“I am loyal to my lord the king,” said the marshal. He meant: I am no conspirator.
“And when,” said the prince, “under Heaven’s mercy, my brother comes to die, you will still owe the same duty to the throne.”
Roland was appalled. Such mention of a monarch’s death was never so brazenly voiced, even by a brother of the king. This was a trap, Roland realized—a test to discover his possible disloyalty.
“Our king is in spitting health, my lord prince,” said Roland, adding, “God be thanked.”
Henry’s gaze was steady. Roland felt his soul being weighed, marred specimen though it was. I should not have killed the poacher, thought the marshal. Henry did not like it then, and he does not like it now. The prince, thought Roland, was one of those quiet, unforgiving men.
“What if I myself,” said the prince, “ordered the dogs slain and the pike shafts readied?”
“I would be required to report as much to the king.”
The prince laughed quietly. “Of course, I was speaking only to test you,” he said.
“You are cunning, my lord prince.”
“Do you enjoy bloodshed, Roland?” asked the prince in the tone of someone considering a matter of philosophy.
“In past years I did very much, my lord, but no longer.”
“Would you wish for a more peaceful season, dear Roland?”
This was true enough—Roland would be glad when his life became serene, the way his father’s had been. His father had been the royal chandler, with responsibility for the king’s candles, but the job had a status beyond that of simply providing illumination for the long winter nights. Chandlers were generally reliable and respected men, attended by cheerful and efficient servants.
His father had been full of praise for the ancestral home of Montfort, refuge of scholars and holy men, and how finely scented the beeswax of that place had been and how softly woven the wicks. His father could pass by the heads of a dozen men on pikes, gaping and eyeless, ignoring them because his heart was full of nostalgia for Candlemas as it had been celebrated in his boyhood.
In Roland’s view, the English were lucky to learn Norman ways. Not long ago a goose girl who lived in a hole in the ground near the river, a pathetic hovel, accepted a quarter silver penny to lie with him. A quarter of a penny could buy a flock of geese, a goose girl, and a bushel basket for the eggs, but in his tenderness he had felt a generosity, and was just settling in with the lass when young Simon Foldre had stumbled across them.
The young woman had all but screamed rape! and hurried off with his silver piece, and Roland had had to endure Simon Foldre’s challenge. Simon was not altogether a useless young man—he was half Norman, after all. And he was tall and well built—no easy opponent. He had a way of pronouncing the Norman words and vowels with superlative care, as though aware that at any moment he might be exposed as what he really was—a hare raised by cats.
“I shall ride to London at dawn,” said Henry decisively, “stopping first in Winchester to drink new ale.”
With a stab of regret, Roland realized how much he wanted the prince where he could watch him.
Roland gave a dutiful bow. “But the king will be better defended, my lord prince, with you by his side.”
“Nonsense,” said Prince Henry. He laughed. “I need to find out how it is that the rats of the Fleet River have grown big enough to eat dogs.”
“You heard about that butchery in Boulogne, my lord,” said Roland. “Lord Walter of Poix, our Norman friend, had to endow a very large window of stained glass to escape the Church’s censure.”
“You don’t like Walter, do you?” inquired the prince.
Surely the prince had heard the minstrels sing, “The man ahorse and the man afoot met upon a bridge.” The rhyme was most offensive to Montfort pride—the Tirel hero of the song pissed on the unhorsed Montfort. That was what passed for humor in these troubled times—no sober Christian could smile at such a lyric. Roland was not sure, but he was willing to wager that he had heard the dwarf whistling the tune just last week.
“I think we need not fear the lord of Poix,” said the prince. “His grandfather had a mastiff who could eat candles.”
Sometimes Roland was convinced that the king and this brothers could not be spoken to as a man would speak to another, rational soul. Their minds were a mystery—even the best of them uttered nonsense. “Candles, my lord?”
“He ate twelve church tapers at one sitting, and my own uncle lost a silver shilling wager.”
“That certainly does burnish Walter’s name,” said Roland, with an irony lost on the prince.
Perhaps the prince had been right. Perhaps someone was listening. A footstep whispered among the rushes strewn across the floor, and a cloth nearby moved, its neatly arranged folds shifting, settling.
It was Roland’s turn to seek out a spy, but the royal marshal had far better cause for his suspicions.
He whisked aside a hanging drape, took a long stride through benches arranged along the wall, and seized a slight, cringing figure by the arm.
Just as he smelled the unmistakable stink of burning rushes.
The lodge was on fire.
12
“I put the fire out myself, my lord,” said the youth as Roland dragged him, kicking aside a bench in the darkness.
The apparent spy was a boy about the size of a mouse. He wore expensive lamb’s wool, his yellow tunic stitched with red silk. A candle stub thrust into his belt gave Roland insight into the source of the nascent blaze.
“What are you doing?” demanded Roland.
“My lords,” began the youth, “if it please you—”
Roland shook him so hard his teeth snapped together.
“By Heaven’s mercy,” said the lad, “I am Nicolas Durand, herald to Walter, lord of Poix.”
Roland had seen the lad earlier, but the boy had remained carefully shielded by man and horse, a subtle creature who knew how to keep out of the way of his more boisterous fellows.
“Why are you spying on us?” asked the prince on his own behalf, in a voice made all the more sinister for being soft.
“I swear, my lords—” The herald caught himself, and began again. “I swear my lord prince,” he said with a bow, “and my lord marshal, that I sought the ease of a chamber pot. And I lost my way.”
“Did you set the lodge on fire with that candle stub?” asked Roland. The rush-cloaked floors of hunting lodges were notoriously flammable, and smoldering wicks and spilled lamp oil combined with oily filth to burn down many a fine peaked roof.
“I came upon a smoking heap of straw, my lords,” said Nicolas, “and, if you will allow me to be brief, I did drown the spark with piss, and that’s an end to your trouble.”
Roland marveled at the boy’s self-possession. This was another point of annoyance about the old-country nobles—their servants were circumspect and efficient, while Roland was lucky if his cook back in London could pluck a hen. If Nicolas was indeed a spy, he was good at it, the very picture of abashed innocence—and he was adept at putting out fires, too.
“Did you catch the drift of our plot,” said Roland, “to cut off the ears of every foreign herald?”
Nicolas had the good sense to laugh at this, recognizing a hunting-lodge jest when he heard it. “My lords, I have been too well trained to allow myself to overhear what any two English gentlemen might be saying.”
“We’re not English,” said the prince.
“We’re as Norman as you are,” said Roland.
“Ah,” said Nicolas, too polite to disagree with two men who were plainly mistaken.
Roland sent the herald off to his night’s rest with the caution that New Forest bedbugs were the size of badgers.
“Watch that lad,” said the prince when the two were alone again. “He may drown fire with his bladder, but I think he hears the wind’s counsel.” It was said that secrets and muttered slurs, curses, and barely breathed confessions were all carried on the night a
ir. He added, “I don’t trust him.”
“His dagger handle was inset with opal stones,” marveled Roland.
“Walter of Poix,” said the prince, “could afford to outfit his herald with a dagger of nonpareil pearl. And Walter has a sixteen-year-old sister named Alena, who I have heard is every bit as pretty as her dowry. Walter provides her with a wardrobe of silk, they tell me, although Alena is much given to prayer and—so I hear—prefers the songs of minstrels to the bloody-handed menfolk of Normandy.”
“With a brother like Walter,” suggested Roland, “I might prefer music to men, as well.”
Walter’s parents were both dead, Roland knew, and Walter was reputed to be protective of his sister and jealous of any man who glanced her way. Some said the young woman was destined to be the wealthy patron, and welcome member, of a religious order. In a world of quick swords and ready revenge, many men and women took refuge in God. Abbeys and convents were well populated with gentlefolk who chose an ordered, contemplative way of life.
A servant dressed in the royal livery, a blue tunic and a gold-stitched cross at the breast, appeared in the flickering candlelight. The cut of his cloth cap showed him to be one of the chamberlain’s men and a keeper of the king’s private quarters.
“The king says he heard anxious voices, my lords,” said the attendant. “And he thought he smelled fire.”
The servant spoke well enough, Roland thought, but there was polish missing from the youth. The English-born young men like this one were taller than their elders, but bigger-boned and heavier-featured. Their accents were becoming strange.
Roland approached the king’s chamber feeling like a hound anticipating the lash.
But like a dog, Roland was devoted to his master, beyond all hesitation. He followed the chamber servant, off through the smoky shadows of the lodge. Troubled by nightmares, and gifted with keen hearing, the king never slept well. It was said that the king could hear ants tiptoe in the larder, and guess their number.
What will I tell the king? Roland wondered.
Sleep with Heaven’s peace, my lord king, he would say. No one means you any harm.
But you should decide against tomorrow’s hunt.
13
On his return from his parley with the king, Roland found Climenze once more, sitting on a bench in the far corner of the lodge, his elbows on a table as he cut the rind off a wedge of cheese.
The undermarshal stood, as was proper, but Roland waved him back to his seat, and joined him at the table. Roland accepted a slice of the fragrant cheese.
It was the delicious Aldham specialty, creamy and richly flavored. Eating gold-crusted cheese late at night like this, Roland could heartily believe that God loved the world.
Except that Roland knew too much about kings and their kingdoms to think much, beyond the moment, of divine grace. Roland said, “Climenze, you must stay near the prince tomorrow.”
Climenze wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “With pleasure, my lord,” he said. “Do you need help opening that chest?”
Roland had gotten up and tugged the ironbound box out into the candlelight and was opening the strongly built container. The chest yielded. He sorted through chain mail gloves, dark with packing oil, and a collection of dirks and daggers, horn-handled and honed sharp, dangerous to the hasty hand in such light.
“Take a few men with an eye for peril—Aubri, with the broken nose, and Augustin,” Roland continued. “I fear there will be trouble.”
“From what quarter, my lord?”
I wish I could say, thought Roland.
“You will accompany the prince at dawn,” continued Roland. “See that he rides unhurt to Winchester.”
“As you wish, my lord,” said Climenze. He added, “Prince Henry has few enemies.” Unlike the king, his glance seemed to add.
“Watch the prince closely,” said the marshal.
Because, he could not add, the king does not trust him. But Climenze was already too far lost in wine to be much of a companion. Or was there something else that made the undermarshal’s gaze slip away from Roland’s?
When Climenze left Roland’s presence, his place was taken by the marshal’s personal sergeant, Grestain.
No man of importance was ever left alone, solitude being thought both cruel and impractical. A message might need to be sent, or some information confirmed, and despite the sleepy blinking of his eyes, the sergeant’s bearing was that of ready service, one hand on the pommel of his sword.
The marshal’s men were outfitted in livery much like the house servants, but with coarser cloth, their rough-woven blue surcoats decorated with gold crosses along the hem, fabric made to fit over chain mail and stand up to brambles and sword thrusts without shredding. Roland cast an eye over Grestain and found only his glove to be out of repair, a finger protruding from the soft-cured pigskin.
Roland indicated this flaw, wiggling a finger with a frowning playfulness.
Grestain’s broad face colored, and he shifted his feet self-consciously. “I’ll have it mended before the hunt tomorrow, my lord.”
“What happened?”
“No need to concern yourself, my lord.”
“Grestain,” insisted Roland, his voice low and intense, “tell me what misfortune befell your hand.”
“I had trouble with that dog again, my lord, just after we got back from the woods.”
Grestain had stood watch at the edge of the forest as Roland enjoyed Emma’s charms, and he had held his tongue from a distance when Simon and Roland had their brief, dramatic confrontation over the goose girl weeks before. Roland had no secrets from his sergeant.
“What sort of trouble?” asked Roland.
“The yellow alaunt called Golias,” said Grestain, “with the spiked collar, tried to bite me as I passed into the lodge.” An alaunt was a solidly built, large-jawed hound, prized for guard duty. The notorious Golias was a heavily built brute of more strength than good sense.
Indeed, judging by the red gouges along the exposed finger, Golias had succeeded in setting teeth into the royal sergeant. Roland was bitter, reflecting on the undeserved license this dog enjoyed. He was a favorite of the lymerer—the chief dog handler.
The chiens hauts were running dogs like the greyhound and harrier breeds, bred for lean swiftness and admired by the marshal. Everyone liked those high-spirited, friendly dogs, considered by most folk to be the finest of God’s creatures. Golias was loved by no one, save the lymerer himself.
From his wooden chest, Roland tugged out the folded leather shape of what looked like a man’s hollow torso. Stretched out on the hard-swept earthen floor of the hall, the cured skin slowly erected itself, shoulders assuming a shape, chest filling out. Years before, Roland’s father had ordered this body armor crafted in Cheapside, where the best leather-workers plied their awls. A father was proud to have a son joining the royal court for service with a sword, but privately worried, too.
There in the candlelight was the place on the breast where a spear had scored the leather during that violent winter in the north, chasing down rebel farmers near Tadcaster. The brass studs were still bright there where the long iron spearhead had gouged them.
“My lord, you will be careful,” said Grestain, “during tomorrow’s hunt.”
It was common for Roland’s rough men to share concerns for each other, despite their experience with violence—or perhaps because of it. Indeed, in most castles and great houses, to Roland’s knowledge, a harsh life was softened and made endurable by the regard of man for his master and friend for friend.
“There will be no hunt,” said Roland, “if the king takes my counsel.”
There at the bottom of the trunk was a short-handled battle-ax—just the weapon he needed now.
14
The ax had been a present from Roland’s London neighbors when word spread that the young man who loved skinner’s yards and their rough songs had at last found a vocation equal to his potential.
It had no
t been an inexpensive gift—iron was a valuable mineral, beyond the means of many honest people. But in Roland’s years of increasing responsibility, he had rarely called upon it before this moment.
He bid Grestain to come along—the law and common practice preferred a witness when the king’s justice was enforced. Roland carried the ax head-down through the sleepy lodge, past cloth partitions, snores, and the slow breathing of slumber on all sides, Grestain following closely, as such officers were trained to do, without question.
Just outside the side entrance to the lodge was the dog-keep, where the sawdust was freshly strewn and the trough kept full of fresh water. As Roland unfastened the gate to this enclosure, a guard in the distance began a startled “Who’s there?” but then settled for “Good evening to you, lord marshal.”
The lymerer slept with his charges, on a bunk at the far end of the rows of wicker pens. The long, narrow enclosure smelled sharply of dog—dog fur, dog breath, a companionable odor. Roland knelt and fetched a good-sized ox bone from among the selection of well-chewed hocks and ribs from the chips of wood on the ground. He carried the bone in his left hand, like a treat for a favorite pet.
A pack of hounds for fox and other running quarry consisted of twelve running hounds and the lymerer to manage them, and for a stag hunt a smaller pack of lean dogs who were trained to be carried on horseback. More than a score of eager dogs awakened as the marshal passed their sleeping pens, the just-stirring dogs putting out their snouts. The most veteran of them sniffed the air, whining as they nosed the iron weapon and anticipated blood.
There was a throaty growl from the far end of the dog-keep, Golias rousing just as the lymerer himself was awakening.
The man called, in English, “Who is that?”
Golias barked, and showed his teeth as Roland drew near. Roland recognized the call of duty, the dog setting his legs and barking with increasing vigor. The marshal felt a flicker of compassion for a beast that could have served a more disciplined master for many years yet.
The marshal thrust the bone at the thick-necked dog, and Golias seized it in his teeth. Roland brought the blunt side of the ax down in a single, swift blow, and the dog was flat, four legs out, his tongue caught in his jaw and bitten nearly in two.
The King’s Arrow Page 6
