21

The king pulled the hood back over his head and conferred with the marshal, the two men side by side as the king pointed out places on the holly bush where the ground was bare.

Too often a crackling twig or leaf gave away a hunter’s hiding place, as Simon had been told by regretful bowmen over cups of wine. Now as Roland and the king took their new positions on either side of the holly, Walter quietly cleared the ground where he and Simon were waiting across from them.

Simon could not tell which square-built, hooded figure was the king and which the marshal, although surely it was the king enjoying another long taste of wine from the goatskin.

Judging by the excited baying of the hounds, a promising deer was surely in flight in the woodland to the north. The dogs were not heading toward the ambush, however. Walter sighed impatiently at the sound of the muffled clamoring of the hounds, now lost, now clearly audible, but not driving any closer.

Simon knew from fireside stories that the game was never easy. The deer often sensed trouble and veered off the intended path, and sometimes took flight so successfully that the hounds could never pick up the scent again.

Even if the ambush worked, and the king and his companions loosed their arrows, and even if an iron-headed arrow or two found their target, the one or two shafts were rarely fatal. The most exciting stage of the sport would begin as the hunters followed the blood, sometimes not finding the wounded deer for many hours, through bogs and brambles, with a chance that the deer was neither fatally wounded nor even seriously hurt.

In any event, the point of the day’s venture was venison. Fresh meat was often scarce, even on a king’s table, and no man enjoyed the prospect of the approaching autumn, and the ensuing winter, without dreaming of a roast haunch.

Simon felt a daydream of successful feasting slip over him, the king calling for more wine and asking Simon to sing the song of the unicorn and the lion, or the one about the fox and Saint Michael, Simon elated and secure in the king’s command.

And then the stag appeared.

When the deer arrived at last, he was more beautiful than Simon would have thought possible.

He was not running at top speed. In fact, the animal seemed to hesitate at the peak of every leap, as though considering whether to continue his existence as a four-legged creature or to slip into the fabric of the air and vanish.

Walter took a step forward and held back his gloved hand toward Simon. The stag stopped completely, and looked ahead at the horses, browsing among the ostler’s grass, scattered beyond the leafy screens. Walter wiggled his gloved fingers, a gesture of nearly comic impatience. Quickly.

The arrows whispered together, a hollow clatter in the tightly woven quiver. Simon fumbled, found an arrow, lost it, and seized another, gritting his teeth with the effort to be quiet. He selected an arrow with a long, slender head and no barbs, fletched with gray-and-brown goose feathers.

The deer lifted its head and froze at this dry-bone, willow-stick noise.

They’ll be singing about this for generations, thought Simon—how a novice varlet frightened off the paramount stag in England.