He owed Hugo a great deal for taking his part and saving him following that first disastrous encounter with King Raven-as the abbot was ever swift to point out. The baron would have had the young marshal horsewhipped and driven from his ranks if not for Hugo's intervention. Guy knew it was not out of sympathy or compassion for himself that the power-grasping cleric had acted but, as with the newly acquired soldiers, it was all part of a carefully devised scheme to gain a force of men who answered to no one but Abbot Hugo alone.
Guy, the abbot's commander, was liking the circumstances of his service less and less. In fact, the reason for braving the cold journey to the North Riding was to see if there might be some place for him in his father's retinue. Sadly, the state of affairs that had sent him south and forced him to link his fortunes with Baron de Braose remained unaltered. There was no living to be had in the north and, as he had long ago discovered, it was too far away from the dance of power and influence attending the king and his court-which was the only hope of the landless lord for advancement, or even a living.
Marshal Guy de Gysburne still needed the abbot because he still needed the baron and ultimately the king. But he was determined that when a better situation presented itself, he would not hesitate to seize it. For now, however, the prospect of commanding a new company of men was an agreeable development and one he determined to bend to his own advantage.
After taking a few mouthfuls of wine and some bread, the knights mounted their horses and rode out, striking north from the town towards the shaggy hills and great encircling arms of the forest. The day was brisk and the sky speckled with grey-edged clouds which passed as shadows over the smooth green snow-spattered hillsides before them. The soldiers, glad for a chance to explore the unfamiliar territory of their new home, galloped through the long grass, exulting in the strength of the horses beneath them.
They reached the edge of the forest, found the entrance to a game run, and entered the long, dim, tree-lined tunnel. The path was wide and they rode easily along, each with a spear ready in case they caught a glimpse of a stag or doe, or some other creature to give them a good chase. But, though they followed the trail as it coursed deeper into the heart of the greenwood, the would-be hunters found nothing worthy of their sport, and as the day began to wane, Guy signalled to Jocelin, riding ahead, that it was time to turn toward home.
Loath to come away without bloodying his spear, Jocelin suggested, "My lord, let us ride on to the top of the ridge just there. If we haven't found any fresh tracks by then, we will turn back."
"The trail is cold today," Guy replied, "and I am getting hungry. Leave it," he said, turning his mount to begin the ride back, "and save a stag or two for another day."
The soldiers followed reluctantly, and as soon as they had quit the forest once more, the ride became a race. Letting their horses have their heads, they flew over the low hills towards the low-sinking sun. Guy, unwilling to restrain their high spirits any longer, let them go.
"Shall I call them back?" asked Jeremias, reining in beside the marshal as the last of the soldiers disappeared over the crest of the hill.
"No, Sergeant, it would serve no purpose," Guy answered. "They will have their ride and feel better for it."
The two proceeded at an easy trot until, reaching the place where they had seen the last rider, they heard shouts and cries echoing up from the valley below. Little more than a crease between two slopes, the valley angled away towards the south and east, broadening slightly before ending in a rocky outcrop. There, in the centre of this close-set defile, was a Welsh herdsman with his cattle.
The soldiers had the man and his few forlorn beasts surrounded and were attempting 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.