to separate them from each other. Darting this way and that, their horses wheeling and plunging, they charged and charged again as the frantic Welshman tried to keep his frightened cows together.
As Marshal Guy and his sergeant watched, one of the terrified animals broke from the herd and ran bawling along the valley floor. Jocelin gave out a wild whoop and set out after the beast. He quickly closed on his quarry and, with a quick thrust of his lance, drove the spearhead into the cow’s side. The poor creature bellowed the more as the soldier speared it again, and yet again.
The cow crashed to its knees and, still bawling, rolled onto its side as the soldier galloped past. Wheeling his mount, the knight returned to deliver the killing blow with a quick thrust between the dying cow’s ribs and into its heart.
Seeing this was all the fun to be had, the other knights followed their comrade’s example. Ignoring the shouts and cries of the herdsman, the Ffreinc soldiers quickly cut another cow from the herd and drove it screaming down the valley to its eventual slaughter. The third, a young bullock, gave a good account of itself, turning on its attacker and raking its horns along the pursuing horse’s flanks and causing the soldier to abandon the saddle before being killed where it stood by the uninjured but angry knight.
“I shall stop this, my lord, before it goes too far,” said Jeremias as a fourth cow was cut out and just as swiftly slaughtered. He lifted the reins and made to ride on.
“Hold,” said Guy, putting out a hand to restrain him. “There is little enough harm in it, and they are almost finished. It is the only sport they’ve had since they came out here.”
The herdsman, beside himself at what was happening to his cattle, happened to glimpse the marshal and sergeant watching from the hilltop and decided to take his appeal to them. He started up the slope, shouting and waving his arms to be recognized. One of the Ffreinc knights saw the farmer starting away and rode him down. The Welshman tried to evade his pursuer, but the knight was quicker. Turning his spear butt first, he struck the fleeing herdsman from behind, knocking him to the ground, where he squirmed in pain until the knight gave him a solid thump on the head and he lay still.
When the last animal had been slaughtered, Lord Guy rode down to join his troops. “Bon chance,” he said, regarding the carnage: seven head of cattle lay dead on the valley floor, along with a stunned herdsman who was holding his head and moaning gently. “It would seem our hunt has provisioned a feast after all. Jeremias, you and the men gut that young bullock and we’ll take it back with us.” He pointed to another young animal, “And that heifer as well. I’ll ride ahead and tell the cook to prepare the roasting pit. We will eat good Welsh beef tonight.”
Jeremias looked around at the dead cattle and their wounded herdsman. “What about the Welshman, my lord?”
“What about him?”
“He might make trouble.”
“He is in no condition to make trouble.”
“That never seems to stop them, my lord.”
“If he persists, then I am certain you will deal with him accordingly.” Marshal Guy turned and rode back up the hillside, leaving his sergeant and men to their work.
Later, Gysburne sat on a stump behind the abbey cookhouse watching the bullock turn slowly on the spit while the cook and kitchener’s boy basted the roasting meat with juices from the basin nestled in the glowing embers below the carcase. The smell of the meat filled the air and made his mouth water. He lifted his jar and drank down another healthy draught of new ale. Yes, he thought, at times like this he could almost forget that he was stranded in a backward no-account province awaiting the pleasure of the abbot to advance or deny him.
Although it might have been the ale making him feel benevolent and expansive, Guy considered that, despite his frustration and disappointment, perhaps life in the March was not so bad after all.
At that moment, if only then—as the blue winter twilight deepened across the Vale of Elfael and the voices of the knights chorused rough laughter beneath the glow of a rising moon—that was true.
CHAPTER 22
I am explaining about Bishop Asaph and our visit to Saint Tewdrig’s monastery and here is Odo, frowning. It is the ring