Page 17 of The Beauty and His Beast

“No, my lord! You were at the monastery, they wouldn’t have taught you all this.”

“We all have to start somewhere! Lucky for you we’re here to help. Don’t worry.”

“Thank you,” Camdyn said again, sounding a bit more cheerful. “I’ll do my best—”

The sharp call of a horn drowned out his words.

The hart had been spotted. The group let out a series of joyous whoops and galloped off. Everild glanced back at Camdyn, who had gone still with confusion, and jerked his head forward. The chase was on.

It was far too familiar, galloping past the others until he was riding alongside the hounds. As soon as Udele had pinpointed the possible path the hart would take, she had set a dog and a handler each along the way to be released when their quarry was found. Now they rushed after the hart, a series of snarling, barking blurs in Everild’s peripheral vision.

They’d corner the beast. However large the forest was, however dark and wooded, there would be no way for the hart to hide or to rest. Not with Udele’s hounds on their scent, and not with a determined unit of men ready and waiting to route its escape. The horn sounded again, signaling the knights to retreat behind the lines and the archers to step forward.

No, wait, that wasn’t right—

His horse crashed through a creek and lumbered up the other side of the bank. Everild allowed a moment’s rest before he spurred her on, flecks of water flying from her coat. Around them, some of Udele’s hounds lunged out of the water, panting and snarling, giving their fur a shake before they, too, continued on. In the distance, there was the flash of movement from more dogs released, the sound of their handlers urging them on with encouraging shouts.

Everild breathed in time with the mare. At the slightest tug of the reins, she immediately turned in another direction. The screams and war horns didn’t bother her in the slightest; she paid attention to only Everild’s touch. This was the way to survive a battle. Atop a well-trained horse, sword in hand.

“My lord,” a man shouted, “The hart’s headed to the edge of the forest.”

Perfect. They’d flush the man out and flank him. He wouldn’t be able to escape.

No, that wasn’t what this was. What was—he was lightheaded. Everild shook his head vigorously and spurred his horse onward through the thinning forest. He reached the tree line and flew out the other side, accompanied by dogs and the rest of the hunting party.

The hart was nearly at bay. It was still fleeing, but exhausted enough that the hounds could nip at its legs. They didn’t actually bite. Udele’s dogs were too well-trained for that. They’d merely run the animal ragged until it could do nothing but stamp and scream.

This beast was enormous, nearly seven feet long and probably over 400 pounds. This was where the danger lay, when the hart was desperate and exhausted and angry and ready to pierce its pursuers with its ten-pointed antlers.

They’d driven it to this point; its panicked eyes rolled wildly in its sockets, the harsh grunts and shrieks it emitted, the scratches on its hide seeping blood from having jumped through thorns and brambles in its frenzy to escape.

Some of the haze cleared from Everild’s eyes, and finally, he was able to think. The thought that rolled through his head was:thank God the king would kill it.

He didn’t think himself capable of it now, not in his confusion. But the highest-ranking man in the hunting party got the honor of making the kill, and there was no one higher than the king himself.

Udele whistled, and the dogs scattered, leaving the king, Dustan, and Everild closest to the hart. The attendants gathered around them, ready to trap it if it fled from the king’s spear. As they circled the hart, Everild swore he could see it watching him.

There must be care in how one pierced the hunted animal. Too many stabs ruined the pelt, and a stray stick in theguts could potentially rip the stomach or intestines, ruining the meat. It was a testament to his cousin’s skill and strength that he jumped off his horse, took his spear in hand, and lunged forward, breaking through skin and bone and straight to the beating heart.

Some said that a stag could live for hundreds of years, but this one, a full-grown hart, died twitching and panting and groaning, bleeding out on the dirt as men cheered around it.

What did Camdyn think of this display? Had it upset him? Disturbed him? Everild turned to find the stallion and his husband’s face among the crowd.

He wasn’t there.

Frowning, he searched instead for the two young men who were seeing to him. They were with Udele, speaking in low, anxious voices.

“Where’s Camdyn?” he asked, startling the trio. “Where’s my husband?”

Udele said, “He got separated during the chase, my lord.”

The young men chimed in. “We’re so sorry—“

“We thought he was right behind us.”

Everild took a deep breath. “Where—where was he last?”

“We’re not sure.”

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