He leaned against a worn wall at the lower ring of quarters, far enough from the dining hall to discreetly watch his men gather. This was his family, in a way. He had tried his hand at a real family earlier in life, and was better off not thinking about what could have been. That path would never be his again. He had remarried, but only as a favor to Murdac’s widow. She had convinced him to take the hand of a young woman in need named Elaisse Longchamp, whom Guy had seen exactly twice in their years of marriage.

The Nottingham Guard was the only family he cared for, and somewhere amongst them tonight were five gerolds who threatened the rest.

A change in the torchlight caused him to look down the hallway, where a short, aged figure swimming in a sable-lined dressgown was striding toward him, eyes wide and a world away. The Sheriff was muttering to himself, or rambling perhaps, though his thin lips were barely moving. The skin stretched tight around his skull and neck, and the silver throughout his hair caught the light in a way that defined his every move.

He stopped abruptly, aware that he almost collided with Guy’s chest. De Lacy’s eyes sharpened rudely, and Guy felt instantly unwanted.

“Sheriff.”

“Yes,” de Lacy cleared his throat. “How keen of you.”

The baron slid past him, waving him off wildly with one wrist, and disappeared around a corner.

Guy intended on saying “Enjoy your evening, Sheriff.” For whatever reason, by the time it came out of his mouth it had turned into, “Fuck you, old man.”

The men of the Nottingham Guard slowly filled the great volume of the dining hall, minus those on duty. Barely a hundred. A small army in the right hands, but it meant a great many empty benches, with some of the longtables entirely barren. Guy couldn’t help but shake the feeling that even a complement such as this was but a skeleton crew.

With Arable nowhere in immediate sight, Guy let himself get distracted by dinner. The men of his elite Captain’s Regiment had claimed the table closest to the raging main hearth, and he happily joined them. As he approached, the huge brute Morg stood and barked out, “The Captain on hand!”

The others stood even as Guy shot them down. “Sit your asses down unless you mean me to spank them.”

“What honor have we done, that we are so richly rewarded with as prestigious a visitor as the Captain?” Reginold of Dunmow was so good with a bow it made up for his need to use every word he knew every time he spoke.

“Don’t waste my time, Dunmow,” Guy responded, “or I won’t be able to get to your mother by sundown.”

“His mother’s dead,” whined Bolt, the lame-legged runt of their group, so nicknamed for the crossbow he preferred.