Nottingham

by Nathan Makaryk

  A loose gesture indicated two of the men in his entourage, who each held one end of a sizable wooden chest they appeared eager to be rid of. They jostled its weight to the ground and took a step back.

  “But this, this just proves my point.” Oughtibridge stuck his nose into a nearby bowl held by an old man who did not know enough to retreat. “This is what he’s doing with my taxes, then? This is why he’s so desperate to count every last coin I have, so he can give out food for free?”

  “I don’t think the two are related,” Guy answered, fully aware it was only for himself.

  “Limp-wristed fop, where is he?” Oughtibridge drove every inch of his significant body closer to Guy. His moustache was thick and wrapped all the way down and up to his ears again, giving the remarkable impression that his hair itself was trying to reach around and suffocate him.

  “The Sheriff is unavailable,” Guy lied. “I will convey your displeasure if you like. My men can see to your taxes.”

  “You’d best convey it well,” the lord snarled, but his lips pulled back into something that gave all other smiles a bad name. “You see to it that he gets these taxes, directly, you understand?”

  “Of course.”

  “Open it then,” he stepped back.

  Guy was immediately suspicious, but there was no reason to find danger in a coinchest. Guy signaled two of his men from the edge of the tables to claim the thing, while Guy knelt down to unlock its clasp. He could smell something foul as his face moved closer, but did not expect what he found when its lid flipped open.

  “What is this?” Guy asked, recoiling, though he knew the answer.

  “Horseshit,” the Lord Oughtibridge announced proudly. The chest was full to the brim with it, a mix of dry and wet clumps smashed into each other, seeping from the corners. Guy realized some of it was on his fingers from the clasp itself. He flicked it off and a chill ripped through his spine.

  “Horseshit, because that’s what these taxes are,” the lord continued. “If I’m going to pay something, I’m supposed to get something in return. I told the tax collectors he sent, but the Sheriff clearly hasn’t gotten the message. I can’t travel anywhere without being harassed by these damned thieves in the forest, and de Lacy refuses to do anything about it. Until he can secure his own goddamned roads, I’m not paying a single fucking shilling.”

  Guy watched the man strut back to the Temperance Line and grab an empty bowl from beside the pot of porridge, startling Devon down to his nethers.

  “And this is the topper,” Oughtibridge cackled. “This is how he’s spending it. Here. If he wants to take my taxes and give it to the people…” he scraped the bowl into the chest to scoop out a slop of the excrement, then marched back to the line. “… then eat up!”

  The bells from St. Peter called out a deep slow call to mass, and on the third strike Lord Oughtibridge dropped the entire bowl, shit and all, into the porridge.

  THIRTY

  WILLIAM DE WENDENAL

  NOTTINGHAM CASTLE

  OVER THE COURSE OF a thousand years, William explained, erosion could carve a gullet through a smooth field and cut it in two. He had watched the same principles lay waste to Nottinghamshire in a mere three weeks.

  “I will not say I regret coming to Nottingham,” he added, catching a tease of protest in Arable’s eye, “but I think Robin was right. Neither of us are helping anything. I doubt he has any idea how significant the ramifications of his actions are, and meanwhile I’m stuck here unable to … ramificate anything.”

  Arable threw him a coy squint. “Ramificate isn’t a word.”

  “I know,” he pouted. “I started that sentence before I knew how it ended.”

  It was an appropriate analogy for his every effort in the city.

  She led him through the tall grass with care, forward, holding one of his hands with two of her own freezing fingers. Tall stone walls protected them from the rest of the city, which even the sun had yet to brave this morning. The burying ground was overgrown and poorly tended, dawn dew turning each blade of grass into sparkling ice. Simple, unadorned headstones haphazardly littered the courtyard under the modest spire of St. Nicholas. It was the nearest church to the castle besides the abbey in the middle bailey, and Arable had insisted they visit it this morning.

  She turned back to him, her cheeks flushing red from the cold. “You know, things might easily be much worse, if you weren’t here.”

  He had to laugh. “I think the castle would have to be on fire for that to be true.” William glanced up, just to double-check that Nottingham Castle was still there, peeking over the tips of the walls. “I honestly thought it would be simple. Talk things out peacefully, re-establish the supply lines, and mercy wins the day.”

  She moved slowly, tugging him along. “But…” she prompted.

  “But everything,” he answered.

  The city had yet to recover from Gisbourne’s shutdown of the markets, and it was obvious now that it couldn’t. “There simply isn’t enough coming in to Nottingham anymore, be it coin or goods. Between the rumors of de Lacy’s impending replacement and Robin’s robberies, nobody trusts the city. And now, neighboring lords are withholding their county dues until an effective sheriff can properly secure the roads.”

  “I know,” Arable said. “I was there.”

  “You were? Is it true that Lord Oughtibridge shat right in the stew?”

  “Not quite,” she laughed.

  William wished he could laugh about it. The more familiar he became with the city’s fragile mechanics, the more helpless he felt. Every day, more lords took on Oughtibridge’s stance and refused to pay their share. Even traveling merchants were avoiding Nottingham until they knew it was more stable. This might have normally created the perfect opportunity for local trade to thrive, but there was more coin to be earned in the Sherwood than the city. “Instead of coming together, everyone is retreating into themselves. They’re all standing in the same pit, watching the flood water rise, refusing to work together.”

  “What does Roger say?”

  “Not much. But he’s getting riled.”

  William had sat with de Lacy throughout numerous negotiations, and grown a heartfelt respect for the man’s patience and competence. The balancing act he played to keep his county operational was impressive, but with Oughtibridge’s demands the whole thing was now tipping dangerously away from him.

  “The city suffers when the markets suffer, the markets suffer when the trade routes suffer, and the trade routes suffer because Robin is far more influential than I am. And now he’s accidentally rallied the county lords to a near mutiny.”

  “Mhm.”

  “It’s not all Robin’s fault,” William made the distinction, dragging his finger across the rough surface of a nearby headstone.

  It was a perfect storm, each issue amplifying the next. Robin was the only variable that could actually be managed, but there was no way to communicate with him. That had probably been their biggest mistake. “He’s doing exactly what we said we’d do. I can’t blame him.”

  “Mhm.”

  “I think de Lacy can keep the strings together for a while,” he considered. “But if he indeed gets replaced, this is all going to explode.”

  “Mhm.”

  He startled to realize, again, that he’d been ignoring her. He didn’t mean to, but it was too easy to get caught up in the thick of it all. He quickly apologized, and went to her. She was kneeling in the wet grass in front of a small cracked cobblestone, uniquely colored but pounded unimportantly into the earth. There was nothing to imply that it was a grave marker and not a mistake.

  “This is my father,” she said.

  A cold fist clenched around William’s heart, instantly shamed and horrified at how distracted he had been. But then she continued, “Well, not really. I don’t know where he was buried, if he was even buried at all. So I found this little stone here about a year ago, with no name, and I’d like to think maybe it could be for him.”<
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  William had never put much thought into Lord Raymond de Burel’s fate. He had been a prickly man in life, albeit with a curious charm for those he deemed worthy. He had died nearby, fifteen years ago, during the failed assault on Nottingham led by William de Ferrers. In all likelihood, he might have been killed in an ambush by the citizens of Nottingham, defending their city. It was impossible to know. If there had been anything on Lord Burel’s person to identify him as the head of a household, it wouldn’t have helped him here. Those that participated in the assault were seen as traitors to this city, and would have not received any formal processions.

  “Maybe one of his men protected his body,” Arable suggested, matter-of-factly, “and found a place for him. Maybe this marker was left blank for a reason, as something that couldn’t be said.”

  William could not imagine how difficult it must be for her to live in the city. Her family name was a danger to her in Derby because of his own father, but here it bore an insulting history as well. Ferrers had become synonymous with treason in Nottingham, and the names of those that aided the earl in his revolt fared little better. Nottingham had a long memory, and a cruel one, but Arable endured that prejudice for the protection de Lacy alone offered her.

  A protection which would not last. And William had yet to offer any real alternative, despite his promise to her. She had mentioned the hope of searching for her family in France, but had nothing to follow but rumors. Only a single idea had come to William’s mind, but it was risky. His father was the world’s expert on the location of Burels in the world. He could write home in the hopes of getting such information, but if his father suspected William’s motives, it would put her in greater danger.

  Arable touched the stone gently. The marker bore no actual significance, but the emotional poverty of that action chilled William to his core. He had no words to help her. He wished her grief could stand and scream at him, could pull steel that he could fight it like a real enemy. He had no idea how to kill something that refused to be touched. It was the same impotence he felt by de Lacy’s side unable to do anything besides comment. Nothing that amounted to progress.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, because they were the words he was supposed to say.

  “Don’t be sorry.” Her eyes pierced him, begging him to be more than he was. “Our sorries are long over. I didn’t bring you here to make you feel guilty. This boring rock in the ground is the only thing I have left of my family, William, and it’s not even real. And why? Because my father did as he was expected. He knew it was wrong to march on Nottingham, but he didn’t know how to say no. Your father was right to refuse the call. Don’t learn the wrong lessons from the past, promise me that. You’ll be gone a week from Sunday.”

  There was a small accusation there, as if it were his choice to return to the war. But he and Robin had made their plans, and failed.

  “You know I don’t want to leave you.”

  “That’s not my point. You’re leaving, so you have nothing to lose. Use that. Don’t sit by and let the wrong things happen if you have the ability to change them. I’ve seen this growing, from every side, and it’s not going to balance out on its own. There are a lot of things that Roger can’t do, because he has to represent the city. You don’t have that problem. You don’t have to get his permission for everything.”

  He reached down for her hand, their fingers interlocked. The pieces started to take shape in his mind. “He won’t take action against the outlaws, because he doesn’t want to legitimize them. But if they were to disappear on their own…”

  She was watching him, a private smile ready to bloom, ready to push him to the natural conclusion of his own thoughts. De Lacy could claim that victory. And in so doing, maybe even hold on to his sheriffcy.

  “Arable,” he rubbed her fingers to warm them. “Do you suppose de Lacy would let me have you for the entire day, tomorrow?”

  THIRTY-ONE

  ROBIN OF LOCKSLEY

  SHERWOOD ROAD

  THEY DIDN’T EVEN MAKE bets anymore, is how bad it was.

  At first every carriage heist was a gamble, not knowing if there would be an armed escort or some heroically spirited driver who might challenge them. Some of their targets surrendered easily, some made agitated displays, and only a few tried to escape, which of course Robin allowed. Eventually patterns emerged, based on the number of travelers, their speed, the breed of the horses, or any number of other details. So the thieves would make bets on how each encounter would play out, and then surreptitiously attempt to influence that outcome. There was never real danger. They never stole anything large enough to get in trouble, and Robin generally thought he ought to pat himself on the back for a job well done.

  The stranger evolution came when some of their victims began to enjoy it.

  There were horses with bells, there were colorful banners, there were audience members riding atop certain carriages who would hoot in ecstasy upon seeing Robin’s crew. It was the pinnacle of surreal theater. When Robin waltzed out from behind a tree with an arrow nocked loosely in his bow, he received—of all the unfathomable things—applause.

  And now it was so predictable, they didn’t even make bets.

  “Do we look like a bear?” asked John Little.

  This was a real question, an actual and honest inquiry made from a living breathing human being, who very much wanted the answer to be yes. “Do we look like a bear?” was not the sort of thing one ever expects to be asked in life. If Robin hadn’t been shot in the leg by some damned archer half the world away, he would be currently answering questions about troop placement and siege weaponry. Instead he was left staring at the curious combination of John Little’s massive body and young Much’s tiny one, sitting atop John’s shoulders, with his arms reaching upward and his fingers curled into what were likely supposed to be claws. A brown sheep’s hide was draped over Much’s head, and rather than stating that the entire thing was ridiculous Robin was forced to admit that they did, regrettably, look like a bear.

  “I told you!” John triumphed, squeezing Much’s legs, and lumbered off to his position making sounds that were not bearlike at all, as they were in fact just the words stomp stomp stomp repeated with each step.

  And worse than the eager robbery victims, worse than the growing monotony of making easy coin, and worse than the two-headed non-bear, was the fact that Robin was actually enjoying himself.

  “I will admit this,” he cocked his head to Marion, “they are not who I expected.”

  She raised an eyebrow that spoke volumes, and he even knew how she’d phrase it before she asked. “Not the gang of brazen scofflaws you thought they’d be?”

  “No, they’re exactly the gang of brazen scofflaws I thought they’d be,” he returned with a straight face. “But everyone else. The villagers, for instance. Did you see yesterday, outside Keeton, I gave a man a shilling and he asked if I could break it into a dozen pence instead? That he could give out to his friends.”

  “I did see that.” She tilted her head back at him, every inch of her smug smile saying I told you so. “You want them to be greedy, don’t you? You want them to be mean and greedy and lazy, so you can say you were right.”

  “I do like being right,” he considered. “I am usually very good at it.”

  “Well I’m sorry they disappointed you by not disappointing you. They just can’t win, can they?”

  She turned to give a playful swirl of her cloak, its heavy furred edges making havoc of a bed of broken leaves. Two weeks ago Robin never would have allowed Marion to accompany them on a robbery, but now there were spectators from their camp on every adventure. There was an aging woman named Amelia who always brought one of her three children for the day’s entertainment, and a young brunette named Malory who was constantly trying to catch Alan’s eye. The fact that Much was allowed to participate in today’s robbery was a testament to the ease of their task. Friar Tuck had long given up on using believable excuses to stop the travelers, instead con
cocting increasingly preposterous tales of woe.

  “It’s the travelers, too,” Robin added after some thought. “Not what I expected.”

  Marion scrutinized him. “How so?”

  “Well, don’t forget who my father was,” Robin said, knowing she would understand. “Growing up with the unfortunate circumstances of being Lord Walter’s son, I developed a slightly skewed impression of landowners.”

  Her lips pursed into a smile. “Did you think all noblemen were as kindhearted as Walter?”

  “No,” he scoffed. “And yes. My father would have fed hay to a dead horse. So my impression of anyone who fell outside of that generosity was appropriately wretched. If a lord kicked some poor sod out,” he fumbled for words, “he must have really, truly deserved it, yes?”

  “For your father, yes.” Marion pulled a single arrow from his quiver and absently inspected its fletching. “But many lords were not so discerning. When it comes to hoarding their coin, one fewer head to count was all they cared about.”

  “But that’s just it.” Robin cocked his head meaningfully. “The people we stop, they attribute no weight to the coin we steal. They don’t feel its absence.”

  “Because they’re spending it,” she said. “On entertainment. They’d rather pay for the fleeting thrill of an adventure in the forest than give it to the county as a tax.”

  “Or to someone in need.”

  “And you didn’t expect that.”

  He shrugged it off. “There are still plenty of honest lords, and plenty of greedy villagers. But it’s not … it’s not the ratio I would have expected.”

  She slid the arrow back into his quiver, and her hand found the nape of his neck. Her hands were cold. He remembered that about her, how they’d laugh about her irrationally cold fingers. “Don’t worry, Robin. It’s not the first time you’ve been wrong about things. You should be getting better at it any time now.”

  He smiled, and watched the others giggle with delight in preparation for an approaching carriage. Robin tried to remind himself it was perspective, and perspective only. He had spent three weeks with the thieves in the Oak Camp, and it was natural to find common ground with them. Even the Guardsman Jon Bassett had softened his stance during his stay. Once Robin returned to the war, he knew he would once again recognize this miniature world for what it was.