So. The scholar picks up his pen once again, to voice his complaints. I would sigh at the futility of it, but I suppose that so long as my complaints are relegated to these few pages, there can be little harm in it. After all, with everything that is happening in this kingdom, how damning can a few notes be?
It seems so stupid! Honestly, it shouldn't trouble me as much as it does; there are so many other problems that should be occupying my thoughts. My brother's stupid crusade, for one; not to mention his idiocy in getting caught…and then expecting me to bail him out. The country is beggared enough as it is; he emptied all the excess from the royal coffers to equip his army in the first place. Where does he expect me to get his ransom? Does he expect me to mortgage his throne – my throne – Father's throne – to the French to save his life? He may be king, but after that, he would be king in nothing but name, if even that.
And so, where do I turn? The only other option is taxation. I hate to do it; we've had a run of bad harvests and there's barely enough for the people themselves. The church takes their tithes as well, and even the king can't demand money from God!
But…Richard is my brother. How can I not save him? Am I Cain, to deny my responsibility to my own sibling? My personal fortune has already been pledged; everything Father and Mother left to me save my title pawned or sold – in secret, granted, so that none may point and laugh at the pauper king. And that damnéd Duke still demands more! Even Richard's estate is being slowly depleted, though his steward loathes my fingers in his business.
And yet, the thing that bothers me the most is the blasted bandit that hangs his hat in Sherwood Forest! He mocks me at every turn; robs my nobles, thumbs his nose at the very tax that I put in place to earn the money to redeem my brother, makes fun of my appointed officials, incites antimonarchical feelings in the people, flaunts royal decrees by the scroll-full. And the people love him for it.
This Hood, this, this Robin. How does he do it? I have not met the man, but from the stories, he just oozes charisma. He is a leader born, a man that other men rally around, one they believe in. Thomas is foolish to keep trying to trap him the way he does; and yet, what else can he do? Hood strikes like an adder and then disappears. Every time he sets foot out of those trees, he makes Thomas and, by extension, me, look like complete and utter fools, incompetent fools.
And, this is the rich part, he does it all in my brother's name. "Richard the Lionhearted," they're calling him, that daft man with the child's dream of crusading. Richard never did have the fortitude for reigning. Mama always said that she wished I were born first; I have the head for ruling, if not the physique or physical prowess. Those were Richard's areas, and I was damned happy to let him have it, too. But the muscle-head never learned patience. The crown is heavier than he thought it would be, and after Father's death, he staggered under it. Small wonder he went crusading; it's the only thing he's good at. Meanwhile I'm left at home to garner the people's – his people's – hostility, while I try and clean up his mess.
It's always like this, isn't it? Give a man charisma and people will love him no matter how little he loves them in return. They will turn him into a hero, and villanize any man who opposes or comes after him. Richard and Robin; they are brothers in that respect. And unfortunately, I am the man who comes after, to both of them.
So what am I to do? I am not a clever man, not in that respect. I see no solution to this but to try to bring back my brother so that this whole thing will be his problem, not mine. Ha, and the issue with Hood will be solved once Richard is back – if Hood speaks truth, and he only wants the return of "Good King Richard." Wouldn't that be ironic; if the very taxes that I've issued to earn ransom money for my brother and that Hood has stolen were to be sent by that same outlaw to try and earn my brother's freedom? Oh, that would be rich. Then his name will go down in history as the great savior of England while mine will be at best forgotten, the little accountant Prince who held a place for big brother. People are suckers for a hero story; they forget the practicalities of running a kingdom.
No, I'm not the greatest king who ever lived – not even a king, I've never been crowned, I'm just a regent. But I'm doing my best. I'm doing my best. By God in heaven, I'm doing my best! What more do they want, what more can I do, what else do they expect? I am not Richard! I am not Hood! Will my name be forever held as an example of pure villainy just because I did not fit the heroes ideal? By God, I hope not.
But I don't hold out much hope. The peasants already sing of the evil Prince John. At least they give me that much credit. At least I haven't been reduced to incompetent. Yet, anyway. I can only hope that my brief reign will be largely forgotten in the annals of history. After all, how long will the people remember one outlaw in Lincoln green?