One more blow, for mercy, and Roland was done.
The lymerer fell to his knees, his hands over his face as the dogs yapped and whined nervously, startled by this fatality among their brethren. Roland wished he knew the man’s name—this sort of unpleasantness always went more smoothly if you knew the Christian name of the individual, and something about his father’s trade, and his mother’s family. This was one of those new English freemen, added to the treasury rolls in recent months to fill the needs of the rambling, rapacious court.
“If, before Heaven,” said the lymerer, now in the courtly tongue, “you would spare my life, my lord, I would be grateful.” He spoke the bastard language, Norman words with English sounds, that Roland heard everywhere.
“Why would I kill you?” asked Roland. It was appalling the way his reputation painted him as monstrous, even among the royal company. “Unless you yourself bite the hand of one of the royal guard, my man, your life is safe.”
“It is cheerless, though, is it not?” Roland heard himself say as he and Grestain made their way back to the lodge.
“Cheerless, my lord?” asked the sergeant.
Roland caught himself. A marshal did not think out loud, even before his trusted sergeant. But it was cheerless, in truth—this and all the killing to come.
THREE
Blood Royal
15
“I pray that today’s hunt, Simon,” said Christina, “will bring us long-due honor.”
Simon knew that his mother had a practical view of his future. With many English folk of name beginning to rise to positions of influence under the Normans, her son was wise to curry the favor of the king. She gave Simon a kiss, and as he climbed into the saddle, she gave him a hand up, briefly supporting his weight as capably as any man. In the predawn dark, the family home gave off an inner glow.
As eager as he was to be off on the day’s adventure, he had a sudden, surprising yearning—why not stay here where he belonged? His home had never looked so safe and peaceful. Alcuin, the chief houseman, gave Simon a reassuring smile from the broad doorway. Simon thought he had never seen the worthy retainer looking so well.
“Have no fear, my lady,” Certig said with a laugh. “We’ll have Simon back again by nightfall, whole and hale.”
“School the king in mercy, Simon,” advised Christina with a quiet laugh, the way she would have said, Teach Caesar the billy goat to speak Latin.
Simon had slept fitfully, only to dream of hare and fawn, poachers’ snares, and silently screaming yeomen. Now as he rode beside Certig, he chewed bay leaves. Such herbs were thought to sweeten the breath and disguise human scent from the quarry.
As the two passed the bend in the river, the Saint Bride lay careened on the green river stones. She was still above the waterline, two figures working in the early light, Gilda and her brother no doubt readying the ship for a merchant voyage.
Maybe, Simon thought, Gilda will look up from untangling the ropes and take in the sight of me in my green cloak and hood, off on a royal hunt. Her brother might not approve, but even he might say to himself, Look at Simon, setting forth on a hunt!
Simon had waited into darkness the night before, but Gilda had never arrived. Simon realized after a long vigil that her brother had convinced her that Simon was not a worthy companion. Simon seethed inwardly as he imagined Oswulf’s counsel—that Simon had done nothing to save Edric’s life, and that Simon was too much the Norman swain in any event for a river man’s daughter.
“I’m happy I’m not a river dweller,” said Certig, thoughtful enough to distract Simon from his disappointment—neither sister nor brother looked up from their work. “It’s a life of salt blisters and storm.”
“No doubt,” said Simon appreciatively. “I am sure we are lucky to abide with foals and sucklings.”
He had only sailed on the Saint Bride once, when a freight ship from Utrecht foundered off Portsmouth—disappeared with a cargo of wine. Simon had shipped with Gilda and her brother in an attempt to rescue sailors from the sea. The freighter had left not a spindle on the tossing, fuming brine. Since that brief, sad voyage Simon had thought sailing an adventuresome life, but unforgivably dangerous.
Simon and Certig rode in companionable silence until they were not far from the royal lodge. The sounds of a smith’s hammer reached them through the trees, and dogs yapped excitedly.
Simon pulled the reins, halting his horse. “Hold on a moment, Certig. I see something extraordinary.”
“Do you see Mad Jack?” inquired Certig with a laugh—a nervous, unhappy sound.
Simon gave a chuckle. Mad Jack had been a freeman living upriver, the stories told, where the waters were shallow. One day a jealous spirit entered Jack, enticed by the sight of his wife gossiping by the well with a passing jongleur. Jack killed his wife, chopped her with his ax, and ran off into the greenwood. Legend held that Mad Jack ate children and had a long, moss-green beard.
Now Certig was laughing again, but with increasing anxiety. “Don’t leave the road, Simon.”
Simon retrieved the wonder he had spied by reaching through the leaves, closing his hand around it, and gently tugging.
He freed his discovery from the branches of the oak.
“That is a sure sign of luck,” breathed Certig.
Simon handed the discovery to the servant with care—a wide-spanned antler, gracefully pointed, a trophy lost by a rutting stag. It was only one half of a buck’s brace of antlers, quite possibly loosened by a mating duel and snagged on an overhanging limb.
Simon had never approached the royal lodge, and he did not particularly enjoy the sight of it now, despite his excitement at the prospect of the hunt. The Normans celebrated a style of architecture that, unlike the square, earth-and-oaken keeps of the English, could only be called arrogant.
Foreign vanity had lifted these new stone arches, and puffed-up pride had shaped these iron-spiked gates. This was a hall for eating roast venison, and for sleeping off the evening wine, and yet it was as wide and as lofty as any Jericho.
Simon had never been introduced to a king—the thought of it made him profoundly ill at ease.
“Be quick,” Certig was urging. “My lord, why are you so hesitant?”
16
Simon felt that he had good reason to pause in the saddle and gather his mental powers.
A king was designated by God to be His right hand in the world. Just as a man might stretch his fingers and pick up a walnut, guess its weight and wholesomeness, so Heaven employed monarchs to sort, select, and command matters on this mortal earth. To interfere with a crowned sovereign was to stand in the way of the divine.
It was difficult to think of what to say to such a presence. Ordinary good manners could hardly suffice, and yet Simon had no range of anecdotes and funny stories with which to embellish his banter. Besides, there were tales, confirmed by honest travelers, of ears shorn from the heads of Englishmen who were slow to pay their respect in homage or silver. The monarch, Simon knew, was perilous company, and no man under Heaven quicker to take offense.
Hunts usually began very early in the day, but morning was upon them and the king did not show his presence in the outer yard. This king’s absence was further evidence of the monarch’s power. He could make his entire court, chandler and turnspit, horse guard and chamberlain, stand idly waiting by the hour, and not a single adviser would complain.
The anticipation had the effect of increasing Simon’s apprehension all the more. Should he have stained his hunting boots with walnut oil, and was his belt too stiff? It creaked, Simon was convinced, every time he moved.
No one in the outer courtyard had more than a glance for the two new arrivals, waiting in the dawn-dappled shadows, although Simon was aware that the gate men leveled their stares, knowing who they were and not approving.
Simon sat upon a mare from his own stock, the placid Silk, named for her smooth nature, and Certig perched on ever-reliable Blackfire. There was no need for a horse of w
arlike spirit today. Deer hunting called for steady mounts, their placid browsing deceptive to the quarry.
“My lord,” said Certig in a low voice, “I count a full score of men I have never seen before. Have you ever seen so many strangers?”
“On market day, perhaps,” suggested Simon.
“Not even then,” said Certig.
“You’re right,” agreed Simon.
Simon dismounted and made a show of nonchalance, sipping a bit of warm wine from a maple-wood cup offered by one of the servants. He made every effort to look the part of manly readiness. He had worn his forest-green hunting cloak, a gift on his last birthday from Oin. Woodland green was the preferred color for the hunt—deer were thought to possess keen eyesight, able to spy a colored sleeve or brightly decorated cap from far away.
Scent hounds panted on their leashes outside the large oak-timbered building, and foresters tugged on gloves and shared goatskins of wine, man and beast subdued but tense. The dogs sniffed and wagged and made every show of being eager.
Today’s hunt was going to be a genteel but deadly game. It was not going to be a bout of field beating, like the peasant practice on common lands, laughing and thumping, driving hares out of the field to the waiting nets and clubs of boys. Nor was it going to resemble the laughing, pink-cheeked assembly gathered to ride after foxes or wolves, like the noisy company of wine-soaked royal guests Simon had watched from a distance since boyhood. Today’s sport was to be more subtle.
Just then a house guard—as Simon took him to be, caped and hooded—made his way toward the two visitors.
The guard looked over Simon’s cloak and boots, expressionless but quietly critical, Simon thought. But this impression of measured hostility was dispelled by the confiding whisper. “The king is still asleep, Lord Simon, and Prince Henry has ridden north on urgent royal business. My master begs your patience—he spilled wine on his hunting cloak.”
With an embarrassed laugh, Simon recognized Walter’s man-at-arms from the day before.
“Yes, it’s Bertram de Lis, my lord,” said the knight. “We hardly spoke or were even introduced yesterday, what with the misunderstandings.” He lowered his voice. “I fear for Marshal Roland, and that’s the truth.”
This news gave Simon no grief.
“Did Walter and the marshal,” Simon wondered aloud, unable to hide his hope, “exchange hot words?”
“No, my lord Simon,” said the knight, “but my lord Walter has a certain angry smile that I recognize.”
“Oh, the two noble fellows will sit down and share their counsel,” said Certig consolingly, “and your master Walter will see to it that Roland grants an apology to all concerned.”
“No,” said Bertram with an air of thoughtful regret, “I think that my lord means harm.”
“Over yesterday’s embarrassment?” asked Simon. He had to laugh. Every knight and milkmaid in England endured worse indignity, simply hearing Norman conversation in the street.
Bertram gave Simon a measuring look. “My lord, have you heard what happened to the Count of Boulogne?” he asked like a man sharing a grisly confidence.
Simon admitted that the Count of Boulogne’s fate was entirely unknown to him.
Bertram did not seem unhappy to share his tale. “My lord Walter’s late brother, as Heaven willed it,” he began, “was born with a crippled back. The family loved hardy little Nivard—that was his Christened name—as did all the retainers.”
Simon gave a nod: Go on.
“Word reached us,” continued the knight, “that the Count of Boulogne, a brazen drunkard, remarked that the goose he was feasting on was as wizened as Nivard de Poix.”
Simon already knew enough. “I can easily imagine,” he said, “what happened next.”
“My lord Walter rode through the dark,” the knight continued, “and I went with him. It was bloodier, my lord Simon, than you can imagine. He stalked into the lord of Boulogne’s chamber, and my lord plunged his sword through the poor sot’s breast, all the way to the wall.”
Before Simon could make any remark, they were interrupted by an approaching voice, cheerful but insistent. “You men, if you please, will move aside.”
Perhaps the brief story of the death of the Count of Boulogne inspired Simon to a certain spirit. Whatever the cause, he was in a suddenly willful mood. Perhaps it was time that a man born in England showed some aristocratic fortitude.
“We shall stand where we are,” said Simon.
Certig tapped Simon’s arm, an unspoken Let’s do as he says.
17
“I desire to stand exactly there,” insisted the tall man in a pointed cap, “if you would be so kind as to go somewhere else.”
Simon had never spoken to Vexin of Tours before this hour. He was widely known as the lover of noble ladies, and he wore his hair long and flowing, in the current fashion among men of style. He sported a pair of hunting boots with long, tapered points.
“We are sharing the morning sunlight, my lord Vexin,” said Bertram, remaining where he was. “We like this spot.”
“Everywhere else,” said Vexin, as though instructing a man of incorrigible stupidity, “is but puddle.” This was not entirely true—the dogs inhabited a dry space, and so did many of the footmen.
“Lord Simon,” said Bertram, “has no more desire to plant his boots in muddy water, my lord, than you do.”
Vexin lifted an artfully tinted eyebrow and tugged a long, soft leather glove from his hand. Such a gesture could be the preliminary to a challenge, and Simon’s heart sank at the prospect of the day’s hunt ruined by a sword fight.
“Hold, Vexin, what are you thinking?” cried a familiar voice.
Simon was delighted and relieved as Walter Tirel strode into the courtyard. He arrived with a swirl of mantle and the click-click-click of his agate ring against the sword hilt, keeping time as he walked.
“This,” said Walter heartily as he arrived, “is my good friend Simon Foldre, who will be my right hand this day.”
Vexin stood tall, and looked every inch the man who usually stood wherever he wanted. “This young Englishman is your friend, Lord Walter?”
“My very good friend,” said Walter.
Vexin absorbed this. Then he gave a courteous bow and said, “I shall be honored, Simon, if you will take pleasure in that little portion of dry earth.”
Vexin departed with a sweep of cape and the lingering scent of lavender perfume. Simon was grateful for Walter’s intervention. He was glad to see Walter, too, not only because his arrival had interrupted a crisis. Walter’s brisk humor made Simon happy. But something about Simon’s new friend was melancholy now, and his smile was apologetic.
The Norman ran his eyes over Simon’s attire and said, “You appear to be the ready hunter, Simon. My sister Alena asked if I might find an English lord for her companionship back in Normandy, and I thought the effort not worth making. Now I am forced to reconsider.”
Simon suspected that Walter was using flattery out of mere friendliness, but the sound of Alena’s name did pierce Simon with a strange pleasure.
“I would be honored,” Simon said, “to meet the lady Alena.”
Few Norman women, it was said, would look twice at an Englishman. But the opposite was also asserted, sometimes in the same breath: any man with a feather in his cap and a store of lovers’ ballads would find Norman women warm companions.
Walter gave a smile. “Some pleasant day, perhaps.” Then he leaned into Simon and added, confidingly, “The king says he will not hunt this morning.”
This was disappointing news indeed.
“Why not?” Simon managed to ask.
Of course, a delayed hunt would mean that Simon could get all the more ready for the morrow. He could ride back home and stain his boots a duskier brown, and knead oil into his belt.
“He says he may forgo New Forest hunting altogether this season,” answered Walter with an air of exasperation.
“Altogether?” Simon echoed
, feeling his hopes entirely dissolve.
“Marshal Roland,” said Walter, “advises the king not to go forth.”
“Why?”
“There are reports: violence in London, strange omens and disquiet,” said Walter. “Prince Henry has been sent back to the city to resolve the trouble. At the best of times, the forest is dangerous, is it not?” But Walter was no longer paying full attention to his own words. “You found this in the woods?” he asked, reaching out to stroke the ivory points in Certig’s grasp.
“Dangling from a tree,” said Simon.
Walter put a finger to his lips, captured by a thought. He took the span of antler into his gloved hands.
“Come with me, Simon,” said Walter.
Simon did not hesitate, leaving Certig behind with the horses.
But his heart hesitated, aware that he was leaving behind an era of innocence regarding royal matters and stepping into a richly scented, complicated future.
The interior of the lodge was strewn with fresh rushes, a pleasant sound as the dried vegetation crackled underfoot. They smelled of fresh harvest, Simon thought, just as the entire lodge was awash with the smell of new timbers and recently planed bench wood. Servants stacked disassembled furniture against a far wall, where it would be ready for the next meal, and house dogs mock-growled and sported, disputing possession of a well-chewed bone of beef.
There was an air of homelike refuge to the place that surprised Simon, despite the guards with their chiming chain mail and the richly robed chamberlain unscrolling an account on a candlelit table.
“Where are we going?” Simon inquired with a whisper.
Walter did not answer.
“Who are you taking to meet our lord king?” inquired a reedy voice.
A very small man cavorted from the shadows, and Simon knew that this could only be the famous dwarf the king kept so richly rewarded. Simon readied a laugh—the man was supposed to be the cleverest wit in England.
The King’s Arrow Page 7
