Read Online The King’s Arrow by Michael Cadnum - Free Book Online Page A

said Climenze.
    â€œOnly a fool trembles at every unsettling rumor,” said the prince when he and the marshal were alone.
    â€œThis is not an omen, my lord prince,” said Roland. “This is evidence.”
    The prince stepped over to the heavy linen cloth separating them from the main atrium of the lodge. Such cloth barriers provided but scant privacy. He peered, making sure no one was listening, and then froze.
    He put a finger to his lips.
    The prince whisked the cloth aside, overturning a three-legged stool with a clatter. A sleeper somewhere stirred, but no spy was disclosed by the candlelight.
    â€œI thought I heard someone,” said the prince. He shrugged and gave a little laugh, like a man relieved he did not have to use a weapon after all.
    â€œEvidence of what?” asked the prince, encouraging Roland to continue.
    â€œBefore we left the city, I ordered two dozen new pike shafts,” said Roland.
    â€œAnd?” asked the prince.
    â€œThe armorer told me none could be found,” said Roland, soft-stepping to the very edge of the illumination cast by the steadfast candles. “There is a shortage of ash wood and hazel in London.”
    The prince looked at the drinking cup in his hand. He thought for a long moment, and then swallowed his wine. “My dear Roland, London’s wives have no doubt broken their sticks beating their wayward husbands.”
    â€œBy the dozen, my lord prince?”
    â€œDo you think some conspirator,” said Prince Henry, “has bought up every wooden shaft?”
    â€œTo make pikes and spears—that is exactly what I believe. And this secret enemy has killed off the dogs, my lord prince, to clear the streets for fighting.”
    â€œWho would he be, this troublemaker?”
    â€œNot a common Englishman, I think,” said Roland. “Not in London. We have them well beaten in the city, although they still test their fangs in the countryside.”
    â€œWho, then,” asked the prince, “is the conspirator?”

11
    Any number of noble schemers were likely suspects, thought Roland—Norman barons and newly minted English dukes. The throne of England had been a prize for the taking for a hundred years, and no doubt some grasping men felt it was ready and waiting for them now.
    But Roland did not voice any of this. He kept his own counsel, believing a judicious silence was his wisest course. Somewhere off in the drowsy hunting lodge, someone was getting sick, disgorging a day’s worth of wine or west-land cider. The sound ceased, and the lodge was quiet again.
    The prince, Roland thought, did not much resemble his brother.
    The king was red-haired and ruddy-cheeked, and expressed nearly every feeling—from glee to anger—with some variety of laughter. The prince, however, spoke in even tones, with a searching, sideways glance. He liked to make other men laugh, but he rarely smiled himself.
    â€œMarshal Roland,” said Prince Henry, “you would make a challenging enemy.”
    This sounded like a compliment, but Roland felt a chill.
    â€œI am loyal to my lord the king,” said the marshal. He meant: I am no conspirator .
    â€œAnd when,” said the prince, “under Heaven’s mercy, my brother comes to die, you will still owe the same duty to the throne.”
    Roland was appalled. Such mention of a monarch’s death was never so brazenly voiced, even by a brother of the king. This was a trap, Roland realized—a test to discover his possible disloyalty.
    â€œOur king is in spitting health, my lord prince,” said Roland, adding, “God be thanked.”
    Henry’s gaze was steady. Roland felt his soul being weighed, marred specimen though it was. I should not have killed the poacher, thought the marshal. Henry did not like it then, and he does not like it now . The prince, thought Roland, was one of those quiet, unforgiving men.
    â€œWhat if I myself,” said the