Death of Kings_ A Novel - Bernard Cornwell [2]
‘Got her, lord,’ the shepherd answered. He was a gnarled little man with a beard that hid half his face. He growled at his two hounds to stay where they were, then ploughed into the flock and used his crook to haul out the ewe, then dragged her to the edge of the field and drove her to join the smaller flock at the meadow’s farther end. One of his hounds, a ragged and pelt-scarred beast, snapped at the ewe’s heels until the shepherd called the dog off. The shepherd did not need my help in selecting which animals should live and which must die. He had culled his flocks since he was a child, but a lord who orders his animals slaughtered owes them the small respect of taking some time with them.
‘The day of judgement,’ Willibald said, pulling his hat over his ears.
‘How many’s that?’ I asked the shepherd.
‘Jiggit and mumph, lord,’ he said.
‘Is that enough?’
‘It’s enough, lord.’
‘Kill the rest then,’ I said.
‘Jiggit and mumph?’ Willibald asked, still shivering.
‘Twenty and five,’ I said. ‘Yain, tain, tether, mether, mumph. It’s how shepherds count. I don’t know why. The world is full of mystery. I’m told some folk even believe that a three-day-old baby is a saint.’
‘God is not mocked, lord,’ Father Willibald said, attempting to be stern.
‘He is by me,’ I said, ‘so what does young Edward want?’
‘Oh, it’s most exciting,’ Willibald began enthusiastically, then checked because I had raised a hand.
The shepherd’s two dogs were growling. Both had flattened themselves and were facing south towards a wood. Sleet had begun to fall. I stared at the trees, but could see nothing threatening among the black winter branches or among the holly bushes. ‘Wolves?’ I asked the shepherd.
‘Haven’t seen a wolf since the year the old bridge fell, lord,’ he said.
The hair on the dogs’ necks bristled. The shepherd quietened them by clicking his tongue, then gave a short sharp whistle and one of the dogs raced away towards the wood. The other whined, wanting to be let loose, but the shepherd made a low noise and the dog went quiet again.
The running dog curved towards the trees. She was a bitch and knew her business. She leaped an ice-skimmed ditch and vanished among the holly, barked suddenly, then reappeared to jump the ditch again. For a moment she stopped, facing the trees, then began running again just as an arrow flitted from the wood’s shadows. The shepherd gave a shrill whistle and the bitch raced back towards us, the arrow falling harmlessly behind her.
‘Outlaws,’ I said.
‘Or men looking for deer,’ the shepherd said.
‘My deer,’ I said. I still gazed at the trees. Why would poachers shoot an arrow at a shepherd’s dog? They would have done better to run away. So maybe they were really stupid poachers?
The sleet was coming harder now, blown by a cold east wind. I wore a thick fur cloak, high boots and a fox-fur hat, so did not notice the cold, but Willibald, in priestly black, was shivering despite his woollen cape and hat. ‘I must get you back to the hall,’ I said. ‘At your age you shouldn’t be outdoors in winter.’
‘I wasn’t expecting rain,’ Willibald said. He sounded miserable.
‘It’ll be snow by midday,’ the shepherd said.
‘You have a hut near here?’ I asked him.
He pointed north. ‘Just beyond the copse,’ he said. He was pointing at a thick stand of trees through which a path led.
‘Does it have a fire?’
‘Yes, lord.’
‘Take us there,’ I said. I would leave Willibald beside the fire and fetch him a proper cloak and a docile horse to get him back to the hall.
We walked north and the dogs growled again. I turned to look south and suddenly there were men at the wood’s edge. A ragged line of men who were staring