The King’s Arrow by Michael Cadnum

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.
    â€œWhy 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?”
    â€œBecause you are foolish, and I say it to your face,” replied Roland, “and bad company for our king.”
    â€œEasy 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.
    â€œThe 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.
    â€œYou 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.”
    â€œEven 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.
    â€œThe roan,” inquired King William, “that last night nearly killed my chief groom?”
    â€œThe same horse, my lord king,” said the marshal.
    Simon felt his plans, composed of hope and little else, falter.
    â€œI ordered a breeder’s nose cut off last month, did I not?” queried the king. “For selling me a racing mare of poor disposition.”
    â€œMy 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.
    â€œA 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.”
    â€œWith many cousins,” said Walter smoothly, “bugling and sporting, fat with summer.”
    â€œYou see,” said the king, turning to his marshal, “how I am tempted?”
    The marshal said nothing, his gaze clouded with concern.
    â€œHow 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?”
    â€œMy lord king,” said the marshal, like a man giving up a long-running argument, “I cannot promise that New Forest is in safe hands.”
    â€œNo, and you