But Marian was neither peasant nor Norman. She was one of them, English-born and bred, the daughter of an honorable knight killed in the Crusade. And if she felt moved to protest, so could they feel moved.
He had intended, in the face of growing hostility, to have the boy taken to the castle, where discipline could be applied. But now the giant had come forward, too large to overlook, too flamboyant to ignore. The big shepherd had, deLacey realized, assumed control of the situation. If the sheriff were to salvage any portion of self-respect, any portion of control, he would have to reassume it by means that on the surface appeased the waiting crowd.
They are stupid as sheep, and as easily misled. The trick was, he knew, to give them what they wanted. Then alter the rules to win the game for himself.
The crowd was expectant. To his left, the boy—Much?—stood slackly with a soldier’s hands upon him, brown eyes dull, dirty brown hair hanging lankly. To deLacey’s right waited Marian, ablaze in borrowed crimson. The circlet binding her brow glinted in a bright spring sun.
A peregrine, he reflected, poised to stoop and strike me down. Fleetingly, he smiled, giving her her due. And then he turned to the giant. “One man,” he declared. “Defeated, the boy goes free.” The giant merely waited, wide hands sprawled on hips. “But if my man wins, the boy—and your hand—is mine.”
The crowd stared avidly, watching both men. “One man?” the giant—John Naylor—rasped. “You’ll risk it on one man?”
“More would be excessive.” DeLacey smiled coolly. “I’d not have the good citizenry of Nottingham declare me dishonest or opportunistic ... I trust you won’t mind a single opponent?”
The shepherd Naylor, called Little John, grinned, leaned down, and spat. “ ’Tis for you to say. One man, two, or three. Alone, or all at once.”
DeLacey arched a single eloquent brow. A swift glance at the waiting crowd gave him his answer: too many had heard the discussion to question the bloody result when the giant’s hand was cut off. Besides, the sheriff knew they believed his man defeated already, so certain were they of the giant. A worthwhile opponent, yes, and not to be taken lightly—but then neither was William deLacey so easily dismissed.
And yet they had dismissed him, as they dismissed his proxy man.
He glanced at the giant, assessing what others missed in their fascination with Naylor’s size. His bulk was more than impressive, but William deLacey had learned many years before to judge men by other criteria than the size of their bodies. There was the weight of a man’s heart, and the conviction of his soul.
A pity, the sheriff reflected. Left whole, he would be worth giving to Prince John. But deLacey would hold to his word. He was not a two-faced man. “Done,” he said quietly, then turned to a waiting soldier. “Fetch out William Scathlocke.”
In the shadows between two steep-pitched buildings, Robert of Locksley counted out the coin left in his purse. Not so very much. Even if each man in Nottingham were to donate a single penny, or so much as a silver mark, the ransom could not be met.
He knew what it was. He had heard his father speak of it. A king’s ransom, the earl called it: one hundred and fifty thousand marks.
But England was impoverished. The man who needed her most had drained her of her money, spending every penny to finance a Crusade.
He stared blindly at the coins glinting against his palm. “Richard,” he murmured, “do you rot in Henry’s dungeon? Or does he treat you like a king?”
Beyond him, in the square, a woman selling pomanders shouted praises of her wares. To ward off sickness, she said. To chase away foul odors.
“A contingency,” he said dryly, “that you did not foresee.”
No. Richard would never foresee ignominious capture and chafing imprisonment, just as he had not foreseen the ramifications of his legendary temper and bombast, when he had argued with Leopold in the Holy Land. So many men lost, and not to the enemy. Philip of France, Leopold of Austria, and others. Disenchanted with the task. Overweary of Lionheart.
Locksley conjured Leopold’s saturnine face before him, recalling Richard’s fury upon hearing the man would leave. Had you not insulted him, likely he would have stayed. Certainly he would not have captured you, then sold you to German Henry.
But Richard had insulted Leopold. He had insulted many men. He, who was without doubt Christendom’s greatest warrior and most transcendent king, had not the slightest understanding of how to placate other men who shared the blood of royals. To the common man in the dust, Coeur de Lion was a god. To men of equal rank, of equal pedigree, unimpressed by grandiose title, he was an egomaniacal beast intent on winning Jerusalem merely to magnify his name, instead of the name of God.
“A misjudgment,” Locksley murmured. “And you pay dearly for it.”
He shut his hand around the coin, feeling the metallic bite of poorly struck edges. His father was a wealthy man who supported his king, but also supported his personal will and conceit. The castle had cost him dear. He had, the earl said, donated to Richard’s cause, but only so much as to leave Huntington unencumbered by choking debt.
“There is Locksley ...” He chewed the inside of his cheek, scowling in deep thought. Locksley was his personal domain, his manor and village, bestowed by his father just before he left England to join his king. The village of Locksley, as did every village, paid taxes to its lord.
I am Locksley’s lord.
For two years, the earl had collected in his stead. Perhaps it was time he saw to the coffers into which the taxes were put. Surely there would be something he could donate to Richard’s ransom.
Better yet, he could see to doing it now, here in Nottingham. All he need do was visit one of the Jews, who could advance him monies against Locksley revenues.
Done. He poured what little remained of his archery prize into his purse, tucked now inside his tunic instead of hanging from his belt, and set off to find the street of moneylenders in Nottingham’s Jewish Quarter.
William Scathlocke was neither particularly tall nor particularly heavy. Just a man, Marian saw in surprise, not unlike any other, and with nothing that set him apart save they had bound and gagged him, weighting wrists and ankles with iron, strapping leather across mouth and chin.
She did not know what he had done, to put himself in the sheriffs hands. “Why?” she gasped, seeing the expression in dark, fierce eyes: a brutal, naked fury that they dared to treat him as beast before others who knew the man.
“He killed four men,” the sheriff told her as soldiers dragged Scathlocke across the Market Square even as spectators gave way. Chains chimed on packed dirt. “He murdered four of Prince John’s men, no less; it was why John came here, to see the murderer hanged.” He affected a shrug. “Two of them he stabbed. One he beat to death. The fourth man he bled to death by biting the flesh from his throat.”
Marian recoiled, staring at the prisoner. No doubt deLacey intended to frighten her, or merely cause her to hold the tongue that had, with aid from the giant, brought them to this pass. And in that he succeeded. The sheriffs matter-of-fact yet vivid description sickened her.
“I don’t know him,” she murmured, grateful for that much.
“I believe he’s from a small village near Croxden Abbey.” Another indolent shrug. “Gisbourne attends to such things as names and places. Will Scathlocke is all I know, though the peasants are calling him—” he paused, frowning, “Scarlet?” He stared at the chained man as they brought him forward. “Marian, I insist—you must return to the castle. I will have one of the soldiers escort you.”
Marian glanced at Much, held by a liveried Norman. The boy’s expression was one of dull hopelessness. Clearly he did not understand the agreement between sheriff and giant. All he knew was his hand was to be cut off. If he even knows that much. “No,” she said firmly. “No, I will stay. Or else send Much back with me.”
DeLacey glanced down at her. “I think it best he watch. His fate will be decided—do you not think he should see?”
S
he gazed up at him, marking the tautness of his mouth, the network of fine lines etched into the flesh near his eyes. Silver flecked his wiry brown hair. He was twenty years and more older than she. His knowledge of people was far greater than her own, but she could not agree with him.
“My lord.” One of the soldiers spoke. “The murderer, my lord.”
He was close, so close, Will Scarlet. Marian could smell him. The stink of the dungeon wrapped him in its shroud. Just a man. Not as tall as the sheriff, who gave two or three inches to Robert of Locksley, the tallest man she knew save her father—and the giant. This man was merely a man. Peasant. Villein. Not of the ruling class. No different at all from any of the people gathering to watch. Near-black in eyes and hair, swarthy of skin—though some of that might be dirt—clad in the tattered remnants of what had been tunic and baggy hosen. His feet below the shackles were wrapped in leather and rags.
Marian stared at him as deLacey raised his voice. This man had killed four others. This man had murdered soldiers. She thought there should be something in his face and eyes that marked him for what he was, something that indicated he was beyond humanity, a man capable of killing four others, and soldiers to boot.
But she could see little enough. The leather gag across mouth and chin hid the bottom portion of his face, and distorted the rest. All she could see was a crooked nose, knobbed over the bridge; stubble-etched cheekbones, bruised and scabbed; a pair of near-black eyes, empty of all emotion save a vicious hatred and an incandescent fury.
“Behold!” the sheriff shouted. “William Scathlocke, murderer, known to you as Scarlet. He has been sentenced to hang for the deaths of four men, their lives torn from them in a brutality known only to beasts.”
William Scathlocke could say nothing for the gag, make neither protest nor comment, but his eyes were free of restraint. Marian, in that moment, saw the man who had killed four others. Reflected in grief and rage, Scathlocke’s guilt was plain.
The sheriff, unheeding, went on. “But let it be also known that this day he is afforded an opportunity to resurrect his future . . . all he need do, to live, is defeat the giant.”
Scathlocke made noise against the leather bound over mouth and chin. The sound of that noise was transmuted by gag into the bleat of an animal.
“John Naylor, of Hathersage, called ‘Little’ John—” the sheriff smiled faintly and allowed them the snickers, “has agreed to stand proxy for the boy, Much, a cutpurse, who dared lay hands on my own purse. Let it be known that the giant assumes the boy’s guilt, discharged only by victory.”
Little John, the giant, bobbed his head in agreement. Spectators murmured.
“Let it be known also that should the giant be defeated, his right hand will be cut off. But should the giant win, the boy shall go free.”
It was a popular ruling, by the murmuring of the crowd. A fair chance, it said, bobbing heads in agreement. The boy would be spared. No one, Marian knew, believed the giant could be defeated. And what did it matter? The opponent was a murderer. His loss would be as nothing.
Marian chanced a glance at Will Scarlet. Dark eyes glared balefully, full of frustration and futility, and a wild, kindling anger. He stared directly at her. “What of him?” she blurted. “What is promised this man?”
DeLacey turned. “You heard me,” he rasped. “His life.”
“But—if he has been sentenced ...” Marian looked from the murderer to the sheriff. He wouldn’t. He would not promise this man release, then deny it. Would he? “You said he had been sentenced.”
DeLacey smiled faintly. “You pleaded for the minstrel. You pleaded for the boy. Leniency, you begged; well, is this not leniency? Have I not heard your arguments, and acceded to your wishes?” He flicked a glance at Scarlet. “But let this man be victorious, and I will spare his life.”
Marian was neither convinced nor placated. I know him better, now. There is something in this he wants . . . something in this he gains. But she could not discern what it was, unless it was meant to salvage a thing he believed lost. “A bone to dogs,” she murmured, frowning. A bone, perhaps, for me?
His name was Abraham, and he was a Jew. Robert of Locksley, looking down on the small, wizened man, could see nothing about him that marked him different. And yet people did. Englishmen did, naming him and other Jews perfidious usurers who robbed good Christians of their coin in an attempt to destroy them.
Locksley, who had just returned from two years spent in the lands from which Abraham and his family had come, no longer understood the distinction between good Christian men who murdered in the name of their God, and devoutly peaceful Jews who worshipped the same God. Their ways were different, yes, but the results markedly less contentious, lacking in violence. The Crusaders leveled cities, killed Saracens, raped women, and murdered children. As if, somehow, God desired such atrocities to be certain of their souls.
In England, Jews had been killed. Boarded up in a tower and burned to death, in York. And in London, at Richard’s coronation, hundreds of others had died. Simply because they were Jews. A part of the earl’s son wanted to say he was sorry. But how did one man apologize for the hostility of a nation?
The old Jew nodded welcome and gestured for Locksley to seat himself on a stool by a table. He himself was already seated at the same table, a deference due, he said, to age and infirmity. England’s dampness sat ill upon his joints, though spring and summer were easier seasons.
Locksley sat down. He was not a man for inanities in prelude to conversation. Richard valued his bluntness, but Richard, though a king, was himself no courtier. “I need money.”
Abraham nodded. The sagging flesh by the dark eyes creased. It was not an unexpected request. “And how much do you need?”
He had no idea, but Abraham might. “I am Locksley,” he said diffidently. “Robert of Locksley. My father is the Earl of Huntington.”
Abraham’s face lighted. “Ah, of course! You are the hero-son!”
It made him intensely uncomfortable. “If you require proof, there is this.” He extended his right hand on the table, displaying the signet ring upon his forefinger. “There are other proofs at Huntington, if you require them.”
“No, no. It is enough, my young lord.” Abraham smiled warmly. “I am acquainted with your father.”
No more than that, but it told Locksley something, even in subtlety: a moneylender would not divulge a customer’s name. Yet clearly the earl had borrowed. “The castle.”
“And a fine, large castle.” Dark eyes glinted. “Do you wish one for yourself?”
“No!” It was expelled instantly, framed in vehemence. “No, not for me ... I need money for a man. Money for—a king.”
The old man’s expectant expression faded. Gnarled hands smoothed the embroidered border at his robe’s neckline. “You want money for King Richard’s ransom?”
“Yes.” Locksley touched his ring, turning it on his finger. “There is this. A few more things left to me by my mother. And—Locksley.” He looked at Abraham. “Can you give me money against the revenues?”
Abraham’s expression was troubled. “I cannot, my lord. Forgive me. But you see—they mean to raise the taxes. We have already given what we can to the king’s cause . . . across England, we have raised thousands of marks—but what is left we must hold back. The taxes, you see.” Hands gestured futility. “We dare not be late, we Jews—they will use any excuse.”
But Locksley’s attention was fixed on something other than tardy payments. “The taxes are being raised?”
“There are rumors . . .” The tone was delicate. “With the king held prisoner, his brother governs the realm. And Prince John is ... well ...” Abraham sighed. “He is not his brother.” “Nor is he king,” Locksley declared. “He is a wealthy man since marrying the Gloucester heiress . . . and Nottinghamshire is his. The rest is Richard’s money. And as he is in Germany, he can’t authorize increases.”
“Perhaps not.” Abraham’s expression was oddly sanguine,
as if serenity could mask his true opinion. “Nonetheless, my sources are impeccable. Within a matter of days, the sheriff will send out tax collectors.”
Still Locksley protested. “It isn’t the proper season.”
“My lord . . .” Abraham diffidently touched Locksley’s hand for an instant, then withdrew it. “You have been long out of England, my lord. There have been—changes.”
“John,” he said flatly.
“In lieu of sons by the king, the Count of Mortain is heir,” the old man said. “If the king is not returned, his brother will rule in his stead.”
Locksley considered it, looking for alternatives. He did not want to believe so much corruption had entered England’s breast. “These additional taxes may well be intended for the king’s ransom.”
“Indeed, my lord, and a worthwhile reason, if it be true—but there is no money left to give. In the last two years, taxes have been raised three times. Twice, to finance the Holy War. We gave, my lord. Then word of the ransom came. We gave, my lord. And now, again, the king’s safety is the excuse . . .” Abraham sighed wearily. “There are those who say the money will be diverted elsewhere. That the king will not benefit while his brother is in debt.”
“John is in debt?”
Abraham smoothed his robe. “Even the highest are known to live beyond their means.”
The face before him blurred. Locksley, deep in thought, did not see the old man’s expression. He stared transfixed at Abraham while he worked through the repercussions. “He would not—” He broke it off, frowning. “I know him, Abraham. The king. For a war, for a Crusade, he would persuade an old woman to give up the last tooth in her head—but for himself, he would not. He would not impoverish his realm.”
“The people know, my lord. That is why they have given freely.”
“But this is John’s doing.”
“They know that, also. But knowing the truth of the matter does not lessen the penalty should one refuse to pay.”
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