Chapter 4 | Guy of Gisborne
“What the hell does this heckler, Montford, want?” Sir George wailed as he wore out the floorboards of his conference room with all his pacing.
Bishop Sutton, always cool and collected, hid his hands in the oversized armholes of his robe’s sleeves while he watched George walk from one end of the room to the other. “His money, I imagine, Sheriff.”
The Sheriff groaned, rubbed sweat from his forehead, and continued pacing while biting the nail of his thumb.
George had been sweating quite a lot, recently. I supposed the stress of his station was wearing on him, given his recent failures, and the men higher on the ladder than him were starting to take notice.
I could have helped my liege, if he’d only asked for my assistance. But no, stubborn George thought he knew best, and deigned to hide things from me. Which meant I had to stare through the hidden eyeholes of this wall, hidden away like a rat in a cellar, to listen and watch his clandestine meetings with the Bishop of Ravenshead.
For a man of my status, information was everything. Didn’t George know that? Was he embarrassed to admit his faults, which meant keeping things from me because he worried I would judge him?
Foolish man. I had only ever had the Sheriff of Nottingham’s best interests at heart.
Now, here he was, meeting with Bishop Sutton again, being lambasted by new guests. I knew the name Amadeus Montford well, though I wished I didn’t.
“The money you lost—my money,” Sutton reminded the Sheriff, “was loaned from the Templars. Sir Montford has arrived from Newark-on-Trent to collect for his masters. And, I suspect, to get a better understanding of what’s been happening in Nottingham.”
“What’s happening?” George yelled. “I’ll tell him what’s happening! I’ve been doing my damndest to wrestle every fucking halfpenny from the bottom-feeders of this land. Is the Saladin tithe not enough? Ten-percent of everything? My catchpole has never been light. I can’t push the commoners much harder without risking outright revolt.”
“I imagine he worries another situation has arisen like that concerning Gilbert de Ogrestan.”
The Sheriff’s face paled. He walked out of my limited view for a moment, then came back into focus and spun to the bishop. After quickly opening his mouth to say something, he thought better of it and went with something else.
“I’m no thief,” he said.
No, dear George, you are much worse. You’re a prideful, gluttonous, wrathful man. How many more sins must I pin to your name before you realize your faults and ask for help?
The case of Gilbert de Ogrestan was well-know in the lore of the Order of the Knights Templar. Two years ago, Gilbert had been caught embezzling taxes gained from the Saladin tithe—the expansive ten-percent tax levied by the Crown following Sultan Saladin’s capture of Jerusalem in 1187. The tithe was the reason, mostly, why groups such as the Merry Men existed. After Sir Gilbert got caught stealing the funds, he was punished by the Grand Master of the Order. In fact, no one had heard from Gilbert de Ogrestan since.
I imagined Sir George didn’t want the same fate to befall him, or even a whiff of an accusation of impropriety by the Knights Templar.
The Templar Knights were a headache. They had holdings everywhere across this land, including the hospital where Sir Amadeus Montford was stationed at Newark-on-Trent. Entirely too close for comfort, in my opinion.
King Richard had given the Templars entirely too much power. They were immune from all pleas, adjudication, and could go wherever they pleased.
Sir Montford had used his carte blanche to come here, to harass the Sheriff. But George wanted a closed-door meeting with Bishop Sutton, first, to understand what he was walking into.
My dear friend and liege had been listening entirely too much to Sutton for months now. I had lost his ear, and it irked me, because George had always put his faith in me before this smarmy, self-righteous priest arrived.
I knew the true Bishop Sutton. Not the man who built hospitals and churches and almshouses for the poor all across England, or huddled with beggars at Mass, but the one who orchestrated a massive sex slave ring to appease foreign dignitaries and far-off nobles. He was most recently thwarted by Robin of Loxley and her Merry Men.
I secretly relished the fact that my little mouse had made Sutton’s life harder, though I didn’t much enjoy that she’d inadvertently made George’s life more difficult, too, by running off with his money. Or Sutton’s money. The Templars’ money?
Whoever that fucking money belonged to, it most assuredly wasn’t Robin’s. Little did she know that dozens of new wolves had joined the hunt, and were sniffing her trail.
I, sadly, was not one of those wolves, and that vexed me more than anything. Sir George had not given me leave to find Robin or her men, though I generally knew where they were staying. Sherwood Forest was vast, but it was small when you had my network of spies and agents.
Again, all I needed was for George to ask. Grovel at my feet, perhaps, and beg for assistance. I knew the time would come soon, because he couldn’t handle all this pressure on his own. The sweat lining his brow and darkening his tunic under his arms was proof of that.
“Fine,” George spat, after staying silent for at least four laps of pacing. “I’ll see him. I’ll see what he has to say.”
“I don’t think you have much of a choice, Sir George.”
“And where is that captain of mine? He’s been absent lately, and I’d like him in here with me.”
My eyebrows jumped. The time has some sooner than I thought.
I quickly made my way down the cobwebbed hall of the wall’s interior, toward one of the creaky doors that led into an adjacent study room. I opened the door, closed it, slid a bookshelf back into place to conceal it, and then sauntered from the room into the hallway that led to the conference chamber.
Bishop Sutton was opening the double doors of the chamber as I appeared around the corner, and his eyes landed on me down the hall before falling on the tall, broad knight standing near the door, facing away from me.
I didn’t need to ask if someone was a Templar Knight—they advertised themselves well enough. This one had the customary crisp-white surcoat and mantle on his shoulders embedded with a large red cross in the middle. He struck a fearsome sight with his height and accoutrements, including the great war-sword on his back, covered by his red-crossed heater shield. His hair was chalky gray and brown.
I arrived beside the knight just as Bishop Sutton gave him a small bow and muttered, “The Sheriff of Nottingham will see you now.”
“It was only a favor to you, Bishop, that I was kept waiting at all,” the man said in a gruff voice.
“Aye, Sir Montford, I understand. Your graciousness is greatly appreciated, both by me and the Sheriff.”
The knight grunted.
I strode up alongside him, sliding up like a wraith, and he glanced over as he began marching into the room. “Who are you?”
“Sir Guy of Gisborne, captain of the Sheriff’s guard. And you must be the great Sir Amadeus Montford of the Knights Templar. Obliged to make your acquaintance.”
I gave him a slick smile and a hand to shake. He just stared down at it and frowned.
Anger flared through me, yet I kept it to myself. “Welcome to Castle Nottingham, sir.”
“I’ve seen grander castles in the sultan’s land, and those bastards subsist on sand and dust.”
My lip twitched. “I’m sorry Nottingham is not to your liking.”
With that, we entered the large, high-ceilinged room together, with Sutton shuffling in behind us.
George approached, clapping his hands once with a sickly smile on his face. “Ah! Sir Montford, I apologize for keeping you waiting.” He gave me a quick glare, before bowing his head and accepting the knight.
He looked ready to sweat through his tunic.
I stepped to the side, clasping my hands in front of me, and watched the procession while trying not to wince. George did everything he could to placate the man called Montford, but nothing he did would have satisfied a man on a quest from God for the Order’s money.
“Bishop Sutton has apprised me of the situation here, Sheriff George,” Montford said in his grunting voice. Very unhappy man, I reckoned. Very devout.
“The situation, sir?”
“Of the missing funds. The failed taxation. The unregulated bandits who stalk your forests and villages, tormenting your citizens.”
George’s lips thinned into a line. “I assure you, Sir Montford, our taxation efforts have not failed. On the contrary, Nottinghamshire is one of the sturdiest providers to the king.”
“Your scales have come up light.”
George tilted his head, aggravation clear on his face. “Would you have me stoke the flames of discontent even further, here, and risk more banditry, sir? For the prince’s whims?”
“So you do admit banditry has become a problem in the shire.”
“Not a problem.” George shook his head adamantly. “A nuisance like flies on a pig’s hide. Nothing a bit of dousing won’t fix.”
“And how do you plan to douse this particular hide, Sheriff?”
“With fire. Like everything else.”
At that, the Knight Templar paused. Crossed his burly arms over his chest.
George glanced over at me. “Isn’t that right, Sir Guy?”
I blinked, half-surprised he had called on me. Of course, it was only to bail him out of his unfortunate situation.
“Aye,” I said easily, setting myself into the cool temperament I had become known by. “The thieves of this county don’t have much longer. We are on their trail, even now, preparing to pounce.”
George’s eyes flashed wide at me while Amadeus’ eyes were also on me. When the knight’s gaze fell on the Sheriff again, George gave him another sickly smile. “You see? Well in hand.”
“That may be so, sirs, but we need proof of the matter. Talk is all well and good, yet we need an oath if I’m to take you seriously.”
“An oath?”
“To God. That the funds missing from the Templar’s treasury will be returned posthaste.”
George bowed his head. “Consider it done. Tell me the words and I’ll speak them.”
Amadeus analyzed my liege for a moment. His eyes swiveled over to me, as if he expected me to try and snatch his coin purse from his person.
There were few things I hated more on this earth than overzealous, self-righteous bastards who claimed to fight for a cause when they were so obviously motivated by the same thing that motivated all men: greed.
“The Order will join in the search to snuff out the bandits,” Amadeus Montford announced.
George sputtered. “Sir? I assure you, that’s not necessary.”
I hated to see him like this—a wet dog who couldn’t hold his own, sliding all over the place. Didn’t he know he had no need to call this man sir? He was the goddamn governor of this city! Just because the Templars only took orders from God and the pope didn’t mean he needed to suck this man’s holy cock to appease him.
“Knights are lining your towns and villages already, Sheriff George. When we help rid the scourge of banditry from your land, your coffers will grow from the increased taxation. As will ours. Everyone wins.”
Except we’ll have to deal with these smug bastards, which puts a serious chink in my plans.
Seemed I would have to develop new ones.
“Do you expect the government of Nottingham to subject ourselves to the rule of the Knights Templar?” George asked, a bit heavy-handedly.
The knight scoffed—perhaps it was a laugh? “Of course not. The Knights Templar would never presume to command your men. Just so long as you don’t stand in our way.”
“I suppose that can be arranged . . . with my captain, Sir Guy of Gisborne. Isn’t that right, Guy?”
I gave a noncommittal shrug. “Your will is my duty, sir.” In front of my body, my clasped hands tightened in my black gloves.
“Good,” Montford said. “Master de Newenham wishes to expand in England. Ridding the county of vermin will provide us much land to use ourselves, for noble purposes.”
Noble purposes like building churches, financial institutions, and bartering houses, no doubt.
This bastard walked in here, explained he was going to steal land right from under Sheriff George’s nose, and George was simply letting it happen with a smile on his sweaty face.
Fucking weak.
I couldn’t have been more disappointed in my liege.
Montford said, “Bishop Sutton will remain to watch over the situation as it unfolds. Is that agreeable, sir?”
George gave him half a nod.
“Good. Then I’ll be off.”
With that, Amadeus Montford turned—his white cape flapping across George’s front—and walked out of the chamber like he owned the castle already.
I supposed he did, after that introduction.
These fuckers are going to be even more annoying than the Merry Men, aren’t they? I wondered.
George turned to me with a scowl. “Guy. Handle it.”
I nodded to him and left the room . . .
But not before overhearing Bishop Sutton’s whispered voice on my way out, because he didn’t understand I had preternatural senses, including hearing.
“. . . Don’t worry, Sir George. We’ve found new buyers to off-load the pagan witches. You’ll recoup that money soon enough, and then you can get the Knights Templar off your hands.”
He spoke with sweetness in George’s ear, even as the words he said were venomous. Sutton, Montford, the sex trafficking—it all needed to go. I hated every part of it, and these ludicrous individuals were pushing me away from George’s ear.
I was the only man George could trust. He just didn’t know it.
As I exited the room, I realized I needed to be the one to save Nottingham, because Sheriff George would never be able to.
MY FIRST STOP, LATE that evening, brought me to the Wilford estate just east of Nottingham. Firelight filled the open windows in a dim glow as I approached the courtyard, and my eyebrows lifted a fraction.
This late, and someone is still awake?
Two Nottingham soldiers were posted at the door, which was open. Another surprise.
Then the biggest surprise of all: Two women slithered out of the doorway with wide, sashaying hips, heading right for me like a couple of snakes. Both women sported large breasts held aloft my tight corsets, and dresses that bloomed out in an indecent way. Stark white makeup on their faces glistened in the soft moonlight.
As they approached, smiling their crimson-red lips, I stopped, growing uncomfortable. Each one took a side of me, looping their arms in mine and trying to drag me toward the entrance of the manse.
“Hail, good sir,” said the one on my left in a low, sultry voice. “Welcome to—”
“I don’t have time for this. Where is Marian?”
The ladies of the night stopped. Eyes blinking, confused.
“Madam Marian?” the whore asked.
“Madam”? Not “Maid”? What have you gotten yourself into now, you conniving bitch?
A man stumbled out from the front door. He was a young rapscallion I recognized as Grant Fisher, brother of the tarnished, missing squire, Peter Fisher—long believed to be dead.
Fisher Younger held a goblet to his lips, belched, and tossed the cup on the ground with a clang. He pulled his pants higher up his waist, smiled at a friend who walked out behind him, and the two men wandered off into the darkness, past me.
Red curls showed in the doorframe, watching them leave with hands on her bountiful hips. Maid Marian scowled, turned to one of the soldiers at the door, and said, “Marcus, see to it that Grant and his accomplice make it home in one piece, if they make it home at all.”
“Madam?”
Marian smiled coyly at the soldier. “Well, they don’t need to make it home with all of their belongings. Just the clothes on their backs, I would think should suffice. They caused a ruckus inside, and those boys need to learn some manners.”
“Madam,” the soldier answered with a bow, and then stormed off past me and the two ladies holding my arms hostage. Marcus tightened his grip on the handle of his cudgel as he walked by, a sadistic grin stretching across his lips.
Maid Marian’s eyes fell on the two ladies holding my arms, and then me. Her smile grew. “Oh, if it isn’t Sir Guy of Gisborne. We have true royalty in the house, ladies.” She gestured me forward with a flapping hand. “Unhand that gentleman, if you would, Beatrice, Marcy. That one has a specific type.”
The two girls looked at me once, then shrugged and unhanded me. They walked past Marian, into the mansion, swinging their hips the whole time. I could make out the stink of booze and sex wafting in their wake.
“My, my, Madam Marian,” I jabbed. “What have we here?”
“Just a girl and her lofty pursuits, good sir.” She flipped her curly red hair off her shoulder in a teasing way, and rolled her heavily darkened eyes.
“Reconditioning the Wilford estate into a brothel, woman? That’s quite a pursuit, indeed.”
“The Sheriff didn’t leave me with much, Guy, but he did leave me this pretty estate. Figured I’d do what I do best with it. And it’s not just a brothel. If you didn’t notice, those two ragamuffins behind you are nobility.”
“The Fishers? Fringes of the gentry, at best. And you plan on robbing them blind. Do you think that sets a fine precedent for your new establishment?”
Marian bobbed her shoulders, giving me a faux innocent look with big doe eyes. “There are robbers aplenty in Nottingham, sir. Who rightly knows where they come from?”
“Well, clearly some of them come from here. But I digress. I can’t fault your entrepreneurial spirit. In fact, the plentiful robbers you speak of are why I have come calling.”
“Ah. It is such a dangerous world out there. That’s why people come to Madam Marian’s Teahouse. To escape the dangers of life for a time.”
“Right. While being fleeced of their belongings and any information they might have through the thin walls of this place. Ingenious, Marian, I must say.”
She gave me a cocky, crooked smile. “Won’t you come inside, handsome hunter? I’m sure we could find you a suitable replacement for—”
“I’m not staying long,” I cut in. I didn’t want her finishing that sentence and angering me, because I was fairly amused right now at what I was seeing, and wanted to keep it that way.
Maid Marian had stolen Robin of Loxley’s estate out from under her, and had now transformed it into an upscale brothel that the gentry of Nottingham frequented. Truly marvelous . . . and wicked.
I loved it.
Marian crossed her arms under her ample chest, as she was wont to do when she was trying to steal your attention from her cunning face. “What is it about the robbers, then? Why are you here, Sir Guy?”
I looked up to the top, peaked roof of the manor, then through the windows, where I heard low conversation, soft laughter, and even a moan or two.
The place was clearly packed. Marian was making a killing catering to the aristocrats of Nottingham and all their deviant wants and needs.
Yes . . . this place could certainly become useful for me to frequent, but not for the reasons most come here.
My trade was information, and this place seemed bursting with it.
I clicked my tongue, matching Marian’s stance by folding my arms over my chest. “You have done well for yourself, Marian. And in order to keep doing well, you must do something for me.”
She blinked. Her eyes widened a fraction, and the haughty attitude she was so used to giving faltered for a split second. “Is that what I must do?” she asked in a lower, more serious voice. One tinged with anger, and told me she didn’t like being bossed around.
Anything that Sheriff George gave freely, I could also freely take away. And Maid Marian, or whatever the fuck she called herself these days, knew that well.
“Aye, it is.”
“And what is it, exactly?”
I gave her a small grin. “Maybe we should go inside after all.”
She paused, staying in the doorway.
Then, against every ounce of her willpower, she stepped aside and gestured me in with a sweeping arm.
As I walked toward her, my head tilted and I thought of something. “Just what is my type, in your estimation, anyway?”
I paused at the doorway, our faces inches apart.
A slow smile curled her lips. “Cunning, pretty, young things. Breakable ones.”
I smirked. Drew closer, my lips nearly ghosting over hers, my chest pressing against hers. “Are you speaking about yourself, lady?”
“Oh, Guy, there’s no need for flattery. We both know I’m not young.”
My smile widened—
Then faltered as she continued.
“No, I’m speaking about the pliable ones. The lost ones. The ones who are in over their head, trapped with strangers, maybe even dressing like a boy to suit their needs. The . . . mousey ones, perhaps?”