The King’s Arrow by Michael Cadnum Page B

worry, Nicolas,” said Simon, “shouldn’t you tell your master?”
    â€œMy 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.
    â€œThe 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.

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    â€œYour 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.”
    â€œMy 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.
    â€œAs 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.
    â€œDoes your father prosper?” inquired King William.
    â€œMy 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.
    â€œMy 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