Though the last blush of sunlight yet lies upon the earth, and slivers of gold and red can be seen from the moors at the horizon, already the evenings in Dunsinane are damp and chilly. Autumn in Rosshire. The ground is covered with leaves. The birches were the first to surrender. The first to be reborn, the first to fall into the great slumber. Their trunks are stark white and streaked with black. The white trunks hold the last blush of daylight, seeming bronzed and softened by the first blueing of evening.

     Soft the earth beneath the hooves. Mud softens the sounds and swallows the leaves that are pressed there. Whispering, whispering... as the paws of hounds move over. Greyhound noses to the ground to find the scent momentarily lost. The boar is hopeful that the wet earth shall swallow musk, and confounded by the mist that hangs in the air the hounds will lose there way...

     Seven men in all, including the Lord Fraser. Lord and 'leigemen' -- some mounted, some on foot for the dogs. There's not a man that is not armed, for though the boar is small in comparison... there is little that is more fierce or deadly when cornered. And like meeting a worthy adversary, they are prepared. The lord in his own... peculiar way.

     The lord's clothes and fittings are all modern and all dark. The longer portions of his hair have been pulled back and held in a leather thong. Inky black with the dampness lingering on the air in a light fog. And he carries a gun packed on his horse, in case. But the weapon he prefers for boar is held up by his right hand. A hunting spear is fitted to the saddle by leather, held couched by a gloved right hand. And he is mounted on a horse like the others. But his an Andalusian stallion dappled grey and silver -- somewhere beneath the mud. William turns toward a sound. Soft... did any of his companions hear it?

     Perhaps not... but the hounds have. Toward the sound in the ferns. Toward a smell soon captured. The braying of hounds upon their mark fills the outer woods.

     Lundy is mounted as well, watching the dogs from his perch. As they go, so does he, faintly ahead with the house's new Lord. His blonde hair might give things away, but such hunting is not so mercenary. One or two of these dogs are new, handpicked by the keepers themselves. This is a day, good as any, to have them work with your well-trained leaders.

     In the group following is Tavish, mounted upon a bay-in-training. A chance for youth and growing experience of all sorts to get out more regularly. Many of them were surprised that there were real openings on an estate for a falconer, a gamesman...certainly talents learned within their families, but few pay a living wage, let alone exist. But this...it is a real opportunity in a household where hunting and outdoorsmanship reigns supreme still. No honorary service in stafftitles, real work and ability is expected.

     To the left, a sound of ferns being moved. By wind or beast?
     Birch leaves rattle with the passing wind...

     Young hounds. Young men. A combination William cannot resist. Blood can be tasted upon the mist around him. In the wind. In the sound of wood and steel against the air. Young hounds. Young men. He, the eldest of them all though he appears to be a peer, can remember when such hunts were the life-blood and bread and sustenance. Of true danger. Boar was among the most feared and vicious, apart from bear. He had seen many a man go down and limp for life after such a night as this. Now... it is all sport. Young hounds. Young men.
     The andalusian beneath him turns at his master's command and lunges. Behind the dogs, a canter that soon becomes a gallop. He moves, smoothly following the contours of the earth, but tight with excitement. Eyes wide and nostrils flared. He trumpets out as dark thighs grip him. Faster. The reins are barely held, barely used at all. In concert, his every motion in time and coming in perfect rhythm to the beast beneath him, William leans in. Leathered fingers grip the wood of the spear. It is controlled as much as the beast, minding trees and sudden twists...

     The forest trembles and leaves are kicked up by the gaining gallop of seven beasts. Off the tangled path, but heading toward deep Dunsinane. The boars only refuge. To flee into the heart of it and hope for cover. Heading for the stream, to lose the scent?

     By shafts of light is the deep forest illuminated. Day or Night. Like kings, the ancient oak of deep Dunsinane Wood hold their heads erect and dominate the earth below. Their wide canopy blots out most of the sky. There shall be light where we say there shall be light. Divine Right yet exists for some.
     Paths that led here narrow, if they are not lost altogether, and ferns disappear. Only the hardiest ivy and bramble brush grows here. The shade of the oak is less forgiving -- it is harder for lesser shrubs to thrive in the shadows of such monarchs. Grey stones and sod and falling leaves and vines -- these make up the soft earth. And the roots of the aged oak that have worked their way past the soil form tangles of wood. So large, that entire kingdoms of squirrels could find suitable shelter.
     But where illumination lands, it thuds colors to the senses. Dark English oakwood. Brilliant greens of oakleaves and vines. The birth of a new tree. The tangle of a path through the foliage to a constantly chattering brook. The violet of resiliant heather.

     Though the trees of Macbeth's time have come and gone -- some by natural causes, but many others by the need for ships for the once mighty English Navy -- those found here in the thick of Dunsinane Wood are yet centuries old. Some as old as seven-hundred years. The older the oak are, the more knarled and knotty they appear. Their breadth is great, their height as much so. Long and twisting, its branch arms are wide enough to sit several men. Their hardwood is dark brown, their canopy wide and claiming. The leaves of the oak seem very much like spreading fingers. And they leave behind vast treasures for squirrels in acorns. Once, this was among the best hunting grounds for wild boar, who sought such acorns with avarice.
     Wide-leaved, the ivy grows in tangles against the bodies of the oak. Draping, at times, from the wide boughs. Tangling around knotted roots, visible above the earth. The ivy is a darker green to the vibrance of oak leaves. Hardy, the ivy also lays claim to the earth that the ferns have relinquished. After all, the oak cannot hold the sky and the earth in the same hands -- some is left over for others...
     Though one cannot see the water from here, one can hear its promise. Constant, the cascade of water over stone. It is a burbling, like voices chanting. Or singing. If one followed the small path, one might reach the source of this sound...
     Soft, steps upon the sod. Between rays of light, a red doe makes her way through the wood.

     The young men bring up the rear, a subgroup of the youngest of dogs and horses. Lundy steels and heads with you, noting the dogs' anxiousness. Something is actually afoot. Near your side, Tavish tries to keep pace, but he is at your heels. The forest does not allow much for three astride, and so he staggers faintly.

     Ah! That must be it. The dogs seem to have found another direction. Well, at least the younger ones do. Scent given or no, they should rather follow the obvious chase...a red doe. Older pack members keep to the straight and narrow. Lundy looks over his shoulder at Tavish, as if to say Keep the younger ones in line. You cannot follow whatever you choose. Tavish too spots the doe and falls a little behind from you, low clacks of his tongue sounding to get the younger pups' attentions. They shall not make a mess of this hunt. Youth and inexperience appreciated...any animal must be broken in...but they have had some training and they know better. Even Tavish's young bay went to angle, but was caught by a pulled rein and tightening of Tavish's thighs.

     It is fortunate that there is at least one very old veteran among the hounds, that streak of muddied brindle greyhound known as Macsen. For it is challenging enough that the earth gives way and tumbles, that sod turns to stone and paths are as plentiful as the vines without losing your mark because some beautiful, succulent, ripe for the picking doe happens to stroll by. A challenging terrain, one that causes William's stallion to slow his pace, jostle and pause. It is an odd halting grace. The stallion grunts mist with every twist to the trail.
     In a canter now almost a jog-in-place. With each step seeking his master's command. William gives a look to his fellows, marking each one about him. Indigo ... color merely dark at this time of night. Night colored eyes. But they catch the light and glint. And the air is alive with ...some energy of his own. Or is it his mount? The two seem joined. One could imagine this is how the legends of centaurs were born. Leathered thighs squeeze against the dappled horse between and beneath them and the beast lunges forward again, following the direction of the elder hounds.

     For her part, the doe is rather this side of terrified. And bounds off, veering and leaping northward...

     The youths who trail behind seem startled by the passing doe. It too caused pause as gears are shifted. But they soon move on with you, both men and the chastised younger dogs, who gleefully return on Tavish's command and rejoin Macsen's crowd. Lundy seems satisfied with the results, leaving Tavish to see to the rear guard.

     The way is darker now. The canopy of oak commands the sky, and ever-darkening blue of evening. Easy to lose the mark. Easy to lose the way in the tangle. In the wet. In the dank earth. The scent is hard to catch and keep. But there is a sharp sound to the east. That of the boar itself. And water. And the tearing of vines. There! A greater black against the darkness. A blur. Eastward.

     It is William's voice that sounds after. A shout of direction and some encouragement to Macsen. And glimpsed perhaps in some stray illumination, some last moment of twilight perhaps or the rising of the moon, is a broad, Norman grin. The spear that had been couched is freed from its gathers with a pull, and the dappled stallion is given its lead. The lunge spans the breadth of the stream. Downward and eastward...

     There is an answered cry among the other six men. Some shout of success and earth is torn by hooves again. And water displaced. The hounds have disappeared but now their barking is constant. This way. This way. And when the water of the stream stills after the sudden chaos, it ripples with the reflection of the moon.

     The sound of the dogs and the lunge of even the newest members gives Tavish a grin. He chases after his trainees, making sure that everyone keeps pace with the lead of the pack.

     Fanning out among the paths, between the wide bodied oak, horses dodge low branches, jump the roots of oak that twist above the earth. Riders cling on. It is harder to see now and the going is slower. The horses more anxious. In fits of starts and stops this hunt has gone, the way rough, the earth slick beneath the hooves. And now the horses are lathered, with the tangible and contagious excitement that passes from hound to horse to rider.

     The dappled stallion takes a sudden turn, a side veer, and William's hand goes out. "Fan 'round... the forest is clearing..." His hand directs even as he continues to move northward, flanking. His words come in Gaelic, edged yet with something languid. Once more is his accent midway between Poitiers and Beauly. Dark hair pulled back. Dark thick sweater of hardy wool fits to his form. The black leather gloves sturdy. The black leather on his legs matte and supple to every motion. He seems... the dark lord of the hunt that he is. Directing now. Not a moment after his voice hit the gathering fog, his horse lunges forward again, and into the clearing. Bearing a slight semi-circle. This is the way it is done. The boar must be cornered. Trapped...

     Have these lads hunted boar before? Is there a hesitation? There is at least a hound that knows the way. And leaping in and out, Macsen begins to ...dance with the boar. Hemming the creature in. Herding it... quite nearly... like a collie does a sheep. Or like a spaniard does a bull. Even as the dappled stallion is slowed to a circling pace. A gloved hand tightens at the spear, and his left hand goes up, guiding his fellows around. Time to close, lads. We've got him.

     But as William was readying his hand and calling to his fellows to join him in Macsen's dance with the boar, to hem a circle and create a living trap for the boar, the boar breaks free and heads toward an area of fallen trees...

     The young men do as they direct, the dogs keeping themselves low in their stances. Something is here and they will be at the ready. Glancing dog-eyes look at their masters at the rear, questioning what comes next. Shall we jump? Shall we wait? What happens now? Certainly much more calm comes from the likes of Macsen, who knows what shall transpire and needs not stare and flinch between site and master to know what to do.

     The young men's horses fan obediently, Tavish taking up the last position with the youngest of the dogs. He is hesitant, used to seeing to birds and more stationary positions that are away from the vanguard. But not this time. He is in the thick of it with the others, hands on his reins. He shall not shoot or draw bow, mostly concerned with positioning and the dogs, and taking the youngest members away if necessary.

     Lundy, however, remains opposite you, along with Gordon. The two most important positions, other than your own, handled by the most experienced huntsmen. They look not at their animals, having much confidence in their next actions.

     What comes from William is a rough sort of French. A Norman curse as the circle is broken by the boar before arrow could get in a shot, or his own aim could land. He is fast, but the boar... faster still. And in this open clearing, such a trap is hard to lay. Best in a pit. Or against a cliff wall, or in a thicket of trees. And it is for a thicket that the animal is scurrying. The dogs are a momentary tangle of feet and legs and barking until they sort it out and follow. William is ahead of all but Macsen. Has he not quick reflexes? There are a few widened Scottish eyes no doubt, at least from the younger members of the party. Tavish and Lundy, naturally, know more than the rest...

     A sharp thud sounds, that of the spear being lodged edge-down into the soil. But as hounds give chase into the fallen trees and thicket brush, they find the cover... too thick to enter. Plumes of mist leave the stallions nostrils and William's mouth alike as the air cools another notch with deeper level of evening. Low against his stallion's neck, the lord seeks a way within. But near the thicket, the horse jostles. Like it smells blood or death. Truly, there is neither. There is, however, an impediment to moving forward, much as he would like to do his lord's bidding.

     A gloved hand stills the mount with a touch, but even standing in one place the stallion cannot be totally still. The night has been too full for that. Dismounting, William steps forward to the fallen trees and tangled thicket "We've lost him, I think," comes the languid baritone, lifting easily and carrying to all. Disappointed? Distracted. For between the branches, William can see the grey of stone. Not a cliff wall or a boulder. He sees the grooves of obvious stonework. "What the hell..." That was English lads, something not spoken often from Lord Fraser, who tends toward Gaelic and French. "Gordon...Lundy... " Removing his gloves, William makes a motion of leather toward them. Come here.

     They are reeling from the excitement of capture and chase. Already, Lundy is turning his horse to follow, until you speak and dismount. His hound, Chester, moves too, only stopping a few feet away when his master clicks and swivels a fast dismount. Something in the brush? Something living? Something dead?

     Tavish's horse snorts and backs up, as does Gordon's. Gordon is already on his feet, frowning as some of the younger animals leave Tavish's mount's side and bound to a ground-level friend. "Shush," he says to the excited creatures, feet snapping a few twigs as he approaches you.

     "Lord Fraser?" comes Lundy's voice, back in your direction as he too dismounts. Chester returns and sits obediently near the steed while Lundy approaches at an angle to Gordon.

     The trees that had long ago fallen over the building more arch over it than have truly damaged it. Thick growth over... who knows how many centuries... of vines and the children of vines... have covered it since. Had the horse not sensed something hard beyond the softness of the vines, the charge may have very well crashed into it. The sides of the andalusion expand and contract, breath snorted toward and taken from the greenery ahead. And William reaches in and tugs away a few of the vines to reveal the rounded shape of a stone structure. Masonry. Hand holding the vines back to give Lundy a view as he approaches. Beautiful, the countenance -- what can be seen of it in this lighting -- is placid. With wonder and thought.
     "It seems our boar friend has a castle of his own..." I think I know what this is. The sudden thought, quickly masked that it not travel. "I don't remember a hunting shelter... being out here," William mulls, voice trailing slightly. Hands pull at the vines. "I nearly found out the...hard way..." by running right into it. He looks to Lundy again and then over his shoulder to Gordon.

     Macsen returns to his master's heels. He could find the boar again, but no one seems all that interested at the moment... Pity.

     Gordon is the swifter, having dismounted halfway to the building. He too was unaware of such a thing, but as his green eyes peer over the carnage, he nods understandingly why. Gloved hands begin to reach out and pull at branches and sopping mud piles of rot. Lundy's footsteps are not so far behind, and he helps Gordon heave a large branch out of the way. The other men stand vigilently by, caring for dogs and horses and making sure that an enraged boar does not return. Martyn, one of the keepers, pulls a rifle from his pack, just to be sure. Might as well have the modern convenience when needed.

     He remembers, leafing through centuries even as his hands and arms -- strength carefully measured not to seem so utterly otherworldly -- pull at branches, vines. He remembers. Held within a lord's forest it was not unusual to find such shelters here are there along traditional hunting routes. For shelter from storms, or for the lord to rest for a time with those of his company. Often used for...rendezvous of a different sort. What he can see of the masonry beneath the growth and muck is too fine to have formed a peasant's hovel. The boar is quickly forgotten.

     As hands join in to the task and some of the vines and branches are cleared away, one can see the rounded form more clearly now. The shelter, though in rough condition certainly, has been preserved to its benefit by the very trees that nearly crushed it. The thatch roof is of course shot, but... with some care, some work...it could be as it was once again.

     Sudden is the thought that comes to him then. Iain. His hand stills. "I think we'd best leave it," William says, backing up a pace. "Not sure how stable it is after all this time. I'll.... have to come out earlier," ..somehow... "... and take a closer look at it." William's voice falls to a hush, almost as if he stumbled upon a forgotten church or some ruins of a cathedral. Holy ground, this. Snapping out of his reverie, William half-turns and untucks his gloves. "Perhaps on the way back," he says, smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. That mouth Tavish and Lundy know so well. "...we can... see if that doe has come back for a drink..." Soft, the whistle that calls his hound and horse to him. William prepares to mount.

     Everyone looks surprised. Hunt, not hunt, remove branches, no, stop. Gordon and Lundy both look up, hands dirty at this stage. It's Gordon who speaks first though, saying, "Aye, Lord Fraser," as you wish. With that, he looks around to the group, a sign to mount and do as the Lord directs. As everyone moves, Gordon cocks his head to you, saying, "Th' boar...tis long f' heah, Lord Fraser," just letting you know that this evening's game is spent. Others might not hear this, stirring and backing their mounts away, giving space for manuvering and preparing to go as desired. Tavish, his eyes remain upon you for the most part, always wondering what you will do next.

     "Aye... I know..." Disappointment there at last, but a quiet sort. Tempered by thought. A pat lands on the man's shoulder and then the lord mounts. Mist leaves his parted lips in a cloud soon joined by that from his stallion's nostrils. I'll return tomorrow night... before Ian wakes... with rope and gathers. A good tug by his stallion and himself... and the brush can be tugged free. Cleared. William stares at it a moment more, before he turns his own steed toward the stream and grove. "We'll get him another night," comes the Norman voice raised a bit. "Good chase... we quite nearly had him..."
     Not bad for a group of young men and young hounds. The praise comes in warm Gaelic from his lips. The ride back to the keep shall be slower, more fit for talk. Reins tossed over his saddle's horn and looped, William tugs on his gloves, glancing toward Tavish, Lundy, Gordon and the others as he rides amidst them, more than ahead. And the smile is constant, though tempered slight.

     A raised 'aye' comes in agreement from everyone as they mount and take care to turn themselves and the dogs around. A low murmur comes as conversation picks up again, quiet as they review the hunt, the animals, and the strange thing found tonight. Praise from the Lord Fraser. And for him too...he seems a very capable leader. His arrival is a good thing, heads nod. Someone else to lead their ranks and give them another sense of purpose. Indeed, two Lords are better than one.

     Tavish calls the young hounds around himself and the bay and waits for the Hunt Master to pass. And so it goes. He smiles faintly and bobs his head as you go by, lips twisting helplessly in a muted smirk. Lundy and Gordon? They agree with your seeming assessment, greeting everyone and giving praise as well as they chat between themselves while retaking the lead back towards the castle fair.

Posted by rowan at May 23, 2000 10:50 AM