35

The stallion’s name was Rasor—“Razor,” like a keen steel edge—and he was well named.

He cut the surf with his hooves, racing up over one dune after another. He stood as though to challenge the tossing sea-foam steeds of the Channel, and then galloped away, high-spirited and every bit the appropriate mount for the youthful English lord who, as the recent songs would have it, had helped to save Walter Tirel’s life.

Simon liked this horse very much. He liked this Norman seacoast, and its gentle rivers, its cider and its wine, and its people. On a fine day he could gaze across the salt tide and see the loom of green and subtle variation in the sky, the clouds’ reflection of the fields and woods of England. He had gotten word that his mother was safe, and Simon felt an urgent need to do nothing—to enjoy the pleasant, peaceful place that had received him so generously.

Nicolas approached on a brisk, quick horse, and called out, “My lord and lady would attend you, Lord Simon.”

“I am theirs to command,” said Simon, feeling mystified. He leaned from the saddle and asked the herald directly, “Does my cloak need brushing?”

“Can there be anything amiss on such a splendid day?” asked Nicolas, his eye aglow with quiet humor.

Simon persisted, “Has the salt water stained my cap?”

Alena looked down from a safe distance, atop a mount of her own, a soft-mouthed, vivacious mare. Walter was beside her, on a horse that pawed the sand and shook its bridle. Walter Tirel’s well-regarded sister was indeed as quiet in temper as people had described. And as beautiful, and she proved less cloistered in prayer than reports had indicated.

Simon dared to have high hopes—the highest sort of aspirations imaginable.

Marriage to such a woman would supply Simon with a generous purse—her dowry would be substantial. But this was not what attracted Simon. He could not put the image of her—or the consideration of her softly spoken speech—out of his mind.

A month had passed since King William fell in New Forest. Word came from England of the new King Henry, crowned the day after his brother’s death, in a confident if grief-touched ceremony in Winchester. News came, too, of a pardon and cordial greeting to Walter Tirel and all of his associates. The common understanding was that Henry would be a practical-minded, moderate sovereign, and an improvement over the past.

Nicolas, who knew all the news worth hearing, reported that English and Norman alike were of the belief now that Walter’s fatal arrow had been shot by accident, and no further investigation or punishment would be necessary. Nicolas encouraged Simon to think that the new king preferred that version of events—it spared the throne any hint of conspiracy.

The Saint Bride had sailed back to England heavy with treasure a fortnight before. With a load of Norman men-at-arms eager to try their luck in the new king’s service, paying their way at the highest price, Oswulf and Gilda were happy. But Simon was not eager to return, and his mother had concurred in a message written in Alcuin’s neat hand, urging him to try his fortunes among the Normans.

Alena had greeted Simon on his arrival weeks ago with a shyly courteous kiss and an expression of thanks, but Walter’s household was largely masculine, as was typical of Norman domestic arrangements, with hearty local dukes and their sons eager to meet this English lord who had helped to rescue their friend.

Being English in Simon’s case was not so much a disadvantage as a source of mild wonder. He was very slightly exotic, and half Norman in background after all. The recent mantle of local fame and manly honor was very pleasing to Simon.

In recent days Alena had accepted an invitation to sit with Simon and hear a minstrel sing newly crafted ballads. One of the verses, about the falcon and the squab, was indelicate enough to cause her to lower her eyes and lift a linen kerchief to hide her smile.

On leaving she had touched Simon’s hand and said, in a low voice, “Someday, Simon, perhaps there will be a brave song about you.”

“Perhaps,” Simon had added meaningfully, “about the two of us.”

She had smiled.

Now Nicolas was saying, “You appear as you are, Lord Simon, if I may say so—every bit the man of sport and deed.”

Nicolas spurred his mount, and joined the brother and sister briefly on the sandy hillcrest. Walter turned to say something to the herald, and then Walter lost no time in joining Simon at the edge of the surf.

Rasor touched noses with Walter’s mount.

“My sister,” Walter began, “wishes to know you better.”

Simon was amazed that his heart could continue beating. “If the lady wishes it, and it pleases you, Walter.”

“I believe you have won her attention,” said Walter with a quiet laugh.

While consideration of a possible marriage would have been premature, it was not lost on Simon that as a brother-in-law, he would be bound by allegiance to his wife and her family. In a world that relied on faithfulness to family and good name, Simon would be bound by loyalty to keep the events of New Forest, and Walter’s designs on the royal marshal’s life, entirely to himself. The events that led to the accidental death of a king would be a secret known by few.

Walter gave his sister a wave, and then urged his mount to an easy trot along the hissing margin of the waves. He continued to ride, his horse indenting a long line of hoofprints to be half erased by the sea.

Alena rode down now to meet Simon, while her brother rode on, far out of earshot. Simon realized that, with her brother’s permission, Alena was approaching Simon accompanied by neither herald nor bodyguard. This was no ordinary meeting, framed as it was with formality, and yet providing such an opportunity for shared solitude.

Alena made a soft sound with her tongue and her horse stopped, right beside Simon’s. The two horses enjoyed each other’s company, nuzzling each other quietly.

“Someday,” said Alena, “you will return to England, no doubt.”

“I need not go back soon,” said Simon.

Alena had been wearing a hood, but she reached up with a gloved hand and pulled the peaked cloth back, so that Simon could see her eyes. For a quiet woman, Simon thought, she had a most direct gaze. Her hair was dark, her eyes green, and when she smiled right at Simon just then, she accidentally lifted the reins, causing her horse to take one pace back.

“Not until you sing me some of your English ballads,” she said. “Of the drake and the bread knife, and the hart and the horn,” she said, naming two particularly bawdy songs.

“My lady Alena,” said Simon, “I know many verses—including those.”

“I will let you recite these ballads, Simon, on one condition.”

Simon could not speak, he was so tangled in happiness.

“We’ll race,” she said, with a smile. “If you reach my brother before I do, I am yours to please.”

She was off, her cloak swirling behind her, and she was swift in closing the distance between her horse and her brother’s distant, cantering mount.

She was already too far ahead.

“Fly, Rasor,” urged Simon, and the sand was a blur beneath the hooves. Grit flung up by Alena’s mount dashed his lips.

Was it true Alena was turning in her saddle, causing her mare to slow?

Or was Rasor so fleet?