He smiled, and watched the others giggle with delight in preparation for an approaching carriage. Robin tried to remind himself it was perspective, and perspective only. He had spent three weeks with the thieves in the Oak Camp, and it was natural to find common ground with them. Even the Guardsman Jon Bassett had softened his stance during his stay. Once Robin returned to the war, he knew he would once again recognize this miniature world for what it was.

But a part of him was sad that he might lose this sense of connection.

“Help me, a bear has eaten my arm!” came a cry from the road, entirely too intelligible if it was meant to be believed. “Oh please, kind sirs, please, would you tell me if you have spied any bears about, perchance one with an arm in its mouth?”

“One carriage, two drivers,” Arthur a Bland whispered, suddenly beside Robin. “City horses, bells. No onlookers. I’d say one woman inside, and I’d bet anything that she’ll make suggestion about you ‘stealing a kiss’ instead of her jewelry.”

“I’d warrant you’re right,” Robin sighed, making out the faded colors of the carriage through the trees. “Why don’t you take this one, then?”

“Ah, no,” Arthur huffed. “I think they want Robin Hood.”

It went exactly as Arthur predicted. The two men atop the carriage’s bench were alarmed, but not surprised, and were quick to throw down their weapons at the sight of Elena and Alan’s bows. There was only a small purse between the two of them, which was tossed to Much once John Little ambled close enough. Robin bowed to the two drivers, noted both of their names, thanked them for their time and patronage, and convinced them to calm their passenger within into compliance. Then he poured every drop of grace he had into a swing that brought him inside the carriage’s belly, finding himself sitting across from a somewhat mousey but pretty woman with dark curled locks nearly obscuring her face.

“My apologies,” he swooned.

“You’re Robin?” she asked, all business.

“I am enchanted,” Robin answered, diving into the character that had somehow taken a life of its own. “But you may call me Robin if you prefer to save your lips the extra syllable.”

“I bring a message from William.”

It was the last thing he had expected her to say.

“William de Wendenal,” she added. “Or King William, he said you might understand that.”

Robin’s mouth talked without him. “Who, what, you?”

“My name is Arable.” She glanced through the curtains of the window. “I’d ask that you keep your voice low, as my drivers do not know I’ve come to speak with you. They think we are delivering a gift of rare wine to the Lord of Oxton, which you will kindly steal from me so we can immediately return to Nottingham.”