Gisbourne had warned him about venturing into Sherwood Forest alone and it occurred to Robert, somewhat belatedly, that he would have done well to take heed. The outlaws had appeared as if from nowhere, surrounding him in surprising numbers. There were too many bowmen amongst them, so fight was as futile an option as flight. His ambush, he realised, had been well planned and executed.

Robert remained mounted and waited for his captors to make the next move, surprised once more when the expected threats and taunts were not forthcoming and the outlaws remained silent and unmoving. Clearly they were waiting for something and Robert was content to sit astride his horse and wait with them. Any other course of action would be foolish.

He took the time to study them. By the looks of them they were Saxon to a man: serfs and bondsmen. Here and there, though, he saw traces of soldiers' garb, so some of these men had clearly served in the armies of the King. That would explain the organisation, the discipline.

A flash of movement from the tree line caught his attention just a moment before the circle of outlaws parted and one man walked forward, his step assured and confident: clearly indicating he was their leader. He wore a hooded cloak of the same green homespun cloth that all these men of the forest wore, carried the same longbow strung at his back, but his sword and dagger, the trace of mail beneath his tunic, marked him as different.

The man was tall, even for a Saxon, certainly taller than Robert and leaner of build. His hair was straw blonde, as was his beard. Both were trimmed short in a way that served to emphasise the man's craggy, hawk-like features.

Loxley!

Robert would have known him anywhere, though it had been more than two years since their last meeting. The years had always sat well on the blonde man.

"Milord Sheriff!" He spoke in the Saxon tongue, his accent harsh to Robert's ears, "Welcome to Sherwood."

Robert raised a surprised brow, "Have I changed so much that you do not know me Robin?"

The smile was small but reached the light green eyes. "I wasn't sure if the newly appointed Sheriff of Nottingham would want to acknowledge an old acquaintance," he admitted, the change to Norman French as flawless as it had ever been. He gave a sharp whistle and the men who surrounded them melted back into the forest with barely a whisper of noise.

Robert dismounted. "Acquaintances, Robin? Is that all we were?"

"Friendships forged in foreign fields, in battle, can be fleeting. I would not presume…"

"No of course," Robert cut in. "I had forgotten what a meek and unassuming man you truly are Robin. It's rare to find such virtue outside of Holy Orders," he finished with a grin.

"In truth, a monastic life would suit me well," Robin agreed, his smile broadening, "were it not for the drinking, the fighting, and the endless whoring..."

"A Benedictine then?" Robert offered, the joke an old one between them, and he was pleased when Robin's laughter joined his own.

"It's been too long old friend," Robin told him, pulling Robert close into an embrace.

"That it has." He returned the welcome warmly. "It's good to see you Robin."

"Aye," Robin nodded, "It's good."

He released Robert and took a step back, his look appraising. "I thought you still in Cyprus with De Camville, looking out for the King's interests."

"De Camville fell sick," Robert couldn't keep the sadness from his voice. "He would not stay. He returned to Acre without the King's leave. He died there."

"I for one will not mourn his loss..." Robin frowned.

Richard de Camville and Robin of Loxley were as opposite as it was possible for two men to be, and their dislike of each other had been instant and unrelenting. De Camville had been the epitome of the perfect Norman Lord: powerful, privileged and wealthy. He was witty and gracious, a skilled diplomat and a fair soldier. Loxley on the other hand was a Saxon Nobleman with little wealth, no measure of influence, and was brusque and unguarded in his speech and manner. Robin made up for his lack of courtly ways with an open honesty that had won him many friends, and his skills as a soldier afforded him loyalty and admiration from both his men and his peers. Robert had hoped, more than once, that the two men would disregard their differences and see the good in each other... but he had hoped in vain.

"I know that you held him in little regard, but..."

"Do not ask me to think well of him just because he is dead," Robin told him. "Richard de Camville was never worthy of the friendship you gave him! He was the worst of his kind."

"He had his faults Robin, that I grant you," Robert returned, "but he was still my friend."

Robin shrugged, dropping his eyes from Robert's. "So what happened in Cyprus?"

"The Cypriots proved problematic. They proclaimed some monk, some relative of Isaac Commenus, to be Emperor. I was able to put down the uprising and hung their so-called Emperor from a gibbet. It was clear that keeping them in check would require men and resources that were needed elsewhere. The King reached an agreement with the Templars. They have the island, and Richard has one hundred thousand bezants in the coffers to aid the campaign in Palestine."

"And you are here, made Sheriff of Nottingham," Robin said quietly. "The King favours you."

"I serve as the King commands."

He saw the frown come to Robin's face, the pensive look he still recognised that would often precede Robin going off by himself to think on whatever was bothering him, often for hours at a time. Even so he wasn't expecting the flash of impatience in his friends expression when he spoke again

"Do you never question those commands Robert, never doubt?"

"He is my King!"

"And mine!"

There was a flare of temper in those eyes, just for a moment and then it was gone. He watched as Robin ran a hand over his face, tugging thoughtfully at his beard before the green gaze lost its fire and settled on Robert once again. "Richard Coeur de Lion, the Lionhearted King of England... but tell me Robert, how long has he ever spent here? If he is our King why does he not speak our language?"

Where was this coming from, Robert wondered... Saxon or not Robin of Loxley had been a loyal knight.

"You followed him on the Crusade as I did; fought for him as fiercely. Were it not for your wound..."

Robin sighed and shook his head before turning and pacing a few steps away. Robert was unprepared for the amount of pain he saw in his friend's expression when he turned around.

"Do you know what I came back to after Sicily Robert, what I found on my return?" There was anger in Robin's voice and hurt in his eyes: eyes that Robert knew so well and had missed so much. "I came back to an empty title! My father was dead and in my absence the King I had almost died for had sold my family's lands to a Norman Lord who was bleeding it dry, starving its people! My people!" He turned away once more

"I'm sorry Robin, I didn't..." He hadn't known... How could he?

"Did Gisbourne overlook such minor details?" Robin demanded.

"He told me you had been outlawed..."

"For defending a man accused of killing a deer." There was scorn in Robin's voice.

"It was the King's deer, Robin!" Robert defended.

"The King's deer!" Anger flashed again in Robin's voice and his eyes. "The man's family, his children, were starving to death..."

"And you acted with concern and compassion," Robert tried, "I understand that Robin as would the King." He could have this overturned. Richard would overlook this if he asked.

"Let me intercede on your behalf?" Robert beseeched, "Obtain your pardon and restore all that was lost to you. Richard would not deny my request."

Robin stopped his constant pacing and his eyes fixed on Robert. "Richard? Twice now you have spoken his name so fondly. Am I missing something Robert?" he challenged. "Have you truly become the King's man? Have you replaced Raife de Clermon in the King's bed? Or do you rival even Phillip of France?"

Robert almost struck out at his friend, his temper threatening to better him. Only his affection and his deep understanding of the man stood before him held him back. Robin of Loxley had always cared deeply for the causes he fought. Never one for glory he had always fought passionately for what he considered to be just and honourable. It was one of his most appealing attributes and one of the qualities that had drawn Robert into amity with him. There were times however when those passions ran too high. Robert recognised this as one of those times, however there was a limit to which Robert would allow their friendship to extend and, in his anger, Robin was close to making allegations that Robert would have no leave but to address.

"Beware how far you go with this!" Robert warned.

"How far?" Robin smiled, but it was bitter, almost sad. He shook his head. "You must have seen the way he looks at you, and you can hardly deny your own appetites to me. How else am I to explain away your blind faith in the man?"

"Dear heaven, Robin," Robert shot back, "he is my King!"

The laugh Robin gave was harsh, a sound more of pain than of joy.

Robert grabbed the man by the shoulders, holding him close and still. "What has happened to you is wrong, unjust, and I understand your bitterness, your anger," he empathised. "Let me help you Robin, let me put right these wrongs now before all of this," he pointed at the surrounding forest, "goes too far."

Robin sighed and lifted a hand to brush his fingertips over Robert's face. "You don't see, do you?"

"I see you, my friend, my brother in arms, and I remember all that we had." He pressed his hand over Robin's. "I have never known a finer knight or more noble a man. Give up this folly Robin," he pleaded, "Come back to Nottingham with me and we can..."

Robin's mouth came down hard over his. Strong hands threaded through his hair drawing him closer and suddenly Robert was kissing back in a clash of teeth and lips, pressing his tongue into a quickly yielding mouth and tasting a wealth of memories.

He had missed this, missed this for so long: the taste, the fire between them, and the feel of the hard, lean body against his own.

It was Robin who broke the kiss, though his hands gripped tightly onto Robert's shoulders as his eyes searched for something in his face.

"I wish..." he began, "I wish things could be as they were between us. I wish I could be by your side once more... but that cannot be. You spoke of things going too far, but you must understand, Robert, that for me that has already happened. The land I love, the people I have sworn to protect, all are being sacrificed and sold off by a King who cares naught for the country he rules except for the title of Monarch and the revenue it raises, selling it off piece by piece to fund his wars in foreign fields."

He shook his head, clearly willing Robert to understand, "This is not what I fought for. Richard may be my King but this is my country, my people, and my family has served both since before the coming of the Bastard William."

Robert knew in that moment that his friend's passion and beliefs could never be reconciled with his own sense of duty and loyalty. He couldn't hide the pain that realisation gave him, he knew that Robin saw it and recognised it.

"I care for you Robert," Robin said softly, "God knows I always will... but we serve different masters you and I."

"Robin!" Robert beseeched, "Please!"

Robin had stepped away from him. "Leave now Robert," he ordered gently. "I know that when next we meet you will do your duty. I would expect no less from you, but never doubt I will do mine."

Robert nodded, slowly. Part of him had always known how this would end, that there could be no other way. He went to his horse, mounting quickly, eager to make one last attempt at compromise, but Robin had vanished into the forest, leaving the clearing empty.

"God be with you my friend," he told the silent trees. "God be with us both."



THE END