8

Simon waited under the enormous chestnut tree.

Foldre came from an old word meaning thunderbolt Simon had sometimes wondered what forefather on what Frankish heath or tideland had earned this forceful name. He had to imagine a rattling storm, sheep panicked, pigs all a-tumble, and brave or drunken Fore-foldre hurrying out in the flash and rumble to tie up the livestock gate.

Simon knew enough to be able to imagine that whatever courage his remote ancestor might have stumbled into, it was at least half accident. Just as today’s changing fortunes were all the result of a horse with more spirit than sense, and a Norman visitor with more good humor than pride.

It was all because of Providence, or, perhaps, the design of Heaven—otherwise known as luck. He paced a rapid circuit around the giant chestnut tree, their usual meeting place. He paced around again, impatient, but with the sort of simmering impatience that must be mastered.

There was no sign of Gilda.

Gilda’s cheerful, mild-mannered father Peter Shipman had been killed by the Norman knight Guy Turpin eight winters ago for not running the Saint Bride aground during a storm.

Guy Turpin had been a quarrelsome knight, difficult even for his cantankerous, castle-building fellow Normans. Some said that one reason William had invaded England from his dukedom in Normandy was because he had too many bristling, swaggering warriors on his hands and not enough for them to kill.

Guy Turpin in turn had drowned in a ferry accident far off, on the river Ept. Some said that a sword wound was found under the knight’s ribs. Simon believed that a hunger for revenge remained in Oswulf’s breast to this day, coiled and dangerous, and that Gilda shared some of her brother’s sentiment.

What a noisy countryside it was, swine and cows, sheep and Swein’s horses all bickering, agreeing, bedding down slowly in the long summer twilight. Hens, bereft of Sangster, clucked and scolded, and a woodcock in the chestnut high above broke into its far-carrying, liquid song, You’re lucky, yes you are.

An ox was stuck, bellowing for help, one of Plegmund’s brutes. The poor beast’s call went out into the lingering twilight, a mindless but understandable bawl. Even this repeated bellowing made Simon realize how much he loved this place, this splendid tree, these green, muddy acres all around.

And how much he longed to see Gilda.

Simon wished that he could create a song like the one he had heard one market day, the verses of the riverbank, forgiving the doe for cutting its silt with her hoof.

Red sun, white moon,

What pain to me if the lady

Thus escapes the hound?

Simon always lingered when he heard a minstrel perform, and he had a good memory for the ballads he heard, including both the high-minded lover’s tunes and the earthy drinking songs.

The trouble with waiting for someone under a well-known landmark was that people passing by could see Simon easily, guess why he was there, and offer their best wishes.

Abbot Denis of the nearby Saint Bartholomew Abbey hurried by, his four greyhounds straining at their leashes. They caught scent of Simon and each leaped or halted, like individual statues, stone-carved dogs instantly captured at a moment of attention, and then just as quickly loose and alive again.

“Give our best to Gilda,” called the abbot with a smile.

Simon thanked him.

Wilfred the reeve, as farm managers were called, strode past with a wave. His family had worked for Simon’s for generations. He carried a coil of new rope to help the drovers pull out the ox stuck in the local pond. Wilfred was an energetic, innovative man, down to instituting new foot markings for Aldham geese, so that wandering fowl might be returned. Wilfred even strode along like a man with substantial plans: new tools for the hemp beaters who made the rope, and—soon to come—new sacks for Plegmund’s oats.

“A very good evening, my lord Simon,” called Wilfred in his usual vigorous manner.

Simon wished him a good evening in return. He admired Wilfred. His plans cost silver and effort, creating a drain on the manor’s resources, but they promised prosperity.

And Simon considered how contentedly the land around him thrived, and how little any of the creatures or human beings really needed Simon’s oversight. If Simon’s life was a poem, it had reached the verse in which the expectant hero rode toward a looming gate, knocked resoundingly, and met some adventure.

It was time for Simon to take on some grand undertaking. Perhaps—was it so unlikely?—he might find an enduring place in the royal court.

He prayed, Let Gilda come quickly. So I can tell her that tomorrow I go hunting with the king.