Post of the Month

~ February 2010 ~

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The Sheriff/King John/Ailmaar ~ Written by Esther. Posted on the HoS Yahoo group July 2008.

"I, John, by the grace of God King of England, Lord of Ireland, Duke of Normandy and Aquitaine, Count of… God's teeth!" The King broke from his bored recitation of the document before him and glared across the table at his clerk. The man cowered under his fury, aware of the watching eyes of the nobles gathered in the hall below them.

The King lent across the table. The heavy crown adorning his head sparked as light caught at the jewels embedded in the gold. "I am no longer Count of Anjou…nor Duke of Normandy!" He snatched up the quill from the table before him and scored lines through the offending titles, so recently lost to Philip of France. The sharp nib of his quill ripped through the lambskin and scraped painfully at the wood beneath. He lifted his head to glare again at the hapless clerk. "Pay attention to the changing fortunes of England and amend your ...scribblings… accordingly," he said, uttering the words with such force that spittle spotted the yellow document where it lay beneath his hand.

The clerk bobbed his head apologetically. It was not his fault that the parchment he bore was out of date. It was one of a hundred or so standard writs that had been drawn up months before, needing only the blanks for names and places to be filled and John's scrawling signature at the bottom. It saved both time and money in the usual run of things and was a system the King had always been quick to praise in the past.

The clerk was not so stupid as to try and defend himself however. He backed away hurriedly into the crowded body of Westminster Hall, before the King's wrath could manifest itself physically.

"Where are the exchequer scribes?" John lifted himself half up from his seat and forced his voice into a petulant shout to be heard above the noise about him. The din beneath the curving rafters quietened respectfully for a moment.

"I need two more copies each of these," he ordered, waving a fistful of parchments in the air as a man came running up and knelt before him."The original is to be kept for my own record, one for the pipe rolls, and one for the Bishop of Exeter. See to it immediately!"

The men around him burst into a flurry of activity, all striving to appear busy so as not to attract his ire now it was raised.

"Damn the man!" John cursed, flicking at the papers on the table before him in disgust. He had bestowed the village of Axeminster upon William Brewer whilst in Exeter and now the Bishop was making a fuss about the right to hunt rabbits upon Axeminster land. Supposedly, these Rights of Warren had been granted him by King Richard as a favour, but John had known his brother well. The late King had rarely bothered to keep records of such exchanges unless, of course, they involved money for his wars. Chances were there was no written contract to state that the Bishop had obtained the rights and John was willing to bet that they were still registered to Royal land.

Brewer had been of great use to him of late and he would not expect him to put up with that self important Bishop and his lackeys riding roughshod over his new estates to hunt small game. In most cases, John knew, it was simply a matter of insisting on his own way to get the other party to back down. It was a method that had served him well since his nursery days.

Beside John, William Brewer yawned, showing a mouthful of unusually healthy teeth given his forty years, and shuffled his numb backside against the soft cushion it rested upon. Never an active man, Brewer's belly paunched below the table they sat at and his leg had begun to tingle in warning. The gout was back, he thought irritably. He would see the barber in the morning so the man could bleed him and release the ill humours before they settled into his flesh.

"De Rainault is back at court," he announced, his tone casual but not fooling the King.

John glanced at him slyly. The enmity between Brewer and the Sheriff was legendary and had existed since his father's time. No matter how deeply he'd dug, John had never got to the root of the matter. Nor had he made any effort to smooth things over between the two men. Sometimes it paid to fan the flames of enmity rather than to sow the seeds of peace.

"So I was told," he answered. "He has accounted for the missing taxes and now craves audience."

"The missing money was returned then?" An air of disappointment entered Brewer's tone.

The King glanced at him. "I do hope you're not wishing my taxes short merely to see de Rainault imprisoned, William?" he asked mildly.

"You know full well I am," Brewer replied, casting his gaze over the crowded hall, searching for the Sheriff of Nottingham's diminutive figure. If the man was there he did not see him. "It'd have amused you too, my Leige, no need to feign otherwise."

John gave a short barking laugh, his humour beginning to restore itself a little. "Amused me, yes. But de Rainault has his uses." He paused, frowning a little as he thought over de Rainult's most recent, tiresome attempt to divert money from the treasury. "On the other hand..." he mused, leaving the sentence open to Brewer's interpretation.

John accepted that many of his administrators dabbled in sidelines. It was a perquisite of the job that from the vast streams of money flowing through England, some of it should inevitably flow their way. However, John could ill afford to let it go when the general cost of living was rising so high. It cost him two shillings to hire a mercenary for a day. Back in King Henry's day it had cost a mere eight pence. He could almost hear his father's laughter mocking him from the grave.

Brewer eased himself reflexively against the the less ornate chair he occupied next to the King. He could see little use for de Rainault. The man was no more than a jumped up tax collector - and an untrustworthy one at that, he thought to himself. But he knew better than to push the King to confide in him for John rarely gave his confidence to any. Brewer wondered idly how many secrets the King kept close to his chest about the nobles and men standing in the well of the great Hall below them.

He was glad that he was a happily married man, with no bastards to his name to embarrass him with their antics and a past clear of youthful impetuosities of his own. It was a record he was proud of, that of all the King's nobles he was one of the few managing to keep an impeccable reputation. Still, he mused, he would not put it past John to invent dirt where none could be dug up and flung on a man's good name.

He shifted again upon the seat and wondered how much of his life had been spent in keeping one step ahead of John rages. It was a challenge at times to serve so unpredictable a master, but a challenge he seemed to have done well at. When the King had needed men to fight for him, Brewer's own son had been among the first to volunteer, which had pleased John mightily. It was also a measure of John's confidence in his abilities that the King had bestowed Axeminster upon him at a time when the treasury was so short of funds. Land was not a commodity the King could afford to give away lightly.

Another clerk approached the table bearing a pile of rolled parchments in his arms. The King dismissed him with a wave of his heavily be-ringed hand and stood abruptly. It had been a long enough day already with his head bent to paperwork.

"Enough of this," he muttered to Brewer. "We will retire to our chambers. Have food and entertainments sent up," he called. The order was thrown at no one in particular and it was left to Petit, the King's valet, to direct who should run to the kitchens and who should find a minstrel or a jongleur for the King's notoriously picky tastes.

"Oh and Petit…" the King paused a moment to allow a servant to straighten his cloak behind him before he descended the steps. Below him, the crowd had begun to quieten and turn towards the dais, ready to bow and pay their respects as he passed. Never one to miss an occasion for drama, he turned back to his valet and raised his voice to ensure that it carried to those assembled below. "Have de Rainault found and sent up immediately. I wish to speak to him privately."

As he walked behind John, Brewer hid a smile at the buzz of speculation that followed in the King's wake. De Rainault maybe a small fish in the big pond of Westminster, but he had never been popular. He had his detractors even here and there were several men amongst the court that day – apart from himself of course - who had reason to hope that de Rainault might be Sheriff of Nottingham no more, by the time this day was done.

Ailmaar perched precariously on a stone plinth at the foot of one of the great pillars supporting the curving roof of Westminster Hall. The air was thick with smoke and sweat and the heat of the bodies around him. The fingers of his right hand ached where he'd hooked them into a crack in the stone to keep himself upright as the crowds around him ebbed and flowed.

By stepping up onto the thick slabbed base, he had an excellent vantage point from which to view the hall and the servants' gossip flowing around him was providing some interesting tattle. He overheard the name of the King's latest mistress and that her husband had accepted a very large sum of money from the King himself, by way of compensation for her attentions. He discovered that the King had been granted the new nickname of Softsword for his losses across the channel to replace the affectionate Lackland that his father had lumbered him with as a boy. He learned a couple of colourful new insults used to describe the victorious King of France that he gleefully filed away for later use. And de Rainault's name had been mentioned twice already and not in a very favourable context.

As the King and his train exited through the great doors to Ailmaar's right, the hubbub around him rose to greater levels than before as everyone began discussing the day's events at court and made plans Around him, the other servants called and shouted to each other, laughing and jostling as they set about their evening's entertainments.

Servants, Ailmaar thought, was a rather loose term for them. They served the King to be sure, but many of the men and boys about him had pedigrees at least as long as the King's own - if not longer – and titles and favours to match no doubt. He smiled to himself fleetingly and wished his father could see him now in such illustrious company. Roland could surely feel that his investment in his son was paying dividends at last.

His expression returned to its usual solemn set. He had stood too far from the dais to hear the King's words but it seemed that the King had finished his business for the day and was retiring to his private rooms. The Curia Regis – the Royal Council who had been on hand to advise John on matters of law and state should he need it – was disbanding at the foot of the dais.

This, Ailmaar knew from his previous visits here, meant an end to the day's business in the court. The Sheriff would not be called today and they would be forced to spend another night bedding down in the overcrowded hall on lumpy, flea ridden palliasses. Not a state of affairs that would improve the Sheriff's mood - which had been dire since they'd arrived at court, only to be ignored by the King.

Ailmaar had first seen the King at Winchester at Michaelmas, when the Sheriff had arrived there to pay his allegiances. John was a scrawny man, not particularly tall, with thinning red hair and a permanently sour expression. He walked with a stoop and complained constantly of the belly aches. Not a man to inspire loyalty and great deeds, Ailmaar had thought to himself at the time, a little dolefully.

He sighed. He wished he were older. He might have chanced to meet the great Coeur de Lion; a man sung about in Ballads and tale. What a court Richard's must have been, he thought to himself longingly, where a man could do glorious deeds in battle and win his spurs. For a moment he lost himself in his imagination, leading a casualty heavy charge on besieged Jerusalem under the banner of King Richard until a voice rose above the babbling crowd, piercing his daydream.

"Oi you! De Rainault's boy!"

Ailmaar drew himself back from winning a knighting from the hand of Richard himself for personally slaying fifty fearsome infidels to realise that the gruff tone was addressing him. He turned his head, trying to locate the source of the voice.

"You! De Rainault's squire ain't you?" A short lad, not much older than Ailmaar and dressed in a bright scarlet surcoat embroidered with gold, was pushing his way through the crowds to where Ailmaar stood.

He cast a disparaging glance at Ailmaar's ancient blue cloak and the full – but rather outdated - mail that the squire had chosen to wear, despite the sweltering heat trapped beneath the rafters of the hall. The heavy mail, although an encumbrance, gave Ailmaar's scrawny shoulders and chest much needed bulk. It also, he hoped, might deter the Sheriff's men from giving him a good kicking, an event he was sure was not far off in coming, or at least lessen the damage to his body when it did.

"The King demands that your master attends him immediately," announced the lad with the gravity of one issuing a Royal command. "Now, boy, now!" he said, flapping his hands about in a shooing motion when Ailmaar failed to jump to the task in hand. "Go find your master or there'll be hell and more to pay." Abruptly, he turned and vanished back into the crowds.

For once, Ailmaar was glad of his height. He stepped back up onto the corner of the great plinth footing the pillar, his fingers feeling for the crack in the stone to help support him, and straightened himself up from his customary hunch to cast his gaze over the crowds about him. It was near impossible to hear anything above the din. No chance of picking out the Sheriff's familiar tones then; but at last he found a dip in the heads of the crowd and caught sight of a familiar, thinning pate of hair. Hopping back down, he pushed his way forcibly through crowds to the Sheriff's side.

De Rainault was deep in talk with a richly dressed man with greying hair. He halted their conversation with an authoritative hand as soon as Ailmaar appeared.

"Well, what is it boy?" he demanded. "Has the King requested my presence?"

Privately, Ailmaar hid a smile, wondering that the Sheriff could appear so calm when the King had not requested but demanded his presence. "Yes, my Lord," he said, playing along with a respectful bob of his head. "The King wishes to speak with you privately."

The Sheriff bid his companion farewell and followed Ailmaar as the boy cleared a way through the crowds to the doors of the great hall. Using his elbows freely to fight his way along in the his squire's wake, de Rainault plastered a disdainful expression across his face for the benefit of the people turning towards him and in answer to the speculative whispers that reached his ears. John had deliberately kept him waiting, he thought furiously, well aware that this was common knowledge and he was in danger of becoming a laughing stock.

With the King returned, the great hall at Westminster had been transformed since his last visit to the Exchequer only a week previously. Costly banners of finest silk draped the walls, decorated with the three golden lions of England. The dais steps were carpeted lushly in the same shade of crimson, softening the tread of those who passed over it, and the top tier held the great oaken table recently vacated by John and his Royal Council, behind which sat the ornately decorated bench that John had shared with Brewer and others of his Council. All ostentatious display for the benefit of the commoner man, the Sheriff approved despite his current mood of annoyance, thinking of his own hall at Nottingham which badly needed renovation.

The huge arched hall echoed with the clamour of countless people, each with an issue to be resolved or a claim to put to the royal ear. Some would have been waiting weeks for John to return to the city so that they could bring their dispute before him. All could be sure of a hearing eventually, for there was nothing John liked more than legal trickery or the resolution of a private argument. Solomon he was not, thought de Rainault, but the King fared not too badly as judge and was respected by the people for his willingness to personal involvement in the day to day running of the country.

They passed through the great doors and came out into a series of high vaulted corridors, following in the footsteps of the King but moments before. Most of the heaving throng passed around them, making for the main exit leading out beside the Thames. The cool river breeze freshened the air about them, but their destination lay elsewhere.

To one side of them stood an entrance to Westminster Abbey; to the other lay the corridor leading to the Palace - the King's private residence. The whole complex of buildings were made to awe and de Rainault could not help but remember the awe he had felt as a youth when first he had entered such hallowed grounds.

His thoughts went back over the years, to his first visit here. He had thought himself urbane then. A youth of the world; for he had travelled and all but run his father's business. But he had been as awed by Westminster and dazzled by the court of King Henry as the next man. He realized with some surprise that he had lived in England almost a quarter of a century. It was more home for him than Normandy had ever been. He had come a long way for the third son of a wine merchant.

They set off through the maze of internal corridors. Ailmaar led him easily enough to the corridor outside the royal apartments and de Rainault found himself pleasantly surprised at his squire's grasp of their whereabouts. He himself could not always claim to know where he was despite his visits here over the years.

Entering the tiny ante chamber before the King's private apartments, they joined a group of about a dozen people, all men and not all of them wealthy or titled, awaiting private audience. Unlike the great hall, the low roofed chamber was cool and quiet, the people here subdued by their long day's waiting. Among them, a minstrel tuned his lute, another player blowing a note on his recorder now and again to aid him in finding the right pitch.

De Rainault frowned. So, the King intended him to wait further still. The slights he was experiencing were deliberate and intended to let him know just how things stood between himself and John. The situation was not good, he thought to himself, not good at all.

He cursed himself again for being too free with the King's tax money. If only the King hadn't called for a reckoning so early in the year, but then this damn war with the King of France was sucking England dry of ready cash. It was King Richard all over again, he thought in annoyance, pouring England's wealth into costly wars when it could be better spent consolidating the King's power within England.

_I have served three Kings of England_ he thought to himself. Henry the Lion, Richard the Lionhearted and now this man, John. And of all of them, this is the one I fear the most_.

John's rages and petty jealousies, his unpredictable rages and moods and his sudden desires for women belonging to other men made him a magnet for resentment. In just two days at court, de Rainault had heard rumblings amongst the Barons, dissatisfaction at a reign barely into its fifth year. He had devoted much of his years in England in alliance with John and found himself desperately hoping that he was not now to be undone. That John was not to lose his throne so suddenly.

However, he was ready to write John off just yet. The King had already spectacularly won and lost his kingdom twice. John instinctively homed in on a man's price, on a man's weaknesses – it was this that bound de Rainault into silence and firmly on John's side.

There were no benches or seats in the ante chamber. All the applicants for private audience were standing – all men equals beneath the might of the King of England.

De Rainault leant his back against the wall and rested himself. It had been a long day. They had arrived at the court the previous morning and de Rainault had been all but ignored since. He had not been given a chamber as he had expected, nor even the offer of a shared cell in the Monastery attached to the Abbey. He and Ailmaar had instead been made to find their own beds amongst the rabble and servants bedded down in the hall.

This was now the second day passed here at Westminster and still no acknowledgment had come. It did not bode well, he thought, a worm of worry niggling at him. And even the fact that he had sold all bar a couple of small packets of the pepper for a goodly sum – most of them to the Master of the King's own household no less – barely lessened the sting of it.

He patted a hand surreptitiously along one panel of his cloak. The bulk of the pepper had sold easily enough. The rest he'd divided into small packets and sewn into the lining of his cloak. There were now only two remaining and they would make a much appreciated addition to his own table when he returned to Nottingham.

It seemed that everyone in John's court was on the make. From the lowest scullery boy who collected the nubs of candlewax and melted them to make his own candles, to the highest lord who sold his influence with the King to the highest bidder. A saturated market; he'd been relieved to be rid of the unexcised goods so quickly.

The tension emanating from the Sheriff was almost a palpable thing. The fretwork of the strut he was leaning against dug sharply into his shoulder and Ailmaar made a conscious effort to relax. Beside him, the minstrel strummed his lute gently, accompanied by another fellow with a curved pipe and Ailmaar turned to listen to the first strains of the song.

He had eavesdropped a little on the minstrels' conversation as he had waited nervously with the Sheriff. From what he had overheard, the two men were strangers, come together only recently, for the lute man had related a tale of singing at a feast two days before.

They had come to the King's notice and now spoke of joining forces in their hopes of doubling their income or perhaps attracting the attention of one of the nobles present who would then invite them home to play at some feast or festival on his estate. From the tales the two men told each other it seemed a most romantic life to Ailmaar, for the two were free to wander where they would and liberally seasoned their tales with the names of the rich and titled.

At last, they struck up a ballad he recognized and had heard before. Although the words varied in places, the tune remained mostly the same. He found his fingers twitching to the slow tune as the lute man broke into a song of journeying the oceans to win a fair maid's hand.

He thought of Rona, her sharp face limned by the fire light, the smell of ale and tavern smoke strong about her but underlain by that indefinable scent that had been hers. The tavern would be open now, he thought, and she and the other girls that served Warin busy about their work.

The notes of the lute rang in the air as the tune finished and a jaunty tale was begun of Richard the Lionhearted. He hummed along quietly to himself, tripping over the unfamiliar ballad.

A slight sneer crossed the Sheriff's face as the words of the song intruded on his thoughts. Hordes of Saracens slain and Christendom saved by Richard of England; the usual drivel. The minstrels would be wise to change their tune if they wanted to keep their livelihoods – and probably their fingers if John was to overhear their subject matter. He wondered if the minstrels and the annals of history would be as kind to John as they were to his brother. Probably not, he thought. John was not a religious man and enjoyed provoking the Churchmen. History was scribed by monks after all.

He gave Ailmaar a dismissive glance, the boy's tuneless humming irritating him. "Don't believe everything you hear in song, boy," he said.

Ailmaar ceased tapping his fingers in time to the music, although the beat of it still filled him.

"King Richard visted at Nottingham did he not, my Lord?" Ailmaar asked after a moment. He had heard the other servants at Nottingham talk of such visits and found himself unable to resist broaching the subject.

"Nottingham Castle is of great strategic importance to the crown," de Rainault answered sharply, bristling with his own importance at the thought. "King Richard, may God...rest his soul, would pass many a night on his journeys Northwards."

_Many a night of those rare times he was in England_ de Rainault added privately to himself.

One visit of Richard's in particular roused memories that gave him a twinge of pleasure. Richard had returned to England as the Chevalier De Guiser – the Knight disguised - and fallen into the company of Robin Hood's men in Sherwood. Recognizing the efficiency of those deadly longbows and the Saracen outlaws sword play, he had pardoned Robin Hood and his wolfshead men, hoping to utilize their skills and reputation for his own ends.

Gisbourne – the bog brained fool – had arrested the outlaws as they had strolled into the city limits to attend the feast at the invitation of Richard himself and - without telling either Hugo or the Sheriff of the capture - had bought them to the castle as a gift for the King.

Without a doubt, Gisbourne had envisaged himself receiving a shower of glory and wealth for his heroic deed of ridding the Kingdom of this plague of Wolfsheads. De Rainault snorted at the memory of Guy's face as the King had firmly put him in his place.

_It rarely went well when Guy attempted to think for himself_ de Rainault thought in amusement. It had not sat well though, to watch those outlaws carousing in Royal Company in his own Hall and he had become mightily pleased at the outcome.

Richard had not wanted to taint his own honour by reneging on the pardon given to Loxley and his men when they had refused to bend to his will. Instead, he had given de Rainault carte blanche to hunt the outlaws down. Predictably, that fool Loxley had returned to Sherwood, to play up to his role amongst the villagers as the Hooded Man. Gisbourne had hunted them hard through that year and it had not taken much to make them break the laws of the forest and be declared outlawed once more.

Like most men, Richard had been a man of honour – unless it had suited him otherwise.

He slid his gaze to his squire; to the adoring, puppyish look on the boy's face as he asked after his hero. "Don't believe everything you hear in song, boy," he repeated, his voice soft with insinuation. "Richard may have had skill on the battle field, but he was crass and boorish and had no understanding of Kingship."

He gained some satisfaction as Ailmaar's face fell into dismay. He wondered what the squire would think of his hero if he were to tell him other, seedier, stories of the man they called Lion Hearted. He resisted the temptation.

Ailmaar would've studied the Greeks like the other potential squires, but the boy's innocence in matters relating to love and the physical astounded him and he had no wish to embroil himself in embarrassing explanations of all things Athenian.

The door to the King's chamber opened. The crowd around them hushed its conversation as a herald stepped out.

"Robert de Rainault," the herald called, in a voice that was too loud for the narrow ante chamber and bounced sharply about the walls. The Sheriff gave a curt nod to Ailmaar to lead the way into the King's presence and braced himself for what might come.

John sat in comfort on a cushioned chair, carved into a smaller, less ornate version of his royal throne. Beside him stood a narrow table bearing the remains of a hastily consumed meal and a half drunk goblet of wine. He had closed the court sessions for the evening but business was not yet done.

Not much had changed in the way that the country was governed from the years of his father's reign. The King's court was still itinerant, moving about the country so that John could stay in touch with the farthest reaches of his realm and keep an eye on those more powerful lords and earls with a tendency to run their estates as though they were a law unto themselves.

The Exchequer remained in Westminster only because it was become so cumbersome and costly to move with its huge number of clerks. To facilitate the King's time here, a Palace had been joined onto the Hall and Abbey, and, slowly, Westminster was becoming known across Europe; a name that resonated with power and wealth.

Now that he was back in Westminster, parts of the great city of London fell within the Verge - the twelve mile area that surrounded the King and court when in residence - and certain cases that had occurred here since John's last visit now fell under the jurisdiction of his court.

Since London liked to think itself apart from the rest of the country he was currently banging heads with the City's council of burghers about a certain case. The paperwork lay beside him and even as he ate his mind went over the complications of the case and how best it could be resolved without antagonising the City's officials.

1104 had not been his best year. His mother, the great Eleanor of Aquitaine had passed away in April and in her John had lost one of his most powerful allies. The French realms that he had inherited along with England on Richard's death had fallen into war as Philip of France tried to wrangle control from him and now there were rumblings of revolt from within his own realm.

Not that that last was anything new. The Barons and lords within the realm were like carrion crows, he thought refilling his goblet and taking a large sip of the rough red wine. They fight to grab at what scraps they can find – even those scraps that are rightfully mine.

The case before him called for the delicate touch of diplomacy. The last thing he needed right now, he mused, was to have the gates of the city barred against him if the burghers of London chose to protest at his involvement in what they regarded as their affairs.

He turned his attention back to the room as his herald moved to call the next case into the King's chamber. John's mock throne had been deliberately positioned so that he could see out into the ante chamber as the herald pushed the door open and catch glimpses of those who awaited him.

Most times, he only glanced through the narrow doorway quickly to ascertain who awaited him there, but this time, as the herald went forth to call de Rainault's name, John searched the Sheriff out of the small crowd. He was satisfied to see the Sheriff give an imperceptible start when his name was called. De Rainault recovered himself quickly however and stepped forward, his lanky squire in attendance.

As the echo of the de Rainault name bounced from the curved stone walls of the antechamber and - by some acoustic trick of the high arched ceiling - rebounded into the King's chamber, memory swept over John. He thought back to the first time that he had heard the name of de Rainault, when the Sheriff's brother Hugo had arrived at court as a young monk. Hugo, a serious and not unattractive young man in those days before life had etched its disappointments into discontented lines across his face, had been newly appointed from his monastery as Chaplain to the Bishop of Mansfield.

His brother, Robert, had been with him, scraping some of the glory of his brother's arrival at court for himself, drawing it to himself as though it were his birthright. As far as he could remember, John thought to himself, Robert had used his brother in this way until he had gained position of his own as a lowly clerk within his King Henry's court.

He smirked, remembering a younger Robert de Rainault: The newly tailored clothes cut from expensive Venetian cloth to best suit the young Norman's narrow frame. His dark hair - fuller in those days - had swept forward to fringe a broad brow but not quite managing to lessen the bulbousness of his eyes that bulged with excitement or anger depending on the man's mood. He had sported a neatly cut beard that framed his mouth and hid a rather weak chin and which he had acquired the habit of smoothing down in thought. The beard, highly unfashionable at the time in England, had provoked much sneering laughter amongst John's crowd of young flatterers at court.

Robert had been full of tales of his travels abroad and the merchants and rich men he had met. New to England, he had already begun living above his means, pulling at every string his grubby little fingers could find and taxing his older brother sorely. Hugo's dour, lantern jawed expression swam into the King's head.

No wonder Hugo was a miserable bastard these days, John thought, with a brother like Robert trailing at his cloak. How relieved must Hugo have been when his younger brother gained - by some devious means no doubt – the post of clerk. The job had taken Robert around the country at the frenetic pace set by King Henry and left Hugo, if John remembered rightly, to pursue his own career in the North of England.

It was curious that the two brothers now served the same administrative county, despite their obvious fraternal hatred. He wondered what bound the two men so close. He dismissed the bond of brotherhood out of hand – he knew only too well how easily blood ties could be cut, for he had gone that route himself with his own father and brother. No, it was not Fraternity that bound the brothers so close that they now lived in each other's shadow in Nottinghamshire.
 

He had dismissed Robert de Rainault in those early years; a prinked up peacock, spending more than he could afford to appear to be something he was not. No doubt due to meet a sticky end at sword point when he was found to be unable to pay his way. Somehow – and this had always intrigued him - Robert de Rainault had never slipped in balancing his books, even if it meant robbing Peter to pay Paul, the man always managed to cover his own backside. King Richard had not missed those useful skills of money handling and Robert had risen easily to the challenge, eventually buying the Shrievalty of Nottinghamshire, when Richard had needed ready cash to pay his mercenaries in France.

Still, even then, de Rainault had lived beyond his means as Sheriff and John had paid off some of those debts. Nottingham was an important stronghold in the North and John wanted its Sheriff firmly on his side, ready to aid him in taking his rightful place as King when the opportunity might arise. De Rainault had been John's man ever since.

De Rainault's current affairs were not of a pressing nature and it amused John to keep him waiting until the end of the day when all court business had been seen to and the more powerful nobles left the Hall to find sustenance elsewhere. He hoped he had made the Sheriff sweat but the man appeared relaxed and laid back as he entered the chamber, nodding to an acquaintance or two as he came. Always acquaintances with de Rainault; like John he trusted no man enough to call him friend and was disliked by too many to be called friend in return.

It was almost a shame, John mused, that de Rainault had scraped up the money owed. It was always a pleasure to pull a man as smug as the Sheriff down a peg or two. It made an enforced stay in the draughty castle at Nottingham worth it if he knew he could make the Sheriff squirm a little whilst he was there. Not that de Rainault was without his uses, John thought as he watched the man perform an elaborate bow. The Sheriff knew how to wring every last penny in taxes and tolls from the Shire he oversaw and his justice was swift, if not always fair.

Now, as de Rainault straightened up from his obeisance, John saw the slight widening of the man's bulbous eyes and knew that he was more on edge than he had allowed show so far. He smiled inwardly to himself. He may yet wring some amusement from this meeting.

"De Rainault," the King drawled, his displeasure with the man filling his tone. "You have found my missing money. How…convenient."

"The money has been delivered to the Exchequer and I have the tally with me to show that all has been accounted for," de Rainault said promptly, executing another, less formal bow as he spoke. "I assure you, my Liege, that there will be a full enquiry into the matter the moment I return to Nottingham."

The King smiled. "I doubt the blame will fall on Gisbourne's shoulders eh, de Rainault? Not this time at least. I understand he has risen somewhat in the ranks."

The Sheriff held his smile in place knowing that he was being baited. "So I have heard, my Liege. An acknowledgement that reflects well on Nottingham," he managed to add through gritted teeth.

"I am pleased to know that a suitable applicant is waiting in the wings should anything...untoward... befall you as Sheriff, de Rainault," John said, pleasantly enough but de Rainault did not miss the slight emphasis the King placed on the word untoward.

So that is how the land lies, de Rainault thought in disgust. It had occurred to him that Gisbourne might make a play for the post of Sheriff in his absence. After all his years' service at Nottingham, the steward was ideally placed to take over and now he had the name of Huntingdon to call his own if he wished to use it. It had not occurred to the Sheriff however that John – for all his past dislike of Gisbourne – might pander to David of Huntingdon and offer his bastard son the Shrievalty.

He swallowed back the bile in his throat at the thought of Gisbourne holding court at Nottingham in his absence. The sooner this meeting with John was over, the sooner he could be on his way home and oust Gisbourne back to the barracks where he belonged. Conscious that his fingers were twisting themselves up in the sides of his robe, he forced himself to relax.

Satisfied that his barb had hit the mark, the King's thoughts also went to his Earl, albeit in another direction.

He had known before most that David of Huntingdon intended to acknowledge Gisbourne as his son. David had been with him recently and informed him of the matter. But that had not been the reason for David's visit at court. David had come asking pardon for his outlawed son and John had charged the Earl a small fortune to have the document issued – along with certain other assurances from David that Robin Hood would never return to Sherwood Forest of course. John smiled to himself. He wished he could impart this little snippet of news to de Rainault. How he would love to see the expression on the man's face when he learnt that Robin Hood was to become Robert of Huntingdon once more.

But the huge price that the Earl had paid for his son's pardon had also bought the promise of John's silence on the matter. The satisfaction of seeing de Rainault taken down a peg or two was not worth the wrath of one of his most powerful Earl's, John decided – not without a little regret.

Besides, even the powerful could fall and John was willing to guard the Earl's secrets against the day he may find another use for them.

"I intend a trip to the North in the coming weeks, de Rainault," he said instead. "I will of course be hunting at Clipstone along the way and I will expect your hospitality at Nottingham Castle. No expense spared," he added, with a narrow smile.

He eyed the man in front of him, wondering what other salt he could rub into the wound of the Sheriff's pride. "And I shall be bringing William Brewer with me to go over your treasury records. Perhaps we can trace back this... accounting error and make sure none has been putting theirfingers into royal coffers, hmmm?"

The Sheriff's bulbous eyes protruded ever more at the mention of Brewer's name. John gave another narrow smile, pleased with the reaction he had provoked. He had no intention of heading north when he needed to rally his troops in Normandy, but the opportunity to watch de Rainault squirm had proven too much to resist. It never hurt to keep his officers on their toes.

Helpless before him, the Sheriff bowed his head for a moment, struggling to control the dislike in his expression.

Brewer; now there was a man to watch for. A man who knew a little too much of the Sheriff's past, but a man it had proved impossible to gain leverage on in return. There had to be something, somewhere, on Brewer, de Rainault thought to himself. Impossible that someone could go their whole life and avoid scandal or shame – especially a man who had always been satellite to the court. One day he would dig the dirt on Brewer and wipe out past indignities suffered at the man's hands, he promised himself fervently and not for the first time.

When he had managed to gain sufficient control over both his expression and the tone of his voice, he raised his head again. He had not yet been dismissed and there was one more subject to broach with John before he left his presence.

"My men, Sire. I left a substantial troop with you, before you left for the West Country," he said.

"What of them?" the King said, boredom entering his tone. He lent over to his table, gathering up a few pieces of parchment laid there, shuffling through them as he waited.

"Nottingham needs its guards, Sire," de Rainault said, as deferentially as he could manage.

"I sent `em to Normandy," the King replied, raising his head from his paperwork. "I need every available body to keep Philip of France at bay. The man is a plague and a nuisance and he taxes me sorely."

"You sent my men off to battle, Sire?" de Rainault said, keeping his tone even with increasing difficulty.

His soldiers were an expensive investment. An investment that he expected to be returned to him in years of service – although he was willing to commute that if a man died in service of course. Most men had a brother or son to replace them should they die and with no battles fought on English soil in recent years, the most likely harm to befall a castle guard was a drunken fall from the castle walls. Or a run in with outlaws and vagabonds, he added silently to himself, his thoughts returning, as they often did, to that pestilential Robin Hood.

The soldiers that John had commandeered had been amongst his best men. Men he had handpicked from Gisbourne's trainees over the years to form his personal escort. Now the King expected him to ride back to Nottingham with only four soldiers and an untested boy?

John raised his head again, fixing the Sheriff with a glare that showed his distaste in having to deal with such a matter. He took in the heavily embroidered robes, the fancy fur lined boots that the Sheriff wore. The man's hair had been carefully barbered to feather the middle of his wide brow and the beard that had once caused such hilarity amongst de Rainault's peers had been cut to a moustache that tapered down to the man's chin. He appeared to wear no jewelry, perhaps reflecting the rather extreme conditions he'd been forced to live in of late John thought, but it seemed that de Rainault's expensive tastes had been tempered little over the years.

"They went to fight for King and country, a noble pursuit I'm sure you'll agree, de Rainault," he said. "If any survive this damn war with Philip of France, I'll have them sent back to Nottingham as heroes. Appease their families with that thought and if they don't like it...hang them for treason." For a long moment, the King held Robert de Rainault's gaze, registering the indignation in the other man's stiffened stance.

"You are dismissed," John said at last and the Sheriff could do no more than offer a low bow, before exiting the King's presence.

The Sheriff stormed through the corridors at Wesminster. The place was mercifully empty at this time of the evening, with most gone to seek food and entertainment elsewhere while the King was taking private audience. Ailmaar followed along in his master's wake like a leaf caught in the tail of a storm wind, for once not needing to measure his long stride to keep up the with the Sheriff's furious pace.

He had remained behind the Sheriff during the audience, but would have given an entire year's pay to have watched the Sheriff's face during the encounter with the King. John had crept up a little in his estimation for his ability to play de Rainault and Ailmaar hugged the knowledge of the meeting between them to himself.

It was a shame that he could tell no one of what had passed between the two men, but he had no fancy to end up singing soprano in the church choir at St Mary's. It was enough to know that even the great Sheriff of Nottingham had a master to answer to, just as he, Ailmaar of Navenby, must answer to the Sheriff.

Somehow, the Sheriff found his way out of the vast building and onto the green that fronted it. The sun had clouded over and the sky, darkened by smoke from numerous cooking fires, hung dense and low. It was busier here, crowds of people gossiping, eating, amusing themselves with trysts and Jongleuers and music, so the Sheriff turned his course back towards the river where it was quieter.

They marched on, past the ramshackle buildings that housed the King's permanent staff at Westminster and the clerks of the Exchequer, until at last the Sheriff appeared to run out of steam and paused at the water's edge. He was silent a long while, but at last he acknowledged his Squire's presence.

"Have the men ready at break of dawn," he said quietly, without turning from the river that had occupied his thoughts so much in recent weeks. "Tomorrow we begin our journey to Nottingham."

"Yes, my Lord," Ailmaar said, bowing his head. If the weather stayed fine they could be in Nottingham in four days time. He had not expected to ever think fondly of the city of Nottingham but now his heart rose at the thought of returning to it.