The King’s Arrow by Michael Cadnum Page A

English folk of name beginning to rise to positions of influence under the Normans, her son was wise to curry the favor of the king. She gave Simon a kiss, and as he climbed into the saddle, she gave him a hand up, briefly supporting his weight as capably as any man. In the predawn dark, the family home gave off an inner glow.
    As eager as he was to be off on the day’s adventure, he had a sudden, surprising yearning—why not stay here where he belonged? His home had never looked so safe and peaceful. Alcuin, the chief houseman, gave Simon a reassuring smile from the broad doorway. Simon thought he had never seen the worthy retainer looking so well.
    â€œHave no fear, my lady,” Certig said with a laugh. “We’ll have Simon back again by nightfall, whole and hale.”
    â€œSchool the king in mercy, Simon,” advised Christina with a quiet laugh, the way she would have said, Teach Caesar the billy goat to speak Latin .
    Simon had slept fitfully, only to dream of hare and fawn, poachers’ snares, and silently screaming yeomen. Now as he rode beside Certig, he chewed bay leaves. Such herbs were thought to sweeten the breath and disguise human scent from the quarry.
    As the two passed the bend in the river, the Saint Bride lay careened on the green river stones. She was still above the waterline, two figures working in the early light, Gilda and her brother no doubt readying the ship for a merchant voyage.
    Maybe, Simon thought, Gilda will look up from untangling the ropes and take in the sight of me in my green cloak and hood, off on a royal hunt. Her brother might not approve, but even he might say to himself, Look at Simon, setting forth on a hunt!
    Simon had waited into darkness the night before, but Gilda had never arrived. Simon realized after a long vigil that her brother had convinced her that Simon was not a worthy companion. Simon seethed inwardly as he imagined Oswulf’s counsel—that Simon had done nothing to save Edric’s life, and that Simon was too much the Norman swain in any event for a river man’s daughter.
    â€œI’m happy I’m not a river dweller,” said Certig, thoughtful enough to distract Simon from his disappointment—neither sister nor brother looked up from their work. “It’s a life of salt blisters and storm.”
    â€œNo doubt,” said Simon appreciatively. “I am sure we are lucky to abide with foals and sucklings.”
    He had only sailed on the Saint Bride once, when a freight ship from Utrecht foundered off Portsmouth—disappeared with a cargo of wine. Simon had shipped with Gilda and her brother in an attempt to rescue sailors from the sea. The freighter had left not a spindle on the tossing, fuming brine. Since that brief, sad voyage Simon had thought sailing an adventuresome life, but unforgivably dangerous.
    Simon and Certig rode in companionable silence until they were not far from the royal lodge. The sounds of a smith’s hammer reached them through the trees, and dogs yapped excitedly.
    Simon pulled the reins, halting his horse. “Hold on a moment, Certig. I see something extraordinary.”
    â€œDo you see Mad Jack?” inquired Certig with a laugh—a nervous, unhappy sound.
    Simon gave a chuckle. Mad Jack had been a freeman living upriver, the stories told, where the waters were shallow. One day a jealous spirit entered Jack, enticed by the sight of his wife gossiping by the well with a passing jongleur. Jack killed his wife, chopped her with his ax, and ran off into the greenwood. Legend held that Mad Jack ate children and had a long, moss-green beard.
    Now Certig was laughing again, but with increasing anxiety. “Don’t leave the road, Simon.”
    Simon retrieved the wonder he had spied by reaching through the leaves, closing his hand around it, and gently tugging.
    He freed his discovery from the branches of the oak.
    â€œThat is a sure sign of luck,” breathed