“Yes, I know. As did John Marshal in York. But not the people. It’s the people, William, that matter. Laws and lords both can be trampled by a mob. John Marshal opened the gates of his castle to protect as many Jews as he could. He gathered them in a wooden keep, two-hundred some. But the mob was scaling his walls. No escape. Yours is the military mind, William. What do you suppose the Jews did?”

His answer was not immediate. “Barricaded the keep?”

“Ah.” De Lacy seemed to think about it. “Well they chose to kill themselves.”

“They set their own keep on fire,” Waleran explained. “Though I imagine some fell on a sword first. I certainly would have.”

De Lacy smiled at Waleran. “You lack the body weight. The blade would have simply propped you up.”

“I had not heard about that,” William said, trying not to picture it in his mind. “I don’t know if Richard knew, either.”

“Of course he did,” de Lacy snapped. “He seized the property of the deceased.”

William pushed the thought away. Richard had been ravenous in raising his war capital, and a cold-blooded act like this was unfortunately not surprising. Not from a man who would slit a messenger’s throat in the name of being mysterious.

“It was a wretched tragedy,” Waleran finished the story, “and anyone with an opinion on either side blamed John Marshal. Realistically, the seat for the High Sheriff of York opened up that day.”

“Agreed. But why now? Why did it take a year?”

“Ah,” the earl tapped the table, “that’s just it. It is not the fallout of yesteryear’s fire that brings me here today.”

“Hm?” de Lacy murmured. “Go on.”

“There were many who wanted to see him fall, as you say, but what do you suppose was the reason for his removal? The official proclamation mentioned negligence of service. Specifically, for lack of revenue sent to King Richard.”

“Lack of revenue?” De Lacy’s echo was heavy. For once he had no response. His jaw clamped shut tightly and his eyes searched for answers he seemed unwilling to say aloud.

William said it. “You think you’re next.”

Roger grunted in agreement. “Wouldn’t you? If the word travels—as it will—that even the great John Marshal must be accountable to collect every shilling of taxes…” But he didn’t finish the thought. Instead he gestured to William. “If word has reached the king that Nottinghamshire has been found wanting, everyone else knows it as well. Who is John Marshal’s successor?”

“That’s the worst part,” the earl answered. “Osbert de Longchamp.”

De Lacy closed his eyes in disgust. “Brother to the Chancellor, William Longchamp. Unquestionable loyalty. No political experience.” He rapped his knuckles on his wine glass. “And a complete madman.”

“I don’t understand,” William said, because he didn’t.