Post of the Month

~ March 2011 ~

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Merries/Timothy ~ Written by Siiri, Rhys, Gwyn, Annie, Angela.  Posted on the HoS Yahoo group July 2009.

Much was staring into the flames of the cook-fire, trying to find pictures in the mysterious lights. Robin had used to see pictures, he had said - Much remembered him saying it, long long ago once, when they had both sat here.

_"What do you see?"_ Much had asked him, curious and enchanted.

Robin had shrugged and been evasive. _"Just things."_

Now Much thought that if he looked long enough and hard enough into the flames, maybe he would see something too. Maybe the pictures in the flames could tell him where Robert was.

Where he rested his hand on his chin and stared into the heart of the fire, he gave a slight sigh. He had returned from his search some time ago, to find everyone bar Nasir back at camp, and no-one having any news of Robert. No new trails of where he could be. He had looked in Rhiannon's desperately hopeful face as he had returned, and had hated confessing that he had found nothing, either. Nothing good, and nothing bad.

They had eaten by the cookfire the meal that Timothy had produced and had been a strange, quiet, reflective group as they had ate. Much's stomach was now full, and so was his mind - full of his search the past day, full of absorbing all the news that the others had given out about their own searches this day. And still full of this stranger who had arrived at camp yesterday.

Timothy, the blind man. Timothy, the Sheriff's son. Hard to think of him as the latter. Much studied Timothy where he sat. He sat alone on the log by the fire, resting his hands on the silver knob of that long-guiding stick, silent and pensive, clearly listening to the camp all around him.

_I wish he were Robert,_ thought Much simply. _I wish we could swap one blind man for another._

He glanced over his shoulder to where Rhiannon sat under the oak tree at the edge of camp, rocking a drowsy Ellie to sleep.

Rhiannon caught Much's glance at her, and gave him a reassuring smile, but felt far from reassured herself.

Poor Much. He had hardly known what to say to her upon his return to camp.Returning with no news, no fresh lead as to where Robert could be. Feeling like he had failed her. He hadn't failed her - none of them had, thought Rhiannon now, as she watched the little knot of men grouped round the glow of the campfire across the clearing.

Where she sat in solitude with her child, she looked down at her daughter. Ellie's eyes were closing, she was drifting off to sleep. Rhiannon felt the little forehead and was relieved to find it was cool. The bright patches had vanished from Ellie's cheek and she no longer seemed fractious from the pain of cutting the tooth. It had come fully through now, like the first little pearl in her mouth, and she wished Robert was beside her to feel it.

She watched Timothy where he sat, and managed a smile to herself. A good man, Tuck had said he was, and now she believed the friar. Aye, he was the Sheriff's son, but she could not hold him to account for all that his father had done; killing Ailric and then Loxley. She found she did not want to.

She thought about her father Ailric, the man she had never known. He must have killed plenty of soldiers in his time as a rebel, yet she should not be held to account for those deaths. Timothy was just the same. She and Timothy had not asked to be the children of who they were; they had not asked to be born to the heritage their fathers had created. Yet she was nothing but glad that she had been born, and she knew enough about Timothy by now to know that he felt the same.

Ellie had gone to sleep, little fists curled. She murmured softly as Rhiannon laid her gently down in the nest of soft woollen blankets in the rush basket that served as her cradle, and then settled down into a deeper, peaceful sleep. Rhiannon had no wish to move the basket for fear of waking her child, and no wish to leave her side whilst she slept, so she remained where she sat by the basket, and watched the camp fire across the clearing, and was quiet, lost in thought, processing all the events of the past day.

Where he sat stretched out by the hearth, nursing a horn beaker of ale cupped in one hand, John was watching the fire too. The flames danced in his eyes, sending glowing ash flying into the air, which floated upwards. Across the clearing, fireflies were heralding the twilight, stitching airy symbols; an eldritch pattern against the growing gloom. Above the treetops that surrounded the camp, the skies were streaked cerulean and amber, the clouds, burned by the dying sun, were gilt edged. The trees that surrounded the camp were beginning to take their nocturnal shapes, trying on shadows of softest velvet, cloaked in leaves of the deepest green; the raiment of summer mystery.

Almost Midsummer, thought John.

He still felt disturbed by his recent memories of his time under the Baron de Belleme's spell. Even sitting here by the fire with ale did not entirely soothe those memories brought to the surface. He could not speak of them to the others. Leasteways, not to Scarlet, or to Much. Scarlet didn't understand things like that, and Much and the lass looked too vulnerable this evening to be further worried by John's speculations that maybe, just maybe, the Baron de Belleme was involved in Robert's disappearance. John supposed he could confide in Tuck but perhaps Nasir was the best one to speak with privately. However, the Saracen had not yet returned to camp, so unburdening his worries to a person who would understand would have to wait, thought John.

Meg. He thought briefly about Meg. First full day as a mother. He wondered how she was coping. He remembered his younger siblings being born - his own mother had not had a minute to herself.

I should go and see Meg, thought John, and then felt uncomfortable at the thought, and then pushed the thought away and took a draught of his ale as if he could swallow down the discomfort also.

He glanced sideways at Alan who sat beside him. Alan sat cross-legged, hand on chin, gazing into the fire too. Dreaming, thought John, recognising the look on the minstrel's face. He envied Alan that ability - to drift off to other times and places. Scarlet scoffed at it, but John didn't. He felt that ability was what enabled Alan to sometimes be so serene, so calm, even in the face of bad times. Since joining the outlaws a year ago, Alan had brought with him a rare sense of peace which often could stretch to the others of an evening like this.

Alan nursed his own beaker of ale, but had little interest in it. Absently he watched the flames of the fire, and Scarlet, whose head was bent over sharpening his dagger with his whetstone, but his mind was full of Jenet, and all that Timothy had told him earlier this evening.

He should have known that Jenet planned a terrible form of self-defence against any further action by Gisbourne. He knew her well enough by now to know that beneath the quietly-spoken manner, there beat a fiercely determined heart. Now he realised, through Timothy's words to him earlier, that Jenet had played down Gisbourne's advances on her when she had spoken of it briefly to him at Meg's the previous day.

It had been more than bumbling advances; it had been a serious attempt at rape, Alan realised now.

He rubbed his hand across his face and continued to stare into the fire. He tried to think what to do, but found his loyalties conflicted. Jenet clearly needed looking to - but Robert needed to be found....or what had become of him needed to be discovered. There was no proof yet that Robert was dead, and until they had that proof, there were acres of Sherwood and the outlying areas to search. Alan felt torn; between the woman he loved, and the man who was like a brother to him.

Timothy was listening to the quietness of the people around him.

The forest was like another presence added to those of the people round the cook-fire. The evening songs of sleepy birds echoed softly in his ears, the occasional waft of the breeze blew against his upturned face. He felt, rather than heard, the gentle exhalations of the earth going to sleep beneath his feet. And the wavering scent of woodsmoke drifted across everything like a sigh.

Timothy felt uneasy. He had been sitting in a gentle faint warmth, here on the log, but now it was gone, and he swung his uplifted head restlessly to himself, casting his face about in the hopes of catching that faint warmth with it once again, but to no avail, and its disappearance unsettled him.

No-one else was sitting on the log beside him, no-one was near to touch. Tuck had gone down to the lakeside to scrub out the wooden bowls they had eaten the sundown meal from, and his absence from the camp further unsettled Timothy. There was now no familiar warmth of the sun upon him and no familiar pattern of Tuck's movements and sounds around him. There was just this group of strange, still, solemn people he really still did not know and could not be completely sure of.

Timothy bowed his head, fingering the familiar shape of the engraved metal knob of his guiding stick he rested his hands on; it was about the only true familiar thing in his surroundings to touch. He suddenly felt completely exhausted at coping with the unfamiliar. Everything around him had continually been unfamiliar ever since he had left Lisbon three months ago; unfamiliar routes to follow, unfamiliar surroundings to navigate, unfamiliar people around him to learn about and gauge the moods of.

So it had always been, and for Timothy that was a natural way to live, for a blind person never stopped exploring and learning to adjust to different environments they entered for the whole of their life - but in the past three months he had been plunged into exploration and adaptation on a hugely larger and more intense scale, as he had boarded the merchant ship at Lisbon and arrived in Southampton and from there had walked North to Nottingham.

He had lived in Lisbon for three years, and it had become like a comfortable and familiar cloak wrapped around him, Timothy realised now. His guiding stick had known every curve of the cobbled streets in the city, every twist in the hard-packed earth and stone paths above the city, every cool stone-flagged passage and set of stairs in the palace of Mafalda that footsteps had echoed down. His fingers had known every brick in the wall behind the rows of ladles and slotted spoons and other cooking implements which had hung there at one end of the kitchens, above the shape of the cool marble worktops.

His ears had known every voice of those who worked in the kitchens and resided in the castle, his sharp awareness had recognised every pattern of movement, every touch to his arms and shoulders of the people around him when they spoke to him. He had not been just "the blind man" as Scarlet kept calling him, he had been Timothy, he had been "Cook", second in command to du Geusclin the master-cook, and had been addressed with respect, but most of all, with friendship.

Three months of exhausting travel, of never settling long enough anywhere for anything to really become familiar, was beginning to take its toll on him, Timothy realised now. His senses longed for somewhere to settle; most of all, they longed for Lisbon once more.

He lifted his head once more and listened to the silence of the people around him. Were they watching him? Could they see him? He could not tell, and felt disquieted. Sometimes, when people around him were as silent and still as this, he wondered whether he could be seen or whether he had become invisible. Whether he had somehow stopped existing to sighted people.

He listened for Tuck's approach back to camp, but could not hear him, and aware that his face was twitching with uneasy emotions, Timothy miserably swung his head to himself and briefly flapped his hand, wanting to comfort himself by feeling his own movement in this quiet space of a clearing filled with these solemn unfamiliar presences. It was when he felt the movement of his own body through space that he felt reassured that he could be seen, that he did exist. That he belonged, and was attached - connected - to this unfamiliar environment he was in.

Across the campfire, Will watched Timothy's behaviour, unperturbed. Robert often swung his head and pulled the occasional strange expression into nothingness. It was something the born blind did, Will had come to learn; for they could be strange creatures, closed off from sighted people's understanding of the world in some aspects. They had a very different concept of everything around them - from water to fire, to the far distance they could not touch, to things that were mysteries to them such as clouds and sunlight and colours. They had never completely learnt what Will termed normal behaviour because they had never seen. And so at times they reacted differently to the world around them. Strangely, responding to their blind instincts. But Will was used to the body language of someone born blind by now, and now he knew enough about it to recognise that Timothy was currently still feeling very uneasy being surrounded by them at camp.

However, that was for Tuck to sort, thought Will, watching Timothy. He'd made it plain enough to Tuck this morning that Tuck was responsible for Timothy whilst the blind man was at camp - and that included reassuring him. Will certainly didn't intend holding the hand of any blind man - and he felt sure Timothy didn't expect that kind of allowance.

Whatever else the Sheriff's son might be, Timothy certainly came across as a strong individual who did not want nor expect allowances to be made for him just because he was blind.

Will shook his head to himself, and drawing his dagger from his belt, began to sharpen it on the small whetstone his carried. It was habit more than anything, but it gave him something to do. The strong ale had warmed his belly, but he needed more than the false reassurance he knew strong ale could give him.

_What now, Will asked himself, frowning down at the dagger blade he sharpened. More searching tomorrow?_

Of course. That was the only logical answer. More searching, more villages to ask questions at. Sooner or later, something should turn up - some sighting, some information about Robert. If the Lincoln outlaws had him as a hostage or had killed him, Will had no doubt that there would be some public gloating and taunting by them sooner or later. The same went for Gisbourne if the knight held his half-brother Robert in Nottingham.

_Gotta be worth one of us goin' into Nottingham to find out what we can,_ Will thought now grimly as he continued to sharpen his dagger blade. _See what Gisbourne might be up to._

"Has the sun gone?" Timothy queried out to the quiet fireside at last, hoping for some measure of conversation. "I don't feel it anymore."

John glanced up from the depths of his ale-beaker he was nursing, to cast a cursory look over the sky above. "Aye, gone down over the trees."

"But it's not dark yet?" Timothy questioned.

John leant and with a long arm poked up the cook-fire with a long branch. "No, not yet. The day is slowly turning to dusk."

He did not sound as though he wanted to converse further, and Timothy fell silent once more. That strange middle ground the sighted called dusk. Timothy thought that dusk must be like luke-warm water against sighted eyes to see - neither hot nor cold. Hot and cold water mixed together to produce....a strange period of waiting. Waiting for the water to turn cold. Waiting for the land to grow dark, so they could sleep.

Across the fireside before him, Scarlet was sharpening a blade on a whetstone. A regular thin metallic scrape against stone. The short duration of each scrape told Timothy that the blade being sharpened was a small one - a knife or dagger. Not a sword. The sound produced more unease in him, just by the sheer deliberate repetitiveness of it.

Timothy suddenly jerked his head round to the sound of heavy footfalls tramping in the direction of the camp. One person, approaching the clearing away to his left and slightly behind him.

"It's only Tuck," Much said mildly as Timothy quickly twisted round where he sat on the log, leaning forwards to intently listen.

Timothy had known that long before Much had spoken. He followed the approach of the friar's footsteps as they broke through the bushes and into the camp some distance away on his left, and then they halted.

"Tuck?" Scarlet's voice sounded from the fireside across the clearing to where the friar had paused.

"Everything's quiet down by the lake," Tuck's voice answered across the clearing to them, and then to Timothy's disquiet, instead of approaching the campfire to settle, his footsteps headed on again, away from them across the clearing.

"Tuck, what are you doing, where are you going?" Timothy questioned with a touch of agitation, twisting further round where he sat on the log and turning his head to listen.

The friar's tramp across the clearing halted once again, and there came the dull clunk of small wooden objects knocking against each other, as though Tuck had shifted the burden he was carrying in his arms. "Going to put these bowls inside the cave - aye and see what is left in the way of food stores there."

Timothy sprang up and curving round the fireplace, avoiding the sitting forms there, hurriedly marched forwards across the grass to the due west of where he had been facing, sweeping his guiding stick before him. The ground was rough here, to the left of the campfire, by the trees, and he found himself in little explored territory, an area full of old rotting tree stumps and long grass and sprigs of bushes by the edge of the clearing. He stumbled several times in his hurry to reach Tuck through this maze of obstacles his stick kept knocking against.

Tuck watched with troubled eyes as the young man weaved towards him with a hurriedness borne of almost panic. "I'm here, Timothy." He reached out and took the hand that swept out in search from side to side ahead of Timothy as he drew near.

Having located Tuck, Timothy halted before him and ran his hand up Tuck's arm and over his shoulder in recognition, and it was then that Tuck saw the aura of agitation that surrounded Timothy like a cloak

Tuck's eyes travelled past Timothy to the small knot of men grouped around the fireside. Will was watching Timothy, and when Tuck's gaze met Will's, Scarlet shrugged, as though to say he had done nothing to cause Timothy's unease. What had gone on during his absence from camp?- thought Tuck. Not a lot, it seemed, but perhaps that was the very cause of Timothy's jumpiness. Timothy had always detested silence, for silence told him nothing. Uncommunicative people were very hard to fathom and to deal with.

He gently laid his hand against the side of Timothy's face in a gesture of affection, and looking into the young man's face, he saw the tension there ebb at the reassuring touch. Contact. That was all Timothy wanted.

It must have been a long, lonely journey from Lisbon, Tuck thought now for the first time.

"I was just going to put the bowls away in the cave and check on the stores," he repeated, as Timothy's searching hand travelled back down his arm and curiously fingered over the stacked shapes of the scrubbed clean bowls that Tuck held.

"Alan brought ale and bread from Skegby," Timothy said, feeling over the burden in Tuck's arm with both hands now, "and Much trapped a couple of hares on his way back to camp - I hung them in the cool of the cave against their preparation for a meal tomorrow. I'll show you where I put them, if you'd like."

Tuck smiled, put the smile into his voice, and with his hand still lain against the side of Timothy's attentive face turned towards him, stroked his thumb across Timothy's cheek. "We ate well this evening, thanks to you."

"It was the least I could do," Timothy replied seriously, still feeling over the bowls Tuck held, "you all expended much energy this day in your search and needed food to quickly fill your bellies upon your return; I had the means to construct such a fortifying meal due to my training. It's always wise for each of us to employ our own particular talents and pool them for the good of the group."

Tuck chuckled and stroked Timothy's cheek again in fondness. "You'd make a good outlaw."

Timothy gave a humourous smile. "At least my meal quieted Scarlet on the issue of my usefulness at camp."

Nasir pushed his way through the screen of bushes that hid the campsite from view, raising an arm to shield his face from the whipping branches. As he broke through their protective screen he halted suddenly, wared by the soft murmurings of an unfamiliar voice close by.

In the shadow of the rock-face that loomed before him he could make out Tuck's bulky figure and next to him, the shape of a stranger. The two men were deep in conversation, their silhouettes blurred against the face of the cliff and the dark mouth of the cave a few paces beyond them.

Nasir stiffened. The outlaws rarely allowed outsiders into their camps, it was safer that way. The man before him stood tall and straight backed. Not a villager from the clothes he wore nor the way he carried himself. Something in the way the man held himself, his face turned up as he and Tuck conversed softly whilst one hand felt over the bowls Tuck held in his arm and in the other hand a tall, thin stick...

The man was blind.

Nasir's eyes adjusted quickly to the grainy light of dusk. He took in the man's profile; black hair above the sweep of a wide brow, the slant of his cheekbone, the darker tone of skin that had spent time under a fiercer sun than an English one.

In a rush, his memories from earlier that day flooded through him. Maliq's voice, strong and urgent as he had hurried to impart his news to Nasir in that
one, all too brief, meeting in Aleppo echoed in his mind: "They locked your brother away in the Women's Quarters," Maliq had told him. "He tried to follow you, Nasir, learn what had happened to you."

His brother had tried to find him once. He should've known better than to think his stubborn and persistent brother would give up the search for him so easily.

Hassan.

Nasir's breath caught in his throat as he strode the few paces across the clearing to stare eagerly up into the face of the stranger.

"Naz...." Tuck began in surprise, glancing from he to Timothy as the Saracen drew up.

The scent of heavy, earthy, acrid smoke about the stranger hit Timothy like a wall as the man suddenly loomed up in his face - a scent which turned into a bitter taste, and caught at the back of Timothy's throat and at once flashed recognition into his brain. Memories of Lisbon two summers ago, gripped in the heart of the fever that he had told Rhiannon about only that afternoon.

Myrrh. It was burnt Myrrh. All that was suffering, mortality and sorrow. It had been used on a large scale in the mass funerals of the Moorish traders in the city below Mafalda's Palace, and the air had been choked and oppressed by the resinous, bitter smoke which had arisen from the burning of it.

There were other scents lingering about this stranger which also flashed across Timothy's initial perception of him - scents of sweat and old leather and forest, from brushing through ferns. Much the same as the other men of camp smelt. But the scent of the burnt myrrh, so out of place on an ordinary person, pushed those other scents to the background - Timothy's nostrils clenched in revulsion at both the scent and the memories of Death it provoked, his stomach turned over with sudden panic and he immediately recoiled a step back from the looming presence in alarm and against the comforting shape of Tuck's barrel chest, his heart thudding against his ribs. Who WAS this?

"Timothy - it's all right-" Surprised and puzzled by the young man's reaction, Tuck laid a reassuring arm about Timothy's shoulders and briefly hugged him sideways on to him, whilst looking across at Nasir. Tuck raised his free hand and tapped his forefinger a couple of times against the side of his face near the corner of one eye and shook his head slightly at Nasir, indicating to the Saracen that the young man had no sight.

Nasir barely took in Tuck's gesture. He had known the man was blind in the instant he had seen him. His gazed fixed on the strangers face, absorbing and comparing his features with the memories of eighteen long years ago. A man could change much in that time, although Hassan's features had already set into their adult planes before he had left Enfeh.

At close quarters, the similarities he searched for were not there. Hassan's face had resembled most their fathers with its deep-set eyes and hooked nose, where this man's features were straighter, his eyes a similar colour but not set deep into their sockets nor so heavily lidded. Disappointment flooded him. Hassan would be thirty five now; this man – this stranger – was far too young to be him. This could not be his brother.

"It's just Nasir - one of our group." Tuck secured Timothy's hand which was groping over Tuck's chest - trying to find the wooden cross Tuck wore, Tuck realised, and was puzzled why Timothy should suddenly want the shape of it in his hand for comfort.

Tuck gently applied pressure to Timothy's shoulders to turn him back fully to face the Saracen. "It's just Nasir," Tuck repeated, and taking Timothy's wrist, steered his wary hand forwards and touched Timothy's fingertips lightly against Nasir's left forearm in introduction, keeping them there.

Tuck's action, the touch of the young man's warm fingers against his arm, bought Nasir back from his shock. He took in the expressions that fleeted across the stranger's face. They reminded him sharply of Hassan when he'd been approached unexpectedly; and something more than surprise, Nasir puzzled, something deeper than simply being caught unawares.

He cast a quick searching glance at the friar. Timothy, that was what Tuck had called the stranger. The man was known to Tuck then. Whatever had passed during his absence from camp to bring this stranger here, Tuck showed neither worry nor trouble with it, Nasir realised. Appalled by his own rudeness for staring so long, he broke the sudden silence.

"Nasir ibn Mahmoud," he said, speaking his name formally and quietly, giving only the shortened version of his full title.

The name, and the accent about the quiet voice as it gave the name, flashed recognition into Timothy, and gave some clue as to why this presence seemed so different.

"You're a Moor..." he murmured, half to himself, and suddenly curious, ran his hand up the man's arm and across his chest in exploration, finding he wore a leather jerkin, unlike the other outlaws whose clothes were of cloth.

His fingers brushed against a thick flexible leather strap at one shoulder - intrigued, Timothy followed the strap's curving line up and over the man's shoulder - what was this strange contraption this man was wearing? There was something attached to his back, being carried..... Fascinated and eager to learn, Timothy lost his initial wariness with the stranger and slowly moved round him, running both hands across the mans' shoulders and back in search.

His fingers found two swords in scabbards carried on the Moor's back, and with both hands, Timothy curiously explored the way they were fixed there. Straps from the scabbard led over both shoulders and attached back to the scabbards under the man's arms, joining them together. The Moor carried his swords like he himself carried his own backpack on his travels, Timothy realised.

He slowly followed the lines of the scabbards with his fingers, downwards and then upwards, learning about them. Their leather was yielding, worn, and old, undecorated and unembossed, save for binding at the top of each scabbard; interested, Timothy fingered over the binding, finding it three fingers in width and made of some sort of plant twine, hardened with resin. He traced his fingers over the shapes of the sword hilts, one under each hand - the curve of the round pommels, the ridged hand grip wrapped with leather binding, and the cross guard. He ran his hands down both swords at the same time, learning how they were placed in relation to each other. The swords were slightly curved, their tapered ends not quite meeting each other where the small of the man's back began.

These were not English broadswords, these were lighter, deadlier instruments - and Timothy received the feeling that this man was very much a master of using them.

He stood for a moment behind the man, feeling over the swords, frowning to himself in thought, then slowly circled round to the man's front to face him once again, running his hands round over the Moor's shoulders and down his arms to locate and take up his hands for exploration.

The hands were square and possessed short blunt fingers, some coarse hair over the backs of them; Timothy turned first the left and then the right hand over in turn and curiously felt over the palms, eager for more clues to build up his picture of this stranger, but found both hands were empty. The fingers were bare of rings. The man's hands were yielding and passive to his exploration, there was almost an absent feel about them, as though his concentration was not focused on his hands but elsewhere, and Timothy felt sure that he was being as curiously studied by sight as he was curiously studying by touch.

He traced the lines of the stubby strong fingers, and recognised the stranger had a good strong grip. He was someone not to be trifled with in. The very shape of his hands and the underlying strength about them spoke that to Timothy.

He ran his right hand carefully up the Moors left arm and thence to his shoulder, and then up to the stranger's head and face to tentatively explore; the man made no protest. He possessed a full head of thick, loosely-curling hair that reached down to the nape of his neck. His face was somewhat long, and oval in shape; Timothy lightly circled his fingertips several times over the face before lingering them curiously over the eyes. Other people's eyes always fascinated him; eyes that had the mysterious skill of seeing. The man's eyes were round in shape and neither large nor small, nor far set nor close set, placed under well-shaped thick eyebrows. Timothy spread out his fingertips in further exploration across the man's face. A straight nose jutted down from a rather heavy brow line, and along the line of the jaw grew a thin well-shaped beard. Timothy passed his fingers over the man's lips and found the mouth to be relaxed, but not smiling.

Timothy frowned slightly to himself in thoughtful concentration as he felt over the man's face. Watchfullness. Was that the right word for the expression he felt on this strangers face right now? He did not understand watchfullness in any sighted sense but yet still felt he could recognise it on the faces of the sighted - something in the way the face tensed across the cheekbones, and the way the shape of the eyes narrowed. He fingered carefully over the blinking eyes again, particularly at the outside corners, feeling tiny twitching movements there that told him that the man's eyes were moving around. Seeing. Watching. Taking in information. The rest of the man's face was very still, almost impassive, and Timothy suddenly gained the keenest sense that he was being intently observed, in a strange way that went beyond mere curiosity because he was blind.

As the young man's hands roamed over him, Nasir held himself still. He knew what it meant to a blind person to explore with touch what they did not see, how vital it was to this young stranger, that he be allowed to get his own measure of the man before him, in the way that Nasir had measured him with his eyes. But the disappointment that this was not his brother lingered and the touch of the stranger's explorative fingers, especially as they travelled lightly over his face, was unbearable - so familiar and yet unfamiliar was that touch. He did not want to be here, longed to be back out in the forest, alone, to deal with the surge of hope that had engulfed him. He forced himself to remain under Timothy's inquisitive touch.

The man stood still - calm, Timothy realised, unprotesting at being explored by a blind man - rather like Scarlet had been on their first meeting - but yet.....there was a stiffness, a guardedness about his body and his very being, and Timothy frowned afresh to himself, for he sensed that the stiffness was not due to feeling awkward around a blind man, but caused by something else. Timothy couldn't fathom it, and he swung his head to himself in perplexity.

He dropped his hand from exploring the man's face, and ran his fingers back down the man's left forearm, and paused them there, wanting to keep in contact with this stranger to try and read him as they spoke.

"There were Moorish traders in the markets at Lisbon," Timothy said at last, by way of an explanation, breaking the silence between them.

Lisbon. That then explained this young man's tanned skin and darker complexion. Nasir had travelled in that part of the world, although not to the city itself. Still, he felt puzzled. There was no trace of an accent from that part of the world in the man's voice; if anything, he would have placed the slight, soft burr he could detect closer to home within the Shire of Nottingham. It would not have sounded out of place in one of the local villages, he thought.

The clothes the man wore did not fit that idea. They were plain and serviceable, a little dusty, perhaps from the journey that had bought him into Sherwood, but well cut and more suited to a town's man. Despite the trace of accent, the man was well spoken too. Curious, Nasir took in all this information and tried to place this man in the context of the larger world outside the forest.

The young man's mistake that he was a Moor was a fair one to make, for the Arab world was an extensive one, spreading itself far to the south as well as to the East. It was also an unusual mistake and showed that this man spoke the truth and had indeed been as far afield as Lisbon, for, in England, most Arabs were labelled Saracen no matter their origins, since the Crusades had made that term popular.

"My people come from the East, from the County of Tripoli," Nasir corrected him, aware of the light touch of the man's hand against his arm, there to keep contact with him, to try to gauge his mood, his reaction. So like Hassan, he thought and the ache in him grew.

"I am no Moor, but a Saracen," he said, his tone rougher than he had intended. It was a name he was proud to carry for it marked him a Nomad like those people of the great Eastern deserts whom he'd once travelled with. _And a Nomad still_ he thought to himself. Even within the confines of the great forest, the outlaws moved camp often, rarely returning to the same site twice unless, like this site, its safety and convenience were too great a lure.

Where he stood by Timothy, Tuck studied Nasir almost warily at this unusual voluntary yielding of information; in all the past six years he had known the man, he had never known exactly where Nasir had originated from, though he had known it be from near the Holy Land.

Timothy frowned slightly at the stranger's tone, all too well recognising the tint of correction about it. "Saracen, then. My apologies to you, sir."

Nasir kept his eyes all this while upon the young man's face, fascinated as the young man's eyes rolled in different directions from each other and then rolled back so that he appeared cross eyed. Unlike Robert's white pupils with their blue irises, this man's eyes were dark brown with black pupils, coloured like Hassan's own.

Robert had been restored to blindness, to his natural state, by the Powers of Light and Darkness and perhaps the oddness of his eyes were due to that restoration. Hassan had been born blind but Nasir had in the course of his travels met other blind people, most of them blind through old age, or through accident in later life. Most of whom regretted their blindness, thought of it as a bitter curse of darkness. With some their eyes barely moved, as though eyes that had once seen, lost all movement when they lost their usefulness.

"Why are you blind," he said, fascinated by the curious, roving eyes, so unlike Robert's and so like Hassan's as they moved sometimes as one, sometimes independently of each other.

"Timothy has been blind since birth," Tuck explained.

"Born blind and hope to die blind," Timothy said proudly. He knew that this statement from him often shocked or discomfited sighted people, who could not believe that he was proud and happy to be blind, and he wondered what effect it would have on the Moor - which was partly why he spoke it, to hopefully get some sort of reaction from this mystifying quiet person. He aimed a slight but still uneasy smile in Nasir's direction, the disconcerting scent of burnt myrrh still in his nostrils, his senses still working furiously to assemble this jigsaw of another strange person before him. Another person he must learn to recognise and get to know.

Nasir recognised the slight, unsure smile that crossed the man's features and puzzled at it. It did not appear that this young man had been shut away from other people nor forced to beg for a living and be shunned like so many of the blind were. He had learned some sighted gestures – a smile, a recognisable gesture to put one at ease, to help put a sighted person at ease. It was something Hassan had learned early on, how to convey sighted emotions by copying gestures that he could not see but could feel and learn from the faces of those around him. Brief smiles and frowns had come to him instinctively as an infant, but he had to be taught to hold the expression for longer, to direct it towards the person he was speaking to, so that they had time to register his pleasure or displeasure, his delight or confusion at what happened around him.

Unbidden, an image came to him: The courtyard of their house in Enfeh, their mother four years before her death, with Hassan seated on her lap. The servants and other women of the household crouched in a circle with them under the shade of the great cypress tree. Within the circle of women, a large heap of lentils lay on a board and the women chattered and laughed as they worked, drawing small piles of the dried green lentils toward them, their fingers separating each hard bead from the rest into yet another pile to ensure no sticks or stones remained in the lentils they would store, or cook later that day for meals.

It was boring work and Nasir, at six years old with no interest in the women's chatter, had disdained it as the elder son and taken himself off to one side of the group, to play with several pebbles that Sayida had painted for him. The pebbles, worn smooth by the sea that lapped at the base of Enfeh's cliffs, clattered against the sun bleached mud of the courtyard as Nasir cast them against it in a game of his own devising.

Lazy from the heat of the day, he glanced up from time to time at the others, watching as his mother gossiped with them, Hassan squirming in her lap. From time to time she would laugh or nod and smile and Hassan would turn to face her, two small fingered hands pulling her face toward him to feel over it, his own face twitching in response to her smiles and other expressions.

So Hassan had learned responses that had aided him in his interaction with sighted people, allowed by those who loved him to explore and discover the world about him in his own way. There was more here too, Nasir thought, reflecting on the young man's words. _ Born blind and hope to die blind_ A world of self confidence, a knowledge of self worth lay in those words. Had this man – this Timothy – struggled as Hassan had against a harsh father and an unforgiving society who thought that a blind or infirm child be best put out of its misery at birth?

Perhaps, perhaps not, Nasir wondered, but something in the determined set of the face before him, the meaning with which Timothy had spoken the words told its own tale of struggle even whilst this young man seemed to have learned much and been treated well by life.

Nasir glanced quickly at Tuck. There was a strange expression on Tuck's face as he watched Timothy. A fondness, something hinting at more than a casual acquaintance with this blind man. Tuck caught Nasir's glance at him and raised an eyebrow in silent enquiry, inviting him to speak his mind.

"How is it that you know Tuck?" Nasir said, curious at the play of expressions over the Friar's face.

"I was a foundling at Thornton Abbey, where Tuck in the main raised me. I could not be placed out to any foster family because no-one wanted a blind child, so I grew up at Thornton," Timothy said.

He ran his fingers down to the man's right hand and taking it up between both his, felt over it in exploration again. He turned Nasir's palm upwards, opening it, and traced a knowing finger across the callouses on the first and second fingers of that hand. "You draw a bow muchly, as well as plying your swords," Timothy observed.

Nasir was silent, absorbing the information about Tuck. He had lived side by side with Tuck for almost six years and had known of Tuck's life at Thornton for Tuck had mentioned it from time to time in passing. There had been passing mention of a blind child too, but Nasir had merely assumed this child to be an alms case at Thornton, someone who had briefly entered and then left the Abbey's care. He had not known that a born blind child had played so large a part of Tuck's life in orders.

He regarded Tuck through fresh eyes as if seeing him for the first time. The friar had lived a full and varied life before he had become an outlaw and he suddenly wondered why he felt so surprised to learn something new of his friend.

_Have I not secrets of my own_ he acknowledged _Things I have not spoken of to others because they are too close to my own heart?_

Only to Robert had he ever spoken of Hassan and the events surrounding his banishment from his family.

Realisation struck Nasir. If Tuck had helped raise Timothy, then his confidence and ability were not to be wondered at. It explained too Tuck's patient manner and the little ways in which he had often known how best to help Robert in the early days of his blindness. Nasir had thought this to be a part of Tuck's calling – the virtues of patience and understanding so beloved by Christ's followers - but it seemed that more had lain behind Tuck's knowledge of blindness and he digested this thoughtfully for a moment before giving Timothy an answer.

"The bow is as much for hunting as for protection," he said at last. The man's answers were disarming in their frankness and Nasir could not help warming to Timothy as the blind man's hands explored his own. "As you carry a dagger at your belt," he added, allowing the slight smile on his lips to sound in his voice, trying to inject a little ease into their meeting for he had not forgotten the reaction of horror and distaste that had caused the blind man to pull away from him when he had first approached him.

Timothy frowned again at the man's tone, uncertain whether there was a hint of patronising in it, and lifted his head proudly, whilst his hand went to the hilt of his dagger at his belt. "Aye, and you can be sure that I can use it for my protection," he replied stiffly,and swung away from the stranger, suddenly tired of being surveyed by him.

He was tired, he found - tired from lack of sleep whilst travelling into Sherwood, tired from having to learn his way around this new environment, tired of having to process a continual tidal wave of sensory information. Tired of dealing with strangers and tired of his abilities being judged and remarked upon.

He paused for a moment, and cast around the lay of the land before him with his guiding stick, seeking a clear path forwards, whilst he focused his ears on the low crackle of the cook-fire flames across the clearing. Then he confidently set off in its direction with a long and easy stride, purposely determined to display his ease around the clearing by now, particularly this area of it which was mazed by small tree stumps. His guiding stick on its sweep from right to left and back again missed detecting one of them in his path, and he caught his foot on it and stumbled - but recovered himself and marched determinedly on across the clearing.

"I don't know if you are hungry, Nasir ibn Mahmoud," Timothy said more easily over his shoulder to the Saracen as he tapped his way back across the clearing to the sounds of the cook-fire, "but I have left some of the meal I made today, and it is still hot in the cook-pot on the embers here."

Reaching the fire, his stick struck the circle of hearthstones surrounding it, and halting by the fire, Timothy swept his stick out across the area of raked-over embers in search of where he had set the cook-pot to keep warm. His stick clinked against iron, he ran its tip over the humped rounded shape of the cook-pot, recognising it, and then half-turned back to face the Saracen's direction and tapped the metal tip of his guiding stick sharply a couple of times against the side of the iron cook pot, making it ring. The rap was to be sure to get the Saracen's attention focused on the object he wanted the man to look at, for there was naught more annoying than sighted folk not being able to find what he wanted them to see, Timothy thought now.

"Here's the meal I made, should you wish it," Timothy spoke out to the Saracen with a formal pleasantness and not a little pride, and turning, felt out for the familiar shape of the tree trunk by the fire and finding it, resumed his previous seat there alone. He rested his hands on the knob of his guiding stick before him, and turning his face to the heat of the flames, listened to the slight stir of the company sitting round the fire.

Tuck looked at Nasir, not withut a little amusement, and clapping a brief hand on Nasir's shoulder in welcome as he passed the Saracen, continued on his original way over to the cave to stow away the scrubbed food bowls.

Taken momentarily aback by the sharp edge to Timothy's words, Nasir noted the familiarity with which the blind man had crossed the clearing and found himself a seat with the rest of the outlaws gathered there. Despite one small stumble, he had covered the distance with ease and Nasir narrowed his eyes in thought. How long had this man been here, he wondered, to have gained such a clear, internal map of the area? He knew Hassan would've needed some time to familiarise himself with a new place, to learn its dimensions and sounds and to anchor himself in a strange setting. Robert also recognised the lay of the land about him through a variety of sensory clues that enabled him to place himself; clues that took time to absorb and fit into the larger picture of their environment. This Timothy had not arrived here just this eve.

The sharp taps of the blind man's guiding stick still rang in the air as Nasir made his way across to the fire. He found he disliked the man's possessive air, the way he had asserted himself as the cook of the meal that awaited Nasir. Despite his hunger, he was tempted to refuse the offer.

Whilst they had talked, darkness had fallen further over the camp. The clear space of sky above the clearing was dusky blue, the sun gone from it now, but still sharing the last of its light and limning the edges of the few sparse clouds with silver. The trees knit their embroidery of silhouettes against it, the solitary beacon of a star caught in the tracery of branches above the rock face.

In the grainy dusk, Nasir passed his gaze around the hidden clearing, accounting for each member of the band of outlaws. The familiar shapes of John, Much, Will and Alan rested at the fireside. Rhiannon, set apart from the others, across the clearing under the large oak, sat with Ellie's sleeping basket at her side. The child was mercifully quiet, perhaps now asleep. There was no familiar blond head of hair. No Robert. Whatever had passed this day, he had not been found.

He skirted the fire and crouched beside John's long form, stretched comfortably beside the blaze, keeping a wary gaze on Timothy who sat across from him now upon the log as he did so. He had no doubt that Timothy knew where he, Nasir, had placed himself at the fire, nor that he was fully aware Nasir still watched him. Hassan had oft spoken of feeling the weight of a gaze upon him when he was studied or stared at by the curious. He recognised that he had caused this young man an offence. He could well believe that Timothy would wield his dagger effectively if given cause, as Hassan had learned to use a variety of blades under Maliq's patient tutelage. His fingers went briefly to his jacket where it lay over his collar bone. A long, but now faint, white scar remained there to prove how quick his brother could be with a blade.

And there were other ways to find your opponent than just by sight alone, Nasir thought wryly, for his own training with the Nizari had oft focused on training at night, when stealth was vital to survival and the eyes could not be relied upon. Sometimes, all it took was a slight waft of air against the skin to alert you to the presence of hidden danger. No, he had no doubts at all that this Timothy of Thornton could prove himself by the blade, but he would not set the man straight that he knew any different.

For a moment, he did not acknowledge Timothy`s words, his stomach battling with the urge to refuse a stranger's offer of hospitality at a fireside Nasir regarded as his own. At last, courtesy won and he said stiffly: "Thank you. I will eat presently." and turned his gaze about the fire, seeking out the faces of the others in the leaping shadows made by the flames.

Timothy turned his head in the direction of the Saracen's quiet voice, knowing well where he had settled - next to the giant John Little - but did not reply. Every so often, a snatch of the scent of burnt myrrh cut through the lighter scent of the woodsmoke rising from the fire and reached him, and it was still enough to make his nostrils clench in repulsion, and his stomach lurch from the memory of burning charred flesh in the funerary pyres in Lisbon that plague-summer. He swung his head to himself in unease, aware his face was twitching with all sorts of reactive expressions to the distasteful scent and the ruffled feeling he felt inside from the Saracen's brusqueness and presuming that he could not manage to wield a dagger in self-protection. Even now, he was well aware he was still being studied by Nasir ibn Mahmoud. It was more than just curiosity because he was blind - it was something more, and Timothy could not fathom what, and that in itself increased his unease of the Saracen.

John thoughtfully studied Timothy who sat on the log across the fire from him. He noted well the uneasy expressions crossing Timothy's mobile face and the tenseness about Timothy's fingers resting on the knob of his guiding stick. It had not been too dusky nor the men too far away for the fireside company not to be able to see and hear the initial interaction between Timothy and Nasir, and now John wondered at it - especially at the almost frightened way Timothy had immediately shrank up against Tuck...almost as if physically repulsed by Nasir. Before Timothy had even touched Nasir to learn about him.

Why? What had he sensed about Nasir that had frightened him, when he couldn't see the man? John scratched his head, totally bewildered, and glanced across at Will. Will caught his glance and shrugged silently back at him, but his keen gaze darted from Timothy to Nasir and back again. It was clear that the two men were wary of each other. Which was strange for Naz, Will thought, puzzled.

"Naz?" Much jumped up from his seat on the ground and came over to where the Saracen sat, and crouched on his heels before him, looking anxiously at Nasir. He asked the question that was on everyone's lips. "Did you find anything out about Robert, Naz?"

By the oak tree, Rhiannon stiffened, and laid her hand gently on the sleeping child by her side, and she stared through the dusk at the Saracen, both hoping against hope and fearing the worst - but she knew that if Nasir had found proof of Robert's death, he would have come to her first of all and told her.

Nasir looked into Much's hopeful face and shook his head. "I travelled out as far as Mansfield. Asked at everywhere along the way," he answered. "There was nothing."

At his quiet words, Rhiannon felt her heart sink lower, and she looked away and down at Ellie sleeping in the rush basket by her side. _How much longer must we forebear there being no news?_

The thought that they may never know any news of what had happened to Robert was almost too impossible to contemplate.

"Nuthin'!" Will spat out bitterly, disappointed.

Much where he still sat on his heels, propped his elbow on his knee and rubbed his hand wearily across his face. "We can't give up."

"There's no question of us giving up, Much," Alan said kindly from where he sat across the fireside.

Tuck returned to the fireside, and bending over the cookpot, spooned out the last of the stew into a scrubbed clean bowl he had retained, plopped a spoon and a hunk of bread into it, and leant to thrust it into Nasir's hands, giving him a stern look to take it and eat and not be childishly refusing Timothy's fare just because the man had rubbed the Saracen up the wrong way over a mere dagger and whether he was able to use it or no.

"Will and I went to Gedrick but there found nothing," Tuck said to Nasir, "they had seen naught out of the ordinary these past few days."

The Saracen cradled the bowl in his hands, glancing around the fire questioningly. "And elsewhere?" he said.

"I went to Skegby and lingered at the ale-house, listening to all the news and gossip, and there was much to be had, the alehouse being fair busy with travellers passing through, but there was no talk of anyone having seen anything suspicious on their way," Alan replied from where he sat.

"Nothing at Kirton, either. And I checked all along the stream to there, again," Much said miserably.

John looked at Nasir and shook his head. "Nothing here, either. Even though I went all the way to Blidworth. I circled back around Clipstone as I said I would, and I searched the thick forest there, but nothing. No sign of any camp, past or present, Lincoln outlaws or otherwise. If someone's holding Robert hostage, then they're not in that area."

"Sherwood's a big place," Will said grimly, "lots of places to hide. But we know all those places. We'll find him."

As the group fell into silence, Nasir absently spooned food into his mouth, making short work of the bowlful that Tuck had served him. During his return to camp, he had been apprehensive of what he might learn on returning. But deep within himself, he realised, he had held the hope that one of the others would have news, that there would be something to follow up, a solid clue of the right direction to begin searching for Robert. Instead they were groping in the dark, casting around for possibilities. What ifs. Might haves. They might cast around forever and still not set their search in the one direction that could yield fruit. It was a frustrating thought and he shoved it away, refusing to speak it aloud.

He dropped the untouched hunk of bread into the bowl, letting it soak up the last dregs of stew. The food was good, well cooked and seasoned, but sat heavily in his stomach which had passed two days with very little. Thoughtfully, he glanced across the fire, where Timothy sat a little apart upon the log. The warm firelight softened his features, casting much of his face into shadow so that again, Nasir could almost believe it was Hassan who sat there.

The young man's brooding silence irritated him. He could find nothing to say that might ease the way with him and smooth over whatever offence had been taken. Instead he rose, his spoon and bowl in one hand and set off to push his way through the screen of bushes that hid the way down to the lake, taking himself away from the stifling presence of the stranger.

John watched Nasir go and exchanged uneasy glances with Alan, then looked across at where Rhiannon sat under the oak across the clearing, head bowed in silent disappointment.

John scratched his beard in thought, then cleared his throat and making to his feet said casually; "I'll go and fetch some water from the spring," picked up the almost empty bucket on the hearth and left the clearing, heading in the same direction as Nasir.

Tuck's solemn eyes watched John go and then he looked at Will; Will just shrugged and stared glumly down into the beaker of ale he cupped in one hand.

Timothy turned his head uneasily to follow the giant's trail of movement past him and behind him, and then turned his head back to face the warmth of the fire directly before him, troubled, listening to the tramp of footsteps away from the camp and the rustle of bushes. What was everyone around him at the fireside doing? They were quiet, he could not tell. No-one spoke, yet Timothy sensed they were communicating to each other. Using looks and glances; using their eyes. It was a language he could not speak, and until they moved more or used their voices to speak, he would not be able to properly understand what they were doing, how they were feeling. In situations like this, a blind person may as well be set upon the moon, he was so far set apart from his sighted companions, and it was best to remain silent and observe as much as possible in order to gain clues.

Much rose to his feet, his face screwed up with despair. "We can't give up!" he repeated to the rest of the group.

"Much," Will said irritably, "We ain't goin' to bleedin' give up! So shut up!"

"But he's somewhere and maybe he's hurt an' maybe he's frightened!" Much burst out with. "Maybe he's been taken somewhere strange and he doesn't know where he is! That has to be frightening for someone blind, hasn't it?"

"Much," said Timothy gently out to the direction of the youth's anguished voice on his left, "wherever Robert is, whoever he's being held by....he's all right. Believe me. He may be in unfamiliar surroundings, but the born-blind are very adaptable. Trust me on this. He will be quickly learning about his new environment - as well as about any strangers who surround him and hold him captive, and he will be quickly learning to gauge their moods and how best to handle them to his advantage. Like me here with you," he added quietly with a trace of humour.

Much looked at Timothy, then moved over to the log where Timothy sat and sat down beside him and tentatively touched Timothy's arm. At the touch, Timothy turned to face him, his expression curious as to why Much had come over and offered contact. "Is it difficult for YOU, being blind and being somewhere strange and new, being here with us, people you don't know?" Much asked, desperately wanting to imagine Robert's situation and that it might not be as bad as he had been fearing. "Is it frightening?" He wondered if Robert was frightened and could not abide the thought.

Timothy gave a slight smile. "It's challenging, because there are so many of you here that are strangers that I have to learn to recognise, and this camp is strange and new to me and I have to learn to find my way around it and where everything is placed, and yes, that can be tiring - but I have never known any other ways of learning, and so it's second nature."

He hesitated. "Aye, I feel uneasy amongst you all sometimes, but I'm learning to recognise you all around me and read you all, even when you don't speak. Sometimes being here with you all is confusing, but no, it's not frightening."

He patted Much's arm in comfort. "You have to look at it from mine and Robert's perspective. We know no different from what we know. Therefore, blindness is not frightening for us. Is sight frightening for you? No. Robert may be feeling tired, like I am, from working all his senses to the full in order to quickly learn about new surroundings and people, and he may be feeling uneasy and confused at times, like I am, but no, I doubt that he's frightened."

It was a small shred of comfort that offered hope to Much - unexpected compassion from this near-stranger that he had both wanted and expected from his friends like Scarlet, who had not given him any and instead told him to shut his mouth.

He looked in Timothy's face and suddenly glimpsed there the weariness, the uneasiness and the confusion Timothy had spoke of Robert having. This man was feeling tired too; he was feeling uneasy and sometimes confused too. Much suddenly thought back to how Timothy had sat alone on the log this evening, no-one touching him, no-one wanting to make conversation - and how he had clearly wanted - needed - both. To be touched, to be spoken with. Timothy had looked lonely and out of place. Was Robert sitting alone on a log somewhere, not being touched or spoken to in friendship, feeling lonely and out of place?

Much's eyes filled with tears at the thought, and without speaking, leant and hugged Timothy fiercely to him.

Timothy was a little startled by Much's suddenly enveloping him in an emotional hug, but he did not mind; far from it. Being hugged by the warm arms of another person, whether a man or a woman, had always been a beautiful and reassuring thing to him, a way of speaking ones feelings, and Much was clearly speaking his now to Timothy through his actions.

So many things were being spoken by Much in this hug. His wanting to soothe Timothy's uneasiness, his wanting to soothe his own. His almost tangible heart-aching disappointment that the Saracen had returned without any news of Robert. He wanted Robert back in their midsts, he wanted Robert to hug, and somehow, in some strange way, he was using Timothy as a proxy; another blind man, Timothy realised. He didn't mind. He wasn't offended. This hug was half for him, half for Robert - and some part of it was for Much himself. The lad desperately needed comfort.

He wrapped his arms around the younger man's shoulders and hugged him back in comfort. "It will be all right," Timothy said quietly, his cheek against the side of the young man's head that had dropped down against his left shoulder.

"How do you know," Much mumbled.

"Because everything, whether good or bad, always passes." Timothy drew back a little from Much's hug a little and traced the fingers of his right hand lightly across Much's face. Much's eyes were blinking, his cheeks were damp.

"There isn't much in life you can rely on," Timothy said, carefully feeling over Much's face, "but you can rely on that. Things always pass. Good or bad."

He laid the flat of his hand against the side of Much's face, his thumb lain across Much's cheek, sensitive to any change of expression, like the upward twitch of the lips, and waited sympathetically for some response.

Much looked at Timothy. Their faces were more or less on a level and yet still not connected like they would be if Timothy was sighted; if he could see, his gaze would have been over Much's left shoulder. His unfocused eyes had their own aimless life of their own; they could not speak to Much. But the gentle waiting hand lain against Much's cheek spoke to Much; the hand against Much's cheek connected them. Timothy's hand was a substitute for his eyes, when it came to the giving and receiving of unspoken feelings. The eyes were blind, but the hand was not.

Very slowly and carefully, Much travelled his hand up the blind man's arm and shoulder and gently laid his own right hand against the left side of Timothy's face. He tentatively stroked his thumb across Timothy's cheek, the way he had seen Tuck do with Timothy, and watched curiously as Timothy instantly responded with a brief smile, understanding the touch as a touch of friendship, a touch saying more than words could.

And suddenly, gazing deep into Timothy's face, Much understood fully. This was the way to connect, this was what he should have been doing with Robert in the past year, this was what Robert had longed from him, not the shrug aside, and this was what he now wished he had done with Robert in the past year.

And he vowed to himself now that if Robert was ever before him once more, this would be how things would be, and there would be no more harbouring a grudge, no more distance. He would place his hand against the side of Robert's face, guide Robert's hand to place against his, and they would talk. Say the things that should be said. And the things that could not be said but which could be communicated usually with the eyes could instead be communicated through their hands laid against each others cheeks.

And it had taken him this other blind man - a stranger - to understand fully, thought Much, and wondered at it.

"I know I unsettle people here," Timothy said quietly to Much, "because I must have some ways very similar to your blind leader. Watching me must constantly remind you of him and stir you up something greatly."

"Not me," Much said simply, looking into Timothy's face wonderingly, "you don't unsettle me. You help, and you probably don't realise how much."

A smile crossed Timothy's face and he traced his thumb across the shape of Much's cheek. "I'm glad."

He lowered his hand and sought in the leather purse at his belt. He drew out two bone dice and showed them to Much on his palm with a smile in his direction.

"Here," said Timothy, "I'll give you a game of dice. Howabout Hazard?" He descended to sit on the ground by the log, feeling before him on the ground to find a flat enough piece of earth on which to cast the dice, and finding one, patted the ground beside him in invitation for Much to join him.

The lad needed some diversion to take his mind off the past day - and what might be brought on the morrow, thought Timothy. Come to that, he did, too. He was not sure now what being at camp would hold for him, now with the unexpected mix of the Saracen within it. Who clearly was as suspicious of him as he was of the Saracen - and more. That scent of myrrh - that scent of death still lingered in his nostrils. First impressions of someone were always wrought by his sense of smell and hearing. The way someone touched him.

He wondered briefly now what it was like to have first impressions made of someone purely by sight, with all other senses mainly blocked out in favour of sight, as he knew by now that that was the common experience of sighted folk. Would he be feeling any different about Nasir or even more strongly the way he was now?

Much hesitated, then rubbed his face and descended to sit by Timothy. "All right." he made an attempt to bright and patted Timothy's arm, letting him know where he was. "You throw first."

Timothy smiled and cast the dice on the patch of dry bare earth between them, and then felt over it to find where the dice had fallen and examine the dots with a fingertip. Much watched him and did not call out the numbers, but let him find and examine the dice for himself. Robert had always hated being told the numbers, preferring to find and read the dice for himself - including when others threw them, so ensuring that they were not cheating, Much remembered with a sudden smile of remembrance to himself.

Tuck where he sat, had been watching the whole interaction not wanting to interrupt. Any sort of friendship Timothy could form with any of the outlaws and allay their suspicion of him, was only to the good. It seemed Rhiannon over the past day had been won over by him - and now Much seemed eased. John and Alan seemed fairly accepting. But Will even now watched Much and Timothy play dice with a wary expression - and Nasir....Nasir was a law unto himself. Tuck shook his head slightly to himself in thought, thinking of Nasir's reaction to Timothy. There was something behind that....he did not know at all what....but he would like to find out.

He frowned slightly to himself, watching the dice game, as Much threw and bettered Timothy's score, and Timothy felt out over the earth to find and read the dice for himself. Where had Timothy learned to play dice? Such games had been strictly discouraged at Thornton - and yet now Timothy played Hazard as though he was perfectly knowledgeable about it - and was with other dice games, Tuck was sure. Otherwise why would he be carrying dice in his purse?

Lisbon was probably where he had learned it, Tuck supposed. He wondered now how licentious a place Lisbon was, and what else Timothy had learned that was not of his upbringing at Thornton Abbey. He had spoken of his lover... Of that, Tuck was not surprised. Timothy was a handsome man and a charming one, when he put his mind to it, and Tuck knew enough of women by now to know that Timothy's blindness would prove almost an additional attraction to them, as in a strange way, it made him exotic to them.

At least he seemed only to have the one lover in Lisbon and wanted to marry her, Tuck thought, watching Timothy. That was something. Assuming he made it back to Lisbon safely. But it was clear he would not go until he had seen the Sheriff and received the answers he wanted, and knowing how stubborn Timothy could be, Tuck feared for the young man who was like a son to him.

Perhaps it was best not to look too far ahead into the future and consider all its possibilities and outcomes, but to stay in the present, Tuck thought. Live for the moment.

He subsided by the fire with his own beaker of ale, and watched the dice game unfold.