The Sceapig Chronicles Collection

Chapter 7

Saewynn, the miller’s daughter, whose pretty face, characterised by a liberally freckled turned-up nose and framed by flame-coloured hair, instantly endeared herself to Deormund. Following the rule, love me, love my hound, the deer herder beamed at the slim maiden who, upon encountering them as they left the tavern, ignored the two men in favour of Mistig by squatting and flinging her arms around the shaggy beast’s neck, squeezing him to her breast.

love me, love my hound,Releasing her over-willing captive and looking up, she addressed Deormund. “What a lovely hound! What’s its name?”

“I’m Deormund,” he grinned, “and yon’s Mistig.”

The girl, realising her gaffe, flushed to the roots of her ginger hair. “Forgive me! You are Eored’s brother, the deer man.”

Deormund threw back his head and chortled; he wasn’t about to spare her.

“Deer man? Well, I’m not about to sprout antlers if that’s what you think!”

“Oh, come on!” Eored came to her rescue. “You know what Saewynn means.” He smiled at his betrothed. “He’s all right when you get to know him. It’s just that—” he bit his tongue, leaving them both curious.

“What?” she asked

“Ay, just that … what?” Deormund growled.

what?Eored racked his brains for a credible alternative. None came, so he completed his thought. “Just that he’s not used to a maiden’s company.”

From the expression on Deormund’s face, he knew he had blundered. Neither of them got another word out of the deer herder until they entered the wheelwright’s small home. Not that it mattered, because Eored and Saewynn chattered all the way, absorbed in each other.

“Here, Mother sent you these. She thinks you need fattening up,” he said, at last.

“Nay, my Eored’s fine as he is. Besides, after our wedding,” she gazed lovingly at her man, “I’ll care for him well. We’ll have no lack of freshly-ground flour for baking.”

“So, when—”

“August. I’ve spoken to Father and the priest,” she said quickly.

Deormund glared at his brother. “Don’t you think you should go home and tell our parents?”

“We’ve only just decided. We’ve been together since before Yuletide—it’s not been so long.”

“Ay, well, why don’t you two cross over the Swale with me when I take my new stag back?”

“You’ve still to capture it,” Eored pointed out reasonably.

“I can sniff a change in the wind. I’ll be hunting tomorrow and have you ever known us to fail?” He gestured to the hound stretched like a shaggy rug in front of the newly lit fire.

“Our Deormund knows his trade,” Eored said.

“Is it hard to catch a stag, Deormund?” the young woman asked.

He studied the oval face and thought, Eored’s caught himself a lovely hind. He appreciated the sincere interest in her eyes as she asked the question.

Eored’s caught himself a lovely hind“Not if you tackle it correctly, Saewynn. That’s why I mentioned the wind.” He explained how he meant to set about it, casually throwing in the fact of the shed antlers.

“Ay, those would be a problem, I can see that. But what about when you’ve netted the beast? Doesn’t it take some controlling?”

those“It does,” he eyed her figure, “it’ll weigh about twice your weight, but when it realises I mean it no harm, and it’s safely noosed, I shall lead it to the ferry. There are plenty of hinds on Sceapig to calm its nerves.” He said this without considering his audience. Again, she flushed, making him feel clumsy and insensitive.

“Well, it’s Nature,” he said defensively, earning himself a sweet smile and confirming his positive impression of her.

The three ate a pleasant meal together until afterwards, Saewynn declared she had to go home. The brothers agreed to meet the next day at the ferry, at midday, with or without the woman, according to her father’s ruling.

Deormund knew before rising that the wind had strengthened. He could hear it whistling around the roof of his brother’s house. Devouring the crusty bread not finished the previous evening, he decided not to wake Eored since the dawn had not yet broken. No problem with Mistig, already sitting by the door, eager to bound outdoors. Deormund obliged, unlatching the door, settling his pack on his back before following the deerhound along the road towards the Forest Ridge. It was a long march, hence his early start. If he wanted to meet his brother at midday, he had to consider the time needed for the return.

Mistig bounded ahead, occasionally halting to check on his master and racing up to him only to lollop forward again, continually repeating the performance.

Dozy dog, you’ll double the travel! Aware the hound revelled in exercise, he thought no more of it. After an hour of marching, the wind ruffling his hair and even snatching his breath away on occasions as it strengthened, he smiled to himself. Perfect conditions for capturing a stag.

Dozy dog, you’ll double the travel!Perfect conditions for capturing a stag.He knew exactly where to place his net since this was the third time he had set out on a similar venture. Now the rising ground showed the forest on its ridge. That was his destination, just half a mile away. As he gazed up at the woodland, he imagined the activity therein at this time of day. Swineherds would be driving pigs along the main drove ways to the commons or dens. Deormund knew that in recent times, these clearings on the higher and better ground had become settlements. In the past, transhumance took place, the hogs could be many miles from the homestead; the changes made sense to him. Not that the villagers’ activities particularly interested him.

Instead, he’d arrived at the area of concern to him: the fringes of this chalkland forest. He led Mistig to a track between two stately beech trees, ideal for hanging his net. Under the scrutiny of the intelligent hound, he removed it from his pack and spread it untangled on the grass. Taking his twine, he tied it just above head height around both trunks before tightly attaching his dangling net at its top corners. Next, he took two wooden pegs from the bag and pinned the lower edge into the earth. He used his weight to press each down with his foot, not hard enough to fix the net too firmly but so that any prey driving into the net would pull it free to complete the entrapment. Once the operation was ended, with the sagging belly of the mesh on the ground, all studiously watched by the hound, he headed several hundred yards farther up the edge of the forest with the wind behind him—an essential detail, because the buck could scent more than a hundred yards upwind. That was why he chose a place downwind at a fallen tree, so that he could sit on the trunk.

upwindJudging that a couple of hours had elapsed since the dawn, he decided that soon a stag would break from cover to cruise with the wind along the woodland margin in search of food—if not, he’d send Mistig to chase one out. The hound, trained for months to do this, had succeeded twice before. Deormund had faith in his companion who, so giddy when not stalking but dedicated when at work, now lay with bearded chin on his crossed front paws, staring studiously along the line of the forest’s edge. His master noted the gentle tremor running down the hound’s body, a sure sign that the dog was like a coiled spring, suppressing his excitement.

Mistig suddenly bounded to his feet and was away faster than the wind. The deerhound had seen the stag before his master had even suspected its presence. Deormund leapt to his feet, snatched up his bag and shouldered it as he ran, never taking his eyes off the pursuit. Trained to perfection, Mistig only revealed himself some twenty yards from the net. At that point, he barked and accelerated, cutting off the startled and speedy stag, which, in terror at the sight of the snarling grey beast, swerved into the trees for cover, not suspecting the trap. When its charging hoofs took the deer into the trap, its headlong rush and weight pinged out the two pegs, ensnaring the struggling creature in the netting. The more it struggled to free itself, the more it became entangled. When Deormund arrived, out of breath, the beast was kicking and writhing in vain.

The deer herder, not forgetting his debt to Mistig, found a piece of his mother’s sausage, preserved for the occasion, giving it to his worthy companion with words of gratitude and encouragement. Only then did he turn to inspect his flailing prize. It was a rusty red beauty: he reckoned, although the threshing about made it difficult to judge, that it stood about four feet, six inches tall. He would only be able to gauge its age by looking at its teeth; for the moment, he was happy to believe it was a five-year-old. This beast would have no trouble in ousting the old stag on Sceapig in the rutting season.

Ignoring the creature’s panicked attempts to free itself, Deormund took his knife from its sheath and cut the twine attached to the beeches. Far from releasing the stag, this manoeuvre entrapped it further so that now it lay in the net on the ground, its eyes bulging and terrified. The deer herder prepared a rope noose, knotting it to slide and tighten easily, leaving a leash of eight feet. He did not wish to sustain a similar painful blow from the beast’s hoof as on his first capture, which had left him limping for days and with a month-long bruise. Experience had taught him to be nimble and quick on his feet.

Now came the delicate part of the task: extrication. To do this, first, he took the loose end of the rope around the nearest beech trunk and tied it off, leaving the noose very large. Next, he knelt beside the animal and began to talk soothingly to it, making calm, reassuring noises as he freed the head and upper body from the netting, gently stroking the deer into stillness. The legs had to remain entangled until the last moment. As soon as he could, he slipped the noose over the beast’s head and tightened it carefully around the neck. The time had come to free the limbs, which he did bit by bit, until the animal was cleared of netting. Released, the stag leapt to its hoofs and made to bolt, only to pull the noose tighter still around its neck. There it stood, captured, trembling and uselessly shaking its head.

Ready to dedicate time to his equipment, he rolled up the net and packed it away, slinging his bag onto his back. Deormund then walked to the captive stag, where the creature shied away with the little slack the rope gave it. Gently, delicately, the deer herder stroked the velvety muzzle, soothing it again with murmured words. He noticed the nascent antlers, congratulating himself on an excellent morning’s work. His hand slid along the cord until it came to the knot at the trunk. Knowing that it had been pulled tight by the stag, he grasped the rope with his left hand, hooking it under his armpit for extra security while sawing at the knot with his sharp knife. No point in trying to unknot the cord after it had been so tightened. At last, he was through it, sheathed his blade and seized the rope, now a leash, with his right hand.

For the moment, he would need all his strength. Right about that, he dug his heels into the ground as the stag bucked and tugged to escape. Steadily, Deormund hauled the creature towards him, stepping back out of the woods as he did so. Realising that there was no escape, the deer turned and, as the herder hoped, walked towards him. The stag lowered its head in a classic threatening gesture, readying for the attack.

“You’d better not do that when you’ve grown your antlers, my beauty!”

Mistig dashed over and, placing himself between the stag and his master, bared his fangs and growled ferociously as the captive rethought its strategy. Again, it turned to flee, but Deormund held firm and drew the would-be fugitive back out of the forest. The battle of wills lasted half an hour but ended in submission, as Deormund knew it would. By that time, they had travelled a mere eighty yards.

Thenceforward, it was a question only of leading the reluctant creature downhill. Judging by the sun appearing momentarily between scudding clouds, he had a good hour to reach the ferry.

“I told you he’d do it!”

Deormund heard Eored’s exulting cry from the jetty, as he rejoiced with Saewynn. She was overcome by the beauty of the stag and found the courage to approach to stroke its muzzle, much as the deer herder had done earlier. Passive and cowed, the creature submitted, much to her delight. Deormund was under no illusion: the hard part was yet to come—they would have to persuade the beast into the ferryboat.

“Over on yon pole, blow the horn, Eored, while I hold the deer still.” He understood that the horn blast would not only advise Helmdag that they needed to cross the channel, but also terrify the startled stag.

The blast, after setting the animal bucking and kicking, brought a cheery wave from the boatman that Eored replicated. Once the boat had arrived, Deormund pulled the leash down the bank, but the terrified animal dug in its hoofs, stubbornly refusing to budge.

“Give me a hand, Eored. Nay! Not behind its rump if you value your clean breeches! Push its shoulder, that’s right!” Between them, they succeeded in forcing the stag into the craft. Helmdag’s strong rowing, aided by a stiff crosswind, transported the four humans and two animals across the Swale.

The stag did not show the same reluctance to leap out of the boat. Deormund almost lost his hold on the rope as he struggled one-handed to find his money pouch. Handing the cord to his brother, he settled the fare for everyone.

“We’ll lead the deer—look, it’s already feeding!—towards the rest of the herd and then let him loose.”

They bade farewell to the satisfied boatman. It had proved a good day’s work for him and the deer herder. As for Saewynn, she was anxious about meeting Bebbe, though convinced she could charm her husband, Asculf, the shepherd. She had likely underestimated how much Bebbe wanted her two younger sons to wed. Unbeknown to her, Saewynn would have an ally, not a jealous mother, to deal with, but she was right about Asculf.

Having approached his herd to a suitable distance, Deormund loosened the noose and allowed the stag to shake its head free. Oddly, the creature stood stock still for a moment, bemused. Raising its snout as if to sniff the air, it suddenly bounded at impressive speed towards the other deer. There would be no trouble between the two stags until the rutting season in September. Deormund did not doubt the outcome. They would both have ferocious-looking antlers by then.

Unknown to him as he considered this, and equally unknown to the loving couple, significant events would take place before the rutting season—one of them within a few days.