A rare English day, warm enough to ease the constant chill in his bones. Soft wind blew the stench of coal fires and raw iron up the steep slope to the lower bailey. Nottingham Castle stretched its stone turrets to the sky, snagging an occasional cloud. Inside the bailey, booths and stalls crowded close to the walls. An air of festive chaos reigned. Vendors hawked their wares, boasting of the freshest eels, the finest pastries, the most beautiful silks. Restless, Guy moved to a small square where jugglers performed, dancers moved to the music of flutes and lyres, wrestlers sweated and strained; a trained bear with a wide leather collar danced clumsily to a tune from a gittern. It amused Guy only for a short time before he moved on; waiting always scoured his temper. He climbed the circular stairs to the outer walls. Mail-clad sentries patrolled the battlements, far removed from the excitement, sullen eyes forced to watch it. Guy felt no sympathy for them; by Matins, most of them would be drunk on new ale and puking in their boots.
