The King’s Arrow Read online

  “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.”

  If Simon had misjudged Walter’s character, this was when his mistake would be clear. The man’s manner had suddenly reassured Simon—but it was not too late for the Norman lord to take fresh offense and demand blood or coin.

  “You mock me,” said Walter.

  So there it is, thought Simon. Here is sure proof that I have talked my way into trouble.

  And yet Simon would not allow himself to apologize at that moment, or to offer so much as a smile. If there was going to be violence here in his own home, surrounded by the walls of his ancestors, he would not take a single step back.

  Although, in his heart, he might wish to. Simon gave a hopeful glance at the young herald, and then met the eyes of the man-at-arms. The herald was admiring the square of tapestry on a far wall, precious needlework Christina had sewn in the early years of her marriage, a silken dove with its wings outspread. Bertram was smiling with his eyes, sending Simon a silent reassurance.

  Walter smiled.

  “I have been a fool,” he said with a laugh. “And you have offered me your patience.”

  Simon smiled, too, the tension in the hall lifting, rising upward with the lingering hearth smoke.

  Walter did something then that surprised Simon and melted the last of his anxiety.

  The nobleman took Simon’s arm, in a gesture of friendship. It was not simply a sign of warmheartedness, Simon knew, but an act for servant and companion to see.

  Walter said, “Simon, I’ll enjoy hunting with you.”

  8

  Simon waited under the enormous chestnut tree.

  Foldre came from an old word meaning thunderbolt Simon had sometimes wondered what forefather on what Frankish heath or tideland had earned this forceful name. He had to imagine a rattling storm, sheep panicked, pigs all a-tumble, and brave or drunken Fore-foldre hurrying out in the flash and rumble to tie up the livestock gate.

  Simon knew enough to be able to imagine that whatever courage his remote ancestor might have stumbled into, it was at least half accident. Just as today’s changing fortunes were all the result of a horse with more spirit than sense, and a Norman visitor with more good humor than pride.

  It was all because of Providence, or, perhaps, the design of Heaven—otherwise known as luck. He paced a rapid circuit around the giant chestnut tree, their usual meeting place. He paced around again, impatient, but with the sort of simmering impatience that must be mastered.

  There was no sign of Gilda.

  Gilda’s cheerful, mild-mannered father Peter Shipman had been killed by the Norman knight Guy Turpin eight winters ago for not running the Saint Bride aground during a storm.

  Guy Turpin had been a quarrelsome knight, difficult even for his cantankerous, castle-building fellow Normans. Some said that one reason William had invaded England from his dukedom in Normandy was because he had too many bristling, swaggering warriors on his hands and not enough for them to kill.

  Guy Turpin in turn had drowned in a ferry accident far off, on the river Ept. Some said that a sword wound was found under the knight’s ribs. Simon believed that a hunger for revenge remained in Oswulf’s breast to this day, coiled and dangerous, and that Gilda shared some of her brother’s sentiment.

  What a noisy countryside it was, swine and cows, sheep and Swein’s horses all bickering, agreeing, bedding down slowly in the long summer twilight. Hens, bereft of Sangster, clucked and scolded, and a woodcock in the chestnut high above broke into its far-carrying, liquid song, You’re lucky, yes you are.

  An ox was stuck, bellowing for help, one of Plegmund’s brutes. The poor beast’s call went out into the lingering twilight, a mindless but understandable bawl. Even this repeated bellowing made Simon realize how much he loved this place, this splendid tree, these green, muddy acres all around.

  And how much he longed to see Gilda.

  Simon wished that he could create a song like the one he had heard one market day, the verses of the riverbank, forgiving the doe for cutting its silt with her hoof.

  Red sun, white moon,

  What pain to me if the lady

  Thus escapes the hound?

  Simon always lingered when he heard a minstrel perform, and he had a good memory for the ballads he heard, including both the high-minded lover’s tunes and the earthy drinking songs.

  The trouble with waiting for someone under a well-known landmark was that people passing by could see Simon easily, guess why he was there, and offer their best wishes.

  Abbot Denis of the nearby Saint Bartholomew Abbey hurried by, his four greyhounds straining at their leashes. They caught scent of Simon and each leaped or halted, like individual statues, stone-carved dogs instantly captured at a moment of attention, and then just as quickly loose and alive again.

  “Give our best to Gilda,” called the abbot with a smile.

  Simon thanked him.

  Wilfred the reeve, as farm managers were called, strode past with a wave. His family had worked for Simon’s for generations. He carried a coil of new rope to help the drovers pull out the ox stuck in the local pond. Wilfred was an energetic, innovative man, down to instituting new foot markings for Aldham geese, so that wandering fowl might be returned. Wil
fred even strode along like a man with substantial plans: new tools for the hemp beaters who made the rope, and—soon to come—new sacks for Plegmund’s oats.

  “A very good evening, my lord Simon,” called Wilfred in his usual vigorous manner.

  Simon wished him a good evening in return. He admired Wilfred. His plans cost silver and effort, creating a drain on the manor’s resources, but they promised prosperity.

  And Simon considered how contentedly the land around him thrived, and how little any of the creatures or human beings really needed Simon’s oversight. If Simon’s life was a poem, it had reached the verse in which the expectant hero rode toward a looming gate, knocked resoundingly, and met some adventure.

  It was time for Simon to take on some grand undertaking. Perhaps—was it so unlikely?—he might find an enduring place in the royal court.

  He prayed, Let Gilda come quickly. So I can tell her that tomorrow I go hunting with the king.

  TWO

  Kingdom of Fire

  9

  The royal Marshal Roland Montfort was happy.

  He was not in this humor often, and he knew the sentiment was always fleeting. But an attractive woman sometimes made him feel this way.

  “I told you I had something to show you,” she said when she and Roland were safely off into the forest.

  Her name was Emma, and she was a freedman’s daughter—her family made charcoal for the smiths and royal chamberlains of New Forest. Her hair was tied up just so and her homespun mended and her goatskin boots newly sewn with yellow thread, all more than enough to make her look like a morsel in the eyes of the royal marshal. Her fingernails were enduringly grimed with hardwood soot, but Roland thought her a beauty, and he had an eye for women.

  She kept her hand in his, leading him onward. She had reported that she had seen something, and so she had, far out in the woods during the long summer twilight.

  It was a hare caught in the nearly invisible loop of a poacher’s snare. The long-eared creature struggled in the lingering light, kicking hard enough to break his neck if he kept struggling, nearly a man’s height off the ground, plunging away in terror as the two human beings approached.