Nottingham

  “That’s Sheffield,” Myla cooed, and pointed his head to the west.

  “Which one?” He squinted at tiny specklings of towns, their colors faded to the same pale nothing of the rest of the land.

  “It’s too far to see,” she laughed. “But it’s that direction.”

  “Well that’s mine, then,” John said. “I own it. I can do whatever I want with it. Would you like to own a town?”

  He breathed in deeply, and tried to estimate all the land between here and there. That was all his, too. Every tree and rock and deer shitting in between was his to cherish, or whatever it is one was supposed to do with land.

  Myla tightened her legs around his waist and pointed him north. “We are halfway between the castles of York and Nottingham. Yorkshire’s that way,” she twisted his head to the right, “and the rest is Nottinghamshire.”

  “I didn’t know you were a map.”

  “I didn’t know you were a horse.”

  She slapped his ass and wrenched his hair again, until he twisted and grappled her onto the floor. “The majority of the things there are to know about me,” he said as he kissed her neck, that soft spot at her collarbone, “are probably things you didn’t know. What would you like to know about me next?”

  “What would you like to tell me next?”

  John rewarded her answer by moving up to her ear. “Did you know that I’m the King of Ireland?”

  She pursed her lips and raised her eyebrows. “I did not know that.”

  “No? Then you must be Irish.” He rolled over in search of another bottle of wine. “I was there for the first time some five years ago. I was eighteen. Eighteen. I had been King of Ireland for eight years, and they treated me horribly. They had no respect, they have no idea how to govern themselves, they’re a terrible people. Terrible. You’re not really Irish, are you?”

  “No,” she giggled, tugging at his feet.

  “I thought you said you were.”

  “You said I was.”

  “Yes, that sounds like something I’d say. They’re terrible people, and hairy. A man should never have a beard longer than his cock.” He rubbed his chin, clean and smooth. “So fuck the Irish, is what I say. What do you say, Waleran?”

  Waleran, a pompous old name for a pompous old man. This old man still sat, unmoving, at the maw of the staircase. For hours he had sat there, desperately unhappy but too proud to leave.

  “He’s someone important,” John had explained to Myla, “and insisted he speak with me. But your tongue can do far better things for me than his ever could, so why would I choose his? But he insisted, so I made him a deal. I would allow him one sentence for every time we make love. Provided, of course, that he sit patiently.”

  The man had wasted his first sentence by introducing himself, well before John had taken Myla the first time. She had been shy at first, undressing in front of the earl, but as the wine flowed she found the joke in it all and soon they were both oblivious to Waleran’s unfortunate presence. When they were done, the earl had asked if he was allowed to speak, which John counted as a sentence. The third had been their longest, slower and sweeter, and they rolled so close to their guest once that he scooted backward. For the long interim between three and four, John had baited his guest with innocent questions, but he never responded, just stared and chewed his lips.

  He must have to piss fiercely, John thought, having relieved himself over the edge of the balcony twice, and be a eunuch as well, to have not been roused by watching.

  Unfortunately, the drink was not enough to fade away the man’s name.

  “Speaking of maps,” John extended a finger at the Earl of Warwick, “Waleran is my neighbor, so to speak. Warwickshire and Gloucestershire share a border, yes? Well the Duchess of Gloucestershire and I share a marriage.”

  “You brat! You’re married?” Myla teased him, tugging on his earlobe with her teeth.

  “Don’t worry, she’s not a threat to you. Isabelle’s my cousin.” Myla feigned disgust and stomped about the room, trailing her arms in the hanging silks. “Of all the innumerable slights that are my life, my marriage is my favorite. John Lackland, they called me, youngest son of the king, with no lands to own nor to inherit, and four elder brothers to eat the world up before I would ever get a crumb. The best that my father could do for me was to betroth me, as a young boy, to the notably brotherless Isabelle of Gloucester.”

  Myla snickered, but John put a finger to his lips. “That’s not the good part. My brothers had their rebellion, as you know, and started dying one by one. Three of my brothers have made their last kick at the world. Only Richard is left, and every day that he wastes at war leaves me with the terror that one day a messenger will come to me. King Richard has been killed, he’ll say, and even in my imagination I vomit, cut out the messenger’s throat, and sail as far away as a ship can take me.”

  She laughed again, so he put his finger in her mouth. Her tongue played with its tip. “I’ve told Richard a thousand times that I want him to rule, and rule long, but he doesn’t trust me. He did nothing to earn or purchase my loyalty, so he doesn’t believe it. So he bought it, retroactively. He showered me in property and power, in both England and France. I have so many titles now I can’t recognize them. But even though I suddenly had all the land I could need, I was still betrothed to Isabelle and one simply doesn’t break those things. So I’m told. It was a punishment, really, for not being any of my ambitious dead brothers.”

  Myla moved from finger to finger now, and John felt an urge as he fought to focus. “The best part was days later, when a papal envoy informed us that our marriage had been annulled by the pope himself. After some investigation, it had been discovered that Isabelle and I are related through a mutual great-grandfather. Richard fought it, and eventually the marriage was condoned by the Church, under the strictest—and most pleasantly ridiculous—doctrine that we refrain from sexual intercourse.

  “Which was fine,” he added, drawing Myla to the floor, bidding her to lie on her stomach. “I haven’t seen her since.”

  He carefully poured a small amount of wine onto the gentle curve of Myla’s back, pooling into the subtle cup just above her cheeks. He lapped it up with his tongue, even as she squirmed and long red streaks escaped, which he chased around to her navel, turning her over. This is how he had spent his time, surveying his lands from the southwest finger of England up to Tickhill, his northernmost city. From here he frankly had no plans on where to go.

  He was ready for another go. He poured himself a cup of wine and dipped his prince in it that she might taste it.

  “The good news,” he sighed as he felt her tongue, “is that I’ll never be king. Richard’s appointed that curse to my dead brother’s son Arthur. Of course, he’s only four or five, so he wouldn’t make the best king. So the real fear is that Richard gets himself killed at his little war, and they ask me to take over until little Arthur gets his first bleeding.”

  He raised the cup and drank from it. “So long live the King.”

  Myla paused just long enough to ask, “Why wouldn’t you want to be king?”

  “King? Good God, I cannot think of anything I want less. If they put a crown on my head, I would put it on my horse. I would carve a hole in the throne and use it to shit. My father was king. My brother is king. Do you know what I’ve noticed? Nobody likes the king. Everybody wants to be the king, but as soon as you become the king all you do is spend your time dealing with the people who used to love you and now want you dead. Do you know how often kings die? Every time. I don’t think I’ve heard of a single king who has lived gloriously and ascended to heaven as a divine ruler, but I know of an awful lot of them that have muddled their way through ruling and died in one awful way or another. You can trust me, it’s something of a family tradition.

  “Prince is fine with me. People love princes. Princes get gifts, I’ve noticed, and promises. As long as I am not the king, my life is spectacularly better. There is no chance that this wo
uld be happening right now, any of this, you, Waleran watching us, if I were not prince. Keep me prince. God keep me prince. And you know the real truth of it? I’d be terrible. I wouldn’t have a fucking clue what I’m doing. I tried in Ireland, I tried in France, I’m no good at it. I don’t want to be good at it. Richard’s good at it. If only he’d come back and just be a king, it’s all he ever wanted. He’s fucking it all up, being so far away, he should just come back and be happy. Fuck. Fuck.”

  And the world disappeared. And when he was done, his body went limp, and he closed his eyes and let the breeze tickle his skin.

  To hell with being a king, when being a prince is so much more entertaining.

  Time was slower now, his limbs were heavy. All the muted colors of the world faded together. There was nothing but the beautiful grey that swallowed his thoughts. Few were the ways to quiet his mind. But it didn’t last as long this time as it had the last, and already his eyes focused on the land outside the tower. He wondered who would want control of it, what they would offer him for it, and what he could extract from that person’s enemies in exchange for doing the opposite. John’s flock of troubles came to land on his branches again.

  “Alright, Waleran,” he drawled out the name, “make your sentence good.”

  The earl breathed in heavily, licked his lips and stood, a sharp movement John had difficulty following. After a heavy pause, Waleran spoke directly and with purpose.

  What followed would be one of the greatest things John had ever ignored. That was something of a pastime for him—ignoring responsibility. His favorite trophies were his memories of avoiding things. Going to a tavern instead of an important function, for instance, or making jokes about Waleran’s eyebrows while the man spoke, for nearly five minutes, without actually ending his sentence.

  When a period finally came, John blinked. Myla had burrowed into the bed and watched in amazement. “That was a fine sentence,” John said. “You may say thank you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I nodded off in the middle,” he teased, but unfortunately he had retained more of the sentence than he would have liked. “The castellan here, the castellan of Tickhill, his name is Baron Roger de Busli, did you know that? Baron Roger de Busli. But you talked about the Sheriff of Nottingham, Baron Roger de Lacy. You’re telling me that there are two Baron Roger de-somethings in charge of castles in Nottingham? That seems one too many Baron Roger de-something for me to keep track of. So I missed part of what you were saying while I was thinking about that.”

  Waleran twitched, as though he had just prevented a violent sneeze.

  “Don’t worry, I think I tasted the general flavor of your soup.” John tried to rise, but the world wobbled in three directions at once, which was two more than seemed advisable. The earl had the singular luck of being the only thing that John was currently capable of focusing upon. To Waleran’s benefit he had been impressive, but he had also put a definitive halt to John’s enjoyment of the day.

  “So,” John continued, “I don’t know the Sheriff of Nottingham, so I don’t care if he goes away. You seem to think I hate the Chancellor enough to appoint someone else as the sheriff just to beat him to it.”

  He probably should have expected that. He’d run into Chancellor Longchamp in London a month or so ago, and pulled a prank on him. The prank involved trapping the man in the Tower of London and convincing him he’d be killed if he left … and it may have gotten a bit out of hand after that.

  “But see, I don’t care who is your next sheriff. So … I’m willing to let you purchase my decision.” The last few words he slurred, maybe on purpose, and he hoped it would sound unsettling.

  Waleran appeared unsettled.

  “Why don’t you tell me what you can do for me, and I’ll tell you if it’s good enough?”

  The uncomfortable earl bristled.

  “Oh, you can talk as much as you want. Myla, be a dear and count his sentences. I’ll pay you the debt.”

  She made a delighted chirping noise and rolled off the bed, hiccupped something that was more than air, and rushed over to the edge to spit it over.

  Waleran ignored her. “I have rallied many supporters for you, with many ears. We are already allies.”

  “Boring,” John said, since it was. “Never trust a stranger who tells you he’s your friend. Myla, do you suppose your father would like to be the Sheriff of Nottingham?”

  But she was busy sending a second wave of purple over the lip.

  “I also know the Chancellor’s supporters,” the earl suggested, “and their weaknesses, and their crimes. I have been diligent in cataloguing them, with evidence and witnesses.”

  “That’s better,” John said, though he was sure to say it in a way that still implied boring. “But it’s nothing I couldn’t do on my own. What can you offer me? Do you have children? Do you have daughters? Don’t worry, I don’t mean to fuck every daughter in England. I need marriages. The best way to build alliances is through marriage. It’s also one of the best ways to block other people’s ambitions.” He had been exiled from England for three years, and denied ownership of any castles, lest he foolishly decide to wage war against his brother. That exile was finally over, ended a bit early even, and he was eager to find other things to own.

  Waleran fidgeted. “My son and heir is married. I have a second son, with my namesake. My only daughter is at Pinley Abbey.”

  “Oh wonderful. A nun and another Waleran.”

  John felt suddenly cruel for toying with the old man, when he honestly meant him no ill will. In fact, if John had not meant to spend the day avoiding responsibility, he would have actually liked old Waleran and his plans. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t take advantage of the situation. “Very well. Any name you want, I’ll agree to it, since frankly I don’t much care.”

  “I have already drafted an edict for you. All that remains is for you to fill in a name and sign it.”

  “Leave it and I’ll send it off by morning. My price is this…” He let the man sweat. “Something. I don’t know what it will be. Some favor. Maybe something small. Maybe something unforgivable. But something. I’ll only ask it once. It may not be for many years. But you’ll owe it to me, and you’ll do it. Tell your sons that you owe this. I don’t want you to die before I use my favor. Agreed?”

  If he thought he was gaining an ally, or swearing himself to the devil, all Waleran did was swallow once. “Any name?”

  “As I said,” John burped. The man may be a complete idiot if he needed to ask the question. Or perhaps he was brilliant.

  “Agreed.” Waleran retrieved a small parchment from his bags and placed it on the floor beside him, weighing it down with a cup. He stood and descended the stairs, pausing only when his head alone was still visible. “The name is Waleran de Beaumont. My second son.”

  Then his head vanished and the sound of his footsteps drifted away, leaving only Myla’s retching into the wind.

  “Clever fellow, that. Do you think he outplayed me?” John asked, but the girl was long gone from conversation. “His son. He never would have given that name if I hadn’t pushed him. I don’t care one shit who sits as Nottingham’s sheriff. He has no idea how small his world is, and how large mine is.”

  John wished Myla was able to recognize how profound he was being. “Brave fellow, then. He sold his dignity in favor of his family. I’m sure there’s a lesson there we should all be learning if we weren’t so fucking sick right now.”

  * * *

  AFTER WALERAN LEFT, JOHN passed out and eventually awoke again, naked, freezing in the early night air with nothing to protect him. Myla was gone, and John chanced an eyeball over the edge to look for her body. Only colorless grass below. She might have rolled off a different edge, but he decided against caring.

  He descended, entirely nude, into the barrel of Tickhill Castle. He brushed against Gay Wally, who had fallen asleep but pretended he had not. Only thirteen or fourteen, the lad had a knack for memorizing every
thing he heard. He also had a knack for leaning forward when he spoke and blinking too much. He’d been assigned to John to catch him up on every name, affiliation, and history of the lands he now owned. His real name was Walter de Gray, but John had decided such a name should only belong to an ancient advisor and not a milksop like this one. Gay Wally was a better name.

  The boy sprang to keep up. “I need food,” John said, and Gay Wally made a few different faces in reaction, none of which brought any food. Wally was good at information, but not at fetching.

  In the lower levels he found servants of the more useful variety, who had water warmed and brought to his chambers. After washing himself and redressing, his head was clear enough to consider the drunken promises he’d made atop the tower. He threw a wet cloth at Gay Wally.

  “Tell me about Waleran de Beaumont. And take me to wherever it is the Baron de Busli eats.”

  This involved leaving the castle tower and marching down to the main manor at the bottom of the round hill. By the time they intruded on Red Roger’s private dinner, John was fully versed on the old Earl of Warwick. He seemed a detestably loyal man, and ferociously protective of his family. Gay Wally said that Waleran had once fed a man to a bear simply for doing an unfavorable impersonation of his brother. John didn’t mind a man having a cruel streak, but a loyal one was unnerving. John wasn’t so sure he wanted to climb into bed with anything that valued honor over intelligence.

  Baron de Busli made the same face he had made when John took his daughter off to the tower. It was possible that he was only capable of making one face, which he used for every emotion. Food and gravy coated his moustache, which had not required any help to look ridiculous.

  “What are you doing in here?” the baron nearly choked, spewing uneaten chunks of disgusting.