The Hunt

The morning after the great feast at Rouen was bright and sunny. Church bells rang through the city. Birds fluttered over the rooftops. And the kitchens smelled wonderfully of warm bread and honey cakes.

Willy was terribly excited. For that day, the Norman lords were going hunting in the forests beyond the city. There would be horses, hunting dogs, falcons, banners, and long winding rides beneath the trees. Willy could barely sit still at breakfast.

Monsieur Le Twigg, meanwhile, had somehow appeared beside the honey cakes.

No one had seen him arrive.

Before the hunt began, Willy and Edward walked together through the castle courtyard.

There they met the royal falconer holding a magnificent hunting bird upon his arm.

The falcon had golden eyes, sharp claws, and the expression of someone who considered most humans slightly disappointing.

Willy stared in amazement. “She’s beautiful,” he whispered.

Edward nodded. “Falcons are brave,” he said. “But the best hunters are patient too.”

Willy was not particularly interested in patience. Patience sounded slow. Adventure sounded much better.

Monsieur Le Twigg had by this point appeared upon a nearby barrel and seemed quietly interested in a pastry.

Soon the hunting party rode out into the Norman countryside.

The woods were green and cool beneath the spring sunshine.

Dogs barked happily. Horns echoed through the trees. Horses splashed through muddy paths.

Willy rode proudly beside Edward. At first everything went perfectly. Then, just ahead, Willy caught a flash of movement deep among the trees. A magnificent stag. Its antlers gleamed in the sunlight before it vanished into the forest.

Willy gasped.

And before anyone could stop him—off he rode.

The stag disappeared deeper and deeper into the woods.

Willy followed eagerly.

Branches swished overhead. Leaves fluttered beneath the horse’s hooves.

Soon the sounds of the hunt faded away. No more dogs. No more horns. No more shouting knights. Only silence.

Willy slowed his horse. He looked left. He looked right. Every tree looked exactly the same.

“Oh dear,” he said quietly.

Then he glanced down.

Monsieur Le Twigg had somehow appeared tucked safely beneath his arm, despite definitely not being there two minutes earlier.

This was comforting.

At last Willy climbed down beside a little stream bubbling through the woods.

Sunlight sparkled on the water. Birds chirped overhead. And although it was all very pretty, Willy had absolutely no idea where he was.

“We are not lost,” he announced firmly. “We are simply… somewhere unexpected.”

Monsieur Le Twigg had by now appeared sitting calmly upon a mossy stone beside the stream. A leaf rested upon his head.

He looked entirely untroubled by the situation.

Willy sat beside him.

After a moment he admitted, “Perhaps we are a little lost.”

Just then, a kindly old forester stepped out from the trees carrying a bundle of sticks. He had a moss-green cloak, muddy boots, and a beard so large it looked capable of sheltering birds during rainstorms.

The forester blinked in surprise. For beside the stream he found a small noble boy, a magnificent horse, and a tiny pale bear who appeared to have arrived there through mysterious means best not questioned.

“Well now,” said the forester kindly. “You seem far from home.”

Willy straightened proudly. “I am William, Duke of Normandy.”

The forester nodded politely. “And I am fairly certain you are lost.”

This, Willy realized, was entirely correct.

The old forester guided Willy gently through the woods.

As they walked, Willy asked, “How do you always know where to go?”

The forester smiled. “Forests are easier when you stop rushing. If you stay calm and listen carefully, the world often helps you find the way.”

Willy thought about this.

Beside him, Monsieur Le Twigg had once again somehow appeared tucked safely inside his cloak.

Willy had not put him there. But he was glad all the same.

At last they emerged from the forest edge to discover complete chaos.

Knights galloped everywhere shouting, “Find the Duke!” “Search the river!” “Check the hills!”

Sir Raoul looked as though he might faint from worry.

Edward himself rode at the front of the search party looking deeply concerned.

Then Willy appeared calmly from the trees.

Everyone stopped at once.

Sir Raoul rode forward in relief. “My lord duke! Where have you been?”

Willy thought carefully.

Then he answered truthfully, “Learning patience.”

Edward laughed softly. “Then it was not an entirely wasted hunt.”

Monsieur Le Twigg had by this point somehow appeared sitting upon an empty saddle accompanied by half a honey cake.

This was becoming a habit.

No one knew where the honey cake had come from either.

That evening, as candles flickered warmly inside the castle, Edward asked, “Did you catch the stag?”

Willy shook his head. “No,” he admitted. “But I found my way home.”

Edward smiled warmly.

And the Chronicles of Twiggleigh-Foote say that this was the day Willy began learning something very important:

Being brave does not mean charging ahead all the time.

Sometimes being brave means stopping, listening, staying calm, and trusting that you are not alone.

Monsieur Le Twigg, of course, had understood this from the very beginning.