The King’s Arrow by Michael Cadnum Page A

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.”
    â€œNo, 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.
    â€œMy 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?”
    â€œAn 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.
    â€œYou 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.
    â€œDo 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.”
    The king laughed. “Yes, Walter, and you couldn’t hit one of them—not with a quiver full of arrows.”
    â€œWe were but boys,” said Walter.
    â€œLong-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.
    â€œIt 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.
    â€œOf 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.”
    â€œBut if you have cause to