16

Simon felt that he had good reason to pause in the saddle and gather his mental powers.

A king was designated by God to be His right hand in the world. Just as a man might stretch his fingers and pick up a walnut, guess its weight and wholesomeness, so Heaven employed monarchs to sort, select, and command matters on this mortal earth. To interfere with a crowned sovereign was to stand in the way of the divine.

It was difficult to think of what to say to such a presence. Ordinary good manners could hardly suffice, and yet Simon had no range of anecdotes and funny stories with which to embellish his banter. Besides, there were tales, confirmed by honest travelers, of ears shorn from the heads of Englishmen who were slow to pay their respect in homage or silver. The monarch, Simon knew, was perilous company, and no man under Heaven quicker to take offense.

Hunts usually began very early in the day, but morning was upon them and the king did not show his presence in the outer yard. This king’s absence was further evidence of the monarch’s power. He could make his entire court, chandler and turnspit, horse guard and chamberlain, stand idly waiting by the hour, and not a single adviser would complain.

The anticipation had the effect of increasing Simon’s apprehension all the more. Should he have stained his hunting boots with walnut oil, and was his belt too stiff? It creaked, Simon was convinced, every time he moved.

No one in the outer courtyard had more than a glance for the two new arrivals, waiting in the dawn-dappled shadows, although Simon was aware that the gate men leveled their stares, knowing who they were and not approving.

Simon sat upon a mare from his own stock, the placid Silk, named for her smooth nature, and Certig perched on ever-reliable Blackfire. There was no need for a horse of warlike spirit today. Deer hunting called for steady mounts, their placid browsing deceptive to the quarry.

“My lord,” said Certig in a low voice, “I count a full score of men I have never seen before. Have you ever seen so many strangers?”

“On market day, perhaps,” suggested Simon.

“Not even then,” said Certig.

“You’re right,” agreed Simon.

Simon dismounted and made a show of nonchalance, sipping a bit of warm wine from a maple-wood cup offered by one of the servants. He made every effort to look the part of manly readiness. He had worn his forest-green hunting cloak, a gift on his last birthday from Oin. Woodland green was the preferred color for the hunt—deer were thought to possess keen eyesight, able to spy a colored sleeve or brightly decorated cap from far away.

Scent hounds panted on their leashes outside the large oak-timbered building, and foresters tugged on gloves and shared goatskins of wine, man and beast subdued but tense. The dogs sniffed and wagged and made every show of being eager.

Today’s hunt was going to be a genteel but deadly game. It was not going to be a bout of field beating, like the peasant practice on common lands, laughing and thumping, driving hares out of the field to the waiting nets and clubs of boys. Nor was it going to resemble the laughing, pink-cheeked assembly gathered to ride after foxes or wolves, like the noisy company of wine-soaked royal guests Simon had watched from a distance since boyhood. Today’s sport was to be more subtle.

Just then a house guard—as Simon took him to be, caped and hooded—made his way toward the two visitors.

The guard looked over Simon’s cloak and boots, expressionless but quietly critical, Simon thought. But this impression of measured hostility was dispelled by the confiding whisper. “The king is still asleep, Lord Simon, and Prince Henry has ridden north on urgent royal business. My master begs your patience—he spilled wine on his hunting cloak.”

With an embarrassed laugh, Simon recognized Walter’s man-at-arms from the day before.

“Yes, it’s Bertram de Lis, my lord,” said the knight. “We hardly spoke or were even introduced yesterday, what with the misunderstandings.” He lowered his voice. “I fear for Marshal Roland, and that’s the truth.”

This news gave Simon no grief.

“Did Walter and the marshal,” Simon wondered aloud, unable to hide his hope, “exchange hot words?”

“No, my lord Simon,” said the knight, “but my lord Walter has a certain angry smile that I recognize.”

“Oh, the two noble fellows will sit down and share their counsel,” said Certig consolingly, “and your master Walter will see to it that Roland grants an apology to all concerned.”

“No,” said Bertram with an air of thoughtful regret, “I think that my lord means harm.”

“Over yesterday’s embarrassment?” asked Simon. He had to laugh. Every knight and milkmaid in England endured worse indignity, simply hearing Norman conversation in the street.

Bertram gave Simon a measuring look. “My lord, have you heard what happened to the Count of Boulogne?” he asked like a man sharing a grisly confidence.

Simon admitted that the Count of Boulogne’s fate was entirely unknown to him.

Bertram did not seem unhappy to share his tale. “My lord Walter’s late brother, as Heaven willed it,” he began, “was born with a crippled back. The family loved hardy little Nivard—that was his Christened name—as did all the retainers.”

Simon gave a nod: Go on.

“Word reached us,” continued the knight, “that the Count of Boulogne, a brazen drunkard, remarked that the goose he was feasting on was as wizened as Nivard de Poix.”

Simon already knew enough. “I can easily imagine,” he said, “what happened next.”

“My lord Walter rode through the dark,” the knight continued, “and I went with him. It was bloodier, my lord Simon, than you can imagine. He stalked into the lord of Boulogne’s chamber, and my lord plunged his sword through the poor sot’s breast, all the way to the wall.”

Before Simon could make any remark, they were interrupted by an approaching voice, cheerful but insistent. “You men, if you please, will move aside.”

Perhaps the brief story of the death of the Count of Boulogne inspired Simon to a certain spirit. Whatever the cause, he was in a suddenly willful mood. Perhaps it was time that a man born in England showed some aristocratic fortitude.

“We shall stand where we are,” said Simon.

Certig tapped Simon’s arm, an unspoken Let’s do as he says.