The Unicorn Hunt (62 page)

The climbing strained every sinew. Here the snow was soft; there it was impacted like stone; in another place the rock, stripped by gales, was striated with ice. And climb they must, for the chamois were not here but high in the peaks. After two hours of it, some of the party had flagged and turned back. After another hour, Sigismond, smiling, responded to a signal from above and led the
way to a fault, shielded from wind, where his huntsmen had nursed a small fire and were unpacking meats and fat flagons from baskets.

Sigismond said, his gapped teeth harrowing a long, bristling bone, ‘The Duke of Milan hunts with leopards. The lady my Duchess tells me they tried it in Scotland, but the people complained.’

‘I heard it was the leopards which complained,’ Nicholas said. ‘Like elephants, they are not fond of the cold. Should you wish to experiment, I can supply you with muzzles. James of Cyprus has them fashioned in gold, although he fails to use them enough.’ Smiling, he touched his arm, acting a wince.

‘How did you cheat
him
?’ said Sigismond.

Nicholas set down his ale. ‘One learns from one’s betters,’ he said. ‘My lord, you have a complaint?’

‘I, your host?’ Sigismond said. ‘Princes are resigned to being exploited. You proposed to the lady my wife to excavate, for a certain sum, a field by the Inn which would yield me a fortune in alum.’

‘That is so,’ Nicholas said. The Duke’s household, close about him, chewed without looking up.

Between words, the Duke’s teeth grated spasmodically on the bone. ‘My advisers tell me that such alum cannot be sold. The rights to sell in the Tyrol are already possessed by Bartolomeo Zorzi, appointed by the Holy Father to vend Tolfa alum.’

‘Your grace distresses me,’ Nicholas said.

‘Do I? Then consider the silver mines,’ the Duke said. Combing free the last of the meat, he threw back his arm and sent the whitened bone into the void. His unwiped lips glistened. A servant knelt hastily with a cup, but did not trouble to hold the lid under his chin.

‘The silver mines?’ Nicholas repeated.

‘You bring letters of friendship from Burgundy, but Burgundy prefers me impoverished. Were I to mine silver, I could win back all the land I have pawned to him. The mines you will claim to discover are worthless.’

‘Of course,’ said Nicholas, ‘I bow to your judgement. You are abandoning, then, all hope of restoring your fortunes with silver?’

‘On the contrary,’ said the Duke. ‘I see no redress in the matter of alum. But there are those, less self-interested, who can promise me all the money I need through the simple right to sink and operate mines. You have heard, no doubt, of the Vatachino. Their agent Martin sat only last week where you sit. He owes nothing to any prince, and less than nothing to Burgundy. I have granted him the contract.’ He stood. ‘I have shocked you.’

‘No,’ Nicholas said, standing also. He wished the Duke had been four inches taller. ‘I would have done the same, in his place and yours. So does your grace mean to continue?’

‘The hunt? Why not? Let us go,’ Sigismond said.

John le Grant caught up with Nicholas shortly. ‘What was that? Why tell you that now?’

‘To see what I would do. Father Moriz?’

‘Yes, my son,’ said the priest. He did not sound particularly fatherly.

Nicholas said, ‘Take care. Take care, both of you. It won’t last long, but this is where you have to keep on your toes.’

John le Grant groaned.

He was right. Having established a position of conflict, the Duke amused himself over the next stage of the climb by practising refinements. These were relatively small in scale. Of two pitches, the worse would always fall to the Fleming; if a man ahead slipped, it was the fingers of de Fleury upon which his heel would begin to descend. Once there was a brief avalanche which caused John, too, to cling to his hold, and even the priest was not exempt from minor mishaps.

Even so, they were no more than dangerous gestures. The climb itself was demanding enough. For a man from a flat country, Nicholas congratulated himself on acquitting himself reasonably well: for that, he had the mountains of Trebizond and Troodos to thank, and his recent hardening in the heights about Bozen. The others were much the same.

Sigismond, he had to acknowledge, was a natural mountaineer, and so were the young aristocrats and hunt-servants about him. Broad of shoulder, powerful of thigh and ankle and knee, the young men were the ones who gave him most trouble. They vied for the attention of Sigismond. There was a certain bonhomie in the group, but nothing like, for example, the rough, libertarian exchanges between huntsman and King that were common in Scotland; and the jokes were guarded rather than free-running and bawdy. They were all afraid of their master. Nicholas supposed he ought to start being afraid of their master as well.

The weapons came out shortly after, when word came at last that they were close to their victims, their prey.

The wind had risen, scuffing snow into their faces: for some time now they had been climbing in silence. The herd they sought
was one which had challenged the Duke for many weeks, because the chamois had picked a terrain from which the exits could hardly be netted: for the few that escaped the wrong way and were caught, there were dozens which were able to fly to safety. They had, then, to be killed on the spot.

Sigismond waited now till the party had gathered, smothered in the jetted steam of their breath, their beards freezing, their clothing soaked with exertion. At his signal they armed; the crossbows were uncased, the bolts ready; the spearpoints fitted into their sockets. Father Moriz hefted his weapon. His legs were snow-caked to the thigh, his face hacked out of veined marble, but his hands were quite steady. John’s features had the blue-white drawn look of the thin-skinned, but he, too, handled his crossbow with precision, glancing at Nicholas now and then. Below, the mountain range filled all the space to the horizon; a porcelain pattern of white and blue shadows against which puffs of snow spouted and vanished like gunsmoke. The pale sun dimmed and glinted like a tavern sign wrung by the wind.

The Duke signed to Nicholas and pointed to a spot just behind him, and Nicholas took his crossbow and moved quietly to occupy it. He knew the young Count at his back, one of the worst offenders on the way up. The next man was the swarthy Cavalli, and behind him was one of the four Kämmerer – chamberlains – another young man of rank. The master huntsman, in whose footsteps they would follow, waited in silence ahead. The Duke took his place at the head of the file, and the others fell in: John and Father Moriz, Nicholas saw, had been relegated to the end. Then the huntsman turned, and they set off to follow him. The wind, rising still, continued to pick up snow and throw it into their faces. Their spears tugged and nodded.

They had been told what to expect: an exposed twenty-foot traverse and then a sloping channel, guarded by rock, which spiralled up to the plateau at the summit. There the animals lay. Beyond the plateau was empty space: on one side a sheer drop to the ground; on the other a gorge, a chasm between this mountain-top and its neighbour whose sides were unclimbable. It formed, however, the bridge of air by which the chamois made their escape if disturbed. Soaring over the gap, they were instantly safe in a petrified forest of needle-peaks which no human being could climb.

This time, they would never reach it. The end of the steep, irregular terrace led to the plateau itself. Halfway up, the archers would halt to span and bolt crossbows. At the top, bursting forth,
the hunters would form a ring, their backs to the chasm. Then the chamois could do only three things: attempt the passage, by now entirely netted and blocked; leap to death over the outer, sheer wall of the mountain, or run in panic to jump to freedom in the usual way – towards the gap, and the bolts and the spears.

They were pretty animals, but the world was full of animals. This was not to do with animals, as it happened, but a prince’s reputation among his peers. It had also to do with chastising a vassal of the Duke of Burgundy, to whom Sigismond had reluctantly sold so many excellent possessions, and who had not, so far, provided the hearty support Sigismond would have liked.

Nicholas expected, and was on guard against, a painful accident with someone’s arrow or spear once the hunt had begun on the plateau. The tearing kick behind the knee came while they were still on the ledge, and was far more dangerous – perhaps even worse than had been intended, for it is difficult to knock a man half off his feet when your own footing, even in crampons, is also precarious. It came, he thought, from the Count.

At the time, he did not think too much at all, finding himself tumbling towards an unimaginable drop with all the wrong kind of momentum. His crossbow shot into space and his belt-hook bit into his doublet. No one spoke – that would have disturbed the chamois – but at least the man ahead stopped. Someone flung out an arm, and someone else grasped one of the leathers crossing his shoulders. It was enough to change his direction: he wheeled round and cannoned into the man standing in front, who half fell. He fell himself, but safely, along the length of the ledge, and found himself lying on his back with a spear at his throat. Above him, looking down, was the huntsman. Beside him, getting slowly to his feet, was the Duke. The huntsman’s face, turned to the Duke, wore a query.

There was little doubt what it was. Nicholas lay still. The point of the blade, razor sharp, had already entered his skin: something ticklish ran from it sideways. Everyone else had drawn back.

Far above, carried down by the wind, came the noise of an animal farting. The Duke’s eyes moved. The huntsman stood. Then the Duke jerked his head and, turning, resumed his silent way while the huntsman, repossessing the spear, moved his lips briefly and followed, leaving Nicholas to get to his feet.

A hand helped him: that of the grinning young chamberlain. The Count, his eyebrows lifted, had passed and gone on. Nicholas could see le Grant trying to force his way close, and shook his head at him. The snow was littered with good yew shafts from his
quiver, flickering in the wind. He bent to collect them and nearly fell a second time from the weakness of his knee. It was then that he remembered that his crossbow had gone. In any case, it was a two-footed bow and he probably couldn’t have spanned it, or not immediately anyhow. Father Moriz might lend him his spear. A well-thrown spear could kill at forty yards, whereas a steel bow would do three hundred or more. He had been careful not to bring a steel bow.

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

B
UT 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 could have managed. Nicholas said, ‘I was waiting for just the right moment.’