Footsteps echoed impatiently in the throne room of Nottingham castle, their tread just irate enough to sound even against the plush rug stretched out before the king's seat.

The king was in high dudgeon that day. The past few months had been nothing but a stack of failures among his men; tax carriages seized in the forest, traitors to the crown mysteriously vanishing from their holding cells before they could be dealt with...there were even rumors that some within his court had allied themselves with his forest-bound enemies. Perhaps they all wore some signal; something that could be easily enough disguised as some silly fashion. And if he were to start raving that every lady who wore a green broach was a traitor to his noble name, then his already thin hold on his subjects would be stretched to yet another level of fragility.

And then yet more rumors! A few sheep-faced guards had suggested that even the night before, some prisoner from deep within the gaol had been sprung free and carried off to reside in the forest...Were the beastly thing but a few acres smaller, and not so close to his own castle, the king would have gladly burned it all down.

"Fetch me Gisbourne!" The king snarled to the nearest attendant, who twitched, nearly dropped the platter with the king's goblet on it, and then hurried to bow himself from the room to obey. With an annoyed swirl of his cloak, the king twisted and returned to his throne, where he slumped and fumed and plotted.

The noon sun filtered through the leaves like spotted water, warming the world just enough that a night's cloak was left in Robyn the Hood's meager dwelling at the edge of the bandit's camp. So peaceful was the air of that day that one less thoughtful might have gladly left behind their bow, as well. But Robyn had at least looped that, along with a fresh quiver of arrows, over her shoulders before she had disappeared from the outlaw's dwelling place.

A long and successful night should have led to a late morning, but Robyn had awoken early and agitated. She had a distinct feeling in the back of her mind that something of great import was going to happen today--other than the latest recruits receiving a thorough welcoming process from the older hats. Maybe it was the slight smell of rain upon the wind. Maybe it was the carriage she could hear approaching on the nearest path.

Robyn grinned a bit and slunk through the shadows of the trees until she had found a sturdy oak, which she quickly scaled with all the agility of a particularly graceful squirrel. When she was at one of the higher branches--within leaping distance of another tree leading deep into the forest, but with a fine vantage point of the path--Robyn grew still, and clung to the side of the trunk until she blended like a missing piece.

Perhaps it was just travelers. Perhaps it was a new member for the court. Perhaps it was more soldiers to supplement the king's personal army. But nothing passed through the forest without Robyn Hood's silent permission.

This day would be warm, Sir Martin of Essex thought absently as he led his small group through the worn pathway of Sherwood Forest. Trees, glorious English trees, it had been too long since he’d seen his homeland; nearly five years now to be precise, two of which had been in captivity. The crusades had been nothing like what he had been told. There were no glorious battle in the name of Christ and the church, it had been a campaign of bloody murder, rape and pillaging in the name of lining the pockets of the lords they were to fight under. He’d seen unspeakable things done in the holy lands, on both sides, and found he had distaste for the whole business. Indeed, Martin was looking forward to returning to his farm manor, once he’d firmly established at court that he was indeed alive, as would be customary, not to mention wise. A lot could change in five years, and cut off as he’d been, Sir Martin didn’t know nearly how much.

“Milord-?” Lillian asked, walking on the other side of the horse carrying his ward that Martin was leading through the forest.

“Sir Martin.” He corrected in a tone that suggested habit. “I am not your Lord, you have sworn no oaths, nor do I ask for any.”

“Milord?” Lillian began again, ignoring Martin’s dismissal once again.

“Yes Lillian.” Martin replied sighing. He was tired of trying to argue with the head strong young woman who insisted to him and anyone else they met that she was his servant. Many men might be envious of a pretty young wench jumping to serve his needs, but to be frank, he greatly disliked people waiting on him. He liked working with his hands, doing things for himself, and it made him greatly uncomfortable being around such devoted attention that to him seemed to border on worship. Good God, you’d think the woman had mistaken him for St. Paul!

“I’ve heard rumors of this forest. Do you think the tales of ghostly bandits are true?” Lillian ask, looking around the thick forest with a kind of awe.

“I could not tell you Lillian.” Martin replied simply. “I have not been to Nottingham in many years. Should we be attacked however I believe our would be thieves will be in for more than they bargained for, and little reward for their efforts.” Martin assured the young woman, having heard none of the rumors she referred to, and mistaking her line of questioning for anxiety. It was not a boast either, simply fact. Martin had already dealt with several would be bandits along their way to England, and defeated everyone in turn. He had no reason to believe a thief in the forest would be any different. Still, Martin held a sharper gaze towards the surrounding forest, and a steady hand near his sword.

“You’re not too chilled Zahra?” Sir Martin asked his ward. He knew the woman disliked him for taking her from the holy lands, but he had sworn to her father he would keep her from danger and protect her, and his estate in England was were he could best do that.

Sir Quinn Balfour, sat astride his chocolate colored charger, the white and red caparison fluttered with the wind. The knights battered chain armor under the cream colored tunic, trimmed with red, reflected the suns glorious light. The long spear held lightly as the blue-silver eyes, hidden beneath the great helm gazed over the vast landscape that lay spread below the knight. The sloping hill rising up as a rocky crag, reaching for the heavens, the dull brown-gray rocks struggled mightily against the greens and oranges of plant life that crept along the hill, as if an eternal war was being fought between the contrasting colors.

The shadow falling from the hills that rose opposite the one which Quinn was upon, draped itself across the incredibly clear water that reflected the hills and their colors. A smile crossed the lips of the knight, a soft sigh escaped him as from the brush rose a hawk, searching for prey.

The subtle breeze that swirled and carried along the hills washed over the knight and steed, billowing up the caparison and ruffling the tunic. The simple moment of absolute silence, as if the otherworld and this merged for an instant, a timeless instant that would haunt the dreams of the knight the rest of his days. The majesty of the land that is Briton is eternal, and Quinn whispered a prayer to the Christian God and the Celtic Danu that he had been blessed to witness it.

Urging the charger forward, Quinn began his slow descent into the valley; he was a landless knight, a Templar he gave his lands to the order. Coming from his ancestral home in the Scottish Highlands, Quinn had observed the construction of a Templar Manor, a small one. However it was well hidden and would remain thus, as a bulwark and safe house for the brothers and their further expeditions. Crossing the border between Scotland and England he was headed towards the forest of Sherwood. Prince John had asked that the order send a brother to assist in the capture of a rogue and scoundrel who dared to foment rebellion in the lands belong to King Richard. Ahead of him lay several days ride, yet it would be a ride where Quinn would gather what information he could of this “Hood” who laid claim on the wooded lands of Nottingham. Perhaps he could glean a seed of knowledge as to what was actually occurring.

Slowly he made his way down the hill, the glinting light of the sun shimmering and dancing upon the magnificent lake. The subtle breeze washing over his form, a stark contrast to harsh, hot lands where Jerusalem lay, so far away from this isle; a smile crossed his lips as his thoughts drifted towards the sounds and the smells of the holy city, the swarthy, dark skinned men and women. The harsh beauty, the wonderful food and amazing peace he felt at the temple mount. A white stag darted from his place on the shore of the lake, startling Quinn from his thoughts. His eyes followed the great beast a moment, it surely was an omen. It was headed south, urging his horse forward he began following the stag’s trail.


It had been a long week’s travel but Quinn had finally made it to Nottingham Shire. Pausing a moment he sat silently astride his great horse, he was unsure as to what to do. Prince John had asked for the help of the Templars, yet this man was uncouth and from the tales he gathered along the way a vain and cruel man who sought power for powers sake. Narrowing his eyes a moment, the thought had occurred to him more than once that the “Hood” mayhaps be in the right. Casting his eyes towards the massive forest, Quinn pursed his lips, and then started slowly towards the town. He would have to meet this man before he made his mind up on the situation.

Robyn listened to the talk of the small group so far below. At least one woman and one man, who had addressed a third member whose name told Robyn nothing.

And so it was a returning gentleman and his servants, perhaps with a noble cousin accompanying him. But no, a noble would not have so small a retinue, particularly not when traipsing about in bandit-infested forests. They had wizened up from that pride years ago.

Still, a returning member of court might bring with them news from the outside world; news that normally only the king and his traveling soldiers would be privy to. And Robyn simply adored new information; she wasn't picky about how relevant it was to the cause, so long as it was something she hadn't known before.

Acknowledging that the man's boasts of his own capabilities might be founded in something other than the prettiness of his companion, and knowing too that it was a tad early for her to be returning to the camp with wounds enough to send Cadfael into a fit, Robyn decided to take a gentler route in approaching the strangers. She scurried back down to the forest floor, making no more sound than the wind itself, and slipped through the shaded bushed until she was a good dozen or so yards ahead of the travelers. With the time she had until they caught up to her position on the path, Robyn stowed her bow and quiver next to a faithful rock, and shrugged, and bunched, and wrinkled and twisted her clothing until it resembled not the careful outfit of a forest outlaw, but the uneasy, desperate cloak of a blind begger. She quickly rolled about in the moss and dirt, tugged her fletching gloves down over her fingers so the young flesh couldn't be seen, and then retrieved an old fallen branch to be her crutch.

With ample time before the travelers found her, Robyn slipped onto the path and began picking her way along it. Her hood his the majority of her face, and a thin cloth covered her eyes so that when she bent her head, the light would strike it enough to grant her secret vision. The shadow of her hood would do the rest to hide her youthful face.

As their footsteps caught up to her ears, Robyn began muttering in the croaking voice of one either aged or sickly. "Nevermore, nevermore, nevermore..."

As the small group traveled along the path, it was soon made aware to all of them they were no longer alone. Martin’s hand instinctively went to is blade, before slacking back into a relaxed position. Perhaps it had been Lillian’s talk of bandits that had made him overcautious, but now he could see it was only a blind old beggar, traveling through the forest; no threat to any in his party. Still, it struck him odd, not to mention dangerous, that a blind old beggar would travel alone through the forest, especially if there truly were bandits in these woods. They would likely find nothing to steal from such a pitiful creature, but Martin had seen men kill for less reason than being poor. Sadly, such cruelty was in no short supply.

“Hail Sir! Might you spare a word with a fellow traveler?” Martin asked, attempting a conversational tone as he approached the beggar with his water skin, filled that very morning from a nearby stream. The old man’s muttering had worried Martin a bit. Perhaps it was an assumption from living the last five years in a desert, but he’d seen strong men go mad from heat and thirst.

“Do you hail from Nottingham good man?” Martin asked, stooping a little, and carefully bringing the water skin to the beggar’s mouth, with subtle encouragement to drink. Martin did not care to see a man die if he had the power to prevent it.

"Eh? What'st?" Robyn croaked, taking a moment to rearrange herself to face the owner of the voice. And handsome enough fellow, and young as far as she could tell. Kind enough to offer a stranger a drink, which she accepted with the careful gratitude of a lone traveler on the road. "Ah, Godden, sir, Godden, an' thankee! Kind lad, good lad."

Leaning heavily on her new chosen staff, she sighed in a raspy imitation of the old men she knew from Nottingham, and wiped her mouth with the back of her sleeve. "Nottingham, is it? Ah, me boy, from Nottingham I do hail. Off to pay a wee indulgence to me ole brother in arms. Lost 'is legs where I lost me eyes, ye see. Nottingham, Nottingham. Is it there that ye find yerselves trekkin', milord? But I hear no coaches to accompany ye! And ye new to the woods, is it?"

Robyn clucked her tongue and turned, continuing to pick her way along the path.

"With a polished tongue such as ye have, me boy, I can only place me bet that ye be headed towards the castle an' the court an' all the king 'as to offer." She suddenly stopped, finding a rock to rest her make-believe old bones on, and sighing loudly in relief at it as she adjusted herself. "An' do I be mistaken but to hear the dainty steps of a lady accompanyin' ye? Off to catch the king's eyes, are ye sweet?" Robyn cackled quietly, rocking an elbow in place of a wink. "'Tis sour fruit ye seek to pluck if 'tis so, for sooth!"

With a sigh and a harrumph, Robyn settled the old blind man down. Then she leaned forward against her propped up stick, chin pointing towards her toes. "Now a touch o' advice seems fittin' fair for a drop o' clear water. What is't ye'd have from Old Robert, eh? Why seek ye Nottingham?"

“Aye, though if luck holds we’ll not be there long.” Martin replied simply to the old man’s inquiry. He only needed to present himself to the new king to dispel the rumors of his death, and be sure his estate had not been seized from his mother. With his goodly father long dead, Martin had been the sole male heir, and English men had a habit of seizing land when no Knight was there to claim it. Once the situation was cleared up with the king, he planned to take his charge, and apparently Lillian as it appeared she was frustratingly stubborn on repaying a debt he did not feel needed repaying.

When Lillian was address, she gave a snort, half amused half appalled, at the idea of catching the king’s fancy. “Ye wouldn’t be thinkin’ I fancy any such soft bellied noble rotters now would ye?” Lillian replied with a somewhat cheeky grin. Martin raised an eyebrow, unaware of the new kings rather damning reputation, but did not comment.

“Lillian of Flanders, but don’t be thinkin that makes me French. Me mum’s from much father North up there.” Lillian assured. “And Loyal servant to Sir Martin of Essex.” She proclaimed with a defined sense of pride. Martin grunted grumpily, but did not contradict her. He grew wary of trying to change such a stubborn woman’s mind, and to argue with her now would only confuse an old blind man on his way to see a friend.

“Rumors of my death in the Holy Lands have been greatly exaggerated. I got simply to settle my affairs. I find I am not fond of court.” Martin replied without further explanation, his more reserved nature shining through, as he welcomed Lillian talking over the conversation.

“Beg pardon Robert, but is it true a goodly bandit hold residence in these woods?” Lillian asked with a kind of fascination in her eyes. Martin’s interest perked as well, having not been enlightened on that little spin of the bandit story.

Robyn chuckled approvingly of Lillian's description of herself, and nodded with understanding towards Martin. When the question of the 'goodly' bandit arose, however, she jerked her chin back as if in response to some silent code. She paused, tilted her head this way and that to check for any oncoming traffic on the road, and then leaned forward to whisper to the travelers with a withdrawn, conspiratorial tone.

"Goodly bandits? Why, lass, that all depends, don't it? Depends on how ye see The Hood's sworn enemy, this great king whom ye seek in Nottingham. For sooth if ye side with the king, then no outlaw in these woods may be called goodly. But...well, 'tis all a matter of 'perspective,' as me ole mam would 'ave said, God rest 'er soul."

"Ye see, The Hood, so 's called by those in the know, is foresworn to right those wrongs of the king such 'as rained down upon 'is people these many years. Carriages heavy laden with tax-fair be snatched up before they so much as reach the belly of the forest, and the gold finds its way back into the hands of those wot first earned it. Prisoners of the king, jailed for treason, disappear from the gaol. Those condemned to be 'orribly punished for displeasing 'is 'ighness disappear from 'is grasp. All the work 'o the Ghosts o' Nottingham."

Robyn suddenly straightened up, and thumped her staff against the soft dirt. "Well! Lad, if ye wish to be sure 'o your lands, bear the king the head of a ghost! Ha! And lass, no better dowry could ye find than in reward for plucking the green-clad lice from 'is Majesty's head! Ha-ha!"

Martin’s eyes narrowed a bit as he listened to the old blind man talk of the new King, and grew wary from the sound of him. He had not yet met this new king, but he did not like the sound of him. Greed and violence at the innocent’s expense, wasn’t that what he was returning home to leave behind in the Holy Lands?

“Well I think they be heroes good man. A woman I met nary a shire south told tale her husband been sized by the king for not havin proper money to pay taxes. The blackguard would’ve seen him hang if not for the ghosts. A bit shaken he was, but right as rain!” Lillian recalled in a bright voice. “And I heard tale from her daughter that the ghosts were all rather handsome as well as courageous. True or not, I think it adds a little something to the tale.” She said with a far more mischievous smile.

“Well for all our sakes, I hope the accounts are highly exaggerated. I’ve long grown weary of fighting wars for other men’s greed.” Martin replied on a far more somber note as her returned to the horse to put his water skin back in his satchel bag, Lillian watching him as he left before turning back to Robert.

“He wouldn’t, especially not for land.” Lillian assured in a quietly confident voice. “He’s a hero too ye see. Saved me from diein’ like a dog on the side of the road, and hunted down the rats that put me there.” Lillian said, and a much darker look past across her eyes briefly before she brightened again, though whispered a bit with a look towards Martin before continuing. “And her,” She referred to Zahra, who still sat on the horse. “She’s the daughter of the Arab that held Milord captive for two long years in the Holy lands. When he was rescued by our armies, the Arab died; he could have killed her ye see, take his revenge and all that, but instead he’s protectin her as a ward. Repayin’ a debt for not killin him right off. At least that’s what I gathered.” Lillian recounted.

Robyn nodded sagely to Lillian's description of her lord. It seemed as if she had been fortunate in meeting with this trio; perhaps she was speaking with new allies. But it was never wise for a rebel to extend friendship when loyalty was still at question. And at this point, Robyn had learned that the most devoted outlaws came of their own free will.

"Well, Good Sir Martin and Great Lady Lillian, and lest we forget the noble lady...Zahra, was it?" Robyn nodded again, shifting on her rock. "May the Virgin bless ye an' keep ye safe. If ye be half so noble as yer servant brags of ye, sir, then Nottingham 'as great need of your sort."

Drawing herself up once more, Robyn waved a careless hand at the three, back in the direction of Nottingham. "Now away wi' ye. Leave an old soul t'rest 'is bones in peace. Ah, an' should ye have need of a place t' rest yer 'eads once yer finished at court, The Spotted Calf is always welcoming to a wayfaring soul. Now off wi' ye, off wi' ye..."

Robyn had her reasons for sending them to The Spotted Calf. The ale was good and the food as fresh as could be found, but it was more than that. There, Robyn knew she had eyes and ears to keep track of the returning crusader. Until she knew for certain what it was to be done with him.

At being referred to as a “Great Lady” Lillian couldn’t help a smile and good natured laugh. Lillian wasn’t a tavern wench, but she was no high born Lady either, and the very idea, though flattering, was very amusing to her. When Martin walked back towards the two, and heard the “bragging” comment, he shot a rather tired look Lillian’s way, who smiled unrepentantly. “The lady exaggerates.” Martin replied simply, pulling the spare dagger he had gotten from his bag, and placed the hilt carefully in old Robert’s hand.

“Your Ghost sounds a noble sort, but I do not doubt there are other thieves in this forest with far less goodly intentions. Alone and unarmed is no way to travel. Stay safe good man.” Martin said gently with his normal serious look.

“The spotted Calf.” Mused Lillian after bidding good day to Robert and walking back to the horse. “Ye’d be in luck Milord; we’ve no need to stay in yer despised stuffy castles.” She continued optimistically, knowing Martin’s preference to inns and taverns to staying in a lord’s castle or manor. And after their goodbyes, they were off to Nottingham, and the castle of the English king.

"Other thieves?" Robyn mused quietly, as the dagger was pressed into her hand. Hidden in the shadow of her hood, she flashed a secretive smile. "None that would dare harm the helpless; not so long as Robyn Hood lives. God speed, Lord Martin."

The moment the footsteps of the three travelers had been quenched by the sounds of the forest, Robyn tugged her clothing back into its proper place, stuck the dagger into her belt and slipped back into the safety of the trees. As she trekked across to a different path, one which lead the castle rather than the town, her mind was busy weighing the arrival of Martin and his two companions. It took time and effort swaying an aristocrat to the hard life of an outlaw; even (and sometimes, especially) one who had served in the crusades. And with recent rescues from the gaol, Robyn worried that her sources were being spread thin with care and training.

If Cadfael were there...well, firstly he would likely tell her to stay away from the castle. But Robyn was curious to see how her old fellow the king was faring. Just glimpsing how agitated his men were would be telling enough, but seeing how the new-returned lord was greeted would show her far more. Robyn reached the edge of the forest, and then paused long enough to redress herself once more. This time, she abandoned her foresting garb in a copse next to a running stream, where she found also hidden the cloak and habit of a silent monk sometimes known to roam the streets.

A few moments later, that same monk slipped out of the trees and onto the path which wound around the hills to reach Nottingham castle. She clasped her hands together and tread in thoughtful silence. When she was within sight of its walls, close enough to hear the guards calling to one another but far enough away that she could stop in apparent innocent meditation, Robyn came to a halt. She stood in apparent prayer, and waited to observe.

Martin had not been to Nottingham often, only a handful of times on short visits to be honest, but it seemed a far different place than he remembered. Under King Richard, though he was more often off on campaign than at home, the people here had seemed happy, prosperous even, but now it was as if gloom and poverty clung to the very air they breathed. There were no gossipy wives giggling on Market Street, no children about playing and causing their mothers to fuss, and there were soldiers everywhere. It was like a city, held under occupation by a hostile ruler. Could these rumors, over exaggerated complains he’d thought, actually be true?

Lillian was oddly silent as they made their way through the town, while Martin observed with an unreadable sort of look as he processed what he was seeing. It was not until the reached the castle, and Martin helped Zahra down from his horse, that Martin snapped out of his contemplation at the sight of someone he knew.

“Why Lord Reggie, I do believe you’ve never smelt more like horse dung, how do you manage such a feat?” Martin asked in a joking manner to a larger man (almost a full head taller and much broader) in front of him with his back turned, and placed his hand on his shoulder. The man turned around with surprising speed, appearing spooked. When his eyes fell on Martin it was of momentary disbelief, before letting out a great roar of excitement, and enveloping Martin in a great bear hug, even lifting him off the ground.

“God Martin, I thought you were dead! They told us you’d been trampled to death and carried off by the Arabs!” The larger man said in awe.

“Odd how they never bother to check if I was still breathing before they stole my horse eh?” Martin replied dryly. “The bit about the Arabs is true enough, though they did a better job of patching me up than I suspect the monks would have.”

“Then how did you survive, they let you go?” The man asked.

“You know me cousin, uncanny luck in near death situation.” Martin replied.

“Devil’s own.” Martin’s cousin muttered and his eyes lost their humor as he become more serious. “A lot has changed since you left cousin.” Martin’s brow rose, encouraging him to go on. “Well to begin, I’m now Lord Reginald, Baron of Essex.” Martin looked slightly uncomfortable at his cousin’s pained look. While he had always been close to his cousin, his uncle had been a horrid man who had tormented him since youth. Norman prejudice and Saxon blood had a habit of not mixing well. “I’m sorry.” Martin muttered back, out of respect to his cousin. “What of my mother?”

“Your goodly mother, my Lady aunt, passed on not two summers past, and your sister Anne has married.” Now it was Reginald who looked uncomfortable. “Who?” Martin asked, a bit wary at his cousin’s look.

“The Baron of Hastings’ son.” Reginald replied quietly.

“What?! That sniveling cowardly whelp?!” Martin cried in angry disbelief. Reginald looked miserable, and almost bitter. “His war mongering father’s the one behind it. Practically forced her hand; trying to take a stab at me. I was in France at the time, and rushed the whole foul affair.”

“We’ll see just how foul when I challenge the bloody bastard to a duel!” Martin hissed with a deadly kind of look, livid to hear his sister had been so violated and used.

“You can’t!” Reginald said quickly, grabbing hold of Martin’s shoulders. “It’s what he was looking for in the first place, an excuse for war. He’s land hungry, trying to coerce other Barons into battle, and battle we can not afford right now, not with these bloody taxes.” Reginald finished in almost a whisper. “Don’t worry about Anne, she’s a strong girl. Last I heard she was making the whole lot right miserable.” He said grinning weakly. Martin did not look appeased, but swallowed his cry for blood.

“Come, we’ll go in together. I imagine you’re here about your land?” Reginald guessed, giving his younger cousin an encouraging clasp on the shoulder. Martin gave a curt nod, beckoning for Lillian and Zahra to follow as they made their way into the castle, waiting to be announced and introduced to the king.

The king's eyes were hard marks of annoyance, set firmly on the space before his face and irately ignoring the fidgeting clerk before him. The man was spouting some nonsense about an abbot to the west, requesting a delay in the seizure of the abbey's lands. Always, the begging! Sniveling and protesting, and yet so unfortunately rarely did any of these fools come forward with a decent leg of bribery.

"Your Highness," The king's steward spoke, his raspy voice cutting in over the clerk. The poor clerk stuttered, looked uncertainly about himself, and suddenly found himself being escorted out by a pair of hulking guards. The steward continued as if the clerk had never been there, "A young lord has just returned, having won freedom from the Arabs while serving in the crusades."

"And?" The king leaned his head back and shut his eyes, relieved at the dismissal of the clerk but annoyed at the intrusion of another.

"If it pleases Your Majesty, he wishes to have an audience to discuss the lands left behind by his family."

"His name?"

"A Sir Martin, Sire."

"I do not know him." The king reopened his eyes, and flicked a bit of dust from his knee. "Does he bring tribute?"

"He brings an Arab woman in his company, Sire."

Well, it was better than nothing at all. "Send him in."

The castle seemed little better to Martin, who entered with his hulking cousin Reginald, Lillian, and his new ward Zahra. The domineering atmosphere was intentional no doubt, and Martin felt a growing sense of anxiety, similar to the feeling he felt when preparing for battle. It was a sense one only had when they sensed danger, and he was not the only one. Lillian looked almost skittish, a worried line creasing her brow. Suddenly, this audience seemed like a terribly fool hardy idea to her, and her nervousness only increased as a small man screaming “Sire, please, please! The abbot had no where yet to go!” was being dragged out by two much larger guards. Sickening, the man was even stealing from the church now?

Martin’s look was quite dark, and almost brooding when he was admitted into the king’s audience chamber with his small group. Out of expected courtesy, Martin gave a slow bow without loosing eye contact with that man he was growing steadily less fond of by the second. “Your Highness.” Martin addressed, keeping the irritation and dislike from his voice. “I believe there is a matter in need of discussion. You are busy I am sure, so I shall be brief. I come simply to procure the documentation that insures the possession of my estate in Essex.”

Each hoof fall in the loamy, rich earth kicked up small clods of debris that trailed behind the magnificent beast. An easy stride, the large war horse was used to the pace set by the rider. Sunlight drifting through the canopy far above on each side created dazzling rays piercing the foliage and illuminating the dark earth, casting illumination, exposing the hidden bugs and rodents that scurried at the dull thuds of heavy horse. Creaking of leather, clinking of the chainmail, rustling of the hooded tunic, each indicated that the rider was a warrior, no it was more than a warrior, a knight, and beyond that a templar, considered a stalwart against the flood of pagans and Mohammadians that were razing the holy lands.

Quinn had been on Acre when the hot-headed Grand Master Gerard de Ridefort led his knights and the army of King Baldwin, the disaster known as the Battle of the Horns of Hattin wasn’t bad enough, he had surrendered and allowed himself to be ransomed. It was then that Quinn had been ordered back to Scotland to oversee the building of a castle, hidden from the views of the Holy See. Now he was riding south to assist in the capture of a rogue and scoundrel. However it was not as he had expected. The ride had given him ample opportunity to speak to peasants and laymen about this “Hood.” It disturbed him that the word seemed to speak well of this mysterious raider, and ill words about the man upon the throne.

Easing the stallion to a slow walk, Quinn pondered that thought a long moment, as he did he caught whiff of smells, followed by the sounds of busy people. The clang of an iron smith, the acrid smell of the leather worker, shouts and hollers, followed by laughter and squeals of children, filled the air in their own way. Ahead would be the town of Nottingham, seat of John. Inhaling a moment, Quinn would be interested as to how the people would react when the red blazoned cross would be spotted. A grim smile graced his lips, it always thrilled him a little when he entered a town, when people realized that a Templar was among them. The ideal of the brothers to offer protection to pilgrims and succor those in Christ’s faith seemed to inspire. Much like this “Hood” seemed to do to these under the rule of John.

The first to spot him were a gaggle of children, they paused in their game at the sound of his horse, at the sight of his banner trailing from his long spear. One boy, a large lad darted away, his voice high pitched and excited, “Oi a knight….a knight of the cross comes!” The boy’s voice could be heard, causing others to take up the hue and cry as Quinn rode slowly down the street. Woman grabbed their wide-eyed children to them. Men stood stoic, their eyes wondering. A friar or lay brother came scurrying from somewhere; he rushed towards Quinn, and slipped in the muddied road. Flailing as he struggled to rise from the muck, he wiped mud from his face, “Hail brother…welcome to Nottingham” he called. The Templar bowed the spear in his direction and continued onward towards the castle.

The king's nose wrinkled just the slightest bit. The man who had entered had bits of dried leaves stuck in his hair, and his clothes were lined with a traveler's dirt. His boots were mucked from marching along the road like a common peasant. Crusaders had come to call before; in fact, they had been greeted with honor, grand feasts thrown for their arrival. But all of those had at least had the decency to clean themselves up to be fit for a meeting with the king!

"We do not dole out such documents to any man who asks," The king spoke after an almost bored pause. He reclined further into his throne, and tilted his chin until there was no means of seeing the visiting lord lest it was down his own regal nose. "If you wish to procure them, you must first prove your own legitimacy. Hast thou some evidence of thy claims? We have set a most worthy man upon these lands, these two seasons back. We shall not remove his rewards for loyalty without due cause."



Robyn had watched from a silent distance as Martin and his two companion arrived. Other than the one nobleman who greeted him--apparently a kinsman--there did not appear to be any great warmth for the man in the king's walls. He was unknown by the king's guards, at least. That spoke in his favor. But how he was treated once inside the gates was something she would have to wait and hear of at a later time.

But now, there came another new arrival. Judging by the standard, and the regal manner in which he bore himself, Robyn identified him as a gallant Templar. She grimaced beneath the monk's hood.

Templars were renowned for their ability on the field. Multiple weapons mastered, ferocious battling spirits, and unmatchable fealty. If the king had called a Templar to join his cause...and if that Templar were tempted to call some of his brothers in arms to join him...

It was either an incredible boon or a moment of ruin for the cause. She could only hope that this particular Templar was blessed with the gift of discernment.

"Hail, good Sir," Robyn greeted in the muted, peaceable tones of an earnest monk. With her hands still clasped together within her robes, she bowed in greeting as the Templar reached her. Her usual silent monk would have to be reserved for a later date. "Hast thou come to meet with the king? I fear another has just gone in to speak with him. Does this scholarly nose fool me, or art thou fresh from battle?"

Martin watched the arrogant man who was not seated upon the throne with a kind of concealed contempt. This man, there was greed and snobbery in his gaze, and Martin would not be cowed by it. He wanted proof to reclaim his lands, lands that had been promised safekeeping to any Knight who left on the crusades did he? He had more than enough. Slowly raising his hand, he showed a single ring, not gaudy and lacking the fine jewels of most lords’ rings, it was still elegant, with a simple gold base and amber front with his family’s crest of a stag and mighty sword set in the amber.

“The ring of my father Sir Argus of Essex, given to him as a gift by King Richard himself. I’m sure your clerks can verify that.” Martin replied dryly, unfazed by the sneering looks he was receiving. “If you find that bit of proof unsatisfactory, my kinsman, the Baron of Essex should be sufficient to… verify my legitimacy, as you so aptly put it sire.” While there was no mocking in Martin’s tone, there was a certain lack of fear in it that inspired a look from Reginald that warned he was playing a dangerous game, before turning to the king himself. He too gave a bow, one much lower than Martin’s had been before looking up at the king once more.

“He is my knightly cousin Sire, Sir Martin of Essex, and rightful heir to his father’s estate.” Reginald relayed in a calm and cordial tone.

The king's eyes narrowed a fraction. He was proud, and he was arrogant, but he was not foolish. He could sense dissidence among his subjects, even when it was carefully hidden. Even when it was the most frequent emotion he was greeted with, when he should have been greeted with awe.

Even months ago, the king would have brushed the returning whelp off without a second thought. But now, even today as he had pondered the security of his fortress, he decided to dispense a bit of tact. He smiled; a feature lacking in any warmth, and made a welcoming gesture to Martin.

"Well then we are much pleased to return to you your family lands, Sir Martin of Essex, and welcome you back to Nottingham. We do hope that you shall be our honored guest, if only so long as it takes for our friend Sir Ansley to abandon your lands. We would be most pleased to offer you rooms enough for yourself and your companions."

These lines were delivered smoothly, and followed immediately after with a brief, intense look towards the man's cousin. It lasted only a second, but spoke volumes: if the Baron wished for his fortunes to remain the same, he would play his part as a loyal citizen to the crown, and inspire the same behavior in his kinsman.

Hearing the voice, low and subdued, barely perceptible, yet strong, Quinn peered at the monk. Nodding slowly he answered in an equally low tone so only the good brother would hear, “Aye, I have returned from the Holy Lands.” The fact that the brother had remarked that another had entered to see the king was something that Quinn found interesting. Stopping his mount in front of the lay brother Quinn turned to him, “Brother, perhaps once I have attended to my business may we speak. I am in need of information of this land and people.” Then he was moving again, the banner fluttering in the slight breeze caused by the forward motion of the horse.

Approaching the castle, Quinn held apprehension, the gloom that seemed to surround the area was palatable, and a dark cloud hung over the place. Seeing the gates closed he halted a mere twenty feet and called out to the yeomen atop the walls, “Hail, I am Sir Quinn Balfour, a Poor fellow-soldier of Christ and of the Temple of Solomon; I seek audience with the sire of this castle.” Quinn waited for an answer, as he did so he studied the men on the wall, hard-bitten and cruel looking men. He had seen their type in many campaigns, men who lived harshly and took pleasure inflicting pain and misery upon others.

The words of the lay brother came back to him, had there been a warning? Had the mention of another been a subtle hint? Glancing back a moment to seek the monk he failed to find him among the gathered throng that stood restlessly and spoke to one another in low tones. Turning again to the walls, Quinn sat motionless, the butt of the spear firmly on the ground, the banner billowing. As he waited, a swirling of white clouds dimmed the sun, allowing only a few rays to fall upon him, glinting off his helm and armor.

How often had he done this, sat before walls, his brothers in arms waiting for a response, an answer from those huddled inside, some fearful, others thankful of the appearance of the Red Cross on white background. What was this King John thinking? He had asked for a Templar, what would he do now that they had answered?

“You are most Generous Sire.” Reginald said courteously. Unlike his cousin, the Baron was well practised in court nuances. Martin highly doubted this new change of attitude had much to do with him, more than it did his cousin was a Baron of high position. Still, there was little reason to provoke a man if he wasn’t antagonizing you. Still, he had no intention of staying here any longer than he had to.

“Yes, I thank you for your generosity Sire. I can not however, take advantage of your surely renowned hospitality. We have already arranged for loggings, so I must decline your gracious offer. No doubt another will require the room in your regal hall more than I.” Martin declined with polite and courtly grace. Lillian, who'd looked a bit pale at the King’s offered lodgings in the castle, had a look of poorly hid relief at Martin’s polite evasion. She did not like it here at all, and would be happy when they could leave.

The king's mouth curved into a dissatisfied line, which he carelessly hid behind folded hands resting against his noble chest. A member of the upper class refusing to stay within his sight was but another problem to add to the growing list.

He was about to insist, to inform the young upstart that an invitation from a king was more than a friendly suggestion, when his steward sidled up to his side, leaned down and whispered into his ear of another visitor. This time, it was one who was actually anticipated.

"Very well, Sir Martin," The king waved a hand to dismiss the Baron and his cousin, "but should thy mind be changed, we shall be glad to welcome you back to our court."

The steward hurried outside to beckon the Templar into the throne room, as the servants within hurried to gather up drink and refreshment for him. A guard appeared next to Martin and his companions to escort them out...and to see where it was that they would be staying.

Martin and Reginald both gave a short bow to the king as their party left, escorted by the guard. Reginald did not know who the next audience was for, but who ever it was had kept his cousin from a very dangerous situation. Had the guard not been there, as well as his mindful ears, Reginald would have gone at his cousin then and there. As it was, he waited until they made it into the Spotted Calf, and had shooed away the guard (now knowing where Martin was staying), before dragging him into a quieter corner and digging in.

“Martin, I swear at times I think you are the biggest fool in all of Christendom!” Reginald whispered harshly, towering over his younger cousin. “These are not times to be making enemies of a king, even if you don’t like him don’t make it so bloody obvious! This man didn’t blink at seizing lands from an Abby, don’t think he won’t do the same to yours, or even hang you if you displease him!”

“So there is no longer law left in England eh? You would grovel for scraps from his table? Did you not see the people of the town Reginald, have you not heard the stories? I thought at first they were mere rumours but now I’m not so sure!” Martin retorted back in the same fierce whisper.

“Of course I’ve seen it Martin; they’re not rumours, but there’s nothing we can do. For once in your life Martin, don’t be a bloody noble fool and keep your head down!” His cousin shot back. Martin was silent for a moment, before replying in a much lower tone.

“I’ve heard other rumours as well, of those fighting in the forest-”

“Oh the bloody Ghosts! Outlaws Martin, renegades who attack carriages and play the thorn in his side well, but they haven’t got the resources to stop him. Martin, there is nothing you can do, keep your head down until your lands are free, and then get out of Nottingham! You’ve insulted him, however subtlety once, he’ll not suffer it again, and there’s nothing I can do for you next time if you do! I thought you’d died once cousin, don’t make me have to watch you die again.” Reginald said with a pained look before storming out of the Tavern. Martin watched him go, sighing deeply before walking up the bar. “Two rooms and a tankard of ale.” Martin requested of the woman at the bar.

The Spotted Calf was quietly busy, as it tended to be at that hour, but as she had only awakened a few hours before the woman at the bar was less than keen on fulfilling her complete service. She smothered a yawn with the back of her hand, and handed across a slip of paper with a pair of numbers etched upon it. She then waved for one of the girls who had just finished unloading a tray full of vittles to a table of soldiers.

Delia hurried to the woman who had beckoned her, wiping her hands off on her apron and shooting a flirtatious, scolding look back at the soldier who thanked her for the food with a pinch. Brushing a fistful of rich brown curl over her mostly bare shoulder, Delia greeted Martin with a smile warm enough to light the empty fireplace. Though he had clearly done a bit of traveling, she recognized his clothing and his bearing as one who had business in the castle.

"Godden, Milord. Will ye have a bite to eat, then? We've still room to sit, we could have ye and yer lady friends settled for a bit 'til the feel of the road 'as faded from yer feet. Ye'll find no finer lamb stew within a fortnight's ride." Delia motioned to a table at the corner of the room, tucking her empty tray under her arm.