NOTTINGHAM

"Gisborne," Sheriff Vasey intoned, directing his attention to the much taller man, "I'm really getting tired of all this moping. You didn't even smile at the hanging yesterday." He followed the sentence with a huge bite of an apple. "That was awful—these better not be Locksley apples!" Guy ignored his superior's comments. He was in no mood for jibes today. Vasey abruptly jumped from his seat. "They're probably from Knighton. Nothing good comes from that place."

Guy momentarily glared at the Sheriff. "I didn't mean to slight your woman Gisborne," he added with mock sincerity.

"She's not my woman," Gisborne said once again becoming painfully aware of Marian's refusal to accept his attentions.

"Oh," Vasey said, drawing out the word as long as possible, "I should've known your sour mood had something to do with that precocious wench. You know, there are many ways to win a woman Gisborne."

"I've told you before that Marian won't be bought." Guy returned, uncrossing his arms for the first time in an hour.

"I didn't mean money you fool." Vasey stepped uncomfortably close to Gisborne and added in a hushed tone "not even the most principled of ladies can resist some charms". He smiled menacingly.

"In time, she'll come to recognize my worth," Gisborne replied, becoming a little angrier, "I don't need cheap tricks". The Sheriff quickly walked to the other side of the room.

"You're not the least bit interested?"

"Love draughts are wives' tales" Gisborne snarled. Vasey chuckled at the inference.

"Oh are they? I'll bet you thought black powder was a wives' tale too didn't you? Yes, I can tell by your expression." Guy furrowed his brow and began to slowly contemplate what the Sheriff was saying.

"I'll grant that it's not easy to make one. But! We both know of someone with the requisite talents to do the job."

"The Saracen?" Guy interjected.

"Yes, dear boy, exactly!"

"It would be a challenge to capture him…her again".

"That's where you're wrong. I've got a lovely plan," he paused a moment to pick up an amphora of wine, "Well, there can be no doubt that Robin's Saracen girl is homesick, "he paused to 

pick up an amphora of wine, "how could it be otherwise?" The Sheriff poured himself a substantial glass of wine. Gisborne quizzically raised an eyebrow.

SHERWOOD

Much ran as fast as he could through the winding, secret trails of the forest. His heart was beating in his throat and he found it hard to breathe 'I can't take much more' he thought. Luckily, he didn't have to—he tripped right over a sleeping Allan.

"Hey! Watch it will ya'"

"I'm sorry to disturb you," he shrieked, "but if you'd been running from the sheriff's guards I don't think you would be so particular where you step either!" Robin emerged from the trees carrying a rabbit by its feet.

"Dinner is served gentleman—and woman!" He noticed that Much was gulping for air and very irritated. "Much, is everything alright?" Much pulled himself to his feet.

"Well, no, master. I went into Clun to see if I could get some bread and vegetables. You know the baker is very sympathetic and he makes wonderful—"

"Much, please continue" Robin insisted as he handed the rabbit to Djaq.

"Right, sorry. Well, while he was collecting a few things, Gisborne's troops suddenly showed up . I never would've gone if I thought they were coming". Much stopped to gather his thoughts.

"What were they doin' in Clun?" Allan interjected.

"They were escorting a prisoner."

"A prisoner? Was he a peasant?" Will asked.

"No, definitely not. By the looks of his garments I would say he was a Saracen." Djaq immediately interrupted her preparation of the rabbit and came closer to Much,

"Are you sure?"

"I can't swear to it, but I'm pretty certain—he looked like a soldier, a commander probably". Djaq was becoming more concerned.

"Robin", she said a little more emotionally than she had intended, "we have to do something to help him. I'm sure they plan to execute him!"

"Djaq, let Much finish. It might not be as bad as all that. Where were they taking him"?

"They tied him up near the church. I don't know what they plan to do with him. I ran as soon I had a chance—the guards were going to block the entrance to the village."

"Why put him on display? Why not just kill him? This sounds like some kind of a trap to me," Allan advised.

"We have to take that chance, Robin," Djaq soberly responded. Much and the others wore looks of concern. Risking a battle with Gisborne's troops late in the day with no plan of attack and empty stomachs was not attractive.

"Djaq," Robin responded, "I promise you, we will investigate, but now is not a good time. Much said there were a large number of troops stationed there. And I think there might be something to what Allan was saying. I need to think it over," Djaq looked like she would argue, then she suddenly became calm.

"I understand. You are probably right," she said as she went back to the fire and resumed preparing the rabbit. Robin was concerned. What did she have in mind?

CLUN

Darkness was just beginning to fall as a cloaked figure stole across the village square. The movements were quick, light and purposeful. Not a single guard noticed the figure's approach. It reached the terminus of its journey near the church. A tall man tied to a stake in front of the church was the only one who noticed the shrouded shape. In moments it addressed him.

"Are you unharmed?" A female voice asked from behind the hood.

"My arm," the man replied in a heavy Turkish accent, "but it is nothing." She carefully moved to untie him from the stake. Once released, the man stumbled. The woman moved closer to him—he leaned heavily on her. "You have done me a great service." His voice was deep, almost gruff, but not unpleasant and oddly familiar. She couldn't see his features, though, they were shrouded under a dark hood.

"I am a Saracen like you," she added, "I can't stand by and watch you tortured."

"You must tell me your name noble lady."

"My name is Djaq." The man's grip on her shoulder tightened slightly. "Are you in much pain?" She asked, misinterpreting the gesture. "Let me have a look at your arm". Once they were safely out of the guards' view, she helped him to the ground and set to work on his arm. She cut away the cloth covering his forearm—there was a deep gash. He sharply drew in a breath as she touched it. "This shouldn't take long," she assured him, "You'd be more comfortable if you drew back your hood."

"No I musn't," he said, "The battle that saw me become a slave left other marks and I'd prefer not to subject you to it." It was a lie, of course. He wore the hood to hide his blue eyes and infamous face. Gisborne watched as she deftly cleaned and bandaged his wound. His conscience gnawed at him momentarily, the way a cool draft sends a chill down one's spine. Could he really force this lovely, caring young woman to do his bidding? The guilt was momentary—it was gone in a moment, just as one's body recovers from a chill.

"I would not fear your scar," Djaq calmly added as she finished the bandage.

"Oh," he said as he slowly withdrew the hood revealing his well-known mien, "but I think you would." Djaq withdrew in horror and disgust, but it was too late. Gisborne strongly held her arm and jerked her to her feet. She struggled violently, but he held her fast. "You're going to join me for dinner in Nottingham," he added with a smirk. "Guards!"