The King’s Arrow Page 8

  “Never you mind, Frocin,” said Walter cheerfully.

  “Kick me out of the way, then,” said the small man, crouching before them, presenting his backside as a target. “Because I insist that you tell me who this is.”

  Walter gave a preoccupied laugh, not like a man who was actually amused, but as though laughter were requested and he did not have the heart to deny it. But he did not bother to introduce someone of Simon’s good family to a creature who was little more than a servant.

  Simon spoke on his own behalf. “I am called Simon Foldre, and I am honored to meet you.”

  He received a bow in return, with the hat doffed and waved in pretty circles through the air. Frocin was older than Simon had expected, with a white fringe around a bald pate—the deep show of courtesy cost him some physical effort.

  “Ah, you have a trophy,” said Frocin, upright once more. He eyed the polished splendor of the antler. “Go on in to the king—he’ll be glad to see you, my lords. He is in council with Lord Iron-beak, and needs something to quicken his pulse.”

  Walter flung a hanging wool-and-silk barrier to one side—it caught briefly on something—and beckoned Simon with a toss of his head.

  As the folds of drapery swung wide, closed, and opened again, Simon caught a glimpse of a red-haired man perched on a chair in the chamber beyond, washing his hands and nodding to whatever he was being told.

  The man now drying his hands on a white linen cloth was red-haired and ruddy-featured. Simon had seen him at a distance, and recognized him. The linen retained the squares imprinted on it by the royal launderer, and the man obliterated these folds as they absorbed water from his hands.

  King William looked at Simon, and looked again, observing Simon with knife-blue eyes.

  Not yet, Simon wanted to protest.

  I haven’t readied any remark fit for the royal presence—I haven’t arranged my thoughts.

  “My lord king,” said Walter, “look what we have found in the forest.”

  Simon didn’t quite like that we.

  Simon knelt, rushes crackling at his knee but his belt remaining cooperatively silent.

  Roland looked on from a corner of the chamber. Lord Iron-beak, thought Simon with a belated inner warmth. The name was all too apt.

  18

  “No doubt, my lord king,” said Marshal Roland from his station in the corner before anyone else could speak, “the antler fell off Walter Tirel’s head.”

  The king gave a quiet laugh. “Are you saying that our old friend Walter is half beast?”

  “It’s well known,” added Roland, with a thin smile, “that a Tirel would rut with doe and duck alike.”

  Walter stood straight and stiff, and Simon did not like his icy silence. Instead of replying with a riposte of his own, or waving off the offense with a bored remark, Walter absorbed the insult with a bare shiver.

  “Why did I believe you, Roland Montfort,” said Walter at last, “when you said you knew a place where a warhorse could be purchased for a farthing?”

  “Because you are foolish, and I say it to your face,” replied Roland, “and bad company for our king.”

  “Easy now, Roland,” said King William. “Dear Walter is our friend of many years. And as for you, Walter—you must realize that Marshal Roland finds your presence at court a corrupting influence, an encouragement for me to ride through the woods half drunk.”

  Walter grew tall with unspoken resentment, not at the king, but at the monarch’s guardian.

  “The Tirel seed produces but braggarts and crookbacks,” said Roland, “while I, my lord king, rise each day simply to preserve your life.”

  Walter took a shocked step back at this last lash of insults, turning to one side, and Simon could sense the great effort it took the nobleman to keep from dashing across the chamber and seizing Roland in his fists.

  “You are too earnest a servant, Roland,” said the king, fire in his voice. “And too blunt. Apologize to my dear companion this instant.”

  Roland offered a handsome bow, and prayed for forgiveness from Walter before his king and before Heaven. Walter, however, glanced away, with an air of bitter reserve. Simon was sickened and troubled by the hurt he saw in Walter’s eyes.

  And the anger. Simon felt that it was only right to interrupt what could only become an increasingly ill-humored exchange. “My lord king,” said Simon, “I myself found the stag’s stately crown, and brought it to you.”

  “Even as Simon Foldre here made a gift to you,” asserted Walter, giving Roland a further challenging glance, “of that high-kicking stallion.”

  Roland licked his lips, preparatory to speaking further.

  “The roan,” inquired King William, “that last night nearly killed my chief groom?”

  “The same horse, my lord king,” said the marshal.

  Simon felt his plans, composed of hope and little else, falter.

  “I ordered a breeder’s nose cut off last month, did I not?” queried the king. “For selling me a racing mare of poor disposition.”

  “My lord king,” said Roland, “Grestain used a paring knife to separate the breeder’s visage from its prow.”

  Simon had heard of the badly maimed Alnoth of Bodeton. His face had swollen, and a fever kept him to his bed. Word traveled that the man’s life was in doubt. For the moment, Simon wished he was far from the king and his marshal.

  “A horse, like a kingdom, lord king,” Walter interjected, “needs time in the bridle.”

  Simon appreciated Walter’s remark—exactly the sort of statement Simon should have practiced and had not.

  The king gave a quiet, appreciative laugh. He took the antler into his hands and examined the points of the ivory rack, pursing his lips appreciatively. “By the Holy Face, this stag must be a beauty.”

  “With many cousins,” said Walter smoothly, “bugling and sporting, fat with summer.”

  “You see,” said the king, turning to his marshal, “how I am tempted?”

  The marshal said nothing, his gaze clouded with concern.

  “How can I sit here, dear Roland,” said the king, “with the eager faces of my friend Walter and this young man praying me to hunt today?”

  “My lord king,” said the marshal, like a man giving up a long-running argument, “I cannot promise that New Forest is in safe hands.”

  “No, and you cannot assert that a wen will not smite the maiden’s chin,” said the king, a remark which he evidently found clever, and which Walter laughed at mightily.

  Roland, too, had to laugh. But then the marshal added, solemnly, “My lord king, I can only kill so many of your enemies.”

  “No, I don’t believe that,” said the king, a twinkle in his eyes. “I think you are too modest, Roland, by my faith. I think you have as many deaths in your sword as the sea has waves.”

  The marshal offered a dutiful but weary smile. Simon had a moment’s compassion for the man of law, bound to defend the life of a monarch. Roland resembled his ruler more closely than the king’s own brother did, with similar red hair.

  Walter lifted a gloved finger, a man struck by a brilliant whim.

  “My lord, the marshal can join us on our hunt,” he suggested. “What woodland criminal would so much as nip your shin with Roland Montfort on guard as your personal varlet?”

  “An excellent plan,” said the king.

  King William had a warm smile, and Simon wondered that, with all his power to promote cruelty and with such bitter enemies, he could be so soft-spoken. But then Simon remembered asking his father if the Conqueror had been a fierce man, with a harsh voice. His father had given a chuckle and said King William could command instant slaughter—there was no need to shout.

  “You will join us, Roland,” the king was saying. “I have that sweet wine from your uncle’s vineyard.” Every Norman was either a nephew to the others, or an equivalent crony, going back to Adam and Eve. It did not necessarily make them loving.

  “Do you remember, William,” s
aid Walter, speaking to the king as a man spoke to an equal, “that time you challenged me to kill swans with my bow? They flew overhead, nine of them, between us and the sun.”

  The king laughed. “Yes, Walter, and you couldn’t hit one of them—not with a quiver full of arrows.”

  “We were but boys,” said Walter.

  “Long-legged, and coltish,” said the king, aglow with nostalgia. “And you with a squeaking new bow.”

  Simon followed Walter across the rush-strewn hall, and into the sunny fresh air of the courtyard.

  Everything had changed.

  The formerly desultory, nervous, halting day was gone. It was replaced by another, brighter, crisper morning, with louder hoof clops and more eager whispers as the servants hurried. The horn blower tried an experimental menee—a blast of his brass instrument. It sounded sour and thin, but instantly—on a new attempt—was whole and bright, a note that captured Simon’s heart.

  Nicolas, the youthful herald, joined Bertram, the boy’s cheeks flushed and his eyes bright. Simon was glad to see Nicolas, and greeted him.

  “It is a very fine morning for a hunt, Lord Simon,” agreed the herald in return. “A splendid day for a kill,” he corrected himself. “If Heaven wills it.”

  Hounds were led off, frantic with zeal for what they knew was coming, horses mounted, final cups of wine quaffed. Roland was assisted onto a horse by one of his sergeants, as Oin the chief huntsman barked out commands. Bows were gathered, clattering armloads; quivers of goose-feathered arrows were brought forth. As slow as life had seemed in the early hours, now it was all organized haste.

  Simon felt a hand on his sleeve, and he turned to meet the continuing gaze of Nicolas. “Stay close to my master,” said the herald.

  “Of course I shall,” said Simon, puzzled by the boy’s worried air. “Is there any particular threat?”

  Nicolas pursed his lips. “I thought I heard plots of mayhem, but this royal court mutters when it speaks. And with such accents—forgive me, Lord Simon—I’d have better luck eavesdropping on a flock of ganders.”

  “But if you have cause to worry, Nicolas,” said Simon, “shouldn’t you tell your master?”

  “My lord does not always listen to me, Lord Simon. And besides, when has danger discouraged a man like my worthy lord?”

  Nicolas might have said more, but at that moment the king hurried from the lodge and sprang onto a great bay horse. Frocin cavorted in the gate yard. “Joyous hunting, my lord king,” he cried. Simon was sorry to see that the comic would apparently not be joining the hunting party, but in the daylight the jester’s advanced years were all the more apparent, and so was the athletic effort it took for Frocin to prance nimbly among the clattering hooves of animated horses.

  Dogs trembled and danced with anticipation. They knew what the presence of the king meant, and so did every man. Oin called to the lymerer, a lash was cracked harmlessly but meaningfully over the heads of the pack, and within minutes they were all in the field, grouse breaking into the sky as the horses breasted the golden grass.

  Far off, a peasant turned and shooed his children into the family cottage. Safely on the verge of the hunting preserve, but close enough to attract royal attention, no farmer wanted to risk losing a limb or a child to the king’s whim.

  The feeling of prideful power was pleasing, Simon felt to his own dismay. He was one with a company that any commoner would dread, a rambling group that goose girls and millers alike would flee. The fact gave Simon a certain undeniable thrill.

  But soon his attention was drawn to his personal safety. An assistant huntsman turned in his saddle and fell back to Simon’s side.

  “The lord king, Lord Simon,” came the word, “desires a moment of your company.”

  Simon’s horse was all too eager to catch up with the king’s spirited mount.

  Soon Simon rode beside the king, biting his lip lest he blurt out some artless, fatal remark.

  19

  “Your father was a slayer of vicious dogs,” said the king, giving Simon a long, appraising glance, “and a defender of my own father, from what Oin tells me.”

  “My lord king,” Simon heard his own voice say, “the story can be told very tall or quite short, as the occasion warrants.”

  The king had a warm laugh and sounded every bit the happy monarch. His eyes were impatient, however, taking in the sight of horse and man with the keen restlessness that Simon had often observed in hunters.

  “As for my father,” said Simon, “I do believe that there was a wandering dog, perhaps growling, perhaps mad. My father smote it with a stick, and drove it away from the camp of the lord king your father.”

  Simon allowed the flourishing smote, his only embellishment to a legend that he wanted to share with the king in a straightforward manner. At the same time, he wished Gilda could see him just then, riding easily along as though he were accustomed to conversing with sovereigns.

  “Does your father prosper?” inquired King William.

  “My father was thrown by a horse,” said Simon, “and died, ten years ago on the feast of Saint Anne.”

  The day had been hot and sweaty, dust and the fragrance of wheat heavy in the air. Certig had come running, through gleaming mirage and the ever-scribbling flies, calling my lady, my lady in a tone that could not be mistaken. “My father was a good-hearted man,” added Simon, unsure why he felt the need to talk about his late father with the king.

  “My own father was gentle-spirited, too,” said the monarch, an assertion that came as novel tidings to Simon. Then the king added, pensively, “He suffered greatly from every festering humor before he died. Perhaps an instant death is a gift.”

  Then King William switched his horse playfully with the loose end of the reins, dismissing all sad discourse as he called for a skin of wine. He drank deeply from a goatskin handed up by a footman, and Simon drank, too, in turn.

  Simon did not mention one important chapter in the life of his father. In reward for chasing off the dog, William had giver Fulcher Foldre the manor of Aldham and all its lands, making yet another loyal follower a landed duke or count—the Normans were careless when it came to titles. It was the Conqueror’s way of extending his dominion over his new kingdom.

  Simon did not mention, either, that the news had killed Simon’s maternal grandfather—dropped him with a stroke before he had been forced to abandon his home to a usurper. It was a tribute to Fulcher Foldre’s gentle nature, and his loving persistence, that he was able, over time, to win the trust and devotion of Christina.

  Simon doubted the wisdom of what he was about to say. Nonetheless—perhaps emboldened by the unusually delicious wine—he said it anyway. “Prince Henry took the horse from me, my lord king. Bel, the young fighting horse. It was no gift.”

  The king laughed, but this was not a friendly sound. He said, “Think of the horse as a tax.”

  Simon smiled grimly. Life was a hazard course of fees, taxes, duties, to be paid by service, silver, or livestock.

  The king added, “You know, of course, that the steed is all but useless. I’ve had him stabled near the woods. Other horses make him angry, and he attacks the ostler, although he lets the hounds lick his muzzle.”

  There was anger behind the king’s smile. But having begun this considered frankness with the king, Simon saw no reason to hesitate now. It was not the brief taste of wine rushing to his head, Simon believed. Plain speaking was a virtue—although Simon wondered for a moment how ill any mortal would look, shorn of a nose.

  Simon had not expected to mention the slain poacher, but a sudden surge of duty caused him to speak. No one else would ever have such an opportunity to honor Edric’s memory.

  “A man was killed yesterday, my lord,” said Simon.

  “Who?” the king asked, with some interest. In every report of violence, men liked to hear where the wound fell, what body part was pierced, and what weapon was involved.

  Simon kept to the bare, unsatisfactory truth. “Edric, a
freedman, a father and husband. And a friend to many.”

  “I have heard nothing of it.”

  Simon described the flight, the javelin, the unshriven death.

  The king gave his horse a soothing pat, ruffling the bay’s mane. “How far was Marshal Roland from the outlaw?”

  Simon did not like the course of the king’s inquiry. Simon said, “Perhaps one hundred paces.”

  King William closed his eyes, as though picturing the javelin’s flight in his mind. He glanced back, observing the marshal riding well behind, Roland watching the tree line, alert to possible harm to the royal party.

  King William smiled and said, “I wish I had seen that.” But then he shifted his weight, the saddle creaking beneath him. “Did this poacher owe you a debt, dear Simon?”

  “My lord king,” said Simon, “he did not.”

  “Then his death cost you nothing.”

  Simon could not keep the feeling from his voice. “We all thought of Edric as a neighbor. I liked him well.”

  The king looked away, over the windswept field they were riding across, a former pasture. Walter rode a short distance away, talking with Bertram, and Vexin of Tours was holding the reins with one hand while a servant rode beside him, brushing the sleeve of his master’s cloak. The ruin of a farmer’s cottage hulked among the bracken, and the road was faintly scored by old plow lines.

  “Perhaps, Simon,” said the king, his tone one of gentle menace, “you should teach your friends to honor their king.”

  20

  The greenwood was lofty, its foliage so thick that the blue sky was covered over. Ivy cloaked many of the trees and mantled the fallen patriarchs. Holly bushes, as large as trees, flourished in the sun breaks between the oaks.

  Wild apples blushed among briars in the open spaces, and a dragonfly teased the shade, seeking, hiding, and seeking as the woodland closed in around the hunting party once more. Human voices were muted by the verdure, and amplified by it, whispers echoing, careful footsteps crashing unexpectedly among the leaf meal underfoot.