25

Mares were sometimes possessed of a quality that folk called simply marespirit or mareishness.

Simon knew this to be the female counterpart to a stallion’s keenness, a willingness to outrun anything and even fight if the need arose. Something in Simon’s touch awoke this quality in his long-legged mount, and she flew through the oaks and out into the tussocks and hedgerows, scattering field birds as she coursed.

Simon crouched low in the saddle, grateful for this pale mare’s eagerness at leaping the bramble hedges she encountered. Simon had begun by intending to escape the king’s men, but now he realized that he might need to escape Walter himself.

The logic was sound. Why should the nobleman suffer the sole witness to survive? With Simon’s head severed from his shoulders, Walter could claim that Simon had loosed the deadly arrow—or even that Simon had acted deliberately, out of English malice.

As fleet as Simon’s own mare was, Walter must have chosen an even faster horse. When Simon looked back, he could see the nobleman steadily gaining on him. Simon blamed his own bad judgment for wanting this day to be a boy’s dream of high excitement. And he cursed his own nature, for trusting his fate to the character of a foreign-born man he did not really know.

Simon tried to run his horse as the hare flees, angling off course only to switch back in the opposite direction, the mare taking heart at this new sport. This gambit was effective at first, but then Walter ran his horse like a greyhound, cutting off the field, and cutting off yet more of the grassland, as Simon ran out of freedom, the corner of the acreage boxed in by a pinfold, a high-walled stone pen for livestock, splashed with lichen and moss.

Simon turned to face his pursuer, his mount lifting her head and ripping at the mossy floor of the pinfold with her dark forehoof.

She wanted a fight, and Simon could only wonder how he could survive even the first attack by Walter Tirel. He was unarmed, or poorly equipped—but surely this knife at his belt would provide him honor as he drew as much blood as he could before he died.

Bertram and Nicolas were approaching, their horses awakened to their task, and far in the rear was Certig, his mount laboring, not wanting to be left behind by the sudden game of trapping Simon in the cold, moss-plastered corner of the livestock pen.

“Where,” cried Walter, “are you going?”

“Leave me,” said Simon. “Please, leave me here.”

It was an impulsive plea, and he knew it would not work. Walter would need to destroy the only witness. But Simon added, “There’s a ship nearby, the Saint Bride, and the tide is just turning.”

Walter said, “Simon, I cannot abandon you here.” His voice was ragged, his breath unsteady. While Walter had shown masterly self-control immediately after the event, the swift flight and his growing insight into his predicament had apparently begun to alter his reserve.

Bertram had arrived, his own horse, a strongly built bay gelding, wanting to nose his way into the heavily breathing, spirited assembly.

The knight tossed his head, indicating the east, and said, with an effort at calm, “We must hurry to the river.” Bertram added, “My lord, I believe your friend Lord Simon fears you more than the king’s men.”

Simon had seen before that Walter took his time in recognizing the turnabouts of communication. Only now did the nobleman realize what fear forced Simon as far into the livestock pen as he could go, sawing at the reins and backing the mare into the deepest shadows.

Walter lifted his sword hand. His glove was stained with water splashed up from the field, and there was blood, a line of uneven staining along the palm. Within the leather his fingers were trembling.

This sign of deep feeling on Walter’s part shook Simon. It showed that the nobleman’s manner, his well-balanced aplomb, was just that—a manner, a way of behaving. Walter’s outward calm did not mean that all was well, or that what had happened could be undone.

“Simon,” said Walter, “my friend, you are my companion. If I leave you here, they will hack you to bits.”

Nicolas, the herald, had arrived by then. His own horse nuzzled Simon’s mare excitedly, nose to nose. Nicolas took a steady look at his master and another at Simon.

“My lord,” said Nicolas, adopting formal language, “gives you to know, Lord Simon, that he is a man of chivalry and that he will defend you with his life.”

His phrasing was perfect. But the lad spoke with a voice barely under control, a blanched copy of his usual poise.

Bertram, too, who this morning had been the picture of solid attendance, seized the bridle of his master’s horse, and gestured pleadingly, Away, away.

“I give you my word,” said Walter, “that you are safe with me.”

This reassurance was exactly what Simon had needed to hear, but he was aware that Walter, for all his quality, was a man of dynamic and changeable temper.

“I’ll see that you escape with your lives,” Simon said simply.

“My gratitude,” said Walter, “will be undying.”

At that moment Certig’s mount cantered into the shadow of the pinfold, the old servant asking, “What’s wrong, my lord Simon? Tell me what has happened.” But Certig knew already, or had guessed, tears in his eyes.

The rugged Certig of earlier years would have been the steadiest of all. But since his injury Certig had been easily confused, and now when the old servant wanted to disbelieve what had happened, searching for any reason to think all would be well, Simon did not have the heart to tell him.

A horn was sounding a distant piercing note, followed by a sour high note, the brassy message Come all, come all softened and filtered by its passage through the woodland and the humid afternoon.

Simon thought he understood why. In the confusion after an accident, Simon had heard, hunters often looked to themselves, fleeing the scene—especially when an active, deadly swordsman like Roland was present to enact instant vengeance.

Unless, of course, the marshal was still stricken. Additional horns were sounding in the woods. One was the silver-chased ox horn of the royal hunt, but another joined in from a far-off place, its shrill sound muffled by the distance, a series of notes. Another horn responded from the horizon.

Horses approached, heavy mounts, and men called to each other. Spear shafts spanked flanks of horses, urging them to greater speed, and when the menee sounded next it was close, not far from the high, moss-bound walls of the pinfold.

“Certig,” said Simon, in his firmest voice. Simon forced out the words like a man used to giving fighting orders. “Ride to Aldham Manor. Tell my mother to move at once into the tower.”

“The tower, my lord Simon?”

“My father’s keep,” said Simon in a tone of gentle exasperation. “On the hill behind the house. She and Alcuin and the house servants could hold off an army from there.”

Certig groaned. “Oh, we don’t have to hide there, do we, my lord? What has happened to make us so afraid?”

“The king is dead,” said Simon.

“Did our lord king hurt himself?” asked Certig, sounding like child in need of comfort.

Simon let his horse step gently sideways, into Certig’s mount, jostling the servant and causing him to gather the reins more firmly in his grasp. This soft collision had its intended result, stirring Certig back into his wits. He said, “I begin to understand.”

“We’ll hasten down to the river, Certig,” said Simon, “and sail the Saint Bride to sea.”

“By Jesus, you’d better be quick,” said Certig. “Hide in Normandy, my lord. They’ll never lay hands on you there.” Now that he was in possession of his spirits, the old Certig was back in full. “Oh, never fear, Lord Simon—your mother will be secure.”

Before Simon could say more, heavy horses arrived, wild-eyed and dancing as their riders pulled them back. Walter and his companions were trapped in the livestock fold by five of the marshal’s men, resplendent in their blue-and-gold surcoats—with Grestain in the lead, a broadsword in his hand.