The King’s Arrow

by Michael Cadnum

  “Did you?” asked Simon in a tone of respectful wonder.

  Nicolas gave a smile, as much as to say, I did indeed.

  The grappling pole had found purchase on the side of the Saint Bride, the iron talon damaging the wood. The smaller ship closed the gap, fell away as a swell collapsed under it, and then rose up again, nudging the freighter. Other hooks were handed up, binding the two ships together. The big ship’s mast rocked, and wooden pegs complained along the length of the keel.

  Until that moment Simon and his crew had been free, however straitened their hopes.

  Now they were prisoners.

  32

  Roland flung one leg over the freighter’s rail and climbed on board.

  No one in the Saint Victor made an effort to help him. He used the lance, point down, to steady his weight, the point making tiny scars in the deck.

  He looked bruised and bloodied but as hale as ever, although it appeared to be a challenge for him to keep his balance as the two craft lifted and fell in the water. The remaining royal guardsmen in the vessel looked on with a pensive, neutral air that Simon found curious.

  If Roland had shown a combative fierceness and offered an attack with a loud cry and a ringing curse—like the war chiefs in the poems Simon used to love—it would have been much easier to strike at the marshal, and strike again, until he lay motionless.

  But what actually happened was less like the poetic histories, and more like a royal protector taking possession of a conveyance and its occupants, all his to lawfully seize. Simon was surprised at Roland’s quietly businesslike manner, as though detached from the tumult of the day’s proceedings, until he recognized the feeling in the marshal’s eyes.

  It was grief, Simon guessed, that caused Roland to gaze at Walter, down the length of the big freighter, in such a solemn manner.

  “So, Simon,” began Roland, with something like weary regard. “You are in league with the slayer of our lord king.”

  The marshal sounded almost satisfied with Simon’s status as a regicide’s accomplice, as though this merely confirmed the marshal’s long distrust. His lips were swollen, and his voice subdued.

  “Lord marshal,” said Simon, “allow my friends to escape to Normandy.”

  The two ships were fast together now. The armed men of the Saint Victor remained as they were, Climenze foremost, his crossbow cocked. Roland had no need to hasten his efforts. The entire company of the captured ship could be named traitors and foreign enemies, as the terms applied, and the ship itself be taken as legal plunder.

  “Escape?” echoed the marshal, as though the idea was unthinkable. “I would hunt you and your companions down any hole in Christendom.”

  “I forced the ship, and her owners,” Simon continued, “against their expressed desire and will.”

  This was, he thought, very nearly the truth.

  But Roland was not an officer about to trade a string of declarations with criminals. He made an eloquent gesture, Away with all of you.

  “Walter Tirel,” the royal marshal began, in a ringing voice, “I arrest you—”

  For the death of the lord king.

  That was what Roland was expected to say, and that was what Simon very nearly heard, finishing the marshal’s formality in his mind.

  But his utterance was never completed.

  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!”

  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.

  FIVE

  Chase End

  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, nuzzl
ing 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?

  About the Author

  Michael Cadnum is the author of thirty-five books for adults and young adults. His work—which includes thrillers, suspense novels, historical fiction, and books about myths and legends—has been nominated for the National Book Award (The Book of the Lion), the Edgar Award (Calling Home and Breaking the Fall), and the Los Angeles Times Book Prize (In a Dark Wood). A former National Endowment for the Arts Creative Writing Fellow, he is also the author of award-winning poetry. Seize the Storm (2012) is his most recent novel.