The Hawks of Delamere

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It took three strong men to help him into the saddle. Hugh d’Avranches, Earl of Chester and master of all he surveyed, was now so fat and cumbersome that he could barely waddle along.

When he came lumbering into the courtyard, he supported himself on the sturdy shoulder of Dickon the Falconer. The rest of the hunting party were already mounted and they waited patiently until the three servants hoisted their master on to his horse, a mighty destrier specially chosen to bear the excessive weight of its noble rider.

Hugh gazed around the assembly with a twinkling eye. ‘Are you in the mood for sport, my friends?’ he asked.

‘We are, my lord!’ came the unanimous reply.

‘Sport by day and more sport by night, eh?’ said their host with a lecherous grin. ‘Hawking in one forest then hunting in the dark in another!’

Crude sniggers greeted the ribald comment but Hugh’s own laughter rose above it. Like the man himself, it was vast and overwhelming, beginning somewhere deep in the cave of his lungs before spreading quickly through the crevices and valleys of his mountainous frame until he shook uncontrollably with mirth.

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