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nobleman.
    The statement might have sounded forcefully jovial, except for the tone, which was one of pure insistence.
    The guard at Walter’s side closed his eyes and opened them, looking right at Simon, much as a cat will, in silent confidence. It was a communication of friendship, and did much to offset Walter’s tone. The solidly built attendant was evidently a knight—his leather body armor was of the highest, supple quality, and the bridge of his nose was lightly scarred from some old sword cut.
    The young herald had been tugging at Walter’s sleeve. He tugged again, and was ignored. The herald spoke up on his own, perhaps to compensate for his master’s abruptness, “Walter Tirel, by the grace of Jesus the Lord Count of Poix, extends his greetings.”
    Walter silenced this flowery announcement with a slap—not hard, but loud—across the boy’s leather cap. “Hush, Nicolas,” he said.
    Trembling inwardly, but with what he trusted was an outward calm, Simon kept his place at his mother’s side. Introductions were a source of conflict, and many men fell to bloodshed because no one could establish who had the right of way on the road—or which lord had the right to demand livestock from a householder.
    â€œA horse like the one you gave Prince Henry,” added Walter Tirel. “I will have one, too.”
    Simon had endured enough aristocratic high-handedness for one day, but he was careful to speak evenly. “The lord prince took the stallion,” he said. “He confiscated the creature, claimed it, and rode it away as a present for the lord king. It was neither a gift nor a purchase. And strictly speaking, the animal was not even mine to give away.” Simon let this fact become clear, before he added, “Although of course we are honored to be able to please King William.”
    Walter Tirel said nothing, looking from Christina to Simon, and back.
    â€œAnd if, my lord Walter,” added Simon, “you have caused the death of our rooster, we will be pleased to have a new breed fowl from the king’s flock.”
    â€œMarshal Roland,” said Walter doggedly, “reported that you were horse-rich, with a dozen stallions to spare. Bertram,” he added, turning to the knight nearby, “is that not what he asserted?”
    Bertram, the knight, was clean-shaven, with a head so closely cropped as to appear nearly hairless. He put a hand on the brass-and-leather pommel of his own weapon and made a show of looking etched with grim purpose. But there was a quality in the man-at-arms’s eyes, a touch of smiling embarrassment, when he allowed, “My lord, that is what the lord marshal chose to make us believe.”
    Simon said, “The lord marshal was, if you will forgive me, badly mistaken.”
    Walter blinked, uncertain, and at a loss for words. He smoothed the softly woven folds of his cloak and adjusted the agate signet ring which he wore over his leather glove.
    â€œWhat is he saying?” inquired Walter of his herald, although Simon’s Norman accent had been the exact replica of the best speech on either side of the Channel.
    â€œMy lord,” said Nicolas, looking up at his master, “he means that there are no horses here.”
    â€œWhat?” demanded Walter.
    Nicolas repeated his words.
    Walter looked around at his surroundings. He opened his mouth, then shut it again.
    â€œThis is an unpleasant surprise,” said Walter.
    â€œMy lord, you will dine with us,” said Simon, in haste to inject hospitality into the encounter.
    â€œI am disappointed,” said Walter.
    â€œWe will enjoy a pullet, gold from the hearth,” said Simon with a forced heartiness, “and some of the cheese that is a legend throughout England.”
    â€œIn food,” Walter said, “I have no interest.”
    â€œMy lord thanks the lord and lady of this house, however,” prompted the herald in a