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linen-covered table reserved for the high sheriff. The hall was quiet now, with only occasional laughter from the direction of the guard room. The Normans present were more at ease, but the English watched him with rapt intensity.
    They wanted answers to questions when he had none for them. None they would want to hear. He resented the Saxons’ carping and whining, their insistence on justice when all England lay groaning under the weight of John’s heavy hand. How could he give them what he did not have himself?
    The edge of the huge carved chair pressed into his legs and beckoned comfort, but he did not sit. Not yet. He waited as the silence grew complete and the barons nervous. Then he gestured, an expansive sweep of one arm that encompassed the entire hall.
    “Answers are best sought on full stomachs, my lords. Do you be seated at my table.”
    Wary glances were exchanged. The smell of roast meat and honeyed sauces was tempting. He sat down as if it were anybanquet; a sewer rushed forward bearing a silver ewer filled with scented water and a towel to dry his hands. It was a signal for dishes to be served.
    No cloths draped the lower tables, but jugs of wine and cups were in good supply. The Normans did not hesitate, but found seats on the long benches flanking the tables, until only a few places were left. Finally the Saxons joined them, bunching at one side in a segregated group.
    Tré leaned back against feathered bolsters that still bore the blue and silver of the former sheriff. It was his habit to eat sparingly. When he looked up from his trencher, Guy was weaving through the crowded hall to reach the dais and the chair next to him.
    “There is dissent among the barons. They thrash about like rabid weasels.” Guy folded his long frame into the stark wood that formed the smaller chair. “Or did you notice?”
    “Your humor is misplaced.” Tré indicated the hall with a tilt of his head. “All of Nottingham is a hornet’s nest.”
    “Fill their cups again. Enough wine should give even dour Saxons a sense of humor.”
    “Enough wine may put the barons at ease.”
    “Nothing but the tomb can do that.” Guy eyed him for a moment. “Where is the lady?”
    “Gone. Fled into the night like a frightened hare.”
    Guy laughed softly. “You would frighten any woman, but I had not thought that one would be so easily terrorized.”
    Irritated, Tré did not reply. He scraped a thumb over the curved stem of his cup. It was plain, with simple lines that fit his hand, and he lifted it to drink.
    Light from torches and branches of candles gleamed on Guy’s pale hair as he lifted his cup, restless eyes peering over the brim. “It grows late, even for Saxons.”
    Tré set his cup on the table and stood up. Heads turned toward him and voices subsided into low mutters, then silenced in tense expectation.
    “My lords,” he said evenly, “my purpose in Nottingham is simple. King John has appointed me sheriff to guard his interests, and also the interests of Nottingham’s citizens. I will doso. In return, you will supply me with men and arms for your king. By Easter.”
    Mistrust already reflected in the sullen faces of the Saxon barons swiftly altered to outrage. Tré’s gaze fell on russet-haired Gilbert of Oxton. He said with deliberate emphasis:
    “Bring your individual concerns to Guy de Beaufort, who sits at my right hand. He will have my scribe appoint a time to any man who wishes to express his discontent to me.”
    Oxton snapped, “It grows difficult to tell tax men from outlaws, save the color of their livery.”
    “Not so difficult,” a companion retorted, “for outlaws leave us enough to eat, while the king’s men do not!”
    Dissension rumbled, growing louder; across the hall, Norman guards watched with wary readiness.
    Tré spoke sharply: “You complain of outlaws that prey upon your lands. You plead for my aid to be rid of them. Why should I lend my arms to your cause, when you do not lend yours