xi.

Guy rose from his chair and leaned against the cold stone of the castle wall. In his hand was the scrap of paper on which had been written his last message—in code—from Vaisey. The chill of the stone pierced through the leather of his doublet and sent an icy finger up to the base of his skull. Only a month before, upon his arrival in Nottingham in Sarah the ale-wife's inn, he had complained silently to himself about the cold and discomfort he had felt in this new land. Now that very cold was a balm to his feverish thoughts.

He gave the low-backed chair he had been sitting in a kick of frustration. It wobbled and fell against the table, creaking in protest but not breaking. Since he had made the castle his abode in the recent weeks, he had found excuses to find fault with it. Its furnishings were more for the visual delight of ladies and lackeys rather than practical objects that were to be used on a daily basis. Sir Edward had obviously lavished his hand—or his daughter's—in the room appointments, whether they were the public chambers like the great hall, the receiving room, and the council chamber, or the many private solars and boudoirs, once of his which was his own. The castle was draughty and far from secure. He had been shoring up his observations in order to mentally prepare for defensive positions in a siege. He knew this was not likely to come to pass, but against the occasional boredom in his long, mostly solitary days, it was a salve.

He crumpled Vaisey's note and tossed it into the fire, which was blazing cheerfully. Every room in the castle had need of a good fire, for even though the year was now on its way to summer, the castle's walls were thick and let in little sunlight. He thought the thick walls were an advantage to be sure, but he did prefer natural light for everyday tasks.

He noted the footsteps in the passage long before there was a tap against the wooden door and a servant's voice cried out, "It's the physician Pitts to see you, my lord."

Guy righted the chair and left it enticingly open before the fire. "Come in," he called tonelessly.

Pitts entered and gave a shuffling bow. Guy acknowledged him with a tilt of his chin. "Pitts." The name was a statement that said everything about the man, whose unfortunate name fitted his personality well. Of middling height and always wrapped up in a practical if voluminous cloak, he had been the most humble of castle leeches when Guy had met him some weeks previously. He had neither family nor many possessions other than his medical accoutrements, though he had plenty of ambition and, Guy wagered, a secret stash of gold hidden under some unassuming floorboards.

Pitts said nothing and took the chair in front of the fire without being invited. Guy rolled his eyes at the man's presumptuousness but did not comment, following the physician's gaze to where Vaisey's latest communique blazed into ash. Guy swiftly stepped between Pitts and the fire. "Well, how is Fitzwalter's condition?"

Pitts stared at him and burst into a malicious giggle. "The Sheriff's condition? I should say it is poor."

Guy frowned. "You are meant to be improving it." His voice rose in volume and hardness. "That is your job."

Pitts' pale face mocked, which Guy found deeply galling. The fire was hot on his back, and to underline his point, he seized the chair and pulled it and Pitts back toward the table. "Wait! Wait! What are you doing? I only did this in our interests! Of course!"

Guy let go of the chair and stood. "Our interests?"

"Your ambitions, Sir Guy. Did you think it a coincidence that when the Sheriff began spending more time at the castle, without his own servants to prepare his food, that he began to sicken? Surely you are more perceptive than that!"

Guy's eyes flashed. The insult to his intelligence rankled as if Pitts had shoved a red-hot coal from the fire into his hand, but the implication goaded him. "Poison!" he whispered in a low and dangerous tone.

Pitts looked down, at least seeming to lose some of his bravado. "Naturally. You have your weapons—" he nodded toward the sword in its scabbard at Guy's side, "-and I have mine."

"I did not order you to do this," Guy persisted. "I did not take you into my confidence."

"Well, if you're going to be all lily-livered about it . . ." Pitts sulked.

Guy leaned over the chair menacingly. The same sword that had moments earlier arrested Pitts' attention was withdrawn and held inches away from the now terrified physician's face. "Before you lose your head," Guy said hoarsely, "hear this. I do not need poison to achieve dominance in Nottingham. I do not require help from the skulking and two-faced."

Pitts cleared his throat delicately. "Sir Guy, I mean no disrespect. But look at this rationally. Perhaps I was misguided, but my heart was in the right place." Guy sneered: he suspected the man had no heart. Pitts' voice was a whisper crackling with hunger. "There are many in Nottingham who think as you do—we are tired of blind obedience to an absent king. We are tired of nobles who lie down and do whatever is asked of them. We are desirous for a strong hand to lead us into law and order. You know of the famine of last winter, the bad harvest in the autumn. Change is coming from the north, that is what everyone has been saying. Allow me to be your ally. A secret one if you must."

Guy stared. He could not take anything this man said at face-value, but he was convinced that Pitts was a plotter in need of a leader and could not take forward his schemes on his own. Without letting Pitts know about the existence and imminent arrival of Vaisey, he could use him. Guy sheathed the sword. "Very well," he said without emotion.

"I will see that Sir Edward is restored to health, if that is what you want." Pitts' voice wavered, uncertain. It was clear he considered this a mistake.

"You will do nothing," Guy shouted. "You will not see Fitzwalter again."

Pitts gingerly exited the chair. "As you wish, my lord." Guy watched him; Pitts was clearly about to ask for something. With a sinking feeling, Guy realized that in forbidding Pitts from poisoning the Sheriff to death, Pitts now had leverage against him. He was going to request something to keep quiet. "I came to request, if I may, a house."

"Which house?" frowned Guy.

"It has recently become vacant, the old midwife had it and now she is dead." Pitts stared once again at the flames. "It is near the castle, and I thought I might set up my practice there." He licked his lips. "If you would speak to the Sheriff about it—"

Guy flung out his arm. "You shall have it."

"Thank you very much, my lord," Pitts said silkily.

"See that you stick to healing," Guy growled. "I have known poisoners, once discovered, to be torn to pieces by snarling mobs." He gave Pitts a bright smile.

"Very good, Sir Guy," replied Pitts sourly. He bobbed a bow and then exited the room.

Once he was gone, Guy heaved an immense sigh. Things were . . . well, not quite spiraling out of control, but they were not far off. For one intense moment, he wished fervently to be back at Knighton Hall the night of his welcome feast, wreathed in the glow of happy, affectionate people—people who did not know him and therefore did not know that dark days were coming . . .

Vaisey, Guy knew, would have encouraged Pitts in his deliberate sickening of Sir Edward. But Vaisey would have been wrong, for Guy sincerely believed that poison was the weak man's way out. Furthermore, it initiated a slippery slope that usually ended in the deaths of the poisoners themselves, as he had dramatized to Pitts. Vaisey, however, had been quite clear in that latest communique. Edward's position was to be undermined by any means possible. Guy had written in his last letter of all the lords and people in positions of authority who might be a danger to them. Now Guy had to enact his plan to neutralize them. This, to Guy, did not necessarily mean violence. For some lords, some threatening and bullying would make them tow the line. Others could be bought by visions of titles and lands to be bestowed upon them, or other manifestations of wealth and privilege to lead them to follow a code and new masters. There were other vices and venalities that Guy could play upon. For some men, it was lust and ruing the consequences thereof. Sir Edward and principled men like him, though, would be more difficult to restrain. The Sheriff's sickness had played into Guy's hands when he thought it was a sickness, for he could argue that the Sheriff had spent too long in office and was now a feeble and doddering old man.

Guy had mentioned the Sheriff's daughter in his letter to Vaisey. He had experienced her wilfulness and intelligence first-hand, and in the absence of other powerful noblewomen in the land, he had named her as possible opposition. "Take care of her," Vaisey had written. As usual, the Sheriff's understatement spoke volumes. Guy knew that he was meant to disgrace her. In women, he usually found, disgrace was a strong weapon to yield. Women were often remarkably adept at getting over physical injury or rallying around loved ones who were harmed. But disgrace . . . and the kind he knew the Sheriff had meant . . .

Guy could not admit to himself that his hands were shaking when he poured wine from the vessel sitting atop the table into his empty cup. He took a long, slow draught and poured another. The vessel was drained and still he stood leaning over the table, breath coming in short and harsh gasps.