Post of the Month Jun 2007

There is nothing more conducive to problem solving, mused de
Rainault, than a horse ride.

Shortly after leaving Westminster, Boreas, past his prime and a
little overweight, had shown signs of flagging. Kept saddled for his master's return in the close walled stable yard his temper proved worse than usual. He had turned his head and snapped his yellowing teeth against de Rainault's leg. De Rainault took the hint.

Furious at the waste of his day, he had pulled his escort off the
road at the nearest inn and sent Ailmaar into the fuggy taproom to fetch the landlord. For an extra coin the landlord offered a chair and his wife's garden to the Sheriff and sent a red faced, harassed maid to the buttery to draw cool ale direct from the barrel.

The long garden opened at the bottom to face the river. Ailmaar
placed the chair in the shade of an apple tree struggling to root
itself in the black, boggy soil. The alewife scurried after them,
slopping ale down her apron in her haste.

Would his lordship like something to eat, perhaps. Some chicken or roasted mutton?

De Rainault had glanced at her hands, wringing nervously one over the other, the nails cracked and broken and embedded with a lifetime of dirt. He declined the offer, reasoning that ale would fill his belly well enough.

Alone at last, he had eased his tense shoulders against the hard back of the chair and rested his gaze on the river. Even the passing barges and fishing boats moved sluggishly in the shimmer of heat over the water. The ale was strong and, by the third cupful, tasted quite pleasant, and slowly, all thoughts of Gisbourne and taxes and troubles receded.

At last the sun lost some of its fierce heat. Boreas' temper had been mollified within the shady stable and he stood patiently as Ailmaar struggled to help his master back into the saddle. De Rainault ordered a slow pace and allowed the rocking of the horse to soothe him as they passed the homes of the rich and powerful lining the Strand.

Yes, he thought contentedly. Nothing more conducive to problem solving than a horse ride. And nothing better to rid bad news of its bitter edge than a flagon or two of ale. He slackened the reins trusting Boreas to follow the two soldiers in front of them, smiling a little as he swayed in the saddle.

They crossed the Fleet River, London's walls rising ahead of them, shadowed by their own height. Ludgate seemed crowded with people leaving the city and de Rainault, quite happy now to waste what remained of an already wasted day, drew back off the road and into the shade of a tall building to allow the mob to ease a little.

The people spilling out of the gatehouse were a mix of artisan and labourer. They called and jested with each other, the men making ribald jokes, the women good naturedly answering back. The air of festivity was infectious. Boreas dropped his head to crop the long grass growing against the foot of the building and de Rainault sent Ailmaar over to find out what the gathering was about.

He watched, with some amusement, the Squire's attempts to catch the attention of the crowd, but at last the boy raised his voice and got himself heard and answered, and came back to join his master in the shade.

"Are they going to a fair?" de Rainault asked.

Ailmaar's face, hidden beneath his helm, was unreadable. "There's a hanging tomorrow at the Smithfields, my Lord," he said. "The condemned man is to be fed his last meal tonight, outside the prison. These folk go to watch him."

De Rainault watched two men sharing a flagon of ale and a hunk of bread as they walked. A tout turned in his direction waving tally sticks in the air.

"Care to purchase a box to stand on, me Lord? 'Twill give you a fine view over the heads of these other rabble to see the prisoner drop tomorrow," he called.

" 'Hoo are you calling rabble?" demanded a woman beside him. Their argument filled the air as they were swept up the road by the force of the crowd behind them.

A faint buzzing began in his head. "Condemned for what?" he said, his voice sounding a long way off to his own ears.

Ailmaar became very interested in his bootstrap, leaning down to fiddle with the buckle. At last, unable to avoid answering any
longer, he straightened. "Took money from his master's business," he said.

The buzzing grew louder. He shook his head to clear it. A slight
breeze sprang up chilling the sweat on his face. If they had just
crossed over the Fleet then...He turned. The solid wall of the
building behind him rose into the sky. Wide, square blocks of stone, newly hewn and raised, the lines of mortar crisp and strong. Not a house, like the other buildings around them, but a fortress. Strong built, but not to keep people out; to keep people in. Fleet Prison. The very place he would find himself if he did not appease the King with the missing money.

The shadow he stood in darkened, grew denser, threatening to become solid, as though to bind itself around him and draw him, struggling, within the walls. The blurring effects of the ale fell away and he was suddenly, achingly, sober again.

He shuddered and kicked Boreas forward, the small escort clattering in his wake in an effort to catch up. The spill of people through the gatehouse eased and he urged Boreas into the dank coolness of the arch. The hands of debtors imprisoned within reached from grilles set into the stone. He ignored their calls for alms. As he passed under the archway London's stink hit him as though the walls had contained it.

The wooden spire of St Paul's spiked the clear sky and he turned into a side street to avoid the crowds of pilgrims and monks gathered on the Cathedral's green. To keep hold of his thoughts he looked about him as he rode.

The maze of dark alleyways led down to the docks. Merchants lounged outside their shops comparing the day's custom with their neighbours. Shoppers milled and haggled hoping for a last minute bargain, pushing aside small children who begged and played amongst them. A woman dressed in garish rags stepped from a doorway, her hand held out to beckon to him, but on seeing the escort behind him she shrank back the way she had come. He glared darkly at the place where she had disappeared as he passed it.

At last they turned into Thames Road and to his left an archway broke the solid wall running alongside the street. De Rainault tugged at the reins and Boreas sidestepped the crowd, pushing against an old woman. She turned to glare up at him, opening her mouth to spit at his rudeness, but her eyes travelled over his silk robes, and the wide leather belt where the ivory handle of his dagger protruded. She murmured something - a curse or apology he couldn't tell- and clutched her basket tighter against herself before shuffling away. Damned Londoner's, he thought, as she was swallowed by the crowd, no deference to any but their own.

Boreas clopped under the archway and into the courtyard of The Fish and Otter.

The cobbles were strewn with straw and ashes and the yard all but deserted. Most of the stalls stood empty, one of the stable lad's busy sweeping out the last used. To his right stood the tavern building, four stories of creaking timber and crumbling plaster. Each floor overlapping the one below and casting it into shadow as the sun slipped lower in the sky.

The sharp tang of horse dung filled his nose, and his throat, parched from the heat, prickled uncomfortably. Behind him Ailmaar dismounted and gave orders to the escort, his voice rising and dipping, still not settled at a man's pitch. One of the soldiers sniggered and nudged his friend in the ribs.

De Rainault frowned. Ailmaar had come to him as a page six years earlier and been promoted to Squire a few months ago. Assuming that his time away from Nottingham would be short, he had decided to take the boy with him. It would do Ailmaar good, he thought, give the boy some confidence. Now, far from the comforts of home all these months, he wished he'd chosen more wisely.

His stomach shifted uncomfortably as he dismounted and he remembered that he hadn't eaten since breaking his fast that morning.

"Fetch me a hot pie from the cookshop," he ordered, as Ailmaar
finished speaking with the escort.

He thrust Boreas' reins at the nearest soldier and pulled a coin from his pouch to pay the pieman. The escort moved their horses to the watering trough, laughing amongst themselves and casting sly glances at the Squire as he went under the gateway and back into the street.

"Get about your work," de Rainault said, his sharp tone silencing
them instantly.

He strode across the cobbled yard and into the tavern. Despite the heat of the early evening, a fire crackled in the middle of the
floor. The room was hot and airless and gritty smoke wreathed around the heads of the few customers. The rushes gave beneath his boots, weeks worth of spittle and wine soaked into their layers. He blinked, allowing his eyes time to adjust to the gloom, and found Warin, the tavern keeper, at his side.

"May I fetch you something to drink, my Lord?" Warin asked.

He was a tall man, broad shouldered and well muscled. His clothes, made of fine wool, spoke of prosperity but they were the best looking thing about him. The right side of Warin's mouth turned upwards in a permanent leer, an injury, he'd told the Sheriff, sustained as a youth, bare-knuckle fighting in the pits for money.

"Send up a bottle of wine," he said. "The new Rhenish one I had
yesterday."

Warin bowed his head and retreated to the wooden table, behind which he kept his bottles and barrels.

He moved through the room and up a staircase leading to the balcony overhanging the taproom. Several doors led off into private parlours but he ignored these and opened a narrow door to reveal a second set of stairs that climbed upwards to the cocklofts. He took the stairs quickly, pushing open the door at the top so as not to be left in the dark as the lower door swung shut.

His was the only door to the left of the wooden landing. He unlocked it and pulled it open, puffing slightly from the steep climb, and made straight for the casement. The shutters creaked painfully as he pushed them open and looked across the river at a forest of spars and masts. He searched carefully for a ship flying a black pennant with a white lily and dove embroidered across it. It was not there.

He sighed and turned from the window and lowered himself onto a chair set before an unlit brazier. The light that entered through the opened shutters made the room seem gloomier than before. A board set under the window bore a cracked basin and jug for washing, a three-legged stool tucked away beneath it. An octagonal table teetered on spindly legs beside the brazier.

The room, although long and low, running perhaps a quarter of the length of the old loft, seemed cramped, dominated as it was by a huge bed, with its sagging straw mattress and moth eaten canopy. Ailmaar's paliasse lay at the foot of it, blanket neatly folded at one end. A spartan room and one that rarely saw visitors. De Rainault doubted if it was ever rented on more than an hourly basis.

The early ride to Westminster, the long hours at the Exchequer, and the heat of the ride back had wearied him. It was ridiculous for him to be staying in a tavern, he thought. He had friends in the city and could have lodged with them, but he had known that a storm was about to break over his head and he did not want to live amongst whispers and speculation.

Perhaps he should have written to Hugo and asked him for the money. But getting money from his brother was like milking a bull: A fruitless -and potentially injurious - occupation. Hugo had once fled on a pilgrimage rather than buy him a present for his ill-fated wedding to Mildred de Brecy. Mildred! There was a name he hadn't thought of in a long while. He had found her unmarked grave in Normandy, the earth still freshly turned, Mildred and her dead baby lying beneath it. It had always surprised him that she had grasped her future so firmly in her hands and run off with the minstrel. The Fates had rewarded her unkindly for her boldness - and rewarded him well, he thought, with her father's gold.

He pushed himself up in the chair. What was wrong with him? Mildred. De Morgan. Two names he'd dredged up from his memory today. He had too much time on his hands. All this waiting wasn't good for the mind - and where was Ailmaar with his damned pie? But the thoughts he'd successfully kept at bay for the last few hours would stay back no longer.

Gisbourne acknowledged as the Earl's son!

He could see his Steward now, in the hall at Nottingham, poised to receive guests. Dressed in his finest clothes with the chain of
office about his neck - my chain of office, de Rainault thought,
gritting his teeth - and those precise, clipped tones: "Guy. Sir Guy of Huntingdon. At your service, my Lords."

Gisbourne would be making the most of this latest development of that de Rainault was sure. What would the Steward do if David approached him and offered his patronage? Would Gisbourne have the presence of mind to realise the potential within such an offer? Since de Morgan's revelation neither man had mentioned the subject of Guy's parentage. But it was there between them just the same, like a boil under the skin, threatening to erupt at any time and tip the balance of their long-standing acquaintance. Don't think about it, de Rainault told himself. Later; plenty of time for that later.

He groped at his belt for his purse and fumbled with the ties,
plucking out the letters hidden within. He leant forward and dragged the table over beside his chair. The parchment was yellow and stiff, two sheets crackling as he folded them out and smoothed them against the table top with the palm of his hand. A glob of red wax bore the imprint of a pair of crossed hands, to show that the first sheet had been verified by the Fidelity of Staplers as a true contract.

He traced his fingers over the seal thoughtfully. It was genuine, of that he was sure, it was the second paper, the one he had used the king's money to purchase, that worried him more. He should have looked into it, questioned his own contacts within the Fidelity, verified the contract personally. It had not been wise to trust the word of a merchant petrified and grovelling on his knees for his livelihood. He shook his head ruefully - there had been so little time between taking the King's money and the King's summons - but still, he should have looked into it more carefully, then this whole sorry situation could have been avoided.

There came a soft knock at the door. Hurriedly, he folded up the
paper and stuffed it back into the pouch, then slipped the pouch into his belt. He smoothed his tunic down and settled himself back into the chair.

The door opened to reveal a young girl, no more than eighteen years in age, a wooden tray balanced upon her hip. He recognised her from the taproom, her dark hair tied away from her face with a gaudy scarlet ribbon, a smut from the fire marking her cheek.

"My father sent me with wine, my Lord," she said.

De Rainault gave a sarcastic smile. Somehow he doubted that Warin was her father. She was one of five girls who worked at the Tavern, all claiming Warin's name as their own and all about the same age.

She stepped into the room and he shoved the table towards her with the toe of his boot. With deft, practised movements she unstoppered the bottle and filled the goblet, placing the bottle next to it on the table when she had done.

"There's a dogfight in Southwark tomorrow night," she said. "The stakes will be high. If you come see him later father will have the address for you."

Wherever Warin had acquired her, she was well spoken, he thought. He nodded and dismissed her with a wave of his hand. She turned, her wooden shoes scraping over the bare boards, but made no move to leave. He glanced up ready to give her a sharp rebuke to hurry herself away and then stopped.

Ailmaar had returned. His frame filled the low, narrow doorway, the pie dangling forgotten in its cloth from his hand, his mouth slightly ajar as he stared at the girl. He blushed furiously and shifted to one side and then, realising that there was still not enough room for the girl to pass, backed awkwardly out of the room.

The girl swept through the doorway and stopped beside the Squire, raising her eyes to his, then lowering them again quickly and disappearing out of de Rainault's sight. Ailmaar looked as though he'd turned to stone.

"Good God, boy," he snapped. "Put your jaw back together and bring me that pie before it gets any colder." Such an unsubtle, adolescent display of coquetry did nothing for a man's appetite, he thought furiously. Ailmaar shuffled under the doorway and handed over the pie, but it was quite clear to the Sheriff that the Squire's wits had yet to join him.

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