The King’s Arrow (9 page)

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.

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 warlike 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.”