Hunting.
A Medieval Passion.
Hunting in Anglo-Saxon England
was a pastime for the rich. Spears, nets, horses, men and dogs were often
needed. Of the bigger hunted game, wild
boar were extremely dangerous, most of all when cornered and brought to bay,
but they were seen as worthy adversaries. The god Woden was a god of hunting
and the god Frey rode a boar called Gullinbursti.
As a sport, hunting was mostly
for the well off. However the forests were largely free for landowners and
their people to gather wood, honey and fruit and to pasture animals. Rights to
woodland, heath, moorland and wetlands were shared by all by ancient custom.
1066 and the conquest of England
by the Normans saw a massive change in the law. King William appropriated huge
tracts of land as hunting preserve—the New Forest being the most famous. In such areas the law was forest law, a new
import into England, and bitterly resented, being regarded as oppressive. All
game was protected and reserved for the king and his nobles. There were deer parks, enclosed stretches
encircled by stakes and earthen banks, costly both to set up and to maintain.
Breeding and training dogs for the chase were also expensive. Edward III spent
about £80 a year (around £49,000 in modern money) keeping a pack of hounds of
various types. Costumes for the hunt were often specially made and favourite
hounds might have silver collars.
Hunting was frequently portrayed
in art and in literature. The month of December was often shown in
illuminations, symbolized by a deer or boar hunt. In the poem “Sir Gawain and the Green
Knight” there are several hunting
scenes, each vividly described.
With all this tasty food and opulent
display, the nobles were keen to gain royal grants so they could also hunt on
their lands. Although both lords and ladies hunted, tracking and killing large prey
was seen as a form of single combat, man against beast, and a means to train
young warriors for war. Because of this martial association priests were not
supposed to hunt or hawk, although these strictures were often ignored.
Those less than noble despised
the changes. The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle complained that the Norman King William
I “set aside a vast deer preserve and
imposed laws concerning it….Whoever slew a hart or hind should be made
blind.” On his death in 1087, the
Chronicle broke into verse:
“For he loved the stags as dearly
As though he had been their
father.”
The death of his
son and successor, William Rufus, within
the New Forest, was seen by later chroniclers as divine punishment for driving
so many off the land to accommodate the beasts of the chase.
In these circumstances it is
perhaps not surprising that many folk turned to poaching in the woodland to eke
out their diet and to defy the authorities. The fact these poachers were
successful is shown in the statue of
1390, which stated that any artificers, labourers or peasants with lands worth
less than £10 a year (around £7000 in modern money) could not hunt deer, rabbit
or hares. Still poaching went on—Robin Hood hunts in the greenwood as a gesture
of defiance and to supply himself and his men with venison from captured deer. Perhaps
it tasted particularly sweet?
Excerpt.
Out in the
forest, Magnus glanced so often at the sun’s position that Gregory Denzil
chaffed him. “Eager for the night, Magnus? That luscious redhead is a trophy,
before God, and we all envy you!”
His men added
more, which embarrassed even Mark and set Magnus’s guts grinding in slow fury.
Keeping his countenance was easy. His scars meant most men had trouble guessing
his mood. Except for Elfrida, of course, but she was unique.
“I remember you
with that blonde from
“Elfrida is not
for sale,” Magnus repeated. He hated to sully her name by speaking it in such
company, but Denzil and his men had to learn. He gripped his spear, a flash of
memory returning him to Outremer as he saw in his mind’s eye a Templar
screaming in agony as a spear passed through him. “Where is this rich game?” he
demanded, snatching at any diversion and wishing only for the night. Elfrida in
his arms again and him seducing her, kissing her in her most secret place...
He heard a faint
click and creak behind him and knew at once it was a bow and arrow being
readied and aimed. There was no game in the wastes and thickets of hazel ahead,
so he must be the target.
Before he
completed his conscious thought, he had reacted, dragging his left foot out of
its stirrup and head-butting down into the snow, not considering the speed of
his cantering horse or where he might land. Snow-crusted brambles snagged and
broke his fall, and as he urged his flailing limbs to roll away, he felt the
vane of the arrow score the top of his shoulder, where the middle of his back
would have been.
“Maaagnusss!
Areee yeee weeeeelllll?”
Gregory Denzil’s
question crawled from his mouth as the world about Magnus slowed into thick
honey. As his jaw crunched against a branch and threatened to loosen more
teeth, he felt a trickle of blood run into his eye.
He compelled his
sluggish body to sit up, a devil caught in a thicket. He knew he would make
that picture, and he grinned, raising an arm to his men and yelling, “Hola!
What a ride!”
Denzil and his
mob nudged their horses closer. Mark had already leapt from his own with his
hunting spear aimed at Denzil's throat. Magnus stood up, cursing with all the
oaths of Outremer he could remember, and looked around him. His own men were
honestly puzzled, while Denzil's wore expressions of studied innocence.
“Not a good time
for archery practice,” he said. All good
fun, all men together.
Denzil smiled
thinly. “A fool, too eager for sport.”
“Indeed.” As an
assassination attempt, Magnus rated it as poor to moderate, but Gregory Denzil
had always been lazy. And in the clustered mass of hunters, he saw no skinny
stranger with distinctive rings.
“Time to go on?”
he asked, knowing if he suggested it, Denzil would say the opposite, which he
did.
“We go back.”
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