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Hartslove Blog
30th July, 1185
You may be surprised to hear from me, but my name is Gryffed and, for a very glamorous wolfhound at Hartslove Castle, I don’t get nearly enough attention. Why does everyone go wild about the Hartslove horses? We Hartslove dogs are just as brave, particularly me and my great friend Courant, the best running-hound I have ever had the privilege to meet. We can do things just as useful as any horse except that you can’t ride us, of course. Why horses allow people to do that, I’ll never know. Anyhow, I want to tell you that Sir Thomas, Gavin, and Will just take us dogs for granted. They toss us the odd bone and think we’re happy. Well, of course Courant and I like bones as much as the next dog, but they aren’t the ONLY things we like. I, for example, like having my ears scratched and Courant likes somebody to pick out her fleas. And if I tell you a secret, will you promise to keep it to yourself? Well, both Courant and I are partial to having our tummies tickled, although this must be done privately because it makes us look silly and I, for one, definitely don’t like that. Ellie’s good at tickling. Sometimes I think she’s the only one who takes any proper notice of us at all even though, as a rule, I don’t like girls. That Old Nurse (was she ever a girl?) is always pushing me out of the way when I’m helping clear the table. I reckon my tongue is a much better cleaner than her dirty old skirt. I shall now list the things in my special hole, the one I have dug by the fireplace in the great hall where the rushes are never changed: One mouse (dead), three acorns, a stick I mistook for a lamb chop, four mutton bones (two very well chewed, one less well chewed, one practically perfect), a bird’s nest (can’t remember where I found that), Sir Thomas’s missing glove, Constable de Scabious’s best dog whip, a dried stag dropping, the remains of a custard tart…oh, and a little leather bottle Old Nurse dropped. When I bit into it, some strange-smelling liquid trickled out. It tasted like fire and made me feel very peculiar.
I stole a rabbit from the larder for breakfast. I was going to share it with Courant but somehow I forgot. Later, there was a fine old hullabaloo. Gavin threw Will into the horsetrough! Doubtless that K. M. Grant will tell you all about that but let me assure you that the real battles and adventures round here are nothing to do with brotherly rivalry and Saracens. The real battles, the important ones, are between the Hartslove hounds and the Hartslove foxes, in particular between Courant and me and that slyboots, Reinhard, and his mob. Our war is about something much more important than religion or territory. Our war is about chickens. Reinhard believes the Hartslove flock is his dinner menu. Courant and I disagree violently. It’s not that we like chickens, well, not to talk to anyway. We did once try to make friends, but whenever we went near them, all they did was squawk and flap and I got so irritated that I couldn’t help snapping. It really wasn’t my fault that one got in the way of my teeth. Luckily, Sir Thomas’s goshawk, Syro, who was off her leash, seized the corpse and it looked as though she was the culprit. Nobody dares to scold her or she sulks and won’t hunt for at least a week. Ellie pulled ticks out of my ears this evening. She seemed sad. How could she be sad when I was looking at her so soulfully? Girls! Thought of giving her an acorn but forgot.
Are you still there? I’m sorry I’ve been away so long but something has happened. Will has a new horse, a red horse, quite a nice horse actually, called Hosanna. But it means he spends even less time with me than before. I’ve discussed this with Courant, to see if she thinks I should make a fuss—pretend to be ill or something—but I’ve decided against it at the moment.
It didn’t work, at least not in the way I wanted it to. Will noticed nothing, but Old Nurse saw me lying in front of the fire looking my most miserable, grabbed me and shoved one of her disgusting medicines down my throat saying, ‘that’ll do you, my boy.’ I’m NOT ‘her boy.’ And Courant sniggered. Humiliation.
To redeem my self-respect, last night I issued a challenge to Reinhard, delivering it in my droppings just to add a bit of insult. ‘Are you brave enough to get the chickens? Come on, I dare you.’ He’s replied, leaving his droppings right outside the castle gate. The cheek of it. He says he’ll have all the chickens by All Saint’s Day, but that he’ll leave me a present of one or two, all ready to eat, to cheer me up. How dare he. Doesn’t he know that I’m a member of the Gryffed family of Gryffed (I think) and he’s just a mangy fox? It’s war. He can try for the chickens. We’ll try for fox tails. Meant to give Hosanna one of my treasures, just to be friendly, but forgot.
Excellent day. Will was too busy training Hosanna with the lance to go hunting, so Courant and I waited until Constable de Scabious rode out to see how the threshing was getting on and slipped after him. We had a wild day in the woods. Reinhard shouted insults but he was well beaten and we nabbed two rude cubs. They’ll not call me ‘scruffy longnose’ again.
Bonus: on the way home I picked up an old badger pelt. It stank most beautifully. Was going to give it to the pantry boy who gave me and Courant a huge pile of beef scraps that were only a bit wormy, but forgot. Have stashed it away with other treasures.
Catastrophe. A dozen chickens dead in one night. Courant and I are dragging our tails. Under Courant’s tawny coat, I believe she’s gone quite pink. Reinhard and several filthy friends crept under the walls through an old rabbit warren. I was…well…I was…oh dear. I’m finding it hard to tell you that I was asleep. Will took me with him when he went out on Hosanna today and we had a rare old gallop up on the moors and then a swim in the river. I did my best splashing to get Will’s attention and splashing can be quite tiring. So when I got back, I had a bit of a chew on my second best mutton bone and then thought I’d snooze by the bakehouse door. When I woke up, it was already dark and Reinhard had left a chicken carcass about three feet in front of my nose. This morning, when the chicken-girl came, she screamed. Reinhard had scattered his spoils everywhere. The scoundrel didn’t eat even one. At least nobody thought it was me, although Cook muttered that he’d make a better guard dog than I do, which was very rude indeed, especially as I take great care never to say I’d make a better cook than him even though I would. I may bite him when I next get the chance. A dog has a right to sleep, and if old Cookie wasn’t so lazy, he’d have made sure the chickens were put away properly. And he always smells of mackerel, a food I particularly dislike. Nevertheless, with a heavy heart I must record: To try and make amends, I did not forget to put my third best bone on Will’s bed. He rejected it so I took it back. On the way to my own bed I passed Cook and forgot to bite him. Utter despondency.
Things are looking up. Will went out with grumpy Sir Walter and Ellie. Courant and I ran beside them. Reinhard was waiting AND he was alone. Courant soon put the wind up him and although he tried to stay in the cover of the wood, she pushed him out into the open. Then what a hunt we had: Courant crying her insults, her nose never faltering even when Reinhard crossed the river; Will on Hosanna, whooping and leaping; Ellie, crouched on Sacramenta, silent and tense; and silly old Sir Walter calling for them to come back and do more lance practice. Lance practice when Reinhard’s brush is taunting you? No thank you. I told Will to ignore everything except the glorious chase, and he obviously understood because that’s just what he did. We’d have caught Reinhard too if he hadn’t hidden amongst some great shuffling pigs being driven to the forest. But at least Courant made up an excellent name for him. ‘Come back here, pig-whiff,’ she howled. Reinhard didn’t like that one bit! Was going to give Courant my bird’s nest to play with, but I forgot.
I’m in disgrace. Even Courant can’t quite look at me. Wish I hadn’t forgotten to give her the bird’s nest. Six more chickens are gone and Reinhard didn’t even kill them. They were snatched by a gang of peasant boys. I did try to stop them, of course, but what’s a dog to do when boys bring bones and toss them his way? If you leave bones lying about, other dogs snatch them. All’s fair where bones are concerned. So I just had to dash with them to my special hole before doing anything else. Why don’t humans understand that for me to lose a bone is like them losing their sword? Just can’t be contemplated. But now I’m to be sent out with Ellie and the berry-pickers tomorrow, held on a lead like some stupid ladies’ dog. I just know Reinhard will see me. I was going to share the bones from the boys with Courant. I wouldn’t have forgotten, but I’m locked up so I can’t.
Do you know what, that red horse is almost dog-like in his intelligence? Just when they wanted to put me on that horrible lead, Hal was leading him out of his stable and he limped a bit. Well, everyone forgot about me AT ONCE. No berry picking for Ellie. Too busy going over every inch of Hosanna’s legs as if there were gold to be found. It took hours! And do you know, when they walked him back to his stall, he wasn’t limping at all! Cool horse. I was going to give him my dried stag’s dropping but…oh dear.
Only sixteen more days to go of the chicken war and last night Courant and I thwarted a double-fronted attack from Reinhard’s mob. Why is Will never there to see me at my dogged best? We waited until Reinhard got amongst those idiot birds. Then, when I raised my head, we set up such a hullabaloo that he fled with nothing. Best of all, I bit the end off his brush. That made him skedaddle alright. I took the brush-end to my hole when everybody was watching. Will patted me a lot and Ellie made a garland for my head. It was silly, of course, but do you know, I was quite proud to wear it. I suppose Ellie would have liked the foxbrush but it’s my best treasure. I’ll give her the mouse if I remember. Score:
Had argument with Reinhard last night. Cook scragged twenty chickens for the pot so I say that gives old slyboots an unfair advantage because there are only six left and any self-respecting fox should be able to get six chickens. He says that’s just luck. I asked Courant but she ignored me. Perhaps I should give her my lamb chop stick?
Did NOT forget to give lamb chop stick to Courant. Didn’t think it was suitable and am determined to find something better when out with Will and Hosanna tomorrow.
Today Will did a lot of jousting with Sir Walter. That Hosanna is very nifty on his feet but I couldn’t help laughing a bit when Will fell off not once, but SIX times! Admittedly, perhaps I shouldn’t have made Hosanna swerve so that Will toppled over into that boggy patch, but if he’d only realised that Reinhard was smirking in the trees, he’d not have been so cross. Anyway, when he finally shattered Sir Walter’s lance I had a brainwave, rushed in, retrieved a good-sized splinter and presented that to Courant! Admittedly, it didn’t smell very interesting, but it’s the thought that counts.
Courant didn’t like the splinter and says she’s not my friend any more, but at least the chickens are alright and there are only two more nights to go.
The chickens have vanished! Reinhard insists he took them home with him, but I don’t believe him. I think Cook has them. Why does everybody believe a fox rather than me? Spiro looks at me with utter disdain. Courant is sulking in the corner. Oh dear. Perhaps that lance splinter was a bit mean. Do you think I’ll have to give her my best bone if I’m not to feel a total failure? I’ll write the score although I don’t believe it: Sat beside my hole and chewed best bone. Now it’s second best bone and not fit to give away. Depressed.
We all went to the abbey for Mass. I sat outside with Hosanna, feeling gloomy. Courant sat with Gavin’s horse, Montlouis. Then, just when the abbot came out to bless us, I caught sight of Reinhard skulking by the gatehouse. Well, Holy Day or not, I wasn’t going to let this opportunity pass me by. I was sorry to knock over some monks, but my honour was at stake. What a peculiar hunt it was: in and out of the abbey church, round the cloisters, past the cellar and the guest house, sweeping through the kitchen and chapter house, up the stairs, through the dormitory and finally sliding down the lavatory chute (how disgusting humans are). I cornered Reinhard in the vegetable beds. By now the monks were cheering, although the abbot looked a bit fed up and Will kept shouting my name. Luckily, I’m a bit deaf at times. Anyway, Courant couldn’t resist in the end and we bowled Reinhard over together. I called it the chickens’ revenge. Then Will grabbed me but he couldn’t scold me. Foxes are vermin after all. I’ll only admit this to you, but now that I’m to write the score for the last time, I feel a bit funny. Nevertheless: Will took Reinhard back to the castle and buried his remains near the chicken hut. I meant to put Constable de Scabious’s best dog whip on the grave, but Courant, who is my friend again, said that was asking for trouble, so I forgot. Hope I can catch you again another time. If you want to know more about my life, you can email through that K. M. Grant. She’s promised to pass on messages which I’ll always answer unless, that is, I forget. Happy Dog Days!
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