“Well, that got your attention. She told me all about the letter from Prince John. Maybe you remember it? The one stating Roger de Lacy was to be replaced by Lord Gisbourne? The one you told her to burn, while you forged documents to claim the seat for your own?” She had explained every step of William’s coup.

He responded without a hint of his previous levity. “There’s no proof.”

At that, Robin could laugh. “Arable didn’t burn it, William. She gave it to me.”

“She what? Arable, goddamn it, what have you done?” That affected him. William stood, hands out but with nothing to do. The trap was closing. He would have to give up, there was no other choice.

Robin pushed harder. “You are acting in direct opposition to an order from the prince, and you have disregarded the commands of King Richard himself. You have practically staged a rebellion by illegally taking control of Nottingham Castle!”

“Now wait just a moment. Robin—”

“Then you order the murder of my men on no grounds, you abduct Lady Marion and force a marriage upon her…”

“What?”

“… all in the name of order? In the name of peace?” Robin’s words came out faster than he could think them. “You sign an edict to raze the forest, to scare hundreds of people from their homes, as a joke? Families are fleeing in the middle of the night, this is safety to you? This is why you deserted the war, to seize power and terrorize the innocent?”

“Robin, slow down. Let me explain myself.”

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?”