But the door opened to his left and Robin startled, wielding his sword around. For a dreadful heartbeat he thought he had dallied too long, that the rest of the Nottingham Guard had found him. But it was just Ferrers. A silver platter of wine rested in his hands and a stretch of widow-lace gauze lay over his right forearm. His sword, at least, was left behind.

“Ah, thank you.” William cleared a space on the desk for the wine glasses. “Right here, please. Would you do me the favor of dressing the wound on Robin’s hand?”

“I gave that to him,” Ferrers stated, his face assuming something he would probably call pride.

“All the more reason!” William snapped. But Ferrers seemed uninterested in debasing himself that far. He gently tossed the gauze, allowing it to float down onto the table, and proceeded to set the bottle and each glass down. One glass in front of William and the other by Robin, positioned as close as possible while staring at the blade in Robin’s hands. Robin was aware of the ache in his muscles. His sword’s tip drooped, he had been holding it aloft for too long.

William pointed to the glass. “Here, Robin, drink.”

“Why,” Robin sneered, “so you can poison me as well?”

William paused, he seemed genuinely hurt. With a slow gesture, he reached across the table to pluck up Robin’s glass, brought it to his lips and pulled. He rolled the wine in his mouth, swallowed as loudly as he could, wiped his face with his forearm and smacked his lips with condescending spectacle. After not dying, he returned the glass to the edge of the table for Robin.

For the first time since entering the castle, Robin’s conviction wavered.

“I’m not trying to kill you, Robin. If that was my design, I could have done it by now. I’m not staging a rebellion. I’m not deserting a war. I’m not chasing people out of their homes. And I’m certainly not forcing anyone into a marriage. You, on the other hand,” he angled forward forcefully, leaning his elbows on the table, “have taken control of a band of mercenaries. You’re calling the people to revolt during wartime. Your men have been responsible for the assassination of a High Sheriff … what else? The least of your offenses, stealing from the King’s resources, is—if I may remind you—what we came back to England in the first place to stop! So you tell me, which one of us is more likely a traitor to the King?”

A mote of dust floated down and up again, carried by the heat of the room’s candles. Robin squinted, softly shaking his head. “You were never appointed Sheriff. You’re sitting on a throne you stole, and you call me a traitor?”