The King’s Arrow Read Online Free

nobleman walk about with some English toadstool who can’t tell main from maine . But you do speak well enough, Simon or Lymon, whoever you are—grandson of your grandfather.”
    â€œMy lord prince,” interjected Roland, “this young man should be cautioned that if the least harm comes to Walter Tirel, it will cost him his head.”
    Hunting was a dangerous enterprise, and many noblemen had died of hunting accidents over the years, partly caused by drunkenness, and partly because the greenwood-hued cloaks hunters wore to hide from the deer made them easy to mistake for game. Such fatal accidents often resulted in further violence, as the friends of the stricken hunter set upon the perpetrator, however innocent his blunder might have been, and cut him to pieces.
    But the prince was no longer interested in the conversation. “This stallion is two years old, perhaps?” inquired Henry, reaching for Bel’s bridle.
    The horse nosed the prince’s hand, shifted its head to one side to give the royal brother a glance, and took a long, four-legged pace back, disregarding Simon’s whispered, “Be still!”
    â€œLittle older than that, my lord prince,” said Simon. “He’s as spirited as the westward sea.”
    â€œI’ll take him,” said the prince.
    Simon started, and glanced about. Surely he misunderstood.
    Oin’s expression was pained, one eye shut, as though against bitter wind. Anger swept upward, through Simon’s spleen, the organ of ire, radiating heat down through his limbs.
    â€œHurry, hurry,” exclaimed the prince impatiently. “This is an English habit, is it not, to gape around with their mouths open? Dismount, my good Simon. My brother was in an ill humor all this week, and such a gift will brighten his mood. You will walk home.”
    Simon did not dismount. He clung to the high pommel of the saddle. Bel’s leather furnishings alone were worth a servant’s annual wages, expensive tack Swein had loaned Simon with a gracious laugh. Losing the horse—having the stallion stolen by the prince—would be a painful shame to Simon, and a stern financial challenge he would have to make good to Swein and his family.
    â€œLook,” said the prince, “how eager Bel is to have a new master. This will be a gift for my brother, to ease his spirits when he learns that there are poachers in his woods.”
    The prince was cordial enough to smile as he spoke, but it was a royal smile, welcoming and dismissive at once. “This gift will help to ensure the king’s permission,” the prince added, “that you may hunt with us tomorrow.”

4
    How, Simon wondered, was he going to explain all this to his mother?
    He nearly asked the question out loud, but it was the sort of question one did not put to a servant, even a trusted old hand like Certig. Besides, the venerable servant had suffered a serious injury the past autumn when a branch broke from a tree during a storm and struck him on the head. Certig had been unconscious for a day and a night, and ever since Simon had not wanted to cause the man any more worry than necessary.
    â€œDo you suppose, my lord,” asked Certig, “that misfortune might someday seize Marshal Roland?”
    There was one smarting sword prick on Simon’s forearm. Roland had smiled as he had thrust the blade, not with happiness so much as quiet concentration, as a leatherworker might, punching a neat hole with an awl. Simon had not made a sound. The prince had protested, “Leave off, Marshal Roland!” and Roland had shrugged and sheathed his weapon.
    The little wound smarted.
    Influences, uncanny but powerful, were known to shape events. Stars and planets, imps and devils, all worked on a person’s life. Simon recognized that this particular mildly sunny day—the first of August, the Feast of Saint Peter in Chains—was for him personally a period of