3

It was the year of our lord 1100.

Nearly thirty-five years had passed since William the Conqueror had sailed from Normandy, the countryside across the Channel from England. He had arrived with knights and squires, and destroyed King Harold’s army. Norman noblemen had replaced the English-speaking aristocracy throughout the realm. The best land had been confiscated from English families and given out as rewards to the victor’s loyalists.

There had been bitter resentment among the suddenly powerless natives, and towns to the north had rebelled until King William had devastated farmsteads and villages, causing the deaths of untold numbers. Now the Conqueror’s son, William Rufus—the Red—continued the mastery of the defeated kingdom, ensuring that his friends and cousins held positions of power.

Wherever William Rufus traveled, his men stole what they fancied, destroyed what they chose, and even the most distinguished English families were powerless to protest. The current king was thought to be a worthy heir to the throne, but where the first King William had crushed his enemies with a dashing ruthlessness, the current king was thought to be ruthless without much originality. To his father’s passion for the hunt, William Rufus added a zeal for the stag and hound that was already legendary.

The eighteen summers of Simon’s life had seen some gradual political and social changes. While no Norman in a position of power ever bothered to learn much English, every Englishman of ambition studied the language of the conquerors. More than a few Norman aristocrats fell in love with local women and married them, and some English noblemen were lately being awarded minor positions of stewardship. It could be easily argued that Norman rule was not so different, summer and winter, from the English feudal establishment.

Now Simon was absorbing Roland’s insult, as Prince Henry was giving a wave of his hand, reassuring Simon. “For myself, I would rather this lively poacher were still alive. But my brother is king, and his command is law.”

“God keep him,” offered the marshal.

The prince gave Simon a searching, but friendly, glance. “Walter Tirel,” the prince said, “was mentioning over morning wine today that he wanted to hunt with an English varlet who knows the woods.”

A hunting varlet would be expected to act as the game servant—to carry the quiver, hand out the arrows as needed, and have an eye for the woods and its creatures. To serve a nobleman at the royal hunt, even in a secondary role, was a magnificent privilege.

Roland leaned from his saddle and spat into the grass.

Bad feeling existed between Roland and Walter Tirel, as everyone knew, going back generations. One of the marshal’s forebears had quarreled with Walter’s ancestor, an earlier duke of Poix, on the summit of a bridge, and the duke’s horse had trod upon the marshal’s ancestor, or soiled him—the songs about it were amusing and varied. Helping Walter could only irritate Roland, and this further pricked Simon’s ambition.

Besides, Walter was widely regarded on both sides of the Channel as a wealthy nobleman, with a lively spirit and—rumor had it—a beautiful, virtuous younger sister who was as yet unmarried. Walter would make a powerful acquaintance, if only Simon would allow such a soaring ambition to enter his mind.

“My lord prince,” said Simon, “I will serve the king and his guest with all my honor.”

“We can’t,” said Marshal Roland, looking right at Simon, “let the Count of Poix step into the woods with one of our two-legged English dogs.”

Prince Henry turned and gave the marshal a silencing glance. Insulting the English nobility was considered dull-witted sport and bad manners, although to Simon’s knowledge it was a common practice. Prince Henry was considered more gentle in spirit than his father had been, and more understanding than his brother the king. More than one Englishman had whispered over beer that Henry would make a better sovereign by far than his red-haired, red-handed sibling.

The prince turned again to Simon and gave him a pleasant smile. “No, we can’t, really, let the nobleman walk about with some English toadstool who can’t tell main from maine. But you do speak well enough, Simon or Lymon, whoever you are—grandson of your grandfather.”

“My lord prince,” interjected Roland, “this young man should be cautioned that if the least harm comes to Walter Tirel, it will cost him his head.”

Hunting was a dangerous enterprise, and many noblemen had died of hunting accidents over the years, partly caused by drunkenness, and partly because the greenwood-hued cloaks hunters wore to hide from the deer made them easy to mistake for game. Such fatal accidents often resulted in further violence, as the friends of the stricken hunter set upon the perpetrator, however innocent his blunder might have been, and cut him to pieces.

But the prince was no longer interested in the conversation. “This stallion is two years old, perhaps?” inquired Henry, reaching for Bel’s bridle.

The horse nosed the prince’s hand, shifted its head to one side to give the royal brother a glance, and took a long, four-legged pace back, disregarding Simon’s whispered, “Be still!”

“Little older than that, my lord prince,” said Simon. “He’s as spirited as the westward sea.”

“I’ll take him,” said the prince.

Simon started, and glanced about. Surely he misunderstood.

Oin’s expression was pained, one eye shut, as though against bitter wind. Anger swept upward, through Simon’s spleen, the organ of ire, radiating heat down through his limbs.

“Hurry, hurry,” exclaimed the prince impatiently. “This is an English habit, is it not, to gape around with their mouths open? Dismount, my good Simon. My brother was in an ill humor all this week, and such a gift will brighten his mood. You will walk home.”

Simon did not dismount. He clung to the high pommel of the saddle. Bel’s leather furnishings alone were worth a servant’s annual wages, expensive tack Swein had loaned Simon with a gracious laugh. Losing the horse—having the stallion stolen by the prince—would be a painful shame to Simon, and a stern financial challenge he would have to make good to Swein and his family.

“Look,” said the prince, “how eager Bel is to have a new master. This will be a gift for my brother, to ease his spirits when he learns that there are poachers in his woods.”

The prince was cordial enough to smile as he spoke, but it was a royal smile, welcoming and dismissive at once. “This gift will help to ensure the king’s permission,” the prince added, “that you may hunt with us tomorrow.”