Post of the Month

~ January 2012 ~

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Ailmar/Sheriff/Brother Ignatius ~ Written by Annie. Posted on the HoS Yahoo group December 2010.

The inn was strangely quiet for the time of day.

Noon sunshine flooded in through the open door, and the innkeep's daughter was sweeping dirty straw and refuse out through it. A merchant and his retinue sat in a corner, enjoying ale and mutton and bread, whilst outside, boys rubbed down their horses and gave them a drink. A couple of labourers were playing dice in another corner, and two men rolled a barrel across the wooden floor of the alehouse towards the taproom.

Ailmaar carried the mug of steaming hot posset up the wooden stairs to the attic rooms and to the chamber where the Sheriff lay.

They had been here three nights and two days. The accident had happened on the Sabbath; now Wednesday had dawned.

Tostaux had indeed found a cart, whilst one of the other soldiers had ridden ahead to look for the inn that had supposed to have been there over the hill whilst Ailmaar had stayed with the Sheriff.. He had been cold, pale, strangely quiet - which was quite odd in itself. He had lain quietly with his head turned aside, eyes closed. It had been the look of a man fighting his injuries, and Ailmaar had feared the worst.

They had got him onto the cart, and the inn had been spied from a distance. Slowly and carefully, they had got de Rainault onto the back of the cart and trundled down over the hill to the inn. The innkeep himself, a fat, balding man with a leather apron, had come out into the yard at their arrival, looking wary at the sight of soldiers.

Robert de Rainault, Lord High Sheriff of Nottingham, had had a nasty fall, Ailmaar had informed the innkeep. Did he have a room where he could lay and so recover?

The innkeep's eyes had grown greedy at the sight of the small bag of money Ailmaar had presented him, had snapped his fingers and got his wife making ready "the best chamber we have."

It hadn't been much. An attic room facing south, with a tiny window, glazed with horn and shuttered with wooden shutters. A narrow high bed with a truckle bed underneath it - a couple of stools.

It had been swept clean and scattered with herbs, though, to disguise the musty smell of mouse urine, and the bed linen had been changed. The mattress was feather, and de Rainault had sighed with relief when he had been lain upon it.

Luckily, Ailmaar had not had to act as sole nursemaid. A monk called Ignatius had been sheltering from the storm that had sprung up, and upon hearing that an injured man had lain above in the attic chamber, had knocked on the door and offered his services to Ailmaar. Ailmaar had liked Brother Ignatius immediately. Tall and gentle, and quietly-spoken, he had taken charge, knowing something of healing. He had stripped de Rainault who had kept hovering in and ourt of consciousness and examined him, and pronounced de Rainault had several cracked ribs. He had bound them up and told Ailmaar to keep de Rainault laying flat and not to move him too much.

De Rainault had also received numerous bruises and grazes in his fall, and a blow to his head. Brother Ignatius had washed the grazes, applied soothing salve to them and the bruises and made a cold compress for his head. De Rainault had rallied a little, enough to take some watered wine, but on the second day had developed a fever and since then had spent little time aware of much.

Ailmaar sighed as he reached the top of the stairs to the attic rooms. For two days now, he had had a small knot of fear in his stomach that the Sheriff was dying. And he did not know what to do. Tostaux and the other soldiers were camping out in the stables with the horses, awaiting instructions. Yet he had no instructions to give them. He feared them becoming mutinous before long, and wondered how he could keep control of them. So far he had seen to it they had had plenty of ale and plenty of food, to keep them happy, but they would not stay happy.

He had thought about sending a soldier on to Nottingham with the news of theSheriff's accident, but when he had broached it to de Rainault in one of de Rainault's lucid moments, the Sheriff had said "NO..." so fiercely, that Ailmaar had backed down. In a way, he understood, De Rainault did not want Gisbourne hearing such news and trying to take over. Any more than he presumably was right now, that was... The fact that Gisbourne had been publicly acknowledged by David Earl of Huntingdon as his son and now had a new status, a new importance, put fear into the heart of De Rainault, Ailmaar knew that much.

It would not do for Gisbourne to hear that de Rainault was laying two days ride from Nottingham and at deaths door.

***

Where he lay on his back, de Rainault stared up at the rafters. His head throbbed, his stomach swam. Every part of him ached, and he felt eaten up with pain and fever. Worst of all was having to lie still because of his cracked ribs. They were bound, but all the same, every movement, every deep breath hurt. And all he could do was to lie here.

He was not used to this. Being helpless.

He had always relied on himself. The third son of four he had been sent off to make his own way in the world with a small inheritance and not a lot else. He was a self-made man. He had risen to the position of Sheriff through hard work and devious means and he had held onto that position through the accession of King John to the throne when a lot of his contemporaries had not survived the change in ruler.

He was ambitious. He put himself first. Always. Above all else he wanted power and he had always seen people in terms of what use they would be to him.

Now, with a fever upon him, he wondered through the mists of his mind whether he was going to die and be held accountable for all he had ever done.

Every single person he looked at, every human being who looked at him, he felt they were waiting. Waiting for him to die - or waiting to kill him. Everyone was an enemy. Every person;s eyes seemed to be watching him, waiting for that precise moment when he would pass out. He wanted to get away from every prying eye, every pair of hands that adjusted his blankets or tended to his wounds, every person that entered his tiny chamber. It drove him crazy.

"My lord?" Ailmaar leant over him, holding a steaming mug of posset. "Here, my lord, drink this."

De Rainault lifted his head and took a sip, and then pushed the mug away with a hand and rested his head back against the pillow.

"Boreas," he muttered.

"He is unhurt, my lord. He ran down the track a way but we caught him and he's in the stables." Ailmaar spoke soothingly as one would to a child.

It was like the final insult. "Should have broken a leg at least," de Rainault muttered viciously, then turned his head aside, closed his eyes and slept.

Ailmaar sank down onto the stool by the bedside and looked across the bed at Brother Ignatius who sat on a stool on the other side of the bed.

"Do you think he's any better, Brother?" Ailmaar asked hopefully.

The monk leaned to place a fresh compress over the Sheriff's brow. "Perhaps a little, my son."

There came the sound of heavy footsteps on the wooden stairs outside the chamber, and Ailmaar turned to face the door as it opened.

Tostaux, helm clutched in one arm, ducked his head under the low doorway and entered. His eyes went from Brother Ignatius to Ailmaar but all he said was: "The innkeep's demanding we move him," and he nodded at the prone form of de Rainault in the bed.

"What? Why?" Ailmaar demanded.

"Bad for business, he says. Word's got out he's got a fever and the innkeep says people are staying away because they think my lord has the pestilence."

Ailmaar sighed and turned aside from the bed. "Stay with him, Tostaux. I'll go and see the innkeep."

"I will come with you," Brother Ignatius said, rising from his stool. He gave Ailmaar a slight sober smile and laid a fatherly hand on the youth's shoulder as they passed through the doorway.

They descended the stairs and found the innkeep standing by the fire in the alehouse below, poking at the new wood that had been added to it. He looked round as Ailmaar and Brother Ignatius approached and said awkwardly. "So the soldier told you I wished to see you...."

"What is it?" Ailmaar asked.

"Young sir...." the innkeeper twisted his hands nervously. "Do you not think your lord might be better...elsewhere?"

"We paid you for the chamber," Ailmaar said, "you are not losing pocket. I have money to pay for the chamber for a considerable time....as long as it takes for him to heal enough to travel on to Nottingham..."

"...should he live," the innkeep interjected. "I mean, well, look at him. Bin drifting in and out of consciousness the past two days I don't like the look of him at all...."

Ailmaar glanced at Brother Ignatius. The tall monk shrugged helplessly.

"What's your point, man?" Ailmaar asked briskly.

The innkeep levelled his gaze at Ailmaar. "That he's bad for business. A dyin' man be bad for my business. No-one's stoppin' here, they hear he's got the fever."

"The fever is associated with his injuries, not the pestilence," Brother Ignatius cut in quietly.

The innkeep glared at him and stood his ground. "That as may be, but he's still dyin' an' a dyin' man is still bad for me business. If I might suggest...."

"Well, what?" Ailmaar demanded

"That he be taken to the noble estate nearby. They'd be more fitted to look after him there. The Earl most like has his own physician who could see to him..."

"The Earl?" queried Ailmaar.

The innkeep nodded. "Aye, the Earl of Huntingdon."

"How far is the estate?" Ailmaar asked.

"Travel North two miles an' then turn East onto a track that leads through Then you're on his land, follow the track past the village of Fearnley and then....you're at the Earl's gates. If you made to leave now....travelling slowly, you'd be there before nightfall." The innkeep almost waxed lyrical in his attempt to be rid of his unwanted guests.

Ailmaar looked at him sharply, drew himself up to his full height. "Leave us. I will speak to you in a while." The man nodded and withdrew to the taproom.

Ailmaar warmed his hands over the fire and looked aside at Brother Ignatius. "Advise me in this matter, Holy Brother."

"It is true that the Earl may well have his own skilled physician to attend to my Lord High Sherriff," Ignatius said, "I feel I have done all I can here. Let him blood, bandaged his ribs, cleaned his cuts and grazes. He needs more. A softer bed, warmer blankets. This inn is damp and the dampness may spread to his lungs if he remains here. He needs to be somewhere with a good fire."

"What are the chances of him surviving the journey to Huntingdon?" Ailmaar asked anxiously.

"About level with him surviving another day here. If he lies flat on a cart and you go very slowly and carefully, and the cart is well padded and he kept warm....he could make a short journey."

I see." Ailmaar frowned in thought.

"If he is to make such a journey, I suggest he make it now, young sir. The rain has stopped and the sun is warm. But I can tell that more rain is drifting in from the East and the night will be a wet one. You don't want him getting wet and chilled."

"Very well," said Ailmaar, reaching a decision, "we will go to Huntingdon."

He called the innkeep back over to him and told him of their decision and bade that the cart in which the Sheriff was to lie in for the journey be padded well. Then he and Ignatius ascended the stairs once more to the Sheriff's chamber and broke the news of a new journey to Tostaux.

Tostaux didn't argue. Ailmaar saw in the man's eyes the thought of a noble estate. It would mean rest for their horses, rest for themselves. Food and ale and a warm fire for Tostaux and his men to dry off by. Better than this cramped poky alehouse where they had to sleep in the stables with their steeds for fear of them being stolen.

Tostaux tramped back down the wooden stairs to ready the horses.

Ailmaar glanced across at Brother Ignatius. "You will come with us, Brother?"

The tall monk smiled at him. "You do not need me, my son. Tis only a short way across country to Huntingdon, and I have done all that I can within my power. But I will pray for him."

"He doesn't exactly care for prayers," Ailmaar mused.

"That doesn't mean he doesn't need them," Ignatius answered softly.

Ailmaar managed a slight smile and nodded, then slowly walked over the wooden floorboards to the small window and peered out. The sky was grey and overcast, threatening more rain.

"Huntingdon," he said finally aloud. "How absurd...."

Ignatius's voice was bewildered. "My son?"

Ailmaar looked round from his study of the world outside the window, and then he walked slowly over to the Sheriff's bedside where Ignatius stood. "It's just that Huntingdon is the home of David Earl of Huntingdon. Father of Robert of Huntingdon....the so-called Robin Hood, the outlaw of Sherwood." He looked down at de Rainault laying unaware. "And my lord High Sheriff has been set against the Earl of Huntingdon's son for as long as I can remember."