Post of the Month

~ August 2009 ~

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The Sheriff ~ Written by Esther.  Posted on the HoS Yahoo group September 2007.

Robert de Rainault took one final glance around the room of The Otter. It was early morning. Bright summer sunlight cut through the dirty windows reflecting on the fine tracery of spiders webs that lined the thatch and illuminated the dust and dirt of his abode of the last few weeks.

These were his last moments in the room and he was glad of it. A smug smile curved his lips as he thought of the luxury in which he would spend the coming night. He had the King's money and though one could never be certain of the reception one would receive from John, de Rainault knew he would at least dine and drink well tonight and be given a chamber befitting his rank.

The merchant Matteus had worked fast and the cargo of silks had changed hands almost immediately. The bales of silk from the Annunciata had been examined by a buyer at the warehouse near the quay. Matteus, de Rainault and the buyer had then retired to a private room at The Otter to finalise the deal.

Over a sumptuous meal bought from an inn down the road and a good amount of expensive wine he had haggled out a satisfactory price with the buyer. A large chest of money changed hands and had remained under the watchful eyes of his soldiers throughout the night.

The weeks of waiting had paid off and once at court, the Sheriff knew he would find enough contacts to help dispose of the pepper that the Annunciata had also bought him.

There came a soft tapping at the door and Ailmaar entered the room. He was out of breath, his face flushed, making the pimples on his cheeks stand out more than usual. His hair was tousled and stood straight up from his head, strands of straw sticking out of it. There was a fresh cut on his eyebrow, bleeding slightly.

De Rainault stared at him in disbelief. He had sent the boy off to make the final arrangements for their departure. Was the boy incapable of carrying out the simplest of tasks, he wondered in frustration.

"Where have you been?" he demanded of his squire.

Ailmaar straightened up from passing under the low doorway and snapped smartly to attention.

"The men and the cart are ready, my Lord," he said keeping his eyes firmly on the window behind the Sheriff to avoid his gaze and bracinghimself for his master's anger.

The Sheriff narrowed his eyes as a suspicious thought occurred to him. "When I send you to carry out my orders I do not expect to pass thetime of day with the tavern girls."

Ailmaar's face clouded in confusion.

"Next time you decide to tumble a maid in the stables don't forget to remove the evidence from your hair," the Sheriff said sharply, his gaze sweeping the squire from his leather boots to his uncovered head.

Ailmaar raised his hand to his head, brushing loose a few strands of straw. He flushed deeply as the Sheriff's insinuation sank in.

De Rainault's gaze moved down to the cut on his brow. "I'd say she gave you rather more than you bargained for, eh?" He laughed coarsely. He had noticed the lad panting after Warin's girl since they had arrived at The Fish and the Otter. At least the boy was showing some initiative, he supposed he should be pleased at that.

Ailmaar dropped the straw and touched his eyebrow with an exploratory finger. He winced slightly as he found the split skin and the beginnings of a bruise.

"Find somewhere to clean yourself up. I won't have my squire looking like a common brawler." de Rainault said. "I will be down directly and all had best be in order."

Ailmaar gave a quick bow and left the room, pulling the door shut behind him. The stairs were closed with darkness, but he took them confidently enough and pushed his way out into the light of the balcony that overlooked the tap room. Below him, Rona skirted her way between the tables, setting them up ready for the day's business.

Ailmaar leant against the wooden balcony and watched her practised movements, the way she swung her hips as she moved, the tautness of her dress as she leant over the tables to wipe them down with the cloth in her hand.

Blood oozed from his cut, tickling the skin near his eye. He wiped it away and looked at the dark stain on his finger, contemplating what he should do.

His master had ordered him to clean up and the well was in the yard. But he did not want to go into the yard again just yet. He would not go near the men again alone. Their jeers still echoed in his head.

"Stupid Saxon!" the sergeant had scoffed as Ailmaar had supervised the loading of the hired cart. "Thought the Conqueror had put paid to you all. What have we done to deserve having a Saxon in charge of us?"

As Ailmaar had turned into the stable to make sure all the soldiers equipment had been cleared away, the sergeant had knocked roughly against him, sending the squire sprawling into a pile of straw, catching his head on a wooden trough as he did so. The men had laughed loudly as they had returned to their work, leaving Ailmaar sitting dazedly on his backside.

The jibes from de Rainault's men had become worse of late. At King John's court Ailmaar's duties had been light. He had followed hismaster like a shadow through the Halls and at the great feasts, but these last weeks here in the tavern had forced him into closer contact with the soldiers. De Rainault had taken to spending the days in his room, pacing the floor, worrying at his problems like a dog with a bone.

Ailmaar had been under his feet and the Sheriff would often dismiss him impatiently, ordering him to go and see to the men. And the men themselves, confined within the stable yard unless their master chose to go out, were restless and bored. Quite ripe in fact to bait a Saxon boy when he was away from the protection of his master.

Now, at last, they were to take the King his money and return to Nottingham. Ailmaar wondered how soon he would be able to claim some of his long overdue pay and slip away to his sister's home for a few days. More sympathy and friendliness to be found there, he thought, than at his father's home.

Ailmaar took the last of the stairs down to the tavern floor. Rona paused in her work as he came towards her.

She nodded to him. "Did your master do that to you?" She lifted her hand, indicating the cut on his eyebrow. "He must be a hard man to work for," she added before Ailmaar could deny that the Sheriff had caused the bleeding.

"He is," Ailmaar answered matter of factly.

Rona placed the bowl of water onto the table and took up the cloth, dipping a corner of it into the bowl. She held the wetted cloth up in the air questioningly, but stopped the squire when he went to take it from her hand.

"Let me," she said softly. Ailmaar held himself still as the girl brushed the cool, damp cloth against the cut. It came away bloodied. Turning it deftly, she found a clean corner, wetted it again and dabbed it against his eyebrow.

"There," she said, after a moment. "You'll have a slight scar, but I'm sure that goes down well with them courtly ladies." She flashed him a flirtatious smile then backed abruptly away from him as the Sheriff thumped his way down the stairs behind them.

The Sheriff glared at his squire as he alighted the last of the stairs onto the rush covered floor of the great parlour. The look was enough to warn the lad that no further dallying would be tolerated. Ailmaar lifted his hands up to his head and ran his fingers through his hair, dislodging the last of the straw that his earlier tumble in the stable had left there, leaving his dark, thick thatch standing on end as he did so.

With a final glance at the tavern girl – who had returned to her cleaning duties and appeared engrossed in her tasks – he made his way in front of the Sheriff and pushed open the side door for him. His master strode out into the yard, his dark fur trimmed cloak swirling around his ankles.

A hired cart sat square in the middle of the yard in front of them. The driver, whose services had been acquired earlier, sat patiently, the end of his whip dangling over the hindquarters of a light, grey pony. The cart, hooped and covered with canvas, held the money chest, de Rainault's personal chest and the two chests of clothes that he had liberated from the pawnbroker in Jewry Street the evening before.

Ailmaar cast a sharp glance at his master, amused to note that he wore one of his best cloaks over a dark blue silk robe. The robe was one of the Sheriff's finest garments and one he had been told was worth more than his own life if it got damaged. Clearly, his master had dressed to impress this morning.

A horse had been tied to the back of the cart. His rider, one of de Rainault's men, sat up beside the driver, his sword drawn ready across his lap to deter any trouble they might meet on their way out of London. To the front of the cart Tostaux waited, holding the reins of his own horse, Boreas' reins and those of Titus, Ailmaar's mount.

Ailmaar cast a nervous glance at the back of the cart where the sergeant and the last of the soldiers waited, already mounted, to protect the rear of the small train as it made its way out of the city to Westminster. The sergeant did not even glance his way, his face shadowed by his helm, but Ailmaar knew that the earlier incident had not been forgotten.

He squared his shoulders a little as he followed the Sheriff to where Tostaux waited with their mounts. Four seasoned veteran soldiers against one untested boy. It did not amount to a fair fight at all, he thought to himself. Thankfully, he should only have to endure a few more days of their company before he could return to the safety of Nottingham Castle – a place vast enough to lose himself in if he kept his wits about him.

He had no doubt that the Sheriff would dispense with his services the moment they returned to the shire, whatever deal had been struck with Ailmaar's father for his advancement, and it would easy enough to keep out of the soldiers' way if he was relegated back among the ranks of boys who lived at Nottingham under the Sheriff's patronage.

As they crossed the yard, Warin appeared, brushing his hands against his dirt stained apron, bobbing made his head enthusiastically towards the Sheriff. To Ailmaar's surprise, the Sheriff halted and allowed the landlord to catch up with him.

"My Lord, my Lord," Warin called as he approached. "'Tis a shame that you're to leave us, my Lord."

"Good day to you, landlord." De Rainault drew his lips back in the approximation of a smile, showing sharp white teeth. He reached within his cloak and drew out a small bag filled with a few coins. He threw it towards the Tavern's landlord, who caught it deftly.

"The room I stayed in, have its condition and comfort improved somewhat. I expect it to be available to myself or any of my business partners whenever we should be in the city," de Rainault said.

"Of course, my Lord, with the greatest pleasure," exclaimed the tavern keeper bowing low whilst surreptitiously weighing the bag in the palm of his hand to guess at the value of the coins within.

Determined to be delayed no more, the Sheriff swept passed him and gripped Boreas' stirrup, pulling himself into the saddle, arranging his robe to show his hose and fine leather riding boots off to best effect. Ailmaar took the reins for Titus from Tostaux's mailed fist and hoisted himself upwards, Titus performing his customary sideways skip at the sudden weight on his back.

Steadying him, Ailmaar urged him to the front of the little train, nodded for Tostaux to join him and the two soldiers passed out under the archway of The Fish and Otter, the seaward breeze catching at their blue cloaks as they led the Sheriff and his goods up along the Thames Road towards the uncertain reception of King John.