To Carry the Horn

Chapter 17-1

CHAPTER 17

George rose at dawn and made a brief meal, brushing off any last crumbs as he entered the kennels. He’d left word at the stable to saddle Mosby. He wanted a familiar horse under him while trying to hunt a strange pack for the first time.

Spotting Rhys as he walked in the gate, George pulled him aside for a quick question. “When we hunt fox, it either gets away since we don’t stop it from going to ground or, rarely, it’s pulled down by the hounds and it ends very quickly. I’ve never hunted deer with hounds—what happens?”

“The huntsman dismounts and dispatches the stag with his hunting sword, breaks up the quarry, and rewards the hounds.”

George thought of the long specialized knives, almost small-swords, used in German hunting. “I’ve never used one.”

“We didn’t think about that. I’ll make sure one’s added to your saddle gear.”

“I’ve read about the old proper division of spoils to the hounds, but we don’t do that in any formal manner any more.”

“I’ll help you with that,” Rhys said. He turned to run the errand to the stable and armory.

George stood by the hounds they would be using in the temporary pen and did a quick refresher with Ives on their names. The rest of the hounds were expressing their disappointment at being left behind, loudly. “Keep it down,” George called, and the volume diminished appreciably.

He went into the huntsman’s office for one more brief look at the map. Coverts on the near right, far right, and three on the left. It was unclear what lay beyond if they got that far.

When he came back out, Rhian came up, already mounted. “Angharad’s outside the gates ready for us.”

Rhys returned, leading Mosby. “Owen the Leash and his men are ready.” This, with a frown.

Benitoe, on a small white horse this time, was standing by. George looked at Rhys. “Is it time?”

“That would normally be for Gwyn to say, but for these three hunts I believe that’s your choice. Now would be timely.”

“Alright, then.” George looked at the scabbard next to the saber. It contained two blades, a longer one in back and a shorter hunting knife on top of it in its own slot. He drew the hunting sword and examined it. The hilt was the base of an antler, crosshatched across the back for a better grip. The blade was about one and a half feet long, and an inch wide at its base, sharpened along one edge only, with a blood groove along the back, until the last five inches, which were sharpened along both edges. He resheathed it and looked at the hunting knife mounted on top. Also antler-hilted, this was a style of hunting knife he recognized, with a three-inch blade good for butchering and other general uses.

He mounted up and patted his vest through the coat to check for the horn tucked between the buttons. Ives was standing by the pen with today’s pack. George gave a brief startup signal on the horn, and Ives released the hounds who boiled into the yard while their packmates protested from their pens.

All four of the mounted staff counted the hounds. George tested Benitoe. “How many hounds?”

“Twelve and a half couple, sir.” The others agreed.

Rhys stood mounted by the kennel gates and checked on Owen’s men and the one member of the field today, Angharad. “All ready.”

“Pack up,” George called and the hounds fell into place behind him, Dando in the lead.

He nodded to Rhys who asked the kennel-man standing by the gates to open them. The pack left the kennel in good order. George touched his hat to Angharad as he went by and she fell in behind the pack.

This time there were no pack control problems as they descended the front yard to the manor gates and turned left at the road. George kept his instructions to the pack quiet and calm, and the whippers-in were more a dignified accompaniment than a necessity.

Owen’s men kept up a surly argument behind him on the road. “Keep it quiet, please,” George turned and told them. Owen gave him a contemptuous look but suppressed the conversation.

He glanced beyond them at Angharad, his hunt field for this morning, and she smiled at him. Don’t screw this up, he thought, as he turned back to his work.

George spotted the ford on the river and took the path down and across. After ascending the other side and crossing the main road that ran along the east side of the river, he entered a large open hay field, with patches of woods around it. He looked at Rhian to confirm. “This is the spot, yes?”

At her nod, he held up his hand and cried, “Hold up.” The pack stopped calmly behind him. He turned to Rhian.“Alright, show me the search.”

She hesitated, then said stoutly, “You try first. That’s how I learned.”

He settled himself on his horse and let his senses expand out to the land before him. The most vivid impressions were small and quick. He felt Rhian watching over his mental shoulder. “Those are predators?” he guessed.

“Fox on the ground, raccoon, and ’possum in the trees.”

He could feel the horses around him and pressed out for something closer to that size. He felt one group of animals, bulky but not tall, in the far woods on the left and couldn’t determine what they were. He projected a wordless question to Rhian.

“A sounder of boar,” she said.

Ah, he thought. I didn’t think of that. They were getting up and moving off quietly, having heard or smelled the arrival of the hunt. He tried again, using the sonar metaphor that helped him identify the ways. Off to the right, in the woods, were three cautious animals, medium-sized, and a heavier one, all together, lying down.

Deer? he asked Rhian, silently. She nodded.

He concentrated on the largest of the deer. He felt the heaviness of authority, the suspicion of rivals. These does and this territory belonged to this buck, and it was just about the season for the rut to start in earnest. Yes, he thought, this is our quarry.

He glanced at Rhian. “Would you like to try the first cast?”

Rhian looked apprehensive, but moved her horse forward. She gazed at the nearest covert on the right rather than the hounds, but she directed her thoughts to the pack, and George tried to listen in. She showed them the excitement of following something fleet-footed, musky, and confident, ready to defend or flee, both. The hounds responded with eager whines.

“Loo in,” she told them, pointing at the woods, and they poured into the covert silently, heads down, seeking scent. George and Rhian cantered in with them, looking for paths to keep up. Rhys galloped over to the far side to look for deer fleeing and watch for hounds, and Benitoe stayed out of the woods on the near side to do the same.

Riding single file on the narrow trail, George paid attention to the hounds fanning out and moving forward in front of him, their noses to the ground. With his expanded senses, he could feel their eagerness and determination. No inexperienced young hounds these, to be distracted by the scent of squirrels or rabbits.

As they trotted and walked forward, George kept up an occasional low patter to the hounds. “That’s it, puppies. Hunt ’im up. Good hounds.” What he said didn’t matter. It was the quiet voice identifying his presence and location that encouraged their work. An occasional blip from the horn had the same effect, and helped the whippers-in on the outside know where he was when they couldn’t see him.

It was hard to see all the hounds in the undergrowth as they spread out, but he found he could keep a mental thread attached to each one. As one on the near side drifted too far away from the others, he called to him by name and encouraged him to return back to the pack.

With a sudden eruption, the three doe bounded across the path ahead of him, their raised tails flashing white with alarm. The hounds lifted their heads and leaned forward, but George’s continued “Hunt ’im up” reminded them this wasn’t the desired quarry and held them back. He could sense the deer as they fled the moving hounds behind them. Just like a canny old buck to send his harem out as a distraction while he sneaked on out of there, he thought. Rhian refreshed the thought of the proper quarry for the hounds and their noses dropped again.

They reached the end of the covert without finding, though a weak line of scent was holding the interest of a few of the hounds as they emerged into the gap between the patches of woods. Sudden laughter behind them caused them to raise their heads, and they lost their focus on the faint trace.

George told Rhian curtly, “Stay with the pack,” and without waiting for her acknowledgment he galloped over to Owen, drawing up hard at the last instant like a slap in the face.

“If you can’t keep your men from distracting the hounds, I suggest you wait over there until we’re done,” pointing at a small distant hillock where they had entered the field. Maybe they’ll challenge me and I can deal with it today instead of two days from now, he hoped.

Owen opened his mouth in surprise to protest, but George overrode him. “Now.” They went off sullenly.

He gestured to Angharad and waved her up. “The wind’s coming up from the north. I’m going to try and hunt from the outside edges of these coverts in, so that anything we find might be encouraged to flee across the open space upwind, like those doe. If you stand quietly on the edge of the field behind us, you might get a view.”

He returned to Rhian who had held the pack firmly for him, between the woods. “Thanks,” he said. She looked relieved to have him take over again.

“Let’s try that next covert. Look for a path on the outer side, and I’ll try putting them in this time.”

He waved them into the woods and rode along just inside the outer edge. The hounds came across a large tulip tree with rub marks on it from generations of deer scraping velvet off their antlers. Cythraul and Dando feathered at one spot, and then Cythraul opened his mouth and sang his joy at the find, striking out quickly to follow the trail. The zeal of the strike hound rang through the connection George had with him and pulled him along, too. The rest of the pack followed Cythraul and checked the scent for themselves, then shot off in his wake, raising their voices in confirmation and flowing over the brushy obstacles like a white river above the ground. George cheered them on, doubling on the horn.

The hounds burst out of the woods back into the field intent on the line, and George and Rhian scrambled to get to them as quickly as they could though the branches. For now, Benitoe was in the best position and he rode alongside them keeping contact. The horn and cry would’ve told Rhys to abandon his post and catch up, but he would now be well behind.

As George reached the open field, he glanced at Angharad, who had turned her horse to face north and was pointing in that direction. Good—she’d seen the stag leave the woods and sensibly kept silent so as not to disturb the deer or the hounds, using the line of her horse to indicate the line the deer had taken. He brought Mosby to a gallop to close the gap with the pack and had almost reached them as they dove into one of the northern patches of woods and slowed their pace. He waved Benitoe to a position on the far side of the woods and went in after them, Rhian close behind. Rhys, when he arrived, would follow the near edge.

The scent was clearly strong, and the lead hounds whimpered eagerly as they worked out the twists and turns the buck had taken. This took a little time, and George encouraged them quietly with his voice, praising them for their work.

The line took them to a small stream inside the covert and on the far side, the hounds checked. George sat his horse without moving and watched, wanting them to work the puzzle out for themselves before interfering. They cast up and down the far bank without success, then Rhymi turned back, recrossing the stream to the near side and running up the bank. George listened in with his expanded senses and could almost feel the cunning and suspicion in her thoughts, as though she said out loud, “This way, I bet he went out this way.”