motionless save for the quivering of its flanks. Nicholas knew it would fight to the death, using its great antiers as weapons, yet death would be its
ultimate end. The dogs and men were too many, and the stag had no escape.
What sport was there in this? It was like slaughtering unarmed men, something he had always refused to do, no matter who commanded him.
What did any of these noblemen know of being cornered, trapped by circumstances so that all you could do was stand and fight, or die? Had any of them ever known true fear? Had any of them ever smelled the stench of terror that fills a man's nostrils as he waits upon a battlefield?
Had any one of them ever known hunger or thirst, or deprivation ? He doubted it, and he doubted their female relatives had, either.
Not that he wanted to think of women suffering, but how could such women ever understand him and the fears that haunted him in the small hours of the night, when he awoke from dreams of battie, and sleep was lost to him? They wouldn't be able to comprehend the dread that what he had achieved could be taken away, and not just by death. It could be revoked with the stroke of one man's quill—the king's signature on a piece of parchment. And then he'd be as he was before: a penniless soldier with only a noble name and his father's sword to call his own.
As the huntsman gave the signal for the dogs to attack, Nicholas turned his mount away. He would go back to Dunkeathe and leave the others to deal with their prize.
Riding back through the excited mob, he didn't see Fergus Mac Gordon among the men or servants.
Perhaps the fellow had decided to return to Dunkeathe. Maybe he was already safely in the hall, drinking his host's wine and loudly praising his brown-haired niece, whom Percival would no doubt consider too old to be a bride.
The Scot hadn't seemed all that competent on his borrowed horse. Maybe when the call had sounded and the chase had begun, he'd been unable to keep up with rest.
Or perhaps something worse had happened. It could be that he'd fallen from his horse and was lying injured on the ground.
Or dead upon the bracken.
CHAPTER SIX
NICHOLAS IMMEDIATELY kicked his horse into a trot and rode back toward Dunkeathe. He dreaded finding a horse limping, its reins dangling, near a broken, bloody body.
He was about halfway home when he heard a familiar voice call out, "My lord!"
Relieved, he pulled his horse to a halt, to see Fergus Mac Gordon quite well and waving at him, standing in a farmer's yard beside a stone enclosure. Beside him, a peasant shifted his feet uneasily. The mare from Dunkeathe, tied to a tree beside the stone cottage, contentedly munched grass as if it had been there for some time .
Nicholas rode toward them, scattering several flapping, clucking chickens and one very indignant goose as he entered the yard.
"You've got to look at this lamb!" Mac Gordon cried when Nicholas dismounted. "I've never seen such fine fleece!"
It was only then that Nicholas realized the man was cradling a lamb as another might a child. Penned nearby, an ewe watched and bleated.
The peasant, a young man with messy brown hair and wearing simple homespuns, quickly tugged his forelock and stepped out of the way when Nicholas reached them.
"Feel that," Mac Gordon said, holding out the little white animal which didn't struggle at all, as if it felt quite safe where it was.
Nicholas dutifully ran his hand over the lamb's back.
"Nay, not like that," Mac Gordon laughingly chided. With his free hand, and not pulling on it hard enough to cause any pain, the Scot took a handful of the fleece. "Grab it."
Nicholas did as he was told. The fleece was soft, which wasn't unexpected, but otherwise, he didn't notice anything remarkable.
Mac Gordon gave him a beaming smile and fondled the head of the lamb as if it was a puppy. "Have you ever felt anything like that, eh?"
Nicholas still wasn't sure why the man was so excited. But then, what did he know of sheep?
ultimate end. The dogs and men were too many, and the stag had no escape.
What sport was there in this? It was like slaughtering unarmed men, something he had always refused to do, no matter who commanded him.
What did any of these noblemen know of being cornered, trapped by circumstances so that all you could do was stand and fight, or die? Had any of them ever known true fear? Had any of them ever smelled the stench of terror that fills a man's nostrils as he waits upon a battlefield?
Had any one of them ever known hunger or thirst, or deprivation ? He doubted it, and he doubted their female relatives had, either.
Not that he wanted to think of women suffering, but how could such women ever understand him and the fears that haunted him in the small hours of the night, when he awoke from dreams of battie, and sleep was lost to him? They wouldn't be able to comprehend the dread that what he had achieved could be taken away, and not just by death. It could be revoked with the stroke of one man's quill—the king's signature on a piece of parchment. And then he'd be as he was before: a penniless soldier with only a noble name and his father's sword to call his own.
As the huntsman gave the signal for the dogs to attack, Nicholas turned his mount away. He would go back to Dunkeathe and leave the others to deal with their prize.
Riding back through the excited mob, he didn't see Fergus Mac Gordon among the men or servants.
Perhaps the fellow had decided to return to Dunkeathe. Maybe he was already safely in the hall, drinking his host's wine and loudly praising his brown-haired niece, whom Percival would no doubt consider too old to be a bride.
The Scot hadn't seemed all that competent on his borrowed horse. Maybe when the call had sounded and the chase had begun, he'd been unable to keep up with rest.
Or perhaps something worse had happened. It could be that he'd fallen from his horse and was lying injured on the ground.
Or dead upon the bracken.
CHAPTER SIX
NICHOLAS IMMEDIATELY kicked his horse into a trot and rode back toward Dunkeathe. He dreaded finding a horse limping, its reins dangling, near a broken, bloody body.
He was about halfway home when he heard a familiar voice call out, "My lord!"
Relieved, he pulled his horse to a halt, to see Fergus Mac Gordon quite well and waving at him, standing in a farmer's yard beside a stone enclosure. Beside him, a peasant shifted his feet uneasily. The mare from Dunkeathe, tied to a tree beside the stone cottage, contentedly munched grass as if it had been there for some time .
Nicholas rode toward them, scattering several flapping, clucking chickens and one very indignant goose as he entered the yard.
"You've got to look at this lamb!" Mac Gordon cried when Nicholas dismounted. "I've never seen such fine fleece!"
It was only then that Nicholas realized the man was cradling a lamb as another might a child. Penned nearby, an ewe watched and bleated.
The peasant, a young man with messy brown hair and wearing simple homespuns, quickly tugged his forelock and stepped out of the way when Nicholas reached them.
"Feel that," Mac Gordon said, holding out the little white animal which didn't struggle at all, as if it felt quite safe where it was.
Nicholas dutifully ran his hand over the lamb's back.
"Nay, not like that," Mac Gordon laughingly chided. With his free hand, and not pulling on it hard enough to cause any pain, the Scot took a handful of the fleece. "Grab it."
Nicholas did as he was told. The fleece was soft, which wasn't unexpected, but otherwise, he didn't notice anything remarkable.
Mac Gordon gave him a beaming smile and fondled the head of the lamb as if it was a puppy. "Have you ever felt anything like that, eh?"
Nicholas still wasn't sure why the man was so excited. But then, what did he know of sheep?
Similar Books
