King of the May

Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

Rhian sat her horse behind George as they assembled the whole pack for hound walking in the early morning. The sky was dim and overcast, but it wasn’t very cold.

There was little for her to do yet, as the whippers-in moved to surround the pack before Ives opened the kennel gates for them, so she watched the two newcomers, both wearing their old liveries until new ones could be made.

Dyfnallt was dressed in a sober dark gray coat. He was lean and active, and she liked the look of his sturdy horse. Didn’t smile much, or talk much, either. She wasn’t sure what to make of him, someone his age. He made George seem young to her. Brynach, she noticed, seemed to be getting along with him, neither deferring to him nor instructing him unnecessarily. It’s a knack, she thought, the way he handles all sorts of people. She could learn, watching him.

Gwion was a puzzle to her. He was dressed in dark red, resplendent with brass buttons. He was younger than Dyfnallt, and he certainly looked fine on his beautiful horse. And that friendly smile, all the time. She’d been charmed by it whenever it appeared. But he seemed stiff in the saddle, and his conversation with Benitoe was sparse. Well, it would take a while for all of them to work into a team, she knew that.

She spared a glance for Maelgwn. As usual, the boy was off to one side, watching everyone. Rhian didn’t think he’d choose to become part of the hunt staff as he got older, he seemed to find it interesting but not central to his life. She didn’t know what he would decide, but for now he seemed pleased to come with them much of the time.

Right now he had his eye on the newcomers, and his glance kept returning to George. Not for reassurance, she realized, but to keep track of where he was. It reminded her a bit of Hadyn and Idris when they rode with the hunt. They always knew where everyone was. That’s it, she thought. He’s watching George’s movements as if he were a guard.

For a moment she didn’t see him as her twelve-year-old foster-brother. I wonder what he thinks he’s doing? Is this a game for him, or is he serious?

The next afternoon, Maelgwn strolled through the guarded postern gate in the western palisade, a small backpack over one shoulder of his coat. He’d told Alun at home roughly where he was headed and now he had most of the afternoon free to explore the miles of wooded slope behind the manor that ascended the Blue Ridge. His foster-father was supervising the hound breeding in the kennels.

He felt the urgent need to become woods-wise to the local area, to learn every path, the habits of its creatures, its shelters and streams. He’d been exploring already, without his foster-father’s knowledge (he hoped), but recently he’d received permission which granted him the freedom he’d sought to put his plans into action.

Let’s hope this rock ledge Benitoe described is the right spot, he thought. He wanted to establish a base outside the manor, a place he could keep supplies of food, tools, weapons, clothing—anything he might need in an emergency. He remembered what his real father had told him, to always have a stash somewhere, just in case. The sense of independence would be comforting.

Maelgwn took the path from the gate directly west up the slope into the woods, veering right at the first juncture that led back to the palisade further down and left at the second as Benitoe had said. That route, he’d been told, continued on the right to the western edge of Daear Llosg, the burning ground clearing north of the manor. The path he stuck to led directly west-southwest upward. It was faint and little used but rather too obvious to fully satisfy him. Oh, well, he thought, let’s see this rock ledge. Where there’s one cave there may be others, and those less well known.

After a while the woods opened up a bit ahead of him and he emerged onto a bare spot, well-sheltered to the east by the higher part of the trees immediately downslope and backed by a rock overhang. This must be the place Benitoe mentioned, Maelgwn thought. He’s right—there’s a good view down into the manor grounds from here.

Not hidden enough, he decided. Anyone could find this. He knew the path continued on and exited the woods well south of the manor. He looked for deer trails upslope and began to explore above the ledge for other openings. About fifty yards up, and a bit south, he found another overhang, this one much less exposed, with an opening more to the south than the east. Underneath, the overhang was almost a cave, tall enough for him to stand in, with a floor rising to meet the roof about fifteen feet in. He dug with his heel in the dirt and felt stone, sloping outward. Good for drainage, he thought.

With a bare hand he felt the side walls for dampness. They were relatively dry, drier than the soil outside. The roof was rock ledge. He suspected the place would leak when it rained hard enough, but if he scraped the floor clear of dirt he might be able to channel the seepage along the walls. If he brought in some wood or rocks as platforms, he might well be able to store things and keep them dry in here.

There was no view, but it would be difficult for anyone to approach without being heard, and he was close enough to use the more public overhang as a viewing spot, as long as he was careful not to wear any obvious paths between the two places.

This’ll do, he thought. I’ll bring a shovel for next time, for the floor, and a bigger ax, a two-handed one. I can use half-logs to line the dirt walls. Shouldn’t use the ax Benitoe gave me, that’s better as a weapon or for smaller stuff than log-splitting.

He’d been practicing his ax throwing, under Benitoe’s tutelage, but the small hatchet wasn’t as deadly as the two-handed ax he’d seen his father throw, when he was teaching him woodcraft as a child. Maelgwn had thought about it, nights. You couldn’t carry a large ax around unless you were committed to it as a primary weapon, and larger, too, of course. And they were awkward to wear, compared to a knife or sword. The smaller hatchet was very handy and a good tool to have around, but he didn’t have the muscle yet to make it an effective thrown weapon, not compared to a knife with its greater ease of penetration.

He’d gotten Rhian to teach him the basics of knife throwing, out back of the kennels. Every so often they’d head there of an afternoon after the hound walking, and sometimes Brynach would join them. They made a game of it. Rhian and Maelgwn were better than Brynach, more accurate, but then he’d been concentrating on sword work lately with Hadyn, and they couldn’t begin to compete with him there. At eighteen, Brynach was far from full grown, but he was putting on muscle from the constant exercise. Maelgwn liked to try to stand up to him, knife and ax against sword, though Brynach insisted on dulled practice weapons for sparring. He figured Brynach wasn’t much smaller than most grown men, and if he could defend himself from Brynach, he stood a chance in any real fight, too.

Rhian smuggled him knives out of her family’s personal armory inside the manor and gave him suggestions about where to hide them on his body or in his gear. She made him guess where all of hers were. He approved of her intention to never be completely unarmed, and he didn’t think she’d shown him all her secrets yet. It was only fair—she didn’t know where all of his were hidden either.

Lately he’d offered to repay the favor by showing Rhian and Brynach how to make and use a sling. They stood at various distances from the wooden knife-throwing targets and tried to coordinate the throw. Rhian was almost hopeless at it. Maelgwn grinned to himself thinking of her exasperated frustration. He’d earned her respect with that, he thought. She’d complimented him on using a weapon that he could make any time. Brynach was coming along with a sling, not too bad for a first-timer.

Maybe he’d show them how to knap a flint knife sometime, if he could find any suitable material.

He walked partway back to the original path and found a dry rock to sit on that had a view into the bare woods. He made himself go still and waited for the animals to forget his presence, the sling dangling from his hand loaded with a pebble from his belt pouch.

His mind wandered, on the surface, while he waited. He’d spent many hours with his real father this way, marveling at how well his father could relax and hold himself quiet when he himself still felt every itch and had to struggle constantly not to move. The last two years with Cloudie over in Dyffryn Camarch he’d finally learned stillness. The stakes were higher, he thought. Madog would’ve killed me if he’d found me.

A faint scratching sound reached him and a subdued cackling, a conversation in clucks and gurgles. He smiled and waited quietly. The turkeys gradually came into view, a mixed flock of hens and toms, still short of the mating season. They moved very quietly for their size, but the constant chatter and commentary they indulged in when they felt safe gave them away.

He let them come as close as possible, about twenty feet away, without betraying his presence, and thought about the throw, picking his target. In one fluid movement he rose and hurled the rock with the sling. The flock erupted into flight, but one hen stayed down, and he ran to her and wrung her neck.

This was the first game he’d taken since he’d come here with George a few weeks ago, since he hadn’t wanted to get himself into trouble hunting where he wasn’t allowed. Thank you, lord Cernunnos, he intoned to himself, then stopped.

It wasn’t just empty words to the master of the beasts any more, was it? Cernunnos was there, in George. He’d seen him. He’d almost let George die, a few weeks ago, and Maelgwn wasn’t quick to forgive that. He didn’t trust him.

What was that like, he wondered, carrying a god inside? He didn’t have the nerve to ask his foster-father.

He took off his backpack and carefully laid the turkey in it. There was still plenty of room. Maybe he could add a squirrel or two, before he headed back.

He’d rather a rabbit, but those were best with snares, and his schedule wasn’t predictable enough yet to tend a snare-line. Predators would rob him of anything he caught.

It must be handy hearing the beasts like Rhian and George do, he thought. Rhian had explained it to him. He’d have to bring her here sometime and show her what he knew. Maybe she could hear where they are, but he could tell her where they were. Here, a raccoon had left a print in the mud, and over there was owl scat at the foot of the tree, telling of a great horned owl roost. He had grouse and turkey feathers in his bedroom, and he’d seen the marks of a bobcat on the bark of a tulip tree.

The turkey in his pack was comforting. He hadn’t lost all his skills. He remembered, at ten, before his family was killed, looking forward to his coming of age at thirteen. He had much to learn about fighting, and Hadyn was helping him make up the lost time, but at least he can still hunt. And his riding was getting better. Both Hadyn and Thomas Kethin had offered to start his archery training, though it would be a while before he was large enough for a serious bow.

As he walked back to the original path at the rock ledge, he reminded himself to ask Thomas about concealed fires. It was good to be able to learn again, and Thomas was teaching him ranger skills that recalled his father’s work. Maybe that’s what he should become, he thought, a ranger. Outdoors all of the time. On the other hand, Rhodri had explained to him that finding and working on the ways was outdoor work, too. Could he do both?

He knew Thomas was fully half-human, and yet he seemed so much more of a fae than his new foster-father. It had to be because George had spent his life as a human until a few months ago, Maelgwn thought. I’d like to see his world—it must be very different. He doesn’t think like a fae, or act like one either. So trusting, like a child. Does he do it deliberately? He’s not wary enough of the new hunt staff, for example, when anyone can see they’re not to be trusted. How can someone that powerful be so careless of danger?

He’d watched him stand off Madog, and invite Cernunnos to destroy all the ways in Dyffryn Camarch, and he’d paid a terrible price for it. Maelgwn’s stomach still churned when he remembered the horror of that healing. He didn’t understand how George could tolerate being bound to a god that treated him so coldly. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t have a choice. He has to live with it.

Maelgwn shook his head. He didn’t think he could do that. If it were forced on him, he couldn’t treat it the way his foster-father did. I’m brave, he thought, I can face danger, but how can you defend yourself from something on the inside?

I think too much, he thought. George just does things. I can’t tell if he thinks about them first or not, and I suppose what difference does it make? It’s what he is, he’s not going to change.

He needs a guard, someone to keep him out of trouble or defend him from surprises. They all discount me, he thought, too small to treat seriously. That doesn’t matter, it’s an advantage. My father was late to come to his growth, and I will be, too. That gives me a few more years to be underestimated. They think I’m young, but they’re wrong, all of them. I haven’t felt young the way they mean since the night my family died, not like a child—careless of my actions, sure of my place.

I’m very lucky to have found this new home, but I can’t become a child again and finish childhood—that’s lost to me. The sooner I can be of use to my foster-father, the better. He doesn’t have to know, it’ll be good practice for following someone by stealth.

I’ll bet Angharad would like that, he reflected. He wouldn’t tell her, but he was sure she’d notice—she noticed everything. He’d thought a lot about her since their vigil at George’s bedside when they met. She was nothing like his real mother had been, and he didn’t understand her, but she inspired bottomless confidence and no small amount of awe. Anything to please her was worth doing. Maybe he’d talk to her about it.

George looked around the huntsman’s office after dinner and marveled at the crowd. He’d kept his custom of reviewing the next morning’s hunt fixture the night before while he was learning the hunt country around Greenway Court, and with the new staff that was more necessary than ever. By now the others were used to meeting him this way and they’d brought Gwion and Dyfnallt along. More chairs had been needed. George noted that Ives had solved the problem tidily by bringing in two smaller ones for Benitoe and himself. Even Maelgwn was there, perched quietly in a corner, watching.

“I was pleased with the hound walking this morning,” George said, as he glanced around at everyone. “I thought that went about as well as could be expected. I know it’ll take some time for our new men to learn all the names, but that can’t be helped. I advise you two to let your partners grill you on the names of the hounds while you’re out with them, hunting. It’ll be a good incentive for Brynach and Benitoe to be absolutely sure themselves.”

Brynach had been wrong a couple of times recently and flushed at the reference.

“For now let’s keep the initial pairings—Dyfnallt with Brynach, and Gwion with Benitoe. We’ll switch around later and, once you’ve both settled in,” nodding at the new men, “we’ll start slipping you in as huntsman, too.”

They looked more pleased at that.

“This is a team, not a competition, and it will take awhile for us to become comfortable with each other. We have different levels of experience and different skills. I’d like to hear opinions, in this office, without restraint. Once we’re out in public in front of the field, I’ll expect no arguments, but here I encourage you to speak freely.” Gwion smiled at that.

“We’ll be hunting at Twin Oaks tomorrow. It’s to the north up the main road, past Eurig’s largest cattle herd to a wooded spot on the slope of the Blue Ridge. The path in is marked by two prominent oak trees on either side. Rhian, you’ve been there—is that right?”

“Yes, huntsman,” she said. “It’s a tricky spot. You’ve got the whole side of the ridge and there are riding trails, but even in winter it’s pretty thick in there. Usually we start at the bottom and hunt our way up.”

She gestured with her hands, trying to paint a picture of the layout. “North just beyond the twin oaks there’s a stream that crosses the road and joins the river. It comes out of a ravine too deep to ride along, but eventually the ground rises around it and you can see into it from above. If the quarry gets into there, good luck getting it out.”

“And I assume deer can go up over the ridge, too?” George said.

“Yes, but it’s not as common as in some spots. The woods are more bare as the ground rises, and I think the deer dislike the lack of shelter. They’re more inclined to run north or south.”

George asked the new men. “Have you heard about the ridge line here?” They both shook their heads.

“There’s a barrier along the top of the ridge. The deer can cross it, but most of the hounds and all of us must stay away. You’ll feel it as you get close.”

Gwion joked, “And what causes that, now?” He looked around the room. “This is a tale to gull the new boys, isn’t it?”

“It’s a long story, but I tell you that it’s so and you would be well advised to believe me,” George said. He wasn’t going to go into the details about its causes, from the rock-wights’ ways within the mountain, or his own immunity. That would reveal too much about the knowledge they’d gotten from the rock-wights.

There was silence for a moment as Gwion digested that.

“Ives, any recommended changes on the hound list for tomorrow?”

Ives gave him the back the piece of paper. “No, they’re all sound.”

“Rhian, any comments on why these particular hounds?” He passed the list to her.

She looked down at it for a moment. “The bitches we’re breeding and the others in heat are absent, of course.”

George saw Gwion’s suggestive wink at Rhian, and Brynach’s bristle in response, neither of which she noticed. He quelled Brynach with a hard look, but he sympathized with his outrage at the vulgarity.

Dyfnallt commented, “So you hunt mixed packs here? I’ve had better luck keeping a dog pack and a b***h pack separate and hunting them in alternation. Different hunting styles, and they get more time to recover between hunts.”

“That’s not uncommon where I’m from either,” George agreed. “But once a year I must hunt a mixed pack.” They all nodded at the reference to the great hunt on Nos Galan Gaeaf. “I find it helpful to have them used to each other’s hunting styles year round. Of course I have to accommodate the breeding season, but otherwise we hunt mixed, as Iolo did before me. Our country is not as hard on the feet as your rocky fells, Dyfnallt, and they become accustomed to hunting three times a week.”

“Any other questions?” George looked around the room. “Alright, get some sleep tonight. Dawn comes early.”

He started to rise then stopped. “Oh, I almost forgot. I’d like to invite you all to dinner at the huntsman’s house tomorrow evening. We’ll enjoy some roast venison from yesterday’s hunt, and a nice turkey Maelgwn got for us today.”

He smiled—that had caught his foster-son by surprise and the boy couldn’t help straightening with pride, though he kept his face sober when Benitoe congratulated him.

“Did you find it?” Benitoe asked.

“Yes, sir, and the turkeys were nearby,” Maelgwn replied.

Benitoe nodded. “I look forward to tasting the rewards of both our hunts.”

George wasn’t sure what they were referring to—a hunting spot around here somewhere perhaps—but he appreciated Benitoe’s treatment of Maelgwn as an equal, and the boy’s assumption of adult dignity.

He watched Gwion and Dyfnallt leaving the room with some reservations. They were fine this morning, but how would they behave when they were subordinate to their young partners in public tomorrow?