“Robin, will you sit down, please?” William gestured to one of two chairs in the room. “You look exhausted. Let me get you something to drink.”

Robin flinched toward him, staying him from whatever weapon he meant to find. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“That’s true,” William said with minor annoyance. “You are both in my way. Very well. Ferrers, could you get us some drinks please?”

Ferrers. Robin swiveled to scrutinize the squire’s face. A son, no doubt, of the earl who died in Acre. Stabbed by the young foreign boy—Stabhappy—that Robin had shown mercy. The world was entirely too small.

Ferrers postured nervously. “Get you what?”

“Some drinks!” William repeated, almost celebratory. “For Christ’s sake, why must everything be so difficult? Is anyone capable of simply talking to each other anymore?”

Though his muscles seized, Robin returned his sword in line with William’s chest. “The time for talking is over.”

William puffed out his cheeks. “Well, that was dramatic, thank you.” A lone fingertip slowly moved the tip of Robin’s blade with curiosity. William noticed the wound on the back of Robin’s hand. “You’re bleeding.”

“He’ll do more than that.” Ferrers made a sound exactly as threatening as a weasel choking. If he had any sort of competence with a sword Robin might worry, as the half reach of his braquemar was far better suited for the small room than Robin’s own full-length—

“Get out of here!” William admonished the squire. “Get us some drinks—and some gauze—and tell everyone else to settle down.”

His mouth fluttered about, searching for a response. “They snuck in through the servants’ gate,” Ferrers explained. “There’s another one—”

“Ferrers!” William shouted again, using it as both the name and the insult. He pointed out the door, as if it were not obvious that Ferrers was unwelcome. Robin did not mind the pause. He took the opportunity to catch his breath, to steady his nerves, to prepare for what had to follow. Ferrers eventually left, the door floating shut of its own accord, the broken plank keeping it slightly ajar.

“I’m sorry about that,” William chuckled, as if they had nothing to deal with other than idle banter. “You could have told me you were coming, you know? Would you put that away? This room is tiny, what do you suppose you’re going to do with it?”

William batted at Robin’s sword again, but Robin did not let his casual swagger sway him. Of course he would try to downplay everything. He knew he was in the wrong, so he was appealing toward Robin’s sympathies.

The words rose from a place of fury in Robin’s gut. “You’re a traitor to the King, William.”

“What? Who have you been talking to?” William sat on his side of the table, kicking beneath it at the other chair. “Have a seat.”