“I will not say I regret coming to Nottingham,” he added, catching a tease of protest in Arable’s eye, “but I think Robin was right. Neither of us are helping anything. I doubt he has any idea how significant the ramifications of his actions are, and meanwhile I’m stuck here unable to … ramificate anything.”

Arable threw him a coy squint. “Ramificate isn’t a word.”

“I know,” he pouted. “I started that sentence before I knew how it ended.”

It was an appropriate analogy for his every effort in the city.

She led him through the tall grass with care, forward, holding one of his hands with two of her own freezing fingers. Tall stone walls protected them from the rest of the city, which even the sun had yet to brave this morning. The burying ground was overgrown and poorly tended, dawn dew turning each blade of grass into sparkling ice. Simple, unadorned headstones haphazardly littered the courtyard under the modest spire of St. Nicholas. It was the nearest church to the castle besides the abbey in the middle bailey, and Arable had insisted they visit it this morning.

She turned back to him, her cheeks flushing red from the cold. “You know, things might easily be much worse, if you weren’t here.”

He had to laugh. “I think the castle would have to be on fire for that to be true.” William glanced up, just to double-check that Nottingham Castle was still there, peeking over the tips of the walls. “I honestly thought it would be simple. Talk things out peacefully, re-establish the supply lines, and mercy wins the day.”

She moved slowly, tugging him along. “But…” she prompted.

“But everything,” he answered.

The city had yet to recover from Gisbourne’s shutdown of the markets, and it was obvious now that it couldn’t. “There simply isn’t enough coming in to Nottingham anymore, be it coin or goods. Between the rumors of de Lacy’s impending replacement and Robin’s robberies, nobody trusts the city. And now, neighboring lords are withholding their county dues until an effective sheriff can properly secure the roads.”

“I know,” Arable said. “I was there.”

“You were? Is it true that Lord Oughtibridge shat right in the stew?”

“Not quite,” she laughed.

William wished he could laugh about it. The more familiar he became with the city’s fragile mechanics, the more helpless he felt. Every day, more lords took on Oughtibridge’s stance and refused to pay their share. Even traveling merchants were avoiding Nottingham until they knew it was more stable. This might have normally created the perfect opportunity for local trade to thrive, but there was more coin to be earned in the Sherwood than the city. “Instead of coming together, everyone is retreating into themselves. They’re all standing in the same pit, watching the flood water rise, refusing to work together.”

“What does Roger say?”

“Not much. But he’s getting riled.”