Chapter Text
Guy sometimes wondered how he had gotten himself into all this mess and where it all started. He hadn't gotten to the root of it, but he had come to the conclusion that there were certainly several sources, and one of them was - he hadn't believed it at first - but his place of employment! He was the steward of Hugo de Rainault, the abbot of St Mary's in Rufford, with all the hustle and bustle that came with that job. He himself was not particularly eager to go there, to put it mildly, but at that moment he had no other option at all, and he had to live on something and somewhere.
The glorious county of Nottingham, where Guy found himself by the will of fate, was, although a remote province on the outskirts, but nevertheless there was a royal residence with extensive hunting grounds in the form of Sherwood Forest. And on its territory was not only the Rufford monastery, but also the capital of the county itself. Moreover, it was one of the very good sources of income for the treasury. The forest, in the sense, is not a city - as it turned out later, you won’t make much money from it.
Strictly speaking, St. Mary's Abbey was in Sherwood Forest, but not all of it, and the most significant chunk of the monastery's lands were outside of it. But, as it turned out later, it didn't matter, since a rather large section of the abbey's lands was located just within the boundaries of this damned reserve.
And if there is a forest somewhere, then, accordingly, there are poachers. Even if this very forest is one and a half birches and an old rotten stump in the swamp, there are still at least five poachers there, and they are guaranteed to have a cache under the stump. Guy comprehended this simple truth as a child in his native land, and here he only became convinced of its correctness and, one might say, its inviolability. As well as in the fact that the Saxons are Evil. Well, in any case and under any circumstances, and rare unexpected exceptions... it's just that not everything came out at once, and somewhere a big and dead badger is buried. And if suddenly it's not buried, then it means they dug badly.
This very Saxon malice was especially strong in regard to the royal law. So much so that it was impossible to bypass or go around. The original inhabitants of England, as they called themselves (it is unclear on what basis), generally had their own, very specific, view on law and order, and sometimes even tried to forget about it in various ways.
The law did not even think of forgetting about them, and as a result of this clash, such precedents occurred that you could take out the saints. Looking at this obscenity, Guy got the impression that the Saxons by nature were generally incapable of understanding that the law is the law, and they violate it, and, apparently, when God divided honor and conscience among people, the Saxons at that very time stormed the counter where they distributed impudence. In Guy’s native land, there were also plenty of such cases, because even there they had their own concepts and ideas about law and order. But only here in Nottingham did he realize the true scope of this disaster.
And he also realized that he personally was also destined for a role in this whole farce, as it later turned out, one of the most disgusting. And they made it clear to him so clearly that there was nowhere else to go. It all happened soon after he assumed the position of steward at Hugo de Rainault...
Their Grace the Abbot was angry for some unknown reason, and therefore it was not recommended to approach him closer than five steps, as Helen of Troy, not because the charm would disappear, but to avoid bodily harm of varying degrees of severity. To show up without first asking for an audience — also.
Guy, however, decided to take a risk, the question was very difficult and concerned not something personal, but directly the service, and therefore directly the benefit of the abbot.
—What the... are you coming without permission?
—Excuse me, my lord, but I need to know what to do with poachers.
—What? What poachers? Explain yourself clearly!
— Yes, I mean the forest next to your property. Well, the one called Lindhurst. And about the poachers in it. Your woodsmen catch them when they see them and for some reason drag them to me.
— Gisburne, what kind of nonsense are you talking?
— My lord, I... er... nonsense?... In what sense? — Guy, in his naivety at that moment, did not even suspect that without direct sanction from the prior, or rather from the abbot himself, the woodsmen would never have done this. That is, at all.
— Have you not heard of the forest assizes?
— Why? I even read it myself.
— Well, what is written there?
—A... uh... m... so... “This is an assize of the sovereign King Henry, son of Matilda, in England, about his reserved forest and hunting, written on the advice and with the consent of archbishops, bishops and barons, counts and nobles of England in Woodstock... First of all, the king forbids anyone to violate his rights in any way in relation to his hunting and his forests, and does not want to rely on the fact that he has hitherto taken a fine with their property from those who violated his rights regarding his hunting and his forests. For if anyone should commit this offence against him in future and be convicted of it, the king wishes to exercise over him the full judicial power that was exercised in the time of King Henry, his grandfather…”
Guy looked ahead, recalling the further text of the assize, and did not notice how the abbot, frozen with a cup in his hand and blinking his eyes, stared straight at him.
— “Further, he forbids that anyone should have bows and arrows and dogs and falcons in his forests, unless he has the king as a surety or someone else who could…”
Suddenly Hugo de Rainault snapped out of his stupor and barked at the top of his voice, so loud that Guy's ears were blocked:
— Gisburne, stop this farce at once!
And then he added more calmly:
— And remember the amendments of our most gracious King Richard and the order of the sheriff that follows from them. Remember my brother's order in particular. And in future, do not ask stupid questions, but think with your own heads!
—But it’s not ours, that is, not your jurisdiction! Let de Caus’s people catch them... What do we have to do with it?
—We have something to do with it! Don't you understand anything at all, Gisburne?
— Eh?.. But, my lord abbot, I am only your steward, not the royal forester. And not even yours. I mean, forester. You don't have any at all.
— It's you, Gisburne, who have no brains at all, not me, the forester.
— But, my lord...
Of course, they didn't let him finish:
— Shut your mouth and listen to what I'm telling you. You are my steward, and I am the abbot of this monastery. Do you get the connection?
— But…
— In essence, you are a steward at the monastery, and if part of the monastery lands is on the territory of the royal reserve, then this is also part of your direct responsibilities. And the question of what to do with poachers should not be asked by you, but by me.
— But I thought that…
The abbot turned red as a boiled lobster
— Have you thought? You do not know how to think, Gisburne! In your performance, any thought process turns into not just simple stupidity, which can still be somehow tolerated, but into harmful stupidity. So it's your job to keep your mouth shut and follow my orders
— But… when you hired me, this was not discussed and you don't pay me for this!
— God, give me patience! — the abbot groaned in agony, rolling his eyes somewhere in the direction of the ceiling beam, although the crucifix was hanging in a completely different place. — You, Gisburne, receive a salary as a manager, and this is Primo. By the way, are you familiar with this word? Do you know what it means?
— Yes, my lord, abbot, I was taught Latin. Primo means “first”… — Guy said, modestly lowering his eyes, but inside he was quite shocked by the churchman’s question.
Hugo de Rainault meanwhile grimaced considerably and after a meaningful pause said deliberately loudly and distinctly, probably so that the acolytes behind the door could also hear:
— I repeat once again for the especially smart ones — you are already being paid. What the hell else do you need besides this money? A priestly rank? Why are you staring at me like that? Secundo — the monastery received a license to use part of Sherwood for the abbey's economic needs. In return, we are now obliged to pray day and night for the soul of our benefactor in the person of His Majesty the King of England, maintain order in the territory entrusted to us, and perform the duties of an agister. Tertio - since we're talking, I pay you for your work, that is, for you to perform your duties, and not for your adventures.
— Yes, my lord abbot, but...
Guy sighed, noting to himself that apparently everything has eyes and ears here, and not just in the monastery and like to report - don’t feed them bread directly. What a vile people they are, although what did he want from the Saxons?
However, his thoughts immediately jumped to something else, and he wondered when and how the monastery managed to get hold of such a tricky license? And did Abbot Hugo do all this through his brother? Or did they already have the paper from the time of Alan de Neville? But if so, how did they manage it, because he would have hanged himself before issuing such a permit? And Geoffrey Fitzpeter is no better. And the de Caus family is essentially the same thing, only the chimney is lower and the smoke is thinner. And most importantly ...
- But ... what should I do?
He was not given a direct and clear answer to this question:
- Get out of my sight, idiot! And get down to business, not some nonsense, as usual!
— But…
— I'll excommunicate you!
— For what? I'm not…
— Out! — and an empty wine jug flew towards Guy, which he managed to dodge with difficulty.
So Guy had to take on the duties of not only the manager of Hugo de Rainault's personal estates, but also the monastery's forester. And he had to organize effective protection of the forests in the shortest possible time and at all costs, not only in the abbot's possessions outside the borders of Sherwood Forest, but also constant patrolling of the part located in the royal reserve. And the “catch” should be delivered to the Sheriff of Nottingham, since he allocated half a dozen soldiers from the garrison to help. True, he did this only after a huge scandal with his brother and the threat of excommunication from the church himself ...
Robert de Rainault, of course, always grimaced a lot that he had to deal with such things, but where else to put the captured poachers? Hand them over to de Caus's people? Well, go and catch them in their service ... Well, must he go to Laxton for this? Although it is closer, but even in this case all the criminals will still end up in the pit of Nottingham Castle, because the sheriff sits in Nottingham. And if you consider that the abbey, having received a license, itself became in some sense the "royal forester", then... and then, if you want something to be done somehow, not to mention well, then it is easier and faster to do it yourself.
How they had managed this before was not clear to Guy, but he had an idea that they hadn't really managed it: the abbey's woodtsmen only looked after their own areas, and each did it as best he could, and in general, did what he could. And the prior didn't coordinate their actions in any way, because he had enough responsibilities without that. The royal foresters were only seen here when Prince John came to Clipstone and a big hunt was organized. In general, they had managed to cope with the situation as best they could, that is, in most cases, they had turned a blind eye (for bribes, of course), because there was no other way to explain all this poaching. And those who did not support the “generally accepted norm”, as it turned out, did not stay in the position for long, and it’s good if only in the position.
But now the responsibility for taking care of all this has been made the responsibility of the new manager, Abbot de Rainault - Guy of Gisborne. And he was not only a diligent and responsible person, but also energetic, decisive, honest and principled. And so it turned out that he became the most terrible scarecrow of all the local poachers, and for free, which was the most unpleasant thing for him. And by the end of the month he was nicknamed Forester Guy.
The funniest thing in this story was that the abbot was the first to begin to reproach him with this very nickname, but Guy no longer paid attention to such trifles - he already had enough worries.
