Free Juliana Garnett by The Quest Page B

appointed by the king to collect fees from the barons and their tenants. Aye, Rolf had clashed more than once with Sir Ralf of Ridel, a sheriff of Lincolnshire. Corrupt and greedy, Sir Ralf had raised the fees to an exorbitant amount, claiming that the value of land had increased extensively. Bluntly refusing to pay, Rolf had appealed the fees. He had not truly expected John to listen, as it was well-known the king took his share of the increased fees, but he had hoped to force him into a public position of either admitting his hand in the extortion, or conceding the fees were too high. It had not worked.
    In retribution the sheriff had accused two of Rolf’s knights of offenses they had not committed, then condemned them to trial by ordeal. It was in direct defiance of King Henry’s ordinance limiting the employment of that mode of trial instead of a sworn jury.
    Yet the more Rolf protested to the crown, the more vengeful Sir Ralf became. If not for the fact that the king needed his barons and their trained knights in his service, Sir Ralf would have been allowed even more freedom in his depredations. But John did need his barons. Without them he could not wage war. If they chose not to send men, they were required to pay a scutage, or fine, in their place. With those fines John could afford to hire mercenaries to fight for the crown.
    Foreign mercenaries in England.…
It chilled the blood to think of those men loosed on English subjects. John did not consider what would happen if ever those mercenaries decided to turn on him should he be unable to pay. Even a dog would fight for food, more loyal to his stomach than to a hated master.
    Rolf looked down at his favored mastiff, curled up on the floor next to him with the tip of its tail touching its nose. Stretching out his legs to the fire, Rolf rubbed absently at his thigh. An old wound ofttimes pained him, a reminder of a battle long past. There were many such old scars on hisbody, yea, and new ones as well. ’Twas the legacy of men trained up to fight.
    Yet the wounds that had left no scars still pained him most. His hand tightened into a fist, and he saw in the dancing flames the face of a small boy gazing back at him over a mailed shoulder. Would Justin ever forget that his father had failed him? Nay, ’twas unlikely. Time stretched endlessly for children, until it became a blur of vague impressions. Only a few memories stood out, and it was those sharpest that pained the most.
    He should know. Hadn’t his own father left behind painful memories of abandonment and betrayal? Rolf could recall few times he had felt safe or loved. After the death of his mother there had been only long days of fear and misery. It wasn’t until he had come of age to be a page in the service of the Earl of Whiteville that he had begun to feel as if he had any control of his life. His father had taken an interest in him again when he had shown exceptional ability as a squire, and thence become a knight.
    Now he could better understand his father’s position. With two older sons as heirs, there had been little reason to shower a small boy with attention. A third son inherited little enough as it was, but as a knight of some consequence, he’d finally gained his sire’s notice. Little matter that it had come so late; he had reveled in it. As he had reveled in the honors he’d earned on the battlefield and in the tournament lists. Until he had earned a title, he’d carried on his standards the image of a dragon, which he still wore. It had seemed more fitting to bear that standard, the snarling beast of legend that his ancestors had carved upon their shields and weapons. The sign of the dragon had long meant yielding no quarter, as when the dragon-ships bringing Northmen of old had stormed England’s shores with no mercy.
    King Richard had thought the standard fitting as well when he had granted Rolf the earldom of Dragonwyck. For loyal service in the thwarting of a plot against him by