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disappointed.
    â€œA Norman nobleman,” said the houseman. He said this in the manner of Need I say more?
    Alcuin had attended Simon’s father as a plate servant, pouring wine from a ewer in the days of Simon’s boyhood, when coin was more plentiful. Alcuin had grown gray as his duties increased. “He is of a name unfamiliar to me, if it please my lady,” he added. “And Certig is sore upset. Sangster the breed cock has been stepped on by a horse.”
    â€œIs the poor bird badly injured?” asked Christina.
    Sangster was the fire and spirit of the dooryard, a menace to man and beast, and a local legend. The chicks he sired proved fertile and healthy, and the red-feathered warrior would not be easily replaced.
    â€œWorse than hurt, I fear, my lady,” said Alcuin.
    He was his mistress’s loyal chief of staff, and he knew how she liked to learn all she could in the way of detailed gossip. “This noble fellow wears a red agate ring and a cap with a rich plume, my lady,” he offered. “His herald says that he is one Walter Tirel, of a place called Po-icks.”
    â€œHe is Count of Poix,” prompted Simon, with a sensation of expectant pride. He was thrilled inwardly, sure that Walter would live up to his reputation. “Walter Tirel is the king’s guest, and I hunt with him tomorrow, as Heaven wills it.”
    â€œOh, Simon,” breathed Christina, “I would so enjoy meeting this visitor!”
    Alcuin waited expectantly, something unsaid in his eyes—a caution, perhaps.
    The chief servant took his instructions from the lady of the house but, as was customary, even a widowed mother deferred to the wishes of the eldest male in her family.
    For a moment Simon’s pride allowed him to think that the illustrious nobleman had ridden out of his way to meet his prospective companion. Perhaps this Walter of Poix was so good-hearted—and Oin fitzBigot so generous in his descriptions of Simon’s knowledge of the woodland—that the Norman lord had decided that he had to meet this son of Fulcher Foldre at once.
    This hope was soon shattered.

7
    Voices in the dooryard had been getting louder.
    Now the wooden barrier to the outside burst open.
    Late-afternoon sunlight poured through the lingering cooking smoke of the chamber as a mantled, tall man strode into the interior. He was accompanied by a guard who wore a broad, black-buckled belt and cross-gartered boots, and a youthful herald, who pressed his cap onto his head to keep it in place, and took quick steps to keep up with his older companions.
    The herald, Simon thought, could have been ten or twelve years of age, with blond hair and the emblem of his office—a document case adorned with fine stones—suspended by a chain around his neck. He wore a knife at his hip.
    â€œMy lord,” said Christina, “I am pleased to welcome you to our home.” She spoke the Norman dialect with an English burr—a beautiful accent to Simon’s ears.
    Walter Tirel’s appearance did not disappoint Simon in the least. He had brown eyes and a short, neat, golden-colored beard. His mantle was long, with its hood thrown back, and was made of lambs’ wool dyed deep blue or green—it was hard to tell in this interior light. Like most noblemen, he looked and acted like a man ready to kill someone—not angry so much as ready for whatever came. His presence did not necessarily threaten immediate murder, Simon knew. It was a fashion among noblemen to seem dangerous.
    How fine, thought Simon, it would be to have such an ally!
    Their Norman visitor bowed briefly before Christina, and said that he was honored, all prettily enough, but with a quality of haste that was hardly the best form.
    He faced Simon at once for the more immediate business. He was almost as tall and strongly built as Simon, who was no stripling.
    â€œWhere are you keeping your horses?” demanded the