I watched the fighters with interest. Most provoked the buck into a charge, then leapt to the side and tried a cut to the neck to break the spine. Sometimes this worked, but usually it had to be tried more than once.
Another technique involved diving between the antlers to thrust the sword down between the shoulder blades and thereby reach the heart, or perhaps one of the major arteries. Several tried this, but only one man succeeded, the buck dropping at his feet. All others who tried the technique were hurled to the ground.
The man who triumphed was roundly applauded, and he raised his dripping sword on high in acknowledgement. When he left the enclosure, he ended in my vicinity. He was a tall, burly man only a little older than me. His black riding leathers had fringes, and he wore his long dark hair braided with red grosgrain ribbon. As he cleaned his sword with a cloth, he looked up at me from beneath the brim of his leather hat.
“You are the Pudding-Man, are you not?” said he.
My nerves sang a warning at a glimpse of the predator gazing from his eyes. “My name is Quillifer,” I said.
“Yes. Quillifer the Pudding-Man.” His lip curled beneath his dark clipped beard. He nodded at the enclosure. “Will you take a turn in the ring, and slice something more challenging than syllabub?”
I looked down at him from my horse and considered how best to deal with this rude monster.
“I do not know who I am addressing,” said I.
“I am the Lord of Mablethorpe Cross.” He threw his bloody rag down with an air of contempt, then was handed a sheepskin by a groom, and began polishing his blade with the fleece. His cunning eyes glimmered up at me from beneath the brim of his hat. “What say you, Pudding-Man?” he said. “Will you take a sword into the ring and show that your heart and stomach are not made of blancmange?”
Out of the slant of my eye I could see the duchess looking at me in horror. She gave a little shake of her head, and I responded with a minute twitch of an eyelid to show that I understood, and had no intention of risking myself.
“I am no great hand with a sword,” said I to the lordling—and then, in hopes that I could flatter my way out of this difficulty, I added, “Not like you, with that diving lunge of yours.”
“Ah.” His sheepskin glided along the bright steel. “That’s right, you are a Butcher’s son, are you not? Would you rather do the business with a meat axe?”
Apparently, I had been more discussed at court than I thought, for so much to have reached the ears of some bravo from Mablethorpe Cross, which judging from its lord’s dialect was in the far northwest of the country. I mentally considered a meat axe, and what it would do to the lordling’s skull.
I tried to keep my voice offhand, though my blood was pounding hot in my ears. “You say ‘Butcher’s son,’ ” I said, “as if it were something of which I should be ashamed.”
“Were I a Butcher’s son,” he said, “I would wonder what I was doing here among my betters, and perhaps live ashamed that I had not the proper breeding to grace the court.”
“Perhaps my breeding is insufficient for noble society in Mablethorpe Cross, wherever that might be,” said I, “but I have been welcomed here, by kind friends.” And with that I looked at Their Graces of Roundsilver, both of whom were paying close attention, the duchess pale with concern, and duke looking down, with pursed lips, as if trying to decide how to intervene and when.
“But Butchers,” I continued as I turned to the lordling, “do not ply their trade without payment. You want a stag brought down—very well. What am I offered for this piece of work?”
He looked up at me sharply, his mouth slightly open as if reaching into the air for a word that was not there. Finally he spluttered, “You want to be paid?”
“For my work,” said I. “I am a tradesman, as you insist on pointing out, so therefore let us trade. If you want me to kill an animal for you, you should expect to pay my fee, which will be higher than normal because the work puts me in some danger. So, if you are unwilling to pay the twenty royals . . .”
The lordling turned crimson. “Twenty royals! To a Butcher!”
“You think I would risk my life for white money?” I asked. “Besides, if you find my fees high, you are at liberty to negotiate a lower fee with another.”
“Ridiculous!” he said, and spun on his heel. He went to his horse, mounted, and spurred away, savagely digging silver rowels into the poor beast’s sides. I watched him depart, then turned to the duchess.
“Thank you for your concern and good advice,” I said.
Her lips were narrow and tight. “I’m glad you escaped hazard. I wonder if that man is mad.”
“I would not have fought a buck hand-to-hand,” I said. “There was no danger of that—and as for the insults, I should probably grow used to them.”
We continued watching the combats, and I was very surprised, ten minutes later, to see the Lord of Mablethorpe Cross gallop to my side, draw rein, and hold out a purse.
“Here’s twenty royals for you, Pudding-Man! Let’s see you kill a stag for me!”
I took the purse while I considered a response, and saw in the bag enough silver crowns and half-royals to make up the fee I’d quoted. I held the heavy purse in my palm, and it felt as heavy as a tombstone.
“D’you lack a sword, Pudding-Man?” asked the lordling. “I brought a spare.”
I turned and handed the purse to the duchess. “Her grace can hold my money,” I said.
“Quillifer,” said her grace. Her blue eyes were wide. “You may not do this.”
I gave her what I hoped was a confident, confiding smile. “Fear not, your grace. I am not unskilled.”
I turned back to the lordling and saw him offering a sword. “I’ll take one of those spears instead,” said I.
My heart was racing in my chest as I slipped from my saddle and went to the group of gentlemen clustering about the gate. They had all taken at least one run against the deer, and I was able to borrow one of their lances. I chose the shortest one I could find, eight feet or so of straight ash, with a stout triangular blade that would not easily snap. I would have preferred a haft shorter still, about my height, which was the length of the pollaxe to which I had become accustomed.
I hadn’t been lying when I assured the duchess of my skills. During the course of my apprenticeship with my father, I had killed hundreds of cattle with the pollaxe.
A pollaxe has a spike on either end, as well as an axe-blade backed either with a hammer or with another spike. The axe-blade can be used from the flank to cut the animal’s spine, or to cut its throat from below if you do not mind wasting the blood. But by far the best way to kill a cow is from the front, by using the weapon like a spear and driving the spike through the animal’s forehead and into the brain. The animal drops in its tracks and does not suffer, and the animal’s heart will continue to beat for a while so the blood may be recovered and used in cooking.
While I had never killed a stag this way, hunters had brought deer into my father’s shop, and there I had butchered them enough to understand their anatomy. The brain was more or less where I would have expected it to be, and the skull was if anything more delicate than that of a cow.
There were some other gentlemen ahead of me, so I waited for them to take their turn while I studied their encounters, and particularly the way that the stags attacked and the best way to avoid their charge. Thus it was that I failed to notice that the Lord of Mablethorpe Cross had entered the ring ahead of me, and had some speech with the grooms who organized the fights, and very likely bribed them.