William had sat with de Lacy throughout numerous negotiations, and grown a heartfelt respect for the man’s patience and competence. The balancing act he played to keep his county operational was impressive, but with Oughtibridge’s demands the whole thing was now tipping dangerously away from him.

“The city suffers when the markets suffer, the markets suffer when the trade routes suffer, and the trade routes suffer because Robin is far more influential than I am. And now he’s accidentally rallied the county lords to a near mutiny.”

“Mhm.”

“It’s not all Robin’s fault,” William made the distinction, dragging his finger across the rough surface of a nearby headstone.

It was a perfect storm, each issue amplifying the next. Robin was the only variable that could actually be managed, but there was no way to communicate with him. That had probably been their biggest mistake. “He’s doing exactly what we said we’d do. I can’t blame him.”

“Mhm.”

“I think de Lacy can keep the strings together for a while,” he considered. “But if he indeed gets replaced, this is all going to explode.”

“Mhm.”

He startled to realize, again, that he’d been ignoring her. He didn’t mean to, but it was too easy to get caught up in the thick of it all. He quickly apologized, and went to her. She was kneeling in the wet grass in front of a small cracked cobblestone, uniquely colored but pounded unimportantly into the earth. There was nothing to imply that it was a grave marker and not a mistake.

“This is my father,” she said.

A cold fist clenched around William’s heart, instantly shamed and horrified at how distracted he had been. But then she continued, “Well, not really. I don’t know where he was buried, if he was even buried at all. So I found this little stone here about a year ago, with no name, and I’d like to think maybe it could be for him.”

William had never put much thought into Lord Raymond de Burel’s fate. He had been a prickly man in life, albeit with a curious charm for those he deemed worthy. He had died nearby, fifteen years ago, during the failed assault on Nottingham led by William de Ferrers. In all likelihood, he might have been killed in an ambush by the citizens of Nottingham, defending their city. It was impossible to know. If there had been anything on Lord Burel’s person to identify him as the head of a household, it wouldn’t have helped him here. Those that participated in the assault were seen as traitors to this city, and would have not received any formal processions.

“Maybe one of his men protected his body,” Arable suggested, matter-of-factly, “and found a place for him. Maybe this marker was left blank for a reason, as something that couldn’t be said.”