“When can we leave the city?” I asked.
Allan and Kate looked to each other. “Before dark would be best,” Kate said. “Or tomorrow, but I think it’s better to leave before that.”
I nodded. “Where can we get horses?”
Allan just smiled.
We stole the horses. Sort of. They were horses that the mob had stolen from the palace the night before, and it were a simple thing for Allan to start a brawl until those that stole them were all a bit busy.
And yet, if my blood were to be believed, I were at least in part the rightful owner of those horses.
Which were fair stranger than stealing them, in truth.
Kate gave me a cloak, and her father gave us a sack of food for our travels. We rode at a much slower pace than David and I had the night before. The roads were full of people now, traveling to and from London. It weren’t a happy sight—people were worn and broken, tattered and tired. I felt foolish to be on a horse.
And yet I were worn and broken too. Every bump in the road were agony to my bones, and beyond any pain, I were just weary. Weary and so aware that the only place I wanted to be were in Nottingham, and this road were taking me in the wrong direction.
We passed by Windsor, and I kept my cloak up and my head down. Not like any of the nobles were on the road with us—God knows there would have been a bigger fuss if so—but still.
When we went through Runnymede, a gorgeous piece of royal forest that the road slashed across, all bright green hills and sun dappling through gray clouds, a troop of knights came galloping through. People dashed to get out of their way, and I led my horse off the road, sliding off his back as they passed. Their cloaks snapped out behind them, and I saw the royal banner on their clothes.
They might have been Eleanor’s knights. But they might have been Prince John’s too.
So I kept my head down.
We got to Silchester just before nightfall. It were a large town but not large enough to be called a city; it stood at the crossroads that led all over England, and they were very particular about closing their gates at nightfall to keep out vagabonds and unwanted travelers. We managed to shuffle into the town with a large group as they began to lower the portcullis.
It weren’t until the gate were full shut that I saw the royal knights, and my heart seized in a panic.
“Stay close, my lady,” David said.
I nodded, and Allan nodded once at me.
There were two knights, and they were directing people to the well in the center of town. There were a man there, standing on a small box and holding a parchment with seals flapping off it. I frowned.
“The King of England, Richard the Lionheart, has been captured. For the release of our noble king, the Holy Roman Emperor has demanded a sum of 65,000 pounds of silver.”
I gasped, and I weren’t the only one. The amount were ungodly high.
“To pay for this, the queen mother has instituted a tax on the people of England; one quarter of your income and the value of your holdings is now due to the Crown of England.”
I could bare hear him. People started to cry, to shout and wail. The knights banged on their shields until people began to quiet. “Good God,” I breathed.
“Your overlord will collect this tax from you,” he shouted. “And they will in turn pay that money to the Crown.”
He stepped off the platform and people’s voices began to rise, protesting and yelling and crying.
Two knights began to shuffle him out, around the people, paying no mind to the violence that were about to start. “Where are the nobles?” I asked Allan.
His shoulders lifted. “Not here.”
Someone threw something at one of the knights that were still standing by the well, and he rocked backward—it were a clod of dirt, and other than leaving a smear on his armor, it didn’t do any damage.
The knight beside him drew his sword and stepped into the crowd. The people parted, and a hush spread, making it loud and awful when someone screamed.
I pushed forward fast and hard, but the people were a solid mass, and I couldn’t get far before David grabbed me, hauling me back.
“Let me go!” I yelled at him. “Let me—”
David clapped his hand over my mouth. “You’re dead,” he told me. “Do not let yourself be blinded by the suffering of one person, my lady. You must think of the suffering of England itself.”
He swung me around so I couldn’t see, but people gasped as the screams changed to deep, awful sobs. I clawed at his hand on my mouth until he trapped my hands as well.
“Stop, my lady!” he growled.
“Please!” someone yelled, and I turned. There were a priest there, and he were ushering people to the church. “Please, let us turn to God!” he cried.
People moved. People started going into the church, quiet and frightened now, and I saw what had happened.