They made no effort to bind him or drag him along like a proper hostage, nor did they need to. He was wet and injured. They had his weapons, his food, and his horses. If they meant to ransom him to his own father, then they were at least invested in keeping him alive. That was more than he could say for the next traveler who might find advantage in his obvious vulnerabilities, were he to try to run.

So Robin limped forward, following their lead.

Besides, he told himself, they were potentially leading him directly to the missing supplies.

That reasoning made it feel less like a surrender, but only a little.

THIRTEEN

WILLIAM DE WENDENAL

NOTTINGHAM CASTLE

“COME INSIDE,” GRUMBLED A voice with a grinding cough, and William was escorted through a small uneven door into a space something closer to a privy than a sheriff’s office.

The room was tiny, which William did not find surprising given its location at the top of the tallest keep in the castle, but it was certainly an unexpected size for its occupant’s esteem. The cramped stony walls angled oddly, as if threatening to crumple. Only one small shuttered window let in some crisp air and the setting sun’s last glow, but the two walls beside it were lined with candles, dripping long tails of wax down to the floor. There were shelves built into the stones filled with scrolls and books that had no discernable order. Behind the desk, awkwardly placed and entirely too large for the wall, an unflattering portrait of the Sheriff glowered down upon the living one.

Baron Roger de Lacy had a long face and sunken cheeks, which William assumed was the cumulative look of a man who had spent his life scowling. William’s first thoughts were unkind. Perhaps the sheriff was a private, squirrelish old man who enjoyed such cramped quarters, but to William this would be a prison cell.

“Baron,” barked the captain, a stiff man who was skeptical of William’s story. “Pardon the urgency.”

“No need,” de Lacy waved off the apology. He cleared his throat and rose from his table, a slab of rough wood covered in papers and small ornate boxes. His eyes sharpened harshly, as if he would prefer to deduce William’s existence for himself.

“I bring word from King Richard—” William started, but the captain cut him off.

“He claims he’s with the king’s private guard.”

“I have letters that prove as much—”

“He carries letters to that effect, but their seals are broken.”

“They were damaged—”

The baron quelled the explanation with another wave of his hand, continuing to scrutinize William. Roger de Lacy’s eyes were skull deep, his skin thin. He wore a heavy furred robe but no jewels or rings, and his grey-brown hair stuck clumsily to his head in an unimportant way.

“Do I recognize you?” he asked.