The masque had turned interesting. I watched till the end, when Virtue and her comrades broke free of the prison and celebrated with a galliard, and I joyously applauded Floria as she took her bow at the end.
* * *
Next day opened with a deer hunt on horseback, with hounds. My limited horsemanship kept me from participating fully—I was always at the rear of the hunt, and quite happy to be there, since the front bristled with reckless spirits and sharp weapons. I avoided the jumps when I could, and when a jump was unavoidable, it was my courser who took me over the jumps rather than the other way around.
The deer hunt was for the most part a masculine pursuit, and most of the ladies remained at the lodge or followed the hunt in carriages. Yet there were women in the hunt, some unknown to me, and another known by sight—the princess Floria, who bent so low over her horse’s neck that her flying dark hair seemed an extension of the animal’s mane. She was so small and light that her steed carried her well to the front, and it was all her two grooms could do to keep up with her.
Nor could they keep her from falling as her courser failed to jump a little creek—Floria’s little form, tucked protectively into a ball, was hurled like a roundshot into a dogwood and produced an explosion of leaves and bright red fruit. My heart gave a leap, and I spurred my horse toward the overthrow. I pulled up at the creek, dismounted, vaulted the obstacle rather better than had Floria’s horse, and found the princess upside down in the bush, her arms flapping as she tried to keep the burly grooms from picking her up and setting her upright.
“Is your highness injured?”
She did not answer but fixed at me with hazel eyes. “Pray leave me alone,” she said. Her words were enunciated with formal clarity. “I’ll get myself out of this.”
Anxiety plucked at my nerves as I watched the princess carefully extricate herself from amid the dogwood’s daggerlike branches. At last she rose teetering on her high-heeled riding boots and plucked twigs and scarlet dogberries from her riding costume. Her tough cheviot skirt had been torn by one of the dogwood’s lances, but her long-sleeved riding jerkin of red leather had protected her from further harm.
She took several breaths before speaking. “Morris,” she said to one of the grooms, “please fetch me my horse.”
“Your highness will continue the hunt?” I asked. She fixed me with a birdlike glance from her hazel eyes.
“It is either that or eat pudding, Master Groom,” she said, “and you have failed to bring the pudding!”
It took me a moment for my mind to shift from that of a reluctant huntsman to Groom of the Pudding, during which time I stood flat-footed as a bumpkin.
“I apologize, your highness,” I managed at last. “The cook has been damnably lax. What sort of pudding does your highness desire?”
“Frumenty!” She snarled the word as the groom arrived with her courser. The second groom bent to catch her foot in his cupped hands, and hurled her up into the seat. As the princess was arranging herself on the side-saddle—petticoats billowed from the slash in her skirt—an open-topped carriage full of ladies drew up. I saw that one of those in the carriage was Floria’s mother, the divorced Queen Natalie, and I bowed.
“Floria, my dear, please be careful!” called Natalie.
“Why?” The princess gathered the reins and answered from over her shoulder. “Berlauda won’t mourn if I break my neck!”
I pondered this truth as Floria rode off, then bowed again to the former Queen and returned to my own horse.
I was well behind the pack, and by the time I caught up, the deer had all been driven into a great pen made of fences, hedges, and nets, all too high for the prey to leap. There were both red deer and fallow deer in the enclosure, and as the stags were all in rut, the air filled with the sound of clashing antlers as they fought each other for possession of the does.
In vain, however, for grooms rode into the pen and carefully separated the females from the males. The does were driven through a gate, down a lane surrounded by high hedges, and into another enclosure, where they would be shot, for the most part by the ladies. The stags, on the other hand, would be despatched by the men with lance and sword.
The does came first, and the Queen fired the first shot standing in her carriage, and dropped a fallow doe to applause and cries of “Well done!” I saw that Broughton was with her in the carriage, and that there was no sign of his viscountess.
There followed a massacre conducted in strict order of precedence, the second shot being taken by Berlauda’s mother, the next by Floria firing her caliver from horseback, and so on. Such women as chose to fire seemed all to be practiced shots. The bracing scent of gunpowder floated free in the air.
I was not bothered by the bloodshed or the butchery, as I had grown up with animals being killed and cut up as a matter of course, and the difference between this and my father’s occupation was one of degree, not intention. Yet in this ritual display that brought all these glittering people to the killing ground, I felt there was more than assuring a supply of meat for the night’s supper. I reflected on how these noble families had gained power, and for the most part it was war, as with Emelin who had slain other kings, or at least some form of combat, as with Roundsilver’s ancestor who slew the dragon. The nobles had achieved preëminence through combat, and this ritual bloodletting wasn’t sport only, but practice for war.
I saw that the Duchess of Roundsilver was readying herself to fire, and I rode to join her indulgent husband, who sat behind her on his horse, which still trembled and sweated from the chase. The duchess fired from on foot, bent over and bracing her silver-chased caliver against the fence, and killed a red doe with a single shot.
“Splendid!” said the duke as he applauded, and turned to me with an expression of blissful happiness. “Is my darling not perfect?” he said. “Hair of gold, skin like cream, the eye of an eagle, and hips just like a boy!”
“It would be improper for me to notice her grace’s hips,” said I, “but your other remarks are more than just.”
When the slaughter was over, an army of Butchers ran into the enclosure to clean the deer and prepare them for the night’s grand supper. The dogs were wild with the excitement of being left the offal. The rest of us went to the other enclosure to view the deaths of the stags.
This was done with less protocol than the shooting—there was no standing on order of precedence, but any gentleman who desired to enter the enclosure and fight a stag was permitted to do so. Most came in on horseback and ran at the stags with a lance, and some with swords; but only a few entered on foot to fight a rutting stag as if in a duel.
Even on horseback, this sport was dangerous. Some of the red deer were larger than ponies, and were far more aggressive, charging and then slashing with their antlers. The blood on the ground did not belong only to the stags. At least twice, horses were bowled over by a charging buck, and their riders extricated only with difficulty by the grooms. One horse was disemboweled and had to be killed. Those who entered on foot with their broadswords fought only the smaller fallow deer, and even so a number of them retired badly cut, either from the antlers or from slashing forefeet. One unlucky baronet was hurled down by a charging deer, knocked unconscious, and trampled. He was dragged from the ring feet-first, and left a red trail on the green grass.
Broughton and the Queen watched from her carriage, their heads together, their words meant only for each other. Across the arena, Floria watched her sister from horseback. I was with the Roundsilvers, and our conversation glided from topic to topic, the hunt and the entertainments and the poems of Rudland.
Again I thought of war, and how this hunt was as close to personal combat as civilized custom would allow. But this hunt was not merely the enacting of a near-martial ritual—it was a rehearsal. For the nation was now at war, and in a matter of months many of these gentlemen would be facing an enemy on the field, an enemy far more dangerous than a fallow deer. Better to learn here to face a foe in the field than to learn it against an enemy host armed for battle.