Murder for Christ's Mass - By Maureen Ash Page 0,34

were the decaying remains of a long-deserted beaver’s lodge, now covered in a thin layer of melting snow. The boar, finding its passage blocked by the pile of debris, turned and faced its enemies. It was a mature animal, and large, standing more than a metre high at the shoulder and weighing at least two hundred pounds. The dogs, still growling and barking but wary of the gleaming tusks, managed to hold it there until the hunt party caught up.

Leaving their horses a safe distance from where the pig was trapped, the men dismounted and the hunt master sent two of his assistants up onto the banks of the streambed, one on either side. Each of the huntsmen carried a large net that could be cast over the boar if the need arose. The men of the party, Camville and Bassett in the lead, armed themselves with short cross-hafted boar spears.

The area around the streambed was heavily wooded, all the trees denuded of leaves and the branches laden with dribbles of slushy snow. The feral stench of the boar permeated the air and the menacing snarls of the boarhounds and mastiffs echoed loudly in the narrow space.

Motioning to the others to spread out behind, the two barons walked slowly forward. As they did so, one of the mastiffs, excited beyond caution, made a sudden dash at the boar. The pig was ready for him and caught the mastiff in mid-leap, ripping a gash in the dog’s underbelly and then, with an insolent fling of its head, tossed its attacker over its back. The dog fell heavily and did not move, its intestines trailing streaks of blood in the sparse covering of snow. It gave one feeble whimper and died.

The boar tried to back away from the approaching men, its tiny hooves scrabbling in the slush-covered stone of the streambed until its hindquarters touched the tumble of decaying wood that had once been the beaver’s lodge. There it stopped, head swinging from side to side and little red eyes glaring.

The sheriff and his friend moved forward. They had no need to speak or even look at each other as they moved into position; Camville directly in front of the boar, Bassett a few feet to the sheriff’s right. They had fought alongside each other since the days of their youth, following King Henry II in his campaigns to defend his lands across the Narrow Sea and afterwards, when the king’s sons defied him in attempts to wrest the crown from their father’s head. In a battle, or on a hunt, the two barons moved in familiar concert, accustomed to facing danger as comrades-in-arms.

Suddenly another of the mastiffs, ignoring the hunt master’s order to stay back, leapt at the boar. The pig reacted with lightning speed, propelling itself forward towards the dog, clumps of dirt, pebbles and slush whirling from beneath its hooves as it came to meet its adversary. Barely in time, the dog lurched to one side and the sharp tusks missed by inches. But even though the mastiff was no longer in its path, the boar did not lessen its speed, and the momentum of its charge carried it straight towards Bassett. Kneeling down and holding his spear at the ready, the baron braced himself for the impact, but just as the clash between man and animal was imminent, the boar veered to one side, seeking an escape route through the narrow space between Bassett and the sheriff.

Camville raised his spear, holding it with both hands as the animal attempted to run past him. With one swift movement, he plunged it deep into the pig’s neck. The struggle between them was violent, the boar thrashing against the steel impaled in its flesh and the sheriff determined not to release his hold. The hunt master’s assistants ran forward with their nets, but there was no need of their help. Using his great strength, Camville threw his legs astride the boar and, leaning his full weight against the spear, thrust it in farther and farther until the animal, with one final spasm and a horrendous squeal, stilled into death.

Now, riding home, the story of the kill was recounted again and again. The dead pig, gutted and tied to a stout branch carried by the hunt master’s assistants, was a trophy worthy of celebration, and the men passed a flagon of wine back and forth as they rode. One of the squires began to sing a hunting song and the others joined