 
Sherwood Forest: Evil Works

by Laura McVey

Copyright 2015 Laura McVey

Smashwords Edition

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Droplets of water slid down Bess' forehead and dripped into her hair. Her mouth felt cracked and dry; air whistled between her lips every time she took a breath. She let her lips part and opened her mouth, hoping that some of the moisture would dampen her tongue, but it was too far away. There was something cool and damp resting on her forehead, giving her some relief from the ache in her temple.

"Is she waking up?" someone said. The sound of their voice made her head hurt more, but it also stirred her consciousness. Where was she?

There was a gentle touch to her shoulder, and a voice said "Bess?" She knew that voice; it was Alice. She opened her eyes.

Above her was a netted ceiling of greenery, with patches of pale blue sky peeping through the gaps

. Beneath her, she could feel a rough blanket, and branches and stones poked into her back. She reached out with one fumbling hand, and grasped a handful of twigs. They felt rough and cool under her fingers. She began to raise her head, but fell back with a whimper as the hot throbbing in her temple grew stronger.

"Easy does it," said another voice. This one was not as familiar, but Bess knew she had heard it somewhere before. Hands slid under her shoulders and helped to lift her up. Another hand cupped the back of her head, keeping her from needing to hold her neck up. The damp weight on her forehead slid down and fell into her lap; it was a rag that had been dipped in cold water, still cool to the touch. Bess blinked, and the world came into focus.

Alice was kneeling next to her, a hand pressed to the back of Bess' head. She was watching Bess, red-eyed and uncharacteristically quiet. The pair of hands that had lifted her belonged to a large man kneeling at her other side. It took Bess only a moment to recognize him- John, the physician who had tended to her father. They were surrounded on all sides of towering trees- a forest of them. If John was here, and there were trees all around, that meant-

Bess turned her head, and Alice let her hand fall away. Sitting all around the clearing were men and women- some more familiar than others, but Bess had seen them all before. There were Will and Shaima, who had been at the inn days (had it been days? How long had she slept?) earlier. There was Lady Marian, who Bess had seen in processions every year since she was a child. There was a man whose name she didn't remember, but she knew he was from Nottingham. There were John and Alice, by her side. And sitting on the far side of the clearing, dressed in a green tunic and cloak, was a man who needed no introduction. After the past several weeks, Bess could have identified him by his clothing alone. He met her gaze and held it.

"You're awake," he said. The statement held no surprise or warmth; it simply was. Lady Marian stood and walked over, placing the palm of her hand to Bess' forehead. It was such a motherly gesture, Bess felt a swell of sadness, though she couldn't have said why.

"We were worried about you," she said gently. "You slept for a long time. Do you remember what happened?"

Bess shook her head slowly, wincing at the fresh pain lacing through her head. She had a vague impression of heat and darkness and fire- of suffocating terror- but it all had a faint, dreamlike quality. It felt more like a nightmare she had had long ago than something that had really happened to her. "What happened?"

Lady Marian bit her lip, exchanging a look with John over Bess' head. Several of the other outlaws looked down or coughed. No one spoke.

"It was Gisbourne," Alice said. After taking her hand away from Bess' head, she'd taken one of Bess' hands in her own instead. Her grip was tight. "He came to the inn last night after I left."

Bits and pieces of the previous night were drifting back into Bess' memory; she had a clear recollection of thinking

, but she couldn't remember what had been happening when the thought had crossed her mind. "Did he hit me?"

"One of his lackeys did," Will Scarlett said from across the clearing. "He wanted to keep you from running away. We managed to get you away before they put you in the wagon."

Bess reached back and let her fingers brush over the lump on the side of her head. More bits and pieces of the previous night were trickling through her mind like sand; she couldn't hold on to any one piece long enough to understand it. "The wagon?"

Alice's grip on her hand tightened. "They were there to arrest you and Thomas." Her voice faltered. "Allan must have told them about the rebellion. They've been rounding people up all day."

Bess struggled to clear her head long enough to hold a single, clear thought. "They arrested my father? He's at the castle?" She looked up sharply. "We've got to get him back. His injury-"

But Alice was slowly shaking her head. Tears had gathered in the corners of her eyes. Bess looked around the clearing again, at all the people surrounding her. None of them spoke. None of them were even willing to look at her.

Bess looked back at Alice. "Where's my father?"

"He-" Alice made a choking noise and cleared her throat before continuing. "Gisbourne burned the inn to the ground before he left. Thomas was trapped inside." She gripped Bess' hand until Bess thought it would snap. "I'm so-" She shook her head. "He'll pay for this."

Bess looked at her blankly. She could feel a pit opening up in her stomach, her heart rushing downward until it was surrounded by darkness on all sides.

This, it seemed, was what she'd needed in order to remember. She could see it now, playing out before her eyes like a mystery play: her father tackling Gisbourne, Gisbourne smirking, Gisbourne throwing her father into the heart of the fire. Her ears were roaring with the remembered sound of Thomas' screams as the flames had consumed him. She'd been there. She'd seen it all.

"I was there," she said stupidly. Her tongue felt thick in her mouth. "I was there when he died."

"Bess." That was John. "There was nothing you could have done to save him. Gisbourne took five trained soldiers with him when he went to the inn. He was taking no chances that you or your father would be able to escape."

Bess' hands flexed where they rested on her knees, balling up into fists and then flattening out against her thighs. They were the only part of her that moved. Tears were gathering at the corners of her eyes, but she didn't blink. Stillness felt safer than movement. Silence felt safer than speech.

Alice's hand slid over Bess' shoulder to encircle her back. "He's going to pay for this," she said. Startled, Bess looked up. Alice had the same expression on her face that she'd had when she first told Bess what Gisbourne had done to her- rawness painted over with rage. "He's going to die."

Bess' hands still moved, entirely independent of any effort on her part. Alice reached down and caught at one of them. "I don't want to kill him," Bess said slowly. "I don't want to kill anyone." And she knew it was true. She wasn't like Alice. She didn't have the capacity for that kind of outward-flung rage. Her grief curled inward, like paper burning at the edges. It was all inside, all her memories and her feelings. She didn't want to let any of it out.

"You don't have to kill anyone," John said reassuringly. He was still propping her up, and Bess found the warmth of his hands on her back surprisingly soothing. Like her father, cradling her through a long-ago childhood illness. "You don't need to do anything."

Across the clearing, Robin cleared his throat, and everyone looked up at him. There was a warning in John's eyes, Bess noticed, and wondered what he was anticipating. "

don't need to do anything," Robin said. "But the rest of us do. Your father's companions are still being arrested, and we don't yet know how many of them there are." He paused. "As a matter of fact, there is something you need to do. Can you tell us how many rebels there were?"

Alice made a face at him that looked almost like she was baring her teeth. Bess' mind moved sluggishly, trying to catch up to what Robin was asking. "I . . . I don't know." There had been- ten? Maybe? Enough to fit around the table. She remembered Ned, Jack, Isaac- but Isaac hadn't come back after his arrest, and the Sheriff had no idea that he'd been involved- but if the others were being arrested, if they were being tortured for information-

"Bess." Robin was suddenly less than a foot away from her, and he snapped his fingers under her face.

"How many?"

"Leave her alone," Alice snapped. "How should she know? It's not as though anyone kept a list."

Robin looked incredulous. "No one kept track of who was coming to these meetings? When any one of them could have turned them in? When someone

turn them in?"

"Shut up!" Alice said. Some distant part of Bess' mind registered shock that she was willing to speak to Lord Robin that way, but she shouldn't have been surprised. It was Alice, after all. "We told you already who turned them in and it wasn't a member of the rebellion-"

"But all the same, there must have been someone keeping track-"

"Well it clearly wasn't either of us! The next time a rebellion in your name ends up being destroyed, we'll be sure to save the bookkeeper first!"

Bess put her head into her hands. The argument, and its contents, were making her head ache. Faces swam in front of her eyes- some familiar enough to call by name, others only vaguely so. Ned. Jack. Isaac. The men who'd objected to Shaima last night- Henry and Martin. But there'd been others, hadn't there? There must have been. Why couldn't she remember?

"Rob," a voice said sharply next to her ear. Bess looked up. John was giving his friend a hard look, his hands still on Bess' shoulders. "We don't need to discuss this here."

"It's all right," Bess said softly. Her head still hurt- her whole soul still hurt- but that didn't matter. There were still things she needed to do. "I don't mind."

Alice was staring at her. "Bess-"

"No." Bess looked at Robin, who was regarding her with a mixture of curiosity and cold pragmatism. "I don't know everyone who was there. There might be men I've forgotten, or who I was never introduced to by name. But I know some of them. Is that enough to start with?"

"Rob," John said again. But Bess silenced him with a gesture. Robin was still watching her, and there was nothing soft in his gaze. But he at least looked slightly less cold than he had before.

"Who can you name?" he asked.

Bess took a deep breath. "Ned the blacksmith. Jack the cobbler. Martin- I believe he's a plowman. So is Henry. I think there was a cartwright among us, but I don't recall his name. That's all I can remember."

Robin nodded, a tiny jerk of his head. "We'll start by looking for them, then." He glanced at John. "You take Much and look for the plowmen- they'll be in the fields at this time of year. Will, you and Shaima go to fetch the blacksmith. As I recall, he shares a street with the cobbler, so take him as well."

"I'll go with you," Alice said immediately, standing up. "I can show you where he lives. I've been there."

"I'll be going too," Bess said. Every head in the clearing turned to face her. Alice's face creased in a frown. "What? But you-"

"I'm not going to get Ned," Bess interrupted. "Or Jack, or Martin." She turned her head, looking Robin full in the face. She raised her chin slightly, drawing what strength she could from the gesture. "I'm going to the castle."

There was a moment of pure silence. Then Alice erupted in a cacophony

of vulgarities, some of which Bess had never even heard before. In between curses, she spluttered,

"The castle? When the Sheriff has men out hunting for anyone who so much as spoke to your father? Of all the God-damned suicidal ludicrous-"

"Alice," Bess said. Her friend stopped midway through her tirade, though her eyes still held murder.

"I've been in the castle before," Bess continued. "We both have. When we last went there, we saved a man's life. Why not do it again?"

Alice said nothing. She bit her lower lip. Her eyes were wet.

Bess turned back to Robin. "Someone needs to find out what men are already in the dungeons, and how to get them out. I have a defense to offer if I'm arrested on sight- I can still plead ignorance. And-" She took a deep breath. "At least one man there will speak for me, if I ask him to. I have more supporters than the rest of the men the Sheriff's arrested."

"You don't know that," Alice said baldly. "Allan turned your father in. How do you know he won't do the same to you?"

"He won't," Bess replied. She was far from certain. Even if she believed wholeheartedly in Allan's good intentions- and she had passed that point the moment Gisbourne appeared on her doorstep- the fact still remained that he had gotten her father killed. Whatever had been between them had burned down with the inn. But she had to believe that he would argue her case, if she called on him to do so.

He owed her that, at least.

No one else had spoken; they were all watching the conversation unfold, eyes darting between Bess, Robin, and Alice. As Bess turned back to watch, Robin nodded his head slowly. "If you think it's best," he said. "If you're certain."

"I do," Bess said. She was far from certain. Her faith in Allan was in shreds. But shreds were all she had left; she had to make use of them somehow.

+

When everyone had left and the clearing was empty, Marian let out a long, quiet sigh. She was still seated, staring down at her hands as they folded and unfolded in her lap. There were things she needed to do- both in the camp and out of it- but she was having trouble mustering the mental strength required to do any of them.

Robin was the only other one who had remained, but he didn't seem willing to acknowledge

that he and Marian shared the same space. He was seated with his back to one of the oak trees, his arm skimming back and forth as he fletched arrow after arrow. By the time he was done, Marian thought, the forest would be empty of fallen branches; they'd all have been turned into weapons and stockpiled against a war that would never come. Whenever Marian lifted her eyes to look at her husband, she caught his gaze skittering in the opposite direction. His reflexes weren't as fast as hers'; more than once, she'd caught him looking at her, brows knitted pensively. What he was thinking, Marian didn't know. If he wanted to speak with her, if there was something he needed to say- well, then she would wait for him to say it. As she had already discovered, there was no point in pushing him to speak. He would only turn bestial again, lash out and say things that would gnaw at her until he took them back and apologized. And, as he'd made no move towards apologizing, it seemed that they would gnaw at her for quite some time.

Still, the quiet was maddening.

"I think Darley Abbey would be best," she announced. She did not look at her husband as she said it. "Before- when we still held the manor- we made certain donations to them. Do you remember?" The donations had been made in her children's names. She was sure Robin did remember. It had been a sticking point in their fights before he'd left on Crusade- her arguing that there was no reason for him to go, as they'd already done all they could to ensure that their babies would go to Heaven. Him repeating, feverishly, what the priest had told him- that this was better than donations, better than prayers, an assurance above all others that they would be saved. In the end, he had ridden away. They had both lost that fight.

"Doubtless they're still very grateful," she continued. "And if they accepted me into their ranks, there are charitable works I could perform- making clothes and such, for those in Nottingham who need them." She said "into their ranks" as blandly as possible, not wishing to taunt him with the possibility. In truth, the likelihood of the nuns inducting her into their ranks was slim; she was still a married woman, after all, despite the state her marriage was in. If she went to Darley, she would become a permanent guest: respected, well-treated, but not truly one of the women who had dedicated themselves to Christ. If she had done that long ago, Marian thought, she might have been spared a good deal of heartache. All she could do now was attempt to ameliorate the pain in what years she had left.

"I'll leave as soon as we know that the rebels are safe," she said. Robin had still not responded to anything she'd said; she knew very well that he was listening, but he was trying his hardest to give the impression that he wasn't. His head was bowed, eyes closed- if she didn't know better (and if Robin was a better actor) she might have assumed he was falling asleep. But, as she had known him for nearly fifteen years, and shared his bed and board for ten of them. She knew when he was attempting to save face. She also knew that attempting to get him to admit it was a futile proposition. So she continued, "The roads will undoubtedly be guarded until after the Sheriff is satisfied that the rebellion has been crushed. It may be a while yet before travel is safe." She paused. "Perhaps it would be best if we sent them out one at a time, rather than all at once. That way, if one is caught, we will be warned as to the advisability of the route they took. If you, or John, or Much accompanied them- in disguise, of course- it may offer them a measure of protection." She paused. "Or I might. The guards would not recognize me in peasant garb- I could pass myself off as a wife or a sister-"

"Don't," Robin said.

Marian folded her hands in her lap to stop their trembling. The word "don't" had many meanings, especially here and now. "I'm not sure what you mean. If you think it best that I not go with them-"

"No," Robin said. His own hands, Marian noticed, were also trembling. "I mean don't- don't speak this way, don't speak of leaving."

"I thought you wished me gone," Marian said. She fought to keep her voice calm. "Or rather, you wished me to take whatever course I thought was best. I suggested leaving, and you did not-"

"I was wrong," Robin said jerkily. Each word left his mouth independent of the next, as though he were spitting out pebbles. "When we spoke before- when I spoke- I regret-" He cleared his throat. "I spoke . . . Wrongly. Cruelly. I acted- have acted- in anger, but you should never have been my target. I cannot ask you to forgive me, and I no longer have the right to ask you to stay. But-" He cleared his throat again, a strangled noise. "I do ask that you . . . not speak to me of your departure. A small concession only. It is your right to refuse-"

"I have no interest in refusing," Marian said. She had given up any pretense of holding her hands still. "I have no interest in- in spite, in cruelty for cruelty's sake."

"I did not-"

"I know you did not," she said. Now her voice was shaking too. "But you must understand, Robin- I am not leaving because I wish to cause you pain. I am leaving because I wish to spare myself." She saw his face begin to fall before he re-arranged it into a blank look. "I know it hurts you when I say this. I know you regret causing me pain. But Robin- how often must we hurt each other before we decide that retreat is the best option?"

There was silence for a moment. Then Robin said, "Is it too late to heal the wounds and attempt to make no more?"

Marian looked down at her hands. She wanted- badly- for the answer to be "no." She could say it now, and put an end to all this. But as much of a relief as that would be, she wasn't sure it would last. How long would it be before Robin found himself looking inwards again? How long until there was another fight, and both were left bleeding?

She said carefully, "What assurance can you give that no more harsh words will be exchanged?"

Robin did something unexpected then. He got up and crossed the clearing, lowering himself to his knees in front of Marian. She looked up at him and saw that his eyes were full of tears, tears she knew he would never allow to fall.

"I can promise nothing," he said. He still sounded as though he was choking. "I have been a poor excuse for a husband to you, Marian. Even before all this began. I ought to have listened to you two years ago when you told me to stay, but I didn't. And I've been proven wrong. I was-" He shook his head violently. "If I had not regretted the words we exchanged as I rode away, I know I did by the time I started the journey home. There was no salvation for me in the Holy Land. And even when I returned, when I should have learned my lesson, I was cruel to you. I held myself apart when I should not have. I ought to have realized that you spoke the truth." He bowed his head. "All I can offer to you now is an apology, and it isn't worth much. But I can tell you this: you are wiser and kinder than I have ever been. And if I were to lose you because of my own failings, it would be a fitting punishment. But even though I have no right to ask you to stay, I find myself asking regardless." He grasped her hand. "Will you? Stay?"

Marian had begun to cry silently while he was speaking, and made no attempt to stop or wipe the tears away. Robin raised a hand towards her cheek, then pulled it back. Marian caught it and put it in its intended position. "I do not wish to punish you," she said. Her voice was a croak. "I do not wish to cause you any pain. I wish- I wished- to spare us both." She tugged her hand gently out of Robin's grasp and laid it against his cheek. To her surprise, the skin beneath her fingers was damp; he had let the tears fall after all

. "I thought that if you could not bear my presence any longer, if we would continue to bring out the worst in each other, that it would be best if I was gone. I do not ask for perfection from you. We have both been hurt." She cupped his face in both her hands and pulled him gently upwards so that they were facing each other directly. "Your promise is all I can ask for, and you have already given it freely."

Robin rested his forehead against Marian's, and it struck her that it had been a long time since they had been this close. There had been fleeting moments, when she first returned from the castle, and then- nothing. But she still remembered the lines of her husband's face and the feel of his mouth.

"Marian," he said. He was so close to her. "I don't deserve-"

"Shhh." She put her fingers up to his mouth. "I don't love you because you deserve it. I love you because I always have." She took her fingers away and replaced them with her mouth. It was a chaste kiss, but one that was full of promise. In its own way, that was far more intimate.

"I'm staying," she whispered. There were tears on both their faces, and she could no longer tell which were hers' and which were his.

"Of course I'm staying."

The castle had been in a frenzy all day. A weaker part of Cecily had considered hiding herself away in her room, locking the door, and putting her hands over her ears until it was all over- but she had always done her duty, and she wasn't going to stop now. She combed her hair, smoothed her skirts, and went to work.

With each new entrance into the castle, she scanned the faces anxiously for any sight of Bess or Alice. She saw none. The people being dragged in and tossed into the dungeon were, by and large, men- men with bloodied noses and lips, men in chains, men who spat and swore at the guards who held them by the arms. Every time another one was dragged by, Cecily pressed her teeth into her bottom lip to keep from crying out or weeping or otherwise giving herself away. She was sure her lip now had permanent teeth marks in it. After awhile, Joan noticed and nudged her arm. "What's the matter with you? You look as though you're about to faint."

Cecily pulled her face into a semblance of a smile. It probably looked more like a grimace, but that was all right. "Women's troubles."

"Ah." Joan nodded sympathetically and went on her way. Cecily returned to her previous occupation of watching the doors.

Technically speaking, she had been sent to deliver food to the Sheriff in the Great Hall. The rebels were not the only visitors to the castle that day- the messengers he'd sent out the day before were starting to return, having (they said) ridden hard all night to deliver their responses. With each new missive, the Sheriff looked increasingly pleased with himself. Cecily didn't want to consider the reasons for that. She was too occupied with worrying about Bess to worry over whatever the Sheriff was planning next.

The door to the great hall opened and closed again, and Cecily turned to look. It was Gisbourne this time, looking somewhat the worse for wear since she'd last seen him. There was a blooming bruise on his cheek, and a cut over his left eye that looked as though it had barely stopped bleeding. Cecily hoped that Bess had given him those wounds, then reconsidered. She hoped Bess had managed to escape. And if she'd given him those wounds in the process, all the better.

The Sheriff's genial look vanished when he saw Gisbourne. He dropped the latest missive on the table and leaned forward. "Well?" he snapped. His voice was icy. "Have you found her yet?"

Gisbourne, glowering, shook his head. "No sign. She'd hiding in some peasant's house, I'm sure-"

"If you were sure," the Sheriff said, and even Cecily shivered at his tone, "you would have found her by now. How is it that you are able to arrest half the men in the county, and yet one tavern wench escapes your attention? How is it, Gisbourne, that you had her in your grasp and yet she is not in my dungeon right now?"

Gisbourne looked sulky. "Hood's men took her."

"Oh, I see." The Sheriff's voice was, if possible, even more dangerous- it was the calm before the storm. "Hood's men- who you have also failed to capture thus far, though they have been appearing with some regularity in Nottingham for over a fortnight now- overpowered the men who I mistakenly believed to be competent in carrying out my orders." He tented his fingers. "Your excuses leave a good deal to be desired."

Cecily, standing at the back of the room, clasped her hands behind her back. Here, at last, was good news- Bess had escaped. Not only that, but she'd done so by way of Lord Robin- which meant that by now, he must be aware of the plot the Sheriff was brewing with regards to Sir Philip and King Richard. And since she hadn't seen Alice being brought in- nor heard any mention of her- and she'd left to find Lord Robin the night before, did that mean that she'd escaped as well? It all seemed too good to be true.

"They're not

," Gisbourne said, though the whine in his voice belied his words. "Hood knows these woods, and he's a trained soldier. How are we to compete with that when all our fighting men are brutes?"

"Do you include yourself in that assessment?" the Sheriff asked. "Because if you do not, you ought to.

When I brought you into this castle as my yeoman, it was done on the understanding that you had the ability to perform the tasks required of you." He leaned forward, flattening his hands on the table. "I require that you capture this girl, along with the rest of her rebel friends, and find Robin Hood so that I may deal with them all as I see fit.

"

Gisbourne, still sulky, said nothing.

The door behind them opened again, and Cecily looked up. One of the guards was stepping through, pulling a woman alongside him. Cecily saw a flash of pale hair. Her throat tightened.

"My lord Sheriff." The guard bowed, apparently unaware of- or unwilling to acknowledge- the tension simmering in the room. "This woman just presented herself at the front gate and asked that I bring her before you. She says her name is Bess, and that you've been looking for her since last night."

Gisbourne's jaw dropped open. Cecily had to fight to keep her own from doing the same. What was Bess thinking? Why would she come here, of all places? She'd been safely away from the Sheriff; why come before him now, when anyone who had been even tangentially involved with her and her father was being arrested?

The Sheriff, meanwhile, leaned even further forward, eyes narrowing. "Can she speak for herself?"

"I can." Bess pulled her arm from the guard's grip and stepped forward, chin tilted upward. Her eyes were red, but beyond that, there was nothing in her face or posture to indicate that she was afraid of the man she stood before. "I am here to demand the release of the prisoners you have arrested in Nottingham today. You have no cause to take them away from their families. They have committed no wrongdoing."

The Sheriff laughed, and it sounded like a dash of cold water to the face felt. "No cause? You are mistaken. I have every cause. They have attempted to rebel against my authority and depose me from my position. Their arrest was necessary to keep the peace in this town."

"Did they?" Bess stood a little straighter. Cecily's heart ached for her. She knew the inn had burned down and taken Bess' father with it- she'd been orphaned not even a day ago, and she was already here fighting to free the prisoners. And she couldn't do it; the Sheriff would never let her. "What proof do you have of this? I assume that no man complicit in a rebellion against you would come to you and confess. It seems inadvisable."

"It does indeed," the Sheriff said silkily. "As such, the man who informed me of their betrayal had no connection to the rebellion itself, beyond an ill-chosen romance that has since been terminated." He tilted his head slightly to the side, expression shifting, and Cecily cringed. She knew this look; it signaled that he was preparing to pounce. "And your name was mentioned among these traitors."

Bess, to Cecily's shock, did not stumble backwards or cry out when she heard these words. Her mouth parted ever so slightly, then closed. There was the slightest rocking motion of her heels, as though she had started to fall and then pulled herself up short. "Who?" she asked.

"That's no concern of yours," the Sheriff said with a dismissive flick of his fingers. Cecily wondered why he didn't gloat, then realized: if Bess knew who had turned her in, she may yet be able to persuade him to take his words back. This way, she was left dangling helplessly, beset with suspicions and lacking the facts. It was crueler, by far, than simply telling her who the informant was.

Bess had opened her mouth to speak again, but the Sheriff silenced her with a nod to one of the guards. The man came forward and clapped a hand over Bess' mouth, gloved fingers splayed over her face. Cecily winced again in sympathy. "Take her to the dungeon."

The guard, still holding Bess, shifted back and forth uncomfortably on his feet. He didn't leave the room. The Sheriff's eyes narrowed. "Were my instructions unclear?"

"No, m'lord." The guard's face reddened. "It's just- is she to be put in with the rest of the prisoners?"

The Sheriff let out a long-suffering sigh. "Why would she not be?"

"Well." The guard's face was growing redder by the second. "They're- they're all men, m'lord. It seems, ah. Discourteous. What if one of them were to- take liberties?"

Behind the guard, Gisbourne burst out laughing, an ugly metallic bray that scraped across Cecily's ears.

It occurred to her that it was awfully rich of the guard to worry about what "liberties" might be taken while he still had his hand pressed over Bess' mouth. At least Gisbourne- vile though he was- was honest in his crudity. The Sheriff himself, meanwhile, threw his hands up. "For God's sake, if you're so concerned, put her in a separate cell. Just ensure that she's locked up and can't get out."

The guard bowed- an awkward affair, as he still hadn't let go of Bess- and backed out of the room, his prisoner in tow. Cecily watched them go, mind racing. Bess had escaped Gisbourne last night and come to the castle this morning, ostensibly of her own free will. Where had she gone when she escaped? How had she escaped? Had she managed to outrun him? And if so, what in the world had possessed her to come back after she'd gotten away? The Sheriff would never acquiesce to her demands and let them go; she had to know that. She wasn't stupid. There had to be some sort of plan in place. Was she acting alone? Was she-

"You!" There was the sound of fingers being snapped. "You! Girl!"

Cecily looked up to find the Sheriff glaring at her. "Have you gone deaf? I said, take these back to the kitchen. They've gone cold." He shoved the platter in front of him across the table until it reached the edge, precarious seconds away from tipping over.

"Oh." Cecily grabbed the platter, ducking her head. "Yes, my lord. I'm very sorry." She clutched the platter tightly, skittering out of the great hall and not stopping until she was well out of the Sheriff and Gisbourne's sight. Then she stopped, leaning against the wall.

Bess had to be acting in concert with someone. Nothing else made sense. She'd come to the castle before, yes- but even then, she'd brought Alice with her. And she hadn't been a fugitive at the time. There was simply no way that she would have decided- even bereaved, even panicked- to arrive at the castle and announce herself like that. And nothing about her behaviour had indicated that she'd been acting out of raw emotion; she'd barely reacted when the Sheriff had baited her. There was something else going on.

So what was her plan?

The most obvious answer was, of course, that she was working with Lord Robin and the others somehow. Alice had gone to get him the night before, just before Gisbourne had arrived. She'd said that they weren't far away. So if Alice had succeeded in catching them and bringing them back, they could have kept Gisbourne from taking Bess. That explained how she'd escaped. But what was the next step of the plan? What had made Bess think that coming to the castle was a good idea? How did she plan to escape from here? She was to be put in the dungeon, presumably under heavy guard; if the plan was for Robin and the others to burst in and rescue her, they were going to have a time of it trying to get past the gates. And how could they be sure of pulling it off before it was too late and Bess was hanged with the rest of them?

Cecily shuddered slightly. She could do nothing about that now; Bess was already in the dungeons, and Robin and the others were- so far as she knew- leagues away. Instead, she would do what she always did: go to Bess and try to help her in whatever meagre way she could. Under the circumstances, it would have to be enough.

+

Will had no prior knowledge of Alice, but for their brief meeting in town a week earlier, but she left a lasting impression. All the way to Nottingham, she ranted at length about the Sheriff, Gisbourne, and anyone even tangentially connected with them.

She spared no venom for Robin, either- and under the circumstances, Will couldn't entirely blame her. He had been unduly sharp with Bess when she was already in a state of shock, and he and Alice had already butted heads in the short time since they'd met. He exchanged the occasional look with Shaima over her head, but for the most part, he let her rant.

"He should have stopped her," Alice was saying, blowing a piece of hair out of her face as she did so. Her cheeks had gone bright red, either from the exertion of walking through the woods or from her rage. Or both. "If his business is to keep the people of Nottingham safe, he should damn well have made sure she didn't go to that bloody castle alone. Does he always send unarmed women to fight his battles for him?"

"She volunteered," Shaima said mildly. If the circumstances were different, Will thought, she might be enjoying herself; she certainly hadn't gone out of her way to contradict Alice since she'd started ranting. There was also the hint of a smile that played around the corners of her mouth, making Will's heart skip erratically whenever he looked at it.

, he told himself.

"Of course she did," Alice snapped. "She's just lost her home and her father, she's half out of her mind with grief. I ought to have stopped her, but short of sitting on her, I couldn't have made her stay. Robin's your leader! She would have listened to him if he'd said no!"

"I don't think she would have," Will said thoughtfully. "I mean, if what you say is true- and I'm not conceding that it is, mind you- that she's grief-crazed, she would have gone ahead and done it anyway no matter what Robin said." He looked directly at Alice. "But is it so mad to want vengeance? You swore to kill Gisbourne yourself, and it wasn't even your house he burned."

"You don't know anything," Alice hissed.

"Which makes sense, I suppose, since you and Robin and the rest all hide in the woods while the rest of us have to make do-"

"That's not fair," Shaima said. Will started. He'd never heard her say anything remotely positive about Robin before- certainly not in the context of defending him. But then she continued, "Will's been going to and from Nottingham for weeks now, trying to ensure that your friends and neighbours have food enough to eat. You know he has; you've seen him. Blame Robin all you wish, but don't extend it to Will." She nodded at him. "And for myself, you know full well that I've been helping. You saw it at the inn last night."

Alice pursed her lips. "Fair enough," she said grudgingly. "But you'll forgive me if I still think Robin is a poor sort of leader."

Shaima laughed dryly. "You'll hear no argument from me on that front."

Will held up a hand and both women fell silent. They were approaching Nottingham town through the back way, and in front of them was a row of shabby houses, seen from the back. Now that he was no longer focused on listening to Shaima, Will noticed the smell in the air: lye, dung, and rotting meat. They were in the tannery district, probably not far from Worser Lane. Will turned to Alice. "Is this where Ned lives?"

Alice shook her head. "Further into town. Near the main square."

They stayed quiet as they passed by the tannery houses and pushed further into Nottingham. The air around them seemed charged with fear, though Will couldn't tell if that was owing to their own nervousness or to what was happening in Nottingham that day. He saw few people outside their houses; as they drew closer to the centre of the town, towards the wealthier areas, he saw a few women peeping out their windows only to quickly back away when they saw him passing by. He wondered if they recognized him, or if they were simply wary of anyone passing through. There had been a similar sense of dread when the pestilence had ravaged the town. With a start, Will realized that that had been barely two weeks ago. How often did the people of Nottingham lock their doors and cower behind their windows? Had fear become so routine to them that they spent more time hiding than moving through their own town?

As they neared the town square, Shaima held an arm out, and Will and Alice both obediently came to a halt. Here, at last, Will heard voices- but they were not the sort he'd wanted to hear. A man's voice, rough a

nd low, punctuated by high-pitched cries and gasps that seemed to be coming from a crowd. No good could come of the sorts of exclamations he was hearing; it was fear, driven to a pitch where the fearful could no longer hold their tongues in self-preservation. Ignoring Shaima's hiss of warning, Will stepped forward and peered around the corner of the building they stood behind.

The crowd was packed densely; Will couldn't see through the press of bodies. He pushed himself around the corner entirely, dodging when someone- Shaima, most likely- snatched at his sleeve, and continued through the crush

. There was an exasperated sound followed by footsteps behind him, and he knew without turning around that Shaima and Alice were following him through the crowd. It was still too

dense to see anything, and squeezing himself into the forefront would be too conspicuous. Casting around, Will caught sight of an overturned barrel, and darted over to make use of it. He set it upright- it was small, probably intended to carry a day's worth of beer at most- and stepped on top of it, peering over the crowd.

In the centre of the square were three black-clad men, all with a familiar crest sewn to their doublets- the Sheriff's green and yellow. The one in the middle was standing behind a man in peasant's garb, down on his knees with one arm twisted behind his back. Every time the man on his knees struggled, the Sheriff's guard wrenched at his arm again, drawing out a howl of pain. The crowds pressed forward, only to fall back when the other two guards swung pikestaffs outwards at them. Several women in front of Will moaned, clutching at each other's arms. Closer to the front of the crowd, there was an outcry as someone swooned to the ground and the people around her moved to pull her up off the ground.

"Silence!" bellowed one of the guards, and the wails and cries died down to faint sounds of distress. The man on his knees in the centre of the square stopped struggling, but stood as upright as he was able, chin jutted forwards. His captor gave him a shake. "I have here Adam of Nottingham, a traitor to his lord Sheriff." He raised his voice. "Robert of Nottingham, step forward!"

No one moved.

"Robert of Nottingham!" the guard repeated. "If you do not step forward, hostages will be taken in your place! We will execute a man or woman for every hour you absent yourself from the Sheriff's custody."

There were more gasps among the crowd. Across the square, Will spied a small disturbance among the cluster of people there, with men and women squirming to get out of the way. A man emerged from the resulting gap, face bloodless, trembling with every step he took.

"I am Robert of Nottingham," he said. His voice, likewise, was trembling. "I offer myself in surrender if you will leave these people in peace."

The guard nearest to Robert seized him and forced him down on his knees next to Adam. The third guard had a dagger drawn, and held the tip of it against Robert's neck- close enough to Adam that he could easily sweep his hand sideways and cut the man's throat if he made a move to run. Both men were deathly pale, eyes fixed on the ground in front of them.

The head guard raised his voice again. "Ned of Nottingham, step forward!"

Will felt someone shoving at his back, and realized it was Alice. When he turned around, she was fighting to get through the crowd and reach the middle of the square, but Shaima had grabbed both her arms and was holding her in place while Alice strained against her grasp. "That's him, that's him! We've got to do something-"

Will shook his head, watching the action unfolding in front of him. "There's nothing we can do." A man- Ned, he assumed- was walking towards the guards, shaking off a woman who was sobbing and attempting to hold on to his arm.

Beside him, Alice clenched her teeth. "Isn't that why we came here? To do something?"

"Not at the risk of our own lives," Shaima said under her breath. All their gazes were riveted on the centre of the square, where Ned, Robert, and Adam were now all kneeling. The head guard paced in a circle around them, like a wolf preparing to attack its prey. Alice hissed angrily.

"These men," the head guard said- shouted, really- "are guilty of treason against the Sheriff of Nottingham, and by extension against the king of England whose justice he represents. There were once more of them among you; they have since been rooted out." He seized Ned's hair and yanked his head back, exposing his neck. "What have you to say for yourself, traitor?"

Will felt Alice tense beside him. Shaima took one hand from Alice's arm and put it on Will's shoulder, squeezing tightly; it was as much a gesture of fear as of support. Will reached up and covered her hand with his. The whole square held its breath, waiting for Ned to speak. He didn't disappoint them.

"Long live Robin of Locksley!" Ned roared, so loudly that several people stumbled backwards in shock. "And down with the traitor Edward de Bainard!"

The guard behind him reacted instantly, swinging forward with the butt of his pikestaff. Ned toppled facefirst into the dirt as red blood bloomed across his hairline and the back of his neck. Alice surged forward again, and this time both Will and Shaima had to grab her to ensure that she didn't launch herself through the crowd. Cries of shock echoed through the square. And then, too deep into the crowd to see, someone else took up the cry. "Down with the traitor Edward de Bainard!"

The guard looked up, murder in his eyes. But the crowd's attention was shifting rapidly away from him, towards the person- man or woman, Will couldn't tell- who had shouted. Someone from the same spot in the crowd echoed them. "Long live Robin Hood! Down with the Sheriff!"

"Hang the Sheriff!" someone else screamed.

"Free our men! Free our men and hang the Sheriff!"

The crowd was beginning to press forward, pushing towards the three guards. The two who were not guarding the prisoners were still frantically jabbing at the townspeople with their pikestaffs, but there were too many of them to push back. They pushed forward in waves, their shouts rising and falling in a cacophony that made Will want to press his hands over his ears. Cries of "hang the Sheriff!" "long live Robin Hood!" and "free our men!" overlapped with each other, to the point where they became a barely-comprehensible babble. Alice had taken up the cry as well, screaming "Hang Gisbourne! Hang him!" with her fists clenched at her side and her face bright red. Will was no longer afraid that she'd draw attention to herself; with the frenzy reaching such a pitch, it was no longer possible for any individual voice to be heard. Watching the people of Nottingham- his people, by choice if not by birth- shouting down the guards, he felt a sudden, fierce swell of pride.

,

he thought. Robin hadn't understood why they were fighting for the townsfolk, but if he saw this, he couldn't possibly fail to grasp it. "Long live Robin Hood," they were shouting; would they have had the courage to do it if they didn't know that their lord was fighting for them? If Bess' father and his friends hadn't dared take a stand? Here were the fruits of their labour, blooming bright in front of him. This was what they'd been fighting for.

There was a sudden scream at the very centre of the crowd- which was now so choked, Will couldn't make out what was happening- and the people began to fall back, their cries of anger turning to disbelief and horror. Will strained to see over the crowd, unsure of what they were reacting to. Behind him, he heard a scrabbling sound, and turned; Shaima had grasped the low-hanging roof of the building behind them and scrambled to climb it. When she reached the top and looked out over the square, she gasped. Will turned back around.

In the centre of the square, one of the captured men was being held up by his guard. If the guard didn't have him by the hair, he wouldn't have been upright; the gaping wound

in his throat saw to that. Alice let out a small cry, hands flying to her mouth. The edges of the cut were jagged, as though the guard had taken a dagger and sawed the man's throat open. His shirtfront and tunic were entirely red; it was like a waterfall of blood had cascaded from the wound. His mouth, likewise, was dripping blood at the edges. Will had never seen a man's throat cut before, but he'd seen it done to animals, and he knew what happened: if it wasn't done right, the blood would begin to bubble up their throats and through their mouth, as if escaping the body from any route possible. The guard hadn't done it right. Will felt suddenly, irrationally, angry at that, as though a lack of mastery in murder was somehow a greater crime than the murder itself. His job was to kill men, and yet he couldn't manage to minimize their pain while he did it?

"Fall back!" the guard roared. It wasn't a necessary command. The crowd was already backing away en masse, screams of anger turned to wails of terror and grief. The guard pulled the man's head further up, exposing the gory innards of his throat, and several people screamed. "Fall back, unless you want to be next!"

A few people moaned. No one made a move to step forward. Even Alice seemed rooted to the spot, frozen with horror.

The guard tossed his dagger to one of his companions. If he gave an order, it was too quiet to hear, but a smile spread across the next man's face nonetheless. He twirled the dagger in his hand once, and then with a quick swipe of his arm, he drew the blade across Ned of Nottingham's throat.

Someone in the crowd screamed, loud and piercing. Beside Will, Alice echoed them. Her cry seemed to go on and on, past the point when Ned's eyes rolled back in his head and then fell shut. After the guard released his grip on him, and he fell forward for the second time. Even after the third prisoner- who, seeing what was coming, tried unsuccessfully to scramble out of the way- was caught and had his own throat slit side to side. Once again, the rest of the crowd's cries kept Alice's from standing out. Shaima, who had jumped down from the roof, clapped a hand over her mouth anyway. "Be quiet!" she hissed, though there was sympathy in her eyes. "Someone will notice!"

"We've got to go," Will said. His stomach was swirling queasily. The crowd hadn't fled the square yet, but with the three prisoners dead, it was only a matter of moments before the guards began to search for their next victim. They had only two daggers between themselves, and there was no way they could triumph over the guards in pitched battle- not without cutting down anyone who stumbled into the fray.

Alice nodded in agreement, though her eyes were swollen with tears and her mouth was set in a hard red line. Shaima did likewise, and began to wend her way back through the streets from which they'd come. Will gave Alice a small push to make sure she was following, and then went after both of them. He didn't look back.

+

With men streaming through the castle doors and into the dungeons, and the Sheriff occupied with directing his guards, Allan had found himself at a loss for things to do. He had been informed, when he got up that morning, of what had happened to Bess and Thomas; the manservant who'd informed him had hastened to add that Bess was in no danger and would be brought back to the castle as soon as possible, but Allan was still restless with worry. He had spent some time by the front doors, hoping to greet her as soon as she came in, but the guards who'd been put in charge of opening and closing the gate had grumbled that he was in the way, and so he'd left. There was little else to do but roam the halls and wait for someone to arrive and tell him what was happening.

A part of him did grieve for Thomas. That was surprising, in a way; but then what sort of man would he

be if he didn't care that someone had died? The fact that he had earned his death fairly- some might even say justly- didn't change the face that he was dead. Bess, he knew, would take it hard; having seen Thomas die at Gisbourne's hands (and knowing Gisbourne, Allan couldn't repress a slight shudder at the idea of him in the same room as Bess) it was really no wonder she had fled rather than let him take her away. Perhaps, after all this was over, Allan should suggest to the Sheriff that he reconsider his choice of lieutenant. Gisbourne was good at what he did, when he was required to bludgeon people into compliance, but his presence did more harm than good in situations that required a delicate touch. Surely the Sheriff would see the wisdom in Allan's approach; it was thanks to him, after all, that the rebellion was being quashed. Every time the thought occurred to him, he felt a small flicker of pride.

"Master Allan!"

Allan looked up to see the manservant running towards him- the selfsame one who had delivered the news of Thomas' death that morning. His colour was high, and he was out of breath; as he skidded to a stop in front of Allan, he bent over, clutching at his side. "You requested- as soon as I was aware-"

"Slow down," Allan said, watching as the manservant slowly straightened, his face receding from red to pink. "What is it that you wish to tell me?"

The man was still huffing with ever

y breath, but he seemed at least capable of stringing a sentence together. "The girl from the inn you wished to know about- she was brought in just now. The Sheriff's had her placed in the dungeon."

Allan's first response was relief, but confusion followed rapidly on its heels. "What do you mean, placed in the dungeon? Surely the Sheriff recognizes she's not part of the rebellion?"

"I don't know." The manservant shrugged helplessly. "I was only told that she arrived to turn herself in, and the Sheriff sent her to the dungeon." His face brightened. "But he did place her in a separate cell. To ensure her safety."

made more sense. It still didn't explain why she was in the dungeon in the first place, but at least the Sheriff was intelligent enough to take steps to make sure she was kept safe from the true criminals

. And surely she would be released as soon as there was time to sort through everyone who had been arrested in the past few hours. In the meantime, he ought to have a proper conversation with her. They hadn't spoken since he was ill- and even then, she'd only admonished him to stay in bed and then left him in his room. There'd been no time to discuss anything else. "Take me to her."

The manservant huffed again, but did as he was told. Allan wrinkled his nose as he was led down the stairs into the dungeon- he'd never been in this part of the castle before, nor had he ever felt lacking for not doing so. The walls were damp, and they seemed to press in on him the deeper he descended. It was noisy as well, with the prisoners' shouts bouncing off the stone walls and echoing up and down the hallway. He assumed it wasn't like this, normally; otherwise the guards would go mad from having to listen to it all day. The manservant led him past the main cell- the one where all the noise was coming from- and stopped in front of the smaller one beside it. "There you go."

The cell was open-air, separated from the hallway only by a set of iron bars. Allan knelt on the floor, peering through the bars. Inside the cell was Bess, curled on her side on a small straw pallet, her back turned to the hall. One arm was thrown over her head, protecting her eyes from the torchlight; she must not be able to see anything. "Bess!"

She stirred on the pallet, lifting her arm from her face and sitting up.She blinked in the light, rubbing at her eyes with one hand. "Allan?"

"I'm right here." He pushed a hand through the bars, but she only stared at it as though

it were some incomprehensible foreign object. "Are you all right? Have you been treated well?"

"Treated-" She blinked several times. "Treated

?"

Allan nodded. "Of course, you could wish for better accommodations, but beyond that-"

Bess made a dry little noise; it took Allan a moment to recognize it as a laugh. It grew into a prolonged wheeze, until she was bent over with her hands balanced on her legs, still making that odd noise. "Treated well," she repeated as Allan looked on, baffled. "I'm in a dungeon, Allan. My father is dead. Why would you ever think to ask me that?"

"I heard," he said gravely, "of Thomas' death." He couldn't understand, given the circumstances, why she would be laughing; perhaps she was in shock. "I'm so sorry, Bess. But you must admit, Thomas earned-" He'd been about to say

, but quickly switched directions midsentence. "-the Sheriff's anger. I know it was never his intention to have your father killed-"

"Really?" Bess said, voice still bone-dry. "

? I thought for certain he would hang any man he caught plotting against him."

"Not without a proper trial!" Allan exclaimed. "I had it all explained to me, Bess- your father charged Gisbourne, tried to throttle him. It was suicidal. I know Gisbourne is-" Words failed him, perhaps for the first time in his life. "I don't like him either, but your father forced his hand. Nothing so terrible will happen to you."

Bess stood for the first time, and walked forward until she and Allan were separated only by the bars of the cell. Up close, he realized how pallid she looked, how frail. It was as though something vital in her had burned up in the fire. But when she spoke, her voice was not weak.

"You're wrong," she said clearly. "I know you're wrong. I know the Sheriff will dispose of me as he disposed of my father, and as he will dispose of anyone who he sees as a threat. I know my father was killed when he posed no threat to Gisbourne, because I was there. And I know you turned us in to the Sheriff." She looked at him, and her eyes were like stones. "It's owing to you that I'm in this dungeon. It's owing to you that my father is dead. It will be owing to you if I die as well."

Allan wrapped the fingers of one hand tightly around the bars of the cell. With the other hand, he reached through, trying to grasp Bess' hand. She stepped backwards, her gaze still flint-hard. "Bess," he said, a pleading tone in his voice. "Bess- I told the Sheriff you were innocent. I knew he made sure-"

There was that small dry sound again. "But you told him my father was guilty?"

"He

guilty!" Stricken, Alan stared at Bess, wondering how he could make her understand. She was angry now- she was grieving- but she must know that what Thomas had done was wrong. "He would have burned Nottingham to the ground, destroyed the lives of everyone the Sheriff employs, all out of a misplaced sense of righteousness-"

"He would have destroyed

life," Bess said. "That's what you mean, isn't it? That you were afraid of losing your position?"

"I was afraid of losing

!" he shouted. He let go of the bars and began to pace back and forth in front of the cell. "I did all of this for love of you, to prove to him that I could care for you. And his response was to throw me out of the inn and raise a rebellion out of spite! Because he thought I wasn't worthy of you! He ignored my requests, he ignored your pleading, he ignored anyone who was willing to call him unreasonable! I took this position so that I could provide for you, and he spat in my face for it! What else could I have done?"

He stopped, chest heaving from the sudden exertion. Bess was still watching, dry-eyed, from inside her cell. She didn't say a word.

"I wanted to take care of you," he said helplessly. "That's all I ever wanted." But in his heart of hearts, he knew it wasn't entirely true. He'd wanted to prove- to himself, to Bess, and to Thomas- that he was more than a vagrant song—peddler chasing the skirts of women who were above him and always would be. Thomas had challenged him to prove that he would be a good husband for Bess, and he'd tried to do just that. But he'd been blocked at every turn by a man whose pride wouldn't let him admit that he'd been wrong. What other path had been left to him?

"There was a time," Bess said quietly, leaning her head against the bars, "when I would have gone away with you, if you'd asked. I wanted to be your wife as badly as you wanted to be my husband. If you'd asked me, I would have gone."

"You wouldn't," he said. "You would never have left your father like that." He felt as though he'd been engaged in a tug-of-war with Thomas for as long as he'd known the man, pulling Bess' affections this way and that. He knew, though, that Bess was wrong. That no matter what she believed now, if he'd asked her a month ago to run away with him and leave Nottingham behind, she would never have been able to bring herself to do it. She loved her father too much to ever abandon him. Even now that he was dead, she was still clutching tight to his memory.

"It doesn't matter now," he said, pacing back to the cell and holding the bars again. "It's all over. Your father is gone, and I'm sorry for it. I know you won't believe me, but I am. And after all this is over- when the Sheriff releases you-"

"

?" Bess put her hands to her forehead. "Allan, he won't release me. I'm going to hang with the rest of the rebels unless someone intercedes for us."

She gave him a long look, but Allan's mind had stopped earlier in her sentence, catching on a choice phrase. "What do you mean, the rest of the rebels?"

"Allan!" She threw her hands up. "Did you really think that my father could have operated a rebellion out of my home for months without my ever being aware? I've known of his plans for nearly a fortnight now. I'm as guilty as any of them."

Allan took an automatic step backwards. "You're lying."

"Why would I lie?" She pressed her face to the bars. "I found them out the same day he sent you away, and I agreed to be part of it. I

. I'm not an innocent party. I'm not a bystander. I never have been."

"But-" Allan's thoughts were racing too fast for him to catch; they were nothing but a blur of colour and a roar of noise in his ears. "But you brought me into the inn a week ago. Why would you do something like that if you were- if you knew-"

Bess shook her head. "Is it so unfathomable to you that I would still care for you while I believed in my father? You've acted all this time as though the two of you were at war, like I was a piece of land or property to be won. I made my own decisions. Nobody has forced me." She bit her lip. "My father tried. He didn't succeed. And now you've punished him for it anyway."

Her words sank into Allan's stomach like stones. It was all he could do not to reel backwards or fall over, dizzy with what he was being told. There was too much. Bess would have gone with him; Bess was in league with the rebellion; Bess defied her father . . .

"But it doesn't matter now," she said softly. She was reaching through the bars again, grasping for him. "I'm going to die, just like my father did, unless someone does something. You're the only one who can."

"What?" He'd thought he couldn't believe his ears before; now he was certain he'd gone mad at some point since entering the dungeons. Maybe they'd both gone mad. What was she asking? What was she thinking?"

"I need you to help me," she repeated. She'd withdrawn her hand, but was still looking at him- no, not pleadingly. Expectantly. "If not for my sake alone, then

as an apology. You have to stand up for me when the Sheriff calls me to court. Tell him I'm innocent. Tell him you don't know who any of these men are, that they're all innocent. If you don't, we'll all die." Her mouth thinned. "We'll all die because of you."

"I- I don't-" Allan spluttered helplessly. It was too much, too quickly. "I can't speak on their behalf, Bess. I already gave the Sheriff some of their names. Thomas and Ned-"

"That's only two men," she said urgently. "There are twenty in the dungeons now, at least. You didn't give the Sheriff their names. Tell him you only heard my father and Ned being talked about, that you don't know anything about the others. I'll tell him it was only talk between Father and Ned. I'll say there was never anyone else involved, and that they never truly planned to act. It's our only chance."

"It won't work," Allan said. "Your father and the others tried to storm the castle last week. There were more than two of them there. And the Sheriff knows it was them."

Bess closed her eyes. Allan thought of adding

, but decided it was pointless. She already knew. "Could you not take it back somehow? Tell the Sheriff you don't know for sure that my father was involved? He'll still be hunting for rebels, but at least he may not hang the ones he has now."

It was an empty hope, and they both knew it. The Sheriff had been told of a rebellion; the Sheriff had a dungeon full of rebels; the Sheriff would not release them just because Allan and Bess claimed they were innocent. But what other choice did they have?

"I'll do it," he said. The words felt heavy in his mouth, like he was swallowing pebbles. "I promise."

"Thank you." Still dry-eyed, Bess withdrew her hand from the bars and turned around. "You should probably go back upstairs," she said. "Before the Sheriff begins to wonder where you are."

Allan looked at her back. It was stiff and straight, her head turned fixedly away from him. She'd said all she was going to say.

"All right," he said, and left.

On the way back to the camp, Will and Shaima quietly decided between them that it would be best if Will explained to Robin what had happened. Alice walked a little ways in front of them, apparently in a daze. She didn't speak, or make a sound, the whole way back, and neither Will nor Shaima spoke to her. Shaima eyed the back of her head as they walked and wondered what she was going to do next. The spectacle they'd been witness to had clearly meant something to her- something other than seeing her friends and neighbours slaughtered. Shaima wasn't going to ask what. She barely knew the woman; it wasn't her place to ask. Still, the look on Alice's face itched at her. She hoped Bess would be back soon: the two girls seemed to be good friends. Lately, it seemed they were all badly in need of friends.

When they reached the camp, Will's face brightened. It took a moment for Shaima to realize why: Robin and Marian were sitting next to each other, hands clasped tightly together. Their faces were slack and calm- content, almost. To her surprise, Shaima felt a distant sort of gladness. She still cared nothing for Robin, but Marian had been good to her, and she was pleased to see that she was no longer suffering from her husband's foolishness. And Will was also much happier, just from seeing them together. It saddened her to have to interrupt, but she nudged him slightly. "Will? The news."

His expression grew immediately somber. "Of course." He turned to Alice. "Alice, would you prefer-"

"I'm going for a walk," she said flatly. When Will opened his mouth to protest, she cut him off. "I grew up next to these woods. I know my way through without getting lost." She turned away. "I'll be back before dark," she said over her shoulder. "Shout if you need me." And she stalked off through the trees.

Shaima looked at Will, who shrugged helplessly. "It's probably better this way," he said. "I think she'd rather be alone."

Shaima nodded. She rather shared the feeling. "I'll be at the creek," she said, "washing off." At this moment more than ever, she felt the need to scrub herself clean. To scrub away what she'd just witnessed, if it was possible. She suspected it wasn't, but making the attempt was preferable to staying in the clearing and listening to Will recount the experience.

The creek was- as usual- blessedly quiet, with only the faint rustling of leaves and burbling of water to punctuate the silence. The water had only begun to melt and run properly in the past week or so, and Shaima hadn't realized until then how much she missed the sound of running water- the soft pattering that she'd been accustomed to, listening to the fountain that had stood in their courtyard. Probably- hopefully- still stood, if the Crusaders hadn't returned to tear it down.

Shaima dropped to her knees and plunged her hands into the water, ignoring the shudder that passed through her as she did so. In defiance of the cold, she splashed some of the water onto her face before she set to scrubbing her hands. They weren't unclean, really- she washed regularly (one of the few habits she'd managed to retain in the passage from her homeland to England) and her occasional urge to bite at her nails meant that they were too short for dirt to gather beneath them. The outlaws used this creek for everything, from washing their clothes (a necessity, given that they only had one outfit apiece) to gathering water for drinking and cooking. As a result, she felt closer to this tiny body of water than she felt to the rest of the country it stood on.

There were footsteps behind her, and she glanced up just as Will dropped into a cross-legged position on the ground. "I told them what happened," he said with a small sigh. "He took it- well, as well as could be expected. We're not going to decide on our next move until John and Much get back."

Shaima nodded. Neither said what both was thinking: that given what they'd seen in the town square, the chances that John and Much would return with surviving rebels looked increasingly low.

She looked back down at the creek, withdrawing her hands and shaking off the excess water. "Is Alice still gone?"

Will nodded. "I would've gone after her, but-" He sighed again, hanging his head. "I don't know what to say. I didn't know those men, and if

I'm connected to them at all, it's because our common cause is the reason they're dead. And she seemed so . . ." He gestured helplessly. "I don't think I understand- can understand- how she feels."

Shaima paused for a moment, turning her thoughts over in her head. She didn't wish to make a spectacle of the other girl's grief- but then, she could trust Will not to repeat what she told him. "I suspect," she said, "that there was something between her and one of those men. I don't know for sure, and of course I won't ask her. But I think that's it." She thought back to the town square, the third man- Ned- and the woman who'd clutched at his arm as he came forward. She thought of Alice's pale face, the stricken noises she'd made. If something had been between them, it was of a more complicated nature than she wished to untangle.

"God," Will said with a shudder. "I can't imagine. I don't want to imagine. First Bess, now Alice."

"It's war," Shaima said. "People will die." Will looked at her, and she added, "Don't think me callous. I'm sorry those men are dead. But if this continues, they won't be the last casualties. Not by far."

"I don't think you're callous," Will protested. "I think you're generous."

Shaima was startled into a laugh. "How so?"

"Just think," Will said earnestly, sliding closer and putting his hand over Shaima's. "When you came here, you hated all of us on sight. We've never given you a reason to do otherwise. But you still mourn our dead."

She shook her head. "You're wrong. You've given me all the reason in the world not to hate you. Don't you think I would have sunk into despair long ago, if you hadn't been so kind to me? If I hadn't found people here I could call friends?"

There was a pause. Then: "Friends?" Will said quietly.

Shaima felt her cheeks burn. "Surely we can call ourselves that by now. I mean-"

"No, I understand." Will slid closer, so close that she could feel the warmth of him seeping through his shirt and tunic. "I mean- that is-" He looked her full in the face for a long moment. She looked back. They were, for a fleeting moment, suspended in time. Even the forest around them seemed to hold its breath.

Then he dropped his eyes. "I'm sorry," he mumbled. "I shouldn't."

"No." Shaima's heart was beating frantically, like a drum whose drummer had lost all sense of his rhythm. "What did you mean?"

Will looked up at her again, and their gazes snagged on each others'. Her heart- though it had seemed impossible a moment earlier- beat even faster. His breath was on her face- and probably hers' on his, though she had no idea whether or not he was aware of it- and it smelled unbearably sweet. He leaned closer, inch by agonizing inch, and once again, the world around them seemed to fall silent. She closed her eyes.

When their mouths met, it was subdued Will touched her face, the barest brush of fingers against her cheek, and Shaima thought she might cry. She wasn't sad- she was anything but sad- but there was a storm raging in her, and it had to get out somehow. She reached out blindly and clutched at his shoulders, fingers digging in hard as she pulled him closer, until she had an arm around his back and they were flush against each other. Will made a surprised noise in the back of his throat, but he made no move to disentangle them. Instead he brought his hands up again, cupping them both gently around her face, fingers wrapping themselves around strands of her hair. Every place he touched her seemed to burn. England had been so cold and frozen, but just then, Shaima felt herself in the heart of a blazing fire.

She didn't want to let go.

But she had to. She pulled back, just enough so that their mouths separated, and rested her forehead against Will's. The world around her was beginning to return, and with it all the things she knew she had to say but didn't want to. She couldn't bring herself to speak.

"I was afraid I'd offend you," Will said. His voice was shaking. "I didn't realize-"

She shushed him, fingers pressed to his mouth. "Don't." She didn't want to speak, and she didn't want him to speak either. She didn't want to let go. But she had to.

She took a deep breath and pulled further back, letting her arms slide away from Will's shoulders until they were no longer touching. "Will," she said. It was only through a supreme effort of will that her voice didn't shake. "Will I don't- I can't-" She wanted to be silent. She wanted to speak, but speak differently. She wanted so many things, things she should never have allowed herself to think of, and now it was all going wrong.

Will reached for her. "What?"

Gently, she pushed his hands away. "I can't- do this," she said finally, dropping her eyes to the ground to hide the tears in them. It wasn't working. One escaped and slid down her cheek. "It's not fair. To you."

"I don't understand," Will said.

Tears were still escaping. Giving up on hiding them, she raised her eyes to meet Will's again. "When all this is over," she said, "Things will change. What are you going to do, when the Sheriff is gone?"

Will frowned, confused. "I don't know," he said slowly. "I suppose I'll go back to my father's estate in Leicester. It's probably being managed by his steward just now, but the vassals will need someone to take the reins of the estate. I'm the only heir he had."

Shaima nodded. "You have people who depend on you," she said quietly. "You've got to think of them first. And I- I have family, still. They probably think I'm dead. If there's any chance that I'll see them again, it means I'll have to leave England. We'll never see each other again."

She made herself watch Will's face as understanding came into his eyes. He looked down, then up again, his gaze fixing on hers. Shaima tried very hard not to let a sob escape her throat, and only half-succeeded.

It wasn't fair- a child's objection, but still entirely true. She hadn't come to England to fall in love. She hadn't even come of her own free will. When had things changed? When had she begun to feel pulled between the desire to leave and the desire to stay? And why, when she had had no intention of drawing close to anyone, was she now in a position where people would be hurt no matter what she chose?

"I would go-" Will started, then cut himself off, shaking his head. "No. I'm sorry. I was going to say that I'd go with you, but the estate-"

"People need you," she said. "I would never think less of you for putting them first." She would think less of both of them, if they ignored their responsibilities in favour of their own selfish pleasure. But why did happiness have to be at odds with duty?

Will nodded. "I never thought you would." He reached for her, then visibly checked himself, letting his hand fall back into his lap. Shaima wanted to badly to reach out and take it, but restrained herself, digging her nails into her palms until the pain was enough to distract her.

"I don't suppose," Will said, after a time, "that we could- enjoy the time we have, while we have it? Would that be so bad?"

Shaima bit her lip. It was a bad idea; she knew it, and she suspected Will knew it as well. The longer they prolonged what was between them, the harder the wrench would be when it came time to say goodbye. She should say that. She should say that they would distract each other, that Robin would object, that there was too much else going on for them to get lost in each other. She ought to say all of those things. But her resolve failed her.

"It will be hard," she said, voice trembling. "You know it will."

"I don't care," Will said immediately,

moving over until they were breathing one another's air again. Shaima couldn't help herself; she threw her arms around him and hid

her face in the hollow of his neck, stifling the harsh sound of her breathing against the warmth of his skin. There were tears on her face, and by the shaking of Will's shoulder, she suspected he was weeping as well. It seemed like the right thing to do. She was sadder now than she'd been before, and the future loomed large in her mind, but just now- alone in the forest, cut off from Robin and the Sheriff and the Crusades and everything else that had done its utmost to destroy her life- she pushed it away. She'd earned the right to ignore it, even if it was only for a little while. Even if she would be the worse for wear when the world began to intrude again.

+

When John and Much returned, Robin only had to look at their faces to guess what had happened. John was as stoic as always, but there were hard lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth. Much, meanwhile, made no pretense to stoicism; as soon as he had entered the camp, he tore the dagger from his waist, scabbard and all, and hurled it across the clearing. Robin ducked automatically, though the knife stayed in its scabbard and fell harmlessly at the foot of one of the oak trees. Marian stood silently and went to retrieve it.

"Did you see," Much said, voice shaking,

"did you

what they did?" He wasn't talking to Robin or Marian, that much was obvious; and he didn't seemed to be speaking to John either. His words were addressed to empty air. "They didn't even bother with taking them to the castle! They cut them down in their own furrows, watered their crops with blood-" He was shaking with rage. "I hope to God that whatever wheat springs from those fields will kill the men responsible for poisoning them. Those men have fed Nottingham for nigh on ten years, and this is their reward!"

His face was shining red. Distantly, Robin recalled that Much came from a family of millers; the men who'd been killed would have been the same who'd come to his father and grandfather to have their wheat turned to flour. His childhood neighbours, maybe even playfellows. No wonder he was so angry.

John put a calming hand on Much's shoulder. "We don't need to wait for the wheat to poison the Sheriff," he said quietly. "We'll take care of him long before that."

Much barked an ugly laugh. "Oh, I didn't mean the

. Though I'll gladly see him with a sword in his heart- I meant his lackeys, the ones who were out in the fields. I want them dead. I'll do it myself."

Robin exchanged a look with John, and then another with Marian. "They followed orders, Much," he said. "Hideous orders, but-"

Much whirled on him. "Talk to me of orders! Haven't we all been instructed to obey the Sheriff? And haven't I fought him with all I have instead of giving him the right of way? And you'd excuse these cowards for not doing the same because the idea didn't originate in their own God-damned heads? Any man soulless enough to cut down his own folk because some nobleman with rings on his fingers told him to deserves even worse than the whoreson who sent him in the first place."

Marian said nothing. Nor did Robin; he could think of nothing to say that would not, given Much's current mood, provoke another tirade. John rubbed a hand across his face, then glanced around. "Where are Shaima and Will? Are they not back yet?"

"They're back," Robin said tiredly. "They came back with Alice not long ago. It's the same in town as it is in the fields." He wondered how many had been killed that morning. Will had reported three, and while Much hadn't named a number in his ranting, Robin supposed that an equal amount of plowmen had been executed. And that was only the killings that he'd been told of. Doubtless there were more. "Alice wanted to go walking, to clear her head. Will and Shaima are at the creek, washing off. We shouldn't make any decisions until they return."

"Decisions?" Much said, face still dangerously florid. "What decisions do we need to make? We've already sent one girl to the castle on the promise that we'd come and get her if she didn't return on her own; clearly the Sheriff's sparing no one he thinks is a threat to him. We need to go after her now. And if we kill any guard who intercepts us, all the better-"

"Much!" John barked. "We don't kill unless we're threatened!"

Much wheeled to face him. "Are we not threatened by what they've done already? They've proved themselves prepared to kill with no provocation. We plan to storm the castle, which is the very definition of provoking them. We'll be forced to kill as soon as we step in the doors."

"We are not planning to storm the castle," Robin interrupted. "To start with, we're six against however many guards the Sheriff keeps. We're barely armed, and we have no way of guaranteeing that we can fight our way to wherever the prisoners are, let alone getting them out alive. It would be suicide to try."

Much's mouth twisted. "You mean you prefer to leave them to die?"

"No," Marian said quietly beside Robin. Much jumped. "Robin said nothing of the sort. But acting in anger won't help anyone. We need to wait until everyone is calm enough to think."

There was a sound of footsteps behind them, and Robin looked around. Will and Shaima were entering the clearing, Shaima pushing her hair behind her ears as she did so. Will looked at the other outlaws. "What's going on?"

"We just got back from the fields," John said grimly. "And we saw the same thing you did in town. The Sheriff's guards have been killing anyone they think is connected to the rebellion."

"I think we ought to go straight to the castle," Much said, glaring at Robin. "Apparently I'm the only one."

Will and Shaima exchanged a look. "Wasn't that the plan anyway?" Will asked. "If Bess didn't return on her own by this afternoon? It's long past noon, and there's been no sign of her."

Robin sighed, rubbing a hand across his face. "Even if we go to fetch her, we can't risk anything beyond that. That means no attacks on the guards-" He aimed a pointed look at Much, who scowled, "-and no drawing attention to ourselves. Just in and out, as quickly as possible."

"There is something else we haven't considered yet," Marian said. Everyone turned to look at her, and she cleared her throat. "Alice said that the Sheriff sent out messengers yesterday, didn't she? Carrying news of Richard's capture? Depending on how far they had to travel, they may have returned already, and other lords with them. If he wanted to reach that many, he may have been inviting them to some sort of summit. And we don't know how many are at the castle; they could have been arriving all day, and we'd have no knowledge of it." She gave Robin a meaningful look. "The guards will be on high alert simply because of the rebellion; if there are other lords there, they may have brought their own guards as well. The place will be bristling with sentries."

Robin bit the inside of his cheek, considering. The message Marian had intended to impart was that pushing into the castle was too dangerous at present, and she was right. But, as she'd also pointed out, the castle could well be full of the Sheriff's allies- allies he'd gathered to take action against the throne while Richard was absent. If he could disrupt that meeting somehow- kill or injure the Sheriff and some of his colleagues- he could damage the plot, hold it off long enough that he could formulate some other plan to stop him.

"We should go," he said abruptly. Marian started, then gave him a hard look. He met her gaze. "Bess is still there, and will be until we intervene. There's no question now of saving the rebels in town or the fields, but there may yet be some in the dungeons who we can set free. I don't see what other way forward we have."

"He has a point," Shaima said, also looking at Marian. "Dangerous as it is, we have few other options."

Will nodded. So did John. Much looked satisfied, and Robin made a decision. "Much, you stay here and wait for Alice." Much opened his mouth, and Robin held up a hand. "We need someone to guard the camp- I don't know where Alice is gone, but we can't spare the time to go looking for her. And besides-" He took a deep breath. "If none of us return, someone needs to carry on afterwards."

"You may intend on dying in battle, but I've no intention of doing it," Much retorted. "If you're so convinced that this is a suicide mission, why go at all? At least be honest about why you're trying to get rid of me."

"I don't send soldiers into battle in the heat of anger," Robin said. "Not unless I want them killed- and let me assure you, I do not. I would rather have you angry here than dead in the castle."

"You have a daughter, Much," Marian said gently, though she was still watching Robin. "She'll still need you when all this is over. Stay for her sake at least."

That, finally, seemed to hit home. Still, Much grimaced. "And what should I tell Alice when she returns? Because it seems to me that no matter how angry you think I am now, it will pale in comparison to when she finds out you left her behind."

"Tell her what I told you," Robin said. "It's for her own good, as it is for yours." He bent down and picked up his bow, slinging the strap over his shoulder. "The rest of you, gather your weapons. I don't want anyone going in without proper arms."

John, Will, and Shaima scattered to their respective resting places and gathering up daggers and arrows. Meanwhile, Marian sidled closer to Robin, giving him a hard look. "Interesting," she said, "how quickly you changed your mind."

Robin met her eyes. "It's the right course to take. I know you think I'm going after the Sheriff's allies, and it's true that I want to see them scattered. But Much made a good point as well, angry as he is. Bess is going to be imprisoned or worse, unless we come to free her." He paused. "You don't have to come with us."

Marian scoffed. "I have no intention of letting you fight this battle alone." She slipped her hand into his and squeezed it. "I may think it's a bad idea, but that doesn't mean I won't support you."

Robin leaned his forehead against hers, breathing slowly until he was calm. "That's all I need."

+

It was hard to breathe in the dungeons,

Bess had discovered. Or perhaps she was only imagining things; perhaps

the hours she had spent locked away underground were already taking a toll on her mind. She hoped not. She wanted to believe she was stronger than that- and she especially wanted to survive to see the sun again rather than letting herself run mad here, at the Sheriff's hands. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction, and she wouldn't allow herself to be defeated this way.

She had no idea how long Allan had been gone for; a large part of why the cell seemed to be unravelling her senses was that she could no longer tell time by the passing of the sun. She heard bells once, and thought they might have been calling out vespers, but she wasn't sure. No one else had walked past her cell or tried to speak to her, so there was no one she could ask. The only sound, beside the faint dripping noise of water down the walls, was the rumble of voices from the next cell over- but she couldn't seem to bring herself to call out to them. What would she say? They'd been here longer than she had; they probably knew even less than she did. And besides that, she was the daughter of the man whose plan had gotten them all imprisoned- what would they think if she tried to extend a hand to them?

The thought was unfair, and yet it seemed to cross her mind every few moments. Allan had been wrong- she knew he had been wrong, and she had only her father's death to point to when she asked herself for proof. But that didn't change the immediacy of her surroundings, nor the sounds of the men in the next cell over- men who had followed her father, and who were now facing execution for it. If the rebellion had been hubris, then Thomas had more than been punished for it. But what of everyone he had left behind? What of the families of the other rebels, who were probably waiting, terrified, expecting to hear at any moment that their husbands, fathers, and sons were to be hanged? And if the rebellion had lost its leader- which had undoubtedly been Thomas' position when he was alive- did that mean that Bess had inherited the responsibility from her father?

She stood, pacing back and forth across her cell. Staying seated for so long, in conjunction with the damp air, had made her knees sore and creaky, but she walked anyway. It helped her focus. If she was now the leader of the rebellion, it was her responsibility to keep these men safe. That meant finding some way to get them all out of the dungeon. She'd done that already, to the best of her abilities- she had Allan on her side, and the outlaws would come to her rescue soon, once they realized that she had been arrested. Her best option was to wait for an audience with the Sheriff, and then offer up her defense. That meant that she had to sit patiently until she was called to the great hall. Bess had never considered herself an impatient person, but the uncertainty of it all was gnawing at her. How much longer would it be?

She wasn't sure how much time had passed- given the lack of any timepiece in the cell, it could have been moments or hours- but at long last, she heard footsteps approaching the passageway outside. She hurried to the edge of the cell, and saw a guard standing outside, a ring of keys dangling from his hand. She recognized him- it was the same guard who'd brought her down here, and argued for her being put in a separate cell. So there were some good men in the Sheriff's employ, at least. She should keep that in mind.

"Sheriff wants to see you," he said gruffly, and unlocked the door, not meeting her eyes. Bess meekly held her wrists out for binding, and made no complaint as he escorted her down the hallway and up the stairs. When she passed the cell holding the rest of the rebels, there was a sudden roar, a multitude of voices crying out in protestation. Bess tilted her chin upwards, nodding to the men in the cell. She could say nothing- at this stage, assuring them that they would be set free was vastly premature- but she thought that the gesture would at least inspire some hope.

When she was ushered into the great hall, it was significantly darker than it had been when she'd arrived in the morning. Torches and candles had been lit all around the room, but they did not quite disguise the fact that the sun outside was setting, the light turning from pale yellow to dark orange. The Sheriff sat at the high table, as he had before, with Gisbourne on his right side. There were no other men sitting by him; there would be no jury to hear her case, then. It made a certain amount of sense, Bess reflected a jury of Nottingham men would be familiar with both her and her father, would be grieving and angry after hearing of Thomas' death, and reluctant to condemn his daughter to hanging. The Sheriff could not claim any sort of impartiality either, but- he was the Sheriff. He could make such decisions without having to justify them.

As she cast her gaze around the room, she spotted Cecily standing against the far wall. She couldn't nod to the other girl,

not without notifying the Sheriff that they knew each other, but she caught her eye and hoped that that would be enough. Closer to the center of the hall, next to the table (though not sitting at it) was Allan. Him, she could nod

to without fear, and she did so. He took a step forward when he saw her, then glanced up at the Sheriff and subsided.

,

she prayed silently. Allan had made plenty of mistakes since his latest arrival in Nottingham, but hopefully he would have the sense to carry off their plan without fumbling. If he did not- well, Bess suspected she would not see the sky again until she was being hoisted up on a scaffold.

"Bess of Nottingham," the guard announced, after guiding her to a spot in front of the table and stepping to the side. Bess was now alone in the middle of the room, hands tied in front of her. She dipped her chin deferentially to the Sheriff, hating herself for doing it but knowing that it was a necessary sign of submission.

The Sheriff did not move from his chair, but regarded Bess with his head tilted slightly to one side. "You do acknowledge that you are Bess of Nottingham? Daughter of the late Thomas of Nottingham, innkeeper?"

Bess nodded.

"And do you acknowledge that your father was a rebel, a traitor to both my office and the crown of England, and an attempted murderer?"

Bess swallowed, her heart racing. She had to get this exactly right. "I acknowledge that my father spoke foolishly and out of turn when discussing your person, my lord. I acknowledge also that he attacked Guy of Gisbourne, and was killed-" The words stuck in her throat. "-was killed by Guy of Gisbourne in self-defense." It might have been her imagination, but she thought she saw Gisbourne smirk. "But I believe his guilt has been overstated, in goodly zealousness to protect you from- from a rebellion which did not truly exist, nor pose a threat to you." There it was. That was her defense. Everything now relied on whether or not she could force the Sheriff to consider it.

"I am not sure if you are aware," the Sheriff said smoothly, "of the evidence that has been brought forth against your father. I have a witness who will confirm that your father spoke of open rebellion, and that he had recruited others to assist him in his treason. Moreover, you yourself have been implicated in this plot. What have you to say for yourself?"

Bess stood a little straighter. "Idle talk cannot be considered a true threat without action behind it, my lord. And who has accused me of complicity? After all-" She faltered slightly, then rallied. "As there was no true rebellion, I cannot have been involved in it."

"Sound logic." The Sheriff smiled, teeth bared and gleaming. "But you have presented no proof that the rebellion did not exist. I, meanwhile, have a witness who will testify to its existence." He snapped his fingers. "Come forward, Master a'Dale, and repeat what you reported to me yesterday."

Bess trained her eyes on Allan as he stepped forward, watching as his Adam's apple bobbed in his throat. Under the torchlight, he looked pale and sweaty.

, she prayed silently.

.

"Master a'Dale?" the Sheriff prompted.

Allan swallowed again. "My lord, I did inform you that I had heard Thomas of Nottingham speak on the subject of rebellion. But I have no proof that he had plans to act on his words, or that there were others involved."

The Sheriff leaned forward in his seat, eyes narrowing slightly. "You said that Thomas spoke of a confederate? Ned, his name was?"

"Y-yes." Allan looked, if possible, even clammier. "He did speak of a friend called Ned, my lord. But I do not know if he ever spoke of his plans to Ned directly. It is possible that he only planned to, and that Guy of Gisbourne-" His eyes flickered to Guy, and then back to the Sheriff. "-that he met his end before he was able to carry out this plan."

"Hmm," the Sheriff said. It was an innocuous sound in and of itself, but something about it made Bess shiver. Probably it was the look he was giving Allan- like a hunter whose hound had just failed to bring down a prize deer and was planning to whip the dog soundly for its failure.

"So Thomas was not speaking to Ned when you overheard him speak of his plans for rebellion?"

Allan blinked. "No? At least, I don't think so."

"I see." The Sheriff turned his head, until his canny gaze was fixed squarely on Bess. "Then who did he speak to? His daughter?"

Bess saw Allan fix a neutral expression on his face, but not quickly enough- the Sheriff must have seen his look of horror as he realized the trap he'd walked into.

,

she urged him silently,

Surely he understood that he had to deny having heard her voice in the conversation with Thomas. He had to. He

to.

"I- I-" Allan stuttered. The Sheriff turned to appraise him coolly. Allan cleared his throat and tried again. "I don't know who Thomas was speaking to, my lord. They never replied to him."

"Did they not?" The Sheriff tilted his head slightly. "What an odd sort of conversation."

Allan spread his hands out helplessly. "Perhaps he was- speaking to himself?"

"Perhaps he was," the Sheriff agreed. "Or perhaps you have been persuaded to claim innocence in the matter, given that the woman you intend to marry currently stands before me." His tone was cool, almost blandly pleasant. Bess tried not to shudder. "It seems clear to me that you have forgotten why we are here. Perhaps removing her from the room would improve your memory?"

"No!" Allan said hastily. "No, my lord. Bess has nothing to do with it, I swear. I would say the same thing, were she not here."

"That may be," the Sheriff said. With his left hand, he signaled to the side of the room. Bess looked in the direction he'd gestured, and saw one of the guards begin to edge towards Allan. She opened her mouth, ready to scream, but then the guard who stood next to her wrenched at her arm, and she yelped in pain instead.

"Don't say anything," he hissed in her ear. "You'll only make it worse."

But Bess couldn't stop watching the other guard making his way towards Allan. Allan must have caught the look on her face, because he turned around, frowning. Before he could move or speak, the guard darted forward and pinned an arm behind his back, drawing his dagger and pressing it to the back of Allan's neck. Bess cried out.

"I say again," the Sheriff said, "that you seem to have mistaken your place in this castle. I do not employ you so that you may lie to me in order to protect your woman. Nor do I take such betrayal lightly." He leaned forward. "And I ask you:

"

"I d-don't

," Allan gasped, as the guard twisting his arm pushed the tip of the dagger harder against his neck. "I never heard their voice, I swear-" From her vantage point, Bess saw fat red droplets begin to slide down Allan's neck as the guard pressed harder.

There was a sudden rumbling sound from outside, and the Sheriff's attention turned from Allan to the hall doors. His eyes narrowed. "Gisbourne."

Gisbourne apparently needed no further instruction; he stood and hurried out of the room, drawing his sword as he did so.

"My lord," Allan said, pleading. "My lord I swear to you on all that I hold dear, I have never lied to you in this matter. I don't know why Thomas was speaking to. I don't know who else knew what he was planning. For all I know, I heard him when he was first formulating this plan and he'd not yet acted on it-"

"And yet," the Sheriff said, standing and staring down at Allan, "and yet, you said yourself that you believed Thomas had sustained an injury while attempting a raid on this castle. On my castle. Presumably, his goal was to find and injure me. Will you still defend this man who attempted to murder me, your lord?" He stepped around the table and approached, walking until he was nearly nose-to-nose with Allan. Bess' knees trembled. She wanted to run to him, push the Sheriff away, scream at Allan to flee while he still could. But at the same time, she was frozen to the spot, a slave to the instinct of self-preservation that was screaming at her to stay put and not make a sound. To not draw any attention herself, lest she be next.

"I am trying," the Sheriff said softly into Allan's ear, "to give you a chance to extricate yourself from the choice you have made. But time is running short, and I cannot afford to wait for you to come to your senses. So I ask you one last time:

"

White-faced, mouth drawn tight, Allan shook his head. Bess thought her heart might break.

The Sheriff sighed. "Very well." The guard behind Allan tensed, as did the one standing beside Bess. But neither moved more quickly than the Sheriff, who with one smooth sweep of his arm, drew a small knife from his belt and drove it into Allan's throat before anyone had a moment to move.

Bess screamed.

Allan's eyes rolled back and forth, as though he'd lost the ability to focus his gaze on anything. They slid towards Bess, and for a moment, she thought he was looking at her- looking with purpose, not with the blank film that had settled over his eyes. Then his eyelids drooped, and he began to sink towards the floor. The guard who'd twisted his arm let go of him and watched as he slumped forward; the Sheriff took a step backwards, staring dispassionately at the blood that was spreading from Allan's neck to the rushes on the floor.

"Clean that up," he said.

Bess screamed again, wordlessly, but the sound of her voice was drowned out by other noises: the hammering of footsteps outside, at least a dozen, possibly more. The hall doors flew open, and Gisbourne burst in, whey-faced. "My lord-"

Behind him came others: their leader was dressed in green and had a bow drawn, arrow aimed at the Sheriff's heart. The woman beside him was likewise armed with a bow and arrow, while the others- three of them- held bows and staffs. Bess' brain was clouded with shock, but their appearance pierced through the fog: Robin Hood had come for her.

Robin stormed across the hall to where the Sheriff stood, still holding his bow extended in front of him. The Sheriff brandished his dagger, but Robin knocked it aside with a sweep of his arm and backed his opponent against the wall, pressing the tip of the arrow to his throat. Meanwhile, John charged the guard who'd held Allan, knocking him to the floor with his staff. The other guard, the one who'd held Bess, looked from John to Robin to the rest- who were bearing down on him- and let out a yelp, scrambling backwards to get out of their way. Marian brushed past him and seized Bess, pulling her close and pressing her head against her shoulder so that she could no longer see Allan's cooling body.

"Gisbourne

-" Bess said, muffled against Marian's shoulder. The sound of fighting was all around her, but no one came to pull her out of Marian's arms. She could hear Gisbourne's yell, followed by a slightly more muffled grunt, and then the sound of a body hitting the floor. Bess found, suddenly, that she didn't want to look. She kept her face where it was. But she could still hear- though the sounds of the fighting had died down, Robin's voice still rang out loud and clear.

"Where are your confederates?" Robin was growling. His voice shook. "Where are the men you plot treason with? I know you've invited them here. Where have you hidden them?"

The Sheriff laughed. He sounded for all the world as though he were having a pleasant conversation over supper instead of speaking to a man who held an arrow to his throat

. "Is that why you're here, then? If that's the case, you've wasted your time. I have no confederates here beyond my guards. And they will soon be here to arrest you."

"You're lying," Robin said, but Bess heard a note of doubt creeping into his voice. Her head ached. So did her heart. She didn't ever want to lift her head again.

"Am I?" the Sheriff said. "Wait and see for yourself, if you care to. You've come on a fool's errand, Robin, and your men will die for it."

"There are men in the dungeons," Bess muttered into Marian's ear. Her fingers dug into Marian's shoulders. "We have to get them out. They'll be executed-"

"Shhhhh." Marian ran a calming hand through Bess' hair and spoke over her head to Robin. "We've got to get out of here. There are still prisoners who need our help."

There was a pause, then,

"Will, Shaima, go down to the dungeons and let the prisoners out. John, you and Marian take Bess out."

"No." That was John. "You're not staying behind."

Against her better judgement, Bess lifted her head. Robin still had his arrow pressed to the smirking Sheriff's throat. John was standing over Gisbourne, a foot lowered to his back so that he couldn't rise to defend his lord. Will and Shaima were nowhere to be seen- clearly they'd taken Robin's command seriously. A muscle was twitching in Robin's jaw. "You get yourselves to safety. I'm not done here."

"You ought to do as he says," the Sheriff said, a jeer in his voice. "Unless you would prefer to be arrested with him. Surely you don't all wish

to die today?"

"Nobody else is dying today," John growled. He reached down and picked Gisbourne up by the collar- a startling feat, given the other man's height and bulk- and slammed the butt of his staff against the man's head. Gisbourne slumped back to the ground, unconscious. "Let him go, Rob. We don't have time for this."

"Listen to your friend," the Sheriff said. There was a small movement of his hand, and Robin let out a surprise

d grunt. He stepped- or staggered- backwards, and Bess saw why: the Sheriff had secreted another dagger somewhere in his belt, drawn it out, and thrust it into Robin's side.

The hilt of the dagger was still protruding from Robin's tunic. Robin wrapped his fingers around the pommel, preparing to draw it out.

"Don't," John ordered. "You'll bleed faster as soon as it's out. Leave it where it is, and let's go." Marian had already put an arm around Bess' waist, and was drawing her towards the exit. The Sheriff smirked where he stood, but made no move to shout for the guards. Bess wondered why. Meanwhile, Robin staggered backwards and John caught him, pulling him backwards to where Marian stood.

"Will and Shaima?" Bess asked Marian in an undertone. Marian shook her head. "They'll escape on their own, through the kitchen doors. Don't worry about them."

Bess spared a last glance to where Allan was lying on the floor, the pool of blood having nearly spread to the edge of the high table. She wondered if the Sheriff would afford him any sort of Christian burial, or if he'd be thrown in a pit to rot. She wondered as well if anyone in the castle would mourn him, or if he died unremembered by anyone but her.

Marian pulled gently at her waist. "We have to go now," she said. Bess turned her face away from Allan for the last time, and let the outlaws lead her out of the castle.

+

The trip back to the outlaws' camp was blurred in Robin's mind, made slow and sludgy with pain. His next clear memory after arriving was the feeling of someone- John, most likely- drawing the dagger out of his side and hastily packing the wound with cloth. He let his eyes hang closed, welcoming the encroaching darkness, but was woken with a sharp slap to the face.

"Don't sleep," John ordered. "You won't wake again if you do."

Robin struggled to stay alert after that, though the ache behind his eyes and the throbbing pain in his side made sleep- even permanent sleep- seem like the better option. Still, the activity around him seemed muted. He knew Marian was kneeling on one side of him, and John on the other. At one point, he heard Will and Shaima's voices, along with a bevy of strange men, and guessed that they'd brought the freed rebels back to the camp. He thought he saw Much out of the corner of his eye, but he could have been imagining things. At long last, John- his face drawn tight and grey- told him he could sleep, and Robin gratefully closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, the woods were dark. Someone had built a fire, and dragged him close enough that he could feel the heat on his face, but not so close that he could hear the conversation being held around it. He raised his head. His eyes had not been deceiving him: he saw Much sitting nearby, alongside a flash of bright red hair that had to be Alice. Next to her sat Bess, and then Will and Shaima. They were also surrounded on all sides by other men- at least a dozen by his count, though the shadows made it difficult to see properly. The firelight flickered across John's face, as he passed hunks of bread among the rebels. All of them accepted gratefully, some laughing and joking as they bit off a piece. He couldn't see his wife anywhere.

"There you are," Marian's voice said next to his ear. He turned his head and saw her smiling at him, one hand running gently through his hair. "You've been unconscious for hours. John said not to worry, but . . ."

"I'm all right," he said, and started to sit up. This proved to be a mistake; pain stabbed through his side, and he fell back with a grunt. Marian raised her eyebrows.

"I'll be all right soon," he amended. He looked back to the group around the fire. "How many did we save?"

"Eight," Marian said soberly. "None of the men in the dungeons had been injured badly, though there were a few sprains and bruises. John's tended to them all." She sighed. "They estimate that half the rebellion was killed when the guards went through the town and fields. Most of them were the leaders- Bess' father, Ned, Jack. Those left don't know what was being planned, or where they're to go next. Most want to return to their families in Nottingham, but . . ."

Robin shook his head. "It's far too dangerous."

"We told them as much," Marian said. "And they understand. But that still leaves us with a problem. They don't want to leave the area, and they can't return home. They want to keep fighting the Sheriff."

"Where would they stay, then?" Robin asked. Marian shrugged. "Here? We can't keep another eight men here. We haven't got the resources. And besides, if the Sheriff were to find us, he would kill every man in one swoop. We'd be decimated."

Marian shrugged again. "True. But it's a large forest."

"You-" Robin bit his lip, considering. What Marian said was true: Sherwood Forest was massive, and there was no possibility that the Sheriff knew every foot of it. Not the way Robin did. It was, in other words, the perfect place to hide for men who didn't want to face execution. But just because Robin knew the woods didn't mean these men did- and for the uninitiated, the forest could be deadly. He didn't want to bear the responsibility of sending eight unsuspecting men to their deaths because they hadn't learned how to move among the trees.

"They needn't go far," Marian said, as if she were reading his thoughts. "Just far enough that they could hide if our camp was discovered, or vice versa. We'd be close enough to stay in contact; if someone from their party was injured or caught, they could alert us to the problem. If we were trying to hide a fugitive, we could move them between camps to ensure that there's less chance of them being captured. It's safer than attempting to smuggle them all out of Nottingham, at least."

Robin attempted a wry smile. "At this rate, half the town will end up living in the woods." A thought struck him. "What about their families- are they safe? Has the Sheriff targeted them?"

Marian shook her head. "We haven't had the chance to fetch them yet, but there's been no reports of people being attacked in their homes. Alice says that after the public executions, everyone fled and barricaded themselves indoors. No one's going to be venturing out until they know it's safe." She sighed. "I didn't ask how she knew what people were doing in town. It's probably for the best. She's here and safe now, at any rate."

"If she wants to continue working with us," Robin said, "she'll need to learn some sort of discipline. She can't keep running off whenever she thinks she has a good idea."

Marian nodded. "She does want to stay with us, I know that much." She paused. "She suggested Bess stay as well, but I think she'd like to discuss that with you herself. She's been waiting for you to wake up." She nodded at the campfire. Bess was still seated beside Alice, but she was looking back to where Robin and Marian were seated. At Marian's nod, she said something quietly to Alice and stood, picking her way through the crowd until she was at Robin's side. Marian nodded at both of them, and moved away to sit with the others. Robin made a second attempt at sitting up, gritting his teeth against the pain in his side until he was upright and leaning against the trunk of a tree.

"That boy at the castle," Robin said, "you knew him?" It was a guess; Bess had insisted that a man in the castle would speak on her behalf. If he'd tried to prevent the Sheriff harming her, it was no wonder he'd been cut down on the spot.

Bess nodded. After a pause, she said,

"His name was Allan."

"I'm sorry," said Robin. The name meant nothing to him- if this Allan had been a resident of Nottingham, he wasn't one Robin had ever encountered. But he'd clearly meant something to Bess. "Did he speak for you, as you' hoped?"

"He did," Bess said quietly. "The Sheriff killed him for it." Her voice was raw as she added, "He- he worked for the Sheriff, against you. Told lies for him. Helping me may have been the only good thing he did, this last month. But he did it all for me. I suppose that makes me responsible, in part."

Robin put a hand over Bess'. "I sent men into battle when I was in the Holy Land," he said. "If they died fighting, I bear some responsibility, but not all. They volunteered to come along, just as I did. Did you ask Allan to do these things? To work for the Sheriff and help him slander me?"

Bess shook her head. "If he'd asked me, I would have stopped him."

"There you go." Robin released her hand. "Don't deny him his choices. They may have been wrong, but they were still his to make. Death is a high price to pay, but it was his life to give."

Bess smiled wanly. "I'm not sure that's much comfort. But thank you."

"I'm no great comforter," Robin said, letting a touch of apology into his voice. "If you need that, you should speak to John or Marian. I can only say what I know." War, he thought, had a way of stripping away the ability to say what was wanted rather than what was needed. When the truth was bleeding in front of your face, it was nearly impossible to deny it.

"Well, thank you for that," Bess said. Robin raised his eyebrows, and she looked down at her hands. "I'd rather hear the truth than platitudes, even if they are meant to help. After-" She waved a hand at the assembled group, "-all this, I find it's hard to bear anything but honesty."

"I know how you feel," Robin said. They sat in silence for several long moments, watching the fire, until he said,

"Marian said you wished to speak with me about what you'll do next."

"I did." Bess took a deep breath. "Alice wants me to stay, but- I don't think there's enough for me here anymore. I don't want to tell her that. She's my friend, and she cares for me. But . . ."

She paused, apparently gathering her thoughts. Robin waited for her to speak again.

"But my father is gone," she said finally. "And so is my intended, and so is my home. I don't know that I can bring myself to stay here and try to rebuild everything. Not now. Maybe someday, when it's not so fresh, I can come back. But now- now I want to be somewhere else."

"We've taken people out of Nottingham before," Robin said gravely. "We planned that for the rest of the rebels, at first, before they suggested otherwise. We can do the same for you. Where do you wish to go?"

Bess gave a soft little laugh. "A city. A convent. Anywhere that's not here." She paused. "I think my mother had some cousins in Newstead, though I haven't seen or spoken to them as far as I can remember. They may be willing to take me in, if I sought them out. If they won't . . ." She shrugged. "There's always work to be found. Laundry, cooking- I helped run an inn for most of my life. I can find something to do." She smiled a little. "I want to earn my keep. To be useful."

Robin nodded. "We can arrange transport to Newstead tomorrow, if that's what you want."

"I do," Bess said. "Thank you." She paused. "I ought to tell Alice myself, before I go. She'll be angry, but I think she'll understand." She stood, brushing bits of dirt and leaves off her skirt. "Thank you, again."

"You don't need to thank me," Robin said. He watched as Bess moved back to the fireside, settling down next to Alice. There was a soft rustling noise as Marian returned to sit beside him, and he felt the gentle pressure of her head resting on his shoulder.

"She's leaving," he said absently to her, still watching Bess. She was speaking to Alice, but the two girls were too far away for him to hear them. "Newstead, possibly. To stay with family." He shook his head. "She thanked me for- I don't know what for."

"We saved her," Marian reminded him, squeezing his hand lightly. "And the other men, and Alice. We saved a great deal of people today."

"We lost just as many," Robin said. He dropped his gaze, letting his head rest against Marian's. "How many were killed by the guards today- a dozen? More? And we've still done nothing to prevent the Sheriff from gathering his allies to make a move against the crown, or to help King Richard, or-"

Marian cut him off with a soft sound, pressing her fingers to his mouth. "We won't accomplish everything in a day," she said. "Even God took six to create the world. You needn't torture yourself for being less fruitful."

Robin allowed himself a small laugh, though his heart was barely in it. He lifted his eyes, watching the tree branches swaying overhead. "I thought to do God's work, once, and I failed. I'm not sure what else I may apply myself to."

"I see no reason why you can't do God's work now," Marian replied. "We are feeding the hungry and clothing the naked. Is that not what we are asked to do?" She touched his face gently. "It is not as exciting, perhaps, as riding into battle with your sword drawn. But it is good work, nonetheless."

Now Robin did laugh. "I have no desire to return to battle. I only wish that we could find some way of achieving our goals now, rather than waiting years to see them done."

"We don't know it will take years," Marian pointed out. "And even if it does, will it be any less fulfilling than it we'd done it today? We can't expect the world to change through sheer force of will." She smiled, her face illuminated in the flickering firelight. "If it were, I think we would have won already. Just think of what we've seen- so many men who are willing to fight in your name, with no assurance that you would ever know theirs'. Willing to stand by their neighbours and protect them, even in the face of the Sheriff's cruelty. Change is coming to Nottingham. I think it's already arrived."

Robin kissed his wife's forehead, feeling a sudden warmth that had nothing to do with the fire. "You amaze me. Somehow you're always able to find hope in the darkest circumstances."

"I have my husband by my side," Marian said. "I have the knowledge that there are those who will believe in Robin Hood, no matter what happens to them. I may have found hope, but you have provided it." She kissed him. "Don't allow yourself to forget that."

Robin nodded, gazing across the clearing. He could no longer see the trees on the other side; they were blocked by the cluster of bodies around the fire. They smelled of sweat, but not unpleasantly so; it was the sort of smell that Robin associated with hunts and with honest labour, the smell of those who had done a good day's work. And, he reflected, these men and women could certainly claim that. He suspected that someone had passed around a jug of mead, because tongues seemed to have been loosened further: several of the rebels had begun to sing.

There were smiles all around the circle; even Bess was swaying along to the music. Marian hummed softly in Robin's ear, and he let his voice join hers'. He looked up again, back at the swaying branches. It seemed as though even they were moving in time to the song.

He smiled to himself. Marian had been right: they'd saved many men, and would save more tomorrow. Men were singing songs of him, now. He would do them all a disservice if he refused to live up to them.

