Post of the Month

~ June 2010 ~

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Timothy/Merries ~ Written by Rhys, Annie, Gwyn, Siiri & Angela.  Posted on the HoS Yahoo group October 2008.

Where he sat cross-legged before the crackle of the outlaws small camp fire, Timothy absorbed the forest night around him.

The forest at night had its own particular smell, damp and smoky with a hint of mystery twisting through it. It smelt like darkness.

Timothy had no idea what darkness was like, but he had long ago learnt to associate that particular smell with what sighted people called darkness. He couldn't begin to explain what darkness - and light - smelt and felt and sounded and tasted like, but still he knew. And now he smelt and felt and tasted and heard darkness. Sighted people did not like darkness, and he wondered why, because darkness felt and smelt and tasted and sounded beautiful.

Timothy appreciatively drew in the combined scents that swirled in the air around him, momentarily closing his eyes as each individual scent tickled his nose. There was the sharp, clean-cut foliage scent of the trees and the bracken, and the heavy damp smell of the earth beneath him; some sort of night blooming flower teased at the edges of all the other scents. He imagined the forest animals nestled in their dens for the night, the wind ruffling the feathers of night birds beginning their hunt.

A gentle breeze occasionally rustled the trees surrounding the camp clearing and fanned against Timothy's cheek. It was a companionable sound, and felt like a caress against his skin. He lifted his face to the leafy sound of the trees above him to listen, and felt himself smile in response.

From around him now at the fireside came the sounds of people eating; chewing and munching, and swallowing gulps of liquid, and, brought back to their sounds, Timothy turned his head restlessly from side to side to listen to them whilst his fingers explored the food in the hollow of the turned wooden bowl below in his lap; the bowl that Tuck had given into his hands only a moment ago.

A hunk of bread lay inside, against the side of the bowl. Timothy's fingers explored it, then broke off a piece and he ate. It was rough maslin bread made from wheat and rye flour, and with - Timothy was sure judging by the taste - some ground dried peas or acorns added to the mix to conserve the precious flour. He remembered well from his boyhood that that was what had been done in the village of Felden in years when the previous harvest had been poor.

He lifted the stubby-handled wooden spoon that lay propped inside the bowl and curiously tasted the contents. The pottage that half- filled the bowl was mainly cabbage, leeks, chibol and garlic, with sparse slivers of rabbit meat added along with some barley to thicken the stew. It was well-seasoned, and it reminded Timothy of the standard fare he had eaten at Thornton as a lad - enough to keep body and mind going.

Timothy had not had a hot meal for several days; only snatched bites of cheese and bread and meat. There was a worn wooden beaker set before him which Tuck had guided his fingertips to in order to show him of its location. He had heard the glug of liquid being poured into it, and the smell of strong ale had risen to meet his nose. He reached before him now and relocated the shape of the beaker, and drained its contents before setting it down and hungrily resuming his meal.

Tuck, as he ate, was watching Timothy.

Timothy, Tuck knew, was unsure. He sat close next to Tuck, their shoulders touching - vital contact as far as Timothy was concerned, someone solid to be in contact with as he worked to gain a sense of placement within the space of the camp, learn its dimensions and learn about the people who frequented it. His head was held high, a sure sign that he was listening intently to all around him, every movement, and his head kept jerking round slightly to each new sound as he ate.

Tension and uncertainty both flickered across his face and his brow twitched with slight frowns of concentration. John rose and suddenly moved across the path of Timothy's perception to throw more wood on the fire, and Timothy swung his head uneasily and putting out his hand, found Tuck's knee and grasped it in sudden alarm, liking to know Tuck was there.

Tuck gently laid his hand over Timothy's in reassurance. Timothy's face relaxed from its tension at Tuck's reassuring touch, and his head turned to follow the sounds and movements of John as John moved back across Timothy's line of perception and away to sit down once more before the fire. It must be disconcerting, thought Tuck, to have someone as large as John suddenly loom across the field of your perception. Like a shadow suddenly falling across you when you sit in the sun. Only Timothy could see neither sun nor shadow.

He watched the young man's eyes and face, trying to read him after so many years apart. The eyes were never still and yet they did not move in a normal tracking motion; they flicked around never coming to rest on anything. Timothy had never had any awareness or control over how his eyes moved, but the strange thing was that his eyes were still part of his personality, Tuck thought. They were far from lifeless and dull.

As was Timothy's expressive face. As he sat at the fireside, learning about his new environment, he kept giving slight smiles and frowns in response to all he heard and felt around him, and a few other fleeting expressions besides. Some, like curiosity and apprehension and wonder, Tuck could recognise, others, he could not; those vague strange half-expressions Timothy pulled at empty air, sometimes accompanied by a restless swing of the head.

Tuck remembered now how some of the monks at Thornton had been of the opinion that the child Timothy should be taught not to make such odd expressions or swing his head. Tuck had opposed them, understanding that when Timothy swung his head he was casting around with his hearing as well as expressing certain emotions, and had always let the boy move his head and hands and use his face to communicate in the ways he wished. Tuck had never favoured the method of "correction" some of the other monks would have imposed on Timothy if they could. They had believed that Timothy should be taught to behave as sighted as possible, in order to try and fit in with society. But Tuck had quickly seen and understood that Timothy's very personality was tangled up with being blind, and the two were so intertwined that it would have been extremely damaging to Timothy to try and separate them and eradicate his blind mannerisms. And so, wisely, Tuck had done nothing.

Leaving Timothy be in this aspect had clearly enabled him to grow up happy and confident in himself, Tuck thought now, watching the face of the young man who he loved like a son.

Tuck looked down at the young hand his plump one still covered in reassurance. It was the hand of a young man; strong, well-defined knuckles, with long graceful fingers. A capable hand - even if it sought reassurance at the moment.

It was also the hand of an adult male, not a young lad of fifteen, and Tuck was suddenly reminded sharply again of the fact that eleven years had passed since he and Timothy had last met, and Timothy was now a grown man, no longer a young lad for Tuck to teach and take care of.

He gave Timothy's hand a slight squeeze of reassurance. Feeling briefly over Tuck's hand, Timothy smiled afresh in response, and withdrew his own to continue eating.

Tuck looked around at the others by the fire. They were all gathered round it; Rhiannon with Ellie wrapped in a shawl in her arms; Much and Alan on either side of her. Sitting opposite across the fire were John and Will, still sharing the aleskin between them, whilst he and Timothy sat near where the cookpot was set on the embers that glowed, and with their backs against the log. Earlier on, Timothy had become aware that something was behind him where he sat by the fire, and feeling out in search, he had found the log. He had explored it with interest, running his sensitive fingers over its bumps and flaking rough bark, and had walked around it to establish its length and width. Now, he sat with his back against it - it was another solid landmark in his surroundings, Tuck realised - and more than that, it was protection behind him.

For the first time, Tuck wondered how many adversaries Timothy had met in the past eleven years on his travels, causing him to be very aware of seeking a protected place to sit with something solid at his back. Will had earlier privately told Tuck of Timothy knocking him flat with a blow to the jaw and then levelling his dagger at him. Will had related the tale with some embarrassment, but also with grudging respect for Timothy. Tuck had been impressed, but had expected no less from the spirited and capable Timothy.

Tuck now watched Much with not a little mild amusement. Much kept staring at Timothy across the leaping flames and heat haze of the fire. It was the stare of someone who recognised elements of Robert in yet a complete stranger. It must be odd, thought Tuck, to somehow see Robert in a completely different person, for Timothy was as dark as Robert was fair. And yet there were odd behavioural quirks the same, borne of blindness since birth.

Will finished his meal, took a long draught of ale from the aleskin by his side, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and looked across at where the blind man sat. He decided to speak.

"So," Will said finally out loud to Timothy across the crackle of the cook-fire, "what do you do?"

All eyes swivelled round to rest on Timothy, whose head was now bent over his bowl of food. He did not respond, and Tuck shook his head at the outlaws, thinking they should know better, and gently touched Timothy's arm. "Scarlet is addressing you," Tuck told Timothy.

Timothy lifted his head in Will's direction, frowning slightly. "Then pray have the courtesy to add my name to any address so I know 'tis to me you speak. I am blind, and contrary to popular myth about the blind, I do not possess second sight or unnatural powers."

Will felt rattled. "So, TIMOTHY," he cut the name into his previous sentence with hard meaning. "What do you do?"

"If you mean a profession, then I be a master cook," Timothy replied.

Will was taken aback. "How the bleedin' hell can you be that?"

"What were YOU before you became an outlaw?" Timothy challenged.

"Locksmith's apprentice," Will muttered.

"How the bleedin' hell can you be that?" Timothy imitated Will's accent perfectly.

Will glared at him. Much sniggered, and Will swung his glare round onto Much for a brief second. Much immediately stopped sniggering, and Will turned his glare back to Timothy. Timothy's head was held high, listening to the silence around him, slight puzzled frowns crossing his face as he tried to work out what was going on around him in the silence.

"See," said Timothy, unperturbed, "it works both ways. I can be just as disbelieving of a sighted person's trade as you can be of a blind one's. I perhaps do not look like a master cook, Master Scathelocke - but to me, YOU do not sound like a locksmith's apprentice."

"Robert could cook, he could," Much broke in. "He CAN cook," he hastily corrected himself with, realising he had put Robert into the past tense.

Timothy swung a peculiar smile in Much's direction. "Can he cook for several hundred at a grand feast in a Lisbon palace?"

Much was nonplussed.

"You arrogant bastard," Will said, glaring at Timothy.

"No," Timothy said calmly, "not arrogant. Just sure in my abilities. As you are sure in yours as a fighting man. I do not state my abilities as a boast, but as a fact."

Silence descended and John studied Timothy interestedly from where he sat across the fire, the haze of smoke and leaping flames between them. He too had been made privy to the fact that Timothy had pulled his dagger on Will when they had first met - and had learned that there had been a brief fight, in which Timothy had obviously managed to get in a few good blows of his own, John thought amusedly now, noting the bruise which had formed on Will's jaw.

Timothy wiped round his bowl with his last piece of bread and raised his head once more to listen to the fireside silence around him. He finally spoke aloud. "You're from London aren't you, Scarlet. I can tell by your accent."

"Yeah," grunted Will. "Ain't got no blood ties to a village hereabouts."

"You were born a free man, then?" queried Timothy.

"Yeah," said Will. "My apprenticeship was to a locksmith, down in London where I was born." He gave Timothy a somewhat twisted smile, which was lost on Timothy. "Then I found it was more rewarding to break the bloody locks instead and steal. Then I was a soldier for a while. Fightin' in France. Came home, no work in London. Headed North. Bin here ever since."

"There's worse places than Nottinghamshire that a man could be," said Timothy.

"Aye, there is that," John sighed, staring into the fire and thinking of his childhood home at Haversage.

"What you want with Tuck, then, Timothy?" Rhiannon asked curiously, setting a fed and hiccoughing Ellie on her knee and patting her back.

"To see him again," replied Timothy. "It's been a long time."

"It has that," Tuck agreed.

Timothy ran his fingers over the inside of his bowl, seeking out the last morsel of food, keeping his head uplifted, listening interestedly to the fireside company ranged around him.

"Has Tuck never mentioned me?" he asked out to the company.

John shot Tuck a glance. "Once or twice, lad."

"You were lucky that Will chanced upon you, Timothy, as I doubt you would have found our camp and therefore Tuck otherwise," Rhiannon said from where she was. "Our camp here is well hidden, as are the paths that lead to it."

"At least you have no fear that I will give away your location to anyone," Timothy answered with humour. "And you will not need to blindfold me when you take me away from the camp to return me to the Lincoln Road."

John chuckled, and took another swig from the aleskin by his side. "There's that, I grant you."

"You mentioned earlier that if we were attacked, then Tuck would have to take care of me, Scarlet," Timothy said. "Are you expecting an attack?"

"Maybe," Will muttered.

"Soldiers?" Timothy queried, laying aside his empty bowl. "But I gather this camp is well-hidden."

"Not soldiers," said John, "there's other outlaws. There's a band of them in the woods outside Lincoln. Seemed to have come with the summer."

"Summer outlaws," Timothy said softly, remembering his childhood and the talk of men who went into the woods and forest with the warm weather, did a spot of robbing, and then returned home to their wives and firesides come the Autumn. Many had evaded the law. "Come with the summer, go with the winter."

John scratched his head. "Don't think these are just summer outlaws. Anyway, they've been spreading boasts around Nottingham and Lincoln that they will do for us. Come into Sherwood and do for us."

"So we're extra vigilant, especially with Robert missing," Tuck added softly from beside Timothy.

"You didn't hear anything in Nottingham about him, then, Timothy - no talk or gossip of a prisoner being brought in?" John asked hopefully.

"No," Timothy said softly. "I was only in Nottingham for a week, but I listened much in alehouses to gossip and news and there was no such great stir of a prisoner being brought in."

"Like eavesdropping in alehouses, do you, blind man?" Will probed.

"What are you - my inquisitor?" Timothy demanded in turn, immediately on the defensive.

Will glared at him and spoke with meaning. "I ain't in the habit of trustin' anyone I don't know about."

Realisation and something akin to surprise crossed Timothy's expressive face. "So Tuck has never told you, then?"

"Timothy-" began Tuck in gentle warning, but Timothy's hand quickly found his arm and checked him, and Tuck subsided to watch Timothy's expression with growing alarm and unease. He remembered the expression well, it was Timothy's peculiar devil may care expression; head held high in defiance, jaw set in determination, blind eyes narrowed. He had not learned that expression from feeling the faces of the sighted, as far as Tuck remembered, it had seemed to come naturally whenever "seize the day and to hell with it" thoughts had entered Timothy's impulsive head. Tuck had always known to expect trouble when seeing that expression flood over Timothy's face.

"If you knew who I was....I wonder how quickly you would all form an ill view of me," Timothy said at last.

Will's voice was low and held a measured threat in its tone. "So who ARE you, blind man?"

Timothy chose his words carefully. "It is not so much the matter of who I am, rather whose son I be. De Rainault. Robert de Rainault. Lord High Sheriff of Nottingham. I am his illegitimate son."

His words dropped into the resulting silence like a stone.

A shockwave rippled around the fireside company.

"What the-!" Will began, scowling at Timothy, who kept his head high, listening, alarm at Will's outburst flickering across his face.

"It's true," Tuck confirmed, quickly cutting in. "I was with Timothy when he sook a private audience with de Rainault and Hugo at Nottingham Castle eleven years ago and de Rainault did not deny it. It's all true. I was there. Timothy is de Rainault's son."

Will stopped short, speechless, and stared at Timothy. Much's jaw dropped open, and he stared too.

Silence told him nothing, and Timothy listened to it, feeling both uneased and frustrated. Will's immediate brief outburst had done nothing to allay his fears - fears that he would now be cast immediately out of the camp Were these sighted people watching him? He suspected so, but did not know how to communicate to them using their sighted ways in order to allay their suspicions. He knew the sighted had a myriad of gestures with their hands and a myriad of complex looks given with their eyes that he did not have, and which he had never been able to either understand or learn. He did not know how to respond now, how to set them at their ease or how to defend himself if necessary. His face did not want to smile and suddenly he felt very glad for Tuck's presence close beside him on his left.

John looked Timothy up and down, studying him hard in the face, trying to find some resemblance. He was tall, unlike de Rainault. Maybe there was something about the set of his chin that was akin to de Rainault....but apart from that, John could see no resemblance.

"You're the son of the Sheriff?!" John expostulated.

"You don't LOOK like the Sheriff," Much said, echoing John's thoughts, staring fascinated at Timothy.

Timothy felt his face relax somewhat from its tension, and he briefly grinned at Much's simple statement. "I'm glad to hear it." Inside, however, his heart still pounded. He had guessed from the outlaws initial response upon meeting him that although Tuck may have mentioned him to them in brief passing, Tuck certainly had not told them whose son he was.

Will finally exploded in response to the subject, but with surprise rather than anger. "Bloody hell, he kept THAT quiet, didn't he?! I ain't never heard of him having any bastard children!"

"I do believe," Timothy said wryly with meaning, "that I am very likely his only one."

Much sniggered.

"Most probably you are, lad," John chuckled. He watched Timothy curiously, finding it difficult to link this seemingly pleasant- natured young man to the sharp and devious de Rainault. He found he did not judge Timothy on his parentage. Clearly the lad had had little contact with de Rainault over the years and had come under no influence from him.

"Who was the unfortunate woman he bedded then, to produce you, blind man?" Will demanded incredulously of Timothy.

The smile rapidly faded from Timothy's face at mention of his mother. "I do not know. He would not tell me, eleven years ago, when I asked him. But I want to know."

"You sure your mother wasn't blind too, lad?" John asked with some pointed amusement. "I mean, who'd bed the Sheriff?"

Timothy gave a brief grin in response, and John was glad to see the lad had a sense of humour about his blindness and his parentage both. "I oft wonder upon that," Timothy said wryly. "Mayhap he was different when he was but a youth. He fathered me, I gather, when he was only seventeen."

Alan scratched his head. "I cannot imagine the Sheriff as a youth of seventeen."

"The wind must have been blowing in both directions for him back then," John commented, and Much sniggered again.

"You think he'd be proud of having a son," Rhiannon said. "A son is a son, after all."

Timothy turned his head in the direction of her voice. "Not a blind son," Timothy corrected softly.

Rhiannon bit her lip as she suddenly thought of David's reaction to Robert. Shock, horror; revulsion, embarrassment, awkwardness - all those emotions had been displayed on David's face as he had looked in Robert's eyes and seen for himself that Robert's blindness was a true thing.

"De Rainault would not tell me who my mother was when I confronted him as a lad of fifteen," Timothy continued. "I would still like to know. So here I am now. It's why I have returned to Nottinghamshire from Lisbon."

"You're in the wrong place - de Rainault does not reside in Sherwood," John pointed out.

Timothy smiled. "Aye, I know. I have been biding my time in Nottingham, waiting for his return. I believe he be in London at the moment."

"That he be," Alan said. "Dancing attendance on King John, no doubt."

Timothy decided to pass over mention of his untimely ejection from the de Normanville bakery. "I grew tired of waiting in Nottingham. Whilst I waited, I thought I would seek out Tuck. I heard he was here. Aye, even in Lisbon, I've heard the tales of Herne's son and the outlaws in Sherwood."

Will had been watching Timothy with increasing suspicion as the tale had unfolded. Now he leaned forwards, and with a restless gesture aimed at Timothy with the dagger he had been sharpening, he spoke to the other outlaws around the fire. "Can we trust him?"

Timothy frowned. "Speak to ME, if you please, not to the others as if I am not here! I am blind, not invisible!"

Will glared at him. "You ain't the one whose opinion I rely on in this case, blind man." He switched his gaze to the rest of the assembled company around the fire and once more addressed them. "Well? Can we trust him?"

"Well....." John scratched his head, unwilling to stir any animosity or suspicion in Scarlet at this time of night. Instinct told him that Timothy posed them no threat.

Much looked worriedly from one to the other.

"Of course you can trust Timothy!" Tuck burst out aggrievedly, glaring back at Will.

Timothy intervened, laying a hand on Tuck's arm, and spoke far more calmly. "I may be de Rainault's son, Scarlet, but I have no great love for him, I can assure you. Why, he and Abbot Hugo together were exerting pressure on Father Lawrence at Thornton Abbey to have me made a monk and be shut away there for the rest of my life, so I would not make life awkward for them. It's why I ran away from Thornton at age fifteen."

"Timothy is who he says he is," Tuck said stoutly, still glaring Will down, "and what he says is true. He has no love for de Rainault."

Timothy frowned, lifting his head high in determination, and fingered the hilt of the dagger at his belt. "I want the name of my mother out of de Rainault. And once I find him, I shall endeavour to....persuade him."

"You?" Will guffawed.

"Why do you find that so funny with me when I am sure that if your blind leader said he was going to persuade de Rainault to do something, you would take him seriously?" Timothy demanded.

Tuck looked across at Will and raised an amused eyebrow, in spite of the ache over Robert's absence.

"All right," Will said grudgingly, remembering the fight with Timothy and the way the young man's fist had accurately clipped his jaw, sending him to the ground, "it's just the way you spoke of persuading him. Pretty words, my friend, pretty words. They don't necessarily amount to action."

"There are many ways to persuade someone to do something without drawing a knife and putting it to their throat," Timothy said with meaning.

"And you have come all the way from Lisbon to do this? Why is the name of your mother so important to you, Timothy?" Alan asked.

"Because I have never had one," Timothy replied simply. "I would like to know whether she is alive or dead. If she is dead....I can let the matter rest there. If she is still alive...I would like to know where she be. Because I would like to meet her. Talk to her. Learn something about my beginnings. For I was not a newborn when I was left at Thornton. I was around five months old. I'm presuming up til that time, I was with her, under her care."

"You may find she would not want to know you," Rhiannon half-warned.

Timothy frowned in thought over her words. "I'm not so sure. I was clearly well-fed and healthy when I was found at Thorntons gate, from what I was told by the monks when I was older. Had all the signs that I had bonded with a mother and suckled at her breast."

"Aye," Tuck remembered. "You clearly cried for her, the first few weeks we had you. Missing her."

"I always thought that my mother may have abandoned me because I became blind through illness," Timothy said. "Then Abbot Hugo let it slip at our recent meeting that I had been born blind; that it had been apparent to all right from the start I was blind. That piece of information was a relevation to me. If my mother had wanted to abandon me because of my blindness, she would have done so then, shortly after my birth. But she clearly kept me with her for several months, suckled me and cared for me. As though she was intent on raising me. As though she saw her future with me as her child, her son. So what happened. What happened when I was five months old, to cause her to suddenly abandon me."

"Maybe she died," Rhiannon said softly.

Timothy reached for his beaker of ale before him that Tuck had refilled. "I've considered that. But if she had died, do you not think that de Rainault would have just given me her name eleven years ago and told me she had died? He would have then had an end to me plaguing him. It would have been all so easy for him to do that, if she had died. No. Instead he refused to say anything. It proved to me that she was still alive and - somewhere. Well, she was still alive eleven years ago," Timothy added softly. "I suppose when I meet de Rainault again and challenge him once more, I will find out from his reaction, the way he deals with my questions, whether she still be alive or no."

Rhiannon watched him curiously, trying to read his face to seek where his emotions lay on this subject, behind such calm words. She was skilled at reading Robert's face for the feelings he did not care to verbalise. A blind man's eyes could not communicate his feelings. But the rest of his face certainly could. The way he moved his head and hands and all the fleeting expressions that crossed Robert's face had always told Rhiannon what he was feeling, and Timothy was no different in that aspect, she found. Despite his calmness when speaking of this matter, it was clear that something burned within him - the desire to find out his origins. To belong to someone he could label as "mother" - even if she were dead by now. Knowing just a name meant everything.

Rhiannon could understand that. She cast her mind back to her mother on her deathbed, when she had told Rhiannon that her father was in fact her stepfather. She remembered how desperately she had asked her dying mother for her real father's name, wanting to KNOW...before her origins were lost forever.

Yes, a name could mean everything.

"I've always been somewhat ambivalent about my mother," Timothy continued. Even returning to England I was feeling ambivalent. But since speaking with Hugo and knowing - KNOWING - that she kept me with her, even though I was born blind...that she did not abandon me because I was blind....I feel more of a love for her. If that be possible. I feel she may have been forced into giving me up. She may even not know who I am or where I am. She may have been looking for me, even. So I would like to find her."

"Do you think de Rainault forced her to give you up?" Rhiannon asked curiously.

Timothy restlessly swung his head in response to that question, and she saw that possibility bothered him. "I don't know."

"You went to St Marys and saw Abbot Hugo?" Tuck said, taken aback.

"I had an audience with him, aye," Timothy replied.

"Abbot Hugo must have loved you turning up on his doorstep," John chuckled.

"He was delighted," Timothy replied wickedly. "He was enjoying quite a sumptuous supper in his private chamber when I was shown into his presence. I am sure that my unexpected arrival ruined the taste of his supper. We had quite a chat before he threw several items of earthenware at me and had a monk show me out of St Marys'."

Much sniggered. "Uncle Abbot Hugo."

Timothy laughed. "Oh, you cannot imagine how much I suffer knowing he is my uncle," Timothy said with some sarcasm.

"Bet he suffers more," John said amusedly, watching Timothy with interest. There was something about the young man's face that suggested a mischievous nature, and he had already shown by his words that he had a ready wit. He did not seem the sort to be cowed by the likes of Hugo de Rainault, and John found himself liking the young man. No, Timothy posed no threat to the outlaws. He had his own agenda with de Rainault to follow.

Will, however, wasn't so quick to come to such conclusions. "Still don't know whether we can trust you. Even on Tuck's word."

"Well, then I lay the facts before you, quite aside from Tuck's word, which you should believe if you know Tuck at all well," Timothy answered. "I cannot see, I have no idea where I am in Sherwood or where this camp is located. It is impossible for me to creep out of camp and go tell any soldiers where you are because I cannot see to do so. I do not know Sherwood, only the line of the Lincoln Road that runs through it, and I have no idea where to find that from here."

He paused for a moment, listening to their silence around the crackling of the fire, aware their attention was on him. "I have been brought here and I am familiar with only this space, with you all within it. I have no idea how to find my way out of it and to do so without your guidance or direction would be sheer folly as there would be many dangers. I am not stupid, and I am not proud nor professing to have special powers. I know what my limitations are. Those limitations are not many, but there are some I naturally have and accept as a blind person, and right now my limitations are set at the perimeter of this camp I have been brought to. Beyond the perimeter of this camp, I am somewhat helpless when it would come to finding my way to go tattle-tale to some soldiers." His tone grew humourous. "I trust you not to take advantage of my limitations and throw me out into the forest on my ear."

He leaned forwards in the direction of Will's voice and spoke with meaning. "As you should trust me in what I say: I have no ulterior motive in seeking you out because of who YOU are or because of *I* am. In fact, I was not seeking YOU out at all. I was seeking Tuck."

"So what we goin' to do with you?" Will retaliated. "We ain't nursemaids."

"You really think I need a nursemaid?" Timothy countered. "I'd like to help."

"What, look for Robert?" Will gave a short sarcastic laugh.

"Wouldn't it be good for someone to mind camp whilst you look?" Timothy suggested.

"He's right," said Tuck, suddenly finding himself eager to have Timothy around for more than just this night. "Someone needs to stay at camp, tend the fire, in case Robert returns."

"I can do that," Timothy said.

"Would free up the rest of us to search," John said, thoughtfully regarding Timothy.

Timothy sensed he was winning the battle. "Allow me to stay awhile, so I may catch up on the missing years with Tuck, and I will earn my food and my place by the fire that way. By minding the camp."

Will sheathed his dagger with a dismissive sound. "Yeah, an' if Robert comes back to camp and finds just you here, he won't know who the hell you are, will he."

"We're blind, not mute," Timothy said irritably. "I can tell him who I am and what I'm doing here. Or do you doubt my ability to communicate that, Scarlet?"

"I told Robert once about you, Timothy." Tuck cast his mind back, "mentioned you by name. He'll remember."

_Besides,_ a cold little voice whispered inside Tuck, _how likely is it that Robert could turn up at the camp unexpectedly as though nothing has happened?_

It was becoming clear to Tuck with each passing hour and Robert was nowhere to be found, that something HAD happened to Robert, and now he shivered to himself.

Timothy felt Tuck shiver beside him, and his heart went out to the man. Tuck clearly cared a great deal for the outlaw leader and Timothy wondered whether the next few days would yield a result in the searching for Robert that would bring them all great pain. He suspected that if that were so, then Tuck would put his own grief aside to care for Rhiannon and the baby - but someone should be there for Tuck, too, Timothy thought to himself.

He ran his hand down Tuck's arm to cover Tuck's hand with his own, and gave it a comforting squeeze in response to the shiver he had felt run through Tuck. "I'd like to help," Timothy repeated softly to the fireside company at large.

John gave a nod. "That's all right by me." He looked across at Will; they all did.

Will looked at the solemn faces ringed around the campfire. His eyes met Rhiannon's; she gave a slight nod and bent her head once more over patting the back of a hiccoughing Ellie sat on her lap. From beside her, Much nodded too, his eyes curiously going to Timothy to study him.

_What madness is this,_ thought Alan, watching Timothy, _we have the Sheriff's own son in our midst, and yet, and yet....we are trusting him. Would we trust him so much if he was sighted?

He was not sure.

"Scarlet?" Tuck prompted.

"He's the bleedin' Sheriff's son...." Will began half-angrily, not liking to be pressured into a decision by Tuck, and yet as he looked at Timothy, instinct told him that this man posed no threat.

Timothy's expression sobered at hearing Will's tone. "You should not judge a man by his father," he said quietly.

Will looked back at Timothy. "All right," Will said at last. "You can stay."

Relief flooded into Timothy's heart. He turned his head to face the direction of the man's gruff London accent. "Thank you," Timothy said softly with sincerity.

Staying meant a warm fireside at night, food inside him, and the security in the wilds of the forest that this outlaw band could provide. Staying meant being able to talk further to Tuck and gather his thoughts, whilst he waited for de Rainault to return to Nottingham.

"Where's Lisbon, then?" Much asked at last, curious. "You said you came back to England from Lisbon."

Timothy turned his head in the direction of the voice and smiled. He had quickly ascertained that the youth they called Much, though far from stupid, was naive in some aspects of life. His was a gentle soul, and Timothy now responded in a gentle manner to the lad. "Lisbon is a city in another land called Portugal, across the seas south from here."

"Portugal," said Alan wonderingly, resting his chin on his hand and staring across at Timothy. He considered himself widely travelled, having lived in Normandy awhile - but this young blind man had travelled further than Alan had ever been - almost further than the limits of Alan's dreams. "It sounds a fair land. What is it like?"

Timothy began to talk in a burst of enthusiasm. He spoke of the wondrous ocean sea, the wide sandy shores where the large waves crashed upon the rocks, and where sardines were laid out on racks to dry. He spoke of the heat of the Portuguese sun, the warmth and vivacity of her sun-kissed people. He spoke of the river Tagus, up and down which many ships sailed, bringing in exotic goods from afar or setting forth on voyages of discovery. He told of the city of Lisbon itself and how it was spread out along the banks of the Tagus, the narrow streets and tall houses, cool with tiled rooms within. The jumble of shops that sold all manner of things; the markets with their piles of exotic fruits, some of which he had never smelt and felt and tasted before living in Lisbon; the tumbles of soft sweet scented flowers which cascaded from tubs and pots and seemed to overhang the rails of every balcony.

He told of the cool echoing interior of the Cathedral and the castle on the hill where the Princess Mafalda's court presided, and he described the hot hills above the city; slopes clad in prickly gorse and cluttered with gnarled twisted olive trees that were hundreds of years old. He spoke of the social life in the city, all the religious days fervently celebrated, the feasts at court he had cooked for and other feasts held in town at the grand houses of the rich Portuguese merchants that he and his master had visited. He spoke of the merriment of such feasts, the sweet wine and the sweet maidens with their lissome forms and rose and jasmine scents, always ready to dance and laugh with him.

And as Timothy spoke, Tuck saw his face take on a contented faraway look. His face tilted further back, his eyes kept closing, smiles kept chasing across his face. Tuck smiled to himself, reading the signs. Timothy was happy. He had loved Lisbon. As he talked, it was almost as if he was still in the place that he had come to love so much. The glory of Lisbon was his to remember.

The company around the fire listened as the glories of another country described by a man blind since birth unfolded before their eyes.

"You tell of your time there so well that I almost feel that I've been there with you," Alan said as Timothy's tales ceased to flow. "Truly it seems a wonderful place."

"There was hard work to be done there, also." Timothy reached for his beaker of ale set before him on the hearth to slake his thirst. "And I worked hard. The palace kitchens were forever a- bustle. Noisy and crowded and hot. But, being a master cook is my chosen profession, and the good aspects of it far outweigh the bad."

Will, from where he sat across the fire with the aleskin near at hand, watched the blind man thoughtfully, feeling in rare reflective mood. So this was the Sheriff's son. And yet, this man posed no threat. If anything, he was more like an ally of theirs, judging by the tone of his voice when he had spoken of his father, Will thought. If there was one thing clear about Timothy, it was that he had no regard for his father.

Will thought briefly of his own father Edward, remembered vaguely through the mists of looking back through time. Edward, a big drunken sot of a man who had often clipped his mouse-like mother Joan and set his belt to Will's backside and those of his brothers, the sprawl of unruly sons that they had been, growing up in the crowded low-roofed house in Southwark, where his father had worked as a tanner. And one day when Will had been nine, Edward had disappeared. Will could still remember the last time he had seen his father; seeing his large outline pausing in the doorway of their home through which sunlight flooded, before fading away out into the street beyond, staggering a little, one hand clutching an ale flagon.

He had disappeared. Days later, they had found that he had fallen drunk into the Thames and had drowned that same night he had disappeared, and his bloated body had been washed up at Wapping and been buried there. Will's mother, despite all the beatings his father had given her, had wailed for days, distractedly carrying around on her hip the latest addition to the family, seven month old Henry.

Will had felt emotion at Edward's death at the time, for at nine years old, your father was after all your father, but now with the distance of time, he felt absolutely none. The best thing Edward had ever done for him was to serve as a reminder to Will - especially when he had taken too much drink - was not to become like him. He had never clipped his wife Elena.

Will understood what it was like to have no regard for ones father, and he watched Timothy now and nodded a little in thought to himself as he cast his critical eye over the man. Timothy seemed to have his own agenda for de Rainault, and Will did not blame him in the slightest. Indeed, Will hoped that the man would make de Rainault suffer if he managed to come across de Rainault. Timothy seemed an unlikely assassin - but who knew? - Will thought with some satisfaction.

Timothy listened to the people around him, sensing all too well their descent into reflectiveness now he had finished speaking of Portugal and Lisbon. Silence had crept over the fireside company; even Tuck beside him was still, was quiet - his silence smacked of pensiveness. "Everyone's very quiet," Timothy said wonderingly now out to the people around him by the fire.

"Thinkin'," Will replied gruffly, and took a swig from the ale skin by his side.

"Of Robert?" Timothy asked gently, suddenly feeling an intruder indeed into this group of people.

"Aye," John replied soberly. "Thinking of Robert." And he shot a look across at Rhiannon who had her dark head bent over Ellie and who was silent.