Post of the Month Jul 2008

Where he stood amongst the fringe of trees near the village of Maybury , Robert tilted his head to listen to his surroundings.

Upon leaving camp, he had travelled north east, initially following the stream which led to Maybury and which eventually ran past the village. But having heard distant voices across the forest and the sound of a horse and cart, he had turned away from the stream at the shallow crossing and instead followed the small deer trail which was fringed with tall bracken, knowing that if he heard anyone else, he could drop down amongst it, lie still and be hidden from view as they passed. He was fairly sure that what he had heard was merely the sound of a few travellers passing along the East road nearby, which was a track suitable for cart travel, but it was always best to be on his guard.

But he had met with no-one so had tapped his way leisurely along, following the narrow path of massed ruts in the ground, his stick swishing into bracken on every sweep both left and right. Then the deer trail had widened, had started to peter out, the bracken had melted away and the close clustered trees had thinned out. Robert had smelt smoke, heard a dog barking in the distance, and a goat bleating, and had recognised his destination.

Finally he had reached the fringe of the trees where the warmth of the sun played delicately over his face in time with the leaves rustling overhead. And now where he stood, his shoulder against the knotted trunk of a wide beech, his guiding stick drawn up close against his body, he stood still and listened, turning his head from side to side and scanning over the large open space he could sense before him, casting all his senses out like a net to gather every single scrap of information and to bring those scraps back to him to fit the disjointed pieces of puzzle together to create the whole picture of sound and scent. He knew he was hidden from view, here in the shadow of the trees, and so he took his time to closely examine his surroundings and put together that picture.

The small stream murmoured and burbled past, some way ahead of him. Robert lifted his head and listened beyond its sounds and heard children talking and splashing further downstream to his left. They sounded at ease and happy. Beyond the children's laughter on the other side of the stream's music came the sounds of the village itself; the bleating of the goat, the regular ring of anvil on hammer echoing across. Robert frowned to himself in concentration as he listened.

There seemed to be nothing out of the ordinary in Maybury. The village was quiet in the early evening, and the smell of smoke and pottage hung in the air. There came the sounds of a man driving his cow from the direction of scrubland, but movements of both man and beast were calm and unhurried. Robert listened carefully, idly fingering the shaft of his guiding stick where it was drawn up against him. Maybury seemed peaceful in the approaching evening, and the people of the village seemed calm. Gisbourne may have been here the day before, but there seemed no agitation now.

Sweeping his stick before him, Robert stepped away from the tree and walked forwards, heading for the sound of the stream that seperated him from the village. When his stick came into contact with the edge of the bank, he turned left and followed the stream along, sweeping his stick from side to side over the rough grass. It met the two thick logs lashed together which served as the bridge over the water.

He crossed the bridge, clicking his stick from side to side over it to keep in the centre, suddenly aware that now he was on the bridge, he had been seen by the children further downstream.

"Robin in the Hood!" There came an excited exclaimation and a flurry of movement towards him; Robert grinned and turned his head in the direction of the movement as the small knot of children approached.

They clustered around him as he stepped off the bridge; he halted and putting out his free hand, found their assorted shapes arrayed before him. He quickly and lightly ran his hand over the heads and shoulders of varying height in front of him; there were giggles as he did so and an interested curious air about the children as he touched them in friendship and gathering information. They were still not completely accustomed to Herne 's Son being a blind man but had long since accepted him as such. Better than some of the adults of the villages around had at first, Robert thought now wryly to himself.

"There's been no trouble here this day - no soldiers?" Robert was quick to gather the information he needed from the children of Maybury.

He was met with a small chorus of negative answers, and further reassured, he stepped forwards extending his guiding stick; the small group of children parted out of his way and he gained a sense of curious awe from them as he swept his stick over the ground in search ahead of him.

Robert found the potholed stone track that led away from the bridge and headed smartly along it towards the centre of the village, the children tagging along behind him. excited and whispering amongst each other.

Most of the cottages of Maybury were situated along either side of this track, and as Robert walked along the track, he was aware of the dwellings to either side of him, appearing as patterns which blocked off the space of the fields and meadows which surrounded the village. The scent of smoke and pottage hung even heavier in the air here - and beyond it, in the distance, he suddenly smelt rain.

He halted on the stone track once he had passed several of the cottages and stood, turning his head to scan blindly around him, sifting the space around him for sound and movement. Some villagers had come to the doors of their cotts, some had ventured outside but they were a jumbled blur of quiet movement.

"Where's Geoffrey?" Robert asked the knot of children who had followed him and who had now planted themselves in front of him again; he was aware of them staring at him with fascination. "Go and fetch him."

Two children ran off to the East of the village where the villagers strips of land were. Robert drew his stick up against him once more, and resting his hands on the top of it at chest height, patiently stood and waited, turning his head slightly to listen curiously to all the slight shifts of movement and sounds around him, forever alert. None of the villagers approached, none made any attempts at conversation with him, and he made no attempts to make conversation with them, either. He was well aware that most villagers found him peculiar, and the only remedy for easing their wariness would be time. The more they saw him, the more accustomed to him they would be, he reasoned.

He waited and listened.

In the meadow nearest to the village, Geoffrey scythed the final clump of grass on the strip he worked. His muscles rippled in response to his even movements as he swung from the waist and the last of the grass fell. He crouched on his haunches, using the wooden handle of the scythe as support, and drew up a handful of the long, green stalks.

They had ripened perfectly and would make good fodder for the animals over the winter. He nodded in approval. The more hay and the better its quality, the more animals the villagers could afford to keep alive over the winter months – as food for themselves, to sell and also to breed more livestock from for the next year. Even a harsh winter passed easier with the thought that you had plenty to start over with for the next year.

He let the stalks tumble from his fingers and stood, shielding his eyes against the lowering sun to check on the activity going on about him. The air was hazy with the dust and scent of newly cut grass, underlain by clover and pasture flowers that had also fallen before the scythes. Through the heat came the murmur of voices from others nearby. Only a few people worked with him as many of the villagers had gone to carry out their share of Maybury’s week work, mowing the Sheriff’s own fields and setting his hay to dry.

_That will be our next task here_, Geoffrey thought, as he surveyed the meadow field, only that morning covered with rippling green as high as his waist. The hard work of fluffing and turning the hay over and about for several days, to let the wind and sun dry it, was still to be done before they could cock it into domes and leave it to stand until needed.

He rolled his shoulders, cramped slightly by the day’s labour, and turned to Agnes who followed someway behind him, drawing a rake over the grass he had felled. With easy, practiced movements she lifted and turned it, then shook the clumps apart to untangle them.

Their two youngest children played nearby, Edith mimicking her father’s scything with a stick she had found, whilst Harald sat happily on a pile of mown grass building a nest around himself. Geoffrey smiled fondly at them both and then at his wife who had paused in her own work to judge how much she had left to do.

"We caught it just in time," she said, tilting her head to gaze above them. The cloudless sky was pale blue, lightening to a hazy yellow where the sun had begun its descent to the horizon, but Geoffrey’s nose told him that rain was on its way.

"Aye," he agreed, making his way across to her. Her hair had worked loose from the cloth that kept it out of her face, strands of grey standing clear against the brown curls. Grass had caught in it and in the wool of her dress and he lifted a hand to brush flecks of green from her cheek. Slipping an arm about her waist, he pulled her against him. "I remember another hot summer’s haymaking, not so many years ago, and a young maid with hay in her hair…" he teased softly.

Agnes raised her eyebrows at him. "’Tis usually too much ale makes you talk like that," she said tartly. "But I’d reckon ‘tis more like too much sun today."

"Can’t a man say somethin’ nice to his wife once in a while?" he answered, enjoying the feel of her against him.

Agnes held herself close to him for a moment then pushed him away. "Get on with you…I still ‘ave work to do, even if you’re done." She laughed and bent to her raking.

Grinning, Geoffrey stepped away from her and returned to surveying the field where it sloped gently down to the village. Maybury stood quiet in the heat below him, two lines of cotts bordering the track between, columns of smoke rising here and there to drift in the slight breeze.

His gaze roamed wider and fell to the barley field where stood the stump of the tree that Gisbourne had fined them for cutting down. The loss of the crops demanded by the steward was not too much of a burden, but the demand of money was a problem. Silver was hard enough to come by and three days gave them scant time to decide what to sell out of their precious livestock or food stores and to find a buyer with cash.

Thoughts of Gisbourne made him grimace. The Sheriff was a hard enough task master and expected much in the way of labour in his own fields from Maybury, but at least de Rainault appreciated the need to keep his villagers in food and livestock of their own – they were useless to him half starved and weak. Geoffrey was not so sure that Gisbourne appreciated that fact. The threat that he would distrain their tools if the fine was not met would cause serious hardship to the village.

Hearing his name called, he shook aside the thoughts and watched two small shapes hurtle towards him – even at this distance he recognised the brothers Job and Selwyn. Job, the elder of the blacksmith’s sons at ten years, easily held the lead, whilst Selwyn bent his head and pumped his arms furiously as he struggled to catch up with his brother.

Job came to a halt beside Geoffrey and turned, laughing.

"Beat you," he called.

Selwyn, red faced from exertion and puffing louding, skidded to a halt then threw himself onto the ground as his chest heaved in a dramatic display of exhaustion. He glared at his older brother. "You had a head start," he panted.

"Did not," insisted Job. "You just can’t take losin’."

"Did too…I weren’t ready when you shouted go…"

Geoffrey held up a hand to end the bickering and cast a firm glance at Job. Not the least bit contrite for stirring up his younger brother, Job grinned at him, his untidy brown hair dampened with sweat at the edges.

"You’re wanted down in village," he said. "Robin I’ The Hood has come."

Geoffrey noted the excitement and awe in the lad’s voice. The village boys liked to play at outlaws, thought it a glamourous life in contrast to their own where they were destined to be fettered to the fields as they grew. He could not blame them for that, or for making pretend bows and playing at shooting soldiers…as long as they did not play such games when the real soldiers came about and saved their real arrows for Sundays, when they were required by law to learn the skill of a bowman.

He nodded at the news, called to Agnes that he was heading back down-field, and sent the boys to help her finish the last of her raking. Then, drawing up his scythe, he set himself off down the meadow slope, brushing his clothes down as he went to free them from seed and grass stalks.

As he left the field and came upon the stony track that the cluster of cotts sat against, he could see Robert standing upon it further down, seeming at ease, his hands rested upon his stick. Dressed in a light green shirt and brown jerkin, the man blended easily against the line of trees some distance behind him. A bow curved over his shoulder and a dagger rested at one hip. At the other rested a sword and Geoffrey recognized it as Albion . The symbol of Herne ’s faith in this man; Herne ’s son.

Curiously, he watched the movement of Robert’s head slowly from side to side as though scanning the area. A huddle of children stood nearby. A few people stood outside their cotts staring at the blind man as they pretended to keep their hands busy at their work. Maybury was quiet bar the ringing of a hammer against an anvil and the call of the sheep penned nearby, but to Geoffrey – tuned to the feel of his people – the supressed excitement was plain in the air as the villagers noticed him striding toward the outlaw.

They all knew that a message had been sent into Sherwood about Gisbourne’s actions and, like Geoffrey himself, were no doubt wondering if Robert had come in answer to it.

"Robert," Geoffrey said gruffly, by way of greeting and to let the man know who approached him. Setting the blade of the scythe against the ground with a thud, he sent the curious villagers back to their work with a nod of his head. The group of children moved away to resume their giggling and whispering from a distance.

"Geoffrey," Robert replied in acknowledgement, turning his head in the direction of the presence coming to a halt before him. The smell of new mown grass drifted briefly across to him, and Geoffrey had come from the direction of the nearest field. Robert turned his head to listen to distance in that direction; the faint swish of a few scythes through grass could still be heard, though evening had descended.

"Working late," Robert observed to Geoffrey, "how goes it with the haymaking?" He was aware his brow kept creasing in concentration and curiosity as he scanned around him. The warmth of the sun had gone from his face and yet nothing hung over him to provide shade and the birds still sang their evening song; he swung his head in uneasy reaction to the heaviness he felt creeping over the space of the sky above him. "There's a storm coming, and a big one."

Geoffrey glanced overhead at the sky puzzled how Robert had known that the day was coming to a close when he could not see it. And how had he known that a storm was on its way?Geoffrey’s own feeling came from intuition, from years spent working out in the fields and watching the behaviour of his animals – how had a blind man, who could not see those signs, have reached this same conclusion as he?

"We’ve almost finished the meadow," he said carefully, wondering how Robert had also known his work. "Rain would’ve flattened it. Easier to mow it now than after."

A strange series of movements crossed the face of the man in front of him and Geoffrey studied him curiously, in a way he would not have felt comfortable doing with a sighted man. Robert’s fair hair had lightened in the long summer days. It sat longer and a little untidily against the back of his neck and rumpled unevenly around an even featured face. As Robert had spoken, Geoffrey had caught the white gleam of healthy teeth and ruefully ran a tongue over his own decaying stumps.

But it was Robert’s eyes that drew and held the gaze and Geoffrey stared at them for a moment, fascinated despite himself. The blue eyes, centred by white, roved restlessly, fixing on nothing. Geoffrey, used to meeting the eyes of another when he spoke to them, found it unnerved him.

He peered over Robert’s shoulder, trying to see into the tree line beyond the stream that bordered Maybury. "Are the others with you?"

Robert heard a slight tone of doubt in the headman's voice and recognised why it was there. "I came alone," he replied.

Geoffrey stared at the blind man, half expecting Will or John to appear from the trees behind. Robert had never come alone before and it was hard to believe that he had made his way here unaided. Surely the outlaws would not let their leader wander alone and unguided through the forest? Did they not worry that he would lose himself or meet with an accident?

He had once observed a blind woman in Nottingham on arriving early there for the monthly market. A man, perhaps her brother by the likeness of him, had bought her to her begging spot. He had taken her in his arms and lifted her down from his cart to sit her against the wall of the baker’s shop that cornered the market square, carefully placing her wooden begging bowl in her lap, before he went about his business in the city.

All day the woman had sat opposite Geoffrey’s market stall, her bowl outstretched as people passed by, calling out for alms. Sometimes a coin would rattle in her bowl and she would draw it to her to feel within in and find the money. Mostly, she was ignored and even, occasionally, cursed. As evening had approached and Geoffrey had begun to pack up his unsold wares, the man had returned and solicitously lifted her back into his cart for their journey home.

The woman had never left her begging spot to venture off alone. How would she find her way, he had thought, groping along the walls with no possible idea of where she was. And none would stop to help her. A blind person was blind for a reason, - whether some sin of their own or their parents, God must have afflicted them for something, so the churchmen said.

Yet…Robert had been given sight at birth, or so the tale was told, and had his blindness restored to him. If the story was to be believed, Robert’s sudden blindness had nothing to do with God, but was a natural state that had been restored to him…it was a hard tale to fathom. And no surprise that the villagers muttered about witchcraft when discussing it.

Robert listened to the man's silence almost amusedly. No doubt many of the villagers around wondered if he had been enbued with some sort of magical power that enabled him to find his way around, when all it was was a collection of finely honed skills.

"We got your message," Robert said. "I hear Gisbourne's been throwing his weight around." He stepped forwards and found Geoffrey's shoulder. "Let's go somewhere more private, and we'll talk."

Geoffrey held himself still a moment at the touch on his shoulder, unsure what was expected of him. Robert claimed to have made his way alone through Sherwood and now, with just a short distance to the cott, seemed to need guidance.

Carefully he turned, with the other man walking beside him and set off down the track, Robert’s stick sweeping from side to side as they walked. Robert had given no hint just now whether he bought a solution to Maybury’s problems or not.

Were they asking too much of the outlaws, Geoffrey asked himself. Here he was, walking with a blind man’s hand upon his shoulder, guiding him across to his home. And yet, he was expecting Robert to come to his aid, to solve this unexpected problem Gisbourne had given them.

Geoffrey’s eyes fell to Albion again. Geoffrey’s people trusted Herne , trusted the old ways – but it was hard to accept that the forest god who blessed their crops and their unions expected them to accept a blind man as his son. Geoffrey was not a man given to deep thoughts and speculations, but it had occurred to him to wonder whether the man they followed as Herne ’s Son was in fact such…or merely a deluded blind man who had lost his senses along with his sight in a bizarre accident.

_Do the other village Headmen wonder and worry as I?_ he asked himself _Are we deluded ourselves in accepting this man and following him?_

As Headman of Maybury he could not afford to be indecisive on such matters. His word was not law here, but his opinions and judgement were respected. How could he answer the questions of others if his own mind was still undecided?

Geoffrey turned from the track, Robert turning with him, and onto the grass that fronted his cott. He halted beside the entranceway.

As he walked beside a wordless Geoffrey, Robert was aware of a large shape looming before him; he could feel it with his face. Restlessly, he turned his head from side to side to scan over it and try and find the edges of that shape to determine how large it was, and then as Geoffrey halted, he immediately did so too. His exploring stick knocked against the side of a timber doorframe to his right ahead, just within the range of his stick; he swept the stick to the left and it knocked against a similar doorframe there.

Geoffrey had shown some slight hesitation when he had halted, but now without a word, his body moved forward past Robert through the open space, Robert followed, remembering to duck his head slightly below the low lintel.

He entered a closed-in poky space, a smoky atmosphere - the sound of a small fire crackled away in the middle of the cott. He remembered from his last visit, the rickety table was lodged inside to the cott to his right; he turned and sweeping his stick out in that direction, found he was almost directly upon it. His stick knocked against a stool there, and he moved two paces up to stand by the table.

"Sit ye." With the invitation, Geoffrey moved past him to sit opposite. He leaned his scythe out the way against the wall and studied the blind man curiously.

Robert propped his stick against the table, but for a moment remained standing, running both hands in exploration along the table edge before him, turning his head to scan over the poky space he was in, listening. There was no stir of movement from by the sounds of the fire - the only movement came from he and Geoffrey opposite.

"Where is Agnes?" Robert asked, listening.

"Here," said a familiar voice behind him entering through the door; Agnes, sleepy Harald on her hip, patted Robert's arm as she moved past him, and looked inquiringly at her husband as she did so. Geoffrey gave a silent shrug in response.

"The raking's done," Agnes said, and as she passed him, Robert caught a swirl of the cut grass scent, the same as he had from Geoffrey. "The others are all coming down from the fields now to eat. There'll be rain before too long."

She moved away from them. Robert listened. There came the slight scrape of an implement she had been carrying propped in a corner.

"Where are the other children?" Geoffrey said.

Agnes moved to the back of the cott to lay her sleepy toddler on the bed there. "Down playing by the fallow field. I don't want them under my feet whilst I'm cooking."

"Bread on the table, woman," Geoffrey instructed but with good humour.

Robert descended to sit on the stool, his hands resting on the edge of the table, and turning his head, followed the trail of Agnes's no-nonsense movements as she came back over to the table.

Agnes placed a platter bearing a hard, round loaf onto the table and set down a jug of ale before Robert. His hand rested by it and she took it up in both of hers,holding it gently.

Robert smiled at the gathering of his hand into Agnes's two, and turning his head in her direction, covered her top hand with his other one. He curiously fingered over the back of her veined knuckles in exploration, seeking information about her. The woman was tired by a day's labour in the hay field, despite her bright voice; her fingers were slack, the shape of her hands listless yet resigned to getting on with more work - this time, feeding her family.

Agnes watched Robert curiously as he felt over the back of her hand; aware that in some strange way he was gathering information about her. His was a strong, capable hand, with some roughness against the palm. Not the soft hands of an Earl’s son, she thought, remembering that Robert had once been just that.

"How fare ye, Robert?" Agnes briefly squeezed the hand she held between hers in friendly acknowledgement, not knowing how else to comunicate the fact to him that she was pleased to see him. Those strange eyes that moved past her could not see smiles. "Rhiannon and Ellie fare well?"

"We all fare well, Ellie being fractious through tooth-cutting," Robert replied.

Agnes had always thought that the blind would have a slackness to their face, a lack of expression, but Robert’s face, at that moment, was as mobile as any as he smiled at her, showing pleasure at her touch.

She wondered how a woman coped with a baby in the forest. "Rhiannon is always welcome t’visit and Ellie would be company for Harald," she said, thinking that another child might help to distract Ellie from her teething pains.

"Maybe later in the summer," Robert answered, "for now it is wise for us to stay close to where we are camped."

Agnes lowered his hand and placed his fingers against the wooden platter that held the bread. "There’s ale and bread before you," she said. "I’ll fetch beakers."

Robert ran his fingers around the edge of the platter and found the bread. Opposite him came the sounds of Geoffrey already chewing on the bread. Robert pulled a piece apart in his fingers and ate also, aware that the scent of coming rain was growing ever stronger, blowing in through the open doorway on the wings of a warm breeze.

Agnes moved back around the table. "There’ll be fresh pottage today," she said, briskly. "I’ve bacon fat to flavour it with." She collected two beakers and caught her husband’s eye, giving a swift jerk of her head at Robert.

Geoffrey held up his hand to signal that she be patient. He would talk to Robert of Maybury’s troubles in his own time. "Sounds good wife," he said. He slid one beaker across the table so that it rested beside the platter and broke off another piece of bread to chew.

"Help yoursel' to ale, Robert," he said. He gave a little smile to himself as Agnes banged about with her pots behind him. His wife didn’t need to use words to let him know he’d annoyed her.

Robert felt for the ale jug Agnes had set near him, and taking the beaker Geoffrey had slid over to him, placed his index finger inside the rim and poured from the jug. He set it down and listened bemusedly to Agnes banging around with her pots over by the fireside and wondered what had brought on her slight air of agitation but did not comment aloud. He did however sense an air of expectation hanging in the cott. Man and wife were waiting.

"Here, Geoffrey. It's why I came." He drew the small soft leather merchants purse from his own larger one at his belt, and pushed it across the table in the direction of the man. "Two shillings, we were told Maybury were fined? There's near to three in there."

Geoffrey took the purse from Robert and opened the bag, looking inside. Agnes had stopped clanking pots behind him and was waiting to see what the purse contained. Geoffrey smiled to himself, secure in the knowledge that Agnes couldn't see his expression from her present position.

"We would've used some of the money you'd brought before, Robert, but we'd already spent it on buying grain from Eli at Rufford." Automatically he looked up to gauge the outlaw's expression, forgetting for a moment that he couldn't see his gratitude. "The village thanks you, this won't be forgotten," he said gruffly.

"Thank Tuck - he's the one who robbed the merchant," Robert gave a slight laugh - then felt his smile suddenly ebb from his face as seriousness took him over. He leaned his elbows on the table, listening to the clink of coin. "Now you can do something to help me. Tell me about Gisbourne's visit to Maybury yesterday."

He wondered about it. His father would have headed back to Nottingham Castle that previous evening and surely stayed the night before heading back to Huntingdon. Robert wondered, as he had wondered these past two days, just what David might have told Gisbourne about their meeting.

Geoffrey took a sip from his beaker, mentally preparing his thoughts, putting everything in order before he started. "Well, the man was in fine mood, but that's nothing unusual, as you'll know. Something's put him on edge, more so than normal. He immediately noticed the tree stump near the closest field, and sent one of his men over to take a look at it." Geoffrey sighed at the recollection.

Robert was attentive. "How many men did he bring with him?"

"Gisbourne only brought the one man with him. Young lad, looks a bit green for the job if you ask me," Geoffrey offered. Agnes had taken up her work by the fire once more, but this time she was moving quietly, attempting to overhear the conversation.

"Of course he noticed the fact the tree was newly felled, even though I explained it was rotten from within and would've fallen. Things only became worse when My Lord realized that we'd planted crops behind the stump." He spoke the words _My Lord_ with a distinct amount of sarcasm. "Then he told us we owed Nottingham a third of our yield from the crop plus two shillings to be paid within three days, otherwise he'd impound our tools. That'd leave us with no way to harvest the rest of the crop. More ale?" Geoffrey pushed the jug closer to Robert.

The round base of the jug was pushed gently against his fingers where his hand rested on the tabletop, and absently Robert took up the jug and poured himself another full beaker. Geoffrey's ale was strong, made from the first steeping of the grain and it warmed his stomach.

"A third of your yield!" Robert frowned to himself in thought. "Well, you can send one of your men smartly to Nottingham on the morrow to pay the fine - but a third of your crop yield.... You'd have to sell some of your livestock to buy grain."

"That's something I'd like to avoid, but as needs be we might have no choice," Geoffrey conceded with a weary sigh. He reached for the bread and tore off a chunk. "It could be a difficult winter." It was an understatement and both men knew it.

Robert considered the matter. "Well, don't sell any of your livestock just yet. We'll see what Abbot Hugo's grain yield is like at harvest time - daresay Eli will slip us some for a price."

"Perhaps you're right, Robert. Best to wait and make a decision nearer the time. I'm not sure how we'd do without Eli's help either."

Agnes came over to the table and placed a hand on Geoffrey's shoulder, squeezing gently. "You'll be staying to eat then, Robert?" she asked, looking to her husband for confirmation.

"You've five mouths to feed, not including Geoffrey," Robert said with gentle humour, "I would not take what you cannot spare."

"No, we insist," she said. "The least we can is feed you after all the help you've given us."

Robert sat back on his stool, relaxing his tense shoulders and smiled in the direction of Agnes's voice. "Then I thank you."

He jerked his head round toward the open doorway, suddenly alert. "It's raining." Huge thunderdrops began to clatter against the roof of the dwelling, followed by an ominous growl of thunder - just as there came a flood of movement and sound through the open doorway, the excited shrieking of Geoffrey's four daughters at the storm as they crowded into the cott. Suddenly with the rush of the children's movement and exclaimations there came the scent of hot damp skin and damp clothes, and Robert smiled to hear their mixed excitement and fear at the storm.

"The lightning'll get us-" five year old Edith wailed.

"No it won't, not in here. I told you to run, didn't I? You little goose," eight year old Martha admonished.

"We ran all the way up from the stream," Bibby's breathless voice piped up.

"Hush ye, you'll wake Harald," Agnes admonished in turn. "Go to the fire to dry. Bibby, go cover your brother with a blanket. Goda, poke up the fire and add the greens to the shallots."

The children scattered away from the door; there came a crackle from the central hearth as more wood was added, the slight clash of a cookpot lid, and then the smell of cooking greens.

The rain was still clattering against the cott roof. Curious, Robert rose, and putting out his hand to the side, found the wall of the cott and followed it along the few yards till he found the open doorway.

He stood just inside the doorway and listened to the rain drive down against the dry dusty ground outside, just a few feet away. From across the village there came the sounds of a few uneasy livestock, the sounds of wooden shutters and doors of cotts being closed amid urgent voices. A fresher breeze fanned against his face, brought by the storm. It held a sweeter scent than the sticky humour of the past day.

The thunder suddenly crashed directly overhead and Robert lifted his face to the sound. Geoffrey watched Robert standing in the doorway of the cott. The thunder was immediately followed with a flash of lightening that illumined the sky. There was a shrill scream from behind him that echoed the thunder. Edith had her hands clapped over both ears and abject terror registered on her face.

"Enough!" shouted Geoffrey, then got up and crossed to his daughter, putting both his hands on her shoulders. He regulated his tone so that he sounded calmer. "Edith? Tis only a storm, you hear? Martha, look to your sister please." His tone brooked no argument and instead of verbally disagreeing with him, the elder daughter took her sister's hand and pulled her to the far corner of thecott, whispering furiously.

Now that the status quo had been returned, the headman walked to the door and stood beside Robert. The outlaw showed no signs of acknowledging what had happened, he seemed content to listen to the storm. The rain began to hammer down in earnest, creating a sheet of sound that drowned out any attempt at conversation. For Geoffrey, it was hard to even make out the other cotts through the downpour. Purple lightening covered the sky once more, highlighting the roiling thunder clouds that churned with an angry grey. Small wisps of white cloud hung against the darkness and the thunder roared from overhead, and Geoffrey swore he could feel the ground tremble. Almost immediately the sky was lit once more with coloured sheet lightening and within that forks of light stabbed towards the ground over the surrounding forest. The dry earth was overflowing with water, great runnels of it washing over the ground as it found its own path. A heavy yet cool breeze washed over them, spraying rain and making both men step backwards into the cott for shelter.

"I've not seen a storm like this in many a year," Geoffrey admitted in a tone just above normal conversation. He looked at Robert, who didn't flinch from the almost constant play of lightening. "Good job the hay's cut, otherwise the whole field would have been flattened."

Robert moved further into the shelter of the cott and Geoffrey followed behind. Neither man wanted to get soaked by the continuing downpour.

"Is there much lightning?" Robert asked, turning his head to listen to the rumbles of thunder.

Geoffrey gave the sky a quick glance. "Yes, it's almost constant at the moment – the whole sky is lit with it. Storm seems to be moving in an Easterly direction as well." He could see the tops of the trees in the distance moving in the wind.

"The sky must be quite dark," Robert observed. He fell silent, thinking of Rhiannon and Ellie and the others in the camp near the lakeside. No doubt they were enduring the same storm or were just about to, if the storm was moving East like Geoffrey said. It was a well-protected campsite, and the trees ringing it gave it a thick canopy of leaves in summer over half of it, plus there was enough room in the cave for them all to huddle into in very inclement weather - but even so....

The rain was showing no signs of letting up for the moment, so Geoffrey closed the door, shutting out the constant rumble of thunder. Satisfied the storm would remain outside for the time being, he returned to the table and his beaker.

Robert stepped back from the door as it was closed on the sounds of the storm. From across the dwelling there came the bang of Agnes closing the shutters of the one small window, and then came the sounds of her bustling movements back to the central hearth where a wooden spoon rattled against an iron cookpot in stirring. From the far corner there came a sleepy whimper from Harald and a soft soothing murmour of a lullaby from Bibby who was with him; the infant stirred, and then settled again. Robert was minded of Ellie, and wondered how she was taking the storm.

He turned and retraced his steps along the line of the wall, neatly avoiding the storage barrel in his way, and found the edge of the table once more, Finding the vacant stool, he sat, once more opposite Geoffrey.

Robert sat and listened to the family around him; Agnes stirring by the fireside, Bibby's soft lullaby, the other girls now gathered around the central hearth to dry off, talking quietly. Across the table, Geoffrey was quiet also, bar a few gulping sounds as he drank his ale, and Robert sensed an air of contemplative peace about the man. Robert swept his hand gracefully over the surface of the table before him in exploration, found his half-full beaker of ale and the rim of the bread platter once more. He fingered the rim in idle thought, following and exploring its curve back and forth with his index fingertip for a few inches, and remained silent.

Geoffrey was content to sit for a moment and observe his family and guest. He sipped his ale, watching Agnes by the fire, and the children. Edith appeared to be somewhat calmer now the door had been closed on the weather. Martha was sitting beside her, whispering animatedly to her about something, perhaps to take her sister's mind off the storm.

Geoffrey hid a smile and turned his attention back to his guest. As he watched, a quick smile crossed Robert's face and then disappeared as quickly as it had come. At the same time he appeared to be exploring the items on the table with his fingertips, and every now and again Geoffrey noticed his expression changing as if he was thinking; a small frown here, followed by a quick smile. He wondered if he was trying to place the objects on the table, to see if they had moved. Perhaps it was similar to the way he swept his gaze quickly over a room when he entered; making sure nothing was out of place.

"I was wondering as to Gisbourne's reasons for coming to Maybury," Geoffrey commented. He paused as he finished what little was left in the bottom of his beaker. "I'd like to think it was purely by chance, but you can never be sure what the man's going to do next and what his reasons might be."

"He may be doing the rounds of the villages," Robert offered. "He can be zealous in ensuring no rules are being broken. Maybe someone told him about the tree you lopped down," he added.

"It's possible, I suppose. Mayhap someone passing through saw what we'd done, and thought it worth a penny or two for the information. We'll never know."

Robert rested his chin on his hand and thought. "Of course, there may be another reason for his visit. He may be on a progress around all the villages because he has heard that the Sheriff is on his way back to Nottingham. You can be sure he won't want to give de Rainault a chance to criticisise his handling of Nottingham and its surrounds during de Rainault's absence. Though I'm sure de Rainault will find SOMEthing to criticise," he added wryly.

Geoffrey laughed. "I'm not sure what's worse – an over-enthusiastic Gisbourne or an annoyed Sheriff. But the fact of the matter is we'll have to be careful in the near future." He tone became serious. "You may want to spread the word around any villages your men visit that My Lord of Gisbourne is looking to stir up trouble."

"There's a bowl of pottage on the table for you, Robert," Agnes said. She placed one in front of her husband as well, smiling quickly at him. Geoffrey picked up his spoon and carefully tasted it, grunting with approval.

The steam of a hot meal flooded up into Robert's face; the welcome scent of a flavoursome pottage; shallots, turnip and their greens, peas and beans. He found the rim of the bowl with the fingertips of his left hand, whilst he swept his right hand out across the table in search of a spoon, but found none.

Agnes watched Robert for a moment. "I imagine you'll be wanting a spoon to eat that with?" she observed with a hint of humor. She reached towards Geoffrey and passed Robert a spoon, which she placed within reach of his right hand so that he could find it; Robert gave a smile at the note of humour in her voice, found the spoon and began to eat.

"Bring out what's left of that cider, wife," Geoffrey said. "Might as well finish it as not," he added to Robert with a smile.

Agnes pursed her lips but brought the jug out anyway, placing it on the table before the two men. She filled both beakers and returned the jug to the middle of the table. "I'll eat with the children," she said, a slight tone of disapproval coloring her voice, and Robert listened to her move back over to the cookfire, whereupon she seated herself with a tired sigh, and from the hearth came the sound of wooden spoons scraping wooden bowls.

Geoffrey ran his spoon through the pottage, stirring it up, before he took another mouthful. The rain continued to hammer down on the roof and he was glad the family was safe inside and out of the weather. "Wait out the worst of the storm here before you head back through Sherwood, Robert," he suggested.

Robert had to conceede that would be a good idea. Sherwood often provided thick cover in torrential rain, but not everywhere, and his mapped-out routes did not always dovetail with shelter from rain. There was no point in getting wet and chilled for no reason. It made far more sense to return to the camp mostly dry and with food in his stomach, thus saving the bother of drying clothes before the cookfire and Tuck having to reheat what food had been saved back for him. Moreover the village would have known if any soldiers had been watching them the past day for signs of outlaws, so he felt safe enough to linger.

"Thank you, Geoffrey, I'll do that." he replied.

"The others'll not be worried?" Agnes's concerned voice questioned from the cookfire, having overheard the invitation. She was still wondering how a blind man had found his way alone here from wherever the outlaws were camped.

"They'll know," Robert replied simply and took a long draught of the cider. It sparkled down his throat and added to the warmth in his belly he could already feel growing there due to the pottage.

The wooden bowl in front of him was empty. He scraped his spoon around it in hopeful exploration, then left it laying in the empty bowl and pushed the bowl away from him. Reaching out, he found the cider jug, which he found was almost empty, and poured more into his beaker, given to thought over the conversation he and the headman had been having before the meal had overtaken it.

"Gisbourne may have visited Maybury unannounced on a zealous drive to ensure no rules were being broken - but it's also possible he may have been furtively spying out the land as well," he said at last to Geoffrey. "With what they say were some outlaws from Lincoln were captured near Elsdon - Gisbourne may be wondering if any more remain to linger near other villagers."

"That may be," replied Geoffrey. "Although to be honest I don't like the thought of more outlaws wandering where they please. We'll be hard pressed for labour with the coming harvest without having to worry about protecting our livestock and food as well in the meantime." He glanced at Robert, realizing what he had said and wondering if the man would take offence. He cleared his throat and pulled the jug towards him, noticing it was empty.

"I have some murrey left over as well." He got up and pulled down another jug, placing it on the table. He looked inside the jug. "Not much of this left either, but you're welcome to the last of it once you've finished that. Help yourself," he said, pouring a small measure into his beaker. He felt a gaze on him, and looked over his wife. Agnes had finished her pottage and was now shaking her head at him in disapproval. Geoffrey decided to ignore her; sometimes it was the better option.

"Have you heard anything about these outlaws from Lincoln then?" he asked, taking a sip of the murrey . He squeezed his eyes shut as the first taste hit his tongue; it was a very intense fruity taste and after the cider tasted a bit funny. He was starting to feel rather content.

Robert took a tentative sip of the murrey he had poured into his beaker and decided it was best savoured in small mouthfulls.

"We've heard plenty," he replied Geoffrey, "but it's hard to know what we've heard is fact or fiction. By all accounts they're living in the woods outside Lincoln - but only recently appeared there. Scarlet thinks they could be summer outlaws. It's possible, I suppose. It's also possible that their boasts of finishing us are idle empty threats fuelled by a surfeit of ale - but we don't like to take any chances and be complacent."

Geoffrey nodded at Robert, and then remembered he couldn't see him. "Well, summer outlaws or not, they're trouble. If we hear any news or information we'll make sure to pass it along to you."

There was another violent rumble of thunder and then the sound of the rain easing off a little bit on the roof of the cott. Geoffrey had grown used to the constant battering noise of the rain and the sudden easing of it made the sounds inside the cott much louder.

Geoffrey got up and eased the door open a crack. It was still pouring with rain, but he could see the lightning moving off over Sherwood.

Robert followed the sounds of Geoffrey's movements past him and behind him to the door. There came a creak, and a draught of fresh rain-scented air gusted in. Robert lifted his head higher to listen to the sounds of the storm outside the cott, inhaling the fresher air with delight. He loved storms; the way he felt the very sky come alive with movement and sound, although he well knew the amount of damage they could cause.

"Rain's easing off a bit," he observed, and reluctantly moved to stand, feeling out along the edge of the table where he had propped his guiding-stick.

"Yes it is," Geoffrey agreed. "Still, I don't think it's over yet, the storm clouds are still moving over us. Would you like to visit Aylwin the brewer with me? He might have some decent ale to hand, or something better than the murrey we've been finishing at any rate."

Robert considered the invitation whilst he rubbed a weary hand across his face. He would still arrive at camp a drowned rat if he set off now - the ferocity of the thunder and lightning had passed over, but the rain, though its ferocity too had seemed to subside, still sounded as though it fell in a dense and constant pattern. Besides, he knew from past experience that the men of a village oft gathered at the brewer's cott of an evening and by listening to their talk and gossip, he may pick up some useful information. "Allright," he said, and turned a smile towards the crackle of the cookfire. "Thank you for the meal, Agnes."

"Take care of yoursel', Robert," she answered, and cast a silent warning glance at Geoffrey that spoke volumes.

Extending his stick, Robert swept it in a wide arc over the rush-strewn floor of the cott searching for obstacles, and finding none, moved forwards to join Geoffrey at the partially open door. He found the headman's shoulder and ran his hand down to catch the man lightly by the left elbow. "Lead on, Geoffrey," he said. "I've yet to learn the layout of the village."

As they left the cott and the door closed behind them, there came the waking wail of the infant within, and Robert felt sure Geoffrey was glad to escape to the brewer's cott.

The ground surface was sodden. Robert explored the area immediately before him with his stick and found bare slippery earth with rainpools sitting on the surface. He had a guide, but nonetheless he employed his stick to feel ahead of his path as Geoffrey moved forwards, wanting to gather all the information about his route that he could. It would be useful to learn the layouts of all the villages they visited.

He swept his stick from side to side ahead of him as they hurried through the easing storm. The rain was less harsh but it still drove into his face, and there was very much the feel of evening descending.

They passed a dwelling on his left; he heard the rain bounce off the roof and the walls, outlining the structure by sound to him; heard voices inside. Vaguely he wondered whose home it was, and then heard soft clucking from inside a smaller structure beside the larger - the sound of the rain bouncing off a far lower roof - a henhouse. Margaret of Maybury kept many hens and it seemed they had all been stowed away safely and were settling down after being disturbed by the ferocity of the storm.

Geoffrey turned slightly, they passed another large dwelling on his right that was outlined by the pouring rain, and Robert then heard the hiss of the rain against a stony surface ahead of him, before first his stick and then his feet met the stony path running through the middle of the village and he recognised where he was. A few paces on, and his stick and then feet hit soggy ground again; there came the smell of wet cabbages in someone's toft, and then to his left came the unmistakeable scent of saddlery and twang of ironwork and smoke from a blazing fire- the blacksmith's forge. The blacksmith had a horse which he could hear snorting restively inside its stall in response to the storm.

Geoffrey pulled to the right slightly and he felt Robert turn with him. He'd been watching Robert's progress as they went, puzzling over the changes in his facial expressions, the frowns, the small smile as he seemed to recognize a landmark.

He wondered what kind of information the outlaw could possibly be picking up with his stick. After all, it was just a stick wasn't it? Wouldn't it be far easier just to have himself lead the way, rather than Robert feeling it out for himself?

Aylwin's cott was just to the right of them. Geoffrey was soaked through, even though it was a short walk, and Robert appeared just as wet. _It'll be nice to get inside again._ he thought. They splashed through the last of the ground water, and Geoffrey gave a quick knock on the door. He pushed it open and was greeted with flickering candlelight, bright after the darkness of the storm.

There came the sudden shelter of the side of a dwelling from the gust and drive of the storm, and then the creak of a door; at the sound Robert instinctively reached out before him to feel and his fingers momentarily met weathered oak planking before the door swung inwards away from him, and Geoffrey moved ahead. He followed, and his feet met sodden straw soaking up the mud instead of wet grass. Geoffrey stopped inside the cott and he did also.

The door behind swung shut, closing out the sound of the rain, and suddenly he found himself in an enclosed space that was both hot and damp. The scent of hot damp human skin, damp clothes, damp leather, stale ale and new brewed ale and pottage lingered in the close confinement around him. Movement and low talk of men around him - which ceased the moment the door swung closed behind him. Robert sensed unease shuttling between the company present, and felt uneasy himself at sensing it. He swung his head in response to his feelings and the sudden lack of sound and movement around him, trying to decipher just how many people were present and where they were around him, aware suddenly of every ounce of attention focused on him.

Geoffrey counted six of the village men already present, plus Aylwin – no doubt the ferocity of the storm and the thought of strong ale had brought them together. Conversation had abruptly halted upon their entrance and Geoffrey had a good idea why. It wasn't everyday the headman arrived with a blind outlaw.

A low disaproving growl of a voice away to Robert's left broke the silence. "Why's you brought HIM here."

Robert jerked his head round to focus on the voice, recognising Wymar the blacksmith.

"Ran out of ale at Geoffrey's," Robert replied easily. There came a brief cluster of low mutters from men in Wymar's direction and the sound of shifting on stools, the dull sound of a beaker placed on a wooden surface. Robert frowned slightly in concentration and tilted his head to listen.

Another low voice growled from the back of the cott near the sounds of the crackling fire, a clear note of disaproval from James the wheelwright arrowed at the silent Geoffrey beside Robert. "Shouldn't've BRUNG him."

Robert lifted his head higher to listen around him, casting his hearing out like a net to catch the sounds at the far end of the cott. There was some movement, a sputter of the fire. Several individuals gathered there including James the wheelwright. One of them belched.

"What would you say if I told you I brought myself?" Robert countered. He paused, then extending his stick before him, arced it over the straw strewn floor of the cott in search of obstacles, and finding none, walked confidently forwards in the direction of where Wymar's voice had come from.

Within half a dozen paces he came up short against the edge of a rough trestle table, and halted there. He swept both hands lightly over the table surface, curious as to what was occuring, aware he was the focus of attention. His fingers met and swiftly examined a large earthernware jug, a range of wooden beakers and in the centre of the table, two small cubes.

"Ale...and dice," he observed, running an interested fingertip over the dots carved into the sides of the bone cubes, learning which way the dice had landed on their last throw without disturbing them. "What do you play - Hazard? May I join?"

There was a heavy, almost reluctant silence. He listened to it, still idly fingering the dice on the table.

"I need to wait out the storm," Robert said at last to the heavy silence. "I can either wait it out here, or go and sit in Margaret of Maybury's henhouse with her chickens. I'd prefer to wait it out here, by your leave. The chickens cannot provide me with good ale." He aimed a conscious smile at the interior of the cott in general, and lifted his head higher to listen to the slight movement around him, still trying to identify the presences who had not yet spoken. "Where's Aylwin?" he asked aloud to his surroundings.

Aylwin glanced at James and then to back to Geoffrey, looking for direction. He was obviously not going to get any indication from the other men as to what he should do. It was as if those present were waiting to see what might occur before committing themselves to any kind of action. James the wheelwright glowered at Aldred and elbowed him in the arm.

Aylwin glanced quickly at the outlaw. The man's hands touched the dice on the table, yet he wasn't looking down towards them. His head moved erratically, without any logical reason. Never mind his eyes - they had white centres instead of normal pupils and they didn't seem to be looking in one particular direction. He'd never in all his years seen anything like it before.

"That's witchcraft, that is," murmured Aldred from behind him. "Tisn't natural, white eyes like that." A couple of the men nodded, silently agreeing.

Aylwin wondered if the outlaw was touched in the head or mad. He watched as Robert frowned to himself, then as quick as the gesture appeared it was gone again.

The silence was broken as Wymer put the beaker he had been drinking from back on the table. The sound rang out through the room and one of the men cleared his throat.

From where he was standing, Geoffrey watched Robert and wondered what he was thinking. Did he feel as out of place and uncomfortable as the men in the cott? Or was he used to being viewed with suspicion and even ridicule? He watched the villager's reactions, but did not interfere. The silence stretched awkwardly until it seemed Geoffrey felt obligated to break the silence, but finally Aylwin muttered, "I'm over here."

Robert turned his head in Alywin's direction as the man's heavy wide presence stumped forwards across the room towards him, locking his ears on the man's movements. "A jug of your ale for this table, Aylwin," Robert said, idly running the fingers of one hand along the edge of the table just before him at hip height.

Aylwin slammed a look at Geoffrey which spoke volumes. "Strongest draw don't come free, Robert - or is that small brew you'll be wanting?" he asked sarcastically across to Herne's Son. A murmour rose from some of the watching men present at Aylwin's insinuation that maybe the blind man should be treated like the children and be given the weakest draw.

Robert registered the sarcasm and understood the insinuation only too well. He reached a hand into the purse at his belt and his fingers sought the small thin semi-circle shape of the clipped half-penny he knew he had. He found it laying at the bottom of the purse and drew it out and laid it on the table before him.

"Here," Robert said with more easiness than he felt. "Will that do?"

He felt uneasy, the focus of suspicious attention was like a weight upon him. He kept the tips of his fingers poised on the half-penny on the table and waited and listened.

There came the sounds of Aylwin drawing closer, then the waft of sweat and stale ale mixed, and another's fingers touched his, pushing them aside from the half-penny.

"Aye, it'll do," came the grunt, and Robert felt the wariness around him ease just a fraction.

"The ale is for all around this table," Robert added across to Aylwin's presence as it drew away across the cott.

A low, dirty chuckle from old Thurstan the potter sounded from by the fire, and then footsteps over to Robert; a wiry hand clapped on his shoulder. "Then I'll be in on this table, Robert my boy." Robert suddenly grinned at the not unfriendly touch, and put his hand up to his shoulder to curiously finger over the back of the gnarled hand resting there. Thurstan as always, reeked of the earthy smell of clay.

"Someone find this lad a stool, he can't see to find one for himself," Thurstan ordered the company in general.

Robert decided now was not the time to dispute his assumed inability to seek a sitting place out for himself. There came the scrape of wood dragged over to him, then Thurstan's hand grabbed his and placed it squarely on the round seat of a wood stool. Robert sat, propping his guiding-stick against his knee.

"Hazard, is it?" Thurstan drew up a stool and sat heavily down beside Robert at the table.

"Unless you've a mind for something else," Robert said, curiously feeling out across the surface of the table before him to refind the dice. The dice had been moved; his fingers met on nothing. He frowned slightly in bewilderment and swept his hand further across the table in search.

There came the dull heavy thud of a full jug set upon the table nearby, amid a few appreciative grunts as the men at table realised their drinking could continue. "Hazard it was and Hazard it'll be," Wymer said from opposite Robert.

There came the glug of liquid being poured into beakers. Robert felt out across the table towards the sound in search of the jug; a full wooden beaker was pushed roughly against his exploring fingers and ale slopped over onto the back of his hand. He grinned and took the beaker up and took a long draught from it.

"What do you gamble for?" he asked, setting the beaker back on the table.

There was a bitter snort of amusement from James the wheelright. "We play with what we can afford." He exchanged a heavy sarcastic glance with Aldred. At least Robert had his freedom to move about the forest, they were both bound to work the land and live off what they could take from it.

He took a swig of his ale and continued to stare curiously at the outlaw. This was the first time he had been near Robert and to be honest he wasn't sure how to react. He'd bet a silver mark none of the other men did either. It was clear to him that Aylwin had immediately gone on the defensive because he was uneasy. Aldred couldn't place what it was that made him feel ill at ease; perhaps it was just the knowledge that Robert was blind? He shrugged, shaking off his thoughts, and returned to examining the other men's reactions.

Geoffrey wandered over to the table and took up a beaker from the table. He sat down next to Robert and took a swig of the ale. Now this was a proper drink, he thought, and well worth getting soaked in the rain for. Wisps of smoke from the fire curled lazily into the room as the rain continued. Even though it was warm inside there was still a heavy dampness to the air, a signal that the storm was not quite over with. The fire crackled as the silence continued and it was clear that each man was thinking his own thoughts.

Aylwin licked his lips and watched the outlaw for a moment. He didn't seem so dangerous in here and Aylwin found it hard to place the stories he'd heard with the man before him. The stories differed depending on who you spoke to. Some thought he was a liberator of the people, some said he was no better than a cut throat. But he was blind wasn't he? Probably hadn't done half the things people said about him, especially since he couldn't see anything. Besides, he'd brought the next round of ale, which made him a little more welcome than before.

He shrugged, coming to a decision finally. He came up to the table and picked up the dice. "I'll warrant we can relieve this man of whatever he has on him by the end of the evening."

There was a loud laugh from the back of the room, coming from Aldred. "What'll you be gambling with, Robert?" Aylwin asked, glancing quickly at Robert.

Robert heard the small click of bone dice tumbled back onto the centre of the table and reached in their direction. His fingers met upon them and he smiled in recognition. "I too must play with what I can afford. Should I lose....the next buck in Sherwood that is taken by my men will be Maybury's for the eating."

There was a murmer of surprise from the back of the room as James and Aldred exchanged glances. Venison would be a welcome addition to the village's never changing diet of pottage. They both looked to Geoffrey, but the tension in the room had risen a notch suddenly.

Geoffrey examined the faces of the men around him, men he'd known his entire life. They were waiting for him to make the decision, that much was clear. He knew if venison was found in the village it would go hard against them, but occasionally, just occasionally, a gamble had to be taken. Geoffrey knew that any evidence of the deer would quickly vanish and Gisbourne would be none the wiser. He nodded, glancing to each man in the room, glad to see agreement on their faces. The tension vanished as quickly as it had come, and conversation resumed once again amongst the two men in the back.

"Sounds fair," Geoffrey said finally to Robert.

Wymer pulled his stool closer to the table, settling in for the evening. "How about you go first then, Robert?" he said to Robert.

Robert smiled, gathered up the dice and threw them.

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