The King’s Arrow Read Online Free PDF Page A

Poix will turn out to be any better than the others?” Simon was asking now.
    â€œI’ve heard that Walter Tirel is a man with a sharp sword, my lord,” said Certig. “But a man of grace, I’ve been told.”
    â€œWho says this?”
    â€œA plate servant can tell you a man’s character better than his priest, and such word travels across the Channel. We don’t see a man of Walter’s Tirel’s renown,” added Certig, “in our woodland very often.”
    Walter Tirel . The name had a fine sound to it, Simon thought—a definite music.
    An oxcart teetered and swayed its course up the deeply rutted way, conveying a lopsided load of milled oats, piled so high the load was sure to tumble.
    Plegmund had worked the land of Simon’s ancestors, planting grain and breeding goats. He was a peasant of substance, one of Simon’s most prosperous tenants, and he had recently purchased an iron candle-prick—an iron bullock with a spike on its head for a candle—a fine object crafted in Portsmouth and admired by his neighbors. Simon had paid a visit, to admire the handiwork.
    â€œMy lord Simon,” said Plegmund, “there’s no need to worry about old Plegmund. My team will make it over the ridge easy as a song.” He put a hand to his mouth in a caricature of conspiracy. “We must be quick and quiet. I hear the king’s guard are about, making sure all is calm.”
    Calm was meant ironically. The king’s men had a notorious intolerance for boredom, and London and her environs had been set alight in recent years and nearly destroyed by armed men with time on their hands.
    â€œI do believe, Plegmund,” said Simon, “that you will need our help.”
    The ancient flax-cloth sacks were packed to the point of bursting through their oft-mended seams. Blackfire tossed his head at the smell of so much fresh horse feed seeping through the cloth.
    The recent arrival of the royal court—with its dozens of cupbearers, clerks, and armorers—drove up prices and made such grain all the more scarce. Plegmund had made an enormous purchase and would no doubt resell the oats to the king’s stables, with Simon and his mother keeping a good share of the profits.
    â€œI might need, perhaps, a small amount of help, my lord,” said Plegmund. “Just this once.”
    The cart’s wheels had never been perfectly round, having been made from the trunk of a great oak cut long ago into slices. Wear had shaped them into obstinate oblongs, and Simon marveled that the team of oxen could travel from ford to farm with such a wobbling, unsteady wagon. It was true that Plegmund’s oxen were the stuff of myth—massive brutes, with dewlaps that hung nearly to the road.
    Simon shoved so hard the yoke shifted forward on the oxen, and the big animals took a few uncharacteristic light steps, nearly trotting, relieved at the quickening of their load. Nonetheless, the rise was too steep for the ambitious burden, and the cart groaned to a stubborn halt.
    They heaved with all their strength against the cart.
    The greeting of a young woman made them interrupt their efforts.

5
    â€œI wouldn’t carry such a load for you, Simon,” said the young woman as she hurried up the road.
    â€œNot for Simon,” said Plegmund, “but maybe for some other lucky man under Heaven.”
    â€œOswulf said you stopped by,” said Gilda, “but would not linger to talk with me.”
    â€œWhat else did he tell you?” asked Simon.
    â€œMy brother was in a strange temper.” She took Simon by the hand and led him to the tall hedge beside the road.
    â€œMeet me tonight, Gilda,” said Simon, “under the big chestnut.”
    â€œTonight?” asked Gilda coyly. “This very night I believe our cat is due—she’ll have six kittens or I’m a mule.”
    â€œPlease,” said Simon.
    â€œWhatever is wrong