King's Blood by Judith Tarr

drudgery of the court.
    He had spent the past year getting Cumbria firm in hand. That was done and well enough. A bit of court in Carlisle, then back to the south for another round of convincing fractious barons that he was, indeed, king.
    There was never any end to that. He had seen it with his father, and every higher lord had to keep his vassals from erupting into revolt. It was the way of the world. A king never got to plant his backside on a throne and just sit. He had to keep fighting for it.
    William grinned into the teeth of the wind. Kingship had turned out to suit him well. Once he was crowned, somewhat to his surprise, the Otherworld had let him be. Even his sister Cecilia had refrained from troubling him with what she perceived to be his less public duties.
    Lanfranc had been less circumspect, but he had died soon enough. He had been in his tomb for four years now. William had never quite got round to filling his archbishopric, which was a constant vexation to the bishops, not to mention the Pope; but it was restful in its way not to have that particular gadfly buzzing incessantly in his ear.
    There were other gadflies, to be sure, and plenty of troubles to occupy his mind and body, but taking all in all, he was quite satisfied to be king. And today, by God’s blessing, he was free to do as he pleased.
    They were riding down the line of the wall, on and beside the remains of the road that the legions had built. This was haunted country, full of the memories of old Rome. William had seen them marching as he rode, a shadow and a glimmer, and heard the distant tramping of booted feet.
    He was not afraid of the dead. The vigor of life was in his body, and his blood ran hot and strong. Half the men he rode with had warmed his bed at one time or another—all but the one who rode closest, whom he had never quite pushed to it.
    Robin FitzHaimo had made himself indispensable for many more reasons than that he happened to be part of the magical world. He was also notably gifted in the arts and skills of the world William preferred to live in. He had proved to be a good and loyal servant, a brave fighting man, and a surprisingly adept courtier.
    A king had to be most careful of his friendship. But William considered Robin a friend. He had ambition—he was a lord’s son, after all—but it did not blind him to either honor or loyalty.
    He was also a splendid rider and a skilled huntsman. Today he rode neck and neck with William at whatever pace the king chose, laughing the more, the faster and harder they went.
    They reined in as the sun touched the horizon, halting just below one of the castles that marked each mile of the wall. This one was more nearly intact than most: it still had a bit of roof, and the second story had not yet fallen in. Hunters and shepherds must use it as William planned to do; there were marks of fire within, and spoor of sheep and horses.
    They had brought wood to burn, and gathered such of it as was to be had in this treeless country. By the fall of dusk, they had a rather pleasant camp made, with a fire burning and bread baking and a variety of wildfowl roasting on spits.
    It was a rare, cloudless evening, with a distinct touch of frost now that the sun had gone down. William felt the cold away from the fire, but it was more invigorating than not. He wrapped himself closer in his mantle and wandered out of the milecastle into the chill twilight.
    The legions were marching on the road below. Their faces were clearer in the gloom, the light of torches gleaming on their armor. Their cloaks were the color of blood.
    One or two looked up and saw William standing by the castle. Their eyes glittered, but none of them spoke. He bowed to them. They turned eyes front and marched onward into the gathering dark.
    The odor of roasting fowl made his mouth water. The men were laughing and singing, and Walter the jester was regaling them with wicked stories. Some of the squires were drunk