Adventure stories; Fools and jesters -- Fiction; France -- History -- Medieval period, 987-1515 -- Fiction; Love stories
He took now to frequenting the woods and moors which lay around the
castle. Lying on the heather, its scent and the scent of the golden
gorse warm and fragrant in his nostrils, he would gaze over the
surrounding country, see the blue channel below him gleaming in the
sunlight, the Welsh coast dim and hazy beyond, look northwards to the
small town nestling at the foot of the hill which rises some eight
hundred feet above it.
Roaming the woods he would watch for the first hint of Spring in the
swelling buds of the larch trees, would rejoice in the faint shimmer of
green flung over them when she first shows a shy face, would seek among
brown leaves scattered on the ground for the pale primrose, the delicate
windflower, the fragile wood sorrel with its tiny white petals lightly
veined in mauve. Here he learned of the ways of the wild creatures of
nature, rather than the ways of men, and found them more to his liking.
What we give that shall we receive, so are we told, though verily there
are times when the giving will appear to outweigh all receipts. Possibly
this is because we look to reward to follow hard upon bestowal, trust
not to the finding after many days. Here in the woods, however,
Peregrine found swift reward. The love he bestowed upon the woodland
creatures gained him their love in return. The birds would feed from his
hand, the animals brought their young to play at his feet; confidence
between them and him reached a very pretty note of harmony.
Wandering further afield he would watch the red deer which in daylight
found hiding-place in distant combes, see them in moonlight moving in
great herds across the moor. In the combes he would go boldly up to
them, feed them with pieces of coarse bread, and bunches of freshly
pulled grass. Only in the mating season he left them alone, knowing the
wild jealousy of the stag.
When, as frequently happened, he heard the huntsman’s horn, caught a
glimpse of hounds, horses, and their riders in full cry, he would clench
his brown fists, his young jaw set in a grim line, his whole body
a-quiver with rage. Even so might a man feel who saw his friend hunted
to his death.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
Reviews
Reviews
No reviews yet
Be the first to share your thoughts on this work.
Join the Discussion
Join the discussion
Sign in to leave a comment or review.
Sign InorCreate an account