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The Sheriff had slept badly in his huge bed. Strange rustlings and scratching from overhead had roused him throughout the night, in fear that some verminous creature would fall through the torn canopy and land on his face as he slept. At last, as dawn turned the darkness to gloom again, he fell into a dreamless sleep and woke late, his head thick from the second bottle of wine the tavern keeper had sent up to his room.

He sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, feeling along the boards with bare feet for his leather slippers. As he had done every morning on waking, he rose and went straight to the window, pushing open the shutters of the rotten casement. Leaning his head out, he gazed over the jumble of roofs opposite The Fish and Otter and scanned the river.

A thick sea fog had rolled in during the night, only now beginning
to dissipate as the sun moved up in the sky. Sailors readied their
craft to catch the tide as it rose along the glistening banks of mud to free them, but many of the mast tops still lay beneath a shroud of mist.

He went to the end of the bed, to the straw palliasse where Ailmaar slept on his back, emitting soft snores. The lad had drawn his blanket up close about him and only his pimpled cheeks and the dark brush of his hair were visible. The boy's easy sleep irritated him and de Rainault jabbed him spitefully with one slippered foot.

"I want my breakfast," he said.

Ailmaar groaned and rolled away from his master's toe, drawing an arm up over his eyes as he blinked himself awake. The window was open, admitting the stink of fish and rancid water, the rough, harsh cries of gulls mingling with the call of hawkers in the street. He held back a sigh, knowing that even a moment's delay could bring a torrent of abuse on his head, and dragged himself up.

Beneath the scratchy blanket, he was already dressed in hose and shirt, for the Sheriff had sat up most of the night drinking as was his wont of late. Ailmaar had found himself constantly nodding off on his stool beside the brazier, brought back to wakefulness from time to time by the Sheriff's sharp words and curses; although most of what had been said by his master had passed him by.

At last, the Sheriff had fallen into a drunken stupor. The curses
had become slurred and infrequent and Ailmaar had struggled to lift him from the chair and helped him into his bed, easily dodging the back of his master's hand when it had flailed at him in protest. After laying out the Sheriff's clothes for the next day, he had had no energy left to remove his own before dropping down into an exhausted sleep on his palliasse.

He stood now and stretched his arms over his head to relieve the stiffness in them. Scratching absently at a line of fleabites
beneath his shirt – courtesy of the thin mattress donated by The
Otter – he crossed over to the Sheriff's chest of personal
belongings. It was a stout chest of oak, banded by strips of metal the width of his hand. Three locks protected it and only the Sheriff himself possessed the keys. It had taken two men an hour to manoeuvre it up the staircase and held all that remained of the Sheriff's personal possessions. Covering it was a fine robe of dark green linen, embroidered with silver thread and a belt of tooled leather. Ailmaar picked up the robe, brushed off an imaginary speck of dirt and eased a crease from the stiff fabric.

The Sheriff had left Nottingham with a cartload of fine clothes to
impress the King's courtiers and it had been one of Ailmaar's duties to make sure that they remained clean and pressed. His master's subsequent disgrace had forced the Sheriff to place his better possessions in the acquisitive hands of Jacob the Usurer, where they awaited him to fetch them out of hock once his circumstances improved. Ailmaar felt nothing but relief at the removal of the Sheriff's fine wardrobe from his care. Being a squire, he thought to himself, lacked much of the excitement his father had promised him.

De Rainault fidgeted impatiently as the squire came to help him with his robe and belt. He allowed himself to be dressed in silence and passed Ailmaar a silver halfpenny. Still rubbing his sleep-filled eyes the boy pulled on his boots and left the room, thudding down the narrow stairs. De Rainault returned to the window.

Billingsgate stank of fish guts rotting in the summer heat, the
garbage and effluence disposed of into the Thames. It did not bother him as much now as when he had first arrived and he wondered if he should be relieved or worried about permanent damage to his sense of smell.

In the street, hawkers cried out their goods, selling a variety of
produce from fish to spices to leather belts and scabbards. Below him, Ailmaar left the tavern through the entrance fronting the road, headed away down it and disappeared into the cookshop a few doors down. Drawn unwillingly, de Rainault turned his eyes back towards the river. The mist had lifted considerably now, allowing a clearer view. He could not see a ship flying a dove and lily anywhere in the harbour.

The ship he waited on should have docked by now. The sea route around the Bay of Biscay was notoriously dangerous. Storms blew across the ocean, the full force of their fury turning Biscay into a ships graveyard. And before that there was the Straits. He had travelled that narrow passageway in younger days and knew well the dangers of pirates and Moorish corsairs who looted there. But, mostly, he was uneasy about the contract he owned. The more time passed, the stronger grew the sneaking suspicion that he had been duped.

He saw again the sweating face of the merchant Peter Nash as he begged for mercy in Nottingham Castle, Gisbourne standing menacingly behind him. Nash's voice came back to him in the quiet of his lodgings.

"Please, my Lord. Please..I..I need more time. I have other debts to pay, other creditors-"

De Rainault had eyed Nash with dislike, taking in the fat hands,
which bore the marks of rings hastily stripped off and hidden, most likely when Gisbourne's men had first hammered on Nash's door.

"That," he had interrupted, "Is not my problem. Your repayment to me is overdue. If you cannot meet it then my Steward will search your house and take anything of value." He leant forward across the table softening his tone with a smile. "And you and your family will be driven out of Nottingham with no more than the clothes on your backs."

Nash's face had glistened with sweat in the light of the
torches. "My Lord, I have one thing of value...a contract." He had drawn a folded piece of parchment from his tunic. His hands shook badly as he unfolded it and held it out. "The Fidelity has
guaranteed it. See, there, the seal."

De Rainault signalled to Gisbourne who had snatched the parchment from Nash's hands and stepped up to the dais to pass it to him. Lifting it to the light, he saw that it did indeed bear the mark of the Fidelity of Staplers - a group of woollen merchants of which he himself was a member. He read it carefully.

Nash shuffled forward on his knees eagerly. "A fine investment, my Lord. She's due into London about the middle of the year."

De Rainault had ignored him reading the rest of the contract in
silence. No doubt but it was a genuine document, drawn by the Grand Master himself for he recognised the man's scrawl.

"A valuable cargo indeed." He narrowed his eyes and glared at Nash, putting the parchment down on the table. "However, I have given you much leeway over this debt. Perhaps a little...something more to show your appreciation for my leniency?"

Nash had trembled like a beggar with the palsy. His fingers went
again to his belt slipping into the folds of his tunic, hesitating,
then drawing out a second, finer paper. Gisbourne stepped down and snatched it from him. The Steward had been about to hold it up to the nearest, smoking torch to read it for himself, but de Rainault's loud cough had halted him. Gisbourne, looking slightly abashed, passed the parchment along. De Rainault read it carefully, then raised his eyebrows at the merchant. "The earnings on this will far exceed what you owe me," he said.

Nash had licked his lips, his eyes darting sideways to check on
Gisbourne who had resumed his post to loom silently beside him. "I was hoping you might offer me a little sum, my Lord, on top. Help me pay off my other debts..." he had said, a sly, hopeful look crossing his florid features.

So de Rainault had gone to the King's taxes and dipped his hand into the takings with the sure knowledge that he had months to replace the money - and that stupidity had resulted in his current situation. He cursed himself. It was so unlike him to be that careless - and yet, the paper he carried on him now, this second secret letter, had value. He had, he admitted to himself, allowed his greed to get the better of him. But the King had gone to the West to escape the stink and sickness of a city trapped in high summer and that at least gave him more time that he might otherwise have had. Together, both cargoes would pay his debt to the King and leave him a small profit - it was a waiting game, profit always was.

That much at least he had learnt at his father's side, as Geoffrey de Rainault had taught him how to use the ledgers and enter the estate's incomings and outgoings.

"Patience Robert," came his father's voice still sharp with
disapproval despite the dividing years. "Never reckon your takings until they are weighing down your purse." Geoffrey had wagged an ink stained finger under his son's nose to emphasise his words. "Anything before that is speculation and speculation is a dangerous game when one is dealing in the well being of dependents."

His father had stepped to the window and gazed across the estate vineyards at the outlying villages, just visible through the trees, from which the de Rainault's drew their labourers. A hundred lives that depended on the estate and on the abilities of the man who ran it.

His father had been right, the Sheriff thought to himself,
speculation was a dangerous game, but one that was far too
attractive to avoid playing.

Beneath the tavern window, Warin appeared on the street beckoning to a boy of eight or nine. De Rainault saw the keeper press a coin into the lad's hand and send him haring off up the Thames Road. He pulled his head back inside the room. Warin! He was familiar with the merchants of London. He knew the quay and the ships. He might have heard something of this missing cargo or her captain.

Adjusting his tunic from Ailmaar's clumsy attempts to dress him, he
pushed open the door to his room and made his way down the darkness of the stairs, groping at the rough wood to keep his balance. The stairs were steep and though he had made the journey up and down them many times he was still not confident of his way in the dark.
At last, his feet found the final step and he pushed open the door
to the balcony. The air was heavy with the smoke and wine fumes from last night's revelry, which he had chosen to eschew in favour of Ailmaar's morose silence.

The taproom of the great parlour was empty except for the girl who
had bought him wine the evening before. She finished clearing the
tables and watched as he ascended the stairs and slid into one of
the alcoves along the wall. The high, wooden back of the settle kept away the draughts and offered privacy. It was a corner that he had made his own during his stay. After a moment, the girl put down her cloth and came across to him.

She gave a brief curtsey. "May I fetch you a drink, my Lord?"

Her rough homespun dress dragged along rushes that were in desperate need of herbs to sweeten them. Fastidiously he pulled a scented cloth from within his robe and raised it to his nose.

"I wish to speak with your...father." He allowed a hint of derision
in his voice and the girl caught it and met his eyes.

"My father is in the dark parlour. I'll fetch him for you," she
said, all deference gone from her tone. Twitching her skirt up she
pushed her way through the door that divided the front and back
rooms of the tavern.

Here, where de Rainault sat, was a place for the merchants of the
town to gather and discuss business and pleasure. The dark parlour, fronting onto the raucous, stinking Thames Road was a commoner bar, selling ale and cheap immature wine to the sailors and dockworkers. Any man was free to enter the dark parlour and enjoy a drink, but only those whose pockets stretched to Warin's finer wines could pass through the dividing door to the great parlour or enter it through the stable yard.

The girl returned her face smoothed of irritation. "He'll be with
you in a moment, my Lord," she said, keeping her eyes on the rushes to avoid looking at him.

The door to the stable yard opened and Ailmaar entered, stopping
short when he saw the girl. He hesitated for a moment then forced
himself forward to hand his master his breakfast. Ignoring the two
youngsters, de Rainault opened the cloth bag and pulled out a pie
from within. It had lost any heat it had once held, the pastry soggy
from the steam it had released within the bag.

"I said bring it hot," he said, glaring at Ailmaar. The squire
winced and kept his eyes on the floor.

"Shall I warm it for you, my Lord?" The girl held out her hand
glancing from boy to man. De Rainault thrust it at her.

Turning to the fire, she drew a flat warming plate across the banked
embers. She placed the pie upon it and stirred the coals to bring
life to them.

De Rainault eyed Ailmaar in irritation and was about to throw out a
terse comment about his scruffy appearance, but the middle door
banged open and Warin appeared, wiping his hands on his stained
apron. He grinned broadly at the girl and pulled the apron away from his body, throwing it at the bar as he passed.

"Heating my Lord's breakfast, Rona, there's a good girl." He paused at the fire and held out his hands to feel its warmth. "Lazy sluts these girls, my Lord. Have to chase 'em to make sure a thing gets
done. Reckon you'll understand what I means."

"Indeed," de Rainault said, casting a sideways glance at his squire.
Ailmaar stirred the rushes uncomfortably with the toe of his boot,
uncovering an ancient bone from their depths.

"Ailmaar!" he snapped, making the lad flinch. "Have you checked on the men yet?"

"No, my lord...I went straight for your-"

"Well, go do it now. Make sure they're usefully occupied." The
Squire left hastily and de Rainault gestured to the other side of
the settle. "Sit with me, landlord, I wish to ask you something."

Warin ignored the settle. Pulling a chair from one of the tables, he
turned it around and straddled it, his great thighs straining the
fabric of his hose. De Rainault cast a meaningful glance at the
girl, now kneeling to blow gently on the hot coals, a careful hand
keeping her hair away from her face. Warin smiled.

"Rona's the best of the bad lot I got working here, my Lord. Speak
free in front of her."

Turning slightly so that he could watch Warin's face, he began.

"I am waiting for a ship to arrive, landlord. She's late. Have you
heard of the Annunciata?"

Warin shook his head. "New one to me, my Lord, but then I deal
mainly with the wine ships. Who's her captain?"

De Rainault's hand strayed towards his pouch, but he had no need to read the parchments - he knew the details by heart. "Master Voors," he said.

"Dutch by the sounds of it. 'Tis the Italians and French I deal
mostly with. What cargo does she hold?"

"She took wool out to Alexandria and brings back a variety of goods."

Warin raised his meaty arms into the air, the muscles beneath his
tunic flexing and rippling the cloth as he stretched. "I'm a merely
a lowly vintner, my Lord and, although I get a wealth of merchants
through my tavern, I don't recognise these details." He lowered his
arms and looked thoughtful. "However, I know a man who might be
better placed to help you. A merchant named Matteus. Has Rona here told you of the dogfight tonight, across the river? Well, it's his
do." Warin turned his head slightly. "Rona!"

The girl, in the process of turning the pie, looked up from the
fire.

"You'll take my Lord to the fight and introduce him to Matteus."

A scowl crossed her face and Warin leant towards her
menacingly. "You'll do as you're told girl," he threatened. She
darted a quick glance at de Rainault then turned her gaze back to
the small flames now licking at the wood she had placed there.

"Yes, father," she said, meekly, but the viciousness with which she
now poked the fire belied her tone.

"Matteus charges for his information, my Lord, so go prepared."

The Sheriff suppressed a shudder as the tavern keeper turned back to him with a confiding wink that made the scarred corner of his face ripple with a series of tics.

Feeling a little happier with the possibility of information
available to him, de Rainault watched the girl fetch a wooden
trencher and slip the reheated pie onto it. She stood and held it
out to him, her dark eyes studying him from her sharp face.

"Rona will be waiting for you down here at eight o'clock, my Lord.
You'll be best off going by boat."

De Rainault looked up in surprise. "What about the bridge?"

"We should cross the Thames by ferry, my Lord, 'tis quicker, " the
girl explained. "Less questions asked of us than if we attempted to
cross the bridge at that time of night."

He took the trencher from her and pulled his eating knife from its
leather pouch on his belt. "I'll take my squire and two of my escort
with me," he said. He was not sure if he trusted this pair, this so-
called father and daughter. If he was to leave the dogfight drunk
and with winnings, what was to stop them passing on word of it and
having him accosted and robbed on the way back.

The girl's thin lips curved into a smile. "I'd advise it, my
Lord. 'Tis a rough place Southwark, but you'll be asked to leave men and weapons at the door to Matteus' house. He has his own men to watch inside."

"Aye," Warin chipped in. "Best warn your men t'have nothing to do
with them. Sit tight and wait for you is what I'd suggest. Matteus
don't hire his men for their pleasant manner." He gave a gruff,
barking laugh.

De Rainault broke the crust of his pie and popped a piece into his
mouth. It was dry and reheating it had caused the gravy to thicken
unpleasantly. He would be pleased to get back to Nottingham and his own table, and the sooner the better, he thought to himself, before he died of food poisoning.

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