The King’s Arrow Read Online Free Page A

unparalleled bad luck. In truth, it was hard to imagine a day of sharper misfortune.
    Simon headed home on Blackfire—a sweet-natured mount but a plodder—as Certig walked along with a hazel switch. The servant was too kindhearted to use it on the horse, but he let the flicking shadow of the hazel rod remind the creature not to stop and crop the summer grass along the road.
    Simon had protested, but Certig had insisted that no serving man of character would let his lord walk while the servant rode. As for Simon, perched in the worn and peeling saddle, he did not bother kicking the horse or urging the animal into a canter. What was the use? It was no pleasure for Simon to pass gleaners raking the last of the hay and cowherds enjoying the shade of trees, all of whom had seen him earlier that day riding in high fashion.
    â€œGood afternoon, Simon,” they called, each one of them, even the most taciturn oxherd, who rarely spoke.
    Simon smiled and waved, wishing that he were invisible.
    The river twinkled through the hawthorns, the rising tide soothing upward through the water-rounded stones. The Normans called the river Beau Lieu—“beautiful place”—while the English traditionally referred to it as The Water, as though the power to grace the land with vibrant names had long ago failed them.
    A ship careened at the end of a long, yellow rope. This was the Saint Bride , the strong-timbered vessel owned by Gilda and her brother and used for trade across the Channel, where wheels of New Forest cheese were exchanged for Low Countries linen.
    Like most seagoing vessels, the ship owed much of her design to the Norse fighting ships and freighters of great fame. While there were many other ships along the riverbank, and a burgeoning industry of shipwrights near the river’s mouth, few of the local craft were as seaworthy nor, thought Simon, as pleasing to the eye.
    And none were named after such a popular saint. Saint Bride—or Bridget, as she was also known—was during her lifetime responsible for an impressive miracle: On the arrival of unexpected guests, travelers from afar, she transformed gray dishwater into sparkling new ale. Her visitors rejoiced, and were refreshed. As a result, she had become over the years a saint associated with bounty of every sort, and Gilda and her brother had thrived under her care.
    Simon had hoped to cut a fine figure on his new steed, but now he hoped the shadows of the trees would hide them as they clopped methodically along the road. The nick in his left arm was not bleeding anymore, and a little vinegar would cleanse the trifling wound.
    But his delayed, as yet unspoken response to Certig’s query would have been no .
    No, Roland would not be struck down by man or Heaven anytime soon. He was a king’s man, with a family back in Montfort, a wealthy Norman village Simon, who had never been across the Channel, could only imagine. He pictured happy piglets and lambs and beaming farming folk, proud that one of their lords had been raised in London and was now serving the king of England.
    Simon supposed, with a grim whimsy, that if Roland dined on the infants of English peasantry—actually ate them for midday meal—he would be scolded by some royal steward for his choice of food, but suffer no special punishment.
    â€œIsn’t that Gilda,” Certig was asking, “down by the sternpost?”
    â€œHush, Certig.”
    â€œSurely it is.”
    Let us steal past, dear Certig , Simon wanted to say, and escape any notice .
    But it was too late.
    The individual beside the ship looked up, and was not fair-haired Gilda at all but her brother Oswulf, who resembled his sister the way a blade resembled a feather. Tuda was with him, the strong-armed helper dragging a coil of mooring cable up to the boathouse. Tuda rarely offered an opinion on anything, and Simon liked him for his cheerful silence. Tuda’s grandfather had built a henhouse on