An evil intelligence inhabited that pig and made him a worthy adversary. William tired earlier than the boar and wiped his sweat-soaked face on his sleeve. They passed a new kennel of dogs, the relay set up with great skill by the chief huntsman. The fresh dogs were released and took over immediately from their panting brethren, whose bright pink tongues very nearly touched the ground.
William was almost hoping the attack would happen at the relay; the tension of expecting an attack was wearing him down faster than the hunt.
“He’s turning back!” Robert shouted, and he was right. The boar changed direction and returned whence he came. Maybe he’d try to make for the brook, shaking off the pack that way. By now the sun was high up in the sky, and a friendly breeze dried the sweat from both men and horses. William stayed close to Robert and noticed that Stephen still persisted in the hunt.
Back they raced. The hunters now split up, with the Frenchmen racing ahead, attempting to flank the boar and finally force him at bay. The trap closed as planned. Huntsmen on foot and with dogs formed a barrier in front of the boar, and the massive animal stopped dead in its tracks, its mighty body quivering with rage. William knew exactly how that felt.
Despite the terrible danger from man and beast, excitement surged in his chest when the boar turned. This was the moment, he could feel it in his bones. The moment of combat to the death. The boar’s ears were flat against its head, the snout low, tusks gnashing to sharpen them one last time before the attack, and its eyes burned with otherworldly rage, before he charged toward Stephen’s horse. The animal danced back, spooked by the attack, and the half-drunk priest called out in fright.
Robert spurred his horse to get between his mewling brother and the ferocious beast, spear lifted high to thrust the triangular blade between the boar’s massive shoulders. Instead of hitting true, the blade tore open a wide red gash across the boar’s left foreleg, making the creature scream in rage. Immediately, it lunged to attack Robert’s horse.
In the chaos, William saw a flash of movement. Huntsmen. Ulric. His instructor had the crossbow lifted, waiting for a clean shot at the boar in case Robert needed help. But Robert guided his horse without losing his wits for a moment. His face betrayed nothing but determined concentration, devoid of fear or excitement, just a fierce gleam in his eyes. Robert thrust the spear deep into the boar’s back, his whole body sinking down to drive the steel deeper, but the boar tore itself free to attack again. “William, your spear!”
William’s eyes caught another movement—Ulric’s crossbow bolt pointing at its target. But the target wasn’t the boar. Neither was it Robert. The realisation that Ulric was the traitor shocked him to the marrow of his bones, and William spurred on his horse to bring it between Ulric and Stephen. In the same instant, he hurled his spear at the killer.
The crossbow bolt hit William’s horse. It screamed and fell, and William fell with it, barely managing to untangle himself from the stirrups. The boar was closing in on him, tusks promising murder.
Robert suddenly vaulted from the saddle and stood on the ground between William and the boar, short spear snatched from his startled brother’s grasp, ready to welcome the charging black beast. One foot forward, the other back, Robert leaned forward, front hand in the middle of the spear, back hand aiming the weapon for impact. If the boar tossed him to the ground, Robert would die, disembowelled.
William scrambled desperately to his feet, his horse screaming as it tried to get up.
The boar came on like rolling thunder, as fast as if all the demons of hell possessed it. The spear went into the thick raised neck behind the head, and Robert immediately pushed, straining against the massive body that still didn’t tire, still didn’t give up, pushing deeper into a second wound behind the boar’s head.
William rushed to find Robert’s lost spear and thrust it into the solid body, mimicking Robert’s stance. Finally, the boar’s legs buckled and it collapsed, pink foam dripping from its terrible teeth.
“Don’t let go, not just yet,” Robert calmly advised, leaning on the spear for a little longer, as the mad fire in the boar’s eyes dimmed and finally died.
“No, my lord.” William didn’t think he could let go even if his life depended on it. He needed the grip on the spear to keep himself upright, adrenaline still churning through him, his stomach roiling with a queasy yet exhilarated sensation. He gave a bark of laughter, tried to stop it, then laughed again. “My lord, I thought—I thought the boar would—”
Robert gave him a gentle smile. “I know.” He straightened, looking William up and down with his keen gaze. “Laugh if you need to, William Raven. God knows there has been excitement enough here today. You did well on both counts.”
His hands still shaking, William let go of the spear and glanced down at his fine clothes. He was covered in gore from the final spasms of the dying beast and from his injured horse. His mount’s screams had stopped. One of the huntsmen must have killed the animal to stop its suffering.
The barking of the excited dogs quieted as the kennel-men drew the hounds away from the kill. The riders who’d broken off from the main party during the chase now returned, several of the Frenchmen amongst their number.
“Brother!” Stephen still sat atop his horse, his face puce as he swayed in the saddle. He pointed a trembling, accusatory finger at Ulric, who had been dragged from his mare and now knelt upon the ground, guarded by two burly knights. William’s spear had sliced a gash in his side, and blood stained his garments. “Brother, that man tried to kill me!”
“Indeed he did,” Robert said, his tone cheerful. He took a knife from the chief huntsman and prepared to unmake the boar and reward the dogs, which were straining at their leashes to get to their hard-won quarry. “Worry not, Stephen, for you are alive and well, thanks to the bold—some might even say reckless—behaviour of my squire William Raven.”
Stephen mopped at his face with a square of perfumed silk. “I suppose I am grateful to the young man. But Robert, what will you do about this murdering lout? He is one of your men, I take it?”
“Ulric is my man, yes—and as for what I will do about it…that very much depends on what Master Ulric has to say for himself.” Robert crouched by the carcass of the huge black boar while, close by, the chief huntsman started a fire.
William marvelled at his lord’s equanimity while he sliced open the thick hide, severed the beast’s head, and removed the feet. His own composure had been so badly rattled, he scarce knew himself. That Ulric was the traitor still shocked him, and as he stared at his instructor—the man who’d trained him and taunted him and urged him to fight harder, to dig inside himself for strength, to strive for glory—something shattered inside him. Naivety, perhaps, or maybe his idealism. Whatever it was, he knew he’d never be the same from this day on.
The chief huntsman now took over the preparation of the boar as the fire burned merrily. Two crossbars were slid through holes cut into the front and back legs, and a pole supported them lengthwise. The boar was hoisted up and hung over the fire to burn off its bristles, the sharp stink tearing William out of his thoughts.
Robert stepped close to him, hands bloody from the work, and touched his cheeks with two fingers, smearing the blood on him. William shuddered at the touch. Blood, as if to strangely mirror what they’d done last night in Robert’s bedchamber. Sharing something as wild, as magical, as blood and seed. “It’s your kill, too, William.”
First kill just like in war, facing a demon and remaining victorious. But he really only cared that Robert was unharmed.
While they stood close, William whispered, “There was more than one. I overheard them plotting in the chapel.”
“Yet you did not see fit to inform me,” Robert murmured.
“I meant no disrespect, my lord. I thought you were the target, not your brother, and I wanted…I wanted to protect you.” It sounded ridiculous now, the kind of thing a knight would say to his lady in a troubadour’s song, and William was glad of t
he blood on his face, hiding his blush.
“You wanted to be a hero. There is nothing wrong with that.” The warmth in Robert’s gaze suddenly turned cold as he looked toward Ulric. “Did you know it was him?”
William swallowed. “Not until he acted. I just heard their voices. But the other—the man who ordered this—he was French.”
“Ah.” A wealth of meaning seemed to linger in that sound. The boar’s bristles now had been beaten off, and Robert returned to the carcass, which lay on its back, and cut out the testicles.
“Robert!” Stephen snapped. “A crime has been committed! How dare you wallow in the gore of that devil-beast, dismembering its unholy parts as you exchange platitudes with a squire, when you should be attending to your own brother’s welfare!”
Robert examined the boar and began slicing away at the shoulders and hams, every cut precise and powerful. “Very well.” He stood and signalled the chief huntsman to continue his work of removing the best pieces. The wet, visceral sounds of butchery were a grim backdrop as the lord now turned his attention to justice.
He gazed around the clearing at the group of nobles, knights, squires and huntsmen gathered there. “You, gentlemen, shall be the witnesses and jury. This is my manor, and I have the authority here—not the Church, Stephen, but I—and I will have the truth of what happened today.”
The Viscomte de Murat seemed bewildered by proceedings while Baron Albi maintained an amused, nonchalant air. One of them must have been the second man in the chapel, and William wished he knew which it was.
“Master Ulric.” Robert gestured with his bloody knife. “Rise and explain yourself. Why did you conspire to kill my brother?”
Ulric dragged himself to his feet, pressing one hand to his side to stem the flow of blood. His gaze flickered toward William. “You knew. Somehow you knew what was planned. That day in the chapel—I wondered if you were trying to warn me.” His face crumpled but then he forced himself to stand tall, forced himself to meet Robert’s gaze. “My lord, this wasn’t something I undertook lightly. I wish to God I’d refused the offer, but I was desperate.”
“Desperate enough to kill a man of God?” Robert raised an eyebrow. “Tell me. We have known each other too well and for too long to hide behind half-truths now. Was it the old problem—dicing, cock-fighting?”
Startled, William stared as Ulric dropped his gaze and shame flooded his expression. “It was the dice, my lord.” The words seemed to choke Ulric. “I’ve lost everything. The house. The bit of land. The dowries for my girls. All of it gone, and yet I still have debts. They said they’d take my daughters and sell them to the bathhouse stews in town. The youngest first, for she’s the prettiest. My lord, she’s only nine years old!”
William looked away, unable to bear the furious misery and despair on Ulric’s face. Emotion formed a lump in his throat and he tried to swallow. He wondered how he would act if he were faced with the same problems as Ulric. As the poorest of the squires, William had often borrowed money for his daily living expenses, but he’d always paid it back as soon as he could. He’d placed bets, of course he had—didn’t every man?—but he’d never bet beyond his means and he’d known when to stop. The irony was that Ulric liked to harangue the squires about the dangers of gambling as much as the dangers of whoring. Now William realised the anger in Ulric’s voice all those times had not been aimed at them—he’d been angry at himself and his own weakness.
From the height of his horse, Stephen gave a dismissive sniff. “Gambling is the devil’s work. This man has fallen into sin through his own fault. However, while we should pity him and pray for him to find forgiveness, I am not so charitable that I can forget he tried to murder me. I hope you will not excuse him, brother.”
Robert ignored Stephen, keeping his gaze fixed on Ulric. “Why in God’s holy name didn’t you come to me for help?”
“Because I was ashamed!” Ulric made a wild gesture, and the two knights guarding him reacted, seizing him and twisting his arms behind his back until he cried out in pain.
“Release him,” Robert snapped, and the knights stood down.
Ulric rolled on the ground, dried leaves and mud clinging to his garments. “My lord,” he said, pushing himself to his knees, “you have helped me before. You gave me a living and a reason to feel proud after I lost my wife. Your lady and then your sister advised me on the best way to raise my daughters. Your family has done everything for me, and because of my weakness, I have repaid you with failure.”
Robert’s gaze flicked to William. “Not everything was a failure.”
“Aye,” Ulric said, noticing the look. “He’s the best of them. I let you down in everything else, but I trained your squires hard and well, and William Raven is the best. Pig-headed, quick to anger, a lion in battle—he’s like you when you were his age, my lord.”
Even though he knew he shouldn’t feel proud of a compliment from a traitor, William felt a glow of pleasure at being likened to Sir Robert. It soon faded, his nerves stretched and his mind troubled by where this would end.
He shifted on his feet and stared down at the remains of the dismembered boar. The huntsmen had removed the innards and were broiling them over the fire, and great rounds of bread dunked into the blood were roasting, filling the air with an almost appetizing smell after a cold day out in the forest. The rich, coppery stink of blood was both sweet and nauseating. It made his stomach turn, and the yipping of the dogs as they were let loose on their share of the kill distracted him. Seeing teeth dig into cut-up pieces of bread and intestines, and dogs fight over the best pieces, was a grim view while Ulric’s life was at stake.
“You needed money. You didn’t want to come to me.” Robert tilted his head, his gaze inquisitive. “So who offered to solve your monetary problems?”
Ulric lowered his head and refused to speak.
“I see.” Robert walked around him, slowly. “You would betray my family’s loyalty, and yet you will stay silent to save this wretch’s hide. You would prefer to suffer the consequences of your actions rather than implicate your accomplice.”
“Make him tell you, brother. The real villain must be a man of high standing, otherwise this scoundrel’s tongue would be wagging freely.” Stephen appeared to have recovered from his fright. His expression sharp with cruel intent, he nudged his mount closer to Ulric. “He should hang for his crimes. At the very least he should be mutilated. Chop off his right hand for daring to raise a weapon at me. Cut out his tongue for discussing plans for my death.”
Robert faced Ulric, who grovelled before him. “You deserve punishment for what you did, but as you did not act alone, I will give you one final chance to name your co-conspirator.”
William held his breath, silently urging Ulric to confess—and then Baron Albi spoke up. “Very well. Since this Englishman is so stubborn, I will be loquacious on his behalf. It was me. I paid this man to kill your brother.”
“No! This cannot be!” Viscomte de Murat exclaimed, then broke into a loud stream of incomprehensible, musical words. From the speed and pitch, William guessed the viscomte was shocked and furious.
Albi shrugged, his jovial expression undimmed. He held up a hand to silence the viscomte, then looked at Robert. “I see no reason to conceal the truth. If I tried to run away now, your men would hunt me down just as they hunted down this pig. If I admit to my crime, you will send me to the king and we may negotiate the terms of my release like civilised men.”
William shook his head, disappointment eating at him. He’d liked Baron Albi just as he’d respected Ulric. The day’s events had left a sour taste in his mouth, and all he wanted now was to get back to the camp and wash that taste away with strong, honest ale. Instead, he stood and listened to Albi’s unemotional explanation of why he’d targeted Stephen.
“My master the Count of Toulouse wishes to make a treaty with King Henry as regards Aquitaine,” Albi said. “The province may belong to the English crown and be held by young Prince Richard i
n the king’s name, but it is our closest neighbour and, so my master believes, a valuable ally against the King of France. My master admires Prince Richard for his courage in defying his father during the recent rebellion, and he believes Prince Richard will make a better ruler than Henry the Young King.”
William nudged the dead boar with his foot, scarcely listening to Baron Albi’s speech. He didn’t understand politics. He didn’t want to understand it, not if this was what came of it—men manipulating each other for gain, luring the weak to do their bidding, making people betray all those they held dear.
“My master wants an alliance between Aquitaine and Toulouse, but in order to get such a treaty, he must approach King Henry.” Albi glanced at Stephen, who sat with his mouth hanging open like a gargoyle on a church roof. “Young Henry is feeble and indecisive, a spendthrift and a coxcomb. He relies on his advisors, even if most of them are sycophants. My master believes that if some of the more voluble advisors—such as the noble Stephen here—are removed, Young Henry will crumble. His position will weaken and King Henry will elevate Prince Richard as heir to the throne…which is precisely what my master wants. We would much rather ally ourselves with a strong future king than a weak king, particularly when we fear for the safety of our northern borders against the changeable whims of King Louis and Duke Hugh.”
Albi turned his horse toward Stephen and sketched an ironic bow from the saddle. “My apologies. It was nothing personal, you understand. You are merely a small thread in a much larger tapestry.”
Stephen opened and closed his mouth like a carp in the village fishpond. Haughty anger swept across his face, and he sat straight in the saddle, quivering with rage. “Me, a small thread? I have never been so insulted in all my life! How dare you brush me aside as if I am a person of no consequence—I am the—”
Robert waved a hand for silence. “Peace, brother. Your arguments do no good now.” His gaze moved between Ulric and Albi, one man dejected and broken, the other composed and confident. He nodded, a grim smile curving his lips. “Take Master Ulric and Baron Albi back to the castle and place them under guard. Under no circumstances are they to speak to anyone. Treat them kindly until the hunt is ended and I return, and then I shall decide upon their fates.”
The Lion of Kent Page 7
