All there stared, hardly believing their ears.
"Choose good or evil, lord King. Choose to turn from the ill. To go on your royal knees, in the nearest church of God, and repent you. Or to go on in your cruel sin - and pay the price! That was the Saviour's words."
"Fiend seize you!" William raised a trembling fist - but the trembling was not from fear but from fury. Corpulent, for a moment or two it seemed as though he might take a seizure, his red features turning to purple. Then he mastered himself and produced a strange whinny of a laugh. "Oaf! Clerkly dolt! Saxon lout!" he stammered. "You think to frighten me, William, with your befuddled dreams? Do you take me for such as yourself? An Englishman who frights at shadows? Think you that I am such as abandons his course because old women dream dreams and Saxon churls start at fancies? Does the King pause when an Englishman sneezes in his sleep! Begone, fool — begone, while I yet spare you. Begone, before I have you strung up there beside these other cattle! I will not have my day spoiled by such as you. Away!"
He turned in his saddle. "Come, Walter de Poix - mount you. To horse, all. Chiene - the new arrows, I had made. Give them here. These, now, are excellent. See - they will serve us well this day, I swear." He took six arrows held out by the Chief Huntsman, weighing them in his hand, then handed two to Tirel, keeping four. "On, my friends — on. I make for Bignell Wood for the first draw. Go you all where you will - so as you do not spoil my sport, by Christ! Return here by four after noon. On, I say."
Dispersing, the hunters set off in little groups, with their beaters, heedful to give the King's personal party a wide berth. Prince Henry chose to take the line nearest to that of his brother on the west, saying that they would make for the Malwood, where he knew of a hopeful spot. The three youngsters, de Breteuil the Treasurer and a single forester rode with them, with three deerhounds.
When they were out of sight of all others, Henry reined back to let the youths come level. "That was an unedifying scene, was it not?" he said. "The man was a fool indeed, to think that William would pay him heed."
"But brave," David said.
"Bravery can also be folly, lad. But ... I liked it not."
"Why did Flambard send him on?" de Breteuil asked.
"That I wondered also. He would know how it would be. And he is scarce a godly man, though a priest."
Eager as they were to discuss the incident, the trio could scarcely do so in front of Henry, who referred no more to it. He spoke to them of the area to which they were heading, just over a mile southwards where, in the Malwood Shaw, there was a large mire he knew of where the great harts liked on occasion to lie up in the cool mud of the August heat, spared the flies. This swamp was surrounded by scrub oak, into and through which the beasts could be driven. There were two lanes cut through the scrub where the hunters could hope for a shot.
Soon they were in the thicker woodland, and presently they passed the former charcoal-burners' village of Canterton, now only roofless walls and rioting vegetation, burned like all the other of the New Forest settlements, and the folk driven out, to improve the preserve. There were scores of such sad sights in the forest. Soon after, they came to the vicinity of Malwood Mere. Now they dismounted, to lead their horses quietly through the trees. Presently they split up. The forester took the three hounds forward, to reach the southern limit of the marsh, when he would slip them. The young men were to make for the mire's northern flanks, there to seek to prevent any deer which the hounds put up from breaking out east or west through the surrounding thick scrub, to ensure that they bolted down the north-stretching ride where Henry and de Breteuil would be waiting with their crossbows. In this dense woodland the horses would be of little use, and were to be left at this central point, one of the youngsters to stay with them and bring them swiftly to the hunters should three blasts on a horn summon them. The lads drew lots for this boring task and Hervey, drawing the shortest grass-stalk, was left behind.
Picking their way quietly through the tangled brushwood and undergrowth, to avoid disturbing any game there might be, and with the ground growing ever more soft and waterlogged beneath them, David and Hugo came to open space where it was so wet that no trees would grow, although reeds stood high, an area perhaps six hundred yards by four hundred yards. David elected to go round to the far, eastern, side.
They waited opposite each other.
Alone now, and silent, David listened to the hum of the insects and the soft croodling of the woodpigeons in the warm August air. It was eleven months since the disastrous Crown-wearing, and as ever, he longed for the wider landscapes, the stronger air, the hills and white foaming rivers of Scotland.
They did not have to wait long today, at least. All the warning they received was, first a flight of mallard exploding from the reeds and as the wing-beats faded, the sound of a faint rustling and splashing — for the deerhounds did not bay as they worked. Then three deer suddenly were leaping lightly, gracefully, through the reed-beds in a shower of spray. But a glance showed that these were females, a hind and two almost-fully-grown calves. They were speeding down the centre of the mire and made no attempt to break out, left or right, before continuing out into the northern ride, to disappear down its green aisle.
Another hind came shortly after, alone, this nearer Hugo's side. Perhaps it got a whiff of his scent on the faint westerly air, for when almost abreast of him it abruptly swerved and came bounding over to David's side. He jumped up, waving his arms, but silently, and the beast slewed round again and raced for the ride directly ahead. That was satisfactory enough - but it was not hinds which the hunters sought.
There was a pause. They could hear the hounds now at their long-legged tireless quartering of the swamp. Then, at a stiff, bucking, head-down run, a large, heavy-shouldered boar crashed snorting through the reeds, hidden by their height most of the time. It was near David's side. He glanced swiftly about him for a climbable tree, for if the brute scented him, a wild tusker could be highly dangerous for an unarmed man. When he looked back, however, the boar was seen to be hurtling on in the wake of the vanished hinds. David wondered whether to blow his horn, the one blast which would warn the hunters that an especial quarry was approaching; but that thought was dismissed by the appearance of three more deer a short distance behind, the first an old grey hind, then two stags, one mud-plastered, with a shaggy mane and a handsome pair of antlers, the other younger. To wind the horn now might scare these away from the ride. The first of the hounds broke cover as the deer disappeared down the grassy lane-which would mean that there was not likely to be any more game behind.
David called in the hound, and a second which appeared, signalled to Hugo to join him, and hurried off to the ride, at a trot.
They found the marksmen about three hundred yards along, part elated, part frustrated. The boar and the big stag had appeared before their hiding-places almost side-by-side, and for precious moments each man had hesitated. The Treasurer would have allowed the Prince first shot, of course, or the best of two. But he could not tell whether Henry would choose the stag or the totally unexpected boar. The Prince, for his part, was equally doubtful. He shot at the boar, in the end, and brought it down — for he was an excellent crossbowman; but by that time the longer-legged, bounding stag was a less good target. To complicate matters, the second stag was now in view, and de
Breteuil hesitated again, whether to take the new and poorer beast or still to try for the other. He chose the latter, despite the extreme range. He scored a hit but not a kill. The wounded hart went on at a scrabbling run, the bolt projecting from its ribs. Neither man had time to string a new arrow before the second stag was gone also.
Henry had put the dying, kicking boar out of its gnashing misery, with a cut throat, when the youths ran up.
"My horse!" the Treasurer shouted. "The hounds! I have wounded my beast. I must follow it up. Quickly!" That was the law of the chase.
David blew three blasts on his horn, the signal to summon Hervey.
It wa
s some time, of course, before these could be brought up. Meanwhile the forester and his hounds arrived and were sent off on the wounded stag's trail. Henry was pleased with his shot, and his tusks for trophy.
When the horses came, Hugo and Hervey were left with the boar, to gut it and bleed it, then to hoist the carcase on to one of their mounts and carry it back to Bramshaw Mill. The three others, with the forester's horse, mounted to go in search of the wounded beast. There was a spattered trail of blood to lead them.
They trotted for half-a-mile northwards by east before they found the forester waiting where the long ride forked into three. He declared that the hart had taken the right-hand, easternmost lane. It was going heavily now. It would not last much longer, he thought. It would probably go to ground deep in a thicket. Henry was a little anxious. This line, so much to the north and east, was bringing them into territory where others might be operating.
The forester proved to be right. Soon the hounds, and the blood-spatters, led them off into the thicker woodland, due northwards. They were dismounting, to leave David with the horses, to go after the stag on foot, when the drumming of hooves turned all their heads eastwards. Round a bend in the lane ahead came a single horseman riding fast, much faster than was wise on that uneven terrain. He slowed to nothing as he came up with them but pounded on and past, head down.
They stared after him, astonished.
"Tirel!" Henry exclaimed. "Walter Tirel de Poix! What in God's name is he at?"
"He follows no deer," de Breteuil said. "And did not wish to see us."
Nonplussed, they were discussing this strange development when, faintly through the constriction of the trees, north by east, they heard the high notes of a hunting-horn. Four times it sounded, then a pause and four more - the accepted signal for alarm, trouble.
"Some mishap," Henry said. "In that direction."
"Perhaps the Sieur de Poix was hastening for help?" David suggested.
"Why did he not seek our help, then?"
As the horn sounded again, urgently as it seemed, they decided that de Breteuil and the forester should continue on after the wounded hart, their horses tied to a tree here; and Henry and David should ride eastwards, to investigate the horn-winding.
They did not have to go far, not much more than a quarter-mile along the ride, before they could hear the horn quite close on the left. A track led into the trees here - and there were new horse-droppings on it. This quickly brought them to an open glade, green and gold in the afternoon sun. Two men and a horse occupied that glade - and one of the men lay prone. The other was Le Chiene, the Chief Huntsman, horn in hand.
"My lord Prince!" the latter cried, starting towards them. "Praise God — my lord Prince! The saints have mercy upon us — the King!"
Henry jumped down and strode over to his brother's side. William Rufus lay on his back, sightless eyes staring up through the canopy of the branches, a crossbow-bolt projecting from his chest.
It did not require the huntsman's repeated desperate assertions to convince that the King was dead; the arrow obviously was embedded in the royal heart.
Henry looked down, wordless, as David came up. It was the boy who found his voice first, even though it was a tremulous voice. "What . . . what happened?"
"Dear God alone knows, lord," the man Le Chiene gabbled. "Mercy on my soui - I know not. I put up a fine hart. In Bartley Shaw there." He pointed eastwards. "Not far. The King's Grace and my lord Walter waited here. The hart bolted this way. I sent the hounds to flank it. I heard a scream, that is all. I came, hastening. I found ... I found the lord Walter kneeling. Over the King's body. When he saw me coming, he jumped up, ran to his horse and rode off. Fast. No doubt to seek help, my lords. The King was . . . was already dead."
"Tirel!" Henry said, not in anger or anguish, but thoughtfully. "Walter Tirel!" '
"Why did he not stop? To tell us?" David wondered. He was looking resolutely away from the staring corpse.
"Fool! Would he come confessing that he had murdered my brother?"
"Murdered . . .? Oh, no. Not murder. An accident . . ."
"Accident, you say?" Henry barked. "Tirel is one of the best marksmen in all Normandy. William is shot through the heart. That was no accident." He straightened up, turning to Le Chiene. "Where are your other foresters?"
"They went further east, my lord Prince. Towards Bird's Walk Wood. To drive those coverts. They would not hear my horn ..."
"Where is the nearest house, man? Or farmery? We need a cart. For this . . . body."
"A cart? A cart, yes. The charcoal-burners have a cart. At Shave Green. We have used it to carry deer . . ."
"Very well. Go get it. Bring it. David - go find and tell de Breteuil. But - tell none other."
"Yes. Bring him here? To you?"
"No. Tell him that I have returned to Winchester."
"Winchester? But . . ."
"Winchester, yes. Tell Breteuil to come there, to me. At once. No delay. Le Chiene - off with you. To Shave Green, for the cart. Bring his Grace's body to Winchester thereafter. You will not win there, with a cart, this night. Rest at Romsey Abbey. There is no . . . haste. For that!" And he strode over to his horse.
As David mounted his own beast, he looked back. The glade was already empty, deserted, save for the dead monarch, who lay as they had found him. Biting his lip, he hurried in search of the Treasurer. It occurred to him that this was, in a way, like father like son. William the Conqueror, too, when he had died twelve years before, at Rouen, had been deserted, even by his own sons, left lying on the floor of his bedchamber for the dogs to nuzzle. He had no cause to love William Rufus - but it was an unchancy way to die.
* * *
It was early evening when David, accompanying de Breteuil, arrived back at Winchester. The town was quiet, with no signs of alarm - the palace too, when they reached it. An officer met them at the gatehouse, however, to say that the Prince Henry awaited them in his own bedchamber. To go, at once.
They found the Prince pacing the floor, still in his green hunting-clothes. "Well my friends," he greeted them. "Here is a notable to-do. You have been commendably swift. As well, for there is much to be done."
"It is most terrible, shameful . . ." the Treasurer began, when Henry raised hand to cut him short.
"Save the lamentations for the funeral!" he jerked. "If lamentations there should be. William was a bad king — and is gone. The realm will have a better, now. You have told none, as yet?"
Both shook their heads.
"That is well. I shall announce the death myself, presently. Meanwhile, to business. And, first of all my Lord Treasurer - the keys."
William de Breteuil stared. "Keys . . .?" he echoed. "Which keys, my lord Prince?"
"The Treasury keys, to be sure. What do you suppose?" "But, but . . ."
"But nothing, man. Those keys - I want them."
"Henry - I swore a solemn oath. As Lord Treasurer of this kingdom. That I would keep them secure, never leave them from off my person. Save to hand them, when required, to the rightful King of England."
'I am the King of England now, Will. Have you not thought of that? Give me them."
The other gazed at him, whilst David gulped. They were seeing a new Henry Beauclerc.
"Henry - my lord Prince - how can that be?" de Breteuil demanded. "You are the youngest son. Robert, Duke of Normandy, is older. He should succeed. In the treaty between your brothers it was decided. That Robert should have Normandy and William the greater England. But that if William died, lacking heir, Robert should be King . . ."
"Robert is far away. On this great Crusade to the Holy Land. Moreover, Robert is a fool, and weak. England needs a strong king, with wits - and here present! Now. Think you that this realm of fierce, proud lords and warring factions can be held together by aught but the presence of a determined monarch who knows his own mind? If I do not grasp the throne now, there will be war within weeks and no kingdom of England within months!"
"Neverthel
ess, Henry, you are not the King. Not yet. Not when there is a more senior heir, and named so by treaty. Not until you are accepted as such by at least a great number of the lords. And until you are I cannot give you the keys." "You will not?"
"No. I am sorry. I am your friend - but this I cannot do."
"So-o-o!" Henry turned, to where his sword hung from its belt on a peg beside his bed. He whipped it from its scabbard. "Will – I will have those keys. They are on your person. We arc friends, yes - but a kingdom's weal is more important than one man, even a friend. Give me them - or, as God is my witness, I shall strike you down and take them!"
For a long moment they eyed each other starkly, while David gripped the girdle of his tunic tightly.
Then de Breteuil inclined his head, and reaching up, loosened the silken scarf around his neck and drew out the three keys in a soft leather pouch which hung on a golden chain. Slipping the chain over his close-cropped head, he handed it, warm from his body, to the prince.
Henry nodded. "Now - to the Treasury. David - yonder is another sword. Draw it, and follow me. Will - you also. Come."
Leaving the bedchamber they strode through the long vaulted corridors of the castle-palace almost to its other end, Henry beckoning imperiously to any guards or others they passed to fall in behind. They had collected quite a little crowd by the time they reached the North Tower. There, isolated, a special guard of three men, throwing dice, started up in some confusion at the eruption, reaching for their weapons; but seeing that it was the prince and their own master, the Treasurer, they straightened up in salute.
Henry handed the sword he was carrying to David, who now had two. The Prince selected the largest of the three keys, to unlock the heavy door of the tower basement. As it creaked open, he signed to all but de Breteuil and David to remain outside. Voices rose in question and exclamation as the door was closed again in their faces.
David the Prince - Scotland 03 Page 5
