Sworn Brother Read Online Free PDF

wrapped with straw and there was an obvious damp patch around it. I realised it was a urinating post. ‘Every three days you change that straw as well. Let the dogs out into the run first thing every morning. That’s when you will change their straw bedding. They’re to be fed once a day - mostly stale bread, but also meat scraps from the main kitchen, whatever is left over. You are to check through the scraps to make sure that there’s nothing harmful in the swill. If any dog is sick or off-colour, and there’s usually one or two, you’re to let me know at once.’
‘Where will I find you?’ I asked.
    ‘I live in the cottage opposite the hawk shed. Behind my house you’ll find the lean-to where the straw is kept. If I’m not at home, probably because I’m out in the forest, check with my wife before you touch any of the stores. She’ll keep an eye on you to make sure that you’re doing your job thoroughly. Any questions?’
    By now we had re-emerged from the dog shed and were back at the entrance to the dog-run. ‘No,’ I said, ‘you’ve made everything very clear. Where do I sleep?’
    He gave me a look of pure malice. ‘Where do you expect? With the dogs, of course. That’s the right place for a kennelman.’
    My next question was on the tip of my tongue, when the expression on his face decided me not to give him the satisfaction of asking it. I was going to enquire, ‘What about my food? Where do I take my meals?’ But I already knew the answer — ‘With the dogs. You eat what they do.’
    I was right. The next days were among the most vile that I ever spent and I have lived under some unspeakable conditions. I ate and I slept with the dogs. I picked out the better scraps from their food for my own meals, I caught their fleas and I spent a good deal of my time avoiding their teeth. I loathed them, and took to carrying a cudgel - which I hid under the dog platform whenever Edgar appeared — and used it to clout any dog that came too close to me, though some of the nastier ones still tried to circle round behind me and attack. The experience gave me ample time to wonder how on earth people could become fond of their dogs, least of all such unlovely hounds as these. In Ireland the clan chiefs had been proud of their wolfhounds, and I had understood why. Their dogs were resplendent, elegant animals, aristocratic with their long legs and haughty pace. But Edgar’s pack was, to all appearances, a bunch of curs. Half the height of a wolfhound, they had short faces, sharp snouts and untidy fur. The predominant colour was a drab brown, though a few had patches of black or of tan, and one dog would have been all white if it had not kept rolling in the filthiness. It was incredible to me that anyone would take the trouble to keep a pack of them. Several months later I learned that they were known as ‘Briton hounds’ and their forebears had been gready valued as hunting dogs by those same Romans who had built the Wailing Street. My informant was a monk whose abbot was a sporting priest and ran a pack of them, and he told me that these Briton hounds were valued for their courage, their tenacity and their ability to follow the scent whether in the air or on the ground. How the dogs managed to follow a scent amazed me, for they themselves stank exceedingly. In an attempt to keep my purple tunic from being tainted, I took the precaution of hanging my faithful leather satchel from a peg in one of the upright posts, as high up as I could manage, for I knew for certain that, within hours, I reeked as much as my canine companions.
    Edgar came to visit the kennel both morning and afternoon to check on me as well as his noxious hounds. He would enter the dog-run and wade nonchalantly through the riot of animals. He had an uncanny ability to spot any of them that were cut, scratched or damaged in any way. Then he would reach out and grab the dog and haul it close. With complete assurance he folded back ears, prised