Their “guest of honor,” Lord Geoffrey of Oughtibridge, subtly tried to find an armless chair to accommodate his girth, and instead hovered at the head of the table as awkwardly as possible.

Introductions went around. As the unpleasant pleasantries concluded, de Lacy turned flamboyantly to William to start. “Well. Let’s talk about our friends in the woods.”

A dry voice interrupted, “Have they killed someone?”

William was shocked to see this had come from the Ferrers whelp, standing behind Gisbourne. His presence in Nottingham annoyed William, only partially because of what his existence meant to Arable. William tried not to blame the son for his father’s mistakes, but that was a difficult bias to shake. Gisbourne instantly reprimanded his page for speaking and nearly sent him out of the room, but de Lacy stopped it.

“No it’s fine. It’s fine.” He stood, meeting the young man’s eyes. “Here’s your first lesson in real politics, boy.”

De Lacy popped open the lid to an ornate gold keepsafe and pawed out a handful of coins, then climbed onto his chair and, rather surprisingly, onto the table itself.

“The world beyond these walls is made of dukes and farmers. Duke…” he singled out Lord Oughtibridge from afar, and nimbly danced over the tabletop of plates and glasses to pour gold into the man’s hands. He then turned back at Gisbourne, halfway down the table.

“… and farmer,” he finished, flicking one last coin through the air to his captain, who barely flinched to catch it.

“The farmer farms, which is useful, and the duke … dukes. Which is not.” De Lacy’s hand flapped about, equating precisely what he thought of the daily activities of dukes. “However, the duke pays taxes, which is quite useful, and he pays quite a bit.”

De Lacy swung around again, picking up the keepsafe and opening it for Oughtibridge to deposit a portion of his coins back into.

William was surprised by the performance. Roger de Lacy was a man of extremes—there were times he preferred to cut savagely to the point with no frills, and there were others such as now when he relished in the storytelling of it all. He was literally dancing on the tabletop as if their worries were trivial, even though his career hung in the balance. His every reaction, William marveled, was a calculated part of his balancing act.

“The farmer is weak, but he makes food. The farmer gives the duke food, and the duke gives the farmer safety. This has worked for centuries. Are we all caught up?”

His advisors gave their compulsory agreement, though few seemed to enjoy it as much as William. De Lacy clapped his hands once and continued.

“Enter Richard’s taxes, the Saladin tithe. Taxes on everyone, and everything, except for those who march off to war. But meanwhile, here at home, the duke pays more taxes, and he hates it.”