Robin made to kick his friend’s shin, and instantly regretted trying. A sharp pain ripped through his calf and he felt the scabs over his wound break open. William laughed himself silly, joining Robin’s leg in mockery of his current life. They stopped the horses, and William helped him down to a nearby boulder where he could redress the wound. His breeches were sticky with blood, but it was a relief to have his boot off.

“I knew it would open up on me again.”

“Well you got what you deserved.”

“We can keep riding, I’ll make do.”

“Don’t bother. We’re right by the river here, and we’re low on water. I’ll go. Perhaps I’ll find something that’s both thirsty and tasty while I’m at it.” William fastened his quiver across his back, picked up his longbow, and pulled his hood over his head, flashing his eyebrows wildly. He hopped off the path, deliberately reminding Robin of how incapable he was of hopping himself.

Robin tended to the joyous task of cleaning out his wound. A quick scouring of the dried blood caused him to invent a few colorful new curses he hoped to remember for later. He chewed out a chunk of a bitter salve he had purchased in Grimsby, and covered the raw area of his skin with it. The strappings he wrapped tighter than normal, but he wanted the wound to set. The pain was bearable, but he knew to keep off it as much as he could.

Returning the remaining tar to the saddlebags, he eyed their letters from King Richard. Sealed with his royal signet, they specified with little flexibility that Robin and William had the authority of the King himself on any matter concerning the transport of war supplies. He wondered if such a letter would buy any praise from his father. Practical omnipotence granted by the King of England—no, somehow even this would be unacceptable to Lord Walter.

A rustle to his left, and Robin’s breathing slowed.

He carefully repositioned his arm to keep his bag from shifting, and twisted his head. There, not a dozen paces away, was a surprising visitor. A beautiful stag, its heavy crown of antlers rising proudly from the golden underbrush. Though it was more meat than they could possibly need, and definitely illegal, Robin savored the thought of sitting by the stag’s body when William returned from his hunt empty-handed.

His own longbow and quiver were within reach, and a few seconds later he stood and quietly nocked an arrow. He had to reposition himself awkwardly to favor his good leg. The stag’s head dropped to graze as the arrow flew, but Robin’s aim was high regardless. The animal didn’t dart away, but looked casually at Robin as if he acknowledged the attempt and disapproved.