Post of the Month 

~ November 2011 ~

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The Sheriff/Ailmaar ~ Written by Annie. Posted on the HoS Yahoo group December 2010.

"So," snapped de Rainault as Ailmaar rode back along the track to him, ducking under the dripping branches overhead, "where is this damn inn?"

"My lord," said Ailmaar, "I believe it can be only over the next hill?"

"You believe?"

Ailmaar stuttered. "I am optimistic of that fact, my lord."

De Rainault turned a withering glare on him. "Optimism means you just lack information."

One of the men behind de Rainault sniggered. Ailmaar felt his face flush under his helm.

It had been a bad day's travel. The rain had constantly drizzled down, the horses had been miserable. De Rainault had also been in a bad mood all day - not that that was anything new, Ailmaar thought. However, it seemed a different type of bad mood. As though his thoughts lingered on something nothing to do with being cold, wet and tired. He seemed preoccuppied, moody, irritable - even fearful, in some strange way. Perhaps fearful was the wrong word. Apprehensive. Yes, that was the right word. Apprehensive.

Ailmaar right now just longed for home. If not his own home, then at least the walls of Nottingham Castle, rising dour and grey against the skyline. But Nottingham was still two days brisk ride away.

"Come on," de Rainault said briskly and kicked Boreas on. Ailmaar followed behind, and behind them followed Tostaux and the four other soldiers.

De Rainault cursed the rain that was falling, the muddy track he was on. Mud from the horses had spattered his clothes and his cloak. Boreas's uneven gait made all his muscles ache.

He looked ahead between Boreas's grey ears, to the track ahead. Nothing but a winding muddy cart track. Two serfs passed with a handcart, coming from the other direction and had to move smartly to the verge of the track whilst de Rainault and his small retinue squelched their way past. The serfs touched their forelocks in respect, not knowing who he was, but seeing that he was someone of importance. De Rainault glared at them from Boreas's back as he rode past.

He returned to looking at the track ahead. Tostaux had suggested this detour from the Great London Road. A quick way across country, he had said, a track that would shave several hours from their journey. De Rainault had wanted to reach Nottingham as quickly as possible. And it was not purely because he wondered to what use Gisbourne was putting his acknowledgement as David Earl of Huntingdon's bastard son. Or how the balance of power could have shifted amongst the nobles in the area during his time away. No. Only at Nottingham would he be able to concentrate on dealing with....on dealing with....

De Rainault's right hand went to the left sleeve of his velvet robe. When several years ago he had had this robe made, with its full thick sleeves of velvet, he had had instructed a tailor to stitch inside the left sleeve a small panel where a document or letter could be tucked away, or perhaps a coin or a jewel. That panel could be easily sewn up to keep its contents safe and indeed, he had used it several times before.

He had told himself that he would throw the letter on the fire in the morning after reading it through in the clear light of day. But as he had drank more wine that evening and grown more reminiscent of the past, he had come round to the notion of hiding it, rather than burning it. He did not know why. Except that perhaps....part of him longed to have his past back. This letter had been written by a twenty year old man in the prime of his life. Twenty five years ago, now. The receipiant of the letter was long since dead, and de Rainault, not usually one given to such mawkish sentiments, had suddenly found he mourned his old lover.

His sleeve had been the best place to hide the letter. After he had smoothed it out and re-read it, he had needed a hiding place for it. The boy Ailmaar could read exceptionally well, and the letter could not be left laying around, nor put with his other, business documents. The letter contained too much, and it's partner contained even more, he remembered with a cold sweat. Explicit descriptions by a foolish young man to his much older male lover.

So, instead of throwing the letter on the fire yesternight, he had instead carefully refolded it smooth and flat, and slipped it inside the small panel in the sleeve of his robe. Thread and a bone needle had been easy enough to find from one of the doxies of the alehouse who he had called to his chamber and promised a coin to on her procurement of such items. She had been bemused he had not wanted her for her trade, but netherless had gone and got him the thread and needle, and then he had dismissed her, and sitting by the brazier, bending his head low over his work in the dim light, he had carefully sewn up the letter within the panel, using large, cobbled-together stitches. Enough to keep the letter secure, but loose enough to be cut open with the tip of a knife in a hurry and the letter extricated to be burnt.

That folded piece of parchment - it crackled slightly when he moved his arm and was a constant reminder to him, picking away at him like a thorn.

_"This letter I give to you now - the other one you may have safely on payment."_

Damn that blackmailer Breadle. But there was nothing for it. To prevent that second letter finding its way into the hands of William Brewer - who would make it public and therefore ruin him beyond all doubt - he would have to head for Nottingham and gather together the sum of money Breadle had demanded, and wait for the man to show up.

The sooner he reached Nottingham the better, thought de Rainault grimly.

Hugo would never let him hear the end of this, if he knew. Bad enough in Hugo's eyes that his younger brother had had a lover - but another man... Tolerated in the reign of Richard who had been similarly inclined himself towards other men, but not tolerated nearly so well in the reign of John....

De Rainault was suddenly flung out of his thoughts as Boreas stepped on a dead branch laying on the track and it snapped with a loud crack; Boreas dropped his head, took the bit in his teeth and shot off faster than a bolt from a croosbow.

_My God, the horse is bolting_ was de Rainault's fleeting horriffied thought as in a blur he saw the white face of his squire as Boreas flew past.

He made himself small on Boreas's back, laying out against his horse, keeping low to avoid any overhanging branches, and hung on for dear life as the countryside flashed past. Mud flew up from Boreas's hooves and hit him in the face and strangely angered by that, as though it was a personal insult from Boreas, this fleabitten grey he hated and who hated him, de Rainault had had enough. He changed tactic, sat taller in the saddle and pulled on the reins.

The result was disasterous.

He heard someone in the distance behind yell "Watch out!" and the next thing he felt was an odd split second sensation of hanging in mid-air as he was tossed over Boreas's shoulder and then, nothing-

***

"My lord. My lord?"

The voice echoed in de Rainault's ears. He opened his eyes and above him the blur of Ailmaar's pimply anxious face swam in and out of focus.

He felt strange.....disassociated from everything, as though his consciousness had somehow expanded or moved to inaminate objects around him, like the very ground he was laying on, and the sky behind the dark shadow of Ailmaar's looming face. He felt in his head that he was someplace else, but didn't know where.

"What happened?" he muttered thickly. He tasted blood in his mouth. His head throbbed.

Ailmaar's voice echoed above him. "You had a nasty fall, my lord. Lie still. Tostaux's gone for help. Gone to get a cart."

"I don't need a - cart." De Rainault jerked his head up, indignant - but then the resulting stab of pain in his ribcage stopped him short and he gave a moan and subsided back to lie still.

Ailmaar's hands were tucking a cloak over him. "Please, my lord, lie still. It was a very bad fall."

Pain swept over de Ranault; he found he could not argue. He turned his head aside and closing his eyes, found he could not fight against the rising tide of blackness any longer. His last thought before losing consciousness was that if there was a Hell, he hoped he wouldn't encounter his mother there.