33

Nicolas knelt at the marshal’s feet, looking for an instant like a herald pleading for mercy.

He plucked the opal-handled dagger from the sheath at his hip, and plunged it through the marshal’s boot, into his foot, all the way to the wooden deck. The ship shivered perceptibly as the dagger point entered the plank. The marshal’s foot was pinned.

Nicolas scrambled away as Roland’s lips went white. The marshal fumbled, finding a new grip on his lance. He raised the iron-tipped weapon as Simon closed on him, setting the broadsword harmlessly but forcefully across the marshal’s chest, protecting Nicolas.

What happened next shocked Simon even more deeply.

The marshal’s head snapped on his spine, and a burst of blood flew from his mouth, splashing Simon’s own lips. It was like a calculated insult, a man spitting into another’s face. But Simon never mistook the substance, like hot salt on his tongue. At the same time, a barbed iron point, unexplained and beyond any danger Simon had expected, suddenly jutted from the royal marshal’s throat as a crossbow bolt struck the marshal from behind.

Roland collapsed as the sword slipped from Simon’s grasp.

The marshal made a reflexive effort to pluck at the crossbow quarrel—surely that was what it was—projecting from his throat, but before he could fold his fingers around the broad iron point, his eyes were fixed, and his hand lifeless. His leg was cocked at an awkward angle, pinned to the deck.

Climenze, the undermarshal, stood in the prow of the smaller ship with the crossbow at his shoulder. As he lowered the now-discharged weapon, he said, with an air of quiet challenge, “Long live King Henry.”

The undermarshal looked directly at Simon as he spoke, a squarely built man looking all the larger with having tugged the trigger of his weapon. It was not the first time in recent days that Simon felt that he was being given a test—of judgment, and of loyalty.

Climenze had spoken in English: Long live King Henry.

As fallen rain cleaned his face of blood, Simon considered how best to respond to a man who had just killed his own immediate superior. It was hard to express routine courtesies, or wish the likely king a long life, with the marshal’s blood flowing, barely diluted by the rain.

Walter was at Simon’s side, without warning, plucking Roland’s fallen lance from the deck.

“What breed of men are you,” said the nobleman, “to strike down your master?”

Simon tensed. Walter held the lance as though he had already killed the undermarshal in his mind and was deciding who would be next. The small shipload of men, however, did not look willing to be slaughtered.

Climenze visibly shrank.

“My lord Walter,” he said, alarm in his voice, “we beg your mercy.”

Walter thrust the spear into the smaller vessel, the iron point taking a bite out of the top rail. The nobleman steadied his feet, still clinging to the lance, and Simon saw what was likely to happen, a different version of the very near future from the one possessed by Walter. Simon could guess too well what a crossbow bolt would feel like, puncturing his own ribs.

He seized the shaft of the lance, and wrestled with Walter, the nobleman’s yellow gloves gripping the weapon. Simon knew how unforgivable Walter might find this struggle, and how far beyond any apology or explanation Simon could offer. Walter was strong, and he was more experienced at keeping his footing during bloody strife.

But Simon believed that Walter’s mood would alter soon, and that as his temper cooled, the sunset would glow and the soft rain come down warm and forgiving. He hoped Walter’s determination would give out immediately—the man used his power like a combatant accustomed to conflict, feinting and recoiling, nearly overcoming Simon.

Simon made one final effort, wrenching the shaft and bringing it down hard, out of the nobleman’s grasp. The lance was heavy, and sticky where resin had been rubbed to improve the grip. With the weapon in his hands Simon had an instant of choice, and the power to do whatever he wished—hurl the span away, or run it into Walter’s body.

It was not the first time that day Simon knew what it was to have the power to strike fear.

“My lords,” cried Nicolas, stepping between them and gesturing to some position well away from the ship. “Look—we are free!”