The earl nodded.
“Let me guess, you named him after yourself.”
Ferrers laughed at this, because it was true. “I had my chances in life,” his smile soured, “and failed. My son has to live in that shadow. My mistakes have become his burden. I’m not here for me, I’m here for him. So that someday Ferrers will be a name to respect again.”
Robin smiled and said no more. He had heard the name Ferrers used as an insult before, but assumed it was just a slight variation of frère, the French word for brother, and that it was meant to poke fun at the French. It was slang for a useless man, a fool. Sometimes even a traitor.
Names carried powerful weight to them. And the most insulting thing he could imagine would have been to ask Lady Marion Fitzwalter to bear the name of Locksley.
SEVEN
GUY OF GISBOURNE
NOTTINGHAM CASTLE
“SHE COULD BE PLAYING you,” Simon FitzSimon warned, giving a demonstrative swing of a felling axe above a pile of uncut firewood. “She pro’ly rolled with some Guardsman and turned sour when he left her. Trying to get you to punish the man.”
“You grant her a good deal of cunning,” Guy said absently. Arable’s news of the five Gerolds conspiring in the wine cellar had consumed his thoughts for the last day. “She isn’t the type. She’s the type that believes in good and evil and that praying for her family is going to protect them.”
“Oh, and you’re above all that, then?” Simon rolled his head, kicking at the dirt of the training yard. It was empty but for the two of them and a sharp morning sunlight, but soon it would be flooded with the newest class of recruits for morning routines. “These five Gerolds you won’t stop going on about, you seem to think they’re evil enough.”
Guy stared at the double doors of the barracks, ready to vomit out its collection of wet boys. “Not evil, no. There’s no such thing, good and evil. There’s just good and … disappointing. Everyone starts off good, you know, until they choose to disappoint.”
“Is that how you punish your enemies?” the Scotsman laughed. “Sit ’em down and tell ’em how very disappointed you are?”
“I said nothing about enemies. You’re talking morality, and I’m talking politics.” He reached out for the axe from Simon, and tested out its weight. “If assuming your enemies are bad men makes you feel better about fighting them, that’s your prerogative, but it certainly doesn’t make it true.”
“I don’t have any enemies.”
“Of course not. You must have opinions first to have enemies.”
Simon balked. “I have opinions!”
“You have opinions on soup. Nobody goes to war for that.” Guy swung the axe down into a log, but it remained in one piece. Guy frowned at it, but still it did not split. “I bring you along to recruit from the gaols because pulling an ill opinion from you is a difficult thing. If you don’t like a recruit, they must be a particular new brand of filth. Myself, I tend to hate everyone. Primarily based on the fact that most people I meet are human, and humans are a generally foul lot. So everyone we interrogate rubs me the wrong way, but if one rubs you the wrong way, that’s something else. So do me a favor and judge harshly, so that our servant girls won’t have to be afraid of any monsters in their beds.”
Simon shook his big beefy head. “I lost track. Are humans all born good, or are they all filth? You seem to want it both ways.”
Guy tried to pry the axehead free. “Just because I hate most people doesn’t mean they’re evil. I’m just particular.” He gave up and moved away, not in the mood for being questioned. He was in the mood for yelling harsh things at people who were forced to listen to him, which was delightfully about to happen.
The armsmaster grunted as the barracks doors groaned. Guy gave the man control of his yard, and moved to its perimeter. There waited Guy’s ever-subservient shadow of an attendant, William de Ferrers. Guy slung his black cloak from his shoulders and handed it to the young Ferrers, who carefully folded it over his arm and kept his eyes on the ground. The heavy ivory cape he wore himself was the only thing that distinguished him from any generic stableboy. Ferrers was, in Guy’s estimation, a tangible demonstration of political failure. His father was the Earl of Derby, but none of that prestige had made it into the son. The elder William de Ferrers had lost nearly all prominence fifteen years ago when he sided with Henry the Younger in the Kings’ War. The earl brought his army to Guy’s city to claim it for the usurper, and failed. Quickly thereafter ended the rebellion, the earl’s claim to everything except his title, and any possibility of his son making any mark on the world. Guy himself often forgot the young man was even there, so flaccid was his presence. He had taken the assistant as a favor, though privately he saw the young Ferrers as something of a trophy. In the Kings’ War, Guy had helped defend his city from the elder Ferrers, and his prize now was to keep that earl’s useless son as a nameless servant.
The word ferrers itself had become slang in Nottingham for a traitor. This young Ferrers was a cautionary tale, a warning of how easily one’s life might become a joke simply by picking the wrong side.
The Simons’ Yard was now filled with ferrers and gerolds.
Within an hour, the yard was thick with sweat and stink. Put a straight birch branch in a man’s hand, tell him it’s a sword, and he turns into an epic hero every time. They picture themselves in full plate mail etched with elaborate engravings, miraculously not slowed by the weight. The fairest of women swoon at their fantastic display.
In the real world, the fairest women Guy had ever met weren’t very fair at all, and wouldn’t be caught dead around the stank of The Simons’ Yard.
Simon could correct their form, but it was Guy’s duty—and pleasure—to bring this army of would-be knights back down to reality. He perused the crowd—there were forty or fifty hopeful recruits here, and half would probably be rejected at the end of the month. He couldn’t know for certain if Arable’s five conspirators were in this group, or if they were from a previous class that had already graduated to common patrol.
“What’s your name?” Guy always started his speech the same way, enjoying his own impression of the armsmaster who first trained him. The world was likely full of impostors just copying their forebears, and hoping nobody noticed. The question wasn’t directed to anyone in particular, but a redheaded young man nervously answered.
“Dillon Fellows,” he said, only slightly faltering.
Guy knew the name. Not a gerold. “Are you ready to fight for the Nottingham Guard?”
“Yes, Captain.”
“What’s the Sheriff’s name?”
Dillon Fellows paused. “Captain?”
“No that’s me, you useless blodgett. What’s the Sheriff’s name?”
With all the certainty of an idiot and not even a touch of humility, the boy actually said, “The Sheriff of Nottingham.”
Guy let his jaw drop. “You’re ready to fight for him but you don’t know his name?”
“I’ll do whatever is asked of me, in his name.”
“His name is Ralph Murdac.”
“Ralph Murdac. Sorry, I did know that.”
“No you didn’t, because Ralph Murdac is dead. He died two years ago.” Some chuckles rippled through the men, who were mostly standing in what they incorrectly assumed was a stance of respect. Others leaned on their sticks, while a few had already plopped to the ground in fatigue. Guy tried to pinpoint the ones who didn’t laugh—the ones who weren’t enjoying themselves. He catalogued every suspicious reaction. “I don’t right blame Murdac for dying, I warrant that death was a preferable alternative to being guarded by the likes of you.”
“I’m sorry, Captain. I’m ready to fight.”
“You’re ready to—” Guy laughed out loud, and let it roll into a deep, hearty roar. “Dillon Fellows, I don’t even know where to start with the number of things wrong in that statement. You are many things, but ready to fight is not one of them. And who exactly is it that you think yo
u’re being trained to fight?”
“The enemies of Nottingham?”
“And who the fuck are they?” Guy breathed down onto Dillon’s face. “You want to fight someone, we’ll ship you off to the Crusade, no problem at all. I’m sure King Richard could use a few more men to die off in the front lines, since all the other Dillon Fellows we’ve sent him have probably been used up by now.”
Dillon shrunk. Guy kept at it, walking amongst the men. “There’s nobody to fight in Nottingham, lads. You’re not in the king’s army, and you’ll never be knights. If you are here for glory, I will give you a glorious death right now and we’ll both be happy. That’s not what you’ll be doing in the Nottingham Guard. Here, you’ll man the towers, escort the sheriff, yell at gang children, and you will do a very lot of standing around with very little moving. You’ll notice we’re not training you how to do that, because we assume you arrived here with more talent than an average tree.”
The smirks and amused eyes in the crowd faded. Most here would never rise above the Common Guard, which meant a life of monotony and discipline. Or a quick death at the hand of the damned gerold next to them. “You are being trained to swing a sword without killing yourself, in the unbelievably rare event you will need to use it before someone slightly less incompetent than yourself comes to help you. If you are lucky you will someday rise from the ranks of those who stand and do nothing to the elite order of those who ride and do nothing. You will enforce the sheriff’s laws, you will collect and escort supplies, you will make lords and nobles feel more important. Perhaps you’ll be lucky enough and one will pay you to join their retainer, and then you will be very happy because you won’t ever have to see me or The Simons again. And we will be equally happy to never see your face as well.”
“What about criminals?” Dillon Fellows asked, unaware that it was not his turn to speak.
Guy raised an eyebrow. “Criminals?”
“Won’t we be fighting them?”
“Only if their crime,” Guy leaned in to investigate Dillon’s face for any sign of intelligence, “is that they are currently fighting you. But if The Simons has done his job and you look like you know how to swing a sword, they won’t want to fight you in the first place. So I’m terribly sorry, you won’t be killing any of your fellow countrymen. This is England, not Barbaria!”
This garnered a wave of laughter, though when he thought back on it later he was fairly certain that Barbaria was not a place.
“If you find yourself,” he continued, again addressing the entire crowd, “in the unfortunate circumstance where some fool is trying to kill you, it will not be a graceful dance of swords. There will be no songs written of your prowess. Who here has been to a tournament and seen dueling contests, and jousts, and the such?” Hands and nods. “I cannot possibly stress how little this resembles a real fight. Those tournament men have been trained to study moves, to read each other’s footwork, and are aiming to impress the lords and ladies of the court. If you have some sod villager attacking you, he is not trying to impress anyone. His attacks will be random, unfocused, and adhere to no rules of combat. And it will be over before you realize it is happening. Your primary goal is to never let any situation escalate to this point. If combat is inevitable, you make the first attack, and you do it correctly. Your only advantage is that they don’t know how to fight. Children, you see, play with sticks and you tap tap tap,” he mimicked a sword gently reflecting off another, “only making clink-clink sounds. People think they can stop a sword just by letting it touch another one. A real man with an arm of sharpened steel swinging with full intent to kill, this isn’t a thing you can simply stand there and take. They don’t know that. You do. So Simon.” He turned it to the armsmaster. “Get them to work.”
The Scotsman’s face lit up, and he did just that. The recruits would not spend this day sparring. They wouldn’t even touch a real sword for a week. Instead they would chop firewood, move stones, run the perimeter of the bailey, back to back, again and again. The goal for now would be to build their stamina. When blades come out in the real world, it often involves a fair amount of running first. A Guardsman who is out of breath after a chase is likely to never run again.
“So is that where barbarians come from?” came a woman’s sarcastic voice.
Guy turned to find a quartet watching him from the relative safety of a stall a few feet away. Jon Bassett was the only one who belonged there, and he held an uncomfortably stoic face that meant he was trying to exude authority. The redheaded guest beside him was no stranger to the castle—the Lady Marion Fitzwalter, a woman of no actual power but who felt entitled to all of it. She tended to stick her nose in the sheriff’s business, lobbying for trifling matters with a religious zeal. Her presence usually meant that Guy would have to send a few men to search for some lost child who was just hiding in a tree, or something impossibly less important. Her requests were only entertained on account of her relation to King Richard, a fact that she was quick to reiterate to anyone who tried to be rid of her.
Guy smiled exactly wide enough that he could not be accused of frowning, and no more. “Barbarians can come from anywhere they wish,” he answered. “That’s what makes them barbarians. Jon, what can I do for the lady?”
“The lady can speak for herself.” Marion left Jon wide-eyed, lips shut tightly. “I was told you wanted to see me, actually.”
“Were you?” Guy squinted against the sun to make out the other two bodies, both attendants to Lady Marion. The tall slender figure to her left was a rare thing indeed, a knight who had not answered the call to war. To her right was a handmaid of no importance and even less beauty. “What did I want to see you about?”
“In regard to Locksley Castle, Captain,” Jon Bassett answered, again trying his best to appear official.
“Ah yes.” Guy snapped his fingers. He had needed to speak to someone in regard to Locksley Castle, but if he’d known it would be Lady Marion then he might have changed his mind. “I’ve received some curious reports from Locksley. Something about Lord Walter locking one of our tax collectors in a room overnight, threatening his life?”
Marion’s wide mask didn’t budge. “I was there, and I can guarantee you the story is exaggerated. There was some innocent fun, at his expense admittedly, but no harm was done.”
“He wasn’t the first tax collector we’ve sent to Locksley, though,” Guy recalled. “I don’t tend to get involved with such things personally, except when the collectors find their debtors to be … problematic.”
“I assure you there is no problem.” Marion’s lips pursed. “It’s the very reason I came to Nottingham today, to speak with the Sheriff and sort out any question of Lord Walter’s perceived debts.”
“Perceived debts?” Guy had not heard that inventive phrase before. “That sounds problematic in and of itself.”
“It won’t be. No need to worry yourself about it. I’ll settle the details with the Sheriff. Is that it? I am late for my appointment with him as it is.”
“Heaven forbid. We’ll send a third tax collector to Locksley soon, you’ll see to it that there are no more stories to exaggerate?” He did not wait for a response. He returned his attention to the men practicing in the yard, wishing time might be merciful and pass the remaining hours of the day quickly. But the words perceived debts flitted about Guy’s mind, seeing what damage they could do. In their latest meeting, Sheriff de Lacy had suggested Guy might conscript debtors before they were actually behind bars, which was admittedly a better plan than what was happening now. Not foolproof, but a leap beyond putting traitors in the uniform.
As he watched, Guy noticed a thick recruit—whose name he could not remember—bend down to claim the wooden stick another man had been using as a sword. He gave the new stick a few swings, seemed to like it better, and dropped his own thinner stick in its place.
“Lady Marion!” Guy called out, and turned to see they had not yet left earshot. They were paused at the gatehouse up to the
highest bailey, where Guy shortly joined them. “One more thing. I don’t suppose you’ve heard stories of a caravan of war supplies that recently went missing in the Sherwood?”
“I have not,” she squinted. “But the Sherwood is a big place.”
“Oh, indeed, plenty of places to hide within. I mean no accusation,” he lied, “but it seems your friend the hermit lord, if he finds himself with these insurmountable tax problems, might be prone to … desperate acts?”
“Lord Walter has more than enough coin to pay what is owed,” she answered curtly, “provided that number is accurate. Which is, again, the reason for my visit.”
“Of course, your ladyship.”
Guy smiled and let them leave. Whatever Lady Marion intended by entangling herself with the hermit lord, it was likely to nobody’s gain but her own. Walter of Locksley had once been a good man, but it was not difficult to imagine how the recluse of his recent years could turn him disappointing. But if a castle full of debtors lay within half a day’s ride, this week might prove productive after all.
* * *
DINNER PROMISED MORE THAN the average night’s entertainment. With any luck, Arable would identify at least one of the ungrateful gerolds by face, and it might be all the ammunition Guy needed to put an end to de Lacy’s abhorrent policy.
He leaned against a worn wall at the lower ring of quarters, far enough from the dining hall to discreetly watch his men gather. This was his family, in a way. He had tried his hand at a real family earlier in life, and was better off not thinking about what could have been. That path would never be his again. He had remarried, but only as a favor to Murdac’s widow. She had convinced him to take the hand of a young woman in need named Elaisse Longchamp, whom Guy had seen exactly twice in their years of marriage.
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