“You have found something, Sire?” asked Bailiff Antoin after a moment.
“It seems our ride is to be rewarded today,” replied de Glanville.
“Deer?”
“Poacher.”
Antoin raised his eyes and peered down the tunnel formed by the overhanging branches. “Better still,” he replied.
The sheriff resumed his saddle and, with a gesture to silence the chattering soldiers, turned onto the narrow trail and began following his quarry. The trail led up a low rise and then down into a dell with a little rock-bound rill trickling along the bottom. There in the soft mud were a half dozen depressions—including the mark of a knee where a man had knelt to drink.
De Glanville raised a gauntlet to halt those coming from behind. He caught the sheen of a damp glimmer where water had splashed onto a rock. “He was here not long ago,” observed the sheriff. Turning in the saddle, he singled out two of his men. “Stay here and be ready should he double back before we catch him.”
He lifted the reins and urged his mount across the brook, up the opposite bank, and into a thicket of elder that formed a rough hedge along the streambed. Once beyond the hedge, the trail opened slightly, allowing the sun to penetrate the dense tangle overhead. Shafts of weak winter light slanted down through the naked branches above. A few hundred paces further along, the sheriff could see that the track entered a snow-covered glade. He reined up and, pointing to the clearing ahead, motioned Antoin and the remaining knights to dismount and circle around on foot. When they had gone from sight, Sir Richard proceeded on alone, pausing again as he entered the clearing. There, across the snowy space, kneeling beside the sleek, ruddy stag he had just brought down, was a swarthy Welshman. Knife in hand, he stooped to begin butchering his kill. In a glance the sheriff saw the hunter, the knife, and the longbow leaning against the trunk of a fallen birch a few paces from the crouching man.
Drawing his sword silently from its sheath with his left hand, de Glanville unslung his shield with his right. Tightening his grip on the pommel of his sword, he drew a deep breath and called across the glade, “In the name of the king!”
The shout rang clear in the chilly air, shattering the quiet of the glade.
The startled Welshman lurched and spun. “Throw down your weapons!” shouted de Glanville. The hunter dived for his bow. In the time it took the sheriff to swing his shield into place, the hunter had an arrow on the string. “Halt!” cried the sheriff as the poacher drew and loosed.
The arrow struck home with a jolt that rocked the sheriff in his high-cantled saddle. The arrow point pierced the solid ashwood planking that formed the body of the shield, the iron point protruding a finger’s width below the sheriff ’s eye.
The man’s quickness was impressive, but ultimately futile. Before he could nock another arrow, two knights rushed into the clearing from either side. The hunter whirled and loosed at the nearest of the two, but the arrow merely grazed the top of the soldier’s shield and careered away. Desperate, the Welshman swung the bow at the second knight and turned to flee. The two soldiers captured him in a bound, subduing him with a few skull-crushing blows before dragging him to where Sheriff de Glanville sat watching from his horse.
“Poaching deer in the king’s forest,” the sheriff said, his voice loud in the sanctuary of the glade, “is an offence punishable by death. Do you have anything to say before you are hanged?”
The hunter, who clearly did not understand the language of the Ffreinc, nevertheless knew the fate he faced just then. He gave out a cry and, with a mighty heave, tried to shake off the two soldiers clinging to him. They hung on, however, and showered blows upon his head until he subsided once more.
“Bailiff Antoin,” said the sheriff, “you profess some proficiency in the tongue of these brutes. Ask him if he has anything to say.”
The bailiff, clinging to the man’s right arm, informed him of the charge against him. The Welshman struggled and shouted, pleading and cursing as he flailed helplessly in the grasp of his captors until he was silenced with blows to the head and stomach. “It appears he has no defence,” Bailiff Antoin declared.
“No, I wouldn’t think so,” remarked the sheriff. The three remaining knights burst into the glade just then.