The King’s Arrow Read Online Free Page B

stilts, a local landmark, proof against weasels.
    â€œWhat are the horns telling us, Simon?” called Oswulf. A river man was not entirely familiar with the horn blasts and calls used by poachers and other freebooting yeomen, but it was also possible that Oswulf knew full well what was being said.
    â€œOh, Oswulf, it is dreadful,” said Certig. “A terrible thing, impossible to talk about.”
    Like everyone Simon knew, Certig did not want to say plainly what evil had taken place. To put words to misfortune made it worse, and confirmed it beyond hope.
    Oswulf approached as Blackfire teased green acorns from the overhead branches. “Lord Simon, what has happened?” Oswulf asked. Although he and his sister were not of noble birth, their family had lived along the watercourse for as long as anyone could recall, and their family name was, by common usage, Shipman— Scipmann .
    Edric had been well liked, but at the same time the scamp had been no one’s idea of a saint. Simon resented having to enunciate the news. “The lord marshal’s javelin,” he said, “has found our old friend Edric.”
    â€œBut only wounded him?” asked Oswulf hopefully.
    â€œOh, worse than wounded, Oswulf,” said Certig. “Far, far worse.”
    â€œYou saw it happen?” gasped Oswulf.
    â€œWe were right there,” exclaimed Certig, to Simon’s discomfiture. “He died in our very shadows!”
    â€œAnd what, Simon,” asked Oswulf, narrowing his eyes, “did you do to defend our friend?”
    If only I could see Gilda , thought Simon. Surely that fair-minded young woman would understand. Simon shook his head, indicating that he had been helpless to defend Edric. Someday, Simon vowed silently to himself, he would strike the marshal down.
    â€œPlease give my greetings to your sister,” Simon managed to say.
    Oswulf turned away, too troubled to speak.
    Just before Simon reached home, there was a slight rise in the road, the point where, it was said, a giant had been buried by the legendary hero Tom of Sway. Some said the giant merely enjoyed a slumber long and deep and would awaken, cheerful but famished after his long nap.
    From Giant’s Crest, Simon could see his home. Aldham Manor, the house where he and his mother lived, had been built many years ago by Simon’s grandfather, and it had replaced a centuries-old dwelling. The manor’s lime-washed walls were beautiful in the afternoon sunlight.
    It was unmistakably simply what it was: a thriving but unadorned location surrounded by farm and pasture. It was unpretentious, practical, and all the more lovely, in Simon’s eyes, for all that. Far beyond the rambling manor house, on a hill, was the much newer tower built by Simon’s father.
    The structure was a keep of flint and mortar, a rugged redoubt made to withstand siege. Simon admired the tower, and enjoyed the fresh smell of it, and the practical way the family and servants could pull up the drawbridge and be safe from attack. No enemy had ever clattered up the road, and his mother had never walked the distance up the hill to visit the keep, not in ten years.
    But she made sure, when the account scrolls were studied at the end of every harvest, that silver was set aside for the well rope and new shutter latches, where they were needed, with enough to provide crossbow bolts and slings. When Simon asked her why she bothered to maintain Foldre Castle, she would say that bloody-taloned war could swoop from any sky.
    This was the difficulty, Simon knew, with his mother. She loved laughter, shared the richly flavored Aldham manor ale with the poor, and clapped her hands in time to the minstrel’s capers, but she required more. The daughter of a warrior of noble name, the widow of one of the Conqueror’s favorites, she hungered for a respected station in a kingdom that valued English ladies but little.
    â€œDo you think Walter Tirel of