Chapter 20: The Stag

The meadow wasn’t all that wide. On her own—without Feywn clinging to her, and having to carry the two packs—Cyri would have darted across, leaped over the stream that ran through it, and been back in the sheltering undergrowth on the far side in a matter of moments. As it was, the far side looked leagues away, so she shifted her sight to the closest clump of shrubs, one of the seven or eight that offered at least some cover on the otherwise open ground, and inched forward, matching her steps to Feywn’s slow, shuffling gait.

They’d made it almost that far when sparrows who’d been twittering peacefully among themselves gave a round of shrill whistles, rose, and wheeled off.

Heeding the birds’ warning, they dropped to the ground and crawled the last of the way to the cluster of bushes—a thick, thorny patch of briars with a gap between the stems where hunted creatures before them must have burrowed for safety. Cyri thrust their packs ahead of them, pulled the branches back for Feywn to creep in, and scrambled after her. Edging past Feywn, who huddled, gasping, against the bags, she cautiously spread the brambles and looked out.

A stag crashed out of the woods on the far side of the clearing. It entered the meadow at a gallop, splashing across the stream, heading straight toward them. But then its stride faltered, and as it slowed to an unsteady walk, Cyri saw the arrows, five at least, sticking out from its side and flanks.

Staggering to a halt just a few steps away from where they were hiding, the stag looked into the brush and met her eyes. Thinking that as dazed as the poor beast was, it might let her close enough to give it release from its suffering, Cyri was drawing her knife when a second and wiser thought came—that she had to chase it away, and quickly, before the hunters got there. She was on the verge of ducking out of the briars to wave her arms and frighten it off when she heard a horn sound, answered by a sudden chorus of howls.

The stag lifted its head, gathered strength from some last reserve, and fled down the meadow. The dogs broke out of the undergrowth and raced after it. A band of riders chased after the dogs, calling out to each other in English—the one in the lead shouting, “Head it off! Don’t let it get away again,” and the others yelling, “I’ve got it!” “Out of my way, let me have a clear shot!” and “Shoot the bloody deer, not me, you fool!”

Cyri held her breath.

Horses, men, and dogs were all caught up in the melee that swept past their hiding place, and for a moment she thought they were safe. She was about to breathe again when one of the hounds fell behind the others and caught their scent. It dropped out of the pack to investigate and wiggled its way through the brambles. Upon coming nose to nose with Cyri, it gave an excited whine.

“Do something!” Feywn hissed, as if Cyri didn’t know that she had to. But what? Strangle or smother a friendly puppy that was wagging its tail and licking her face? Cyri couldn’t do that. She stroked its ears and tried to muzzle it, whispering for it to be quiet.

The shouts from the far end of the meadow shifted to hoots of triumph and then to bantering. Cyri just had time to think that she might be able to shoo the puppy back to its pack before it was missed when a voice called out, “Fang! Fang! Here, boy, come!”

At the sound of his name and the whistle that accompanied it, the pup wriggled out of Cyri’s grasp and ran out, barking.

“What’d you find there? A badger hole, maybe?” Boots stamped closer, and a blood-stained hand raked the branches aside. “Let’s have a lo—” A startled face, youngish despite a dark, thick beard, changed mid-word to shout, “Over here, my lord, look what I found!”

Cyri gripped her knife.

Feywn shook her head and, to Cyri’s bewilderment, edged close enough to the opening that she could stand up—and did, rising as easily as from her seat at the high table. Not knowing what else to do, Cyri followed, dragging their packs along with her and getting to her feet in time to see her aunt bestow a warm, even radiant, smile, first on the man who’d found them and then on the others who were rushing over.

“I praise God that you have come, for we, my daughter and I, were in dread fear of brigands.” While her opening words were directed toward the young bearded man, Feywn’s gaze shifted to a clean-shaven blond one who’d been shouting orders and now came riding up on his horse while the others followed on foot. Looking up into the Saxon’s grim face, Feywn pressed her hands together in the gesture Christians made when saying incantations as she murmured, “You are the answer to my prayers, most high and noble sir, sent by the Lord Jesus and the Blessed Virgin Mary!”

Stefan was a seasoned warrior, more than capable of holding his own on any battlefield, but he was caught off guard by the unexpected sight of a slender silver-haired woman stepping gracefully out of the tangled shrubs and speaking in a voice that, despite her obvious age, had an allure that sent a tingle up his spine.

Straightening his posture and clearing his throat, he answered in a tone commensurate with his presumed rank and good intentions. “You have promoted me ahead of anything the king has done. I am not a nobleman, but I am the sheriff of this shire, and you may trust me to see to your safety. Tell me, though, how you have come to be here alone, and so far from any Christian protection?”

“Oh, my lord sheriff, I am a poor, helpless widow, left with no family except for my dearly beloved daughter, and so must seek kin on her father’s side in the valley of Codswallow.” Here she paused, and a single tear trickled down her cheek as she finished, “We were told that bandits prey on all who travel on the main road and so took this back way and became lost. If only, my lord sheriff, you could point the way we must go and tell us how far it is to an inn where we may have safe lodging.”

Stefan drew himself up further. “I will take you there, and have no doubt that its keeper will know the whereabouts of the kin you seek.”

Assuming a more elevated tone than he usually used when telling his men what to do, he divided them between the ones to finish gutting the stag and take it back to the manor and the ones to accompany him to the inn, and ordered Wilham to bring back the horse he’d been riding for the women. That done, he dismounted to lift them up, swung back onto Chessa, and waved his bow, signaling his group to start down the trail to the Sleeping Dragon.