swore and looked back in exasperation. Her heart stopped.
Somehow in the mad descent they’d roused a boar from its lair. It stood in the middle of the clearing, twitching its tail angrily, not ten yards from where Chustin stood frozen. If it charged, it would be on him before she could cross half the distance, and her with no more than a hunting knife to stop it. As her mind calculated furiously, there was Efriturik, forcing his horse between the two and swinging to the ground with his spear at the ready.
You fool! That’s no boar spear! He’ll run right up it! The beast stamped and snorted. But whether it had past experience with the hunt or was too sleep-groggy to want a fight, the boar snorted one more time, then wheeled back into the brush. She let her breath out and whispered a prayer of thanks to Saint Hubert, who watched over huntsmen. Fighting a wave of guilt, she returned to the task of catching Chustin’s horse and brought it over to where the two Atilliet cousins waited, surrounded by the relieved congratulations of the other riders.
In the distance they could hear the horns signaling that the stag was down. Efriturik helped Chustin up into the saddle, saying, “We’ve missed the kill but I think we’ll have the better stories to tell. Yes?”
Barbara’s mind raced as the group slowly made its way toward the hunt’s conclusion. Had it been planned? Impossible. There was no knowing exactly which way the chase would go. No, the boar couldn’t have been predicted. This was the ordinary luck of the hunt—and luck it had been. If the boar had charged… If Efriturik had been slower to act… If he had needed to trust that pretty ceremonial spear to turn the beast…
* * *
The narrow escape gave the evening’s festivities an edge of frenetic bravado. Barbara found herself in a more sober mood than most, thinking what she would say to Princess Elisebet. She picked back over every minute of the hunt, trying to find some flaw, some sabotage. There was nothing. Her training as an armin had taught her to look for any subtle nuance but she could find no moment in the day’s events that was more than ill chance—none except the matter with the girths before they set out. Yet if the worst had happened, no one would have believed it was happenstance.
Charlin, the count’s son, had won the privilege of the kill but he had ceded the honors of the evening to Efriturik. Now the celebration was fading as the evening deepened. There were two more days of hunting planned with lesser game and morning would come early enough. Barbara had noted when Aukustin headed for his rest and considered herself free now to seek her own bed. As she crossed the courtyard she could hear voices from the lakeshore in that muffled tone of men in their cups trying to be discreet. More faintly came the hollow sound of a small boat knocking against the pilings. She could guess where they were going. It was said that cooking and cleaning were not the only services available from the village women if one knew whom to ask. Pray God they were enough in their senses to lose no one overboard. She was on the verge of turning away to continue to her room when she saw Efriturik crossing the courtyard behind her in the direction of the dock.
“A moment if you please, Mesner Atilliet,” she asked formally.
He glanced at the waiting cluster by the boat but paused with a vaguely guilty air. Well, his entertainments were none of her affair. But it was unlikely he’d thought the matter through. “I wanted to thank you again,” she said, “for what you did with the boar. That was bravely done.”
He seemed embarrassed and shrugged. “One does…what must be done.” There was an impatient sound from his waiting companions and Efriturik said, “Forgive me, I must be going.” With the conspiratorial air imparted by too much wine, he offered, “Charlin knows two lovely sisters in the village…” He trailed off, realizing it was hardly a
Somehow in the mad descent they’d roused a boar from its lair. It stood in the middle of the clearing, twitching its tail angrily, not ten yards from where Chustin stood frozen. If it charged, it would be on him before she could cross half the distance, and her with no more than a hunting knife to stop it. As her mind calculated furiously, there was Efriturik, forcing his horse between the two and swinging to the ground with his spear at the ready.
You fool! That’s no boar spear! He’ll run right up it! The beast stamped and snorted. But whether it had past experience with the hunt or was too sleep-groggy to want a fight, the boar snorted one more time, then wheeled back into the brush. She let her breath out and whispered a prayer of thanks to Saint Hubert, who watched over huntsmen. Fighting a wave of guilt, she returned to the task of catching Chustin’s horse and brought it over to where the two Atilliet cousins waited, surrounded by the relieved congratulations of the other riders.
In the distance they could hear the horns signaling that the stag was down. Efriturik helped Chustin up into the saddle, saying, “We’ve missed the kill but I think we’ll have the better stories to tell. Yes?”
Barbara’s mind raced as the group slowly made its way toward the hunt’s conclusion. Had it been planned? Impossible. There was no knowing exactly which way the chase would go. No, the boar couldn’t have been predicted. This was the ordinary luck of the hunt—and luck it had been. If the boar had charged… If Efriturik had been slower to act… If he had needed to trust that pretty ceremonial spear to turn the beast…
* * *
The narrow escape gave the evening’s festivities an edge of frenetic bravado. Barbara found herself in a more sober mood than most, thinking what she would say to Princess Elisebet. She picked back over every minute of the hunt, trying to find some flaw, some sabotage. There was nothing. Her training as an armin had taught her to look for any subtle nuance but she could find no moment in the day’s events that was more than ill chance—none except the matter with the girths before they set out. Yet if the worst had happened, no one would have believed it was happenstance.
Charlin, the count’s son, had won the privilege of the kill but he had ceded the honors of the evening to Efriturik. Now the celebration was fading as the evening deepened. There were two more days of hunting planned with lesser game and morning would come early enough. Barbara had noted when Aukustin headed for his rest and considered herself free now to seek her own bed. As she crossed the courtyard she could hear voices from the lakeshore in that muffled tone of men in their cups trying to be discreet. More faintly came the hollow sound of a small boat knocking against the pilings. She could guess where they were going. It was said that cooking and cleaning were not the only services available from the village women if one knew whom to ask. Pray God they were enough in their senses to lose no one overboard. She was on the verge of turning away to continue to her room when she saw Efriturik crossing the courtyard behind her in the direction of the dock.
“A moment if you please, Mesner Atilliet,” she asked formally.
He glanced at the waiting cluster by the boat but paused with a vaguely guilty air. Well, his entertainments were none of her affair. But it was unlikely he’d thought the matter through. “I wanted to thank you again,” she said, “for what you did with the boar. That was bravely done.”
He seemed embarrassed and shrugged. “One does…what must be done.” There was an impatient sound from his waiting companions and Efriturik said, “Forgive me, I must be going.” With the conspiratorial air imparted by too much wine, he offered, “Charlin knows two lovely sisters in the village…” He trailed off, realizing it was hardly a
Similar Books
