The King’s Arrow (5 page)

Aldham estate currently prospered, but the mending of walls, relining of wells, and repair and breeding and replanting all took a toll. Christina and Simon were land-wealthy without having much ready money.

“What do you think of Prince Henry, Simon?” his mother was asking. “I have never laid eyes on the man.”

“Prince Henry has some great subject on his mind,” Simon said. “I doubt even Bel's high spirits will give him much happiness.”

“Henry wishes he were king, I have heard,” said Christina. “The middle brother Robert is in Jerusalem on crusade, and King William the eldest drinks and ruts his way back and forth across our kingdom. I hear that Henry's pigeon hawk hatched a two-headed chick.”

Simon had to laugh at this. “That's a sure sign, Mother—but of what?”

Christina laughed quietly in turn. “I confess I'm not entirely certain—but when is an omen as straightforward as a beggar's curse?”

The sound of riders in the dooryard silenced them.

Simon counted the hooves by sound—three mounts, at least, along with the
chin-chink
of chain mail and the rasp of a spear butt dragged along the ground.

The house servants gathered outside, English and Norman speech too tangled for Simon to make out. There was no need to fear—Aldham's housemen could stave off a good-sized army, and had done just that during Viking times. Certig's voice could be heard above all, the retainer mastering not a word of Norman speech but calling out in English, “Tell your lord, my good herald, that his horse has squashed our rooster!”

Simon strode to the wall and took down his father's sword, a blade with a red carnelian jewel in its hilt. He and Oin had practiced fighting with broadswords and two-handed swords, too, and while Simon had never actually struck steel in earnest, he was not going to embarrass himself.

Alcuin, the chief house servant, hurried into the smoky firelight and said, “My lady, a noble visitor asks to speak with Simon.”

“Who disturbs our peace, Alcuin?” asked Christina with an air of hopefulness. She received few guests of note, and while she was gracious to scullery servant and abbot alike, she was habitually eager to be pleasantly surprised by a day's events, and routinely slightly disappointed.

“A Norman nobleman,” said the houseman. He said this in the manner of
Need I say more?

Alcuin had attended Simon's father as a plate servant, pouring wine from a ewer in the days of Simon's boyhood, when coin was more plentiful. Alcuin had grown gray as his duties increased. “He is of a name unfamiliar to me, if it please my lady,” he added. “And Certig is sore upset. Sangster the breed cock has been stepped on by a horse.”

“Is the poor bird badly injured?” asked Christina.

Sangster was the fire and spirit of the dooryard, a menace to man and beast, and a local legend. The chicks he sired proved fertile and healthy, and the red-feathered warrior would not be easily replaced.

“Worse than hurt, I fear, my lady,” said Alcuin.

He was his mistress's loyal chief of staff, and he knew how she liked to learn all she could in the way of detailed gossip. “This noble fellow wears a red agate ring and a cap with a rich plume, my lady,” he offered. “His herald says that he is one Walter Tirel, of a place called Po-icks.”

“He is Count of Poix,” prompted Simon, with a sensation of expectant pride. He was thrilled inwardly, sure that Walter would live up to his reputation. “Walter Tirel is the king's guest, and I hunt with him tomorrow, as Heaven wills it.”

“Oh, Simon,” breathed Christina, “I would so enjoy meeting this visitor!”

Alcuin waited expectantly, something unsaid in his eyes—a caution, perhaps.

The chief servant took his instructions from the lady of the house but, as was customary, even a widowed mother deferred to the wishes of the eldest male in her family.

For a moment Simon's pride allowed him to think that the illustrious nobleman had ridden out of his way to meet his prospective companion. Perhaps this Walter of Poix was so good-hearted—and Oin fitzBigot so generous in his descriptions of Simon's knowledge of the woodland—that the Norman lord had decided that he had to meet this son of Fulcher Foldre at once.

This hope was soon shattered.

7

Voices in the dooryard had been getting louder.

Now the wooden barrier to the outside burst open.

Late-afternoon sunlight poured through the lingering cooking smoke of the chamber as a mantled, tall man strode into the interior. He was accompanied by a guard who wore a broad, black-buckled belt and cross-gartered boots, and a youthful herald, who pressed his cap onto his head to keep it in place, and took quick steps to keep up with his older companions.

The herald, Simon thought, could have been ten or twelve years of age, with blond hair and the emblem of his office—a document case adorned with fine stones—suspended by a chain around his neck. He wore a knife at his hip.

“My lord,” said Christina, “I am pleased to welcome you to our home.” She spoke the Norman dialect with an English burr—a beautiful accent to Simon's ears.

Walter Tirel's appearance did not disappoint Simon in the least. He had brown eyes and a short, neat, golden-colored beard. His mantle was long, with its hood thrown back, and was made of lambs' wool dyed deep blue or green—it was hard to tell in this interior light. Like most noblemen, he looked and acted like a man ready to kill someone—not angry so much as ready for whatever came. His presence did not necessarily threaten immediate murder, Simon knew. It was a fashion among noblemen to seem dangerous.

How fine, thought Simon, it would be to have such an ally!

Their Norman visitor bowed briefly before Christina, and said that he was honored, all prettily enough, but with a quality of haste that was hardly the best form.

He faced Simon at once for the more immediate business. He was almost as tall and strongly built as Simon, who was no stripling.

“Where are you keeping your horses?” demanded the nobleman.

The statement might have sounded forcefully jovial, except for the tone, which was one of pure insistence.

The guard at Walter's side closed his eyes and opened them, looking right at Simon, much as a cat will, in silent confidence. It was a communication of friendship, and did much to offset Walter's tone. The solidly built attendant was evidently a knight—his leather body armor was of the highest, supple quality, and the bridge of his nose was lightly scarred from some old sword cut.

The young herald had been tugging at Walter's sleeve. He tugged again, and was ignored. The herald spoke up on his own, perhaps to compensate for his master's abruptness, “Walter Tirel, by the grace of Jesus the Lord Count of Poix, extends his greetings.”

Walter silenced this flowery announcement with a slap—not hard, but loud—across the boy's leather cap. “Hush, Nicolas,” he said.

Trembling inwardly, but with what he trusted was an outward calm, Simon kept his place at his mother's side. Introductions were a source of conflict, and many men fell to bloodshed because no one could establish who had the right of way on the road—or which lord had the right to demand livestock from a householder.

“A horse like the one you gave Prince Henry,” added Walter Tirel. “I will have one, too.”

Simon had endured enough aristocratic high-handedness for one day, but he was careful to speak evenly. “The lord prince took the stallion,” he said. “He confiscated the creature, claimed it, and rode it away as a present for the lord king. It was neither a gift nor a purchase. And strictly speaking, the animal was not even mine to give away.” Simon let this fact become clear, before he added, “Although of course we are honored to be able to please King William.”

Walter Tirel said nothing, looking from Christina to Simon, and back.

“And if, my lord Walter,” added Simon, “you have caused the death of our rooster, we will be pleased to have a new breed fowl from the king's flock.”

“Marshal Roland,” said Walter doggedly, “reported that you were horse-rich, with a dozen stallions to spare. Bertram,” he added, turning to the knight nearby, “is that not what he asserted?”

Bertram, the knight, was clean-shaven, with a head so closely cropped as to appear nearly hairless. He put a hand on the brass-and-leather pommel of his own weapon and made a show of looking etched with grim purpose. But there was a quality in the man-at-arms's eyes, a touch of smiling embarrassment, when he allowed, “My lord, that is what the lord marshal chose to make us believe.”

Simon said, “The lord marshal was, if you will forgive me, badly mistaken.”

Walter blinked, uncertain, and at a loss for words. He smoothed the softly woven folds of his cloak and adjusted the agate signet ring which he wore over his leather glove.

“What is he saying?” inquired Walter of his herald, although Simon's Norman accent had been the exact replica of the best speech on either side of the Channel.

“My lord,” said Nicolas, looking up at his master, “he means that there are no horses here.”

“What?” demanded Walter.

Nicolas repeated his words.

Walter looked around at his surroundings. He opened his mouth, then shut it again.

“This is an unpleasant surprise,” said Walter.

“My lord, you will dine with us,” said Simon, in haste to inject hospitality into the encounter.

“I am disappointed,” said Walter.

“We will enjoy a pullet, gold from the hearth,” said Simon with a forced heartiness, “and some of the cheese that is a legend throughout England.”

“In food,” Walter said, “I have no interest.”

“My lord thanks the lord and lady of this house, however,” prompted the herald in a perky singsong, “for their kindness.”

Walter let his eyes take in the overhead beams, and the carved boxwood benches.

“What is this place?” he asked.

He meant, belatedly:
Explain to me who you are
.

Plainly, introductions that should have been carried out by the servants had been interrupted by the death of the breed cock.

Christina had been watching Walter with a growing look of alarmed compassion, and now she put a hand on her son's sleeve to beg his silence. “My late husband was Fulcher Foldre,” she said, “who struck a mastiff across the skull with his staff, defending the life of the Conqueror.”

“Indeed?” inquired Walter.

“My late husband,” she continued, “was granted this land by a grateful King William. My own father,” she added, with a ladylike lift of her chin, modesty no virtue where a good name was concerned, “was Usher of Aldham. He killed ten Danes with the edge of his sword, and earned the gratitude of his folk.”

“And I, my lord,” said Simon, “hope to serve as your hunt squire as early as tomorrow.”

“On whose authority?” asked Walter.

Simon saw his opportunity to hunt with the king's party fading away. He was also aware that embarrassing a nobleman could permanently cool his friendship—and perhaps even prove dangerous.

“On your own authority, my lord,” said Simon, “if you desire it.”

“Ah, yes,” said Walter, sounding galled and unsure where to vent his anger. “We must certainly inquire what I might choose to do, and with whom.”

“You were deceived, my lord,” said Simon.

“Was I?” asked Walter icily.

His question was not intended to be answered directly, and Simon did not like the quality in his voice. Walter's slow-dawning ire could result in immediate violence to passing dogs, house servants, or to anyone standing before him.

“Marshal Roland tried to shame my family in sending you here,” suggested Simon. His meaning, which could not be put into words, was
Go slap the marshal's face, and leave us alone
.

“Are you saying that Roland Montfort lied to me?” Walter inquired frostily.

“I will not slander the royal marshal,” said Simon. “He sent you here without telling you exactly who we are.”

“Why would he choose to embarrass both of us?”

“This is a question more fit for Roland's ears,” said Simon. “The royal marshal is a tireless defender of the king, but he bears me no love. And, my lord, he may intend no great respect for you.”

Walter did not move.

At last he said, “I see.”

Simon was in suspense, doubting that Walter would prove to be a man of peaceful humor. A man of high name would be easily forgiven if he butchered a man of somewhat lower station for insulting a royal marshal.

Simon was not surprised when Walter began beating his mantle, searching his belt, determined to locate some weapon, there could be no doubt.

“Your purse, my lord,” said Nicolas, holding up a leather bag secured with many knots. Again, he had to tug hard at his master's sleeve to get his attention.

“Pay this man—” Walter began.

He paused, and corrected himself. “Recompense this noble lady and her son, lord of this place, for the breed stock we have killed. And for the horse the prince took, and for their patience. Yes, pay one of those big pieces.”

“This is evidence of a giving heart, my lord,” said Simon. A flat disc of precious metal extended between the herald's fingers, catching the muted light.

Outside a wealthy abbey church, gold was rarely seen, and silver was sufficient for even the deepest debt. Simon did not touch it. “And too generous. But Swein the horse breeder will enjoy your kindness—I'll be pleased to pass on your compensation. And he'll perhaps provide you with a willing mount in return.”

“He will?” Walter asked. “Do you think so?”

The herald put the coin back into the purse, where it fell into place with a soft, subterranean sound. “I'll see that this breeder of horses is well paid, my lords.”

Something about Walter prompted Simon to add, with a dash of impishness, “And as for poor Sangster, his death proves you'll be a lucky huntsman tomorrow, and we make the rooster's
corpus
our gift to you.”