The Unicorn Hunt - Dorothy Dunnett [214]
Nicholas collected himself and, limping stolidly, began to make his way upwards again. He had nearly killed the Duke. The Duke had nearly had him killed. Honours even.
Just below the plateau they gathered in silence again, and the huntsman crept forward. There was no doubt now that the beasts were up there: Nicholas could smell them, and their snuffles and grunts penetrated the whistle and moan of the wind. Whistle Willie, you should be here. His eyes were bloodshot and his cheekbones ached with the wind, but it had covered their movements. Until now the sound had been steady, like the distant roar of a horse-race, or a battle. Now the roar was catching its breath: it was gusting. Bad for spears. Crossbows should manage. Nicholas waited.
Someone tapped him on the shoulder. He turned. The chamberlain, offering him his own crossbow, fully spanned with a fork-headed bolt in the groove. The man, smiling, indicated the spear he already carried. Nicholas held out his gloved hand, cracking his lips in a smile. He had hardly taken the bow when he heard a shout from ahead. The chief huntsman, calling, had leaped to his feet and was leading the way to the plateau. The rest floundered after, plunging up to the summit to meet the full buffeting force of the wind. They spread out, gasping, while their eyes streamed and froze and their weapons drummed and tossed in their grasp.
The animals, perhaps thirty in all, were grouped at the far end of a wide, uneven space, lumpy with snow where some low undulations and crannies offered them shelter. Some were resting, knees and haunches sunk in the haze of uplifted snow. Others, already upright on straying legs, were springing aside like blown leaves; the twin spurs of their horns appeared at once whimsical and perplexed. The Duke aimed, tightened his fingers, and the first quarrel flew to its kill.
Chapter 30
BUT FOR THE WIND, it turned out more or less as the hunt-master had predicted. Faced with the advancing body of men, the sudden stampede of animals checked and the group ran jumping from place to place, high as puppets, while the snow stank and steamed from their panic. Some of the young pranced round the brink and crazily leaped, or equally crazily attempted to scrabble over the edge, as if descent on that side had been possible. These were lost. The older beasts, however, ran sideways and tried an outflanking movement.
They were allowed to succeed. Those which reached the incoming ledge were taken by the men waiting with nets. Those which made for the chasm were picked off as they came. By that time, the plateau was strewn with dark carcasses, and the snow was red and yellow and brown. The remnants of the herd clustered trembling together, their breath white, their eyes wide.
There was a pause. The crescent now broken, men moved about, gasping; tugging out and refitting spears, bending, feet braced, to strain the crossbow cord up to its limit. A longbow could manage ten arrows in the time it took to prepare a crossbow for one. But a crossbow for hunting was deadlier.
Nicholas was collecting spears, Moriz beside him. Someone – the chamberlain – was calling to him. The chamberlain said, ‘Are you doing nothing, M. de Fleury? You have not even shot your first bolt!’ Some flakes of snow, descending, spotted the blue and red of his face.
He had shouted. They had all been shouting, from excitement and to be heard in the wind. The Duke turned. Moriz said shortly, ‘He can’t span.’
It wasn’t quite true. His leg was just less than agony now: he