Nottingham Read online

  After speaking with the gaolers and selecting some men from a list based on their crimes alone, Guy and Simon returned topside to the Rabbit Cage. That was the local name for a solitary square iron cage that sat in the center of a small courtyard beside the southern curtain wall. Its lone door was shielded by flat planks, so that it could only be unlocked from the outside. Within its bars, a gullet opened that led back down into the catacombs of the prison. This cage was normally used to sentence prisoners without chancing their escape, but now it offered them exactly that.

  Their first candidate climbed up from the Rabbit’s throat, escorted by two stout Guardsmen. Ludic of Westerleak and Marshall Sutton were exactly the sort of men one imagined should be prison guards. They shaved their heads regularly and probably spent their free time moving logs for fun. Their prisoner was dirty and shaken, a sizable man with pitiful eyes.

  Guy led. “The Sheriff and the Lord have decided you deserve another chance at life. Unfortunately neither of them is here. So convince us you deserve it.”

  “I’m a good man,” the prisoner stammered.

  “Is that it?” Guy laughed. “Back down with you.”

  “Give him a chance,” Simon growled playfully.

  The man swallowed, eyes darting back and forth between Simon and Guy. This prisoner was the thumb-sucking dumb type. His hands were hard and callused, and though he slumped now his back was straight. This was a useful man, physically at least. All of his attention was on Simon, whom he had perhaps correctly identified as the more lenient.

  “Do you know my friend?” Guy asked.

  A slow, dumb nod. “He’s The Simons.”

  Guy had been the one to nickname him The Simons, originally as a joke but it stuck over the years. Now every fledgling grunt that squeezed his way through The Simons’ Yard said it with respect.

  “And what do you know about The Simons?”

  “The Simons turns you into a man.” His lower lip trembled, and his glance averted.

  “And what’s your name?”

  “Gerold.”

  “Gerold of…”

  “Gerold of … nowhere, m’lord.”

  “Tell me how you ended up in prison, Gerold of Nowhere. And tell the truth,” Guy added, “or you’re yet to be Gerold of the Gallows.”

  Gerold nodded and composed himself. His mouth moved silently, he had sense in him enough to know his life was at stake. Finally he exhaled and spoke slowly. “I’ve been on my own for a while, and I know I’ve acted poorly. I’ve stolen more than a few nights’ sleep in places I wasn’t welcome, and pinched food from those that might not have had any to spare. I have regrets, and I’ve prayed for them, and I know they’re mine.” He glanced around, hoping he had made any progress. “But whatever reason they say I’m here, it wasn’t me. I was asleep in an alley, and I woke up to commotion and I don’t know what, and next thing ever was me pulled away, thrown in here, saying I did things I didn’t. Please believe me. I’ve been trying to make right of myself, I have, an’ it’s hard, it’s so hard.” He sniffed harshly, seeming to wipe some wetness from his eyes. “An’ I know it’s not for anyone but me to make it right, not even the Lord, and I try every day. Even down here, every day I try to make something right again.”

  At Guy’s signal they excused themselves from the prisoner. “What do you think?”

  “He’s a decent candidate,” Simon admitted. “He may be a bit broken, but I’d wager he’d be powerful grateful to have a bed and regular meal.”

  “I agree. He would be.” Guy bit his lip. “You don’t think he’d be a threat?”

  “I think he’d be more a target than a threat. He cries like that in the Yard and The Simons will have to get all Simonsy on him.”

  “So you’d take him?”

  Simon considered it. “I would. Do you disagree?”

  “Of course.” Guy laughed.

  “You think he wouldn’t cut it?”

  “This man is a liar, and a murderer.” Guy knew exactly who Gerold was, he had recognized the name in the gaoler’s records. Gerold stopped crying and looked up sharply as Guy raised his voice. “I watched that man smash a young woman’s head in with a rock. It took five Guardsmen to take him down. Everything he just told us was a complete fabrication. I thought the blubbering was a bit much.”

  “Fuck me.” The man’s baby-face contorted. “I knew I recognized you.” His entire countenance changed, whatever innocence he had faked was now replaced with cruel lines.

  Simon exhaled heavily. “For the love of … why are we talking to him at all? Why hasn’t he hanged?”

  “He’ll hang soon enough. But I wanted to see—no offense now, Simon—if you’d fall for it.” At that, his friend’s features turned hard. “I’m sorry to use you. I knew this trash wasn’t an option. But what if I hadn’t? If we talked to another man who gave the same pitiful story, perhaps we’d both fall for it. Just because they’re arrested for something small doesn’t mean that’s the worst they’ve done. Crime begets crime, and then we’ve brought a murderer into our ranks. You think Ludic or Marshall would be safe, when the men they cage eat at their table in the dining hall? Everyone we talk to is going to beg for forgiveness, tell us they’re innocent, and lie and lie and lie. They might even lie. This is how we’re inviting danger into the Nottingham Guard. These are the sheriff’s orders, and I say they’re reckless and arrogant. So. Simon. Do you still prefer to shake your head and say you have no complaints?”

  * * *

  “THAT WAS IN APRIL,” Guy finished, still staring out over the Yard. “We’ve pulled prisoners every month since, thrown them into training. The Simons and I conceal their pasts, and they’re under strict orders not to reveal anything themselves. They receive only a fraction of the normal payment, enough for the barest of necessities.”

  Jon Bassett’s eyes were full of judgment, but not blame. “Any problems with any of them yet?”

  “Not yet.” But its potential was in each of their faces.

  “Why’d you tell me?”

  “Because at the rate you’re going, you’ll be captain someday,” Guy answered. Upon seeing Bassett’s surprise, he added, “Not soon, mind you. Don’t get any ideas. There may be grey in my beard but I’m a long ways from dead. But it can’t hurt to start thinking like a captain now.”

  His protégé pursed his lips, but wisely said nothing.

  “Besides. I could use someone aside from The Simons and the Sheriff to complain about it with.”

  That earned a dry laugh, and the two of them returned their attention to the training in the Yard below. The recruits were running physical exercises, while Guy instinctively categorized each of them into tiers based entirely on how useless they would be. Between the war and Sheriff de Lacy, it was hard to guess which had been more disastrous to Nottingham’s safety.

  After some time, Jon Bassett clicked his tongue. “What happened to Gerold of Nowhere?”

  “Hanged as scheduled,” Guy answered.

  FOUR

  WILLIAM DE WENDENAL

  ENGLISH WAR CAMP, ACRE

  MONDAY, 1ST DAY OF JULY 1191

  WILLIAM DE WENDENAL POINTED his index finger and retracted it, again and again.

  It was, inarguably, fascinating.

  He had no idea how it worked. A casual inkling in his mind commanded his muscles to stretch forward, every time, with no sensation of any interaction between cause and effect. The more he tried to study it, the more it became unknowable, like a word repeated too many times until it became gibberish. He wondered if the same was true with power. If King Richard was aware at all of the sequence of events that followed his every command, or if he simply thought things and then waited for the world to inevitably bend.

  Richard was in a whimsical mood, despite another day of less-than-whimsical news. Leave it to a king to assume he can do the impossible. They had advanced their camp along with a dozen trebuchets, but they might as well have had none. With each stone thrown, the very earth worke
d against them—shifting the machine’s trajectory so they could not concentrate on a single point. The city’s walls were thicker and harder than anticipated, while the rocks they launched often shattered harmlessly to dust upon impact. For two weeks straight their strategy had failed miserably, and showed no signs of changing. The only advantage of failure was that they had yet to draw steel even once against the Saracens, which would hopefully give enough time for the replacement weapons to arrive. But the King was not infuriated by any of this, he seemed to find each day’s disappointment to be another chapter in an increasingly hilarious tale that only he could read.

  “Alright. You’re the funny one,” William nudged Robin’s ribs, “why is he laughing?”

  Robin raised a grim eyebrow. “How am I the funny one?”

  “Solid point.” William nodded. “I’ll correct. You’re the one who thinks he’s funny.”

  Robin’s head wobbled back and forth in consideration. “Thank you. And I have no idea.”

  They watched the King silently for a bit, as he pointed at apparently random positions on a map with his retinue of lords, his fairweather war council. William might normally impose himself into their debate, but he suspected the correct strategy was, as every other army had already discovered, to sulk back home in defeat. So he lingered at the back with Robin, sniping comments under their breath. “He knows he’s not the first person to try to capture this city, yes?”

  “I don’t think he knows that, no,” Robin answered.

  “Do you suppose he could return to England and just tell everyone he won the war? Do you think anyone’s really going to check?”

  “You’re right.” Robin blinked. “I’m the funny one.”

  William watched the lords debate and strategize, each far more eager to be heard than to be right. Their ideas were as useless as the swords sitting at the bottom of the Mediterranean. William instead watched Richard, detached, no longer interested in opinions.

  “You said those weapons would be here by now,” William whispered.

  “No I didn’t. I said this was the earliest we could expect them.”

  “Well I hope they arrive soon. I’d prefer to be alive when we get them.”

  The night’s intrigue came in the form of a foreign man with dark features, dressed in a simple but well-tailored smock. Short, flat hair speckled the messenger’s round head, and his hefty beard looked recently washed. Even surrounded by English soldiers, there was no sign of fear in his eyes. Anything unexpected is an opportunity. It was a lesson William’s father had impressed upon him, though he was ever a student in its application.

  The stranger gave proper greetings behind a smug smile, and spoke half-decent French. “Saladin welcomes you to his city, and wonders why you idle your time by giving us rocks, of which we have enough already. He has been expecting you for several months. He has heard news of your exploits on Cyprus, and apologizes that your holiest of intentions must need be delayed by the frivolities of women.”

  The deadpan sarcasm translated across the language barrier. This was the second despot to challenge Richard’s decision to delay his Crusade by rescuing his own wife. Isaac Komnenos, the violent leader of Cyprus who captured her after she shipwrecked, also saw the hypocrisy of that situation. “Why are you even here, Richard? Take your Crusaders off my land, or has your God told you that Cyprus is now part of your holy quest? Is my tongue Jerusalem, that you are so quick to tame it? Is your woman Jerusalem, that you must so desperately occupy her?” It had riled Richard then. He left Isaac a prisoner bound in silver chains, an insulting kindness after promising not to leave him in irons. William hoped such sarcasm would not rile him again. King Richard was ruthless to those who insulted him, a petulant selfishness that was his most difficult trait to imitate.

  “Saladin hopes your visit will be pleasant,” the messenger continued. “Our country is vast and beautiful, and appreciates your desire to see it. But he begs you against keeping camp longer than necessary. The winds can be cold, and the sun warmer than possibly you are accustomed. The lips, he warns, may crack, such is the heat in summer.”

  Thankfully, Richard laughed. “That’s clever. I am pleased to learn that Saladin spends so much time thinking about the quality of my lips.”

  The messenger bowed. “Very good, just as you say. King Richard, the Lionheart.” He emphasized the name slightly, as if it were an insult. Then, without hesitation, he made a quarter-turn and looked William in the eyes. “King Richard, the Lionheart.”

  William’s fingers tickled the hilt of his blade. Nobody outside of this tent, especially an envoy from the enemy, should have known William was the king’s body double.

  The messenger rotated again, now dead set upon Robin. “King Richard, the Lionheart.”

  Robin simply smirked, but the coldness in his gaze might have killed. The messenger held that heavy moment before standing again to leave. Richard raised his hand lazily and his soldiers blocked the exit. Anything unexpected is an opportunity. So where was the opportunity in this, William wondered.

  Richard cleared his throat. “Now if I were Saladin, which for the first time it grieves me I am not, what did I just gain from this?”

  “Clearly a threat,” William answered. “A show of force.”

  Richard seemed unimpressed with the answer. “What odds would he place on the success of this threat? That three nations’ worth of armies and preparations and reputations would slink away from one man’s veiled insults? Not likely. So why make the threat?” He asked it scholastically, as a teacher probing his students for their participation.

  “Pure pride,” offered Ferrers. “They know everything about you, and want to brag about it.”

  “Wrong.” Richard was short with him, and William enjoyed it. Ferrers deserved to be silenced exactly once for every word he ever uttered. The king slowly circled the tent, gesturing when necessary at the messenger as if he were a plaything for idle consideration. “What would it gain Saladin to posture and pose for me? I know him to be strong, I know him to be fearless. He doesn’t need to show me this. So why name you out, one by one? What does he gain?”

  “Surprise, I suppose,” William tried to work it out, though the logic seemed clunky and rusted, pieces that weren’t made for each other. “Means we need to change our tactics. Perhaps he wants to flush out the real king into taking point again.”

  Richard’s eyes darted around the room playfully. “If you’re right, which you’re not, what would he gain from that? If we change tactics, he abandons his advantage of knowledge. So where is the gain?”

  “Are we supposed to be afraid he has a spy?” asked another baron.

  “The fact that I am still gloriously alive means there is no spy. One last time, what does he gain?”

  Robin’s voice, strong and true, “Confirmation.”

  “Confirmation!” Richard nearly danced at the word. “He didn’t know about my body doubles, but he did suspect. Perhaps he heard rumor of you, or had a fancy thought flirt around his skull one night. And now he has confirmation of it. One man, sent under the banner of peace, can see the inside of this tent to test our reaction.”

  William fidgeted. The answer didn’t explain everything. “But he knew exactly who we were. How did he know who to single out?”

  “I was going to ask him the same thing,” Richard replied, “but it also struck me that I didn’t necessarily care.” His casual tone was matched only by the nonchalant way he opened the messenger’s neck with a knife from the table.

  Bile sprang into William’s mouth as if it were his own throat. He threw his hands up to keep from retching. But he could not look away from the messenger and the wild-eyed horror that consumed him. He stumbled but was restrained, he made to grab at his neck but failed, blood weeping from the open meat. William had seen plenty of death, but this struck him as too cruel, too savage. King Richard didn’t even stop walking, he continued his collegiate circling of the room. He was talking still, though the words were lo
st to William. The dying man gurgled and mercifully passed out, slumping to the ground.

  But Richard was suddenly in William’s face, immediate and full of intent. “Why is he dead now, Wendenal? What does it gain me?”

  William could not hide his disgust. “Very kingly of you.”

  “What does it gain me?” His breath was hot and stale.

  “Well he obviously won’t be talking now, Richard, though it’s a hell of a way to make your point.” Blood seeped into the dry ground, thirsty. The handful of entourage lords had recoiled in horror. “He was a messenger. What did he learn here that was worth his life?”

  Robin, ever on the right side of things, backed William’s dissent. “He came under a banner of peace, bearing gifts. The only possible motive to kill him would be in reaction to his suspicions. So this doesn’t help us at all. If anything, it still gives Saladin confirmation.”

  Richard delighted in the response. “So what does it gain me?” He was rolling in the joy of it now, while William was gagging.

  “I’ll tell you what you lose,” he coughed out, “you lose a position of sympathy. They’ll call you a marauder, they’ll say you’ve no respect for the rules of war, which puts us all in danger. They’ll kill any man they take prisoner.”

  “A terrible thing I’ve done, then,” Richard rocked back and forth. “Saladin knows me to be no fool, he knows exactly why I shouldn’t kill the man. He knows what I lose, he knows everything you just said! So what does it gain me?”

  “I don’t know!” William shouted. On the ground he watched the man’s blood turn prickly with dirt. There had been no point to it.

  There was never any point to it.

  “I don’t know what the hell it gains you,” he repeated.

  “And neither does he!”

  There it was, that was what Richard wanted. He caught William’s gaze and held it, the muscles around his eye clenched just so. Richard always wanted them to share his morality, to see the pieces as he did, beyond any common soldier. And William understood. He didn’t like it, but damned if he didn’t understand it.