Seventy Times Seven

Then Peter came to him and said "Lord, how oft should my brother sin against me and I forgive him? Until seven times?" Jesus saith unto him "I say not unto thee until seven times, but until seventy times seven". ~ Matt 18:21-22

Will did not have the faintest idea what the bloody fuck was going on, but whatever it was, he was damned if he was just going to sit around and wait for it to happen. Everything had been strange since Marion had hied herself off to her nunnery, leaving the rest of them to stumble on as they could. Well, leaving Robin to stumble: the man had barely been able to think in a straight sodding line since she'd gone. Even Will's best remedy for ills of the heart hadn't helped much: Robin had drunk himself senseless, blubbed on Will's shoulder like a girl, and woken up the next morning with a hangover the size of France and a shamefaced expression. Nasir had growled something at both of them in Arabic – and just why in all hells the man didn't use English like a proper person when he spoke it well enough was beyond Will at the best of times – and taken Robin off and dunked him in the river until he came up spluttering and sober. Robin had not been able to look Will in the eyes for two days after that. Nasir, who never had trouble meeting anyone's gaze, had done enough glaring for them both.

They really ought to have been celebrating, and Marion be damned. Silly chit would come to her senses eventually: she wouldn't last two seasons locked up behind Halstead's walls with nothing to do but embroider and play with kittens, or whatever it was that noble-born novice nuns did. In the meantime, there was Sir bleeding Guy of sodding Gisburne's terribly unfortunate demise to gloat over, and Will found it downright unsettling how little gloating they'd got done. This was Gisburne, after all: the man who had made their lives hell – well, awkward – for nigh on three years. Surely that merited a drinking session or two, and never mind what Naz thought. If you could even tell what Naz thought. He might chatter like a bloody jackdaw to Robin (Will doubted that, actually, but apparently the man did talk) but he barely said a word to anyone else. Will found his imperious silence frustrating. It was hard to start a decent argument with a man who wouldn't even yell back.

He'd have argued with John, just for something to do, if John hadn't been mooning around like a lost puppy as well, and all because Meg had gone off the idea of sitting on her bum watching sheep. Bloody pathetic was what that was. Anyone would think these idiots had never dallied with a girl before and had it turn bad. For hell's sake, it wasn't as if anyone

(Elena)

had actually died.

More's the fucking pity. Still, there was always hope. The King's Constable up in Lincolnshire might decide to have Gisburne hanged, yet. That thought made Will rather cheerful.

What was not cheering, though, was that Robin had sloped off again on another of his secret forays. He'd been doing that lately, sneaking about like a cutpurse looking for a pocket to pick … or a rat looking for a ship to abandon. That set Will's teeth on edge: Robin had been secretive before, but never furtive. This time he'd taken Nasir with him – thick as thieves, those two, all of a fucking sudden – and Will liked that even less. If Robin was secretive, Nasir was downright impossible. Push Robin into a corner and he just got haughty and commanding, bloody earl's son talking down to the servants. Push Nasir and you took the chance of ending up dead. Well, not dead, maybe – Will had known the Saracen for enough years and been through enough shades of hell with him to call the man a friend, and Naz didn't make a habit of knocking off his mates (though there was that one time, with that Sarak fellow, but necessity could be a hard bitch like that). But he had no qualms about setting them on their arses if he thought they were getting their noses too far into his business. All of which made finding out what the bloody fuck was going on rather difficult, but it didn't mean that Will wasn't going to try.

"They're holding him in Newark." Robin kicked unhappily at a moss-covered log, sending splinters of rotted wood flying. "In the common cells. Brewer's petitioning the king for his head."

Nasir only nodded, sitting cross-legged in a fall of pale autumn sun. He removed a stray clump of wood pulp from his trews with a fastidious flick of one hand, and gave his companion a flat, eloquent look. Robin sighed and left the log alone. He slumped back against a tree instead.

"The king will probably give it to him too, given Brewer's claim that Gisburne lost the grain on purpose in an effort to undermine Lackland's bloody campaign. As if Gisburne's interested in Wales. As if anyone's interested in Wales."

Well, Nasir thought, that was probably true. Wales was rather grim.

"Which means Gisburne doesn't stand a chance unless someone makes Brewer – or the king – a better offer."

Nasir slanted him a knowing look. "You mean coin."

"And a lot of it." Robin scowled briefly, shoving himself away from the tree and stalking about in a circle. Nasir sat where he was, head cocked attentively, and watched him. The younger man paced briefly, then stopped on the spot and spun back to face his friend, making a hard slashing gesture with one hand. "It's ridiculous. Gisburne can't raise money like that, not with his miserable estates –assuming he still has them, which I doubt; they've most likely been made forfeit to the Crown, given how grasping our good King John's been lately. De Rainault won't pay: he as good as sold Gisburne to Brewer in the first place in return for salvaging his own damnable reputation after that sorry mess at Grimstone. And if Guy has friends, I've never heard of them."

So, it was Guy now, was it? Nasir raised his eyebrows at that and said nothing. Everything about the other man seemed sharp with frustration, but Nasir, who had caught the unease in his voice and the uncertainty in his eyes, knew Robin too well for that. He was edgy about something: that was as plain as day. It only remained to be seen what that something was. That Robin would come out with it, Nasir did not doubt. Franks were appalling at keeping things to themselves, and in any case, Robin told him most things in the end.

Robin looked hard at Nasir, then came and sprawled beside him on the rock-strewn ground. "It's maddening. It's Gisburne. I've half a mind – more than half a mind, sometimes – to let him hang and be damned."

Which meant that he also half a mind to save the wretch's life. Nasir found that interesting. In a deliberately unconcerned tone, he said, "Gisburne has much to answer for. His fate is not our concern."

"Inshallah, you mean?"

Nasir shrugged, said nothing. After a moment, Robin sighed and pushed one hand through his fair hair, setting it all awry. It made him look even younger than he was: an earnest and ill-kempt boy playing at outlaws.

"Sweet Jesú, Malik, you're a wonder, you know that?" He sounded half resentful, half amused. "You've been listening to me go on about Gisburne for a sennight and more, and not once asked why. It would be the obvious question, you know – why do I care?" Robin looked at him sidelong, canny about the edges. "For any other man it would be."

"You'll tell me," Nasir said calmly, as if it were of no import. "Or you won't. A question is of no use until a man is ready to answer."

Robin snorted. "I can just imagine campfire conversation amongst your people. Must be the quietest thing in the world."

"Actually, no." Nasir roused himself to cast the other man a quick, white smile. "We sing, and argue, and contest in poetry. But pointless questions we avoid."

"Poetry," Robin said dubiously, giving his friend a skeptical look. He was answered by an elegant dip of Nasir's dark head.

"Oh, yes."

"And song."

"Yes."

"Liar."

"No." Nasir's lips quirked in the way that Robin had come to know meant laughter. "I do not lie. For, surely, truth is beloved of Allah."

Robin thought about that for a moment. Then he said, very quietly, his gaze fixed on his own hands as if they were the most fascinating things in the world, "He's my brother."

Silence met that, and a sudden stillness that made the air seem to quiver in anticipation.

"Nasir?" Robin frowned and glanced up, apprehensive. The dark-eyed intensity of the other man's gaze made him swallow, dry-mouthed. A rabbit must feel like this, he thought, when the hawk's shadow passes over. He tried to shake it off. "Malik?"

"Gisburne is." Very flat, and oddly emphatic. Robin wondered what to make of that. He nodded, unsure.

"He doesn't know it. No one does, except…Well, Tuck does, I think, and Lady Gisburne, but she's dead. And I suppose Lord Edmond knew he was played for a cuckold, even if he didn't know by whom. I only found out by accident, at Croxden. The abbey. You remember?" God's teeth, he was babbling. He made himself stop.

"Tuck knows?"

"I think so. But he won't say anything," Robin replied quickly. "Whatever he knows was told to him under the seal of Confessional, and he won't break that."

Another odd Frankish custom: to tell one's transgressions in secret, as if that made them less ill. Nasir, though, had more pressing concerns than trying to understand aspects of the Christian ritual. He tilted his head, watching Robin carefully. "Tell me."

"What?"

"How?"

Robin blinked. "How? The… Well, the usual way, I expect. My father was besotted with the Lady Gisburne. Her husband, Lord Edmond of Gisburne, had taken the Cross and disappeared in the Holy Land, and everyone thought him dead. My father courted Lady Gisburne, she received him, and … well …"

Nasir snorted and made a small, complicated gesture with one hand. "An old story." And so it was: absent husband, young wife, courtly lover … and then an unexpected return and shame upon all their houses. In his land, blood feuds had been started over less. "So Gisburne does not know. And your father?"

"Sweet Jesú, no! And I pray he never finds out."

Nasir narrowed his eyes, surprised at Robin's answer, and the fervour behind it. That the Earl was unaware he'd fathered a son on his paramour made the man, in Nasir's opinion, either extremely careless or impressively obtuse – most men, in his experience, could count to nine and know. And a man should acknowledge his mistakes, bastards amongst them. He did not say that, though. There was such a thing as good manners, even when one was lurking in an infidel forest discussing adultery with an idealistic young Frank possessed of a conscience and no sense of irony at all. Robin was still talking.

"No, think about it. Gisburne might be bastard born, but he's of good blood on both sides. And if my father knew, and he acknowledged him, that could be enough to let Gisburne inherit. Especially with me out of the way." Robin made a sound that might have been a laugh, if it hadn't been edged in stone. "Hellfire, William of Normandy was a duke's by-blow and he ended up King of England! But Gisburne as the Earl of Huntingdon?" He shuddered. "The idea leaves me cold."

There was a certain sense to that, Nasir could concede – and not only because no man liked to see his birthright usurped. Huntingdon was a seat of some power, linked to the throne of Scotland, and Gisburne had shown himself to be a man not to be trusted with that. Power was a privilege, to be wielded wisely and well or not at all. Gisburne would never understand that. One need only look at who his teachers had been.

"So, he is your brother." The Saracen gave a minimal hitch of one shoulder that was both accepting and somehow dismissive, as if to show that mattered only so far. "He is also your enemy. Think you the one removes the other?"

"Jesú, I wish it did. I wish it were that simple." Robin sighed, kicking at a stray chunk of stone with the heel of his boot as if it were the source of his troubles. "Then we could go our separate ways and be done. Then I wouldn't have to care."

That made Nasir twitch his lips in a smile, quickly hidden: the one thing Robin could never master was indifference. This young Frank was passionate about everything; it made him beautiful, but wore him thin – especially of late, what with him looking for any deserving cause he could find to take his mind from the woman he had lost. Nasir only hoped that he would not burn himself to ash with the strength of his own fire; clearly Robin needed to learn how to bank the flames. He said, "Your care is to your credit, sadiqi. I doubt Gisburne loses sleep for fretting over you."

"Of course not. He doesn't know."

"No, he does not know," Nasir agreed. And then, because it needed to be said, "Truly, for him, do you believe it would matter if he did?"

Ah. Now, there was the hard question, the one that Robin had been avoiding. He tore a handful of leaves from a low bush, and set to shredding them into small strips. "This is Gisburne. Nothing matters to him, except himself."

"It matters to you. Blood is strong. It calls, whether we will it or no."

"Not that strong." Robin looked up sharply, expression scornful. "Trust me, I'm hardly going to fall into his arms and weep for joy at our newly found fraternity."

"No?" A clear hard glimmer of approval went with that, and, beneath it, something both more gentle and less kind. "I am pleased to hear it. He is not worthy of your tears."

Robin's breath caught at the low throb of the other man's tone; he dropped his eyes swiftly before they could betray him. "Don't, Malik." He is not; she

(Marion)

is not: it was not a stretch. There was not really a difference.

Nasir said nothing, only waited. Hearts, he knew, mended in their own time. It hurt to watch this man struggle, to see him flail and fail and try, but there was nothing else he could do. He had never been one for comfort and sympathy: he had always found action the best cure for wounds of the soul. A hard ride on a good horse, a day's long hunt, a war, an ambush, an enemy – all of them better than sitting and thinking on what had been lost. Robin, though – ah, Robin needed something other from him than that. Kind words, a friend's warm embrace. Nasir would have given those things to him too, if he'd only been a stronger man … or if Robin had not been able to see through and through him with those bright pale eyes. After a moment, he reached over, touching his fingers, light and brief, to the pulse point of Robin's throat.

"Robert."

The young man stirred, drew a deep breath that twisted a little at the end, and went on as if nothing had happened. A blackbird fluttered to the ground near the log he had kicked and started pecking about in the debris for grubs. Robin watched it as he spoke, as if it were the last bird in the world. "I don't expect Gisburne to weep either, or to welcome this if he finds out. He'd see it as another betrayal, another way in which he's been denied what should have been his, with me and mine at the heart of it. I think … Sweet saints help me, but I think I'd rather he never even knew."

What should have been his. Nasir considered that, eyes thoughtful. "Rob," he said, finally. "The blame is not yours. You know that. Yes?"

Nasir might have been talking about Gisburne, or he might not. Robin, after all, had the habit of blaming himself for many things, displaced half-brothers and misplaced loves not least. If he'd only gone to Halstead sooner, before Marion could ride to the Wheel and make her foul discovery, or if he'd not sent her to the priory in the first place … but no. What-if was a game for fools. In that much, at least, Robin knew his Saracen friend was right. Nasir never bothered with maybes and might-have-beens. Here and now, he would say, was enough for any man to contend with.

"I know. I do. That's not it." He grimaced, fisted one hand in the damp leaf mould of the forest floor and flung the handful of dead leaves away in a burst of irritation. The blackbird froze, then threw itself skyward, whistling in alarm. "You wouldn't understand."

Nasir's shoulders stiffened imperceptibly at that. He frowned faintly, drawing almost invisibly away. "As you say."

"Shit." Robin swore, grimaced again. Damn the man for being so blasted touchy – and damn himself, too, for so often saying the wrong things. He reached out, laid a hand on the other man's arm. "No, Malik, wait. That came out wrong. But this doesn't even make sense to me; how can I expect it make sense to you? How can you understand me when I don't understand myself? I have to say this, though, and I can't say it to anyone but you. I meant no offence. I'm sorry."

First there was stillness, and then Nasir relaxed, offering him a graceful nod that was not quite a bow. "Al'afwan, sadiqi. So, if you do not blame yourself, why does this trouble your heart?"

Robin thought of telling the other man that his heart had nothing to do with it, then decided that would be worse. It would be a lie, and Nasir would know and give him that cool, disappointed look and say nothing, and Robin would feel small and stupid for the rest of the day. This man, after all, was not someone he lied to. There was so much between them that had to go unsaid: it would be highest folly to taint what they could say with untruth. He shrugged, conceding. "It's something Will said. And, I suppose, something you said too."

Nasir's brow creased in puzzlement. "I?"

"Blood is strong." Robin mimicked his Saracen friend's inflection and accent perfectly, and grinned briefly at the other man's amused glance. But then he repeated the words in his own voice, and their shared levity faltered and died. "Blood is strong."

"Ah." There was a dawning comprehension in Nasir's eyes, and a low hint of regret in his tone. He thought he knew what was coming. Robin braced himself and let go.

"Will told me once – more than once, truth be told – that Gisburne and I are the same. That he's a nobleman and I'm an earl's son and that makes us the same. Because we come of the same stock. And he's right, about the stock at least, and wouldn't that make a cat laugh?"

"Rob…"

"But here's the thing, Malik. If he's right about that, what if he's right about the other?" Robin's voice had an edge to it now, caught between pleading and ready to howl. The words came faster, running out of him like blood. "Gisburne is my father's son, and look at him! Cruel, vindictive, corrupt, lacking any feeling for those beneath him, or for anyone at all, for that matter. And if he can be my brother and be so … so … warped, so twisted away from anything noble and good, and the only difference is that I grew up in my father's household and he didn't …"

"Rob, no."

"… then how easily could I be him? Or become him? Because I think of who he is and what he is and I can't help but wonder, if the tables had been turned and he was the favoured son and I was the bastard cast-off, how much would we be the same? The same blood runs in him as runs in me – does the same darkness run there too?" Blue eyes, murky and raw, found Nasir's and clung with the need of a drowning man. "Hell's teeth, Malik, how much are he and I the same?"

There was no answer, only steady dark eyes staring back in a still, grave face. Robin could feel his heart kicking hard, his breath ragged as if he'd just run a mile. He was sure he was flushing like a fool. The intensity of Nasir's silent scrutiny was too much, of a sudden: he turned his face away.

No, Rob. Never hide your face from me.

Strong fingers caught him by the chin, gently and firmly lifting his face back into the light. The dappled sun of the forest, green and gold, fell over his features, making his pale hair seem almost, softly, to glow. Nasir's eyes were unreadable, fiercely intense. They searched his own, scouring him away layer by layer. Robin waited, hardly breathing. In his chest, his heart clenched and ached.

At last Nasir smiled, very faintly, and his eyes softened. His hand brushed, almost an accident, down Robin's neck, then went to his shoulder, clasping warm and tight. "No, Rob," he said, low and very sure. "No. There is no resemblance."

And again, Robin found he had to look away.

Sir Guy of Gisburne's experience of prisons was extensive. He had seen dungeons and deep cells, open pits and oubliettes, and cast peasants and thieves and uppity serfs into all of them. He had seen the Tower of London and heard of the confinement of kings. He had never, though, been held prisoner himself before now. Not for any length of time, at least.

When he had first been cast into the dank, stinking cell that had been his whole world now for more than a month, he had fought and raged. He was a

(worthless bastard)

knight of the realm, after all: he deserved better than this. His surroundings left something to be desired. Mouldering hay to sleep on, the type of kitchen swill he would not have inflicted on swine, appalling company, and not even a bucket to shit in – it was enough to make a man feel like an animal.

Guy had been an animal, at Grimstone. Or half an animal, at least: a badly cured wolfskin and a horde of half-mad Welshmen had not made him forget entirely that he was human – but battered pride and betrayal and a head full of thoughts as jagged and discordant as broken pottery had not done much to remind him of that, either. Now he wondered what in blazes he had been thinking, and cursed Robin Hood with a whole and hating heart. It was his fault that Gisburne was here; if that filthy wolfshead had not stolen the grain in the first place, Brewer would never have threatened de Rainault, and de Rainault would never have thrown him – almost literally, as it turned out – to the wolves.

Raging had helped, to start with. It had made Guy feel more himself, given him some outlet for the howling tangle of emotions he had locked inside. It had not swayed the guards, though. They had responded with blows and curses, which had been bad, and later with derision and laughter, which had been far worse. When it became clear to Guy that threats and outrage would not work, he had tried to be reasonable, sweetly rational, calm. This, he told the guards, was all a mistake, most surely, and as soon as de Rainault came to his senses or the king heard of this injustice, he would be released, and then he would favour any man who helped him and hunt down any who did not. The guards listened and nodded – and did nothing. Guy had even asked that he be given provisions to write a message, with some vague and desperate idea that Abbot Hugo might ransom him, in view of his past service. They had let him write, but nothing had come of it. Gisburne wondered if they had even bothered to find a courier. He was not sure what was worse: the idea that they had not, or the idea that they had, and that Hugo was as happy as his brother the Sheriff to let him hang.

After that, he had been reduced to begging. He pleaded with whoever would listen, made wild promises of coin, of wealth he didn't have, of eternal and undying gratitude and a seat in Heaven amongst the saints. His estates were gone, of course, claimed by the king – a run down manor and a handful of weed-choked fields held in fiefdom to the Crown, they had never amounted to much – but he promised them too, and the title that went with them. He offered up his service, his pride, even, God help him, his body, if they would only let him walk free.

He did not want to die.

Gisburne was not a coward, but the thought of death terrified him. Or, more accurately, the thought of what came after. Dying was easy, after all: any fool could die. And pain could be endured. But after the dying, if the Church was right, there would come a judgement, and Guy knew without question that he would be found wanting. How could he not be, with the stains on his soul? His father's sin, his mother's lies, his own defilement and perversity

(use me hard make me hurt)

and ugly, debased needs … how could a loving God, a pure God, ever look on any of that and forgive?

They did not let him walk free. And then, from cruelty or misguided care, one of the guards had told him that Brewer had had word from the king, telling him to deal with his prisoner in any way he saw fit, and Guy stopped doing anything at all. He did not rage, or beg, or bargain. He found a corner, set his face to the wall, and waited for the end.

He missed the sky, he found. That was odd. He had never much noticed the sky in his other life, when he had been free. Now, though, he'd have given his last scrap of dignity for a glimpse of blue shot through with the wisps of cloud the peasants called mare's tails, and perhaps a bird winging across it. A falcon, if he was lucky. Guy had always liked falcons.

He would hang or face the axe, and no one would care. Certainly no one would lift a finger to stop it. And he would die as he had lived: brutish and brutal, unloved and unwanted, and all because he had tried to live the lie he'd been raised to, and to do what duty demanded. But he would die under the open sky at least, and with his head up. That was the last right thing he could do.

There was security in the peaceful round of Halstead's days. Marion found it restful. She had had no such security in Sherwood, where she had never known from one day to the next where she would sleep, or when she might eat, or if she and all her friends would live to see the morrow's dawn. And then had come the day when one of them

(Dying's easy. I'm asking you to live.)

hadn't, and her heart had been shattered along with his body, and she had never yet found all the pieces. Her father had won her a pardon after that, and she had taken it though she had not really wanted it, because she hadn't had the energy to fight. Then another young man had come, all flash and shine and laughter, and an honesty that hurt her soul, and she had dared hope she might find a way to be whole again. In the end, though, she had lacked the courage, and when he had come back from the dead with a hopeful smile and a willing heart, she had turned away and bolted her doors.

Now she lived behind them, and told herself she was content. She slept warm in a bed and, by day, she tended her bees and worked in the herb-scented garden, sheltered by Halstead's broad walls. If her gaze sometimes lifted past those walls to the dark loom of the forest beyond, it meant nothing. There was no bright splash of blond, and she had never seen anyone looking back.

He had tried to visit, twice. She had refused to see him, telling the sisters to turn him away. It was easier that way, for both of them. The second time, he had sent back a message that had made no sense, claiming urgency, begging a favour. She had ignored that too. That had been a clumsy thing, as ploys went; it was almost disappointing.

"There you are, Marion." A tall, austere woman in a dark habit strode across the garden, avoiding the newly-hoed beds. "A letter has come for you." She put a sealed square of rough parchment into Marion's hands. Looking at it, Marion felt a tightening in her midriff. There was only one person who could have written this. She turned her gaze swiftly back to the other woman.

"Who delivered this, Sister?"

"I'm sorry, Marion, he didn't give his name." The woman smiled, making her hard face look briefly softer. "Only the letter, and thanks in advance for my bringing it to you."

"Was he …" Marion paused, thinking. Who of Robin's men would have left no message but what courtesy demanded? "Was he dark? With an odd accent?" It had always surprised her that Nasir was willing to play the errand boy when Robin asked it of him: the man was as proud as Lucifer, otherwise.

"No," the other woman said slowly. "He was a local lad by his voice, young, with good teeth and a ready smile. A pedlar, by the donkey he was leading."

Well, that could have been anyone. It would not have been the first time that Robin – Robert – had charmed some passing traveller into doing what he wanted. Marion nodded and managed a smile. "Thank you, Sister."

What could Robin want from her now?

Marion. Of all the things I might ask of you, this is one you will not expect.

Marion smiled sadly at that, reading from his brief words how carefully he was trying to respect her decision. She went on.

I hope you will not refuse it, because a man's life may be in the balance. Not a good man, but one close to us all the same, and does not our Lord and Saviour teach us to forgive those who sin against us not seven times, but seventy times seven, and that whatsoever we do to the least of our brethren, so we do to Him?

I would ask that you send a missive to the House of my uncle of Scotland, to my cousin Henry FitzRoy. Ask that he come south, to Newark. Tell him that his cousin who climbed the keep at York has need of him, and of his discretion. Tell him too that there is a horse in it for him, a grey he's had his eye on for years.

I would send to him myself, but having been disinherited reduces one's influence, and I do not trust this to a bought courier. I trust this to you, and to your good judgement.

If you would aid me, hang a strip of white cloth from the tall elm at the west wall of the priory when the message is sent. And know that whatever you decide, you are always in my heart.

R.

That last line was written in a tight, cramped hand, as if added at the last moment, before the writer lost his courage or changed his mind. A part of Marion acknowledged that, and wondered how long this would go on hurting. The rest of her read the letter again and wondered what Robin was up to.

Then, quietly, she burned the letter and took out her writing box. Scotland was a fair ride; a courier would have to make haste.

No one remarked when Marion's wimple found its way into the high elm a day or so later, apparently taken there by a gust of wind that had disturbed nothing else. After all, Marion's past was a colourful enough thing for a missing wimple to be neither here nor there.

"I'm telling you, John, he's up to something." Will took a healthy swig from the jar of mead John had offered and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "All the way to bloody Halstead, and all he does is sit in the fucking forest and stare at the walls."

"Have a heart, Will. He's pining for Marion. Any fool can see that." The big man took the mead jar back and set it aside before Will could finish it off. He turned his attention back to the bowstring he was waxing, twisting the thin strands for strength. "Probably just hoping for a sight of her, is all."

Will made a disparaging sound. "That's soft, that is. If he wants t'see her, he'd do better to show some backbone and march up to the gates. Or go over the walls. S'only a bunch of women. What're they going to do? Smack 'im with their needlework?"

"He can't do that, man!" John seemed shocked by the thought. "It's a House of God, that! Can't just barge in. It ain't right. They're brides of Christ."

"Yeah, well, Marion's not, is she?" Will replied, with a sullen scowl. She shouldn't have left them, not if this was what came of it, with Robin sneaking about and moping around the priory and putting everyone at risk. "She's … well, she's Marion."

"She's taken vows, Scarlet." John gave his friend a firm look, rolling up the finished bowstring and putting it in his pouch. He started work on another, his thick fingers deft, trimming and knotting the nocking loops with the ease of long experience. "It means something, does that. She's made her choice, and Robin and us'll just have to deal with it. Give him some time, that's all."

"We don't bloody have time!" Will thrust himself to his feet and reclaimed the mead jar. He took another swallow, then shook the jar at John to emphasise his point. "We've been here too long already, haven't we? We never stay so long in one place. It's too much sodding risk. But Robin won't shift, will he? And why? Because he's got his head all tangled up with Marion leaving and he can't think right no more." Another mouthful of mead, and Will said, "And I'll tell you something else, shall I? I don't like how he's been going off on his own so much. Or he drags Naz off with him. 'S'not safe."

John chuckled. "Robin's a grown lad; he can look out for himself. And if it's safety you're worried about, you won't find no safer company than Naz. Nothing gets past that one."

"That's not what I bloody meant." Will slumped back down by the stump where John sat, and scowled. "He's up to something, is all. Keeping secrets. And I don't like it." He lifted the mead jar, then gave it a frustrated glare and flung it away. "'S'empty. Pass us another, would you, John?"

"There isn't another," the big man rumbled. "That's the last until we get back to Wickham."

"See, this is what I mean." Will made a gesture of frustration, looking like he wanted something to hit. Probably he did: Scarlet preferred problems he could fight to ones he had to think about. "We've been here too long." The one-time soldier turned his narrow-eyed gaze about the camp. "Where the bloody hell is everyone, anyway?"

"Tuck's fishing. Much is off to Duxton after new fletchings. And Nasir … I don't know. Wandered off mid-morning. Hasn't been back. Hunting, maybe."

Will grunted. "Take his bow with him?"

"Aye."

"Hunting, then." Will seemed satisfied with that. "Hope he has a bit o' luck. I don't fancy fish tonight." For a moment he was quiet, but then he gave a sudden chuckle and nudged John in the thigh with his elbow. "I'll tell you what else – one o' them women at Halstead's got a job on her hands. I'd swear it was a wimple hanging in that big elm. Wouldn't've thought that lot'd be much for climbing trees."

John agreed, and suggested Will make himself useful by fetching some firewood; if either Tuck or Nasir had any luck at all, they would not want to be eating their quarry raw. Will declined: he was, he had discovered, quite comfortable where he was. He would have been more comfortable if there had still been some sodding mead left, but a man couldn't have everything.

And he would have been more comfortable still if he had been able to work out what the bloody fuck was going on.

"Nasir."

The Saracen looked up from the deer he was butchering and sat back on his haunches, blood to the elbows. He swiped a hand over his brow, leaving a streak of red, and frowned. Robin was standing above him, hands on hips, looking remarkably pleased with himself. Nasir told himself not to smile back. "What?"

"I need you to steal a camel for me."

Nasir rolled his eyes and went back to butchering his deer.

Later that evening, Robin was more forthcoming. Nasir had brought his kill back to camp and deposited it in John's tender care, then gone to clean up. Robin had followed him to the river and waited while the man washed. By the time the Saracen had emerged, wet and shivering, from the water, Robin had a small fire going near the bank.

"Here. Sit and warm up." He watched, bemused, as the man sank down gratefully, bare to the waist and shaking water out of his hair. "Why do you do that so often anyway? It must be freezing."

"It is," Nasir confirmed, snagging Robin's set-aside cloak and slinging it about himself. "But we are taught that cleanliness is half of faith. And, too, where Allah the Compassionate has given us the gift of so much water, it would be ungrateful not to use it."

Robin caught the gleam of humour in that last and surveyed himself with mock dismay. "You must think us savages, sometimes."

"Not savages. Infidels." Nasir's grin was quick and brief, but it made his eyes shine. "Which explains a variety of wonders."

"Infidel yourself," Robin replied in a prim voice, then ruined the effect with a grin of his own. "I'm going to bathe, then. You tend the fire."

The water was every bit as cold as he'd expected, stealing his breath and making him yelp. He dealt with that with a flailing of limbs, splashing about with a vigour borne of self-preservation, and then hauled himself to the bank. His clothes clung to his wet skin as he slid back into them, cursing at the chill air and at himself for not thinking of fetching a drying-cloth before jumping in the river. Dusk was falling; the days were coming shorter as the year turned to winter. It would be a hard winter too, with the grain harvest destroyed and so much livestock slaughtered by the Sons of Fenris. And in the common cells at Newark, it would be bitter.

Nasir saw him coming and flung the cloak at him as he neared the fire. "Here. You will freeze." He had his shirt back on, damp from its rinse in the river. Robin felt a peculiar pang at that, and couldn't place it. He tried to hand the cloak back.

"No, keep it. I'm fine. I was born to this, remember? This is a fine balmy evening, where my people come from."

"Then your people should have taught you better than to turn away warmth when it is offered."

Nasir's tone was mild, but Robin felt something flinch inside him all the same. Jesus God, Malik, don't. Don't. He took the cloak without speaking and sat close by the other man, careful to keep his eyes on the flames.

"It is no more than any friend might give you." Nasir did not move. His eyes were on the flames too. His voice was very quiet, almost offhand. He might have been talking about the cloak. Robin shivered, wrapped his arms about knees and tried to make himself sound normal.

"My thanks, then." He took a breath. "Sadiqi. My friend."

He won a flicker of dark eyes in response, but all Nasir said was, "Your accent improves."

"Shokrun," Robin offered, oddly relieved that Nasir had said nothing else, even though he could not have explained why. His grin, white and wicked, was almost convincing in the shadows. "Yours doesn't. It's still perfectly exotic. Quite fitting, for a camel thief."

Nasir, whose blood was every bit as noble and a good deal older than Robin's, and who would have cut out the tongue of any other man who challenged his honour so lightly, made a low sound under his breath that Robin knew for laughter. "So then," he said. "Tell me, sadiqi, about this camel."

"Blond," Robin said. "Bad tempered. Bullying." He shrugged. "My brother."

"He is not worthy of the name."

"Even so."

"And you are not like him." Emphatic, at once both fierce and gentle. Robin felt a low warmth surge through him and smiled softly. Thank you, Malik. Thank you.

"So. Gisburne." Nasir made an unflattering gesture. "You want me to … steal him?" The man sounded puzzled. Robin chuckled.

"Not quite. Not even free him, not really. More … escort him. See to it he stays far from us, and out of trouble." And then, when Nasir only looked at him, "Listen. I've worked this out. We can't break him out of there. It would be too dangerous for a start: Newark's not our ground. And Guy wouldn't be pleased to see us, rescue or not. Most likely, he'd raise the alarm himself, just for the satisfaction of knowing that we'd swing right after he does."

Nasir could not argue with that: Gisburne could be painfully bloody-minded. He nodded slowly.

"He needs ransoming. He can't pay, and neither can I. The villagers are going to need all we can give them this winter, and I won't take food from their mouths to set Gisburne free." Robin's sudden smile was sharp and hard. "If God was kind, we'd take Gisburne's money from de Rainault's personal coffers, but I doubt that my Lord Sheriff is going to be strolling through Sherwood strapped with money bags come dawn. Our luck isn't that good."

Nasir snorted. Maybe this young Frank did have some sense of irony after all. Or perhaps it was simply natural justice.

"So," Robin went on, edging closer to the fire as the night drew in, "I've decided to draw on my father's resources. Being an earl's son – even a disinherited one – must be good for something. He won't turn me away, not after that mess with the king and my late, unlamented uncle. After all, Guy is his father's son too. Even if neither of them know it."

"That would be … fitting," Nasir agreed. If David of Huntingdon would not acknowledge his by-blows, he could at least pay towards their keep. And towards his legitimate son's peace of mind, which was, Nasir thought bluntly, more valuable than Gisburne's sorry hide any day.

"Then we have the problem of securing his release. I can hardly march into Newark myself and demand that Brewer hand Gisburne over, money or not." Robin cast Nasir a wry look to show how well he thought that might work. "If I tried that, like as not I'd find myself sharing a cell with him, and I don't think my welcome would be warm. Though at least my stay would be short – Brewer would probably have me at the block by dawn."

"Hsst!" Nasir made a sharp negating motion with one hand, his eyes hard glints in the firelight. "Lasamahallah! Do not say such things."

The intensity of his tone made Robin blink. Unthinking, he put his hand on Nasir's wrist, closing his fingers tight. The man's skin was warm from the fire, his pulse ticking steadily under Robin's touch. "Malik. It won't happen. I'm not that great a fool."

"Inshallah, you are not." Nasir glanced once at the hand that clasped his wrist, seemingly impassive, but he did not move away. "You will use an agent?"

"Yes." Robin let his hand drop, suddenly uncomfortable at the feel of this man's heartbeat in his palm. "My cousin Harry. He's the natural son of my uncle of Scotland, and a knight, and his father's recently invested him with decent estates near Stirling." With an effort, Robin made his tone light, crisp. "If he were to ride into Newark with a ransom for a fellow knight of the realm, Brewer might huff and grind his teeth, but he'd be reasonable. He'd have to be."

"Your cousin would do this thing?"

"Oh yes, I think so. He owes me three or four rather large favours, mostly to do with pretty girls and jealous husbands." Robin's smile now was genuine, and more than a little rakish. Nasir's brows went up: Franks really were brash creatures.

"I've had word sent to Harry to come south to Newark. I want you to meet him there. It has to be you; I can't do this myself lest someone ask why Huntingdon's disgraced son is interested in the fate of a man like Gisburne. And I can't ask the others, even if they knew. John wouldn't stand for it, Much saw the man kill his father, for pity's sake, and as for Will …" He rolled his eyes, meaningfully. "Will would kill him as soon as look at him. It has to be you: you're the only one with the skill to manage him and the discipline not to just strike him dead. So I'll organise the writs for Gisburne's ransom, and you'll see that Harry gets them." Robin grimaced, realising something. "You might have to play the servant's part if you go with Harry into Newark. I'm sorry for that, but there's no other way you'll not draw attention."

Nasir glanced at him slowly and shrugged with the barest twitch of one shoulder. "I have been worse things than a servant in this land."

To anyone else, Nasir's voice would have sounded utterly indifferent, but Robin caught the jagged edge under the smooth surface. He had met Simon de Belleme once, at Huntingdon, when the baron had been, very briefly, his father's guest. He remembered a cold, unnaturally intent man with a fixed stare and hot, dead eyes. To have been in the great hall with him for half an evening had been discomforting enough; Robin did not like to think what it would have been like to belong to the man, like a horse or a hawk or the dagger he kept tucked in his belt. The idea of that made Robin's jaw clench in anger, and a part of him marvelled that it was possible to so hate a man with whom he had barely exchanged three words. But there were some creatures in the world that were not made to be caged, and Nasir was one of them.

"I know you have," he said, low and soft. "I'm sorry."

"It is not for you to apologise." Nasir lifted the fingers of his right hand in a small, dismissive flick, but nothing else moved. "It is done. And he, alhamdulillah, is dead."

"May he never find rest."

Nasir, who privately hoped that Belleme would find in the black fires of Jahannam exactly what he deserved, only nodded and stirred the fire with a stick, so that sparks rose like fleeting stars, striving for the sky. There were things he preferred not to talk about. "So. I am to find your cousin, and to play the servant in the city. And then?"

"He will give Brewer the writs in return for Gisburne's release."

"And then?"

"You will take Gisburne out of the city."

"And then?"

Clearly Nasir did not believe he'd thought this through. Robin supposed the man had a point. He shrugged. "There are options. Gisburne might be a fool, but surely even he can't believe that his life is worth anything if he stays in England. He has to go somewhere beyond Lackland's reach if he's any chance of starting again. Normandy, perhaps, since the king's made such a botch of keeping it under his sway, or France." Robin gave a short, wicked laugh. "Or even further. How do you think Gisburne would fare in Outremer, say?"

At first Nasir did not answer, though his eyes slid from Robin's face to the lowering flames of their small fire and back again. After a moment, he said, "Well enough. He is a fighter, and there is always a place for fighting men. He would find others of his kind there." And then, almost an afterthought, "You could arrange passage?"

Sweet God. Robin drew a breath. Why hadn't he thought of that before he spoke? He'd meant it for a joke when he'd suggested Outremer, though Nasir was right: a fighting man could find a decent sponsor there, and earn himself both fame and fortune. He answered honestly, though it pained him.

"For him, I could, probably. For you … it would be difficult, Malik, but I could try. Do you wish it?"

Another silence answered that. Robin let it grow, waiting, watching Nasir very closely in the darkness. At last the man stirred.

Say no, Malik, my friend, say no. Say no.

"Yes." Softer even than a whisper, the word fell like a stone. Robin felt as if he'd swallowed rocks. He opened his mouth to say something, but couldn't find the words. Instead, Nasir spoke again.

"Yes. But not now. Not yet."

It was selfish, perhaps, to feel such relief. Robin didn't care. The tightness in his gut loosened, as did his tongue. "I'm glad. I'd be sorry to lose you."

"And I would be sorry to go, in some ways." Nasir gave the faintest smile, flicking his eyes towards Robin and letting them linger. They seemed to glow, reflecting the flames, like embers in the dark. "There are some things about this land that I would miss. But that other is my home, and one day I will return. Right now, though, I suspect it would mean my death."

"Sinan?"

"If he still lives. And even if he does not, there are others who will not forgive." Nasir shrugged. "Best to stay, for now. I might live longer this way."

That, Robin realised, was a joke. He chuckled, very quietly. "If one of my outlandish plans doesn't kill you first, you mean."

Nasir inclined his head. "I mean." He sounded as if he were laughing too, in that silent way he had.

Robin considered that for a moment. "Then I will try to keep you safe. I won't have you missing your home and blaming me."

Those words had a twist in them. Nasir eyed them warily, then shifted one hand in an odd yielding motion. "Rob, there is no blame where the choice is freely made."

"Is it free?" Robin wanted to know. "You have duties there, I know: estates to see to, obligations to family. I understand that; I was raised to the same thing. You'd go back to that?"

"Yes," Nasir said, as if it were obvious.

"Why?"

Nasir tipped his head, bemused. "You are about to move mountains for a man you do not even like, simply because his blood is your blood, and you ask me why?" His shoulders hitched in that familiar shrug that he used to say so much. "Blood is strong, Rob. It calls, and a man cannot deny who he is."

"Maybe not," Robin allowed, "but he can change who he is." He sounded as if he believed it. Nasir, who had his doubts when it came to that, only glanced sidelong at his friend and away. Robin frowned. "Is that what it is, then? Duty, obligation, faith, blood? You'd go back for that?"

"For that, yes. And for other things." Nasir regarded the dark sky through the treetops thoughtfully. "Mostly for other things."

"For what, then?"

"For the desert. For the cities. For words that flow like oil from a jar and do not make my head ache in the choosing of them. For the muezzin's call above the dusty streets. For the sky burned almost white by the sun, and gardens of oranges and limes and olives. For the colours." He would have said more, tried to explain the simple, brutal honesty of men killing each other in the sands over water they could step across, and the honour and courtesy that kept them civilised even so, but some words were too difficult for his friend to understand. Even now, Robin was looking at him as if he'd said something strange.

"Colours?" Robin was baffled. "What do you mean, 'colours'?"

Nasir did his best. "The light. Here, it is all green and gold in the summer, grey and green in the winter. Soft, cool. There, it is … whiter. Wider. Sharper. It makes the colours shine pure, like gems."

It sounded beautiful. Robin spoke without thinking. "I should like to see that."

"I should be glad to show you." Another strange flickering gesture went with that, at once wistful and promising. "Someday. Inshallah."

"Inshallah. But first, there's Gisburne to deal with."

"And you wish for me to steal a camel and take it to France." Very dry, and gently mocking.

"No, idiot." Robin gave the other man a laughing tap on the shoulder. "Just to the nearest port. Or north, across the border into Scotland. Maybe he could take up service with my uncle, and keep it all in the family."

"Truly." Nasir's raised eyebrow was sardonic. "And if he does not wish to go?"

"Convince him." Said simply and without pause. "But keep him alive. If you can."

"If I can."

"And in the meantime, I say we get back to camp before the others finish off supper without us. That venison should be about ready." He paused, glanced thoughtfully at the other man as if something had just occurred to him. "Nasir. You have friends amongst the Jews of Lincoln, don't you? Money-lenders?"

"I do," Nasir said cautiously. "The de Talmonts. But I cannot speak for them."

"No matter." Robin still had that considering look in his eyes. "I can make arrangements."

"You said the money would come from your father."

"It will, but it can't be seen to. I need to muddy the waters a little." Robin flashed that grin again, bright and bold. "Who says we Franks lack for subtlety?"

"You Franks lack for many things. But you, sadiqi, are not an ordinary Frank." Nasir smiled quietly, and rose to stamp out the fire and shrug into his half-dry jerkin. "Sometimes, you are almost Arab."

"My father would be …" Robin shook his head, letting his words trail off as Nasir hauled him to his feet.

"What? Appalled?"

"No," Robin said truthfully, thinking of his father's tales of the Holy Land and the people he had known there. He clapped one hand to Nasir's shoulder, and met the shine of those dark eyes. "No. Not at all."

Henry FitzRoy had considerable time to think on the ride south. He had received his cousin's message, courtesy of a road-weary courier and a decidedly feminine hand. Robert, it seemed, had got himself into some kind of trouble – which was no surprise at all given that he'd taken to gallivanting about in the forest, playing at outlaws with a bunch of runaway serfs. Robert always had been one for strange flights of fancy. It was only a shame that he had so little care for his father's reputation.

If it were not for the fact that the last tourney of the season had been delayed, Henry would have ignored Robert's request … or, at least, sent back his carefully-worded regrets. It was not that he disliked his cousin; they had, in fact, got on famously well in their youth, leading each other astray in the ways most suitable to the noble born, drinking their way into trouble and talking their way out. Robert had been good at that, particularly the talking; his clever tongue and quick mind had saved his cousin's fat from the fire more than once, when Henry's discretion had failed him. But there was also the family's honour to think of, and Robert had made himself rather the black sheep. The only son of the Earl of Huntingdon, heir to vast estates and nephew to the Scots king, and he'd given it all up for a life of simple banditry. Adventure was one thing, and well and good in its place (and Henry understood that: why else would he seek out tourney after tourney when the prize purse was so pitifully meagre?), but in turning against the King's peace, Robert had taken things a step too far. Which was like Robert, when he thought about it. It had always been Robert's idea to visit that one last alehouse or take that final spin of the dice, but somehow it had always been Henry

(Come on, Harry! Faint heart never won a fair maiden!)

who had come out carrying the consequences.

Henry was damned if he'd bear the consequences for this latest escapade too, no matter what it might be. He'd grown up since his days of carousing with Rob and letting his cousin have his way; he'd learned to see trouble coming, now. He would stop in Newark and find out what game it was that Robert was playing, but that didn't mean that he'd willingly be a pawn in it. He'd have to see what it was, first. He did wish that his cousin could have been a little more forthcoming, though. It would have been nice to know exactly what he was getting himself into.

There was, in Will's considered opinion, only so much sneaking about that a man could be expected to put up with. Will had reached his limit days ago. Robin had been to the priory again, though only to the guest house, and couriers had come and gone along the roads towards both Huntingdon and Lincoln. Nasir was his normal inscrutable self: infuriatingly calm and as receptive to questions as a stone. Tuck seemed uneasy, though the fat sod wouldn't speak up as to why. "It's just a feeling," was all he'd say, for what little use that was. As for John and Much, well … John wouldn't question Robin if the man told him the sky was green, and Much never noticed anything beyond his own bootstraps.

Will, though, had not been a soldier for nothing. He could tell when his officers were on the move, and he had learned the hard way that when the men in the fancy cloaks were up to something, it usually wasn't good news for the rank and file. And when it came to fancy cloaks, Will knew who to watch. Robin might dress no better than anyone else now, but he had been an earl's son in his other life, and Nasir … well, no one actually knew exactly what Nasir was (though Will had an inkling that Robin might have a better idea than most; at least they bloody talked), but Will doubted that anyone could be as autocratic as the Saracen on a bad day and not lay claim to noble blood somewhere along the line. Probably he was second cousin to Saladin himself, or some such thing. In any case, whatever was going on, those two were at the heart of it.

And then Nasir had left.

The Saracen had spoken briefly to Robin and taken a packet from him: a sheaf of papers, some wound with the coloured cords of their seals. Nasir had flicked critically through the papers, frowning as if he knew exactly what he was looking at (and so he probably did, Will allowed: the man was a veritable basket of tricks when it came to knowing things no normal person would know), and then he had given Robin one of those courtly-proper bows of his and turned on his heel and was gone.

He hadn't just wandered off like he usually did, stealing an hour or so to himself to see to the weird foreign rituals he observed – and Will still firmly maintained that any religion that denied a man a decent mug of ale was cruel and unusual at best – before coming back to the camp to poke at the fire and glower at the best of Will's jokes. No, this was a proper leave-taking that took him out of Sherwood altogether.

Will knew that, because Will gave it half a day and then followed.

Because sometimes the only way to find out what the bloody fuck was going on was to jump in with both boots and a grin.

It did not take Robin long to notice that Will was missing. The man had been gone for half a day, which was not terribly unusual, but when he did not return to camp for supper, Robin knew that something was wrong. He had never yet known Will to miss a meal, especially one he did not have to prepare himself.

"Much?" he asked. "John? Have either of you seen Will?"

"Aye," John rumbled, helping himself to a chunk of dark flatbread. "Didn't he tell you? He's gone off for a bit."

"Off where?"

"To Lichfield, he told me. To visit that brother of his."

"Amos?" Robin frowned. "He doesn't even like Amos."

"Likes his ale, though, don't he?" Much pointed out, picking bones out of his roasted trout and flicking them into the fire. "And we've run out of mead."

"And speaking of the dearly missed," Tuck chimed in, "where's Nasir got to? Don't tell me he's gone to visit Scarlet's brother too."

"Naz in an alehouse?" John scoffed. "Not likely. He wouldn't be caught dead."

"I wouldn't be caught dead in that alehouse," Robin grimaced. "Not again. Once was enough for me. I don't mind rough company, but that place …" He gave an eloquent shudder. "At least Sherwood is clean."

"Well, where is 'e then?" Much asked. "Nasir, not Will."

"Nasir's taking care of something for me," Robin said, deliberately vague. "Family business."

Tuck narrowed his eyes, then shrugged with his whole body. "Well then," he said, "that's him and Will both. Seeing to family business, I mean."

Robin heard what the rotund friar was saying without words and repressed a sigh. Of course Will had gone after Nasir; what else would he have done? Damn the man for being so bloody-minded, for never knowing when to leave a thing well enough alone. With any luck, though, he'd miss Nasir's trail and end up chasing himself in circles. Failing that – well, Nasir was a resourceful one. If anyone could manage Will, it would be him.

Robin hoped rather fervently that that was true. Gisburne's life depended on it.

"God's Wounds, Rob doesn't ask for much, does he?" Henry FitzRoy glared at the missive in his hand, then turned disbelieving eyes on the man who had delivered it. In point of fact, Henry wasn't sure which was more startling: Robert's request, or the Saracen warrior who had appeared out of nowhere and addressed him in the road by name, in good, if accented, English, and with a courtesy that would not have been out of place in the king's own great hall. "Secure a release for this Gisburne fellow, find a pair of horses and equip them for travel … Does he believe I'll do whatever he wants?"

The Saracen shrugged, as if he didn't care. The man had the most unflinching gaze FitzRoy had ever seen. It really was quite discomforting. "He believes that you will do this. He says it is a debt owed. A matter of honour concerning Sir Giles of York."

"Sir Gi … oh." Henry flushed, remembering. "Yes, well. Can't blame a man for trying. She was alarmingly pretty. Even Rob said so."

If that had been meant as a joke, it fell short. The Saracen only looked at him, eyes like jet in an impassive face. Henry wished that Robert could have found another servant to deliver his message: this one was too intimidating by half. A short way off, his squires, a good pair of lads but green as grass, watched wide-eyed, as if they expected a Holy Crusade to break out on the spot. Henry sighed and waved his hand in frustration, making his horse jerk its head and snort. "All right. Yes, I'll do it. Brewer's a nasty piece of work in any case; it wouldn't hurt to bring him down a notch or two. But this is going to cost, and it won't be coming out of my purse."

"No." The Saracen indicated the writ in Henry's hand with a flicker of those intense eyes. "It is dealt with."

"It is?" Henry snapped the seal on the writ, furrowing his brow as he fumbled his way through the words. Nasir waited patiently, watching the man's lips move as he read. "Wait. To be paid by Aaron de Talmont of Lincoln? Who is this de Talmont?"

Nasir hid a smile. Oh yes, Robin had been subtle – and if he'd wanted irony, he had it now by the cart-load. The de Talmont family, providing the funds for Gisburne's ransom: that was enough to make a stone laugh. The fact that the money had only rested in Aaron's coffers on its journey from the Earl of Huntingdon to Brewer's treasury was neither here nor there. To FitzRoy, Nasir said nothing at all. It was enough that the man had the writ and knew where to deliver it; he did not need to know the rest.

FitzRoy waited a moment, but the Saracen did not answer. Probably he didn't know; the man was only a servant, after all, even if he was armed to the back teeth (Henry had counted six blades, and those were only the ones he could see) and impressively regal in bearing. They really were a remarkable people, these Saracens; FitzRoy wondered how much Robert had paid for this one. Surely he hadn't found the man wandering wild in the woods? At last, Henry said, "Well, no matter. If your master didn't tell you …"

"Robert is not my master."

"…then you – what?"

"Robert. He is not my master." Those eyes were almost keen enough to cut, hard and cool and quite uncompromising. "He is my friend. My friend who has asked a favour of me, that I have agreed to grant. I call no man 'master'. Understand that, my lord FitzRoy."

Henry said, "I'm sorry." Nasir blinked in surprise; the last thing he had expected was an apology from this feckless Frankish noble. Yet, the man went on, seeming sincere, with a conciliatory smile. "I assumed; it was wrong of me. I didn't mean to cause offence."

Well, perhaps charm ran in the blood in Robin's family. Nasir nodded, dipping his head in half a bow. "No offence. A misunderstanding, no more."

"Quite." FitzRoy looked unsure – he knew Robert had gone native and set much of his good upbringing aside in doing so, but he'd have thought that fostering friendships with Saracens was a step too far. Then again, this was Rob, after all. Rob would make friends with a street beggar, given half a chance. He gave a mental shrug. "Well, we'd best get on with this, then."

Tucking the writ into his pouch, Henry swung back onto his horse and wondered, not for the first time, what Robert was getting him into. His cousin always had been a distracting influence.

Just ask Sir Giles of York.

Nasir bloody Malik bloody Kamal, Will thought with a scowl, did not make things easy. It had taken two days to find him, marching through the night and sleeping in snatches. The Saracen was making no special effort to elude him, but even so the man moved like a bloody shadow, leaving next to no sign, seeming to melt away between one step and the next, and appearing again when he damned well pleased. It was luck as much as woodcraft that had led Will to his quarry, in the end. If he had turned left rather than right when he'd come to that overgrown mill race and then hit the Fosseway, he'd still be wandering about in circles.

As it was, he'd caught up with Nasir in time to see the man speaking with some puffed up Norman windbag with an expensive-looking horse and a pair of smooth-cheeked squires. Will watched in hiding as Nasir handed over the sealed missives Robin had given him. The knight – he had to be a knight, what with the horse and the squires and the cocksure way he dealt with being stopped in the road by an armed man – had frowned and fussed, and then Nasir had said something that had made the knight blink and look abashed, as if he'd just been clipped around the ears. Will grinned, wondering what that had been about. Nasir might not say much, but when he did speak up, he could be bloody scathing, and sharply to the point. Will had cause to know that; the Saracen was not a man who pulled punches, metaphorically or otherwise.

When they left, all of them together, Will waited a short while and followed. He watched them go into Newark, and decided that was no bad thing. At least in Newark, he'd be able to get a decent mug of ale.

There was a dead man in the far corner of the cell. Guy had wondered how long he would last when they had brought him in: the man had been coughing and shivering, hectic with fever. It had occurred to Guy that if he was unlucky, the man's pestilence might spread and he himself might die, coughing his lungs out in a hole in the ground, but it was hard to care. Guy was a dead man already, after all. Only his body did not know it yet.

He hoped they would drag the corpse out before it started to stink. He had become used to the fetid stench of the cells – unwashed bodies, rotting straw, waste, filth and despair – but he could have done without that as well. A part of him could not help but recall the tale of Maude de Braose, whispered about Nottingham in the days before everything had gone wrong: imprisoned by the king and left to starve, she had died mad and raving, gnawing like a rat on the body of her dead son. Guy glanced at the sadly huddled body in the corner and shuddered. It had not yet come to that, at least.

Guy had long since given up counting the days. He knew that he had been here some time; it had grown colder, and the guards were grumbling about the chance of early snow. He knew, too, that no one cared enough to speak up for him, or even remember where he was. He wondered distantly what de Rainault was up to, imagining the man sprawling in his chair in front of the wide hearth in Nottingham Castle's great hall, quaffing heated wine and sniping at the servants. De Rainault had always been a demanding lord, with his sharp tongue and his sharper temper and his fickle, taunting favour, but Guy had never expected this from him. The man had delighted in treating Gisburne poorly, making him jump for scraps like a dog at table, offering security with one hand and deceit with the other, but Guy had never believed he would pay for the man's duplicity with his life. Gisburne did not know what pained him more: that the sheriff had

(On your knees, Gisburne)

used him so badly, or that Guy himself had let him. If God were just, he thought bitterly, de Rainault would choke.

He wondered how much longer Brewer would make him wait. He had always hated waiting. During his time in France, campaigning alongside Sir Geoffrey and, later, Bertrand de Nevilles, it had always been the waiting that unnerved him. Battle he could face, even enjoy – an enemy to fight, a sword to swing, a decent horse under him. There was power in that, a sense of action, of choosing one's own destiny. There was no power in waiting. Waiting gave a man nothing but time to think, and Gisburne took no comfort in that.

There was a familiar scraping beyond the cell door, the sound of metal clanking and the heavy, stubborn bolt being drawn back. Guy lifted his head, but did not bother getting to his feet. He'd given up rushing the door when the guards opened it, either to toss some new wretch in or to drag someone else out; all it had ever gained him was an impressive series of beatings. But he still made sure that his head was up when the guards came in and that he met their eyes as was fitting for a man of rank, rather than shrinking away into the dark like a frightened animal. He had that much dignity left, at least.

"You. Gisburgh. Come on."

"Gisburne." Guy stayed where he was. "Why?"

"What d'you bloody mean, why? 'Cos I fucking told you, that's why." The man took two paces into the cell, looking like he would kick Gisburne to his feet if he didn't get up himself, and rather enjoy doing so. Guy hauled himself to his full height and glared. In Nottingham, that would have been enough to make a man like this pale and mumble and stare at the ground. Now, it served only to make the guardsman spit and grab him by the collar of his soiled and ragged tunic and thrust him roughly towards the door. "Get out there, you miserable turd. Move!"

Guy had long ago decided that when it came to his death, he would go to it with what pride he could muster. He would not be dragged out like some animal for slaughter. He stumbled at the man's shove, righted himself and squared his shoulders. Then, with a single scathing glance at the guardsman, he stepped forward into the corridor, squinting in the light of the torches.

The belligerent guardsman poked him hard in the back with the short club he carried. "Not that way, scum. This. Cap'n wants a word, he does."

"I'm a titled knight," Gisburne grated through a clenched jaw, ignoring the bolt of pain that jolted through his spine from the man's blow. "And a noble son of Normandy. You'll address me as 'Sir Guy' or 'my lord'. Is that clear?"

"Shut up, scum." This time the club struck him higher, clipping him behind the ear and making sparks scatter behind his eyes. Guy grunted, caught himself against the wall and willed his knees not to buckle. The guard made a harsh, short sound that could have been a laugh and bared ugly, worn teeth. "You're a prisoner of the King's fucking Constable, and I'll call you what I bloody well like. Now bloody move!"

Guy moved, and imagined beating the man's face to a bloody pulp and watching those ugly teeth scatter across the floor. The idea was strangely satisfying; it made him briefly happy.

The Captain of the Guard was a better specimen than the men he commanded. He had better teeth for a start, white and even in a competent, careful face. He had better manners as well: crisp and to the point.

"Sir Guy. You've been reprieved. Your pardon's been paid for. You're to be released into the care of Sir Henry FitzRoy of Scots." The man's tone was utterly impartial, as if he wasn't handing Gisburne his life back. "My lord Brewer wants you gone by nightfall, and he says that if he finds you in his shire territories again, he'll not be so lenient a second time. Is that understood?"

Guy's stunned mind struggled for some semblance of comprehension. He stared at the man, fumbling to make sense of what he had just been told. "FitzRoy? But … I've never … who …?"

"Sir Henry FitzRoy. Of Scots." A new voice, and Guy turned to face a well- dressed young man who looked at him with distaste, then flicked his gaze over Gisburne's shoulder to the captain. "All is in order, then?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Does he have any … effects?"

"No, my lord. His horse and kit were forfeit to the Lord High Sheriff of Nottingham, to cover certain debts."

Fury. Guy felt a lurch in his gut and swung back on the captain. Moving so swiftly made his head, still foggy from the guard's club, pound horribly. "What? No, that's not …"

"Not my doing, Sir Guy." The man held up a hand, unmoved. "Have it out with de Rainault, if it matters." His tone suggested quite plainly that he did not think that would be a wise idea, but that he didn't care either way. Guy fought down the urge to hit something. The loss of his lands, such as they were, was one thing, but this … God's Blood, this was worse. He valued that horse, and de Rainault knew it. This was personal.

"But my horse …"

"You'll be provided with a horse, Sir Guy. It's been arranged." The foppish young man was pulling absently at his gloves, as if impatient to be off. "I'd let it go, if I were you. You're not really in a position to argue. My lord Constable has given you only so long to be on your way. Best leave before he changes his mind, wouldn't you say?"

Guy stared again, beyond flustered. "Who are you?"

"Sir Henry FitzRoy," the man repeated with exaggerated patience. "Really, man, pay attention. Are you simple or merely deaf?" And then, turning on his heel in a way that made his short mantle flare out quite dashingly behind him, he said, "Well, come on then, if you want to live."

Guy, who wanted very much to live, went.

It had not been terribly difficult to pass as FitzRoy's servant. All Nasir had actually had to do was tend the horses when the knight and his squires stopped at the small local livery. Nasir, who quite liked horses, did not mind that at all, though these clumsy Frankish beasts were nothing compared to the fine swift horses he had known in his homeland: elegant, spirited creatures that could race the very wind. He murmured to the animals in Arabic as he went about his task, and nodded imperceptibly when FitzRoy haggled the livery master down to within the limits of reason over two middling fair nags, their tack thrown in. The horses, he could tell at a glance, were unremarkable but sound, and FitzRoy, who was clearly not the fool he looked, was not willing to pay any more than he had to.

Now Nasir sat in the sun in the livery yard and waited. He considered bringing out his whetstone and seeing to his swords, just to give his hands something to do, but FitzRoy's squires were nervous enough with him just sitting there; if he drew steel, even only to sharpen it, they would probably faint with fright. Franks, Nasir thought, far from the first time, were strange creatures. He wondered what kind of stories these boys had heard that had them watching him like they expected him to grow horns and start shooting fire from his eyes. It was ridiculous, really. He was not even trying to be menacing.

The lads were huddled together on the other side of the yard, near the horse trough and a rain barrel full of water. Nasir could hear them talking softly to each other in the langue d'oil patois of the Norman people. It was not a language he spoke himself, beyond a few words learnt in the course of his travels. His French was a little better, enough to exchange basic courtesies, secure bed and board, or question a man's parentage, but it was hardly conversational. He listened idly, picking out words here and there, playing with them in his mind to work out their best fit. He had established that the tall youth was named Jerome and that the solid young lad with the swathe of dark hair that kept falling over his eyes was called Gilbert and that he himself was either a demon or a devil worshipper by the time FitzRoy reappeared.

To Nasir's surprise, the man cast a hard look at his squires and said, in a clipped, curt voice, "He's no such thing, you fools. He worships the same God you do. He just calls Him by a different name." And then, to Nasir, "My apologies for their lack of manners. They should know better."

"They are young." Nasir shrugged, got to his feet with a faint smile. His opinion of Rob's cousin was improving all the time. "They will learn, with you to teach them."

"Now you flatter me."

"Truth is not flattery."

"FitzRoy, I don't understand … You! Wolfshead!"

Nasir sighed, did not bother to turn to the familiar, rough voice. He nodded to Henry instead. "So. You found Gisburne."

"Yes." FitzRoy glanced back over his shoulder at the man, then raised an eyebrow at Nasir. "You don't sound pleased."

Nasir only raised an eyebrow right back and let FitzRoy make of that what he would. The man paused, then nodded in understanding. "Yes, well. You have my sympathy."

"Wolfshead!" Gisburne was closer now. Nasir, finally deigning to look at him, was surprised at his ill-used appearance. The voice was the same, and the cold, pale glitter of his eyes, but the rest of him was ragged, worn thin. He was filthy for a start, thick with grime, his fair hair grown long, matted and unkempt. His jaw, jutting even now in that familiar, assertive way, was bearded from neglect, and his tunic little better than a rag. His face was a map of old bruises, some yellowing-faint, some still purple under the dirt, and his cheeks were hollow, sunken. He moved as if he were hurt and trying to hide it, and he looked half starved, like a wolf after a lean winter. If he had been any other man, Nasir might even have felt sorry for him.

"Sir Guy." FitzRoy turned as Gisburne approached, his tone effortlessly commanding. "Your freedom has been paid for, and my business here is done. This man …"

"This outlaw!"

"… is here to escort you to safety," Henry went on, over-riding Gisburne's angry interruption. He smiled, not pleasantly. "I don't think you're to be given a choice in the matter, for what it's worth."

Guy glared. "I'm not going anywhere with that … that … filthy Saracen!"

Nasir's brows went up, sardonically amused. He glanced down at himself, spread clean hands and looked pointedly at the young knight in his layers of muck. "Filthy?" he said. "I?"

"As I said, Gisburne, I don't think you've much choice." Henry started back to the stables, gesturing at his squires to follow. "We'll take you out of the city, and, after that, I'd advise you to forget you ever heard my name."

"You don't understand," Gisburne insisted. "This man is a wolfshead! A dangerous outlaw! He's one of Robin Hood's men!"

"Of course he is," FitzRoy said, unconcerned. "I really don't care, Gisburne. You're being given a second chance, man. I suggest you stop bleating like a tethered goat and take it." The tall squire, Jerome, brought out the horses. FitzRoy leaned on the yard fence to wait. Gisburne tried again.

"You can't send me off with this … this savage! The man's a killer, a faithless barbarian …"

"He is?" FitzRoy demanded suddenly, looking at Guy as if the man was something unpleasant he'd just scraped off the sole of his boot. "Or you are? Because I've spent a little time in both your company, and he at least understands common courtesy. You, on the other hand, are an ill-mannered lout. I'm only sorry that he has to be burdened with your welfare. If it were up to me, I'd let you fend for yourself. Now stop bothering me, man, or I'll take you back to Brewer myself."

Too late, Guy registered the man's name: FitzRoy of Scots, bastard son of the King of Scotland. No wonder he was so arrogantly difficult. Royal blood, Guy had cause to know, could be the most unreasonable thing in the world.

None of which explained why FitzRoy had ransomed him from Brewer in order to hand him over to Hood's pet savage. Even now, the Saracen was standing at his back. Gisburne felt the space between his shoulders tingle, anticipating a blade, and whirled, throwing up his hands in defence. Nasir only looked at him, utterly impassive, then uttered a single word.

"Wash."

"What?"

"You stink." The man gestured to the rain barrel standing nearby "Go, wash. I will fetch the horses."

"Why don't you just kill me now." Guy had meant that to sound defiant, strong. Instead, it came out resigned, the voice of a man too tired to care. Nasir's eyes glittered briefly, and Guy read in them the message, Now what would be the fun in that? Then the man said again, "Go. Wash," and moved off to the stables.

For a moment, Guy thought about resisting. He thought about refusing, about shouting for the city watch, about flinging himself at this man, who was one of those he had spent the last several years trying unsuccessfully to kill, and attempting to snap his neck with nothing but his bare hands. For half a heartbeat, that was all he wanted to do and freedom be damned … but then, suddenly, his anger failed him and it all seemed just too much trouble. The rain barrel was not far away, and he was in dire need of a dousing. It was easier by far just to do what he was told.

The shock of the cold water left him gasping and shivering, but he felt a little better with the worst of the dirt sluiced off. More human, at least. There was nothing he could do about his tunic – it was beyond salvaging – but he hoped the dunking had got rid of most of the vermin.

The sound of hooves behind him made him turn. The Saracen was mounted on an ordinary bay hack, holding a non-descript dun gelding on a lead rein. Gisburne ran a practiced eye over the beast and scowled. "I'm not riding that."

The Saracen shrugged with supreme indifference. "Then walk." He turned his horse, began to move away. Gisburne sighed.

"Wait, damn you."

At least, Guy thought as he left Newark, he had a horse under him and the open sky overhead. Things, he now knew, could be far worse.

Will had been right about Newark. He'd had no trouble finding himself an alehouse – and better yet, an alehouse with a view onto the market square where the Fosseway met the Great North Road. If Nasir and his new fine friends were going anywhere, they'd have to pass this way to get there. As far as excuses to settle in with a mug of ale and a meat pasty went, that was as good as any. Besides, he needed to think. Ale had always helped him when it came to that. And the ale in this place was decent, as well – barely watered down and served in a relatively clean mug. Amos, Will considered, taking a deep pull at his drink and sighing in appreciation as the ale went down, could learn from a place like this.

Something odd was happening here. Will could make neither arse nor elbow from it, and that was God's truth. What business Robin could possibly have with an overdressed Norman lordling was beyond him, but then, it wasn't so bloody long ago that Robin had been an overdressed Norman lordling himself. Perhaps old loyalties died harder than Robin would have had them all believe. Except that if it were that simple, if it were only Robert of bloody Huntingdon casting his noble-born shadow where it didn't fucking belong, why all the slinking around? And what was Nasir doing helping him? The Saracen wasn't a man for foolery; he'd not waste his time on just dropping off Robin's bloody love notes. No, Will was sure he was on the right track. There was something more going on, and he was damned well going to find out what it was.

Or, he swore to himself as the ale went down, he'd know the bloody reason why.

When the dandified knight with his poncy squires went past in mid-afternoon with Nasir at heel, the Saracen looking as out of place as a wolf herding a gaggle of geese, there was a new player in the game. Thin and ragged and slumped unhappily on the back of the horse Nasir was leading, the newcomer had long legs and a patchy beard and a thatch of unkempt blond hair. Something about him made Will's skin prickle suspiciously, though he could not have said why: the man could have been anyone, huddled and drawn in as he was. Certainly he was too far away for Will to catch a proper glimpse of his face. Even so, some part of Will's wary mind growled in warning, and Will thought that was interesting too. Taking a thoughtful pull at his drink, Will watched the small party go by, the knight riding straight through the crowd in the market square like Moses through the Red Sea. Once they had reached the edge of the square and turned for the open road, he put his drink down and followed. It meant leaving his third mug of ale only half-finished, but Will told himself it was worth it.

After all, when a man wanted to know what the bloody fuck was going on, some sacrifices had to be made.

"This is as far as we go." FitzRoy drew rein outside of Newark, where the Fosseway stretched off to the south and west, and the Trent veered away into a straggly stand of trees. He gave Nasir a quick grin. "Give Rob my regards, won't you? And tell him that next time he needs a favour, he can leave me out of it. Not that telling him that is likely to do any good!"

Nasir nodded, hiding a smile. Rob and his cousin must have been proper hellions, once. "I will tell him."

"Yes. Well." FitzRoy shifted, gathering his reins. "One more thing. There was mention of a horse?"

Ah yes, Robin's grey stallion. Nasir reached into his pouch, brought out a thin scrap of paper. "Rob sends you this. The horse is at his father's manor. All you need do is claim it."

Taking the missive, FitzRoy read his cousin's words and laughed softly. He glanced sidelong at Nasir. "Have you read this?

"No."

"He writes that he hopes you did not intimidate me. Make a habit of scaring people, do you?"

Nasir quirked an eyebrow in amusement and looked pointedly at FitzRoy's wary squires. "So I have been told."

"Oh, they'll get over it. Likely they'll be telling tales of you for a month. You're quite exotic, you know." FitzRoy folded the paper into his own pouch and smiled. Then his gaze went over Nasir's shoulder to the ragged young knight slouching dispiritedly in his saddle, and his smile faltered and fell.

The Saracen had the other horse's lead rope tied to his own mount's harness, leaving his hands free. Gisburne had already tried once to wrest control from the Saracen and break away, and had earned himself a solid clout around the ears and a guttural "Do not!" for his troubles. FitzRoy doubted that he'd have got far even if the Saracen had not stopped him: the dun gelding was a quiet beast, not made for speed, and Gisburne himself did not look up to much either. The man was clearly an accomplished horseman – FitzRoy could see that just by looking: Gisburne sat his horse as if riding were the most natural thing in the world – but his head hung down and he hunched in on himself, shivering miserably in the brisk autumn air. FitzRoy wondered if he was ill.

"He's not been well-treated," the nobleman observed quietly. "I hope you've not got far to go."

Nasir only shrugged. His eyes, when they went to Gisburne, were dispassionate, cold. FitzRoy frowned, lips thinning, and rubbed at his jaw with the knuckles of one hand. Gisburne, he could see, was not going to get much sympathy from that quarter.

"Wait." He reached under his mantle, fumbled with something, then handed a clanking coin pouch to Nasir. "This is the rest of Rob's money. Brewer might be a vulture, but he's an honest vulture. He only took what was due him at the money changer; the rest he gave back. You might need it, I think. And … Jerome, come here." FitzRoy gestured to the first of his squires, who kicked his horse over to his lord's side. "You're a tall lad. You might do." He slapped at the youth's saddlebags. "You must have a spare tunic and leggings in there. Do you?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Get them out for our friend here, will you?" FitzRoy said, nodding towards Guy. "Can't have the man freeze to death on his first day of freedom now, can we?"

"No, my lord." Jerome sounded gloomy, but he did as he was told. "I've my second best cloak here too, my lord. Will you be wanting that as well?"

"What? Oh, yes. Don't worry, I'll find you better."

Nasir, who had no doubt that FitzRoy would do just that, chuckled to himself under his breath. Oh yes, this man was definitely of Robin's line. Apparently, taking pity on waifs and strays ran in the blood too.

The trews were too short, and the tunic too tight in the shoulders, but at least they were clean and dry. Guy supposed that he should be grateful he still had his own boots. A gust of wind buffeted the small camp-site, making the surrounding trees creak and sway and sparks swirl out of the shelter of the small fire pit the Saracen had dug. Gisburne huddled disconsolately before the wavering flames, cursing under his breath and drawing the cloak FitzRoy had given him more tightly about himself. He wondered if he would ever be warm again. A deep chill had gnawed its way into his bones at some point during his time in Newark's dank cells, all cold stone and hopelessness, and now no borrowed cloak or hissing fire seemed enough to ward it away.

The Saracen was behaving oddly. For a start, he was not treating Guy as a prisoner. Nor was he even acting as if Guy mattered much at all. Gisburne did not know what to make of it. The man had left his hands unbound and showed no concern that he might attempt an escape. There was reason enough for that, if Guy wanted to be fair: he was unarmed, penniless and ailing, and in the middle of nowhere, besides – where was he going to go? Guy was not in the business of being fair, though. He was being held by a man who, not so long ago, would have seen him as an honest threat and treated him like one too, trussing him up like a butchered boar and watching him with wariness and good clean hate. Clearly the man no longer thought him worth the effort. Right now, Guy was not sure what was worse: owing his life, such as it was, to a wolfshead, or being so steadfastly discounted. Guy could withstand all manner of mistreatment, but he could not bear to be ignored.

They had ridden on for what was left of the day, after FitzRoy had left them. Gisburne had thought, once or twice, about trying for the reins again, or even making some attempt to get his hands on one of the Saracen's weapons, but the swiftness of that earlier correction made such things seem unwise. The Saracen said not a word, but kept their pace steady, never pushing the horses past a light sweat. Guy was glad of that; his back ached horribly from where the guard at Newark had struck him with his club, his head felt as if someone had smashed a wine flagon inside his skull and left all the pieces to grate against each other until he went mad, and he hadn't eaten in two days. As the sun sank, the wind that had been gusting all day strengthened, cutting and cool, making Guy more miserable by the mile. When the Saracen had finally stopped as the light waned, Gisburne had been nearly ready to fall from the saddle. Dropping off the side of his horse, he had lurched barely three steps before his knees faltered and the world faded to grey. He stayed upright only by virtue of a strategically placed tree and sheer stubborn effort of will, feeling as weak as a kitten. Perhaps the Saracen was right to discount him, then.

During their ride, Gisburne's weary mind had cast about for some sign of what was going on, and why, but without success. This man, of all men, had no reason to help him, and in any case, he was hardly likely to be acting on his own initiative. Clearly Hood – Huntingdon, if you could believe it, though why a man of such breeding would chose to run with a pack of peasants was something Gisburne would never understand – was behind it. Give Rob my regards, FitzRoy had said, which only meant that he was in on it too. Guy could not begin to imagine why Robin Hood would orchestrate his release from Newark's gaol, but whatever the man's reasons Guy had no cause to think them good. Most likely this would all end with him dead in a ditch somewhere. Gisburne scowled. If Hood wanted his blood, the least the man could do was come and kill him himself.

A nudge from the Saracen's booted foot jolted Guy out of his sullen reverie. He looked up, prepared to snap something sharp and insulting, only to have a small bowl of hot broth thrust into his hands. His stomach rumbled keenly under the hiss of the wind.

"Here. Eat." A heel of hard bread accompanied the brusque words. Guy glared.

"I'm not hungry," he said stubbornly.

"Liar. Eat."

"If you think I'll break bread with you, you filthy savage, you're mad."

The Saracen only looked at him, impassive. "Then starve."

Moving away, the man set about eating his own meal with the spare, methodical motions of a man performing a necessary if joyless task. Gisburne watched for a moment, painfully aware of the hollow, gnawing emptiness in his stomach. The Saracen glanced at him over the flames.

"Eat."

Gisburne ate.

As soon as the broth-soaked bread touched his lips, his hunger, until now repressed, roared free. He tore at the bread like a wolf, emptied the bowl in mouthfuls, and looked up to see the outlaw watching him with an amused expression. It was on the tip of Gisburne's tongue to snarl something defensive, but all the man did was lean over and push the cook pot towards him.

Guy glared again, but dipped his bowl into the pot all the same. This time he ate more slowly, savouring the warmth in the way that a man lost in an endless night might savour the coming of dawn. It made him feel better than he had all day, more alive, more himself. Wiping his mouth on the sleeve (also too short, but beggars made do with what they were given) of his new tunic, Guy fixed the Saracen with a hard, demanding stare.

"What do you want with me?"

A shake of the Saracen's dark head answered that, and a raised hand that seemed to gesture for silence. Guy swore.

"I know you can speak, man. Answer me! What's this about?" It was the tone of voice that usually made the guards of Nottingham quake. This man, though, barely noticed. He was staring beyond Gisburne into the wind-tossed shadows of the trees of the spinney where he had chosen to make their camp, hidden from casual travellers by a dip in the land. The Saracen's eyes were suddenly as intense as a hunting hawk's, and the hand he had raised to hush Guy had flown to the hilt of his nearest sword. Gisburne, who had been a soldier for half his life, felt his instincts surge and a chill run down the back of his neck. He had time to hiss, "What? What is it?" and then something sprang out of the night and there was a shout, cursing in a language Guy didn't know – Arabic, he supposed, when he thought about it later – and a quick flurry of movement in which Gisburne tried to duck away and raise his hands to ward off whatever was coming at him, wishing fervently for a sword, or a buckler, or even a God-cursed stick, anything but fighting off unseen attackers bare-handed … and then, something cracked hard against the side of his skull and everything fell into darkness.

Trust Nasir to find himself a bloody horse. Will didn't like horses, great stupid things, with their hard hooves and rolling eyes and alarming tendency to run in all the wrong directions: he was an infantry man to the core. Give him a decent pair of boots and a good meal, and he'd walk all day. Give him a horse, and he'd moan and gripe and fall off three times before supper. Nasir, though, rode like he'd spent half his fucking life in one saddle or another – and if that wasn't another sign the man was noble-born, Will didn't know what was. Bloody noblemen. Even their own sodding legs weren't good enough for them.

Being mounted made them hard to follow. Well, no, that was not true; it made them easier to follow, but harder to catch up with. Horses tended to stick to roads and pathways, after all – they weren't much for blundering about in the undergrowth. It did not take Will long to find the place where the group had split off, the puffed-up knight and his fresh-faced squires moving off to the south and west, Nasir and whoever the hell he had with him circling around to the east. Will couldn't imagine why. There was nothing to the east, except for miles of marsh and gods-forsaken fenland. If Nasir wanted to wade about in mud up to his bloody knees, he could have done that without leaving Sherwood.

Darkness came, bringing with it the chill of the turning year. Will snugged his hands into his armpits, hunched down into his jerkin, and kept going. They couldn't be that far ahead of him: Nasir wouldn't ride a horse into the ground without some pressing urgency to drive him on, and Will hadn't seen anything especially urgent in the Saracen's pace so far. The man did have the heinously bad habit of rising before the dawn, though; he'd not waste any time come morning. Which meant finding the bastard tonight, or not finding the bastard at all.

The wind was gusting hard now, making Will's eyes stream and the thin trees along the spurway bend and shiver. There was no way Nasir would set camp in the open, not in this wind. No, he'd look for shelter, some curve of the land or thick belt of hedgerow, somewhere out of sight of the pathway and with space for two men and their horses. Nasir was careful about things like that. The man had spent too much time being hunted, both in Sherwood and, Will suspected, in the life he had known before England, to be happy to sleep just anywhere.

It helped to know what he was looking for. In a place where the land dipped to the lee of the wind, in a tight stand of trees screened from the spurway by a sprawl of blackberry and hawthorn, Will spotted the red-orange gleam of a low fire, with a pair of horses tethered nearby and two men sitting in the glow.

Nasir he recognised at once, though the man's face was turned. Will would know the set of those shoulders anywhere, and that sardonic tilt of the head, even without the distinctive studded jerkin and the impressive array of blades. The other, though, was cast in shadows, hunched and huddled as if he wished himself any bloody place but here. There was the faint gleam of fair hair as the man shifted, pulling his cloak tighter, but Will still could not make out his face. Even so, something tugged at the back of Will's mind, like an itch wanting to be scratched. He had thought the man oddly familiar when he caught sight of him in Newark, and that feeling was stronger now. It raised the hackles on the back of Will's neck. He did not even notice that he was clutching his knife ready in his hand.

Nasir handed the man a bowl of something, exchanged a few brief words. That made Will's cheek twitch in a humourless half-smile. Any words with Naz tended to be brief; there were days when the Saracen could make a bloody stone seem talkative. The second man hesitated – maybe he didn't fancy Nasir's cooking, not that Will had ever noticed much to complain about – but after a pause, he seemed to attack his meal, doing his best to eat everything all at once.

And then, to Will's shock and sudden fury, the stranger raised his face to the light and spoke.

Gisburne. There was no mistaking that arrogant, commanding voice, even if the man who used it had clearly seen better days. Deep and brusque and haughty, that voice had never, in Will's experience, brought anything with it but danger and suffering. Hearing it now made his blood surge hot, and Will didn't pause to think, only cast himself forward on that familiar

(scarletscarletscarletscarlet)

red wave.

Gisburne's first thought as he came back to himself was that he rather wished people would stop hitting him in the head. His second, and far more startling than the first, was that the Saracen had just saved his life. The man was standing over him even now, one of his short, elegant blades in his hand, arguing furiously with someone who seemed very badly to want him dead. Or no, that was not quite right: the Saracen was not arguing at all. He was utterly silent, save for the occasional hiss of warning when Gisburne stirred or the other came too close.

It was the other man who was making all the noise. Gisburne, feeling his heart sink, recognised the voice at once: Scarlet. The madman. The killer. Guy's instincts howled at him to get up, to defend himself, to fight. He thrashed, ignoring his reeling head and kicking for purchase, trying to find his feet, but the Saracen's heel came down briskly on his chest, pushing him flat. The man was not gentle. His voice came to Guy as a low growl, like a hunting lion.

"Stay down."

Scarlet was furious. "What the bloody fuck did you do that for, you mad sod? You could've bloody killed me!"

Distantly, Gisburne supposed that was true – but only if the Saracen had wanted to. It had not been Gisburne's impression that this man killed people by accident. Which was a shame, really, since Scarlet might have benefited from a misplaced length of steel. At least that might have shut him up. Very carefully, Guy turned his head and saw Scarlet looming in the firelight, cradling one arm against his chest (perhaps the Saracen had broken the man's wrist? Now there was a satisfying thought!) and looking angry enough to chew rocks.

"Don't fucking give me that look! Two bloody inches to the right, and I'd be bleeding like a stuck pig! And it's Gisburne!" Will flung out his good arm, pointing at Guy as if he thought that perhaps Nasir hadn't noticed. "If any man deserves to be skinned from the feet up and hung by his heels, it's that vicious bastard right there." Rubbing at his jaw where Nasir had punched him – the man was as quick as a bloody cat: Will hadn't even seen it coming – after dragging him off Gisburne and slamming him into a tree, Will scowled accusingly. "And what the fuck are you playing at anyway, skulking around out here with him? Switching sides on us, are you? Oh, that's very fucking nice, that is. Unless you were planning on killing him yourself? 'Cos it don't much look like it, does it?"

"Will –"

"This what you and Robin been whispering about behind everyone's back, is it? You know, I'd expect this bollocks from Robin, earl's son and all – he can't fucking help it, he'll always stick up for his own kind …"

"Will –"

"… but I wouldn't've thought you'd be so bloody soft as to sodding well listen to him. His kind ain't your kind, after all." Will paused deliberately, then his face twisted in a nasty sneer. "Or is he? Is that it? Taken your fancy, has he, pretty young thing?"

Nasir's eyes were as cold and hard as the sword he suddenly levelled at Will's throat. "Do not," the man grated. "Do not."

Well now, mused Gisburne, who thought he had recognised a certain note in the Saracen's voice, a certain deep-buried ache. That was interesting. He wondered if the Saracen would kill Scarlet fast or slow for saying that.

Will, faced with three feet of sharpened steel at his neck, understood in a moment that he had taken things too far. Nasir looked ready to kill him on the spot and send his body back to Sherwood in pieces. The man's eyes sent a shiver down Will's spine. He could not have named what he saw in them – rage, despair, anguish, pride – but he knew enough to raise his hands in submission and step back. "Naz. Easy."

"Do not speak such shame. Of Rob or of me!"

"No. Naz, I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything by it." Which was true, if it came to that: it had only been something cutting to say. He supposed he should have known better: Nasir could be touchy about his honour, and what Scarlet had suggested was a slur not to be taken lightly. Will gestured again at Gisburne, trying to explain. "It's only seeing him here, and you and Robin sneaking about like a pair of stable cats looking for the biggest rat in the barn … Dammit, man, what the bloody fuck is going on?"

Gisburne would have liked to know that too. He tried to push himself up, and made it as far as his elbows. His head, which had been aching to begin with, throbbed terribly. The Saracen spared him a single glance; Guy stayed still. Nasir turned his basilisk stare back on Will, his blade still levelled, still ready to strike … and then he muttered what could only have been a curse in his native tongue and let the blade fall, stepping away from Gisburne and gesturing Will towards the fire. "Sit."

"But what about Gisburne? You just going to leave him there?"

"Where will he go, Will? Look at him."

Will did, and frowned. He was used to Gisburne posturing and strutting about, all energy and anger, but what he saw now was something else. This man had had all the strut knocked out of him. Then Guy, who had dragged himself up to lean against a small tree with his head in his hands, lifted his eyes and gave Scarlet his best defiant stare, and Will saw that the anger was still there, but burning too low to matter. Likely it was nothing that a few decent meals and three solid days of sleep wouldn't fix, but even so, Will decided that Nasir was right. Unarmed, ill-dressed, and wounded deeper than his bruises showed, this man wasn't going anywhere.

"He looks like shit."

Nasir grunted. Guy snarled.

"Watch your tongue, wolfshead!"

"Or what? You're in no position to be making threats now, my lord of Gisburne!"

"I'll have your – "

"Be silent!" Nasir seldom raised his voice, but now it snapped out like a whip, sharp and stunning. His accent made it sharper still. "You," he ordered, pointing at Will, "leave him. And you," and his eyes cut to Gisburne, uncompromising and fierce, "do not speak."

Will blinked, taken aback at the dictatorial tone of his friend's voice. "You bloody are noble born, aren't you?"

Nasir cast the one-time soldier an exasperated look. "Sit, Will."

Will did so, reluctantly. He rolled his shoulders, gave his injured arm a careful flex. "You didn't have to try and snap my hand off, you know. Still bloody hurts."

Nasir gave him a very level look and did not apologise. As it happened, Will had managed to fetch him a rather convincing elbow to the ribs; they ached when he breathed in, but he did not think Scarlet had cracked them. A sharp twist to the wrist seemed fair compensation, in his opinion. Will made a wry face, relenting. "All right, I asked for it. Fair enough." His eyes slid to the little cooking pot, set aside near the fire. "Any food left?"

A single nod answered him. Will grinned. That was the Nasir he knew. He set to with enthusiasm, digging a slab of hard bread out of the sack of travelling rations his Saracen friend had managed to find and sopping the broth straight out of the pot.

"'S'good, this. I'm starving. Haven't had bugger all since leaving camp. Hard man to catch up with, you are."

"You followed."

"'Course I did. Didn't think I'd let you slink off on your own now, did you? Dangerous out here for a man travelling alone." Will smirked around a mouthful of bread. Nasir did not smirk back.

"Robin knows?"

"Probably worked it out by now. He's not slow." The pot was empty; Will scraped around the sides with the last of his bread, searching for dregs. "Don't suppose there's any point asking if you've got anything to drink? Wine, maybe? No? Aye, well, didn't think so." Scarlet gave a resigned grunt and put the pot down. "What you doing out here, anyway? With bloody Gisburne?"

Nasir did not answer. Will waited a moment, watching him, then rolled his eyes, unsurprised but frustrated by the man's silence. "'Course you won't tell me. You don't need to. I can figure it out." He looked thoughtfully at Gisburne, who glared back with simple bold hate. "Can't be that Robin wants him dead, though bugger me if I know why he'd want him otherwise. Maybe the earl's son in him can't stand to see a titled knight brought down to the level of a fucking commoner. I don't know. He's too fucking soft sometimes, Robin." Will scowled and spat into the fire; he had never really forgiven

(Robert of Huntingdon)

Robin for either the status of his birth or his reluctance to feather Gisburne with a dozen yard shafts and have done. "No, if he'd wanted Gisburne dead, you could've just left the bastard in Newark and let Brewer's headsman get on with it. And as for you, you don't give a rat's arse for Gisburne's neck. You're only doing what Robin asked of you. Am I right so far?"

The Saracen neither spoke nor moved, but Gisburne thought the bully-boy was not too far off the mark. The same thing had occurred to him after the Saracen had kept Scarlet from smashing his skull: the man didn't want him dead. Oh, Gisburne had no doubt that the Saracen would cut his throat and not break stride if it came to that, but he would have to be pushed. There was some comfort in that thought; Gisburne began to think it possible that he might get out of this alive.

Of course, that depended on whether or not the Saracen's discipline held, and on Scarlet not killing him first.

"I'm right," Will said confidently. He leaned forward, chin cocked challengingly. "But what I don't understand is this: what the bloody hell are you going to do with him now? You can't let him loose, or he'll be straight back to hunting us before you even turn around, and making life bloody miserable for any village we've ever been near. So what's Robin's plan, eh? Ship him off to Ireland and hope he falls in a bog? Hope the Fair Folk take him?" Will made a scoffing sound to show how likely he thought that was. "And here's what else I don't understand: why? Why the bloody fuck does Robin want to save that animal's miserable life?"

In the dim light of the fire, Gisburne's eyes glittered. That was the question he wanted answered too. He heard himself say, "Yes. Answer that. Why? What does he want with me?"

Both outlaws turned to look at him. Will muttered something angry and obscene; Nasir's gaze cut clear and cold. Guy, impatient, frustrated and hurt, refused to be stared down. His courage, after all, was the last thing he had. He was about to ask again, in the flat, unrelenting tone that always seemed to work wonders with peasants and cattle, when the Saracen shrugged. In the shadows, it looked slightly mocking.

"Truly, is mercy not a virtue amongst your people?"

"Mercy is," Gisburne snapped, "but this … You … Ireland isn't mercy!"

"You are alive. If I can, I will keep you that way. Robin wishes it." A dagger appeared in Nasir's hand; he made it spin and flick and disappear again. "This is mercy."

"But why?" Gisburne insisted. "Does he expect me to be grateful?" He might have used the same tone to ask if Robin expected him to fly to the moon. Scarlet's head shot up, abrupt and fierce.

"Grateful? You bloody should be, you bastard. You," he hissed, stabbing at the air with a savage finger, "should get on your fucking knees and thank God that I haven't ripped your head off yet! Be grateful for that!"

"You can't," Gisburne jeered back. "The Saracen won't let you."

"I may," Nasir said bluntly. "Do not push."

"But you said …"

"I said I will keep you alive if I can. Inshallah. If not …" Another flourish of that knife, quick and gleaming. Will's teeth flashed too, as sharp as the blade and twice as hungry.

"If not, you get what's coming to you, Gisburne," Scarlet growled. "And God willing, I'll be the one who gives it to you."

The man sounded, Guy thought, unnecessarily hopeful. The young knight fell silent, watching the outlaws with hot, hating eyes.

Will looked away from Gisburne and cracked his jaw in a yawn. "I'm about done in. Been walking all bloody day, almost. You can tell me where we're taking him in the morning. You good to take first watch?"

Nasir nodded, toeing another dry branch into the fire. It crackled as it caught, sending up a brief shower of sparks. Will grunted, tipped his head towards Gisburne.

"What about him, then?"

"Leave be, Will."

"You can't leave him free. Safer if he's bound." Will paused meaningfully. "For everyone."

Nasir made a vague gesture with one hand that seemed to say, Do as you will.

Scarlet nodded. "Good choice."

There was a short length of rope in one of the saddlebags, meant as a lead for a packhorse. It would do the trick. Will looped it in his hands and turned to where Gisburne sat. Gisburne, who had followed that last exchange unhappily, protested at his approach. "No."

"I'm not asking."

"Not you." Gisburne lifted his chin, indicating the Saracen sitting by the fire. "He can do it. Him."

Will grinned nastily. "He's got a name, you know."

"Nasir." Guy had the satisfaction of seeing a brief expression of surprise flash over Scarlet's face – what, did the man think he didn't know who his enemies were? – and tried not to smirk. "Him."

For a moment, Will looked as if he would argue, but then he muttered something in disgust and tossed the rope at his companion. "You deal with him then, Naz. I'm turning in. Wake me when it's my turn to keep an eye on the bastard, yeah?"

Will was asleep almost as soon as he hit the ground.

Nasir gave the fire another nudge, then got to his feet and moved to where Gisburne waited. Guy didn't resist as the man bound his hands, securely enough but in front of him for comfort, and tethered him to the tree against which he was resting. He had not been simply trying to be difficult when he had refused to let Scarlet do this; rather, Guy had decided that he would prefer to trust in the Saracen's detached, professional bearing than in the dubious mercies of a lunatic who wanted to kill him and piss on his corpse. Scarlet would probably have trussed him up like a Michaelmas goose. Nasir at least remembered he was a man.

When he was done, the Saracen hunkered down on his haunches and reached for Gisburne's face. Guy swore, jerking away, but the man only cuffed him once about the head and growled at him to be still. Taking hold of Gisburne's jaw, Nasir tilted the man's head to the light of the fire, frowning at the raised welt and dried blood that marked where the heavy hilt of Will's knife had hit him.

"There is pain?"

"What do you think?"

"I think Will hit you very hard. But I think, too, your skull is a thick one."

Guy grunted. "I've heard that before."

Something that might have been a smile flickered on the Saracen's face. He leaned closer, peering intently at Gisburne's eyes. After a moment he sat back, seeming satisfied. "You will have a headache for a day or two, perhaps, but there is no lasting harm."

"I've had worse." Gisburne shifted, uncomfortable with both the man's proximity and his consideration. He was more used to being shouted at or quailed from than tended to. He wasn't sure he liked it.

The Saracen only looked at him, face unreadable, then moved back with a nod. Quietly, he said, "You have questions."

"I'm not going to Ireland."

Nasir laughed, short and low. It was not a friendly sound. "No. Not Ireland. Robin wants you gone from this land, for your sake and ours. You are finished here. You know that, yes?"

"I'm finished with de Rainault. But I could take service …"

"No." The man sketched a cutting, definitive gesture. "You are finished with England. The king is against you, and a paid pardon is nothing. There is nothing in this land for you."

Which was, Gisburne could allow, most likely true, but he still didn't know why Robin Hood should care. Or why anyone should care, if it came to that. The Saracen went on.

"You have family, perhaps? In France, in Normandy?"

Family. Guy supposed that he probably did, for what little it was worth. He had no intention of throwing himself on the mercy of his lying

(faithless slut!)

mother's kin, and he wouldn't have turned to Edmund of Gisburne's people for so much as a glimpse of water if he was dying in a desert. Not after everything that man

(papa please no)

had done to him. He still had the God-cursed scars.

"Family?" Guy couldn't help himself; he gave a disparaging snort. "You think if I had family worth a damn, I'd have spent so long rotting in that God- forsaken hole?"

I think if you did not have family worth a damn, you'd be in that hole still, Nasir thought, but did not say. He held his silence and waited, watching with that steady gaze. If he had not known that Gisburne was damaged before, he was seeing it now. This man did not believe he had an ally in all the world – or even, Nasir suspected, that he deserved one. All because I grew up in my father's house and he didn't … Nasir shook his head, imperceptibly. Ya Allah, Rob didn't know the half of it.

"I still don't understand." Gisburne looked straight ahead as he spoke, into the wavering firelight and the shuddering trees. "Why come for me. Why?"

"Mercy," Nasir said again, slowly. "Forgiveness. And perhaps this too: Robin thought your sentence unjust."

The bitter irony of that was not lost on Guy. The people had always claimed that Hood stood for justice, for righting perceived wrongs, and never mind the laws he might break which Gisburne was sworn to uphold. Except now he had brought Gisburne justice, and done it within the law, and Guy didn't know who to hit or who to blame, or whether to rage or weep. It was enough to make a man howl.

Guy dropped his head into his bound hands and said, very low, "Go away. I want to sleep."

If his voice was not as steady as it should have been, Nasir had the good grace not to show that he had noticed.

Will's arrival had complicated things in one way and simplified them in another. It was complicated because now Nasir had two people asking the kinds of questions he had sworn not to answer, and because Will and Gisburne seemed intent on baiting one another into violence, but it was simpler because it meant sharing tasks like the night watch. Nasir liked knowing he'd at least get some sleep.

Gisburne was interesting. In spite of what he'd told his friend – There is no resemblance – Nasir had not been able to resist looking for Robin in Guy. He had not found him, nor even any a sign of kinship beyond that strikingly fair hair and the pale piercing eyes and, perhaps, a certain cant to the jaw. What he had found surprised him; he had never really thought of Gisburne as vulnerable, before now. But then, before now, he had never really thought of Gisburne at all.

As for Will … Nasir frowned at the sleeping man and sighed. Will was quite probably the most provocative person he knew, picking fights with effortless ease and his words with uncanny accuracy. What he'd implied earlier about Rob, and about Nasir's motivations, was the kind of thing men might spill blood over. If it touched, deep down, on some truth, that did not make it any the less wrong. Nasir shied from that. No, what he felt for Rob was a more chaste thing. It had to be. There were some paths he could not travel, no matter what aches he might endure. Some paths Rob could not travel either, and they both knew it.

These were not thoughts he wanted to have. If Scarlet wanted to misconstrue friendship, even brotherhood, into something more base and less pure, let him. Scarlet, after all, was a base and impure creature at the best of times; he would not understand that beauty could be its own reason. Nasir knew better.

The moon had climbed high with the night more than half gone, and the wind had eased. Gisburne was curled in on himself with his face buried in his own arms like a child hiding from dreams in the dark. Will was muttering in his sleep, making angry little grabbing motions with his hands. Nasir grimaced, stood, and stretched, feeling his bruised ribs pull and complain. He'd performed the last of his daily prayers hours ago; he was more than ready for sleep. Will came awake with a splutter and a bleary curse when Nasir nudged his foot hard with the stick he'd been using to poke the fire.

"Wha'? Wozzit? Morning?"

"No. Your watch." Nasir removed himself to the other side of the fire and made himself as comfortable as he could on the hard ground.

"Gisburne?"

"Sleeping. Don't kill him." Nasir turned his back and let rest come and take him as it would.

It would be dawn soon enough, and they had a ways to go.

"Who's FitzRoy?"

Nasir gave Gisburne a hard glance. The man's brief fragility of the night before had passed; this morning, he was his usual sullen, demanding self. His arrogance was somewhat diminished perhaps, by his long imprisonment and his uncertain future, but it was still enough to make Will bristle. Then again, Gisburne drawing breath was enough to make Will bristle. He and the young Norman noble were eyeing each other like a pair of mastiffs preparing to fight over a bone. Nasir had been waiting for the snarling to start since dawn.

"FitzRoy, eh?" Will, who had been rummaging in the rations again, looking to break the night's fast, cocked his head aggressively. "Is that the dandy with the expensive-looking horse? Another fancy fucking Frenchman making himself rich by taking what don't belong to him, I'll wager."

"Really?" Gisburne couldn't help but bite at the irony in that. "Well, you'd know all about taking what isn't yours."

Will straightened, glaring. "You calling me a thief?"

"Thief and murderer. Wolfshead."

"You …" Scarlet's hand went for his knife; he took a single pace forward. Guy, hands still bound, sneered at him.

"Coward! Come on, then. Attack an unarmed man. Killer!"

"Stop!" Nasir's voice snapped out with a crack like a branch breaking, making Will jump and Gisburne flinch. The Saracen turned hot, flashing eyes on each of them in turn, then thrust the saddle in his arms at Will, hard enough to make the man grunt. "See to the horses."

Will blinked in disbelief, ready to round his temper on a new target. "D'you think I'm your bloody …"

"The horses, Will." Uncompromising, absolute. "Now." The man spoke as if he expected to be obeyed; his eyes warned what might happen if he wasn't. Will scowled and hefted the saddle.

"Yeah, well. Just keep him the hell away from me, is all. And shut him up."

Nasir gave the slightest dip of the head, but his eyes did not soften. Will looked from him to Gisburne and back, then made a noise of disgust and went to do as he was told.

"Do not bait him." The Saracen spoke to Gisburne without looking at him, cursorily and over his shoulder. "It is not wise."

"The man's a common cutthroat." Which was true: Guy remembered the first time he had laid eyes on Scarlet, when the man had been dragged into Nottingham's guardhouse, drenched in blood like a demon and raving about his wife. Three men dead that day, and another hurt badly enough that he would never hold a sword again, and all because a silly Saxon wench had got out of line, and her rabid dog of a husband had objected. Guy's expression was scornful. He tugged against his bonds. "I'm not going to be intimidated by the likes of him."

Then you are a fool, Nasir thought, though he confined himself to only sending the man a flat glance and squatting down to untie his hands. "Behave."

From across the spinney came the sound of cursing and stamping, and a high nervous whicker: Will arguing with the horses. Gisburne and Nasir both frowned towards the noise.

"Will! Take care!"

"Mind those animals, man!"

They both spoke at once, then stopped and looked at each other. Nasir shook his head, amused, but the look on Gisburne's face was somewhere between abashed and appalled. Nasir found that interesting. The man was unrepentant about goading Will into anger, but when he was caught showing concern for a horse he ducked and flushed as if he'd done something shameful and expected to be roundly mocked. There was, Nasir decided, something very unhappy in that.

Gisburne recovered himself, rubbing at his wrists where the rope had chafed and not meeting the Saracen's eyes. His voice was gruff. "Tell me about FitzRoy. Who is he?"

Nasir raised an eyebrow, bemused. "FitzRoy is who he is. FitzRoy of Scots."

"I know his name, wolfshead." Guy couldn't say that without sneering. "What I want to know is who is he to you, and why did he pay my parole?"

"To us, he is … useful," Nasir replied truthfully. He did not bring kinship into it; he did not feel he had to. "And your parole, he did not."

"What? Of course he did. I saw it."

"No. He paid nothing. He merely delivered a writ."

"A writ from whom?"

Nasir considered not answering, but did so anyway. Part of that was curiosity, part was simple contrariness. "Aaron de Talmont. Of Lincoln."

Nasir watched as Gisburne tried to make sense of that. The man's brow furrowed, his lower lip jutting in a confused pout. He blinked several times. It made him look, Nasir thought, like an overtired child puzzling over a philosophy text.

"De Talmont?" he said at last, sounding baffled. "Wasn't that the name of the money-lender with the pretty dau…" He caught himself just in time, shook his head hard and pushed himself roughly to his feet. Nasir rose with him, watching him carefully. Gisburne glared.

"Lie to me, then. I don't care. I'm free of de Rainault, free of Brewer, and soon enough I'll be free of you and Hood and those savages you call friends. What does it matter who paid my parole, compared to that?"

His only answer was a wry tip of the head. Gisburne swore, swung about on his heel, and strode towards the trees. The Saracen spoke.

"Where do you go?"

Gisburne glowered at him over his shoulder. "I'm going to take a piss, man. What, do you think I'm going to disappear like morning mist? You can come and watch, if you like."

That last was thick with sarcasm. Nasir, who really would have preferred not, sighed to himself, shouldered his weapons and shadowed Gisburne at a discreet distance.

There were times when what Robin asked of him was rather a lot to bear.

"Right, then." The horses stood patiently where Will had left them, huffing soft clouds of white into the crisp morning air and tearing thoughtfully at the dew-soaked grass along the edge of the hedgerow. Will eyed the pair of them and gave a satisfied nod, like a man surveying a good morning's work. "Well, Naz, there's your bloody horses. You want to tell me where we're going?"

Nasir blinked at the tangle of his horse's reins and grunted his disapproval. Stepping past Will, he ran a hand down the smooth bay neck and whispered something easy and reassuring into the flicking ear, clever fingers deftly smoothing the bridle and adjusting the heft of the bit. To Will, he said: "You should go back to Sherwood. To Robin."

Will snorted. "What, an' leave you alone out here? With Gisburne? Not likely."

A brief, flat glance told Will that his concern was not welcome. He wasn't surprised; Nasir never took well to suggestions that he might not be up to looking after himself. The man seemed to think he was bloody invincible, that was his trouble. Will knew better. Nasir was good at what he did, and competent at near everything else, but get in under his guard and he bled like any other man. And Gisburne, whatever else he was, was a fighter. A man could do better than underestimate him. Even if, right now, he did look like something that had been stuffed into a sack and beaten with sticks.

"Robin may have more need of you than I do. Go."

Will's jaw lifted to its most stubborn angle. "I told you, no. Robin's not doing anything but sitting on his arse moping over Marion in any case, an' he don't need my help for that. In fact," Will pointed out with a touch of malice, "if anyone should go back, it's you. You're the one he bloody talks to, after all. Let me take care of Gisburne."

Nasir only gave him that flat look again, but Will was accustomed by now to hearing what the Saracen didn't say. He shrugged. "All right, so no one's going back. So you might as well tell me the plan. What are we doing with Gisburne?" Will frowned suddenly, looking around. "And where the bloody hell is he, anyway?"

"Right here, wolfshead." Gisburne strode out of last night's small campsite with a half full waterskin in his hands, which he tossed almost challengingly at Scarlet's feet. "Did you miss me?"

"With every fucking shot so far," Will said sourly. He flung Nasir a dark, demanding look. "What's he doing wandering about loose?"

"Will." Nasir sounded tired of this argument already. "Leave be."

"But …"

"Where do you think he will go that I cannot track him, Will? On foot, unarmed, in this place?" The Saracen's tone was dismissive, but even so his eyes followed Gisburne carefully. "If he were fool enough to try, he would not get far."

That, Guy knew, was for his benefit as much as it was for Scarlet's. And the Saracen was right; there was no point in trying to run. Not yet, at any rate. Guy could wait. He was used to taking his chances where he found them.

Moving to where the dun gelding – great slow plowhorse of a thing, not a spark of fire in it – waited, Guy tried to hide how stiff and sore his body felt after a day in the saddle and a night on the hard ground. Living on horseback and sleeping where he fell … Gisburne swallowed a sigh. There had been a time, not so long ago, when he would have endured such things without remark, without even thought. But that had been before Newark, and a pair of months spent starving in a cage. He had not realised how much it had taken out of him.

The dun was poorly saddled. Setting a knee into the animal's belly, Guy pushed up, tugging at the girth strap. "Let down, you wind-sucking nag," he muttered, feeling the horse resist briefly before submitting to the girth. Scarlet, he thought, had not done his task well. If any stable lad at Nottingham had been so careless, Gisburne would have given him the back of his hand.

"Look, Naz." Will was trying to sound reasonable. Guy, who thought he was making a weak fist of it, listened without looking up. "You keep heading east, you'll end up in the fens. Hundreds of fucking acres of nothing but swamp. What are you playing at? If we want to drown the bastard, there's decent water closer to home."

"We do not drown him. We take him to the coast and secure him passage to France."

"France?" Gisburne couldn't help himself: he swung and stared. "France? A Channel crossing at the tail end of the season? You must be mad."

"Not mad. We have coin; they have ships; you will go." Nasir made that sound like a royal decree. Maybe it was. He swung himself into his saddle. Will drew a breath, held it, then let it out with a slow nod.

"All right. France. 'S'far enough away for me." He gave Gisburne a narrow-eyed glare, then spread his hands in a gesture of reluctant acceptance. "I still say we should kill 'im, but France'll do. At a pinch."

"What if," Guy demanded abruptly, "I don't want to go to France?"

"What, scared of a little boat trip, are you?" Scarlet, whose own experience of Channel crossings had involved clutching the gunwale and throwing up everything he'd eaten for a week, grinned nastily.

"No, I …"

"If not France, or Normandy, then Austria." Nasir cut Gisburne off, his tone both indifferent and absolute, as if he were supremely disinterested in what the young nobleman might or might not want. "Or, if you would be warmer, Rome perhaps, or al-Andalus. If you would be colder, Robin suggested Scotland, but I do not think that is far enough." He shrugged as if he didn't much care. "Scotland is close, and who can say that your King John will not turn his gaze northward once he has finished with his Welsh rebellion? Best for you, I think, if the king does not see your face again, or even hear your name."

Gisburne, who had not expected a lesson on statecraft from an outlawed Saracen, found he could only nod. "No. Not Scotland."

"Or," Nasir said slowly, almost reluctantly, "if not France, there is Palestine. What you Franks call 'Outremer'."

"Take the Cross, you mean?"

Nasir's eyes were unwavering and utterly opaque. He looked down at Gisburne from where he sat his horse and said nothing at all. Will let out a low whistle.

"Wouldn't do it if I were you, Guy. Place'll be full of his sort," he warned lightly, jerking his head towards Nasir. "All silent and intense and not pleased to see you at all. And nothing to drink worth a damn, I can promise you that."

Nasir turned his head to look at Will. "They say," he said, in a slow and deliberate tone, "that pilgrimage is good for the soul. Perhaps, Scarlet, if he goes, you might join him."

Setting his horse's head to the road, he let the others follow as they would.