Another arrow, its white feathers flashing, sang through the air. There was no arc to its flight, the arrow describing a long, straight line across the ship and far off, toward the distant opposite embankment. Archers were testing the range, and at the same time they were letting the ship’s passengers know that they would make easy targets.
To preserve his own life and the life of his sister, and to save the ship from the harm an iron-tipped arrow could do, Oswulf levered the ship further into the main current. The sail bellied steadily with the wind, and Simon began to feel the first real hope.
“Our price is ten shillings a day,” said Gilda, “for my brother’s service, and ten for mine, and another ten for the use of the ship.” She was pale, one hand on the ship’s rail to steady herself. Simon had to admire her pluck.
But there was no reason for Gilda and her brother to panic. The two arrows had shown that the archers were capable of killing them, choosing their shots. But they also demonstrated that Walter’s illustrious name, and the uncertain justice of killing river folk whose vessel had apparently been commandeered, made the bowmen cautious.
“Your price is too high,” protested Simon.
No one living near New Forest avoided hard bargaining, and many people enjoyed it. Simon was not one of them.
“What, Simon,” asked Gilda, “are his lordship’s choices?”
Gilda’s offer was far from cheap. The service of an experienced man-at-arms could be had for five shillings a day, and many freemen accepted payment in blocks of salt or candle wax, or even ells of wool, and considered themselves to be on the road to prosperity.
“And his lordship,” added Oswulf, “agrees to pay for as much of the cargo as salt water might ruin. And he’ll pay us a further ten shillings per day for our trip home.”
This could run to a considerable expense. A voyage across the Channel could take anywhere from overnight to a month, depending on weather and currents, and an easy voyage out was often followed by a rough passage back. The Saint Bride might prove to be a ruinously expensive vessel.
Gilda gave her brother an appreciative smile, and then she looked at Simon and lifted one eyebrow expectantly.
“And,” she said, “we’ll see his silver now.”
Simon could not believe what he was hearing. “Now?”
“Simon,” said Gilda with a show of patience, like someone explaining the obvious to a child, “we need to have a grand deposit on the voyage, or this man of illustrious name might well disembark once we reach the safety of Normandy and leave us without so much as a farthing.”
Walter acted the part of the nobleman trusting that his companions would arrange all the details, but his gaze continued to search the trees above the river. He shot a questioning glance at Simon, and Simon in return made a gesture of reassurance he could not at the moment feel.
He was quietly furious with Gilda and her brother, and astonished that they could treat an old friend with so little heart. At the same time, Simon realized that Gilda was no doubt playing for time, believing that as long as she and her brother delayed, quibbling over money, the royal guard would have time to crowd the bank with bowmen, and boats, fast and many, could be summoned to block the mouth of the river.
But Simon felt that he knew Walter Tirel’s character fairly well by now. He recognized that this aloof, handsomely mantled figure could commit unexpectedly violent acts. Simon would feel bitterly responsible if Walter felt he had to draw his sword.
They all heard the next arrow’s approach, a wasplike keen impending from the dark trees. Even Walter, for all his practiced self-possession, ducked his head reflexively at the sound. But there was no following report of impact, and no further evidence of an arrow—no splash, and no lancing flight toward the opposite bank.
The ship’s ropes continued to grow alternately taut and slack as the vessel worked, and the sail was ripe with the wind. No harm, thought Simon.
No harm had come.
There was, however, an additional, delayed gasp of surprise, and an in-taken breath.
And, after a long moment, a body tumbled heavily onto the deck.
30
Tuda lay on the planks, his leather cap black with blood.
An arrow jutted from his temple, his arms and legs thrown just as they had fallen, powerless to move. Blood and dark matter from his ruptured horse-hide cap spilled across the deck as the ship inclined.
Simon fell to his knees.
Oswulf wailed, and Gilda had to take the tiller as her brother knelt on the deck and made every effort to shake Tuda back to life.
Simon was shocked beyond words. He knew Tuda’s family, with their landmark henhouse. Simon could not bring himself to imagine the grief Tuda’s loss would bring throughout New Forest.
“They killed our Tuda,” cried Oswulf.
When Oswulf resumed his place at the tiller, his jaw had a determined set, and there was no talk of turning back, or of the price of the voyage, as the ship rode the swift tide and the rising wind.
“The Devil take you, Simon,” said Oswulf after a silence, “and the old king and the new king Henry, or whoever it will be, and all the rest.” He spoke in anger, but like someone resigned to whatever further disgrace would take place.
Gilda stood beside her brother in a show of sibling concord, united in their fury and sorrow. Simon understood that to Gilda, her brother was both a responsibility and a source of support, but Simon was disappointed in her. He doubted that he would ever again enjoy Gilda’s smile, or take pleasure in her touch—or ever want to.
Walter shrugged off his hunting mantle and spread the soft-woven, forest-green cloth over the crumpled form of the fallen Tuda.
“This is a great pity,” said Walter, with a bow toward Gilda and her brother. His gesture was especially gracious, as he crossed his arms over his breast and inclined his head in prayer. His silent entreaty to Heaven complete, Walter said, “I will pay any price you ask.”
His statement was not made in English, but it was easy to understand. This was not the first time that Simon had admired Walter’s command of the moment, but he marveled that a nobleman of such high feeling could, at the same time, be such a burden. His remark was understood well by Oswulf and Gilda and, stricken though they were, this act of homage evidently touched them.
And the Tirel family was known to have no shortage of silver. Oswulf ran his hand through his hair, perhaps calculating what their voyage might bring.
Gilda said, in a tone of devotion quite unlike her recent, smart speech, “Lord Walter, God help us all.”
Another arrow hummed across the ship, but two or three subsequent projectiles splashed wide to the stern, the archers beginning to lose the range. The skills of the bowmen no longer mattered, Simon knew. Somewhere ahead, along the waterway’s broad mouth, in ships they had pressed into service, the royal guard would attempt to capture the Saint Bride.
Simon squinted into the salt spray. He associated the sea with shipwreck and storm. On horseback Simon felt he could equal the efforts of the royal guard, and he was not afraid to fight with his feet planted firmly on pastureland—especially with Walter battling at his side.
But Simon did not see how they could survive a sea skirmish. Prince Henry would surely be the next king of England—Simon was sorry that he would not survive to see the new king take on his responsibilities, and to learn what improvements, if any, he might make over his late brother’s reign.
Both the immediate future, and the following years to come, would remain unknowable. He and his shipmates, Simon believed, would be dead too soon to afford them any experience beyond the taste of this salt wind and the sight of the approaching seaway.
But the Saint Bride showed spirit.
Buoyed, no doubt, by the promise of reward, Oswulf did not give evidence of any further second thoughts. He let the big freighter bank harder, until the side of the ship cut through the water and her passengers had to cling to keep from falling overboard.
The marshal’s forc
es had evidently commandeered three ships, but with summer weather promising pleasant passage for fishermen and merchants alike, most of the speedy vessels were already abroad. The shipyards offered vessels under repair, at such short notice, and two of these were lumbering craft with weathered-darkened sails and tar-clogged rigging.
These ships were slowly making way, and Simon wondered if the dim enthusiasm of the mariners, pressed into emergency service, might be the cause of the halting way the sails were shaken out, the oars slow to stir the water.
Soon only one boat—with a fresh, white sail—breasted the swells in the Saint Bride’s wake. She was a swift vessel, with a cunning shape to her prow, and she was on a course to intercept the speeding freighter. But stoical despair had been replaced by the first stirrings of optimism. Simon reasoned that the Saint Bride had such a head start, and was so expertly helmed, that no pursuer stood a chance.
But this following craft was amazingly fast in the water, and painted with a long red stripe just below her top rail. She was not a large vessel, and Simon tried to take heart in the fact that in a collision the smaller craft would be at a disadvantage. Several men clung to the rails of this vessel, using their weight to counterbalance the fleet little ship as she heeled, on a course to follow the larger ship.
Or, perhaps, to intercept her. The foam was white at her prow.
“What swift little seacraft is that?” Simon asked wonderingly.
“The Saint Victor,” said Gilda evenly, “built this past winter from old timber by Mewan and his sons.”
Old timber meant that although she was a newly Christened vessel, her wood was not green, and she would not be subject to swelling or leaking. She would be able to maintain her speed.
“Simon, what should we do?” asked Oswulf, for the first time showing deference to Simon’s judgment.
“Outsail her, Oswulf,” said Simon. “Look, she’s hitting our wake.”
“She’ll cut across our spray,” said Oswulf, “and then she’ll work back to intercept us.”
“She can’t be that fast,” protested Simon.
Oswulf said, “I sold Mewan the canvas myself, the best Flemish linen. Fast does not do her justice.”
Simon’s hopes began to falter.
“Not,” he asked, “Mewan of Docken?”
Oswulf gave a regretful nod. “The very one.”
31
Mewan of Docken was a famous shipwright, whose vessels sailed faster than a prayer, as the saying went, and the fruits of whose talents only a royal court could afford. But the Saint Bride had a reputation of her own, and Simon did not allow himself to despair.
Simon counted four crossbows in the following ship—the heavily built sort used in sieges and skirmishes, each weapon bolted and ready. The fast little ship was already little more than a long bow shot away.
Simon could also make out the unmistakable identity of the individual leaning forward in the prow. Marshal Roland kept his balance with care, a lance in his grasp, as he turned to give commands to the man at the tiller, one of the men nearby rising to adjust the crisp, new sail. Simon was glad to see the marshal alive, and yet the sight gave him only unsettled relief.
The marshal called something into the wind, his voice warped by the breeze, enjoining the Saint Bride to halt or escape any hope of mercy. It was hard to make out his words.
Roland’s face was swollen, the sight of his nose caked with blood even now giving Simon’s fist a memorial twinge. Climenze, the undermarshal, put out a hand to steady the marshal.
Roland used the lance as a staff, propping himself up in the bow of the sailing vessel. It was easy to see Roland calculating the distance before he could begin plunging the long, iron point into the fugitives on the Saint Bride.
“Lighten the ship,” commanded Oswulf.
No one moved, certain that they had misunderstood.
“Go on,” said Oswulf, “the burghers of Brugge will have to eat leftover rinds for supper.”
Gilda responded by hopping down into the hold and hefting out a wax-gray cartwheel of cheese. Unaided, she tumbled this wheel down the sloping deck, and wrestled it into the water. The cheese plunged below the surface, only to reappear again, bobbing and sinking by turns among the swells.
Nicolas and Simon joined her, and soon even Walter was lending a hand, lightening the ship’s load. Their efforts caused the vessel to bound more freely over the choppy water as the river current met the salt expanse, and the wind grew fresh.
Wheels of cheese bumped together and slowly spun on the surface in the ship’s wake, looking like random stepping stones for an unearthly titan. This waste of valuable freight—and delicious bounty—pained Simon and made him feel all the more responsible for the day’s grief.
But for a while this loss of ballast did speed the ship along, and Simon believed that with every heartbeat the white sail of the Saint Victor was more remote.
“I told you,” exulted Simon. “We’ll leave her in our wake.”
“She’s switching back,” said Oswulf, “to cut us off.”
She’s not, Simon wanted to protest.
Oswulf grimaced into the salt spray. “The Saint Victor will play the foxhound, and we’ll all see what it’s like to have our throats open to the weather.”
If Certig were here, thought Simon, the old servant would think of a dozen reasons for optimism—each of them false. Simon hated to let the thought enter his mind, but at last it could not be denied.
Oswulf had been right.
The big freighter, which had seemed so admirably swift before, now wallowed with the swells, the sleek, smaller vessel gaining on her easily as the afternoon began to lose color and the late-day shadows began to define the waves of the open Channel.
Simon felt the first drops of rain and saw what was about to happen as though this gift of insight fell also from the sky.
Every one of his companions was in danger because of Simon, his logic counseled him. He believed further that only he could perform the act that would halt the actions of a dangerous and powerful man and at the same time allow his shipmates to be held blameless.
“Walter,” said Simon, “give me the broadsword.”
Walter did not respond, clinging to the side to keep his feet steady.
Simon realized that he had failed to remember an important element of courtesy in his request, and so he asked again. “My lord, if you would please be generous enough to allow me to hold the blade for a moment.”
This phrasing both dignified and softened Simon’s request, and he held out his hand expectantly.
Preparing to confront Roland was not the only reason to take possession of the broadsword—Simon felt that taking such a deadly weapon away from Walter would help to ensure that he and Oswulf could do business without the nobleman doing something impulsive and fatal.
Walter did not make a move to surrender the weapon. His hand rested on the brass pommel of the sword, and he half closed his eyes, weighing whether protocol or necessity demanded that Simon take the blade.
“My lord is pleased to bear this sword,” said Nicolas on his master’s behalf, “in your defense, and in furtherance of his own honor.”
Nicolas was calm, but Simon had recently learned to see through the apparent unruffled air of his associates. Nicolas would rather Simon drew the aim of every crossbow in the approaching vessel, leaving his master unhurt. It would not be proper, however, to say as much.
Simon was no longer a mere varlet, and no longer a novice at witnessing bloodshed. “As my father’s son,” said Simon, “honor requires me to defend my companions.”
Walter said, with a smile, “Well spoken, Simon.”
This was high praise, if brief, but Simon felt that Walter was quick with a compliment because he expected that soon Simon would be beyond the reach of human acclaim. And yet Walter still made no move to yield the sword.
Simon did not expect to survive this encounter that approached, angling in on the sleek, white-sailed vesse
l. He saw his verse in a poem of the day’s events, Roland’s lance plunging into Simon’s chest, his heart’s blood flowing, even as he countered with a thrust of the sword, taking Roland’s life. Or, as it might happen, failing. Simon was sick at the thought, and yet he was determined.
Walter drew the weapon.
He hefted it in his yellow-gloved hand, the very hand still stained with royal blood. And perhaps Simon was surprised at what Walter did next. Some corner of Simon had hoped that the nobleman would deny him the weapon, and claim that Walter Tirel alone had the name and dexterity equal to slaying the royal marshal.
Walter held the weapon across to Simon, hilt first, bracing his feet against the motion of the ship. Simon had to laugh inwardly, mocking his own aspirations. He had been hoping the sword would not be given to him, even as he had half hoped it would be. Here it was, the well-balanced blade. It felt good in his hand.
Simon said, “My lord, I thank you.”
Even if Simon succeeded in striking down the marshal without injury to himself, the little ship that was drawing so near was bristling with crossbow quarrels, and Simon could recite the verse that recounted his blood joining Tuda’s, staining the long, smoothly planed planks.
The rain sifted down.
When the voyage arrived at an abrupt stop, time—which had paced slowly—began to take on momentum again. The Saint Victor angled to a halt directly ahead of the freighter, and to avoid a damaging collision Oswulf had to turn the Saint Bride across the wind. Gilda adjusted the sail, tying an efficient knot, and both vessels came to in the easy swells.
The two vessels were still a long spear’s length apart, but a grappling hook was produced among the marshal’s crew, and the long pole with its iron claw was extended across the space.
Nicolas tugged at Simon’s sleeve.
“The marshal,” advised Nicolas in a low voice, “is wearing body armor under his mantle.”
“How do you know that?” marveled Simon. This meant that the marshal would be proof against a thrust to his body.
“My lord Simon,” said Nicolas, his gray eyes blinking against the rain, “last night I slept but little. I spied upon the lord marshal.”
The King’s Arrow Page 12
