The King’s Arrow by Michael Cadnum Page B

Certig.
    Simon handed the discovery to the servant with care—a wide-spanned antler, gracefully pointed, a trophy lost by a rutting stag. It was only one half of a buck’s brace of antlers, quite possibly loosened by a mating duel and snagged on an overhanging limb.
    Simon had never approached the royal lodge, and he did not particularly enjoy the sight of it now, despite his excitement at the prospect of the hunt. The Normans celebrated a style of architecture that, unlike the square, earth-and-oaken keeps of the English, could only be called arrogant.
    Foreign vanity had lifted these new stone arches, and puffed-up pride had shaped these iron-spiked gates. This was a hall for eating roast venison, and for sleeping off the evening wine, and yet it was as wide and as lofty as any Jericho.
    Simon had never been introduced to a king—the thought of it made him profoundly ill at ease.
    â€œBe quick,” Certig was urging. “My lord, why are you so hesitant?”

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    Simon felt that he had good reason to pause in the saddle and gather his mental powers.
    A king was designated by God to be His right hand in the world. Just as a man might stretch his fingers and pick up a walnut, guess its weight and wholesomeness, so Heaven employed monarchs to sort, select, and command matters on this mortal earth. To interfere with a crowned sovereign was to stand in the way of the divine.
    It was difficult to think of what to say to such a presence. Ordinary good manners could hardly suffice, and yet Simon had no range of anecdotes and funny stories with which to embellish his banter. Besides, there were tales, confirmed by honest travelers, of ears shorn from the heads of Englishmen who were slow to pay their respect in homage or silver. The monarch, Simon knew, was perilous company, and no man under Heaven quicker to take offense.
    Hunts usually began very early in the day, but morning was upon them and the king did not show his presence in the outer yard. This king’s absence was further evidence of the monarch’s power. He could make his entire court, chandler and turnspit, horse guard and chamberlain, stand idly waiting by the hour, and not a single adviser would complain.
    The anticipation had the effect of increasing Simon’s apprehension all the more. Should he have stained his hunting boots with walnut oil, and was his belt too stiff? It creaked, Simon was convinced, every time he moved.
    No one in the outer courtyard had more than a glance for the two new arrivals, waiting in the dawn-dappled shadows, although Simon was aware that the gate men leveled their stares, knowing who they were and not approving.
    Simon sat upon a mare from his own stock, the placid Silk, named for her smooth nature, and Certig perched on ever-reliable Blackfire. There was no need for a horse of warlike spirit today. Deer hunting called for steady mounts, their placid browsing deceptive to the quarry.
    â€œMy lord,” said Certig in a low voice, “I count a full score of men I have never seen before. Have you ever seen so many strangers?”
    â€œOn market day, perhaps,” suggested Simon.
    â€œNot even then,” said Certig.
    â€œYou’re right,” agreed Simon.
    Simon dismounted and made a show of nonchalance, sipping a bit of warm wine from a maple-wood cup offered by one of the servants. He made every effort to look the part of manly readiness. He had worn his forest-green hunting cloak, a gift on his last birthday from Oin. Woodland green was the preferred color for the hunt—deer were thought to possess keen eyesight, able to spy a colored sleeve or brightly decorated cap from far away.
    Scent hounds panted on their leashes outside the large oak-timbered building, and foresters tugged on gloves and shared goatskins of wine, man and beast subdued but tense. The dogs sniffed and wagged and made every show of being eager.
    Today’s hunt was going to be a genteel but deadly game. It was