What fun!' he cackled. Tor God's sake, man, did you want to hunt with all those old women? Thought not. My dear, lucky friend, I have my own secrets, and today I am going to share them with you.' He tapped his nose. We, and only we, will be bringing the prize home today.'
We set off again through the trees and scrub. It was not easy going. The worst part of it was the boar spear I carried in my right hand, and between making sure it did not snag in every low-hanging branch and keeping my horse on the path I soon grew quite hot and silent, although Rollo kept up an endless patter of self-regarding nonsense, mostly relating to wenches he had or intended to swive, and fine ladies who had or intended to swive him.
I found it easy to ignore him, for years spent aboard a ship had inured me to the vexing effects of idle chatter. And besides, it was a beautiful day. The dogs were putting up fat birds that looked like grouse to left and right. Even though we were long past the first frost, cicadas had dragged themselves out of hiding and were rattling half-heartedly from the olive trees. I interrupted Rollo to suggest we try our hands at shooting some of the grouse, but he waved me off.
'No, no, good Petrus. I know where the big beasts are. Let us not waste our time with birds. Do you not want to be the man who kills the finest boar?'
'I should be glad if it does not kill me,' I muttered. But Rollo took that for assent, and we trotted on.
The valley of the Lycus river is quite deep and wide, although the stream itself is small. Our path began to descend past ruined walls and odd grottoes scooped into the ground where it was steep. 'See those caves?' asked Rollo. When this was the royal hunting-ground, there weren't any trees, not like now. No cover for beasts. So they dug caves for them, and ditches and the Lord knows what else. Lazy emperors would always know where to. look, eh? Bloody Greeks!' He laughed. 'No, I am a liar. I have nothing against Greeks – in any case not their women. Although they do grow fine moustaches. But then again…' And thus, having imparted a morsel of interest, he began his prattle once more. So it went on. The track led us down through flowering gorse and thickets of broom, and into a wood of young oaks. Boars lived here, all right: the ground between the trunks was quite bare and churned up. Now I saw the river, a dark gleam through the trees.
'This is where they are,' said Rollo, dropping his voice at last. 'I saw a huge brute here once. Killed my best dog. Gored a servant too,' he added as an afterthought. 'Dogs! Here, you lovely beasts!' And raising his horn he blew three high, urgent notes. The four alaunt hounds, who were milling about around us, stopped and stared up at their master. Rollo blew again, and the dogs, as one animal, set off at a dead run towards the river. Signalling me to follow, Rollo kicked his horse into a trot and went after them.
All this talk of monstrous boars had made my mouth somewhat dry. I hefted my spear and wondered, not for the first time that day, how one actually used these things. Was I supposed to throw it? Or just try to skewer the boar while it tried to kill me? Throw it and run, I decided grimly. Rollo clearly felt no such misgivings. Winding his way through the oaks, he was singing a lively song, a rather beautiful one about hunting both stags and amorous ladies, and for the first time that morning I almost liked the man. Trotting in his wake, I kept a tight grip on the haft of my spear, and hoped, friend or not, that any hideous beasts would charge Rollo first. I was in the midst of these uncharitable thoughts when my companion reined in and held a finger to his lips.
'Do you hear that?' I shook my head. 'The dogs. Over there: they have picked up a scent. Or… no! They see something!' And with a yell he dug in his heels and took off at a gallop. I had no time to admire the skill with which Rollo guided his horse around the tree trunks, for I had all my attention fixed upon my own spear and reins. So when he stopped suddenly in a clearing I nearly rode hard into him. He said nothing, but pointed to the far side of the open ground.
A stone wall ran down through the trees and ended at the river. Beyond, the turkey oaks spread green shadows. In the angle of the wall and the river stood a boar, hemmed in by the four hounds, who were barking madly but keeping their distance. In this they showed sound judgement, for the boar was a monster. Big as any pampered farm hog – big, indeed, as a bear – he wore a thick coat of dark-grey fur which stood up in a tall crest along his back. His ears were huge and pointed and his eyes were small and livid red. But it was his tusks that made the sweat start cold across my skin. They sprang from the black snarl of his lips in a tangle of dirty ivory, big as Moorish swords and all a-quiver with their owners rage. Pearly spittle dangled in ropes, which flew and caught in the greenery like spiderwebs when the beast shook his great head.
'Mary's dugs’ whispered Rollo when I came up beside him. He had stopped his horse ten or so paces behind the dogs and was gripping his spear with white knuckles. 'That is the fiend I chased down before. God almighty – he has grown, I think’ 'Now what?' I asked, tersely. 'Now we kill it’ he said, simply. Then he turned to me, a warm smile on his lips. 'The honour is yours, good Petrus’ I thought this must be another of his jests, but with a bilious lurch of horrified realisation I saw that he was sincere. I gave him a wordless grimace of refusal, but he was watching the boar and did not see. What was I to do? I had a general idea of how these things were done. The dogs would hold the creature at bay while I rode in and stuck it with my spear. But it was plain that the dogs would not be able to hold this monster if he decided to break free, and it was just as plain that I had not the slightest idea how to spear a gigantic, enraged boar from horseback. I dithered, and my nerves were felt by my horse, who had been good enough with me all morning but now began to fret. She started to dance sideways on stiff legs, and I cursed and pulled on the reins. Rollo mistook this for eagerness on my part, and raised his horn to sound the charge, or whatever madness is the proper form at such times. But as he did so, and as I was about to drop my spear to devote both hands to my horse, there was a crescendo of barks and growling and I looked up in time to see one of the alaunts break the circle and leap upon the boar. The monster shrieked – a ghastly, almost human sound – and with a flick of his snout he opened the dog up from balls to chest. Guts spilled out in a livid jumble of blue and red, and as the dog tried to stand they tangled around his legs and held him fast as he kicked out his last seconds. This was too much for the other dogs. As one they rushed at the boar. One grabbed the bristling snout in its teeth and with one flick was sent flying. The others came at the boars flanks and battened on. But the great dogs seemed like mere ticks compared to the muscled bulk of the pig. Spinning around, he shook one loose and, dragging the other dog, whose teeth were sunk in his shoulders and tearing deep, bloody furrows through the fur, he charged the stunned alaunt and gored it in a shrieking frenzy until its throat burst open and showered everything with bright blood. Then the boar, seemingly oblivious to the remaining dog hanging from his flesh, turned his fury upon us.
My horse pranced and snorted, for the stench of blood and swine was heavy in the air. She twitched, and suddenly I heard Horst's voice in my head: 'Take command’ he said. He had yelled those words to me countless times as I tortured poor Iblis with my clumsiness and stupidity. Now I saw very clearly that my mount was on the verge of panic. She would bolt or throw me off – either way, things would be grim. Beside me, Rollo's horn was poised before his lips but instead of blowing he stared, white-faced, at the ruin that had come to his dogs. I could not run away, I supposed, my mind whirling but time oddly stilled around me. So I did what Horst had taught me: I charged. All the horse's terror, the panic that quivered in her limbs like stretched bowstrings, found its release the moment my spurs met her flanks, and she sprang forward. The boar, who had no doubt been sizing us up for butchery, gave a falsetto screech of surprise.
I had been standing no more than four horse's lengths from the brute. Now, as I hurtled at full tilt towards him, my mind seemed to split itself into twain. On one side I could sense nothing but my grip on the reins and the smooth wood of the spear haft in my right fis
t. On the other, with agonising slowness and perfect clarity, I beheld the ground disappearing beneath the mare's hooves, the sunlight shafting through the dusty air, and the boar himself. He was doing a kind of stiff-legged dance, a jig of rage and indecision. Numbly I picked my target: the great, bristled hump behind those pointed ears. The hooves pounded down again. The boar shook his head and lowered it, tusks aimed at my poor mare's belly.
The part of me that was observing all this noted that I had miscalculated: the pig would eviscerate my horse before I could stab it. Then everything happened very fast. The boar shook his head again, and the alaunt who still hung there, forgotten by events, must have bitten down, for the boar suddenly lurched and threw himself sideways, landing on top of the dog with his full weight, just as I lunged with my spear. The mare, seeing the great bulk of the swine rolling towards her, leaped blindly. The spear-point stabbed thin air and I nearly fell from the saddle. As the horse came down I shut my eyes and wrapped my left arm around her neck. My forehead slammed into her mane. The spear snagged on the ground and was torn from my hand. There was a great turmoil, then silence. My mouth was full of horsehair. I looked up. We were standing in the river. Brown water lapped around the mare's knees. She was steaming with sweat and quivering, but I could feel that her panic had departed. Overcome by my blind good fortune, I forgot about the boar for an instant while I stroked the mare's hot neck. Then a horrid noise brought me to my senses.
Rollo must have hesitated. Doubtless he had charged the boar in his turn, but the swine must have found his feet, for the fate he had intended for my horse had befallen Rollo's. It rolled in agony, white ribs and darker, softer things welling from a cavernous rent across its underside. The boar was nowhere to be seen, and I assumed that Rollo was pinned beneath the horse. Then the boar appeared from behind a tree and ran into the horse's belly once more, tearing another horrible wound. The poor animal shrieked for the last time, dropped its head and lay still. The boar commenced its stiff-legged dance again, and then I saw Rollo. He had dragged himself over to an olive tree and was propped against the trunk, spear out and wavering at the boar, who, having killed the horse, had now seen the man. The pig had so far killed four dogs and a horse. Rollo quite plainly had no chance. He looked hurt as well as terrified. I would have to save him. That, or watch him be dismembered. Would I be able to face Aimery and the others if I did not help him? Quite easily, I thought. Oh yes, very easily indeed. I cursed loudly, and louder still when I realised I no longer had my spear. But I had no time now. With a whoop I kicked the mare forward. She lurched towards the bank, sending up sheets of water. Then her hooves were sliding in the mud and we were back on land. She was breathing hard again and showing the whites of her eyes, for the stench of the dead horse's guts was very strong, so I gave her no time to hesitate. Pointing her between dead horse and dead dogs I kicked again and she dashed across the clearing. I had planned to snatch Rollo up but when I reached him he shoved the spear at me. 'Kill it!' he rasped. 'Kill it, for God's sake!'
Fending off the spear, I grabbed it just under the cross-bar. 'Get up on the fucking horse,' I all but screamed at him. I saw my spittle land on his face, but I did not care. 'Get up!'
The mare was starting to prance in distress. I wrenched her head around to the left so that she could not see the boar, who was regarding us coolly, his tusks festooned in rags of horse guts. Meanwhile Rollo had let go of the spear. The boar's eyes flicked from Rollo, who had drawn his dagger, to me, and back again. He blinked and gave a snort, sending flecks of blood and meat in all directions. Then he began to saunter towards us. It was plain that he had decided to finish us off at his leisure. Rollo gave a deep sigh.
'Right then,' he said. You back up a bit. He'll go for me. I'll bring him on, and you come in from the side and stick him.' I looked down in surprise. What I had mistaken for fear had been nothing but shock and pain, which he had mastered. As if to prove the point, he winked at me. Yes?' he asked. I shrugged tightly.
'All right’ I said. The mare wheeled and I managed to get her feet set. The boar's head swung towards me, then back to Rollo. 'Come on, you fat cuckold!' Rollo yelled. 'Come on!' The swine did his stiff-legged dance again, as if overcome by gleeful, murderous anticipation. Rollo waved his dagger. With a squeal, the pig made his decision and launched himself at Rollo. At that moment I yelled at the top of my lungs and charged. The boar saw the horse bearing down on him and paused. The horse saw the boar pause and hesitated in mid-stride. Still holding the spear and the reins I flew clean over the horse's head and before I could even blink, landed with a crash across the bloody shoulders of the boar. With a bellow he rolled over on top of me. I was aware of a hideous, crushing weight, and then the world vanished in a whirl of sparks chasing through my skull.
I opened my eyes a long instant later. There was bloody, matted pig bristle an inch from my face, and the sharp reek of slaughterhouse and sty burning my nose. I was sure my ribs were snapped like chicken bones. The boar gave a lurch. If he thinks I am dead, perhaps he will ignore me, I thought. Instead, I felt the boar's own ribs heave, and a mighty sniffing, like pease-porridge sucked in and out of a giant pair of bellows, came from somewhere near my right shoulder. Then, quick as lightning, the brute rolled away from me and came to his feet. I saw those seething eyes and the yellow bone of tusks, and I screwed my eyes shut and prepared to die. But instead of goring me, the boar gave a final, defiant sniff, pirouetted on his hooves and bolted for the trees. Before I had even released what had almost been my final breath he had vanished. I lay, still as a carving, hardly daring to breathe lest my ribs crumble. The sun was almost overhead and was lancing down through clouds of dust. I heard laughter, and Rollo's face appeared above me, pale as milk but contorted with mirth. He still held his dagger.
‘Petrus! Christ above, Petrus! What did you say to him, the beast? Christ's blood and bones, he took offence, all right! What did you whisper in his ear, eh?'
I could not even find the strength to reply. Instead I looked past his face at the swirling motes, and wondered vaguely if I had shit my breeches. Rollo was almost doubled over with laughter. He was prattling on, and every word seemed to make him laugh the harder.
'Something nasty about his old sow, what? Or his daughters, eh? Eh? How-'
The babble halted in mid-flow. As Rollo's face came into focus through the sun's glare, I saw that mirth had vanished. His eyes were very round and his lips had gone quite white. He dropped the dagger, which chinked into the ground an inch from my hip.
What…?' I began, as he straightened up and swatted at something behind his back. Then there was a hiss and the grey feathers of an arrow appeared, like a grotesque sleight of hand, under his armpit. With a sound like the snapping of fingers another arrow transfixed his cheek, and two more struck his side. He scrabbled at the bright snakes' heads of metal that jutted from his belly, and our eyes met. They were full of the most intense concentration as though he sought for some answer in my own, and his face was grave and strangely noble, despite the horrible adornment it had received. Then a great belch of gore spewed from his pierced mouth and his eyes went blank. Slack-limbed, he toppled backwards. The arrows splintered loudly as he hit the ground and lay still.
Chapter Eighteen
I had still moved not so much as a muscle since coming to my senses, and although my first impulse was to leap to my feet, I did not. Through the shock of Rollo's sudden demise came filtering, like the dust motes that drifted above me, the realisation that whoever had shot my companion had not tried to shoot me. Therefore he – or they, for there must be at least two bowmen – supposed me dead. Was there the slightest chance that they might leave me alone, having killed Rollo? My mind was in a mad whirl. They must be robbers, I thought. That being the case, they would now move in to rob the dead bodies. If I moved now, they would shoot me from their hiding place. My only hope was to let them come up to me. I had my knife. If there were two men, and they both came out, I might have a small chance. If t
here were three or more, I was a dead man. Christ. Where was my horse? Could I draw my knife easily? Ah, holy Mother of God, I still held the boar spear, of course. My right arm was throbbing horribly. I fervently prayed it was not broken.
As these and a legion more thoughts gabbled inside my brainbox like a drunken conclave, I was struggling to keep still. All my reasoning could not blot out the very real chance that the bowmen might decide to put a couple of arrows into me, just to make sure. So I was almost relieved when I heard footsteps padding towards me. But now something was tickling my neck: a fat fly, drinking my fear-laced sweat. I must not twitch. Not now. The footsteps came closer, closer. More than one pair of shoes, I thought. There was whispering, hissed words I could not make out. Shoes were crunching on gravel very close to my head. Through slitted eyes I could see a man to my right, just a dark blur against the sun. He walked up to Rollo and kicked him. Then he bent quickly and slit his throat – or so I guessed, for it is a sound I have never been able to erase from my memory, and I recognised it all too well now. Straight away someone kicked me in turn, a hard blow to my left kidney. Knowing what would be next, I opened my eyes. A man's swarthy face, all hawk's nose and straggling eyebrows and framed with greasy black ringlets, was looking down at me. As he gave a start and began to bend towards me, I sat up, and in the same movement rammed the blunt end of the spear into his throat. It struck his Adam's apple with a jolt: not a terrible blow, but he was so startled that he lost his balance and sat down hard. As I tried to get my legs under me, an arm grabbed me around the neck. At once I threw my weight backwards, dropping the spear, and tried to stand; and if I had been able to feel astonishment at that moment I would have laughed aloud, for the man behind me was standing so firmly that I slid upright against the length of his body. I fumbled for my knife. There was an endless, infernal second during which my fingers felt only cloth, then they touched the cool steel ball of the pommel. Feeling his arm tighten and imagining the knife-hand that I could not see, I stamped down with all my might on the top of his feet and spun as his grip loosened minutely, my flesh cringing in expectation of the thrust of steel. My face came around into the hollow beneath his chin, all beard and garlic-sweat, and I shoved him away with both hands. He stepped back and raised his arm. He held a small sword, not a knife, and that had saved me, for he had not been able to bring the shorter blade to bear at close-quarters. His face was twisted horribly, and dumbly I realised I must have stabbed him as I fended him off. The sword came down and I stepped inside the arc of the blade and punched my blade into his guts again and again, perhaps five times, perhaps many more. He shrieked into my ear and dropped, writhing, to my feet.
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