For when I entered the enclosure, grinning grooms on horseback cut out from the mass not a fallow deer, but a red buck—and not just any red buck, but the largest of all, what is called a “hart of ten,” with a great complicated thicket of antler dripping with torn velvet, like old trees laden with moss. All ten daggerlike points were brandished toward me, and bore a reddish color, like old blood. A thick dark mane wrapped the animal’s neck, and its eyes rolled with mixed terror and aggression. A guttural roaring was already sounding from its throat.
This beast came trotting toward me, and it seemed as big as a horse. My heart leaped into my throat while my hands tightened on the spear. I held the weapon over my right shoulder, as if intending to throw it, with the point dropping slightly toward the target, the same posture adopted when killing cattle with the pollaxe.
It occurred to me, far too late, that when I killed a cow in this way, there were generally a couple burly journeymen holding the animal still.
“That’s the way, Pudding-Man!” called the lordling. “Earn your fee, now!” His voice was full of self-approval, and caused a stir of laughter in his audience.
The enclosure reeked of blood and the rut of the stags. Somehow, I managed to make my feet move, and I moved toward the hart in a shuffling glide without my feet ever quite leaving the ground. I was having a hard time catching my breath, and was almost panting for air. My head swam. I tried to measure the distance between the spear point and the animal’s forehead.
When the stag charged, it caught me by surprise, for it didn’t attack with head lowered, but rather reared up on its hind legs, hopping forward while slashing with its forefeet. I was so startled by this assault that I failed to realize that I could thrust for the animal’s throat, and by the time the thought occurred to me it was too late, for the flying hooves had batted the spear out of the way. I bolted and ran madly to the side, dragging the spear along the ground, to the laughter both of the lordling and his claque.
I gathered myself again and readied my spear. My heart was leaping wildly against my ribs, and I clenched my fists on the ash spear to keep them from trembling. The animal’s eyes had followed me, but on its hind legs, the hart couldn’t turn fast enough to spin and charge, and so it dropped to all fours again and turned to face me, bellowing. Behind the hart I could see the faces of onlookers, the Queen as impassive as ever, Floria with keen-eyed interest, and the duchess pale with fright.
The stag’s war cry came to an end, dying as an echo among the trees. We regarded each other for a brief moment at a distance of about five yards, and then the great hart lowered its head and charged. I marked my target and lunged forward, putting as much of my weight into the spear as I could.
The impact knocked me back six or ten feet. My teeth clacked together and my eyes lost all focus, but I managed to retain my feet and my spear, and it took me a second or two to recover and realize that the spear dripped blood and that the great hart had fallen to the turf with a three-sided hole in its forehead.
Shouts and cheers went up. My knees felt suddenly weak, and I lowered the butt of the spear to the ground and leaned on it for a moment while I caught my breath. Then a surge of triumph went through me, and I raised a hand to acknowledge the cheers of the crowd.
I returned the spear to its owner and accepted congratulations from the gentlemen clustered around the gate. None had ever seen a stag despatched in that way, and they thought it a novelty. “What call you that strike?” asked one.
“I don’t know that it has a name,” I said.
“The coup de Quillifer,” one admirer suggested, and I graciously allowed that this name might serve.
By and by, I rejoined my horse, which had been held for me by one of the Roundsilver grooms. Her grace had been joined by her husband, who gave me a speculative look. I believe I had succeeded in surprising him. I reclaimed my purse of twenty royals.
“I feel as if I’ve earned it,” I said, and grinned, and then my grin broadened as I saw their graces looking at me with identical expressions, brows furrowed, lips pursed in concern.
“Quillifer,” said the duchess, “you must promise me you will never do such a thing ever again.”
I laughed. “It is an easy promise to make.”
Her look was unsmiling, her blue eyes shards of ice. “Make me that promise, then.”
Her stern tone caught me by surprise. She had been so gracious and kind to me that I had never seen her in her more formal style as a high noble and relative of the Queen, born a member of a conquering dynasty bred to command. That I towered over her, or that we were of an age, now scarcely seemed to matter. At her tone I found myself straightening in the saddle, as if in response to an order. Yet despite her severity I found myself flooded with warmth at the realization that she—and the duke, I hoped—cared whether I prospered or failed, lived or died. Cared enough to extract this promise from me.
I took off my cap and held it over my heart. “I shall obey, madame,” I said. “I promise never to fight another stag, on foot or on horse, without your grace’s express permission.”
“Which I shall not give,” said the duchess.
“That’s as your grace pleases.”
Her look softened. “You have work to do here and in Ethlebight,” she said. “You must not throw your life away.”
I put on my cap. “Your grace places a higher value on my life than I, and therefore I shall strive to live up to your expectations, and not my own.”
I turned at a gasp from the crowd. One of the hunters had attempted the coup de Quillifer with a lance against a fallow deer, and been knocked sprawling for his pains.
I watched for a while longer, and accepted a congratulation or two from a well-wisher, and then I had an idea how best to end the morning. I excused myself, rode to the stables, and groomed my horse after its adventures. After which I went to the kitchens.
For the most part the cooking was done out-of-doors, the spits turning over great fire pits built on one side of the old lodge while a hundred servants labored over the preparations. I found the appropriate cook, a tall Aekoi who spoke in the accent of Loretto, and managed to bribe her to produce a pair of frumenty puddings.
Frumenty is traditional with venison, of course, but the venison would not be roasted till supper, where it was planned for frumenty to be served as a pottage alongside the meat. Yet all the ingredients were there, the cracked wheat and so on, and while my dishes were being prepared, I went to my room, changed out of my riding leathers, and washed as much as a pitcher of water permitted. I donned my sober brown suit and went looking for some footmen to bribe.
Two hours later, and the day being fine, the entire company had sat down to a banquet out-of-doors, on the lawn between the lodge and the lake. Tables were set up in a U shape with the Queen and high nobles gracing a raised platform on the end. Berlauda presided from one of her thrones, and a boys’ choir from one of capital’s monasteries sang morally improving songs in a complex polyphony. I claimed a seat among the actors and musicians, drank half a cup of excellent wine, then rose and brought in the footmen I’d paid to undertake a special task.
I donned my pompous-magistrate face and we marched up the sward to the platform where the royal family sat, Berlauda and her throne at the center. I was aware of the Marchioness of Stayne, near the head of the company, watching me with her long eyes and a frown on her lips. I knelt to the Queen, or perhaps more properly to her throne of majesty, and then rose and brought a groom forward with a covered dish, which he presented to the princess Floria. With a flourish I removed the chased silver cover, and revealed there a frumenty that formed a perfect hemisphere, made with eggs, sugar, and saffron, dotted with almonds, and scented with orange water.