34

The Saint Victor was backing, her sail fluttering, failing to catch, and then bellying with a gentle thunder, taking the wind.

“Farewell, my lords,” called Climenze. “And a safe voyage to all of you.”

Simon let the lance fall with a clatter.

Gilda picked it up and hung it on a pair of hooks on the side of the ship made for such a weapon. With the lance stowed in a secure place, and the departing vessel reduced to a flap of sail on the shifting swells, Simon felt hope once more.

“Those are creatures of rankest dishonor,” said Walter at last, gazing after the already distant ship.

“My lords,” Nicolas confided, “we were never in any great danger from the men loyal to Prince Henry.”

Walter disputed this with a glance.

“The lord prince, I think,” said Nicolas, “plotted his brother’s death.”

Walter protested, “King William was my good friend.” He made a visible effort to force himself to make the admission, audible only to Simon and Nicolas, “It was Marshal Roland that I sought to kill.”

“My lord,” added Nicolas, “I believe you accidentally killed a king who was going to die today by another hand.”

“Nicolas, no brother under Heaven,” protested Walter, “would seek his sibling’s murder.”

Nicolas would not get into a dispute with his master. He knelt and tugged at his knife, freeing it with effort from the marshal’s corpse. The marshal’s leg had been cocked at an awkward, acute angle, but now it relaxed gracefully, and the marshal looked like a weary and battered man in repose.

The herald’s lack of further answer had its intended effect. Walter watched the receding vessel, and glanced around at the open water. He eyed his herald with a quality of friendly suspicion.

“Nicolas,” he demanded, “how do you know this?”

Nicolas looked up at Walter and Simon in turn, his face composed and his voice a peaceful sigh as he wiped his knife with a linen cloth.

He said, “I hear much.”

“You should have told me,” said Walter.

“My lord,” said Nicolas, “when do you listen to me?”

The rain, which had been failing, stopped entirely.

They consigned the lord marshal to the sea, with prayers to merciful Heaven for the peace of his soul, and they buried Tuda with him.

The Saint Bride sailed all night, and at dawn the Normandy coast showed itself, a line of fields beyond the dunes, dark turning steadily to gold.