“Courtesy of Red Roger!” the baron boasted, and he raised his glass to his trophy knight. This led to another round of cheering.

John waited for the commotion to die. “Would you really want to leave Tickhill for Nottingham?”

“Fuck Nottingham. I’d rule from here.”

From this table, quite likely, as Red Roger had yet to move from it.

“Bold.” John played coy. “Do you have enough men? Or would you ask Nottingham’s captain to move his entire force here to Tickhill?”

Everything Red Roger had eaten attempted to escape his body. After coughing it back down, he hacked out some expletives about Nottingham’s captain. “Guy of Gisbourne? He’s a joke. A fucking joke. Ten times worse than de Lacy. First thing I’d do as Sheriff is replace him. That fucking idiot had Robin Hood in his grasp and then ran away. He lost one of his little boys, and ran all around the county looking for him like a fucking dog. He even begged my FitzOdo to help. Heard he went mad, arrested every man, woman, and child he could find in Nottingham, and still couldn’t even find his own cock. Gisbourne’s the most incompetent piece of shit to ever wear the uniform, and that says a fucking lot. He couldn’t find his men if he checked his own asshole.”

His crowd laughed again, even though the joke made no sense. But that didn’t bother John nearly as much as the second mention of a name that he did not recognize.

“I’ll take what you’ve said under consideration.” John excused himself, and gave the requisite number of farewells. The boy with the harp started singing a song that glorified Red Roger and much of the hall joined in, its drunken muffled chorus filling the hallway as John led his entourage away. He noticed a girl that may have been Myla, and was surprisingly pleased to think she hadn’t fallen to her death.

Once there were fewer ears around, he asked Gay Wally, “Alright, who’s Robin Hood?”

The boy leaned forward and blinked, but for once his lips didn’t move. John asked him the question again, and he blinked a few more times.

“I cannot say with certainty. There are more than a few speculations going around. Some say he’s a nobleman masquerading in the night, others say he’s a simple yeoman who made a name for himself. I’ve even heard that he’s a knight, deserted from the war, with only hatred for King Richard.”

“That was fascinating,” John lied, “now would you mind telling me what in the hell we’re talking about?”