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to mine?”
    “You are the sheriff!” Oxton burst out. “It is your duty—”
    “Exactly. As it is your duty to aid your king and your country.” Silence fell. He surveyed flushed, angry faces. “Aid me, and I will aid you.”
    When no one spoke, Tré indicated that the meal was over by beckoning the sewer to come forward with the ewer of scented water and a towel to dry his hands. It was the signal to clear the hall; the metallic clank of his guards’ weapons convinced the barons that there was no more to do or say.
    Sprawled indolently in the low-backed chair, Guy glanced up at him. Mockery lit his hazel eyes. “That went well.”
    “I fully expect Oxton to withhold taxes.”
    Guy tugged at the gold chain holding his dark blue mantle on his shoulders, then straightened in his chair to frown down the length of the near-empty hall. “If he does, the others will join him.”
    “I expect that as well.” Tré turned to leave the dais, but a sudden pain in his side jerked him to a halt. For a moment he could not draw a deep breath and was forced to take shallow gasps of air.
    At once, Guy was solicitous, his deceptive indolence vanishing as he leaped up. “
Merde
! You are as white as a pall.… Has it broken open again? I will bring the surgeon.”
    “No.” Breathing was difficult, tortured, the pain a fist that would not release him. Blindly, he put a hand on the back of the chair to maintain balance. “It will pass.”
    “The wound is not yet healed, and will likely kill you if you break it open again.” Guy’s voice was taut.
    Tré sucked in air between his teeth; the pain began to ease, slowly, intermittent now. “Let it be. It will heal.”
    “Yet it has been over a month since you were able to wear even a hauberk.” Low, intense: “Curse John for sending you here on the devil’s business—”
    “Guy.” Softly, a warning reminder that ears were always attuned to treachery. It was enough.
    Slowly, he released the back of the chair, ignored Guy’s offer of a hand, and stood up straight. The pain receded. Even his body betrayed him, refusing to obey commands to heal.
    More to disguise his infirmity from prying eyes than anything else, Tré stopped the young steward passing by the high table: “Giles, you have been remiss. Deliver to me the mantle the lady left earlier.”
    Giles paused, said, “I put it aside for you, my lord, as you were engaged in business. I will deliver it at once.”
    “A lady?” Guy studied him with open curiosity. “It is not like you to be so hasty in forming new friendships.”
    “Not
a
lady. Lady Neville of Ravenshed.”
    “Ah.”
    A wealth of innuendo lay in that one word, and Tré had no intention of allowing him to expand upon it. Giles returned with the mantle; a faint fragrance of mint wafted up from blue wool as Tré held it out to Guy.
    “Keep it safe until it can be returned to the lady.”
    “Which you will do personally, of course.”
    “Of course.”

4
 
May 1213
    Jane followed a narrow track that was almost invisible, a dun-colored ribbon snaking through primeval wood where spring left scant sign of its arrival. Scattered buds of blue and yellow blossoms brightened the grasses but scorned graceful feathers of bracken; wind soughed in branches of gnarled, twisted trees with knotted faces older than time.
    It was raining; but in Sherwood’s depths, rain fell more softly. It was shadowed, silent, reeking of ancient specters. The heavy air was wet against her face, mist dripped from the woolen edges of the hood pulled over her head. Her hosen and jerkin were green—a whisper of color against surrounding shades of olive and umber that rendered her invisible.
    Feet clad in laced buskins trod carefully, cushioned on aeons of forest debris; silence reigned king in the forest, a royal presence disapproving of interlopers.
    Just ahead was the Cockpen Oak, where Fiskin waited for her. A vine snagged her foot, and she paused. In one hand she held a longbow,