Niccolo Rising - Dorothy Dunnett [154]
Claes sat up in the grass and shouted after him. The last rider, leading Claes’ horse, receded impassively, breasting the hillock in a different direction at a good, regular pace. Claes, sitting with his hands dangling over his knees, took a contemplative breath and sent a musical halloo in that direction. The rider began to descend the hill on the other side. The last thing Claes saw of the company were the two ears of his horse on the skyline.
The saddle, which had fallen off with him, lay upside down in the turf some distance away. Dug in beside it was a hoe, with a man leaning on it at an extravagant angle. His feet, nearest to Claes, were in patched and squashed boots, and he wore the felt cap and rolled sleeves and brief dress of a countryman. He turned a tuberous face with no teeth in it. “Now,” he said. “Look at that. That new falcon brung down a saddle.” He lifted his chin from his clasped hands and eased himself slowly back, raising his watering eyes to the sky. Claes went on sitting.
“Might bring down the horse next,” said Claes. “I should watch out.”
The hoe quivered. Collected over the gums, the owner’s lips writhed apart, and a haze of saliva shot into the air. “Might bring down a man next, I shouldn’t wonder,” said the old man. “Catch your death, sitting on grass. Other people’s grass. Hanged a man last week on that tree.”
Claes said, “I wondered what you were planting.”
Sunbeams danced on another frothy emission. The old man said, “You hungry then?”
Claes threw back his head and laughed. If it sounded like relief, he didn’t mind. It was relief. He said, “I’m always hungry.”
“Big fellows like you,” said the old man. “I’ve seen you lot at harvest time. Eat the worth of the harvest at supper-time. They’re over there. I’ve to take your sword off you, and your dagger.”
Claes smiled at him. “Where will I find them again?”
The bristled cheeks glittered. “If you come back, they’ll be under the hoe.”
“And my saddle?”
The old man let his hoe drop. Now he turned, you could see he had a hunter’s knife slung at his hip. The two-edged blade looked quite new. He rubbed the dirt off his hands and, wiping them on his tunic, stood waiting for Claes to get up. He said, “You need a horse before the saddle’s any good to you. The girth’s broken.”
The girth, as he was already well aware, had been cut. Claes disputed nothing, but got up and, unbuckling his own unspectacular sword and knife, went across and laid them beside the hoe. The watering eyes met his as he straightened, within a miasma of sweat and unwashed linen, like the smell of pawned clothes. The old man said, “Follow the stream to the trees. Eat well. Eat well, my boy. My boy, you must be hungry.”
Louis, Dauphin of France, was supping al fresco. Within the trees to which the stream led, a light hunting cabin had been erected from last year’s timber with two small rooms, at present untenanted. The company, which was very small, was disposed on the patch of turf before it, almost crowded out by the number of wicker baskets and flasks packed between them. Further off, the jingle of bits told where their horses were tied and grazing.
All of them were plainly dressed, although the cloth of their hunting clothes and the quality of their belts, their boots and their spurs showed that they were not servants, although they were not being served.
No. One man, closest to the cabin, was being served by the rest, and on bended knee. A man who didn’t look round when Claes approached. Only one of the company did, and then rose and came towards him. Claes recognised no one, but he knew that the man by the hut was the Dauphin, and that these must be his intimates. The Bastard of Armagnac, then; and the lord of Montauban. Jean d’Estuer perhaps, lord of la Barde. Jean Bourré, the secretary. And someone