Read The King’s Arrow for Free Online

little.
    His mother—Widow Christina, as she was known—was beyond finding any bad news shocking. Her husband, a knight who had, as the story went, once staved off a mad dog from King William’s camp, had died of a fall from his horse in midsummer, ten years before.
    He had been a seasoned campaigner when he took Christina’s hand in marriage. He had brought over a Norman wife and daughter only to lose them to black fever, and Simon had more than once heard his father tell Christina that she was his enseignier —evidence of his blessing, and his second, undeserved chance at happiness.
    Christina had survived her bereavement, and learned to laugh again and enjoy the sound of her son singing poems beside the fire, but a quality of sorrow was always with her. Simon knew that her dreams of personal vindication included Simon’s marriage to a Norman family of wealth, if only to prove that her family had the equal of any pedigree, on either side of the Channel.
    â€œYou will pay Swein this silver, Simon,” said Christina, returning from a cupboard. “And tell him we join him in praying for God’s help against royal criminals.”
    This was the last cut-treasure from the family strongbox, and there was no way of knowing how long this silver fragment had been stored, wrapped in fine-spun cloth to keep it from tarnishing. Some tankard or arm ring from the just-past age, when the Vikings raided the English coasts, must have yielded this precious metal, some Norwegian’s battle hoard. Usher of Aldham had been a tireless defender against the Norse.
    Aldham estate currently prospered, but the mending of walls, relining of wells, and repair and breeding and replanting all took a toll. Christina and Simon were land-wealthy without having much ready money.
    â€œWhat do you think of Prince Henry, Simon?” his mother was asking. “I have never laid eyes on the man.”
    â€œPrince Henry has some great subject on his mind,” Simon said. “I doubt even Bel’s high spirits will give him much happiness.”
    â€œHenry wishes he were king, I have heard,” said Christina. “The middle brother Robert is in Jerusalem on crusade, and King William the eldest drinks and ruts his way back and forth across our kingdom. I hear that Henry’s pigeon hawk hatched a two-headed chick.”
    Simon had to laugh at this. “That’s a sure sign, Mother—but of what?”
    Christina laughed quietly in turn. “I confess I’m not entirely certain—but when is an omen as straightforward as a beggar’s curse?”
    The sound of riders in the dooryard silenced them.
    Simon counted the hooves by sound—three mounts, at least, along with the chin-chink of chain mail and the rasp of a spear butt dragged along the ground.
    The house servants gathered outside, English and Norman speech too tangled for Simon to make out. There was no need to fear—Aldham’s housemen could stave off a good-sized army, and had done just that during Viking times. Certig’s voice could be heard above all, the retainer mastering not a word of Norman speech but calling out in English, “Tell your lord, my good herald, that his horse has squashed our rooster!”
    Simon strode to the wall and took down his father’s sword, a blade with a red carnelian jewel in its hilt. He and Oin had practiced fighting with broadswords and two-handed swords, too, and while Simon had never actually struck steel in earnest, he was not going to embarrass himself.
    Alcuin, the chief house servant, hurried into the smoky firelight and said, “My lady, a noble visitor asks to speak with Simon.”
    â€œWho disturbs our peace, Alcuin?” asked Christina with an air of hopefulness. She received few guests of note, and while she was gracious to scullery servant and abbot alike, she was habitually eager to be pleasantly surprised by a day’s events, and routinely slightly