Merchants of Milan

by Edale Lane

  "Who's the whelp?" asked the eldest as he squinted up at them without rising.

  "My friends, may I present a newcomer to our number. This is Robyn…" His face went blank as he stared out over his outlaw gang. He then glanced over at Robyn and thought quickly. "Hood. This is Robin Hood, of Nottinghamshire who, like all our present company, was unjustly outlawed by the Sheriff. Now he's a wee bit young and a little shy, so let's not all overwhelm him at once with questions, but I would like you to introduce yourselves. He's going to be staying with us a while. Alan?" He gestured toward a cheerful chap who stood about Robyn's height and held a mandolin in one hand. "Why don't you start?"

  "Pleased to make your acquaintance," he chimed in a lyrical tone. "Alan A Dale at your service." He gave an elaborate bow that caused some of the others to chuckle. His sandy hair was short and choppy, and he had a wispy mustache and goatee, ruddy cheeks, and luminous forest green eyes that danced with laughter.

  "Alan is a minstrel," Little John added for him. "Quite a skilled entertainer."

  "Sadly, the Sheriff did not agree," Alan said. "He took a sudden and violent dislike to a song he overheard me performing." The others laughed, looking at each other as though they shared the inside story. "Would you care to hear it?"

  "Another time, Alan," Little John replied waving him down. Beside the fun-loving Alan sat an even younger lad, this one in a red silk shirt with no beard at all and a sweep of black hair above intense indigo eyes like the depths of the sea in the midst of a tempest.

  "I'm Will Scarlet," he offered in a friendly voice. "I promise not to pick your pocket if you'll return the favor." He crossed his heart in humorous gesture but the laughter never reached his eyes.

  "Young Will here may look unassuming," Alan added with a jab to his friend's ribs, "but he is a dangerous fellow to cross."

  "As skilled with a sword as he may be, that fat Friar in the back can fence circles around him," the eldest of the men added throwing a nod behind him.

  "Who are you calling fat?" boomed a powerful voice. A middle aged man with his dusty brown hair ringed in a tonsure, wearing umber robes, turned with a mug of wine in one pudgy hand. His round cheeks were rosy beneath deep-set gray eyes. "Friar Tuck, lad, and I'll tell you this for free: keeping this bunch on the road to the Pearly Gates is a full time endeavor!" The clergyman was clean shaven, and did not appear to have missed many meals.

  From beneath the shadow of her hood, Robyn spoke for the first time. "Why is a good friar outcast with thieves and knaves?"

  "Because he is a good friar, boy," answered the same older man. He was thin as a twig with a protruding Adam's apple and scraggly gray whiskers. "I'm Gilbert Whitehand," he said with crotchety cantankerousness, "and Friar Tuck here is the finest swordsman in all of England. Why, he could beat that bloody Sheriff of Nottingham with one hand tied behind his back!"

  "Oh, good sir, your words are too kind," Tuck answered with a laugh and gulped down his wine. After a proper burp, he continued. "Well, what was I to do? The soldiers accompanying Prince John's tax collectors were brutalizing my parishioners. Was I to just stand by and do nothing? I say there is a time for prayer and a time for action!" He raised his double chin and gave an approving nod.

  "Unfortunately, he killed a few of those soldiers, which put him on the Sheriff's most wanted list, man of the cloth or not," Little John concluded.

  "Gilbert Whitehand," Robyn mused admiringly. "I know that name. You are one of King Richard's men at arms."

  "Yes, well, ancient history now," he said dismissively. "There seems to be no place for a knight loyal to Richard so long as he remains captive across the sea."

  Friar Tuck took a step closer to the old man. "My friend Gilbert here came to my defense, spoke out against the Sheriff, and was rewarded for his years of service, and his valor in the Holy Land, by being thrown off his estate; his lands and title confiscated."

  "Sounds familiar," Robyn muttered.

  "What's that lad?" Gilbert asked. "Speak up." Then he tilted his head. "And how does a peasant boy know the members of King Richard's personal guard?"

  Robyn shifted her weight thinking quickly. "I said the Sheriff is the real traitor to the crown. And you may be surprised at what a poor lad such as myself may know."

  Little John looked out at them and threw a thumb at Robyn. "As much as I hate to admit this, young Robin is here because he knocked me off the bridge."

  At Little John's words, the camp froze in place, not even a breath taken. All eyes turned incredulously to the beardless youth in the cloak and hood standing beside the best quarterstaff fighter in the shire.

  Feeling more at ease, Robyn rattled off the names so far. "Good day to you Alan A Dale, Will Scarlet, Friar Tuck, and Gilbert Whitehand. Now for the rest of you before I lose my wits from smelling that rabbit stew!"

  They all laughed, delighted, and continued the introductions. There was Much the Miller's son, who was a short man in his mid-thirties with curly honey hair and beard. David of Doncaster, the youngest, with long black hair covering the scars where the Sheriff had his ear cut off for stealing a loaf of bread, and Arthur Bland, a sturdy, ruddy fellow wanted for poaching deer in the forest. To her great relief, the rotund Tuck graciously handed her a bowl of stew and invited her to join them. Together, they were nine merry men. With Robyn, they were ten.

  That night in the safety of the outlaw camp, Robyn pondered her situation. Nottingham might be sheriff of the shire, but he was not all powerful. He was under Prince John. But John was only a prince. Who really held the power?

  Heart of Sherwood - Chapter 2

  Windsor Castle, July 1193

  A few hours after sunup on the morning before St. Mary Magdalene's Feast Day, an unlikely rider on a gorgeous dapple gray palfrey returned to the stables inside King's Gate at Windsor. A scrappy stable hand jogged up to secure the horse and offered a hand to the equestrian. "Did you have a good ride, Your Highness?"

  "Very refreshing!" sounded a robust, energetic female voice. The seventy-one year-old Eleanor, Duchess of Aquitaine, Countess of Poitou, Duchess of Normandy, Countess of Anjou and the Queen Mother of England was the most phenomenal woman of her time. As her riding boots touched the ground, her escort caught up.

  Statuesque with a commanding air and still strikingly beautiful even in her golden years, Eleanor stood taller than the stable hand and a fair number of the nobles at court. With a gloved hand, she removed her riding bonnet to reveal shimmering silver hair with enough red left in the strands to hint at the fire they once held.

  She handed the young man the reins, her intelligent dark eyes evaluating him even as she said, "I want you to rub down her legs with liniment oil; she felt a bit stiff this morning."

  "Yes, Your Grace," he said with a bow and led the horse into the stables while the men at arms dismounted.

  An ordinary looking, though weary, man in uniform approached the Queen Mother. "Your Highness, why is it that you constantly make it so difficult for us to keep up with you? A guard should ride before you to make certs the path is safe."

  She raised her chin and met his eyes, giving him an amused smile. "I have found it advantageous in my lifetime to always take the lead. But you are always welcome to try." She winked flirtatious at the man more than half her age and began a deliberate march toward the castle kitchens.

  Two scullery maids with their hair tucked up under white caps were on the kitchen's back porch scrubbing pots when they saw her approaching dressed in her riding attire.

  The younger of the maids commented to the other, "Don't you think the Queen is too old to be out riding? She could have a fall and be done for."

  "Shhhhh," shushed the matronly, plumper maid. "Are you daft? Let her hear you suggest such a thing and you'll be on chamber pot duty for a month. No one tells Eleanor of Aquitaine that she is too old for anything!" She immediately lowered her head, stopped scrubbing and curtsied. "Good morrow, Your Highness."

  "Good morrow, Your Highness," parroted
the younger maid with a curtsey.

  "It is a good morning!" Eleanor declared. "I shall be down to break my fast shortly. Is Mistress Baker about? I wish to discuss the menu for tomorrow's feast with her."

  "I saw her in the pantry just a moment ago, Your Grace," the older maid replied.

  "Thank you," Eleanor returned courteously. Then glancing at the younger maid's pot she pointed out, "You missed a spot," before striding through the door.

  After seeking her head cook and thoroughly instructing her on the menu, Eleanor, accompanied by two ladies-in-waiting, retired to her chamber in the royal residences of the castle on the north side of the Upper Ward to change into her day gown for breakfast. Once she was satisfied that her deep red gown with gold trim and flowing sleeves was properly arranged, she dismissed the girls and marched two doors down the passage to her son's room. The high oak door being closed, she knocked vigorously then waited for a count of five before turning the knob and throwing it open.

  A disheveled, sleepy eyed man with strawberry blonde hair and beard sat up in annoyance until he saw the intimidating figure of his mother in the doorway. Two young women, one with long raven hair and the other in straw blonde curls, peeped up from the sheets on either side of him.

  John's expression turned to an embarrassed scowl. "Mother, what cause have you to enter my private rooms?"

  "Private?" she inquired raising an eyebrow. "It doesn't look very private to me. Really, John, it is clear you have no shame, but have you no discretion either?"

  "Whatever you want of me, can it not wait until noon?" he moaned.

  Eleanor lost patience with him. "No," she curtly retorted.

  He motioned for the two young ladies to leave, and each wrapping a sheet around herself, they scurried off leaving John in his silk under garments and a blue woolen blanket. "You love to embarrass me," he complained, with heat in his voice. "Whatever complaint or report you have for me can wait."

  "I think not, son." She entered the high ceilinged chamber and closed the door behind her. "Twenty and seven years a grown man, and still you behave like a child, fooling around with servants while you have produced no legitimate heir with your wife, Isabella. And, if that isn't bad enough, there are rumors at court you are carrying on affairs with married noble women!"

  John raised his chin and flashed her his most charming smile. "Can I help it that women love me?"

  She crossed the room to the side of his huge walnut bed and her arms folded with a look of disgust in the line of her mouth. "I doubt love has anything to do with it. Asides, how does one go about saying 'no' to the Prince? But that is not the reason I have come."

  "What then, if not to instruct me in my husbandly duties?" He relaxed back into his pillows looking bored.

  Eleanor said, "You should pay more attention to Isabella; you need an heir, a legitimate one. Your behavior is not just a humiliation to her; your affairs spit in the face of the Church and lower your esteem with the people."

  "The Church, the people," he mocked. "What do I care about those? I am the prince and heir apparent behind my brother; I can do whatever I please."

  "Just because one can do a thing, it does not follow that he should do that thing. Being king means far more than getting your way; it is about respect, strength of character, strength of will."

  At that he sat up, green eyes flashing. "I have ambitions, Mother. I will be king one day, and I will have the power to lock you up like my father before me should you stand in my way."

  Eleanor took a seat on the edge of the bed. "I feel that I have failed you. Because of my imprisonment, I missed being there for your formative years. Perhaps if I could have influenced you then, we wouldn't be going around about these things now. You must understand that I do want you to be king–when the time is right; when it is your turn. But that ill-advised ploy you and Phillip of France attempted with Henry Hohenstaufen, offering to pay him to keep Richard imprisoned–that is not the way to go about it! It was cowardly, underhanded, and unchivalrous, not to mention treasonous."

  "And was it not treasonous when young Henry and my brothers, with your backing, stood in rebellion against my father?"

  "We stood up to him face to face, militarily and politically, in a fair fight, which your father won. But we never conspired in secret with an enemy nation!"

  John returned to his childish pout and laid back onto his pillows. "You know I am not a warrior like Richard. I cannot stand up to him in a fair fight and live."

  She brushed a bare hand across his forehead and cradled his fuzzy cheek. "Then be patient, dear boy. Help me get Richard back. Show him your support now, and I will give you mine later. Your brother is many years your elder and you are sure to outlive him. You need more time to mature. Take on military training, listen to your tutors, grow in wisdom, make the political connections you will need with your nobles and foreign princes, go to your wife and produce children. I need you and your King needs you. Help me raise the ransom to bring him home and one day the power will be yours—when you are ready for it."

  John's sullenness deepened. He wanted it now; he wanted it all now. He had been working on another plan… one that would take them all by surprise and prove he was strong and capable enough of a leader to take the throne. As he'd just said, he could not hope to challenge her or the King outright. So instead he nodded and kissed her hand. "Undoubtedly you are right, Mother. I will assemble a team and ride out across the land. I will help you raise the money to bring my brother home from his captivity. Then, will I finally have your blessing?"

  She smiled a proud and doting smile at him and kissed his cheek. "Son, you may not always have my approval, but know that you do always have my love."

  After partaking of the morning meal of manchet bread, cheese, and fruit, Eleanor sought out the leader of the castle's troupe of troubadours, a fancifully attired musician from her native Aquitaine, Alberic. His colorful costume of green and yellow paneled tunic belted over red tights added to the flair that was part of the troubadours' appeal.

  "Alberic, has the new hurdy-gurdy I ordered arrived yet?" she asked.

  "Yes, Your Grace," he replied with an obligatory bow. "Just yesterday, along with a musician to play it, Gilbert de Anjou. They say he is the best, and I had to bribe him with a teaching position to lure him away from his previous post. I trust Your Highness can find a post for him. You demanded only the best, so…"

  "Do not fret; that is exactly what I asked for." Eleanor gazed toward a tapestry featuring William I and knights on horseback as she pondered. "The University at Oxford is expanding and I have long wanted it to include music among its courses. Compose a letter informing the institution that I wish this Gilbert de Anjou to be hired on as a professor of music. Since London is only a day's ride from the castle, it should not interfere with his obligations here."

  "I shall see to it right away," he declared with a bow.

  "Not so fast, Alberic." She held up a hand to stop him. "I wish to consult with you on the music selections for the feast tomorrow evening. Naturally, all selections should be in the Courtly Love style, consisting first of music for dining followed by tunes suitable for dancing." Eleanor produced a piece of paper from a small pouch tied to a cord around her waist. "I have taken the liberty to make a list of titles that I especially want to have played."

  He took the list and glanced over it. "Excellent choices, Your Grace. Some of these will feature Gilbert on our new hurdy-gurdy."

  "Precisely. As you see there is a mix of instrumentals and tunes with vocals. I am determined to bring culture to this island if it is the last thing I do!" Eleanor smiled at Alberic who beamed back, very pleased to be the lead musician in the court of the leading patron of the arts in all of England. He bowed once more and scurried off, list in hand, to prepare his troupe for the upcoming event.

  As Eleanor continued down the stone walled corridor with its narrow cross-shaped arrow-slit windows, she happened upon William Marshall, the Earl of Pembroke.

>   "Good day, Your Highness," William said with a courteous smile, a sweep of his arm, and a deep bow. He wore a royal blue surcoat with white ermine trim. At forty-seven years of age, gray had crept into the brown of his beard and temples, but he was still as strong and fit as ever with eyes the deep bay of a destrier. The famed knight who had bested over 500 opponents in tournaments and never lost a bout was the living embodiment of chivalry, a code and conduct that Eleanor promoted. Because he had gained the respect of all the people, Richard had placed William, along with Eleanor, on the board of regents he left in charge of the kingdom while he was away.

  "Good day, Sir William," she returned with a slight nod. "I have been meaning to speak with you on a matter of import. Have you a moment?"

  "Certainly. How may I serve you?"

  "This is about how you may serve your King. Perhaps you will escort me on a walk about the grounds," she suggested as they were passed by a young lord with an attractive blonde on his arm.

  "'Tis a lovely day for a stroll," he agreed and held out his arm for her to take. Together they exited the castle and all of its prying eyes and ears.

  Encompassing over thirteen acres, Windsor Castle was one of more than eighty bastions erected during the reign of William the Conqueror, and one of a group of strategic fortifications constructed around London. One day's ride from the city and each other, these castles held garrisons that could easily be reinforced and protect the capital. Most were originally motte and bailey style wooden structures, but many, including Windsor, boasted stone keeps. In fact it was William I who introduced stone castles to the British Isles.

  Windsor was of particular import due to its commanding posture overlooking the River Thames, its location along a major overland road to London, and its proximity to the Saxon royal hunting grounds. Henry II, Eleanor's late husband, had established his royal palace there and embarked on a fourteen year building project which included renovating the keep and replacing the old wooden palisade with formidable stone walls interspersed with towers and turrets. Henry had Bagshot heath brought in from quarries to the south supplemented with Bedfordshire stone from the north to complete a castle he intended to stand for a millennium. He constructed the massive King's Gate and two sets of royal residences–one for his family in the Upper Ward and another for important guests and courtiers in the Lower Ward. His finished work rivaled any of the great castles of Europe.