The King’s Arrow by Michael Cadnum

gift—iron was a valuable mineral, beyond the means of many honest people. But in Roland’s years of increasing responsibility, he had rarely called upon it before this moment.
    He bid Grestain to come along—the law and common practice preferred a witness when the king’s justice was enforced. Roland carried the ax head-down through the sleepy lodge, past cloth partitions, snores, and the slow breathing of slumber on all sides, Grestain following closely, as such officers were trained to do, without question.
    Just outside the side entrance to the lodge was the dog-keep, where the sawdust was freshly strewn and the trough kept full of fresh water. As Roland unfastened the gate to this enclosure, a guard in the distance began a startled “Who’s there?” but then settled for “Good evening to you, lord marshal.”
    The lymerer slept with his charges, on a bunk at the far end of the rows of wicker pens. The long, narrow enclosure smelled sharply of dog—dog fur, dog breath, a companionable odor. Roland knelt and fetched a good-sized ox bone from among the selection of well-chewed hocks and ribs from the chips of wood on the ground. He carried the bone in his left hand, like a treat for a favorite pet.
    A pack of hounds for fox and other running quarry consisted of twelve running hounds and the lymerer to manage them, and for a stag hunt a smaller pack of lean dogs who were trained to be carried on horseback. More than a score of eager dogs awakened as the marshal passed their sleeping pens, the just-stirring dogs putting out their snouts. The most veteran of them sniffed the air, whining as they nosed the iron weapon and anticipated blood.
    There was a throaty growl from the far end of the dog-keep, Golias rousing just as the lymerer himself was awakening.
    The man called, in English, “Who is that?”
    Golias barked, and showed his teeth as Roland drew near. Roland recognized the call of duty, the dog setting his legs and barking with increasing vigor. The marshal felt a flicker of compassion for a beast that could have served a more disciplined master for many years yet.
    The marshal thrust the bone at the thick-necked dog, and Golias seized it in his teeth. Roland brought the blunt side of the ax down in a single, swift blow, and the dog was flat, four legs out, his tongue caught in his jaw and bitten nearly in two.
    One more blow, for mercy, and Roland was done.
    The lymerer fell to his knees, his hands over his face as the dogs yapped and whined nervously, startled by this fatality among their brethren. Roland wished he knew the man’s name—this sort of unpleasantness always went more smoothly if you knew the Christian name of the individual, and something about his father’s trade, and his mother’s family. This was one of those new English freemen, added to the treasury rolls in recent months to fill the needs of the rambling, rapacious court.
    â€œIf, before Heaven,” said the lymerer , now in the courtly tongue, “you would spare my life, my lord, I would be grateful.” He spoke the bastard language, Norman words with English sounds, that Roland heard everywhere.
    â€œWhy would I kill you?” asked Roland. It was appalling the way his reputation painted him as monstrous, even among the royal company. “Unless you yourself bite the hand of one of the royal guard, my man, your life is safe.”
    â€œIt is cheerless, though, is it not?” Roland heard himself say as he and Grestain made their way back to the lodge.
    â€œCheerless, my lord?” asked the sergeant.
    Roland caught himself. A marshal did not think out loud, even before his trusted sergeant. But it was cheerless, in truth—this and all the killing to come.

THREE
    Blood Royal

15
    â€œI pray that today’s hunt, Simon,” said Christina, “will bring us long-due honor.”
    Simon knew that his mother had a practical view of his future. With many