“I worry that would do more harm than good,” de Lacy countered. “It gives the outlaws legitimacy. We’re practically telling everyone else we know they’re in there and we can’t find them.”

“Then let them stay hidden,” William suggested, desperate to find some leverage. “As I said, the robberies are decreasing…”

“If we can’t find them,” dry and low, Ferrers spoke again, his arms clasped behind his back, “why not draw them out?”

“Ferrers!” Gisbourne barked, but de Lacy put his hand up.

“Go on.”

Ferrers. William focused everything on the young man, his pock-marked weasel face. He rolled his eyes from one person to another at the table, touched his lips with his tongue, and then spoke smooth as silk.

“The stories they tell about this Robin Hood are quite detailed. They describe him as an expert bowman, and prideful of his skill. This, then, is his weakness. We shall announce a public archery contest, open for any to compete. His pride alone will draw him out. To be certain, we shall offer a large prize he should think to win, and hand out as he does. We won’t let him win, of course. We’ll have our own best archers there as a guaranteed victory. We know what he looks like. When he steps up to compete, we simply capture him—publicly, as you say—along with any of his men foolish enough to come along.”

Each occupant of the room, perhaps even the room itself, let the idea sink in. As each did, they locked eyes on Roger de Lacy to gauge his reaction, letting him respond first. He drew a long steady breath in through his nose and smiled, clasping his hands. Then he leaned back to Ferrers.

“I’m sorry. The adults are speaking. Surely you’re missed, at your mother’s teat.”

William bit his lip to keep from laughing. Ferrers did not so much as bat an eye, even when Gisbourne turned gravely to him and whispered, “You’re an embarrassment, Ferrers. Wait outside.”

While the doorway was only ten paces away, it was the longest and slowest walk that William had ever witnessed. His footsteps descended into the same forgettable elsewhere the coin had fallen earlier.

“What an ingenious plan,” Lady d’Oily mocked. “An archery contest.”

“He is an idiot,” Gisbourne apologized.

That explained what an earl’s son was doing as a glorified squire. He had no ambition in him like his father, no political machinations. He had not gone to war, he was not even serving in Derby. He’d been shipped as a ward to Nottingham to serve in a position that, even in its simplicity, was too much for him. There was no mystery or conspiracy to his presence, William had overlooked the easy answer. Namely that he was incompetent.