19

“Your 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.”

“My 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.

“As 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.

“Does your father prosper?” inquired King William.

“My 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.

“My 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 drank, too, in turn.

Simon did not mention one important chapter in the life of his father. In reward for chasing off the dog, William had giver Fulcher Foldre the manor of Aldham and all its lands, making yet another loyal follower a landed duke or count—the Normans were careless when it came to titles. It was the Conqueror’s way of extending his dominion over his new kingdom.

Simon did not mention, either, that the news had killed Simon’s maternal grandfather—dropped him with a stroke before he had been forced to abandon his home to a usurper. It was a tribute to Fulcher Foldre’s gentle nature, and his loving persistence, that he was able, over time, to win the trust and devotion of Christina.

Simon doubted the wisdom of what he was about to say. Nonetheless—perhaps emboldened by the unusually delicious wine—he said it anyway. “Prince Henry took the horse from me, my lord king. Bel, the young fighting horse. It was no gift.”

The king laughed, but this was not a friendly sound. He said, “Think of the horse as a tax.”

Simon smiled grimly. Life was a hazard course of fees, taxes, duties, to be paid by service, silver, or livestock.

The king added, “You know, of course, that the steed is all but useless. I’ve had him stabled near the woods. Other horses make him angry, and he attacks the ostler, although he lets the hounds lick his muzzle.”

There was anger behind the king’s smile. But having begun this considered frankness with the king, Simon saw no reason to hesitate now. It was not the brief taste of wine rushing to his head, Simon believed. Plain speaking was a virtue—although Simon wondered for a moment how ill any mortal would look, shorn of a nose.

Simon had not expected to mention the slain poacher, but a sudden surge of duty caused him to speak. No one else would ever have such an opportunity to honor Edric’s memory.

“A man was killed yesterday, my lord,” said Simon.

“Who?” the king asked, with some interest. In every report of violence, men liked to hear where the wound fell, what body part was pierced, and what weapon was involved.

Simon kept to the bare, unsatisfactory truth. “Edric, a freedman, a father and husband. And a friend to many.”

“I have heard nothing of it.”

Simon described the flight, the javelin, the unshriven death.

The king gave his horse a soothing pat, ruffling the bay’s mane. “How far was Marshal Roland from the outlaw?”

Simon did not like the course of the king’s inquiry. Simon said, “Perhaps one hundred paces.”

King William closed his eyes, as though picturing the javelin’s flight in his mind. He glanced back, observing the marshal riding well behind, Roland watching the tree line, alert to possible harm to the royal party.

King William smiled and said, “I wish I had seen that.” But then he shifted his weight, the saddle creaking beneath him. “Did this poacher owe you a debt, dear Simon?”

“My lord king,” said Simon, “he did not.”

“Then his death cost you nothing.”

Simon could not keep the feeling from his voice. “We all thought of Edric as a neighbor. I liked him well.”

The king looked away, over the windswept field they were riding across, a former pasture. Walter rode a short distance away, talking with Bertram, and Vexin of Tours was holding the reins with one hand while a servant rode beside him, brushing the sleeve of his master’s cloak. The ruin of a farmer’s cottage hulked among the bracken, and the road was faintly scored by old plow lines.

“Perhaps, Simon,” said the king, his tone one of gentle menace, “you should teach your friends to honor their king.”