29

Simon realized as soon as he had delivered the news of the king’s end that his choice of words, and the truth they conveyed, could have been more artfully expressed.

Gilda put a hand out to the side of the ship to steady herself at the report, seizing one of the sail sheets and causing the furled canvas to creak and sway, the entire mast describing a tight circle in the sky. Oswulf reeled, too, deck pegs squeaking all the way to the prow.

When he could manage to make a further sound, Oswulf said, “Simon, get them off my ship.”

An arrow snapped through the air, missing the ship and splashing in the current beyond. The passage of the humming projectile and its entrance into the water was much like the flight of a swift or a barn swallow, quick-flying birds that never meant any harm to human beings.

The contrast between the happy hum of the arrow and the instant death that it implied made Simon feel all the more concerned at the predicament he had forced upon his companions. He felt responsible for encouraging Walter to go hunting and had a dismal insight into events. He realized that without his own discovery of the antler in the woods—it seemed ages ago now—the king would still be alive.

Walter gave the riverbank a thoughtful, calculating glance. It was possible to dodge an approaching arrow, with nimbleness and luck, but not if several arrows arrived at the same time.

“Simon,” said Oswulf, not belligerent now so much as pleading, “I don’t want this trouble.”

As he spoke he made an effort to steer the ship away from the bank, across the widening circles the vanished arrow had made in the water as Nicolas, unbidden, began working at the ropes binding the sail.

Borne almost entirely by the outgoing tide, the ship was at first slow to answer the tiller, but as the weathered canvas fell open, the keel made a satisfying sound beneath their feet, and the entire ship’s frame shivered with gathering speed.

Another arrow, its white feathers flashing, sang through the air. There was no arc to its flight, the arrow describing a long, straight line across the ship and far off, toward the distant opposite embankment. Archers were testing the range, and at the same time they were letting the ship’s passengers know that they would make easy targets.

To preserve his own life and the life of his sister, and to save the ship from the harm an iron-tipped arrow could do, Oswulf levered the ship further into the main current. The sail bellied steadily with the wind, and Simon began to feel the first real hope.

“Our price is ten shillings a day,” said Gilda, “for my brother’s service, and ten for mine, and another ten for the use of the ship.” She was pale, one hand on the ship’s rail to steady herself. Simon had to admire her pluck.

But there was no reason for Gilda and her brother to panic. The two arrows had shown that the archers were capable of killing them, choosing their shots. But they also demonstrated that Walter’s illustrious name, and the uncertain justice of killing river folk whose vessel had apparently been commandeered, made the bowmen cautious.

“Your price is too high,” protested Simon.

No one living near New Forest avoided hard bargaining, and many people enjoyed it. Simon was not one of them.

“What, Simon,” asked Gilda, “are his lordship’s choices?”

Gilda’s offer was far from cheap. The service of an experienced man-at-arms could be had for five shillings a day, and many freemen accepted payment in blocks of salt or candle wax, or even ells of wool, and considered themselves to be on the road to prosperity.

“And his lordship,” added Oswulf, “agrees to pay for as much of the cargo as salt water might ruin. And he’ll pay us a further ten shillings per day for our trip home.”

This could run to a considerable expense. A voyage across the Channel could take anywhere from overnight to a month, depending on weather and currents, and an easy voyage out was often followed by a rough passage back. The Saint Bride might prove to be a ruinously expensive vessel.

Gilda gave her brother an appreciative smile, and then she looked at Simon and lifted one eyebrow expectantly.

“And,” she said, “we’ll see his silver now.”

Simon could not believe what he was hearing. “Now?”

“Simon,” said Gilda with a show of patience, like someone explaining the obvious to a child, “we need to have a grand deposit on the voyage, or this man of illustrious name might well disembark once we reach the safety of Normandy and leave us without so much as a farthing.”

Walter acted the part of the nobleman trusting that his companions would arrange all the details, but his gaze continued to search the trees above the river. He shot a questioning glance at Simon, and Simon in return made a gesture of reassurance he could not at the moment feel.

He was quietly furious with Gilda and her brother, and astonished that they could treat an old friend with so little heart. At the same time, Simon realized that Gilda was no doubt playing for time, believing that as long as she and her brother delayed, quibbling over money, the royal guard would have time to crowd the bank with bowmen, and boats, fast and many, could be summoned to block the mouth of the river.

But Simon felt that he knew Walter Tirel’s character fairly well by now. He recognized that this aloof, handsomely mantled figure could commit unexpectedly violent acts. Simon would feel bitterly responsible if Walter felt he had to draw his sword.

They all heard the next arrow’s approach, a wasplike keen impending from the dark trees. Even Walter, for all his practiced self-possession, ducked his head reflexively at the sound. But there was no following report of impact, and no further evidence of an arrow—no splash, and no lancing flight toward the opposite bank.

The ship’s ropes continued to grow alternately taut and slack as the vessel worked, and the sail was ripe with the wind. No harm, thought Simon.

No harm had come.

There was, however, an additional, delayed gasp of surprise, and an in-taken breath.

And, after a long moment, a body tumbled heavily onto the deck.