timing my visits carefully, usually well after dark and when the guards were drowsy, I was able to make my way discreetly to Bertha’s room on the ground floor and spend several nights with her. She encouraged my attendance and I was so smitten by her that I was convinced her affection for me was genuine, whatever Oton and the others claimed about her appetite for men.

  ‘We must think of an excuse for you to become a regular visitor,’ Bertha murmured. Her father was expected back in the next few hours, and we were lying side by side in her bed, contented and warm in the darkness. Before first light I would creep away to my own quarters.

  I yawned and stretched.

  ‘I hate having to get up in the dark and cold when it is so delightful here.’

  ‘You were talking in your sleep just now.’

  ‘I must have been dreaming.’

  ‘About me, I hope.’ She leaned over and her tongue flicked around my ear. I shivered with delight
.

  ‘I can’t remember.’ I slid my arm under her shoulders and drew her towards me. She pressed herself against me and I gloried in her softness and warmth for a few more precious moments.

  At length she drew back so I could get out of bed.

  ‘You should try to remember your dreams. They could be important,’ she said.

  ‘I know,’ I said neutrally. With a sudden upwelling of melancholy I recalled my dream of a bull attacking a peaceful stag, and how it had been a portent of my father’s death and the destruction of his kingdom. I did not care to reveal just how important they were.

  ‘My father believes in his dreams.’

  I groped for my shirt where I had dropped it.

  ‘Does he tell you about them?’

  ‘Yes. Especially when they worry him.’

  ‘What was the last dream he confided to you?’

  ‘A man attacked by a pack of wolves. He could not see who the man was, but it was in a wild place, among rocks and trees. The man was blowing a horn, desperately signalling for help. It never came.’

  I smiled into the darkness.

  ‘Your father won’t be worrying about that dream any longer. I made a fool of myself with a hunting horn recently. I’ll tell you about it some time.’

  ‘Were you attacked by wolves?’ I was pleased to hear the note of genuine concern in her question.

  ‘There were no wolves. I was lost.’

  ‘Then that’s not what the dream was about.’

  I decided to tell her about the Oneirokritikon.

  ‘There’s a book that explains what dreams really mean.’

  I heard her sit up in bed.

  ‘Have you seen that book?’ she asked.

  ‘I have been given a copy, but it’s written in Saracen.’

  ‘You must get it translated!’

  She sounded excited, and I already knew her well enough to guess that she had some scheme in mind.