The King’s Arrow (10 page)

Before Simon could make any remark, they were interrupted by an approaching voice, cheerful but insistent. “You men, if you please, will move aside.”

Perhaps the brief story of the death of the Count of Boulogne inspired Simon to a certain spirit. Whatever the cause, he was in a suddenly willful mood. Perhaps it was time that a man born in England showed some aristocratic fortitude.

“We shall stand where we are,” said Simon.

Certig tapped Simon's arm, an unspoken
Let's do as he says
.

17

“I desire to stand exactly there,” insisted the tall man in a pointed cap, “if you would be so kind as to go somewhere else.”

Simon had never spoken to Vexin of Tours before this hour. He was widely known as the lover of noble ladies, and he wore his hair long and flowing, in the current fashion among men of style. He sported a pair of hunting boots with long, tapered points.

“We are sharing the morning sunlight, my lord Vexin,” said Bertram, remaining where he was. “We like this spot.”

“Everywhere else,” said Vexin, as though instructing a man of incorrigible stupidity, “is but puddle.” This was not entirely true—the dogs inhabited a dry space, and so did many of the footmen.

“Lord Simon,” said Bertram, “has no more desire to plant his boots in muddy water, my lord, than you do.”

Vexin lifted an artfully tinted eyebrow and tugged a long, soft leather glove from his hand. Such a gesture could be the preliminary to a challenge, and Simon's heart sank at the prospect of the day's hunt ruined by a sword fight.

“Hold, Vexin, what are you thinking?” cried a familiar voice.

Simon was delighted and relieved as Walter Tirel strode into the courtyard. He arrived with a swirl of mantle and the
click-click-click
of his agate ring against the sword hilt, keeping time as he walked.

“This,” said Walter heartily as he arrived, “is my good friend Simon Foldre, who will be my right hand this day.”

Vexin stood tall, and looked every inch the man who usually stood wherever he wanted. “This young Englishman is your friend, Lord Walter?”

“My very good friend,” said Walter.

Vexin absorbed this. Then he gave a courteous bow and said, “I shall be honored, Simon, if you will take pleasure in that little portion of dry earth.”

Vexin departed with a sweep of cape and the lingering scent of lavender perfume. Simon was grateful for Walter's intervention. He was glad to see Walter, too, not only because his arrival had interrupted a crisis. Walter's brisk humor made Simon happy. But something about Simon's new friend was melancholy now, and his smile was apologetic.

The Norman ran his eyes over Simon's attire and said, “You appear to be the ready hunter, Simon. My sister Alena asked if I might find an English lord for her companionship back in Normandy, and I thought the effort not worth making. Now I am forced to reconsider.”

Simon suspected that Walter was using flattery out of mere friendliness, but the sound of Alena's name did pierce Simon with a strange pleasure.

“I would be honored,” Simon said, “to meet the lady Alena.”

Few Norman women, it was said, would look twice at an Englishman. But the opposite was also asserted, sometimes in the same breath: any man with a feather in his cap and a store of lovers' ballads would find Norman women warm companions.

Walter gave a smile. “Some pleasant day, perhaps.” Then he leaned into Simon and added, confidingly, “The king says he will not hunt this morning.”

This was disappointing news indeed.

“Why not?” Simon managed to ask.

Of course, a delayed hunt would mean that Simon could get all the more ready for the morrow. He could ride back home and stain his boots a duskier brown, and knead oil into his belt.

“He says he may forgo New Forest hunting altogether this season,” answered Walter with an air of exasperation.

“Altogether?” Simon echoed, feeling his hopes entirely dissolve.

“Marshal Roland,” said Walter, “advises the king not to go forth.”

“Why?”

“There are reports: violence in London, strange omens and disquiet,” said Walter. “Prince Henry has been sent back to the city to resolve the trouble. At the best of times, the forest is dangerous, is it not?” But Walter was no longer paying full attention to his own words. “You found this in the woods?” he asked, reaching out to stroke the ivory points in Certig's grasp.

“Dangling from a tree,” said Simon.

Walter put a finger to his lips, captured by a thought. He took the span of antler into his gloved hands.

“Come with me, Simon,” said Walter.

Simon did not hesitate, leaving Certig behind with the horses.

But his heart hesitated, aware that he was leaving behind an era of innocence regarding royal matters and stepping into a richly scented, complicated future.

The interior of the lodge was strewn with fresh rushes, a pleasant sound as the dried vegetation crackled underfoot. They smelled of fresh harvest, Simon thought, just as the entire lodge was awash with the smell of new timbers and recently planed bench wood. Servants stacked disassembled furniture against a far wall, where it would be ready for the next meal, and house dogs mock-growled and sported, disputing possession of a well-chewed bone of beef.

There was an air of homelike refuge to the place that surprised Simon, despite the guards with their chiming chain mail and the richly robed chamberlain unscrolling an account on a candlelit table.

“Where are we going?” Simon inquired with a whisper.

Walter did not answer.

“Who are you taking to meet our lord king?” inquired a reedy voice.

A very small man cavorted from the shadows, and Simon knew that this could only be the famous dwarf the king kept so richly rewarded. Simon readied a laugh—the man was supposed to be the cleverest wit in England.

“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,” said 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.”