They were heading, the Saracen had finally told them as he veered their course northward, for the port of Grimsby on the Humber. There were other ports at the Wash, but they were further away and the vast stretch of the fens stood in the way. In the summer, the fens were merely awkward, a distraction for travellers. In late autumn, with the rivers that fed them high and the land wet and unsteady, they could be downright dangerous. The way to Grimsby would take them by the edge of the fens, and into the marsh country further to the north, but that was still better than slogging through sedge and sleeping in the damp.

Gisburne, who had never trusted boats, was uncertain. He had endured his previous trips across the Channel with poor grace, and they had been taken in fair weather on good vessels with God’s blessing upon them. If he took ship at Grimsby, he would have half the coast of England to navigate in the Devil knew what leaking tub before they even got to the Channel. And men died making that crossing, particularly out of season. Even kings and king’s sons had been brought down by storms at sea. Hell’s teeth, everyone knew that the Plantagenets would never even have come to the throne of England if it hadn’t been for a spire of rock in a storm-tossed harbour mouth and a half-drunk helmsman.

The Saracen was clearly not in a pleasant frame of mind this morning. The gaze he turned on Gisburne as the man rode up beside him was like black ice. Gisburne, who had faced those eyes before over an intricate web of steel, felt his hands go cold and swallowed. He hoped the other man would not notice that, but then the Saracen’s eyes flickered – in irritation? Contempt? – and Gisburne knew that he had. God curse him.

“Why Grimsby?” That came out more gruffly than Gisburne had intended. It made him sound confrontational, he knew, which was not a good thing with the Saracen fully armed and in what looked like a killing mood (and Guy rather suspected that if he tried to seize a weapon or spur his horse away today, his reprimand would be more brutal – and possibly more permanent – than only a heavy-handed cuff around the ears) but he knew no other way to ask. He pressed on. “It’s all herring and wool traders. It would be easier to find passage to the south.”

“The cinque ports?” Nasir lifted an eyebrow and grunted. Gisburne was surprised to hear the man name them so easily; clearly he was more familiar with this country than Guy gave him credit for. “No. Too far. Too great a risk.”

Alongside, Will made a derisive, sputtering sound. He was on foot, having refused to take a turn ahorse. “Dover? Hythe? You must be joking. Take us bloody weeks to get there. D’you think we like your company that much?”

“No one’s keeping you here, wolfshead.”

“Stop calling me that, pig. You know my name.”

“I do. Scathlock. Murderer.” There was a deliberate sneer in that. Will bristled, turning and reaching for his knife. Nasir kicked his horse between Gisburne and Scarlet.

“Do not. Either of you.” He didn’t raise his voice at all, but the dead tone he used was more menacing than any amount of shouting. Guy, who was very used to being shouted at, found himself wondering how this man’s lethal calm would fare against de Rainault in one of his rages and decided that the calm was more frightening. With de Rainault, everything was sound and fury, like a storm; one only need duck for shelter and wait things out. With the Saracen, he thought, there would be no storm; only a rumble of warning and then lightning from a clear sky.

Will subsided with a surly curse, turning his back and striding on ahead of the horses. Nasir watched him briefly, then turned to Gisburne.

“Why bait him? Do you want so badly to die? Is your life worth so little to you?”

Guy opened his mouth to say something scathing on the theme of jumped-up wolfsheads who thought they could defeat a trained knight, but to his horror

(What’s your life worth, Gisburne?)

(Nothing!)

what came out was something completely different. What came out was, God help him, honest.

“What life? My estates are forfeit, I have no income and no sponsor, the king wants my head, and de Rainault’s stolen my bloody horse. What’s left? Tell me that, man. What’s left?”

Guy was appalled at the words, and at the fraught, desperate sound of his own voice, but somehow he couldn’t stop himself. It must, he decided, have been some residual madness caused by all those blows to the head; next thing he would be crying like a girl. He snapped his jaw shut with a click, made himself stare straight ahead, and willed the Saracen to confine himself to a scornful glance and ride on. Instead, Nasir looked at him for a long and careful time, and then replied: “You.”

“What?”

“You are left. Yourself, your own man. You are alive and you are free for perhaps the first time in your life.” Nasir spoke slowly, thoughtfully. “Free of duty, of obligation, of service to another’s will. What choices you make now will be your own. Understand that.”

“You’re talking nonsense,” Guy said, in a tight, strained voice. He didn’t look around. “I’m noble born; I’ve always been a free man.”

The Saracen cast him a derisive look and did not speak. Gisburne, hating himself, found that his hands were clenched so tight they ached, and there was a pressure in his chest that made his heart shudder and beat like the wings of a trapped bird. A part of him understood perfectly what

(a second chance)

he had been told. The rest of him wanted to wail. All the world was changing, and he was caught in the middle, same unworthy, unwanted creature he always had been.

Something about that was bluntly, blackly terrifying.

Gisburne, Nasir had to concede as the morning wore on, was not entirely what he had expected. He was very young, for one thing. In an intellectual way, Nasir had been aware of that, registering the youth of the man’s face and bearing, his energy and impulsive anger, but he had not actually thought of it before. That, Sarak would have told him, was careless; if Gisburne was an enemy worthy of the name, then Nasir should have made more effort to understand him. A man should always know who – and what – his enemies were.

You are right, of course, my brother. Careless.

He had known, he supposed, that Gisburne was a twisted creature: tied up and tangled and turned away from any straight path. That was clear in his actions, in his viciousness and his callous disregard for anyone weaker than himself. Yet Nasir had never considered that Gisburne’s cruelty might run deeper. He had never imagined that, in his heart and in his head, Gisburne might be as vicious towards himself as he had ever been to any serf.

It had been in the man’s eyes last night, hollow and hurt when he had spoken of his family and asked, in a voice that wanted to choke on itself, why anyone had come. And it had been in his face, too, when he had spoken of all he had lost: a baffled, harrowed look, as of a dog that did not understand why it had been kicked, but expected nothing else. If Gisburne had been miguided before, Nasir thought, at least he had some direction. Now he was utterly lost.

That was something Nasir could understand. He had walked those paths himself not so long ago, pledging his loyalty to a man who had made of his faith both a lie

(Where nothing is true, everything is permitted)

(What does that even mean?)

and a weapon. He had seen that almost too late, fleeing the lie scant moments before he drowned in it, only to find himself without bearings or place in a strange land. He understood captivity too, and knew what it did to a man’s head and to his soul. The scars of his own enslavement had never quite healed; they still ached in the dark, even if only Rob

(Nasir, easy. Wake up, it’s only a dream)

knew that. For a long time after de Belleme’s first death, he had felt like an over-sharpened blade, untrustworthy, flawed, likely to snap. That, Nasir suspected, was where Gisburne’s new brittleness had come from: in his heart, the man was still trapped in a cell, still helpless and howling. It was hardly a wonder if that made him feel like snapping as well.

As he watched the young man riding off to one side, fair head bowed and big, capable hands slack on the reins, Nasir could not help thinking that Gisburne should have been easier to hate than this. Instead, unlikely and inappropriate as it was, Nasir realised he might even come to pity him. Which made very little sense, given that this was the same man who had spent a good part of the last several years trying to kill those Nasir called friends and wreaking destruction on the unhappy villages that surrounded Sherwood. But he was also Robert’s – Robin’s – brother, and adrift in a world grown suddenly too large, and somehow that made a difference.

Scarlet, on the other hand, was having no trouble despising the man. But then, Scarlet had hating down to an art. Nasir, who had always believed that unchannelled hatred was a waste of energy, was inclined to let Will use up all the gall he wanted, and if he wore himself out in doing so, so much the better. The man might pick fewer fights that way. Nasir was getting tired of ordering the two of them apart.

Shortly after midday, Scarlet stomped to a halt, took a long swig from his waterskin and announced that he was hungry.

“We’ve been going all bloody morning. Grimsby ain’t going nowhere. Come on, Naz, I know I ain’t got no chance of a decent drink, but what you got left worth eating?”

Gisburne, who hadn’t said a word since his brief discussion with Nasir, reined in his horse and glanced to the Saracen. He was as much a soldier as Scarlet had ever been; this morning had made it very clear to him who was in command here. Nasir nodded once, signalled to Gisburne to dismount, and waited until the man was standing at his horse’s head to follow suit. He had no doubt that his bay was quicker than the plodding dun, but even so, he had no intention of giving Gisburne a head start.

The Saracen pulled a sack from the back of his horse’s saddle and tossed it to Scarlet. “Food. No fire. Watch Gisburne. Do not kill.” He turned hard eyes on the young knight. “And you, behave.” Taking the dun’s reins from Gisburne’s hand, he led the horses to a nearby bush so that Will stood between Guy and his mount. Tethering the animals to graze, the Saracen paused and glanced once, warningly, at Gisburne and Will, then turned on his heel and strode away. Gisburne narrowed his eyes.

“Where’s he going?”

“Prayers, most likely.” Will hauled a half-wheel of hard cheese from the sack and wrinkled his nose at it. “’S’about that time o’ day. Not that he’ll go far, mind. Don’t go getting any funny ideas.” He bared his teeth in what might have been a smile, if smiles could be that hard, and that mocking. “He’d be well pissed off to come back and find you dead. Be a bloody shame, that would.”

“The Saracen gave you an order. You wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh, you think so? Let’s fucking try it and see, shall we?” Will hefted his bow at Gisburne, jabbing the air viciously. “I don’t take orders from him. You even look like making a break for it and I’ll drop you where you stand. Just give me a fucking reason.”

“Animal.” Gisburne glared down his nose. His hand had gone to his hip from long habit, looking for the sword that hadn’t hung there in months. “You’re nothing but a bloody savage.”

“That’s right,” Will agreed, with that same hard, unpleasant smile. “That’s me.”

Curling his lip in contempt, Gisburne spread his hands in a deliberate show of surrender. “Then there’s nothing more to say, is there?” He began to walk towards the horses. Scarlet stopped him, not kindly, slapping his bow across Gisburne’s chest.

“What the bloody hell d’you think you’re doing?”

“I’m thirsty,” Guy said curtly. “The skins are on the horse. Get out of my way.”

“Oh-ho!” Scarlet’s face seemed to light up, his eyes taking on a feral gleam. It made him look almost infernal. “Giving orders now, are we?”

Gisburne wondered how long the Saracen was going to be. There was something unsatisfying about the idea of dying on the edge of a marsh at the hands of a maniac with a grudge all because of some ill-timed heathen ritual. He said nothing. Scarlet cast his bow aside and took a step closer, doing his best to loom in spite of the fact that Gisburne overtopped him by a head and a half.

“’Course, you’re used to giving orders, you are. Used to people jumping to do what you say. Peasants, serfs, anyone who can’t fucking answer back.” Will’s eyes glittered dangerously. “You and your kind, you got a lot to answer for, Gisburne. You lot’ve made this country your playground and your money box. Angevin bloody king, Norman bloody nobles, and no one gives a damn for what happens to us Englishmen so long as we fight your bloody wars, work your bloody fields, and pay your bloody taxes. What’ve you got to say for yourself, hey?”

Guy blinked, as baffled as he was angered. What else did the man think the English were good for? “Someone has to keep order. You rabble …”

“Rabble, are we?”

Guy gave the man his haughtiest look and repeated his unlamented so-called father’s favourite saying. “Cattle must be driven.”

Will’s face had gone a very peculiar colour. Snarling, he fumbled for his knife; Gisburne, who had no intention of waiting to be stabbed, swore wholeheartedly and lunged.

He hit Scarlet with his whole body, trapping the other man’s arms and bearing him to the ground. Scarlet cursed and kicked, catching Gisburne in the knee and sending a flare of pain through his leg, but the knife stayed where it was, tangled in the outlaw’s tunic and in the clutch and grapple of their limbs. Shifting his grip, Guy managed to get one forearm across Scarlet’s throat, pressing down hard enough to make him gargle and choke, but then Will turned his head and fastened his teeth into Gisburne’s shoulder. Guy pulled away with a yell; Will flailed after him, clawing for the eyes, swinging hard.

Something solid and brutal slammed into Gisburne’s side, shoving him sharply away; something just as harsh caught Will above the ear and sent him tumbling backwards. Nasir stood between the two of them, his expression murderous. Guy hugged his ribs where the Saracen had kicked him, climbing carefully to his knees. Will, half-stunned from being elbowed in the head, shook himself groggily and threw himself at Gisburne again. Nasir caught him by the scruff and one wrist, jerked and lifted, and drove Will to his knees with his arm contorted painfully behind him.

“Sodding bloody fuck! Get off me! I’ll kill him! I’ll fucking kill him!”

Nasir said nothing, only twisted the man’s arm further so that he bent double, face to the ground. Will spat something breathless and vulgar and stopped struggling. The Saracen nodded, as if that was what he had expected.

“Will you stop?”

“Get off me!”

“I told you, do not kill.” Releasing the man, Nasir cuffed him hard about the head. Gisburne made as if to stand; Nasir kicked him back down.

“You stay. You listen.” He was speaking to both of them, in a voice that sounded as if it could grind rocks into sand. “If you will behave like unruly curs, I will treat you like unruly curs. I will leash you both if I must, and teach you to obey, if you do not show some control. You understand me?”

“The bastard attacked me,” Will growled sullenly. He was still on his knees, rolling his injured shoulder. “Man’s gotta defend himself.”

At the same time, Guy said, “He was going to draw a knife on me.”

Nasir raised a hand threateningly. They both subsided, refusing to look at either each other or at the Saracen between them. Nasir glared at the pair of them and muttered something savage and unfavourable in his native tongue. In English, he said, “Eat. Rest. Then we move on. And there will be no more trouble, or I will kill you both.”

Neither Gisburne nor Scarlet spoke for the rest of the day’s journey. Nasir found that rather restful.

If a few bruises and a slightly sprained arm were what it took to keep the peace, in Nasir’s opinion their latest clash had been worth it. But he also knew that he would pay for it. Gisburne might not retaliate – the man was used, Nasir thought, to being reprimanded – but Will would not take a beating lying down. The man had stalked in silence all afternoon, off to one side of the horses, and when they stopped for rest he stayed on his own. Nasir kept half an eye on him. His weather sense had always been good; he could tell when there was a storm brewing.

They made camp that night in an abandoned hut on the fen-ward side of the Lincolnshire Edge, a great limestone scarp that ran almost from Newark to the Humber, with rolling grazing land above and canal-strewn marsh below. The hut might have been a shepherd’s for summer grazing, or it might have been a fenman’s hide, thrown together as shelter when hunting waterfowl or cutting reeds. It was a simple thing, only one room and a hearth, and built from thick bundles of sedge cut from the fens, but it was warm and well made. The clear, still sky promised a cool night. Decent walls and a fire were not to be passed up.

Guy was appalled at how tired he felt. He had always prided himself on his endurance, but now he felt drained and worn. He had been aching and weary for most of the day, was all the worse since the afternoon’s brief skirmish with Scarlet, and the last few miles had been torment. He suspected the Saracen knew it; it was early to make camp, with the sun not even down, but the man had glanced at him and called a halt anyway. Guy was grateful. His knee felt stiff and swollen from where Scarlet had kicked it and his ribs were bruised and sore. As for the bite on his shoulder, he only hoped that the wound was clean. Scarlet was as mad as a wood hound, and Guy knew what happened to a man bitten by one of those. He did not want to die staring-eyed and foaming.

He watched the Saracen go about the basic chores of setting camp: tending the horses, finding water, stoking a small fire. Scarlet was still smouldering, glaring indiscriminately at everything from the doorway. Gisburne gave him a cold glance and limped to where the Saracen had hung their supper: a trio of rabbits that the man had brought down that morning with quick efficiency and a swiftly thrown blade. It wasn’t, Guy told himself, that he had any great urge to make himself useful. He was hungry, that was all.

“I’ll take care of these, if you like,” he announced, surprised at how gruff his voice sounded after half a day of silence. The Saracen looked at him and nodded.

“My thanks.” Nasir paused, and then his hand went to his belt and he tossed something small and narrow to Gisburne. “You will need that.”

A knife. Very small, its blade not even as long as the palm of Guy’s hand, but still a knife. Gisburne tried to remember the last time he had held decent steel and decided that it was the day he had been flung into Newark gaol. He struggled not to stare.

Scarlet said, “No.”

“Will.” Nasir turned to him with a staying gesture. “There is no harm.”

“You give that bastard a weapon, and I’ll know you’ve gone over. Or gone mad. One or the other.” Scarlet’s jaw jutted challengingly. “So which is it, Naz? You mad, or just a sodding traitor?”

Gisburne raised his head in alarm. He’d heard men make idle threats before, but there was nothing idle in Will’s tone. He wondered what would happen next, and how a skinning knife less than half a handspan long could get him out of it. Sweet Christ, if there was going to be a fight, why hadn’t the Saracen given him a better knife?

“Will.” Nasir’s voice was very calm. He sighed, glanced at Gisburne, and then shrugged and stepped to the door. He had known this was coming, and Will had been brooding all day. Best to get it over with. He gestured outside. “Come.”

“And leave him here, armed?”

“Barely.” Nasir gestured again. “Outside. Come.” He stepped past Will and out into the settling day.

Will snarled and grumbled, but he followed. Once they were a little away from the hut, he growled, “Damn you, Nasir, what the fuck are you playing at?”

“You truly think me a traitor?” Nasir asked it without accusation or defences, as if he really wanted to know. “Truly?”

“Oh, Hellfire.” Will made a face and sighed, reluctant. “No. But by God, you got a lot of bloody explaining to do. Letting him wander about loose like he’s your fucking lap dog, giving him a knife. Damn near breaking my arm.”

Nasir nodded. “I did as I thought necessary. I am sorry for your arm.”

“No you’re not.” Will’s lips twisted, somewhere between aggravation and acknowledgement. “I’m not a fool, Naz. I know you did what you had to. I don’t understand what’s going on here, or why Robin wants that piece of dogshit in there alive, but I know he’s given you your orders and you’ll bloody die seeing that they’re carried out. I know that.”

Nasir tipped his head, non-committal. That wasn’t quite true – there were no orders between him and Rob, and he wasn’t willing to die for any of this – but it was what Will understood. He waited for the rest.

“I know that,” Will repeated and scrubbed a hand through his hair in a familiar gesture of frustration. His eyes flashed angrily under lowered brows. “But God’s Bollocks man, you could quit treating me like some green as grass recruit and show me some fucking respect.”

Nasir drew a deep breath and schooled himself not to mention Will’s lack of control, his refusal to listen, his complete disregard for discipline. “As you say.”

“Right.” Will folded his arms and nodded, satisfied. “Good. So, now we got some business to see to. You want to do this with swords or fists?”

Rolling his eyes would have been a bad thing. Nasir avoided it by pure strength of mind. Ya Allah, why did this man always want to finish everything with a brawl? “Will, no.”

“What? You think I’m going to let you set me on my arse – twice – and not want to set the ledger straight?” Will gave him that predator’s smile. “Not likely, Nazzy mate.”

“I do not want to fight you.”

“That’s too bad, because I’ve got a score or two to settle.”

Nasir nodded, then, in three swift movements, he had shed his weapons and stood unarmed in front of Will, head high. “Settle it, then.”

Will paused, taken aback. “What? You just going to stand there?”

“Yes.” The Saracen did not move. Will frowned.

“You’re not going to fight back?”

“No.”

“And I’m just supposed to hit you?”

“If you wish it.”

For a moment Will hesitated. He glared, then shook his head and muttered, “Right, then. If that’s how you want it.” Raising his fists, he advanced. Nasir did not flinch, or lower his gaze. Will clenched his jaw and drew back one fist, cocked and ready … then let out a hard breath and dropped his hands and swore.

“Oh, sodding hell, Naz, I’m not going to do this.” He swung one callused hand to clasp Nasir’s shoulder, heavy and warm. “You’re a mad bastard, you are. You’d really have let me hit you?”

Nasir reached for his weapons, slinging the harness over his shoulder. He was more than a little glad that Will had remembered himself; the man had very hard hands. “Yes. If it would settle your ledger.”

“It wouldn’t. And you were right before, anyway. I deserved a clip around the ears.” Will grinned, unrepentant. “Always was an unruly bastard. Used to give my officers fits.”

“I am sure.” Dry as sand, that. Will laughed, clapping his friend on the shoulder again.

“Right. Let’s see if Gisburne’s got our supper started.” Taking a couple of steps towards the hut, Will turned and pointed a warning finger at Nasir. “But if we go in there and he jumps us with that sorry little knife you gave him, you’re on your own. I hope he stabs you first.”

“He will not.”

Will laughed. “Not if he knows what’s good for him, hey? And, Naz?”

Nasir hoped Will was not going to talk all night. “Hmm?”

“Just so you know, when you said you’d kill us both?” Will waved a hand dismissively, eyes sparkling. “I didn’t believe a word of it.”

“Hmm.” This time Nasir did roll his eyes. Franks. All mad. All.

Whatever had happened between the two outlaws, Guy thought, it had dispersed a good deal of tension from the air. Scarlet still looked at him as if he were something nasty he’d stepped in, but the killing look had gone from his eyes. As for Nasir, Guy had to admit he was surprisingly civilised, for a Godless savage. The man was fair, at least. He might punish transgressions with ruthless efficiency, but he gave credit where it was due as well. He had even thanked Guy for the rabbits he had cooked, spitted on sticks over a low fire. Gisburne was a little unsettled at how much he had appreciated that.

The Saracen had taken the little knife back, too – though not before Gisburne had managed to use it to shave and trim his hair. He felt better for it; the beard had itched monstrously, for a start. As for the knife, Guy told himself it was no great loss. It was a skinning knife, that was all – hardly fit for anything but preparing food and whittling arrow shafts – but it had felt good to have honest steel in his hands again, small though the blade was. After so many years a soldier, being without a weapon made him feel almost naked.

Now the Saracen was sitting cross-legged near the door, one of his fine swords across his lap, stroking a small whetstone along the edge of the blade. Earlier, he had stepped outside to take care of whatever strange rituals he followed, and Guy had watched Scarlet from the corner of his eye and hoped that the man would keep his fists to himself; he did not feel up to another sparring match tonight. But Scarlet had only given him a dark look and bundled himself in a blanket he’d found in one corner of the room. When the Saracen returned, Scarlet had growled, “You make sure you truss him up, Naz. I don’t fancy being stabbed in my sleep.” Clearly any thoughts of stabbing had not been enough to keep the outlaw awake; the low rasp of his snoring could attest to that.

The hiss and scrape of the whetstone on steel was somehow strangely comforting. Gisburne shook his head at that, bemused. Not so long ago, if anyone had told him he would find solace in the sight of Hood’s pet Saracen tending his blades, he would have called them mad.

Nasir noticed him watching. He raised his chin in acknowledgement.

“What coin is left from your passage, you will take. You will need to arm yourself.”

A good sword was expensive. Gisburne nodded. He gestured at the Saracen’s weapons. “Good steel. Damascene?”

“Yes.”

“I thought it must be.” Gisburne eyed the sword almost hungrily. He had heard tell of Damascus steel, worked by masters into blades of almost legendary quality. Old Sir Geoffrey, for whom Guy had squired, had claimed to have once seen a Damascene sword slice clean through a knight’s great helm so swiftly that the man wearing it took three steps before he knew he was dead. Guy didn’t know how true that was, but it made a good tale. “I’ve never seen Damascus steel before.”

“In England? No surprise.” Nasir slipped the whetstone into his pouch and took out a worn silk cloth, polishing the grained steel. Gisburne watched him, biting down on his lip, unsure. Almost in spite of himself, he spoke.

“Could I … maybe …?”

A raised eyebrow answered that, sardonic in the firelight. Gisburne scowled and slumped back, muttering, “No, of course not. Stupid thing to say.”

It was interesting, Nasir thought, how utterly Gisburne’s face could change. When he had forgotten himself long enough to lower his guard over the sword, his light eyes had been clear, hopeful. The moment he thought he had been rebuffed, though, he had coiled in on himself, his face going hard, his eyes shuttered. Now he sat with his head down and his gaze averted, as if expecting some scornful rebuke and determined not to show that he cared. Nasir’s lips tightened at that. Clearly this boy’s teachers had a good deal to answer for.

“Here.” The Saracen made up his mind in an instant, proffering the blade hilt first. Guy started and looked around, wide-eyed in surprise. For a moment he only stared, and then reached for the sword only for the other man to pull it away in warning. “You may see,” Nasir said. “But if you try to use, I will take your hand off at the elbow.” He raised his second sword, making his point clear. “You understand?”

Damascus steel would slice through bone with barely a pause. Gisburne swallowed and nodded. He understood perfectly.

The curving sword was shorter than he was used to, but light and alive in his hand. The balance was exquisite, perfect. Examining the blade in the dull glow of the fire, Gisburne could see the waves of pattern in the grain, where the swordsmith had folded and forged and folded again. The whole thing sang, as utterly complete and true in itself as a diving falcon or a galloping horse. Guy breathed out softly, almost reverently. His expression, unguarded, was close to wonder.

“It’s beautiful.”

“It is.” The Saracen was watching him closely, his second blade at ease but ready to strike. “As is anything that is true to its purpose.”

True to its purpose. Guy frowned. “Explain.”

Nasir looked thoughtful. He might have been searching for the words, or he might have been surprised that Guy had asked. Either way, it was a moment before he spoke.

“The sword is beautiful because it does not fight what it is. It has a purpose, and it serves it. It is simple, pure.” He made a complicated gesture with his free hand. “A man may have a purpose too, but sometimes men do not accept. Men fight what they are, lose their paths, and fail.” Nasir’s gaze had shifted, gone distant, looking past Gisburne and the blade the man cradled in his hands to ghosts that Guy couldn’t see, but then he seemed to recall himself. With a small, inward smile, he tipped his head to the blade. “The sword knows itself,” he said again. “We can learn from that, perhaps.”

Guy said nothing. The sword in his hands glimmered inscrutable and sure, above question. Something in Gisburne resented that, even as he recognised its truth. This was soulless steel, but even so it was truer in path and purpose than Guy had ever been. Guy didn’t know what his purpose was, or even if he had one at all.

Nasir, who had suspected that this was true, heard an admission in what the young nobleman did not say, and let the silence linger. After a moment, he drew a deep breath, let it out, and raised his chin, indicating the sword Gisburne held.

“Enough. Give.” He made a small beckoning motion with his free hand; Gisburne sighed and reversed the blade, letting the hilt fall into the other man’s palm. Nasir took it and ran the polishing cloth over it again before putting the weapon away.

“What would it cost? A blade like that?” Gisburne wanted to know, as much for something to say as for any other reason. Nasir shrugged.

“I do not know, in truth. These were given to me.” The man paused and frowned, as if dissatisfied with his words. He tried again. “Earned by me, perhaps, is more true. But a good sword, a good horse, is maybe the same.”

The black destrier that Guy had lost to de Rainault’s greed and treachery had cost the best part of a year’s income. Gisburne had had to borrow to buy him, and pay it back with interest, but even so the animal had been worth every shilling. There was no way he could afford the same sort of money for a sword. Or for anything, for that matter. He supposed he should be thankful he was not begging for alms in the street.

Rubbing at his stiff knee – Scarlet kicked like a mule, God curse him – Gisburne considered his situation. Leaving England was no loss; it was not as if there were anything here to keep him. He only wished that what was ahead of him was not quite so completely unknown. He was not used to flailing; he did not know how to find his way in the dark. All of his life, people had told him what

(brat squire knight gamekeeper steward whipping-boy fool)

he was, what to do, what to think. He had resented that, always, but he had taken some comfort in it too. At least he had known what was expected of him. The idea of having to decide those things for himself brought Gisburne out in a cold sweat. As for whatever the Saracen had meant with his talk of beauty and truth, Guy told himself he did not care. He should know better than to listen to infidel heresies. Nor did he have any intention of feeling inferior to a sword, even one of such quality. There were enough things in the world that he was inferior to without bowing his neck to that as well.

Best not to think of such things. With a conscious effort, Guy turned his thoughts aside, focussing instead on what lay before him. Perhaps, if he looked at it all one thing at a time, it would not seem quite so vast.

“How long until we reach Grimsby?” Guy had some idea where Grimsby was, but he had never come this way before. Had he been travelling of his own accord, he would have stuck to the roads and known ways, but the Saracen seemed to have a peculiar dislike of marked paths; since dawn, he had gone out of his way to avoid them, and any villages and hamlets they might have found along the way. It made it difficult for a man to know where he was. Scarp and swamp and open sky were imprecise landmarks, in Guy’s opinion.

Nasir hitched one shoulder in a vague answer. “Grimsby is not far. For us, a day’s travel, perhaps. We go slowly.”

Well, so they would with Scarlet on foot and determined to stay that way. And, Guy had to admit, he was not at his best either. He was glad the Saracen did not seem inclined to rush. If he had had to do this at a forced march in his current condition, he’d have arrived in Grimsby looking like something that had been used hard and put away wet. He nodded, slowly.

“And you’re taking me to France.”

“Sending. I do not go with you.” There was a faint undertone of amusement in that, to match the gleam of Nasir’s eyes in the firelight. Guy did not laugh. He furrowed his brow instead, staring into the flames. His voice, when it came, was pitched low and quiet.

“What am I going to do?” It sounded almost as if Gisburne was speaking to himself. But then he looked up, fixing Nasir with a demanding stare, and repeated his question in a harder, insistent tone. “What will I do?”

Nasir cast the man a mildly exasperated look. Did Gisburne think he was an oracle, to know the future? “You will do as you choose,” he said. “You will begin again.”

“With what?”

“With yourself,” Nasir replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Hadn’t he already said this? “You fight well, you ride well. You can steward an estate. You will find service, or sell your sword. Or,” he added, thinking of Rob’s charming scapegrace cousin, “there are tourneys, and reputations to be earned.”

Gisburne felt something in him shift, yearning towards that. He choked it off ruthlessly before it could make a fool of him, and made a rude noise. “Tourneys. All those puffed-up idiots playing at war. If I’m going to risk getting my head knocked off, it’ll be for the real thing.”

It wasn’t true, of course. Guy had considered the tourney circuit, before de Rainault had given him what had seemed like better options. He had considered it since then too, for the accolades as much as anything else: after years of the sheriff’s sharp-tongued jibes, it would have been good to be lauded for something. There was money to be earned on the tourney field too – modest sums for the most, but a man with a good eye for horseflesh could make that stretch further. A tourney knight, though, needed kit that Gisburne didn’t have: a decent horse, well-made armour, more weapons than only his hands. Right now, riding in the lists seemed as likely to Guy as being crowned King of Spain.

Nasir sighed inwardly and suppressed a scowl. Gisburne’s words might have been scornful, but he had seen the flicker of doubt and wanting in the young man’s eyes and recognised in his voice the habit that Gisburne had of cutting himself down before others could do it for him. He was going to have to stop doing that, Nasir thought, if he was to survive. A man who could not have faith in himself could have faith in nothing at all. Nasir, whose faith was the greatest constant in his life, found that thought appalling. Even so, he could not argue with Gisburne’s words, as much as he deplored their motivation. There were worse ways than success on a tourney field for a knight of some prowess to earn himself a name and a sponsor, but Nasir had never had much time for playing at fighting. He had grown to manhood surrounded by war of one kind or another; he hardly needed to go looking for weak imitations to prove himself against. Franks, it seemed to him, did not even know enough to enjoy peace when they had it. And in any case, it was not his task to tend to Gisburne’s future. He shrugged, unconcerned.

“So then. Not tourneys. But you have skills. You will not starve.”

“I’m used,” Gisburne grated out, “to following orders.”

“Then,” Nasir said with maddening sense, “you must become used to being the one who gives them. For, after Grimsby, there will be only you.”

“This could kill me, you know that?”

Nasir laughed, quietly and a little cruel. “Newark would have killed you. This is a chance.”

“You don’t think I deserve it.” That was not a question. Gisburne’s tone was somewhere between accusation and anger. Nasir looked at him, expression unreadable.

“Do you?”

(worthless cur tainted bastard worthless)

And Guy found that he had no answer for that at all.

The dawn broke with sheeting rain and a black belly of cloud overhead. The weather did nothing to allay Scarlet’s temper; mornings left him cranky at the best of times, and finding that Gisburne had been unbound all night had only served to make him worse. The fact that Nasir had taken the whole of the night’s watch upon himself and let Will sleep right through did not help; at this hour of the day, Scarlet did not even have the presence of mind to be grateful. Gisburne was only glad the man had not seen him handling the Saracen’s Damascene sword the night before. Scarlet would probably have killed him on the spot. Or had an apoplectic fit. One or the other.

Will refused to go anywhere in the rain. Nasir, who didn’t care if it was raining or not, looked at Guy and raised his brows. Gisburne shrugged.

“I’d prefer to stay dry. Your friend FitzRoy didn’t see fit to provide me with a rain mantle.”

“What? Are we taking votes now?” Will scowled, apparently unmoved to find Gisburne agreeing with him. “I said I’m not going. You bastards can do what you like.”

“We stay,” Nasir said mildly. “I will check the horses.”

Outside, a chill wind was gusting, slinging the rain sidelong so that it needled against Nasir’s face. Reminding himself that rain was the gift of Allah to all men did not make it any less cold. The horses, wise creatures, had swung their broad hindquarters into the wind and stood hipshot and patient, heads down. Moving them further into the lee of the hut was the work of moments, and he made them secure quickly, wanting to get back inside before there was trouble; leaving Scarlet alone with Gisburne was like leaving a lit lantern in a stable full of dry hay. At least the two of them had managed not to kill each other when he had slipped away for his dawn prayers. Nasir hoped that was a good sign. He could do without another day like the last. Truly, if they had been dogs, he would have doused the pair of them in cold water and muzzled them both.

Nasir had been surprised at himself, last night. If Robin had suggested he might let Gisburne handle one of his blades, he would have thought him mad. If he had also said that they would discuss philosophy over that blade, he would have laughed out loud. And yet last night he had done both, even if Gisburne did not understand half of what he was being told. Rob would have understood, Nasir thought. Rob, for all his Christian faith and pagan leanings, knew about the grace in submitting to a will greater than his own. Gisburne only understood submission as an ugly thing, to be forced by the strong on the weak. Hardly a wonder, then, if the sword had confused him.

Even so, there had been some flickers of hope. Gisburne could still recognise beauty when he saw it; he was not damaged utterly beyond repair. He could even – almost – be civil, when he forgot to be himself. Nasir had not lied when he had told the man that he had skills, that he would find himself a place and a path. He only hoped that Gisburne – for Rob’s sake – had the sense to make better choices this time. Because as much as Robin might deny it, he would always care what this man did and what became of him. Brotherhood, Nasir had cause to know, could do that in spite of everything. His own brothers, both those of the spirit and those of the blood, had been able to drive him verily to distraction, and none of them had been as troublesome as Gisburne. Not even the ones that had periodically tried to kill him.

Slipping back inside the hut, Nasir found his companions steadfastly ignoring each other. Or perhaps not quite ignoring: Will was sharpening the larger of his knives with a certain malicious intensity, and Gisburne was determinedly looking away, staring into the small fire he had stoked. Scarlet gave Nasir a smile as edged as the knife he was working on.

“Don’t fret, Naz. There’s not a scratch on him.”

In response to that, Nasir dipped his head in almost a bow. His expression was more than a little sardonic. “Indeed,” he said. “Alhamdulilah.”

“What?” Gisburne glared at the Saracen suspiciously. Will gave a nasty laugh.

“He’s thanking God I didn’t kill you yet.” The outlaw lifted his knife and spun it in his fingers. “Either that or he’s calling you a whoreson bastard. I never did get my head around that curly language of his.”

Nasir shot Scarlet an unfavourable look. “I offer praise to Allah that you showed sense, Will. For surely, that numbers amongst His miracles.”

Guy snorted and looked away, hiding a laugh. Will glowered.

“Oh, very funny. Smart bastard, aren’t you?”

Nasir did not bother to answer. Shaking the last of the rain out of his hair, he crossed the small room and lifted Will’s cast-off blanket, wrinkled his nose and decided that he would do better without. Some vermin he could not avoid, but he had no great desire to go looking for more.

“I will sleep,” he announced. “Be quiet. Do not kill. When the rain eases, we leave.”

If Will and Gisburne did anything but sit in silence for the next three hours, Nasir never knew.

The land, already wet and green with the autumn rains, had turned in places to half a quagmire with the morning’s downpour. It made travelling slow work, with the horses stumbling on treacherous ground and Will sinking up to his ankles in mud and swearing with every second step. Grimsby, Gisburne recalled, lacked walls, its people reckoning the town protected well enough by the Humber estuary on one side and the marsh that spread around it on the other. Right now, he was inclined to think they were right.

Gisburne had spent the morning trying to understand exactly what he was doing here. He still was not sure what was worse: that de Rainault, to whom he had given his allegiance, had betrayed him so savagely, or that he had been rescued by wolfsheads. The outlaws had no reason to want him to live – and yet, in spite of all the hatred and bloodshed that lay between them, they had come to his aid when no one else would. It made no sense; they were not even Norman. Even Huntingdon’s disgraced brat was of dubious blood, with his wild Scottish heritage marring his clean Norman lines. They could have no reason to consider him kindly, but, maddenly, they had done just that. Thinking about it was making Gisburne’s head ache.

It had occurred to Guy, somewhere in the long dark of his imprisonment and on this journey that had followed, that he had been, all his life, a wretched judge of character. For all the oaths he’d sworn to this lord or that – Chester, the brothers de Rainault, even Gulnar and his mad wolf god – he had never been well-served by them. An oath of allegiance should go both ways, after all: a man’s sworn lord had a duty of care. Then again, perhaps he deserved no better. As tainted as he was,

(stop your whining brat)

how could he aspire to more? Anything that might have been truly noble in him had long ago been

(fucked)

thrashed out of him at his father’s hands, and he knew it. Inside, he was still the same worthless rag his father had used and thrown away, and a lifetime spent denying that had made no difference at all.

But now he was being given a chance, an opportunity to begin his life again. The Saracen, in his oblique, indifferent way, had seemed to believe that that was possible, that a man could be more than his past and rise above even his blood, if he only found his path and followed it. Guy wondered if the man would still think that if he knew what stains lay on his battered soul, what secrets he carried in the places he hoped no one would ever see. Some things, he had always been taught, were beyond redemption. Perhaps, though, he had been taught wrong. Perhaps he could be someone else, after all.

The lurch and slide of his horse sinking up to its hocks jolted Gisburne out of his thoughts. With a muttered curse, he reined the beast back from the boggy edge of one of the many flooded waterways that criss-crossed the marshes, guiding it to firmer ground. Scarlet grunted, moving aside to give the horse space and glaring at the sweep of muddy water in front of him. There was no getting across that short of outright swimming. The dun gelding shook its head and snorted unhappily. Scarlet grimaced in disgust.

“My thoughts exactly. Naz, how far does this sodding swamp go?”

The Saracen shrugged, made a minimal gesture towards the north. “Grimsby.”

“Oh, well, that’s great, that is.” Scarlet scowled, finding a comparatively dry hummock of turf and pulling off his boots to empty them out. Dirty brown water ran from them as he tipped them up; his feet had been sodden since leaving the hut. “Another day of marching through swill. If I catch my death out here, it’ll be your bloody fault.”

Guy could not bring himself to even pretend sympathy for that; Scarlet was not, in his opinion, a man who engendered much in the way of pity. Nasir, though, rubbed a hand over his neatly trimmed beard with a frustrated growl and swung down from his horse. He thrust the reins at Will.

“Here,” he said. “I will scout ahead and find a better path. You stay. Yes?”

For a fleeting moment, Gisburne considered clapping his heels to the dun’s flanks and making a run for it. The thought did not last long; the horse would struggle in this bog and most likely fall, and Guy was not in the habit of putting horses at risk, even staid old nags like this one. Nor was he that keen on breaking his own neck, or being drowned in a puddle, pinned under his panicked mount. And in any case, there seemed little point; even if he did leave the outlaws behind, he would still need passage to France, and the Saracen had all the coin. No, it was best to stay where he was. Even Scarlet’s unpleasant companionship was better than being stranded without resources in a port town full of foreign sailors.

Gisburne watched as the Saracen disappeared around a bend in the watercourse, hidden by a bank of thick sedge. The man had not bothered with warnings or reproaches beyond a single level look; clearly, he was not in the mood for wasting his breath. Scarlet, who could not boast the same, favoured Gisburne with a wolfish grin.

“He didn’t tell me not to kill you, this time,” he pointed out. “Think he’s getting sick of your company, Guy?”

Gisburne said nothing, though it grated to hear a lowborn English peasant so deliberately making free with his name. His horse flickered its ears uneasily; Guy gave it a reassuring pat. He spoke to it softly in langue d’oil, as he always spoke to his horses. Somehow, for horses, only the language of his childhood would do. Lord Edmond had raged at him for hiding away in the stables like a dung-sweeper’s brat, but at least the horses were always glad to see him and never

(stop, my lord, you’ll kill him)

caused him pain. “I know. I’m not impressed, either.”

“Stop bloody jabbering.” Scarlet’s eyes had gone hard. “This is England. You want to belong here, you speak English like the rest of us.”

“I have no intention of belonging here,” Gisburne snapped. “And I’ll be pleased to see the back of this place. If Duke William, God rest his soul, had known what an obstreperous bunch of malcontents you English are, he’d never have crossed the Channel in the first place.”

“Well, that would’ve saved us all a lot of bother, wouldn’t it?” Scarlet seemed to find that idea grimly satisfying. “No stomping great Normans kicking around the place, sticking their noble noses in where they don’t sodding belong and making things a misery for the rest of us? No armoured fucking mercenaries brought to our lands to rape and kill innocent women, steal our homes and take the fucking shirts off our backs? Sounds all right to me.”

The bay horse, unnerved by Scarlet’s temper, tossed its head fretfully, pulling back on the reins. Scarlet gave it a glare and jerked its head down. “Stand still, you.”

“You’re frightening him,” Guy said curtly. “Give him to me. I’ll see to him.”

“What, so you can take to your heels and leave me standing out here looking the fool?” Will snorted. “What sort of idiot do you think I am?”

Guy did not answer that. He hoped the Saracen would return soon. At least he knew how to manage a horse.

Both of the horses were behaving anxiously now, shuffling their feet and snorting to each other as if unsettled by something. Guy frowned, looking about for some sign of what had upset them. He doubted there would be wolves in country like this; even wolves preferred to keep their feet dry. He supposed it might be a fox slinking through the marsh grass, or possibly the horses had caught wind of a carcass that had been swept into the watercourse – horses that were unused to battlefields did not like the scent of death.

Will glanced at the horses, frowning, and away into the waving sedge, suddenly sharp-eyed. He had lived the life of a hunted thing for long enough to sharpen any man’s instincts; he could recognise a warning when he was given one. Tightening his grip on the bay’s reins, he looped them about his wrist. He hissed at the horse in a low voice, half a growl. “What have you caught wind of?”

“Maybe it’s the Saracen coming back. Nasir.”

“No, they know him.” Will glared into the bank of sedge that lined the waterway. His hand went to his belt, easing free his knife. Guy, unarmed, cursed under his breath and set his horse’s rear to the water to guard his back, scanning the grass for movement.

They were very good. That was Guy’s first thought as the brigands broke cover, closer to them than they had a right to be. There were not many of them that he could see: only four bedraggled and roughly-dressed fenmen, armed with what looked like duck spears and knives that might have been new when Charlemagne was a lad. But they were quick and quiet, slipping through the sedge like eels, launching themselves on their quarry in a sudden rush. Two of them sprang for Scarlet, one trying to wrench away the bay’s reins and the other jabbing at the outlaw with a light but wickedly sharp spear. The other two charged straight for Guy.

Gisburne did not wait for them to come to him. He might have been unarmed, but he was a knight, and battle-trained. And he had a horse under him, such as it was. Clapping his heels hard to the gelding’s flanks, he lashed sharply at its neck with the end of his reins, startling the animal into lunging forward, white-eyed and squealing. The horse hit the closest of the fenmen with its shoulder, sending him sprawling; the other shouted in alarm and flung himself out of the way. Hauling hard on the bit, Guy brought the lumbering dun around – the animal was honest, but slow and ill-schooled to battlefield manoeuvres – and sent it forward again, this time towards Scarlet’s attackers.

Will had managed to keep his grip on the bay’s reins and work himself around to put the water at his back, keeping both of the brigands in front of him. The man with the spear was giving him some trouble, though; Scarlet had all he could do to turn the darting spearhead away. The bay was beginning to panic, rolling its eyes and kicking out in fear. The fenmen were calling to each other, their voices high and carrying like the cries of birds.

Gisburne drove his mount hard into the fray, aiming to trample the spearman underfoot. The dun, though, had other plans. Not a war horse, it balked and shied at the obstacle in its path, slewing sideways. Guy swore and reined back hard, digging his heels sharply behind the animal’s girth. Fury, battle-fit and trained for the field, would have come up on his haunches at that and launched forward, all iron-shod hooves and thick muscle; the dun only shuddered and surged against the bit. Kicking one foot free of the stirrups, Guy swung his boot hard into the wide-eyed face of the spear-wielding fenman, feeling the man’s nose crush under the impact. At the same time, his horse lurched to the side, slipping in the thick mud on the edge of the watercourse. It collided with the hindquarters of the panicked bay, who squealed, braced, and leapt like a stag, dragging Scarlet and the last fenman into the water with it.

Leaping quickly from his horse, Gisburne hurled himself at the brigand whose nose he had broken, hauling the man up by the scruff and punching him hard in the side of the head. The man fell like a sack of grain, his eyes showing white under his trembling eyelids. His spear was nearby, light and feeble to Guy’s hands, but the point was keen enough. It lanced through the man’s throat tidily, but when Gisburne tried to wrench it free, the point, caught in bone, snapped. Clutching the shaft, Guy whirled, looking for more enemies. The man he had run down with his horse was getting to his feet, pale and shaken, his arm hanging oddly like a bird’s broken wing. Guy bellowed at him in his battlefield voice; the man took one look and fled into the swamp. The remaining fenman, who had dived out of the way of Guy’s horse and had done nothing so far but wave his hands and shout, jumped the other way, into the water. With a curse, Gisburne went after him … and stopped on the bank of the watercourse, staring in amazement.

Scarlet had gone mad. That was the only explanation. The outlaw had one of the fenmen by the head and seemed to be trying to wrench it off. The fenman kept disappearing under the water with Scarlet flailing after him, howling obscenities that would have made a dockman blush. Gisburne blinked. It was really quite impressive.

“Cunting bloody fuck! Arse-licking duck-fucking goat-wankers! Get back here you sack of shit! I’m going to rip your fucking balls off!”

The fenman seemed disinclined to obey. He was struggling in the current, trying to make for the opposite bank. His friend had already got that far and was shouting encouragement from the shore. Scarlet had words for him too.

“And you can shut the fuck up, you fart-swallowing shit-rag! I’ll tear your liver out and fucking feed it to you, you whore-sniffing bitch!”

The first fenman squawked in alarm as Scarlet caught him again, shoving him under in a boil of bubbles and colourful imprecations. Guy, who had had to smother a grin at ‘fart-swallowing’, found ‘newt-screwing frog-fuckers’ simply too much. Once he started laughing, it was ridiculously hard to stop, even when he looked up to see the Saracen standing over him, swords drawn.

“What happened?” Nasir demanded, eyes going from the young nobleman apparently crippled with laughter on the ground to Will, who was still thrashing the unfortunate fenman about in the water like a hooked fish. Guy took a breath and swiped at his watering eyes, trying to talk.

“He … we … they …” It was no good. Laughter overtook him again and he could only wave vaguely towards Will and the shivering horses. “Duck-fuckers!”

Nasir stared at Gisburne in astonishment, then at Will still ranting and cursing in the water like a madman. The bay horse, still up to its shoulders in the canal, whinnied unhappily and tried unsuccessfully to scramble up the steep bank. Gisburne seemed to recover himself a little, but then Will roared something else obscene that Nasir didn’t understand, and Guy collapsed back into helpless hilarity. Nasir glared at his companions, and at the dead man lying nearby, and put his weapons away. Then, throwing up his hands in despair, he went to see to the horses with Guy’s breathless laughter ringing in his ears.

Gisburne hadn’t laughed so hard in all his life. His ribs actually hurt from it. He pressed one hand to them and sucked in an experimental breath, flinching happily at the low ache he felt beneath his fingers. That made him start to chuckle, but he stifled it quickly lest his mirth sweep him away again. If he laughed any more, he thought, he’d probably break something. But Scarlet … Dear sweet Lord, he’d never heard someone called a festering arse-ulcer before. The wolfshead, Gisburne decided, must have done his soldiering in some very interesting company.

Before him, the low fire was producing great wafting clouds of smoke as it burned. Dry wood was difficult to find in this place; the Saracen had done well to scrape together even this much. Guy’s borrowed tunic, soaked through while helping to pull the Saracen’s bay up the bank to safety, was spread over a low branching bush near to the fire, along with Scarlet’s sodden trews and jerkin. Earlier, Will had stowed the verminous blanket from the fen hut in the dun’s saddle-roll and he was using it now as a make-shift tunic. Guy couldn’t look at him without bubbles of laughter trying to push their way to the surface. “Pox-faced turd-huggers,” he murmured to himself in approval and, grinning, bit down on his lip to keep from chuckling. “Oh, God’s Blood, that’s good.”

Away from the fire, Nasir was rubbing down the miserable bay with handfuls of grass, glancing sidelong at Gisburne and smiling to himself every time the young man went off into another fit of laughter. Will, who was seeing what supplies could be salvaged from the sodden ration sack that had been lashed to the rear of the bay’s saddle, was less amused.

“What’s so fucking funny?” he demanded. “Did he get hit on the head or something?”

“No.” In fact, so far as Nasir could tell, Will and Guy had both escaped the fight with only a few scratches between them. The fenmen had not been so lucky. A short distance from their camp laid the man whom Gisburne had stabbed through the throat, left where he had fallen. Nor had the brigand with whom Will had been wrestling fared any better; Scarlet had eventually tired of tormenting the wretch and had bashed his head with a rock, leaving his body to float downstream. Nasir did not believe that the fenmen’s companions would be back to attempt revenge but, heeding caution born of experience, he had briefly scouted the area around their campsite before allowing the others to stop and build a fire to dry off and warm up. Now the Saracen slanted a bright-eyed, knowing look at Will and said, “Cock-gobbler? What is this?”

“Ah.” Will flashed him an unrepentant grin. “If you don’t know, I’m not telling. Wouldn’t want to corrupt your innocence, Naz.”

Nasir laughed quietly and went back to tending the horse, checking its fetlocks for signs of heat or swelling. The animal turned its head to him, nickering softly against his neck; he whispered soothingly to it in Arabic.

Will said, “Naz.”

The former soldier’s tone was carefully restrained, almost conspiratorial. It was unlike him. His control brought Nasir’s head up, wary, catching his attention more than Will’s usual bellowing ever could. Will was looking at Gisburne, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Naz, look at his back.”

It took Nasir a moment to see what Will was talking about. The scars were old and very faint, mostly overshadowed by the ugly pucker of a healed puncture wound beneath the young man’s shoulder blade, where a crossbow bolt at close range had nearly killed him. Marion had done that, in the days before the fire had gone out of her. As to who had caused the others … They were thin, like lash marks, fine silvery runnels against Gisburne’s pale skin.

“Someone’s worked him over proper. You don’t get marked up like that from walking through brambles,” Will observed in a low voice. Nasir nodded slowly.

“Those are old. Many years.”

Will snorted. “So, our fine and fancy friend earned himself a punishment or two, did he? I didn’t think they flogged noblemen. Must have got well out of line.”

Nasir shook his head. “Leave it, Will.”

“I’m just curious. Didn’t have Gisburne picked for a rakehell.”

“Will. Be kind. Leave it.” Nasir knew not to pry at old scars; he had a few of his own, when it came to that. Some things it was better not to talk about.

“’S’all right, I’m not going to say anything.” Will scowled and kicked idly against a tuft of wiry marsh grass. “Just thought it was interesting, is all. Maybe he was human once, after all.”

That made Nasir frown. “What do you think he is now?”

For a moment, Will looked unsettled by the question – or possibly by the answer he wanted to give. But then his incorrigible nature reasserted itself and he bared his teeth in that familiar feral grin. “A right pain in the arse, most of the time. Tossing me in the fucking water like that – you reckon he did that on purpose?”

“No.”

Will shook his head, rolling his eyes at his friend’s flat-toned response. “Bugger me, Naz, sometimes I can’t tell if you’ve got any sense of humour at all.”

Nasir only raised an eyebrow at him. “Sometimes,” he said, “when you make a joke, neither can I.”

Will blinked at that, not sure if he was being made mock of or not. Nasir smiled very slightly, gave the horse a last reassuring pat, and moved off to find them some supper.

They pressed on that afternoon, but the encounter with the fenmen had taken a fair bite out of the day; they would not reach Grimsby by nightfall. The sky, grey and uncertain, had been lowering all afternoon, and the prospect of a night in the open was not a welcome one. A rough worn track through the uneven marsh grass led them to a cluster of derelict structures: a tumbled-down shack, a sheep pen with no railings, a pile of wood and stones that might once have been a hut, and a lean-to over a blackened pit where peat fires had burned. No one had been here for some time.

The tumbled-down shack had two walls still standing, and part of its roof. Gisburne could not stand to his full height beneath it, but at least it would keep off the worst of the rain. A pair of scrawny ducks stewed with sliced apples in the small cooking pot made a decent meal, although Will lamented the lack of ale to go with it. Gisburne found himself agreeing with the man, though not out loud. He was not, he told himself, so far gone as all that.

All the same, something odd was happening. Gisburne could admit that, if only to himself. He even thought he knew what it was: he had felt this before, this insistent and steady pull, when he had been campaigning in France. It happened, he supposed, when one fought alongside other men for one’s very life: camaraderie, a sense of commonality, was difficult to avoid.

Gisburne did not particularly want to feel anything in common with the men whose company he was keeping. Still, he consoled himself with the knowledge that all of this would soon be done with. On the morrow, they would reach Grimsby, and he would find a ship and never lay eyes on these men or their difficult friends again. The thought eased some of the moral discomfort he felt; his black and white world was subtly, yet surely, greying. Guy found it deeply unsettling to share a fire with Will Scarlet and not be beset by the urge to strike him and string him from the nearest gallows. Even, he thought with a flicker of still lingering amusement, if the man did have an impressive gift for invective.

Sitting back against one of the rough walls of their shelter, Guy considered what he knew about France. He had never travelled further south than Anjou, but he had spent nearly three years fighting in the troublesome provinces of the north – Brittany, Normandy, the Vexin – following old Sir Geoffrey from one skirmish or border raid to another at the service of this lord or that. The politics of the place had not, he supposed, been terribly different from England, except that the grudges went further back. France – or Normandy, for that matter – was not a land where younger sons flourished, nor was it rife with opportunities for landless and sponsorless knights. He assumed that he could find service easily enough in one noble household or another, but service would likely lead him nowhere, unless he found favour with a particularly generous lord. Given his luck so far, Gisburne was not inclined to stake his future on that.

Outremer might be different. Guy had heard the tales brought back by pilgrims and crusaders: great wealth, vast lands, a world of opportunity for the brave and the strong of faith. Gisburne did not know that his faith was particularly strong, but no one had ever doubted his courage. He regarded the Saracen thoughtfully: this compact, hard-muscled man with his strange ways and his dark hawk’s eyes and his beautiful, deadly blades. Outremer would not, he knew, be without its challenges. But even so. Even so.

“Nasir.”

The Saracen, who had been amusing himself with feeding dry sedge leaves to the fire and holding them until they burned down to his fingers, looked up. If he was surprised to hear Gisburne call him by name, he didn’t show it. Nor did he speak. He only turned those mirror-flat eyes on Guy and waited. Gisburne shifted and cleared his throat, uneasy. Scarlet made a disparaging noise.

“Out with it, Guy. If you’ve got something to say, say it. He don’t bite.” The outlaw gave Gisburne a toothy grin. “Usually.”

Nasir’s eyes flicked briefly to Will in way that seemed to warn ‘Don’t be so sure’, then back to Gisburne. “What?”

“Outremer. You’ve been there. What’s it like?”

Been there. Nasir’s lips twitched at that. Will snorted.

“Been there? Where d’you think he fucking comes from, idiot?”

Guy flushed, ready to respond with something cutting and defensive, but Nasir raised a placatory hand.

“Easy, Will.” After all, it wasn’t as if Will knew where he came from, either. Not exactly, at any rate. “Palestine is more than only the small kingdoms your crusaders have carved. My people do not give up their birthright so easily.” Nasir was looking at Gisburne as he said that; it might almost have been a challenge. “But what you Franks call ‘Outremer’, yes, I have … been there. Edessa, Antioch. Jerusalem. I know them.”

Will pricked up his ears in spite of himself. “Wait. You’ve seen Jerusalem?”

“I have.” Nasir said it in the same voice he might have used to say that he had seen the sun come up that morning. Will, used to his Saracen friend’s reticence, gave that a moment’s thought.

“’Course you have. So, then,” he said, leaning forward curiously. “Tell me one thing – is it worth all the fighting over?”

Nasir tipped his head, deliberately vague. “Men fight for many reasons. Jerusalem is a city like other cities. It has beauty and suffering in equal measure.”

“It’s the holiest city in the world, you Godless savage!” Guy sounded righteously appalled. Nasir only gave him a hard look.

“Not Godless. And Jerusalem is a holy city, yes, to all People of the Book. Holier still before your Templars” – and he almost spat the word, as if it tasted bad in his mouth – “defiled it.”

“Rescued it from infidel hands, you mean.”

It took some effort not to give that the response it deserved. Nasir’s fists clenched on his thighs; he drew a deep breath before answering. “It did not need rescuing. It belongs to God. No man can own that.”

“Then why take it back?” Gisburne demanded, as if making some telling point. Nasir breathed in again, and out very slowly. His voice was icily calm.

“Because,” he said, “when Al Haram al-Sharif, what the Jews call the Temple Mount, is desecrated and its holy buildings turned from places of worship to barracks for soldiers who kill without discretion, and to stables for their horses, this is an offence to Allah.” The mere thought of al-Aqsa turned into a Templar barracks, and of al Masjid Qubbat As-Sakhrah treated so poorly, its beautiful golden dome soaring overhead as the glowing mosaics were cracked and scarred by horses’ hooves, still burned. And that was not even the worst of it, not by a long way. If these men had seen what he had seen … Nasir took another breath, slow and controlled, and pushed those images

(a dead child in the street, its head beaten to pulp against the hard stone walls; a woman keening with blood on her skirts and a broken-necked baby in her arms; smoke billowing from a doorway)

away. “And when our people are denied their homes and slain in the streets for their faith, this is an offence as well.”

Will shook his head thoughtfully and glanced sideways at Gisburne. “That don’t seem right to me,” he said. “And I’m not a religious man, mind, but there’s something off about turning a House of God into a stock pen.”

“Not,” Gisburne said stiffly, “when it’s an infidel god.”

“The same God,” Nasir snapped. Ya Allah, but he was tired of explaining this. Why did these ignorant Franks not understand? “Your God, mine, the same. It is only the words that are different.” He made a sharp, cutting gesture. “Enough of this. You do not go to Jerusalem. You are not a man for shrines and holy places. If you go eastward, you go seeking something else, yes?”

Guy wanted to bridle at the Saracen’s tone, but he could not deny that what the man said was true. He was not interested in a holy pilgrimage; his goals were rather more worldly than that. He gave an unwilling nod. “Yes. You can keep your shrines, I hardly care. But I have heard that there is land out there, for those with the courage to fight for it. Wealth to be won in the trade that travels the Silk Road. Is this true?”

“It is,” Nasir allowed reluctantly. “In part. There is land, but you will pay for it in blood, both in the gaining and the keeping. And the desert has seen more death and covered more bodies in its shifting sands than you can know.”

“But there is land.” Gisburne was insistent. Nasir’s brows lowered in frustration.

“Yes, perhaps, but not as you think it.” He made a small gesture with the fingers of one hand that seemed to take in the whole of Lincolnshire in one motion. “This, this is rich land, soft land, green and good. There, is sand and shale, with patches of green like gems, and guarded like gems too.” He sighed, shrugged. “It is a hard land, and harder still since your people have come there. But if a man is strong, and wise, and well-favoured, he may find himself a place.”

“And wealth.”

Nasir nodded. “Yes. Or ruin.”

Gisburne seemed to consider that. “What,” he asked after a moment, “would a man need? To make a start?”

Another shrug. “Himself. A strong heart. A sponsor at one of your Frankish courts.” Nasir shook his head. “Easier for you in France, I think.”

Will smirked. “Come on, Naz, be fair. You just don’t want him trampling about in your country the way he has in ours.”

That, Nasir supposed, was true, as far as it went. There was something painful in thinking of Gisburne walking the warm spice-soaked streets of Damascus while he himself continued his exile in this damp green land. Perhaps that was unworthy of him, but he could not deny it was there. He lowered his eyes to the fire, silent.

It would be difficult, but I could try.

No, Rob. Not yet. Not yet.

One day, though. He would not die in this place; for his soul’s sake, he had to believe that. His bones would rest in the land of his ancestors, inshallah. He would walk the sands again, and see the minarets rising above the cities that edged the desert places. Until then, this damp green land – and the friends he had found in it, unbelievers but true of heart – would do. Inshallah. Inshallah.

“They say,” Gisburne went on, oblivious as ever, “that the heat is shocking. Especially in the summer months. And that everyone wears silk and scented oils. And that the markets are a wonder of the world, and that there is a bathhouse on every street. Is that true?”

“No,” Nasir said quietly. “Not every street. And silk is for those who can pay for it. The markets are true, though, and the heat. For you, with your colouring, it would be a furnace. I have seen Frankish knights roast and die in their metal shells, too stubborn to know the desert is stronger than they.” His eyes on the flames had a far-away look, and his voice had lowered until his words had the cadence of almost a prayer. “In the summer, the days are burning, the nights a brief relief. Winters are short, and cool. The mountains rise to the sky, with pasture land on their slopes, and lions and wild dogs stalk, ready to take both man and beast. In the desert, the ways are marked by old bones, and sometimes the dunes shift and paths are lost, or the sand may turn and soften underfoot and pull men to their deaths. Water is more precious than gold. And, sometimes, when the wind is off the sands, it will scour away a man’s very skin and leave him flayed raw.”

Guy wrinkled his nose, unimpressed. “It sounds like Hell.”

“La,” Nasir replied, more quietly still. “Laysa Jahannam. Bayt.”

Not hell. Home. The words had come from some place so deep that he didn’t even know he had spoken them in Arabic. They made his heart clench. Suddenly, he couldn’t stand to have these men watching him. Everything about them cut at him, from their puzzled expressions to their foreigner’s eyes, reminding him how far he was from anything he knew. He stood abruptly and left, without a word of excuse. Will and Gisburne stared after him, startled.

“What did that mean?” Gisburne demanded. Will made a rueful face.

“I think it means he’s had enough of talking. Said more just then than he usually would in three days.” Nor, Will thought, had he ever heard Nasir speak of his home before in anything but the barest of words, and that only when he was pressed. Clearly something either he or Gisburne had said had touched a nerve. He did not tell Gisburne that, though.

“Huh.” Gisburne scowled. “Moody for a savage, isn’t he?”

“He can be,” Will agreed, doing his best to sound unconcerned. “He’ll be back when he’s ready. In the meantime, how’s about you give me a hand with this?” He shook a small flask at Gisburne, eyes gleaming.

“What is it?”

“Mead. Got it off that fen bastard you killed. Only thing he had worth taking.” Will unstoppered the flask and took a long swallow before offering it to Gisburne. “Here. Men who fight together ought t’be able to drink together after, that’s what I say. Naz wouldn’t touch it, even if he was here, so that just leaves you.”

“You’re offering me a drink?” Gisburne might have sound less surprised if Scarlet had sprouted wings. Will barked a short laugh.

“Seems like it. But just this once, mind. Don’t go getting any funny ideas. I still don’t like you.”

“I don’t like you either,” Guy replied truthfully, taking the flask and tipping it back. The mead was raw and hard; it made him gasp, eyes watering. “Damned wolfshead.”

Scarlet grinned and took the flask back. “I can drink to that.”

And he did.

Grimsby was grey and crowded and smelled of tar and herrings. Gisburne was surprised at how easily the three of them moved through the town – a pair of wolfsheads, one of them an armed Saracen, and a displaced and poorly-dressed Norman noble did not make for the most common of travelling companions, after all. But in Grimsby, it seemed, no one much cared. Trading ports, Guy supposed, were like that. Men came and went, and so long as they paid the excise men and did not pick too many fights, the locals barely looked up.

Nasir, who had stayed away until the night was half gone, and who had returned to the shelter only to kick Will awake for the night’s second watch, moved through the town as if he navigated port cities every day of his life. He had barely spoken a word all day, reacting neither to Scarlet’s jibes nor Gisburne’s determinedly aggrieved manner. It put Guy in mind of the way the man had behaved on the day that FitzRoy had brought him out of Newark: as if he were delivering a package, not dealing with a person.

Now, with the waterfront in sight, the Saracen swung away from the port and towards a small row of clothiers’ shops, their guild signs creaking overhead in the steady breeze. Scarlet frowned, baffled.

“What the hell are you playing at, Nasir? The ships are that way.”

“I know.” Nasir barely spared him a glance. “And no ship’s master will take time for a beggar in rags. Gisburne is noble born. It is best if he looks it.”

That made Guy stare, briefly startled. He had not expected to be accorded his rank, false as it may have been, by either of these men; it stunned him how much it mattered. The Saracen was probably right, too; it would be easier to negotiate passage if he looked like he had resources to spare. Nasir nodded to him and tossed him a small purse clanking with coin.

“Find what you need. We will wait.”

Will cleared his throat. “Actually, there was a tavern just back -”

“We,” Nasir said again, with clear emphasis, “will wait.”

With a resigned sigh, Will slumped against a railing and folded his arms in exaggerated patience. “All right, then,” he said. “We’ll bloody wait.”

As Gisburne moved off, Will watched him warily, with narrowed eyes. To Nasir, he said, “Aren’t you worried he’ll say something?”

“No.” Which was true; this was Lincolnshire, far beyond de Rainault’s influence – and besides, even if Gisburne did speak (which Nasir doubted), and even if anyone believed him, it seemed unlikely that Grimsby’s Watch would turn out on the spot. Will caught the clipped, brusque tone of Nasir’s voice and sighed again. He scrubbed a hand through his hair, screwing up his face in an expression somewhere between reluctance and concern.

“Look, Naz. I ain’t good at this, but … you all right?”

Nasir dismounted, hitching his bay and Gisburne’s dun to the railing next to Will. He didn’t look at his friend. “Yes.”

Scarlet pursed his lips thoughtfully and shook his head. “Yeah. Well. I ain’t so sure I believe that.”

That got no response. Will grimaced. He wished Robin was here; the man might be painfully over-bred at times, but at least he understood Nasir’s silences. Will liked his Saracen friend well enough, and respected him more than most, but he didn’t understand him at all. He tried again. “You went off like a scalded cat last night, and you’ve been brooding all bloody day, and now you won’t even let a man buy himself an honest drink.” He frowned inwardly at that last, thinking that he shouldn’t have said that, but he had not been lying when he’d said he wasn’t good at this. Soft words did not come naturally to him. “I just … Look, Naz, if it’s something I said, you know I didn’t mean nowt by it. An’ if it’s what Gisburne said, Hell’s teeth, man, that’s Gisburne. He’s always calling us names.”

Nasir’s lips twitched, briefly softening his expression. Ah, well, he had always known that Scarlet had a better heart than he liked to show. “No, Will. It is not for you to apologise. It is my manners that failed. The matter is of no concern. An ambush of old memories, no more.”

That, Will could understand. Memories were tricky beasts when it came to that. He’d not be without

(Elena)

his for all the world, but sometimes … Oh, gods above and below, sometimes. He nodded in understanding. “I hear that. ’S’all right then. Good.”

Down the muddy street, a trio of men tumbled out of the tavern, laughing and shoving one another like boys. Will looked after them wistfully. Nasir saw him watching and relented with a quiet smile. “Will. Go.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. This does not need you as well. But no trouble, yes?”

“No trouble. Just a mug of ale and a bowl of whatever they’ve got to eat.” Will pushed himself off the railing, looking brighter than he had all day. “You want something? I can bring you a meat pasty, if you’d like.”

“No.” Nasir repressed a shudder. There was no telling what unclean offerings might be in something like that. “Thank you.”

As Will strode off with the air of a man with a job to do, Nasir scanned the street from long habit, looking for dangers, marking ways of escape. A large rat ran from one of the narrow alley-ways that led to the waterfront and scuttled down the street, the way Scarlet had gone. Nasir shuddered again at the disconcerting mental image of a grubby meat pasty garnished with rat tail. No, let Will eat at the local tavern if he liked. Nasir, who had seen too much, knew better.

The Saracen had been more than right. A new set of clothes, a sweep or three of the barber’s knife, and Gisburne felt a new man. More to the point, he looked like one as well. The ship’s master he spoke to called him ‘my lord’ and fawned about him like a hound hoping for a scratch, once he saw the money pouch Gisburne wore on his belt, under a neatly-cut blue mantle. Guy found himself oddly uncomfortable with the man’s obsequious behaviour. It had been so long since anyone had treated him with anything beyond contempt, or utter indifference, that he had almost forgotten what it was like to be grovelled to. He was not sure how he felt about that. He did know that it seemed very strange to play the lordling again. Gisburne did not think he had ever in his life felt so far removed from who he was.

He could not have said why. He had told the ship’s master nothing that wasn’t true, after all; his name, that he was seeking passage to Normandy, that he could pay his way. It might have been that he was leaving with so little; no squire or servants, no horse, no arms or armour at all – nothing, in fact, but what he stood up in. Gisburne had always valued the trappings of his rank before now, sensing perhaps that without them, people would see him for who he was: bastard-born and unworthy of the title he bore. Now trappings seemed to matter less, and his title was all he had. He supposed he had no choice but to be worthy of it.

The Saracen was waiting for him at the end of the dock. He appeared to be idling in the pale sun that peeked through the tattered clouds overhead, watching a group of porters armed with heavy iron hooks shifting wool bales from one pile to another, but Gisburne was not fooled. Cats looked like that before they decided to hunt; the Saracen knew exactly what was going on around him. Scarlet was nowhere to be seen. Most likely he was in some dockside alehouse, picking fights and losing at dice. Nasir, who had been leaning comfortably against a barrel of pickled herring, stood straight as Gisburne approached.

“You have passage?”

“Yes.” Gisburne gestured to the ship he had found: a broad-beamed merchant vessel, high-prowed and well-crewed. “The master tells me he leaves tomorrow, with the tide. To Margate first, then across the Channel to Barfluer. He even gave me the name of a decent inn for the night.”

Nasir nodded. “You will go?”

“I don’t really have a choice, do I?” There was no real bitterness in Gisburne’s tone; he even smiled a little, though it came crooked and self-aware. “There’s nothing for me here.”

“No.” Nasir turned to glance warningly at a grubby urchin who had strayed too close, looking for a purse to cut. The child veered away, wide-eyed; the Saracen looked back to Gisburne. “For you, France is best.”

“France,” Gisburne agreed. “Or Outremer. Once I have coin enough to make the voyage.”

Nasir schooled himself to impassivity over that. He inclined his head, very slightly. “Or Outremer. As you say.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke, and then Nasir shrugged and lifted the bundle that had been resting at his feet, propped against a coil of rope. Gisburne had not even seen it. The Saracen held it out casually, as if he were passing a waterskin to a friend who had complained of thirst. “For you. For a new start.”

A sword. Gisburne took it, turned it in his hands, almost in disbelief. No Damascene steel here, only a plain blade and a non-descript hilt, and an ordinary foot-soldier’s scabbard to house it, but still a sword. Gisburne stared. Nasir made a small negating gesture, stilling the young nobleman’s words before he even thought them.

“It is not much to the eye, but it sits well in the hand. It is honest, I think. It will serve until you can earn something better.”

“But … how …?” Guy frowned, floundering. He was not used to gifts or favours, especially not from a man who was still, at the heart of things, his enemy. It left him quite off-balance. “Why?”

“Because you will need it,” the Saracen told him, with the air of a man pointing out the obvious.

“But … when did …?”

“Ya Allah, you Franks, always you question everything.” Nasir was smiling as if at some private joke. In fact, he had taken the opportunity to sell the horses, and the sword had been part of the price. Port towns, after all, thrived on trade. “Take it and be thankful.”

That, Gisburne thought, was good advice. He swallowed, disconcerted at how oddly rough his throat felt, and belted the sword about his hips. The weight of it was comfortable, reassuringly familiar. “My thanks,” he managed. “For this. And …”

Another negating flick of the hand met that. “For the sword, I accept your thanks. For the other, it is not worth mentioning.” Nasir was not about to tell Gisburne that if he owed gratitude to anyone, he owed it to Rob, who had not been willing to let a brother of his die like a dog, even if it was what he deserved. Some secrets were Rob’s to tell, or to keep, as he saw fit. Instead, he said, “One thing. If you do go east, avoid landing at Jaffa: the excise men are vultures. Avoid, too, Tyre and Sidon: the slavers are worse. For you, perhaps, Akka is best, or Tripoli.”

“Akka?” Guy sounded puzzled. Nasir’s brows lowered in irritation.

“Acre, you Franks say.” The word felt ugly on his tongue.

“Or Tripoli.” Guy nodded. “I’ll remember.”

Nasir paused and looked at Gisburne consideringly, then gave a resigned shrug, as if he had decided to do something he did not much like. “If Tripoli, you could do worse than find a man named Hugh de Lusignan of Tortosa. He is cousin by marriage to the Constable of Tripoli.”

“You know these people?” It was hard to hide his surprise; Guy had not really considered what circles his irksome wolfsheads might have moved in before they decided to make Sherwood their battlefield. This one, it seemed, had moved in some interesting circles indeed.

“Hugh I have … dealt with. Once. Remind him of the man who won his grey colt off him, and then gave it back.” Another shrug, almost dismissive. “He may speak to you, if he remembers.”

It was hard to tell from the Saracen’s aloof tone, but Guy thought that whatever dealings he’d had with this Hugh of Tortosa might have been sharp-edged. He hoped for his own sake, they had not been too sharp; he did not want to cut himself on old daggers.

But those were concerns for another day. For now, he had enough to worry about in just getting himself to France and finding his way once he was there. Even now, Gisburne could not quite believe what was happening. It was hard to think that only a handful of days ago he had been squatting in the stinking dark waiting for death. Now he was standing on a busy dock with a ship waiting at anchor, making plans for the rest of his life. The distance from the one to the other was vast; Guy was still not sure how – or why – any of this had happened. He furrowed his brow and spread his hands, turning puzzled and needful eyes on the Saracen before him.

“Nasir. All of this – Newark, FitzRoy, the sword, everything – can you … no. Will you tell me why?”

He’d had to ask. Too much had happened, changing his world, for him not to, and never mind what he might be told. Nasir’s dark eyes studied him, thoughtful and slow. Gisburne bore it for as long as he could. At last, he burst out, “Well, come on, man, damn you! Why?”

His answer, when it came, was not what Guy had expected. Nasir never looked away from him, his gaze driving through him with a steady, considered intensity that Gisburne felt in his bones.

“Because,” the Saracen said quietly, “true nobility is more than only breeding and blood. It needs something less common. Tact. Integrity. The art of grace towards one’s inferiors. That is why.”

For the second time in the space of minutes, Gisburne found he did not know what to say. More than only blood, the Saracen had said… and if Hood – no, Huntingdon – had shown true nobility by his grace, maybe a well-bred bastard could do the same. Maybe one day he could. Finally, Gisburne nodded his head, jerky with emotion. His voice was the same as the rest of him, husky and off-key. “I think I understand.”

Nasir dipped his head, very slightly. “Yes,” he said. “Perhaps you do.” He bowed, formal and precise, nothing subservient in him. “Peace go with you, Sir Guy.”

Alone on the dock, Gisburne stood and watched as the Saracen walked away.

“I can’t believe he’s really gone,” Scarlet said for the dozenth time that day. He grinned over his shoulder at Nasir. “I saw it with my own eyes, but I still don’t bloody believe it.”

Gisburne’s ship had left as its master had promised, sailing with the morning tides. It had taken with it a hold full of wool and pickled herring, and a handful of paying passengers. One of them, standing tall on the foredeck with his fair hair lifting in the breeze, had been Sir Guy of Gisburne. If he had seen the two outlaws watching from the bank of the estuary, he gave no sign. Will went on. “Well, he’s some other bugger’s problem now. Glad to see the back of him. Here’s a question, though: where did he get that bloody sword?”

Nasir said nothing, walking on in silence. Will was more than capable of holding a conversation without him, and in any case, there were some questions he had no intention of answering. Will grunted.

“Don’t suppose it matters, does it? Here, how many days back to Sherwood? You taking us the long way around again?”

“No.”

“Good.” Will marched on a few paces without speaking. Nasir savoured the quiet. Then: “It’s a pity you sold those horses, Naz. We’d get home quicker if we rode.”

“You don’t ride.”

“I can!” Will sounded indignant. He whirled in the road, walking backwards, arms wide in protest. “I can ride. I just don’t like to. A man’s legs ought t’be good enough, I reckon.” His heel struck a stray stone; he stumbled and swore. Nasir rolled his eyes.

“You can ride? You can barely walk.”

“Oh, very funny.” Swinging back to face where he was going, Scarlet settled easily into the rhythm of the march. “Horses are faster, is all.”

“Faster if you can ride.”

“I can, I tell you!”

Drawing in a deep breath, Nasir shook his head and sent up a silent prayer. It was going to be a long walk back to Sherwood. He would need all the patience he could get.

It had been nigh on a fortnight since Nasir had left. Robin had been trying not to think of all the things that might go wrong. On his last trip to Halstead, he’d been given a letter from his cousin Harry: a brief note thanking him for the horse and telling him to find a less imposing messenger next time. That had made Robin smile; he had known he could rely on Harry. FitzRoy had always had a strong sense of family, in spite – or maybe because – of his illegitimate birth; and besides, Harry had never been able to resist an adventure.

The letter had given him some reassurance. His faith in Nasir’s abilities gave him more. His Saracen friend was unrelentingly competent and deeply practical. He would carry out the task Robin had given him if he could, but he would not die trying. He would bring himself home

(home?)

with Scarlet in tow, and tell Robin he was a fool for having let Will stray in the first place.

He had received another message in Halstead, too. Marion had agreed to see him. They had met, briefly and rather painfully, in the small herb garden near the infirmary. Marion had been chaperoned by an elderly nun with kind eyes, who had accorded them privacy of a sort, setting herself on a bench where she could see them, but not hear what they were saying. That was as well, Robin thought, looking back. He would not have wanted to share those words with a stranger.

Marion would not be returning to Sherwood. He knew that now, with the same certainty that told him that the leaves would fall and the winter snows would come. She was not for him; she never had been. Even now, her heart was Loxley’s: the May Queen searching for her Summer King in the winter shadows and pining for the spring. That saddened Robin, and for more reasons than his own aching heart. Marion would spend her life mourning that loss, enshrining Loxley as that irreproachable other against whom all other flames would pale and, in doing so, she would let her own flame, the spark that had once burned in her so bright, fade and die. The past was another place, Robin knew; no one could linger there too long and not lose something vital in themselves. Life was hope, and a series of tomorrows, but for Marion it would always be yesterday.

That knowledge was painful, but also strangely liberating. Robin could not live in the past, and he could not fight the dead. Marion’s choices were not his to make, and his own choices were simple enough: beat himself bloody against her unbreachable walls, or grieve for what might have been and move on.

He felt better for having come to that understanding. He would feel better yet once Nasir was back. It was strange to miss the man’s company so much, but at the same time it was not strange at all. There was no one else he could talk to, no one else who would watch him with a sure and steady gaze and say everything that needed saying with only the flick of his fingers. John was a good man, but his world had never grown larger than Sherwood and shepherding. Much could talk the ears off a donkey, but he was seldom to the point. And Tuck, whatever else he was, was still a man of the Church: whenever the portly monk folded his hands, Robin felt like a child caught avoiding the Confessional. As for Will … Robin laughed quietly. Scarlet was irrepressible, course, uncultured, and had a heart the size of a harvest moon, but he had never been able to just keep his mouth shut.

And none of them had those dark hunter’s eyes that followed Robin’s soul on every turning it took.

He had taken to watching the Newark road. There was no call for it; Nasir would find him, even if he shifted camp to the other side of Sherwood, though the man would not thank him for making his task harder. He watched anyway, because he knew they would come this way, and because it gave him something to do.

Robin heard Will before he saw him. The man seemed to be in the middle of a bawdy story about a serving wench in a French alehouse. “…an’ then I went out the window, and she went for him with the fire-tongs, spitting like a hellcat, and when I finally got someone to unbolt the door, the dogs had eaten my supper and some bastard had stolen my boots!” Robin grinned, wondering what Nasir, with his restraint and his Eastern grace, was making of that. He decided to do the decent thing and rescue his friend from more tales of Will’s exploits. He stepped out into the road.

“You’re back. I’ve been waiting.”

Nasir showed no surprise at all, but a brief glow of relief flickered in his eyes; he had spent the last three miles debating how hard he would have to hit Scarlet to shut him up, and whether or not it was worth it. Now he dipped his head in greeting and thanked Allah the Merciful for Rob’s timing. “Salaam, sadiqi.”

“Salaam.” Robin clasped his friend’s wrist, pulling him into a quick, welcoming embrace. Nasir tensed slightly, but returned the gesture easily enough, stepping back with a smile. Will, though, did not have time for niceties. Without preamble, he clipped Robin across the top of the head.

“All that fucking sneaking around, and it turns out it’s bloody Gisburne,” he growled. “Why did I march all the way to Grimsby and back for Gisburne? You want to tell me that?”

“I don’t know, Will,” Robin replied sweetly, with a smile that could have sliced stone. “No one asked you to. I thought you were going to Lichfield.”

“Yeah, well.” Will had the decency to look a little abashed. “No other way to find out what was going on, was there?”

“You could have asked.”

“Would you have told me?”

“Probably not,” Robin admitted. “But it might have been worth a try.”

“Bloody noblemen,” Will said, though he was smiling in spite of himself. “All the fucking same. Never let the rest of us know what’s going on.” He pointed accusingly at Nasir. “And he’s damned-well noble born, too. He must be. No bloody way he can be so at home telling people what to do and not be, and that’s God’s truth.”

Nasir only blinked mildly and folded his arms over his chest. Robin laughed.

“Go back to camp, Will. Much went into Wickham the other day, so there’s mead and ale. And Tuck’s rabbit stew.”

“And bread? Fresh bread?” Will cocked his head, like a hound who had heard his master’s voice in the distance.

“Yes, fresh this morning.”

“That’ll do me, then.” When it came to a decent meal, Scarlet did not need to be asked twice. It came of soldiering, he’d have told anyone who asked; a soldier learned to take good food where he could find it, and Will had taken that well to heart. He strode off into the trees without looking back.

Robin and Nasir stood where they were in the road, watching until Will was gone, enjoying the silence. After a moment, Robin glanced to his friend, carefully casual.

“Noble born, are you, Malik?”

“Will thinks so.” Nasir’s lips quirked at Robin’s deliberate use of that name, with its strong and royal meaning. As if, he thought, Rob did not know the status of his birth exactly. “I am sure my father, may Allah the Compassionate grant him grace, would be gratified.”

“Well, you know Will. He can be surprisingly perceptive, sometimes.” Robin grinned. “You could tell them, Malik. What’s another royal-blooded noble around here? We’re almost as common as sparrows.”

“We are not,” Nasir said firmly. “And in any case, it makes no matter. Just as your kinship with Gisburne makes no matter. Some things are our own, to tell or not.”

“Yes,” Robin said. “I suppose.” He paused, then said, “Where did you ship him off to?”

“France. It seemed best.”

“He went happily enough?”

Happy? Nasir made a face. Happiness and Gisburne, in his observation, were distant kin at best. Time and kindness might change that, but … He shrugged. “He was … content. He spoke of travelling further.”

“Outremer?”

“Perhaps.”

Robin nodded, thoughtful. “I wish him well of it, then. So long as it keeps him away from Huntingdon, and away from us.”

“He will not be back, I think.” Unlacing his waterskin from his belt, Nasir took a mouthful and then said, “Your cousin sends his regards.”

That made Robin flash his quick, bright grin. “Harry? I know. He sent me a letter. You made an impression, by the sounds of it.”

“I?” Nasir’s brows went up. He took a long breath, considering that. “He thought me your servant, at first. I told him I am not.”

“I’ll bet you did.”

“And his squires seemed to think I would turn into a pillar of fire, like an ifrit, and burn them to ash.” Nasir frowned and rubbed lightly at his jaw. “What do you Franks tell your children about my people?”

“Oh, nothing much,” Robin assured him, with that spark in his eye that Nasir had come to know meant that he was joking. “Only that you eat babies for breakfast and that you summon devils from the sands to fight for you. And Harry has squires these days?” The idea made him laugh out loud. “Sweet Christ, who would trust their sons to Harry?”

“He schools them well.” Nasir tipped his head. “They will learn from him what they might not from another.”

“I’m sure.” Robin grinned. “Harry always was a disruptive influence.”

“I think he would say the same of you,” Nasir pointed out, with the faintest hint of a smile. Robin laughed again.

“Ah, but I’m an outlaw; I’m meant to be disruptive.”

Nasir, who could not argue with that, simply bowed his head. Robin nodded, suddenly serious.

“And speaking of disruptive influences,” he said, lifting his chin in the direction that Scarlet had gone, “we’ve got Will to contend with. I was hoping no one but we two – well, and Gisburne and Harry, I suppose – would ever need know about this, but Will won’t keep his mouth shut. He’ll have told the others everything by now.”

“He will tell them what he knows,” Nasir agreed. “Which is little.”

“It’s enough to raise questions. What do I tell them when they ask why I’d even lift a finger to save Gisburne?”

Silence answered that. Robin, used to his friend’s pauses, did not push Nasir to speak. After a short while, Nasir shrugged very slightly and said, “Tell them mercy is a virtue. And so is forgiveness.”

There was a compliment in that, sidelong, but sincere nonetheless. Robin

(I say unto you not seven times)

touched Nasir’s wrist, very lightly. “Thank you, my friend. And thank you for doing this at all. I couldn’t have asked anyone else.”

“It was no bother,” Nasir replied, with the faintest smile. “I have done worse things.”

Well, so he probably had. Robin nodded, accepting that, and started back towards camp. Nasir fell in behind him, a reassuring presence at his back. Robin wondered what Gisburne had made of being shepherded by a Saracen and chuckled low in his chest. Dropping back half a step, he waited for Nasir to draw level and asked, “Did he give you any trouble?”

“Gisburne,” Nasir wanted to know, “or Will?”

Robin gave a wry grin. “Either,” he said with a shrug. “Both.”

Nasir tilted his head a little, laconic as ever. “Gisburne? A little. Not much. Will?” He slanted Robin a significant look. “More.”

“I thought he would. I shouldn’t have let him off his leash.”

Nasir laughed under his breath. “As you say, sadiqi.”

Robin couldn’t help it; he laughed too, stopping where he was and turning to his friend, halting him with a hand on one shoulder. “It’s good to have you back, Malik. Truly.”

There was something other than humour in the young man’s voice. Nasir heard it and frowned, looking at him with appraising eyes.

“You feared I would not come?”

“No!” Robin said quickly – and then, with a sigh, “Yes. A little. I mean, what you said about obligation and blood, and the colours in the desert …”

“And about wanting to live a little longer, perhaps?” Nasir swatted him about the shoulders, what began as a cuff ending as a warm grip on Robin’s arm. “You must listen better, Rob. I will not leave without your blessing. To slip away like a thief in the night – this is not the act of a friend.”

“No, I know.” Robin drew a deep breath and gave a short, derisive laugh, aimed at himself. “Stupid of me, but … Marion’s not coming back. I’ve lost her. And … I couldn’t stand to lose you too.”

“Ah.” Nasir lowered his eyes briefly, wondering what to say. He decided to say the easier thing and leave the other. It was safer that way. “I am sorry about Marion, Rob.”

Robin nodded, as if Nasir had said something else, then gave himself a quick shake and sighed. “I knew, I think. I just didn’t want to know. If that makes sense.”

“It does.” Nasir inclined his head carefully. “The heart does not answer to logic.”

“No,” Robin agreed. His eyes caught Nasir’s and lingered, then suddenly dropped away. “No, it doesn’t. But it mends. With care and time. Inshallah.”

That earned him a quiet smile. “Inshallah.”

“And, if God is very kind, there may even be some food left when we get back to camp.” Flicking his hair out of his eyes, Robin laughed, trying for normality. “If Will doesn’t eat us out of supplies. You must be starving.”

“No,” Nasir said. “Not starving.” Which was true, as far as it went. If he had been starved of anything over the last handful of days, it had not been food. There were things in the world more sustaining than merely bread and meat, things which fed the very soul. Robin’s pale hair shone softly in the forest’s gentle light.

“Well, in that case, there’s no hurry.” Robin took a deep breath, oddly grateful; he did not relish facing his friends’ accusing eyes when they learned where Nasir had been, and why. Gisburne had cause them all more pain than Robin knew; when it came to what he had done, mercy seemed a weak excuse. As for the other, the truer reason … Robin was not sure how much he wanted to think on that. His words came reluctantly, almost in spite of himself. “Malik. Tell me. What was … What is he like?”

Nasir understood exactly what he was being asked. How much are he and I the same? Robin had demanded that of him in a forest glade, with pain in his voice and fear in his eyes; he was asking the same thing now. Nasir gave it the thought it deserved.

He remembered Gisburne as he had been when FitzRoy had first brought him out of Newark’s gaol, worn and angry and shouting insults, and the low desperation in his voice when he had asked why anyone had come for him at all. He recalled Gisburne’s eyes, unguarded and full of wonder at the Damascene steel in his hands, and the way they had shadowed and shuttered at the first hint of rebuke. He thought of the young nobleman prostrate with laughter at Will’s lunacy, and his courage in holding his ground against armed men in the first place. And he remembered him standing in the prow of the ship, fair hair shining and face turned forward, braving his new beginning. Just as Robin had braved his new beginning not so long ago, when he had walked from his father’s castle and lands, and the title to which he had been born, to take on the mantle of the Hooded Man. That had needed courage too.

They were, in some ways, not so unalike. Could I be him, Robin had asked, and Nasir thought now, as he had then, that the answer was no. But, if Allah the Compassionate showed him mercy, and if the world was a little kind, Gisburne could become something more like the brother who had saved him and who he didn’t know he had. That spark was in him, somewhere. In Robin’s line, Nasir had cause to know, the blood ran strong. And a man could not change that.

Those, though, were not words that would bring Robin the comfort he wanted. Not in this tongue, at least, rude as it was and lacking in subtlety. Nasir wondered what to tell him. He settled in the end for honesty, as far as he could.

With a smile, Nasir let his hand go to Robin’s face, tracing the fall of his cheek and the line of his jaw to lift his pale

(beautiful)

eyes to the light. Looking into them, he said what his friend needed to hear. If his words were also the truth of his heart, so much the better.

“No, Rob. There is no resemblance.”