vi.

Guy followed the retreating figure as she crossed the inn yard and moved away from the castle to climes unknown. He stepped back into the inn, his tankard empty, and set it down loudly in front of the ale-wife. "Who was that?" he asked.

Sarah glanced up at him, unconcerned. She did not finish cutting her herbs on the wood of her scullery table quickly enough for Guy, who glowered at her until she rose, with a sigh, and took his tankard back with her into the gloomy reaches of the scullery. She muttered as she disappeared, one hand pressed against the small of her back. Guy used the moment unobserved to stand in front of the wispy kitchen fire. To be seen skulking in front of fires was the province of weak women or elderly monks; he had already found Nottingham to be a cold and inhospitable place, but it would be weakness to say so.

When Sarah had returned with his full tankard, ale sloshing lazily over its rim, Guy was back, leaning malevolently over the counter. "See that you pay before I fill that again," Sarah snapped.

"Woman, I asked you a question."

She wiped her hands with a rag. "All right, all right. I heard you. That was Lady Marian Fitzwalter."

"The Sheriff's daughter?"

"Only daughter, and unmarried, too." Sarah sniffed, then went quickly back to chopping her herbs as if embarrassed by her own garrulousness.

Guy pursed his lips before meditatively taking a swig of ale. "She is not young. She cannot be younger than eighteen."

"She has had many opportunities, many offers," Sarah muttered disapprovingly, gathering up her stringy herbs and tossing them into the enormous cooking pot which simmered sullenly before the great fire.

"Then she is a fool. And her father more the fool."

Sarah gave a wry half-smile. "The Sheriff is a good man, fair and just. Everyone in Nottingham has it so. As you're a stranger, I won't tell my Roger that you said disloyal things about our Sheriff." Guy hid his face in his cup; he surprised even himself at how galling it was to be called—still and forever—a rootless stranger. "And his daughter is more law-loving than King Solomon and with a bleeding heart for all less fortunate such as I never seen in a noblewoman." Sarah tugged at a strand of hair that escaped from her snood. "Yet a queer girl."

Something struck Guy deeply inside, though he could not fathom what it was or why. "How so?"

Sarah had darkened to a beet-red. She turned her back on him, ostensibly to tend the fire. "I shan't say anything more, you've had more than enough from me." Guy leaned forward in his chair, grinning. Despite the fact that Sarah was an insolent bawd and eventually he would have to teach her her place, he had become rather fond of her gossiping nature. Besides, her ale was very good. "You're wasting your time with that one, mark you me."

"Oh?" He felt his momentary affection for the ale-wife cool as she seemed to imply a noblewoman was above his caste.

"There are much younger, much more pliant young noblewomen. Very pretty, with lands and fortunes. They would make good matches, and their fathers would thank you."

Guy nodded absently, though he had already resolved that he would make up his own mind about Marian of Knighton, whether she crossed his path again in Nottingham at the Council of Nobles or whether he paid a special visit to the Sheriff's estate at Knighton himself.

vii.

Guy felt himself bristling. Vaisey had been abundantly clear that this was an intelligence-gathering mission, and that Guy was to integrate himself into the community, betraying no sign of his real objectives until the time was right. Yet the Sheriff's policies on peasants and law-giving were so unimaginably soft, he had difficulty keeping his mouth shut.

"Let us ask our newest member. Sir Guy, what are your thoughts on the matter?"

Though Guy had grown used to the insolent stares of his inferiors when brought to heel, the gaze of so many nobles—many of them far wealthier and their titles far more elevated than his, many of them much more experienced and wise in their age—levelly hotly and expectantly on him made him uncomfortable and ashamed of his discomfort. What had Vaisey said? He must effortlessly assume the mantle of control and show himself to be a man of property and resolve. Yet, as that silly ale-wife Sarah had said, he was a stranger. His origins might be hidden from common knowledge in Nottingham, but his title could not be enough to win their respect. He felt certain that even before he opened his mouth they had already condemned him.

He got to his feet and turned from the round table, arms meditatively folded over his chest. He heard murmuring behind him. "Well, of course, my lords, you must do as you think best." He swung around to face them, and his eyes met those of that girl, Marian of Knighton. He had been surprised to see her within the council chamber, and though wrapped in a warm cloak against the cold, her figure-hugging drapery of vivid red was almost a physical shock in a place where the cold and iron-clad law was made and carried out. Women had no business in the council chamber. Yet she seemed to feel it natural to come and goes as she pleased. She was no cup-bearer, and she did not kneel at the men's feet. It seemed true that she had no husband, for the only man whose gaze she sought was her father's.

He had swallowed back his surprise at her presence, and now he managed to ignore her searching, wantonly direct gaze. In other circumstances, he would have found her boldness repugnant. But all he had heard of her suggested that her actions were accepted and even encouraged. Besides, he could not help admitting that she was very beautiful.

"I am only recently come to Nottingham," he continued, when he had found his voice. He shifted his glance from the girl to sweep the room with a confidence he did not quite feel. "But I do not think you should so easily cede to these peasants' demands."

He was gratified to hear some murmurs of assent. Predictably, though, the Sheriff protested. "But Sir Guy, perhaps you do not know—the harvest was bad. The people have reason to ask for redress." Guy watched the girl, whose eyes had intelligently followed the debate, her lips even occasionally moving to form words which were never spoken aloud. He was intrigued—nay, impassioned—to find out what she was like in freer circumstances. Did she speak her mind? It was a novelty that he suspected, with some reluctance, might be merited. He had heard that she had some schooling, knew some castle leech's work, and was even an accomplished rider. Now, though, her brow was clouded over, entreating. Fascinated, he waited and watched.

"We have a duty," took up the Sheriff again, "to help our people through difficult times. Then, when the harvest is better, the serfs and yeomen can once afford to pay taxes at the higher rate."

"But can this government afford lower taxes in these difficult times?" He was quite enjoying how the lords' gaze swung back between him and Edward; this was the kind of maintenance of control that Vaisey must be teaching him to cultivate. "We have the king's foreign wars to subsidize, not to mention the upkeep of the town itself—"

"Forgive me-" it was the Lord Merton, though Guy saw the girl looking eager to speak, "-but you have been in Nottingham but a week."

Guy glowered, first at Merton, then at the entire assembly, and felt a twinge of pleasure at their shocked look in reply. But he reined himself in, took his seat, and replied with exaggerated munificence. "Of course. I do not yet know your ways. You are wise, and I defer to your judgement."

There was a satisfied murmur, and Sir Edward smiled with such genuine feeling Guy suddenly felt guilty at the political game he was about to unleash. For the first time, the girl seemed to feel his glance on her and looked down, embarrassed. "We are very glad to hear it," said the Sheriff. "Now, that being settled, I would like, as the Sheriff of Nottingham, to be the first to formally welcome Sir Guy to our shire." There was a smattering of applause and noncommital murmurs. Guy inclined his head slightly, unsure where Edward was taking this. "We hope he will soon find his useful employment, as we all must, in God's plan." There was more murmuring at this. "To that end, I will be holding a feast at Knighton in three days' time to welcome him. I trust I will see you all there."

This brought genuine warmth, and the nobles broke into spontaneous applause. Guy, for his part, could not believe that Edward, whom he had contradicted—respectfully, it was true—at every turn was throwing a party for his benefit. Yet it was also Edward who had now left his seat and was offering his hand in friendship. Guy felt obliged to take it, though momentarily bewildered. Edward had to be deposed, of course; he was much too weak, and Guy knew Vaisey craved the office of Sheriff for his own, and had for many years. Yet Guy, privately saying an "Our Lady," hoped it could be done without the death of the old man.