13

On his return from his parley with the king, Roland found Climenze once more, sitting on a bench in the far corner of the lodge, his elbows on a table as he cut the rind off a wedge of cheese.

The undermarshal stood, as was proper, but Roland waved him back to his seat, and joined him at the table. Roland accepted a slice of the fragrant cheese.

It was the delicious Aldham specialty, creamy and richly flavored. Eating gold-crusted cheese late at night like this, Roland could heartily believe that God loved the world.

Except that Roland knew too much about kings and their kingdoms to think much, beyond the moment, of divine grace. Roland said, “Climenze, you must stay near the prince tomorrow.”

Climenze wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “With pleasure, my lord,” he said. “Do you need help opening that chest?”

Roland had gotten up and tugged the ironbound box out into the candlelight and was opening the strongly built container. The chest yielded. He sorted through chain mail gloves, dark with packing oil, and a collection of dirks and daggers, horn-handled and honed sharp, dangerous to the hasty hand in such light.

“Take a few men with an eye for peril—Aubri, with the broken nose, and Augustin,” Roland continued. “I fear there will be trouble.”

“From what quarter, my lord?”

I wish I could say, thought Roland.

“You will accompany the prince at dawn,” continued Roland. “See that he rides unhurt to Winchester.”

“As you wish, my lord,” said Climenze. He added, “Prince Henry has few enemies.” Unlike the king, his glance seemed to add.

“Watch the prince closely,” said the marshal.

Because, he could not add, the king does not trust him. But Climenze was already too far lost in wine to be much of a companion. Or was there something else that made the undermarshal’s gaze slip away from Roland’s?

When Climenze left Roland’s presence, his place was taken by the marshal’s personal sergeant, Grestain.

No man of importance was ever left alone, solitude being thought both cruel and impractical. A message might need to be sent, or some information confirmed, and despite the sleepy blinking of his eyes, the sergeant’s bearing was that of ready service, one hand on the pommel of his sword.

The marshal’s men were outfitted in livery much like the house servants, but with coarser cloth, their rough-woven blue surcoats decorated with gold crosses along the hem, fabric made to fit over chain mail and stand up to brambles and sword thrusts without shredding. Roland cast an eye over Grestain and found only his glove to be out of repair, a finger protruding from the soft-cured pigskin.

Roland indicated this flaw, wiggling a finger with a frowning playfulness.

Grestain’s broad face colored, and he shifted his feet self-consciously. “I’ll have it mended before the hunt tomorrow, my lord.”

“What happened?”

“No need to concern yourself, my lord.”

“Grestain,” insisted Roland, his voice low and intense, “tell me what misfortune befell your hand.”

“I had trouble with that dog again, my lord, just after we got back from the woods.”

Grestain had stood watch at the edge of the forest as Roland enjoyed Emma’s charms, and he had held his tongue from a distance when Simon and Roland had their brief, dramatic confrontation over the goose girl weeks before. Roland had no secrets from his sergeant.

“What sort of trouble?” asked Roland.

“The yellow alaunt called Golias,” said Grestain, “with the spiked collar, tried to bite me as I passed into the lodge.” An alaunt was a solidly built, large-jawed hound, prized for guard duty. The notorious Golias was a heavily built brute of more strength than good sense.

Indeed, judging by the red gouges along the exposed finger, Golias had succeeded in setting teeth into the royal sergeant. Roland was bitter, reflecting on the undeserved license this dog enjoyed. He was a favorite of the lymerer—the chief dog handler.

The chiens hauts were running dogs like the greyhound and harrier breeds, bred for lean swiftness and admired by the marshal. Everyone liked those high-spirited, friendly dogs, considered by most folk to be the finest of God’s creatures. Golias was loved by no one, save the lymerer himself.

From his wooden chest, Roland tugged out the folded leather shape of what looked like a man’s hollow torso. Stretched out on the hard-swept earthen floor of the hall, the cured skin slowly erected itself, shoulders assuming a shape, chest filling out. Years before, Roland’s father had ordered this body armor crafted in Cheapside, where the best leather-workers plied their awls. A father was proud to have a son joining the royal court for service with a sword, but privately worried, too.

There in the candlelight was the place on the breast where a spear had scored the leather during that violent winter in the north, chasing down rebel farmers near Tadcaster. The brass studs were still bright there where the long iron spearhead had gouged them.

“My lord, you will be careful,” said Grestain, “during tomorrow’s hunt.”

It was common for Roland’s rough men to share concerns for each other, despite their experience with violence—or perhaps because of it. Indeed, in most castles and great houses, to Roland’s knowledge, a harsh life was softened and made endurable by the regard of man for his master and friend for friend.

“There will be no hunt,” said Roland, “if the king takes my counsel.”

There at the bottom of the trunk was a short-handled battle-ax—just the weapon he needed now.