The trek through the woods was long, their pace kept quick by the impatient prodding of the soldiers behind them. Oswald stumbled more than once over roots and uneven ground, and each time, a rough hand yanked him upright before shoving him forwards again. Robin, for his part, had taken a different approach. He sighed heavily, shaking his head as though this were all some absurd inconvenience.
Robin. Now, gentlemen, let's be reasonable. This is all a mix-up, you see. A misunderstanding of the highest order. I am an honest traveler, and this poor, unfortunate thing has nothing to do with the king or any trouble of that sort.
The soldiers merely grunted with indifference.
Soldier. Be quiet and keep moving.
Oswald, too drained to respond, kept his head down. Every step took them further from the nunnery, further from safety. His mind swirled with dread.
Before long, they reached a clearing where a camp had been set up. Soldiers sat on overturned logs, gnawing at hunks of bread and drinking from flasks. A few stood sharpening their weapons, while others lay on their backs, arms crossed behind their heads as they gazed up at the darkening sky. The moment Robin and Oswald were shoved into the camp, all eyes turned to them.
Soldier. Sit.
They were forced to the ground, backs pressed together. Oswald barely had time to get his bearings before rough hands grabbed at his wrists and pulled them behind him. A rope was looped tightly around them, his hands bound to the pike driven deep into the ground between them.
Robin. Oh, come now, is this really necessary?
He let out a dramatic sigh. The soldier tightening the knots didn't respond, but simply gave an extra tug before stepping away. Oswald wiggled his fingers, testing the restraints. They weren't budging. His shoulders ached, and a deep weariness settled over him. He had barely slept the night before, and the events of the day had drained him of all strength. His stomach churned with a sickening mix of fear and exhaustion.
Oswald. Excuse me, but what about when we need to use the privy?
A soldier smirked before tossing a wooden bucket at his feet. It landed with a hollow thud. Laughter rippled through the camp.
Oswald closed his eyes. It had been a terrible, miserable day. He longed for his narrow cot back in the nunnery, for the simple comfort of the woolen blanket he had so often taken for granted. He wished he could wake up and find this was all some wretched dream. The soldiers quickly lost interest in them, returning to their food, their dice games, their idle conversation. The fire crackled, casting an orange glow against the deepening blue of the sky. For a while, Oswald sat in silence, staring at the dirt beneath him. He barely noticed when the first tear slipped down his cheek. Then another. His breath hitched, and his shoulders began to shake.
A soft, miserable sob escaped him. Robin groaned.
Robin. Don't tell me your weeping, like some wee lass?
Oswald didn't respond. He couldn't.
Robin shifted behind him, the movement making the rope between them creak.
Robin. Pull yourself together, boy! We're in this mess because of you. If you hadn't been so difficult, we'd be well on our way in secret.
Oswald didn't have the energy to argue. Maybe Robin was right. Maybe if he had cooperated, none of this would have happened. Instead, he remained quiet, his mind drifting towards what awaited him. Would he be dragged before King Lothaire in chains? Would he meet the same fate as his father?
Night settled over the forest. The soldiers, filled with their meal, began taking turns sleeping. A single man was left to keep watch over them, an unfortunate soul with a dull gaze and a vacant expression. The soldier sat on a log, arms crossed. He lasted all of five minutes before his head lolled forward, and soft snores filled the air.
Oswald's heart jumped. He shoved his shoulder against Robin.
Robin. Ow! What on earth are you doing now?
Oswald tilted his head toward their sleeping guard.
Oswald. Look!
Robin turned, his tired expression sharpening.
Robin. Splendid. Splendid, indeed!
Keeping their voices low, they struggled to their feet, awkwardly trying to maneuver with their hands bound. It was far from graceful.
Robin. This way!
Oswald. Like this?
Robin. Move your arm...no, your other arm!
After a few agonizing minutes of fumbling, they finally managed to slip the rope up and over the pike. They both exhaled. Their hands were still bound behind them, but at least they were free to move. Robin nodded towards the downward slope of the woods.
Robin. Come, let's be gone before they notice.
Oswald and Robin had barely taken a step when Oswald hesitated, his gaze flickering back towards the camp.
Robin. What are you waiting for?
A hollow ache settled in his chest, not exhaustion or fear. His pendant.
It had been taken from him, handed off to one of the soldiers like some insignificant trinket. But it wasn't insignificant. It was the last link he had to who he was...to the family he had lost.
His eyes swept the camp. The pendant gleamed dully in the loose grip of a sleeping soldier, the chain draped over his palm like a snared rabbit. Robin followed his gaze and immediately groaned.
Robin. Oh, no. No, absolutely not.
Oswald squared his jaw.
Oswald. I'm not leaving without it.
Robin's head tilted back as he exhaled through his nose.
Robin. Oh, so now you've grown a spine?
Oswald. It's mine. It belongs to me.
Robin. Currently it belongs to that rather large, dangerous-looking man who could wake up at any moment and kill us both.
Oswald didn't care. His heart pounded with a fierce certainty that he couldn't explain. He had spent years hiding, stripping away pieces of himself to stay safe. He wouldn't let them take this, too.
Oswald. I'm getting it back.
Robin eyed him, then the soldier, then the ropes still binding their wrists together.
Robin. This is madness.
Oswald took that as agreement. They moved carefully, feet barely making a sound over the packed dirt as they crept across the camp, their bodies awkwardly tethered together. The fire had burned low, now flickering in the darkness. Every step felt like balancing on a knife's edge.
When they reached the sleeping soldier, Oswald knelt, forcing Robin to awkwardly crouch beside him. Their hands were still bound behind their backs, making the simple task before them absurdly difficult.
The soldier's grip on the pendant was loose but not loose enough. Oswald nudged the chain with his fingers, trying to slip it free, but the moment he did, the soldier's fingers twitched, tightening instinctively. Robin shot Oswald a sharp look.
"Now what? He mouthed. Oswald ignored him, shifting closer. Together, they began to pry the soldier's fingers apart, one by one. It was painstaking work. The moment one finger was loosened, another would tighten.
The soldier murmured in his sleep, his brow twitching. Oswald froze. Robin held his breath.
The soldier stirred slightly, turning his head...but then, with a deep sigh, he settled again. Oswald and Robin exchanged a look before continuing, even more cautious than before. With excruciating slowness, they peeled back the last stubborn finger. Oswald gave a final, careful tug and the pendant was free. For a moment, neither of them moved. Then, Oswald clutched the chain in his bound hands and pulled back, his heart racing. Robin nodded toward the trees.
They crept away, barely breathing, stepping carefully to avoid the scattered equipment and uneven ground. When they were finally clear of the camp, Oswald exhaled a shaky breath.
Robin. Never again.
But there was no time to celebrate. A shout rang through the camp. Then another. Then the clang of armor, the hurried rustle of men scrambling to their feet.
Robin. Run! Fly!
Oswald didn't need telling twice. They bolted, still bound together, nearly tripping over each other as they crashed downhill through the trees. The forest stretched ahead of them, dark and endless. For a moment, there was nothing but the sounds of their hurried breaths and the snap of twigs beneath their feet.
Robin. Faster, man, faster!
Oswald gritted his teeth and ran, the pendant clutched tightly in his hands.
His breath was coming in ragged gasps, his limbs aching with every step. Robin was dragging him along, the rope cutting into his skin as the older man pulled relentlessly forward. His shoes slipped on the damp leaves, his body heavy with exhaustion, but Robin barely slowed, half hauling him through the undergrowth like a stubborn mule.
Branches whipped past them, the sounds of pursuit fading somewhere in the distance, but Oswald could hardly think. His legs trembled beneath him. He could not go on.
Then, quite suddenly, the trees opened up.
Oswald stumbled, his foot hitting open earth instead of tangled roots, and in the dim moonlight, he saw that they had circled back around and emerged downhill of the nunnery.
Before he could get any words out, Robin cursed and dropped—hard.
Oswald barely had time to register the tug before he was yanked forward, stumbling wildly, and then—
Splash.
Freezing water engulfed him. He flailed with sheer shock, spluttering, the cold biting through his clothes, soaking him to the skin in an instant. He surfaced with a strangled gasp, coughing up water, his hair plastered to his face.
Robin. Bloody nuns!
They'd fallen into the fish pond. Oswald wiped his face on his shoulder, Robin was already dragging himself out, dripping and furious.
Robin. Who in God's name puts a pond here?!
Oswald would have laughed if he weren't miserable.
With great effort, they heaved onto the grassy bank together, his entire body shaking from cold and exhaustion. He collapsed onto his hands and knees, spitting out water. His tunic clung tightly to his skin, his limbs felt like lead, but at least the rope around their wrists had loosened slightly in the wet.
Robin. Come on, we can't stop now.
He heaved Oswald up with a firm tug.
Oswald wavered unsteadily on his feet, dripping onto the grass.
Robin took a step forwards, but Oswald didn't move and called over his shoulder.
Oswald. Where are you going?
Robin. We keep moving. The soldiers won't take long to pick up our trail.
He pulled again, but Oswald resisted, pushing himself forwards with what little strength he had left.
Oswald. I haven't changed my mind, you know. As soon as the soldiers leave, I'm going back to the nunnery.
Robin's expression darkened with frustration.
Robin. And get caught? Again?
Oswald. They won't search the nunnery twice.
Robin let out a dry, humourless laugh.
Robin. You truly think they won't? You think they'll let this go? Pardon me, Your Majesty, but you are a fool.
Oswald swallowed, his chest tight.
Oswald. I don't care. It's my home.
Robin's face softened just slightly, but he was shaking his head. He inhaled deeply, then straightened
Robin. My lord, you will have to forgive me. But as your steward, I'm going to force your hand in this.
Before Oswald could react, Robin yanked forwards again, dragging him with renewed purpose.
Oswald stumbled, pushing back as hard as he could, but Robin's grip was like iron.
Oswald. Stop! Let me go!
Robin. Quiet! You'll get us spotted!
They staggered against each other, tripping over their own feet, bickering in harsh whispers as they wrestled for control. Oswald yanked one way, Robin pulled the other. It was a ridiculous, miserable battle. The rope, damp and knotted, chafed against their skin. Every step was a struggle, a test of wills neither was willing to lose.
But Oswald knew he was fighting a battle he could not win...Robin was stronger, more determined. Still, he dug in his heels, dragging back, gasping with exertion until at last, his knees gave out.
With a strangled sound, he collapsed onto the damp grass, his legs utterly spent. Robin, not expecting it, stumbled forwards with the force of his own pull and with a grunt, he fell too.
For a long moment, they simply lay there, panting, back to back, their bodies trembling with exhaustion. The world was still. The wind whispered through the long grass. The scent of wet earth clung to the air. Oswald lifted his head slightly, blinking through long, damp lashes.
Quite by accident, they had come to rest among a set of ancient barrows. Great mounds rose around them in rays of moonlight. The night stretched on, vast and silent except for the distant hoot of an owl. Upon the hill, the nunnery stood dark against the sky. The soldiers were out there, somewhere, hunting them.
Oswald exhaled slowly, lowering his head again. Robin shifted behind him.
Robin. We should be hidden here. It'll be a cold night, but at least we have each other to lean on.
Oswald didn't respond, only let himself sink against Robin's back. He focused on his breathing, slow and deep, trying to calm his frayed nerves. After a long pause, Robin spoke again, quieter this time.
Robin. In the morning, we'll climb back up to the nunnery, get untied, and I'll leave you. I'm sorry to have involved you in this…I'll find another way to fix this country.
Oswald blinked. His head lifted slightly. Robin was letting him go. For the first time since the nightmare of this day began, he felt relief. He couldn't help but smile.
Oswald. Thank you, Robin.
Robin nodded, tilting his head toward the looming burial mounds, their shapes casting long shadows across the hillside.
Robin. These are the resting places of great kings…your ancestors. Once, they were honored by their people, their deeds were sung in mead-halls.
He gestured vaguely at the mounds, a bitter edge to his voice.
Robin. Who are they? I couldn't tell you. Now they are forgotten. Covered in earth, swallowed by time.
Oswald didn't reply. He simply stared at the mounds, at the long grass swaying gently over them. He hadn't even known these graves were here. Would he be the first in his bloodline to reject the crown?
He swallowed, turning his face away from them, from Robin, from everything. Oswald let his body relax, easing into the stillness. A long, quiet moment passed before Robin murmured absently to himself.
"Marry, and well I wot, but I am sore spent..."
Oswald's heart stopped.
His eyes shot open wide, breath caught in his throat.
That phrase…that voice, a familiarity Oswald hadn't noticed until now.
For a moment, the world felt eerily distant, the night air thinning around him. His pulse roared in his ears as memories, long since smothered, came clawing back to the surface.
The thunder, the mud and the blood. Oswald's entire body went rigid, his stomach turned to ice.
No, no, no—
His mind's eye stripped away the red beard, the ragged clothes, the easy smirk. Beneath it, he could see it clearly now…the face of the man who had helped kill his father. The man who had once tried to kill him and left him with the scar on his leg.
Oswald's breath came sharp and quick, but he forced himself to steady it. Don't let him notice. He clenched his jaw, staring dead ahead into the darkness, his entire body screaming to run, but he couldn't. He was tied, trapped, back to back with the man who had stolen everything from him.
'Robin' shifted slightly, his head pressing against Oswald's back. Oswald flinched, but then he realized he was asleep. A soft, steady breath. Then another. Then a quiet snore. Oswald's hands curled into fists. The fear in his chest twisted, darkened and thickened until it was something else entirely. Something he hadn't felt in years. Anger. Raw and white-hot, unlike anything he had ever known. The nerve of this villain! To play at being his savior, to pull him along, pretending to care, to speak of kings and legacies as if he had not personally destroyed Oswald's own. To sit there and sleep like a man without a care in the world, let alone guilt.
The many nights Oswald had spent alone, curled in a ball, grieving and afraid…because of him. The nights crying out for his father who once had held him close, who had carried him on his shoulders, who had made him feel safe, now gone. Because of him.
His nails dug into his palms. For as long as he could remember, he had never wanted to hurt someone. His breath came slow and deliberate, his body locked in place.
The moon passed across the sky, and he lay awake, staring, his mind racing with what he would do in the morning.
Then—
A voice. Soft, distant.
"Oswald."
"Father?"
A figure stood just beyond the barrows, wreathed in the pale light of the moon. Oswald struggled to his feet, his heart aching, hands reaching…
"Father!"
His father's face loomed before him, but the warmth was gone. His gaze was heavy, piercing.
"You let them live."
Oswald froze.
"Lothaire sits my throne. Morton walks free. And you…" His father's voice darkened. "You hide."
Oswald's chest clenched. "No, I—"
"You saw them kill me. And you do nothing."
"No!" Oswald reached for him, desperation rising in his throat. "I— I won't—"
Darkness.
"Oswald."
"Oswald!"
A sudden jolt and Oswald gasped awake. Sunlight cut through the grass. The world was bright and gold. Something firm, insistent kept nudging against his back—
Robin. Oswald? It's morning. Let's get moving.
Oswald blinked, his heart still pounding. He turned his head and saw Robin shifting beside him, using his shoulder to rouse him. Reality settled in. The cold, the barrows, the rope still binding them together. With a weary sigh, Oswald pushed himself upright. Robin grunted as he struggled to his feet alongside him. Without a word, they started the long climb back up the hill, keeping as well hidden as they could.
Robin. We'll keep off of the path, of course. I wouldn't use the front doors either.
As Robin and Oswald climbed the hill to the nunnery, Oswald stole a glance at him…the man who had haunted his dreams, whose gleaming eyes filled his nights with terror. Walking side by side with him now was something Oswald could never imagined. And what would happen when they became untied? Would he simply walk away, leaving Oswald behind? Or was this another sort of deception, too murky for him to see through?
They came to the base of the nunnery wall, eyeing its weathered stones and the tangle of vines. Robin craned his neck, taking in the height of the wall.
Robin. Well, this is a fine puzzle, isn't it?
Oswald swallowed, he wasn't exactly the climbing type.
Oswald. How do you expect us to do this, tied like this?
Robin shushed him with a nudge of his shoulder. "Look there." He nodded towards a wooden pulley system mounted on the upper part of the wall. A thick rope dangled from it, swaying gently in the morning breeze.
Robin. That's how they haul up supplies. If we can grab it, we might just hoist ourselves over.
Oswald. How do you propose we—
Robin jerked his head toward a barrel standing near the wall, half-full of rainwater.
Robin. We get up there, and you bite the rope.
Oswald stared at him.
Oswald. Bite it?
Robin. You're young. Firm teeth still. Up you go.
With some effort, they maneuvered onto the barrel, wobbling dangerously as they struggled to balance with their hands tied behind them. The wood creaked beneath their combined weight.
Robin. Jump on three. One… two…
The barrel wobbled.
"Three!" They leapt together, Oswald's mouth clamped onto the rope just as their feet left the barrel. The sudden weight yanked it free from its hold. The pulley groaned, the rope whipped downward, and A loud clatter echoed from the other side of the wall as the pulley mechanism jolted into motion. The rope tightened, then suddenly lurched, yanking them both off their feet and for one brief, exhilarating moment, they were weightless.
Oswald yelped as he was dragged upwards, his boots scraping against the wall. The pulley groaned under their weight, inching them steadily toward the top. The rough stone scraped against Oswald's back as they swayed, but against all odds, the makeshift hoist was working.
Then, just as Oswald's head crested the top of the wall, the pulley snapped.
They tumbled over the ledge, landing in a tangled heap in the nunnery courtyard.
Oswald hit the ground first, landing flat on his back with an agonizing thud. His lungs emptied in a shocked wheeze. Robin, unfortunately, landed right on top of him.
Oswald. Oof! Get off of me!
Robin grunted, shifting just enough to let Oswald suck in air.
Robin. You need to put more meat on your bones, my lord.
He rolled off while Oswald groaned into the dirt.
Oswald. And this was the inconspicuous entrance?
Robin. Quiet! The king's men could still be here.
They crept across the courtyard, sticking close to the walls, avoiding the nuns going about their morning routine of quiet industry. Slipping into the refectory, Oswald breathed a sigh of relief until Robin abruptly ducked, pulling Oswald down with him. A familiar voice rumbled through the chamber.
Baron Grey. A fine meal, Lady Agnes! It is rare to find such hospitality on the road.
From their crouched position behind a table, Oswald could just make out the sight of the baron standing near the high table, a goblet of wine in hand, his sword at his hip. Agnes stood stiffly beside him, arms folded in front of her.
Agnes. We serve all who pass through, my lord.
Her voice was polite, but there was no warmth in it. Grey took a sip of wine, sighing in satisfaction before setting the cup down. He seemed in no hurry to leave, but lingered, gesturing around.
Baron Grey. A most pleasant respite, but…duty calls.
He gave a wink and the prioress inclined her head.
Agnes. So you have said, my lord.
The Baron chuckled, swirling the last of his wine in his goblet.
Baron Grey. Ever the patient hostess, Lady Agnes.
Agnes. We met only last night, my lord.
Baron Grey. Yes, yes, quite right… Now! Should this wayward prince find his way here, you will do your duty, of course?
Agnes. Naturally. The hue and cry will be raised at once.
The Baron Grey nodded approvingly, then sighed as if reluctant to move.
Baron Grey. Ah, well. I suppose I must take my leave. The road calls, and I cannot keep my men waiting.
Oswald tensed, silently willing him to go faster. But instead, the Baron turned back to Agnes, with a puzzled frown.
Baron Grey. There is one thing that concerns me however...
She swallowed, her hands gripping the folds of her apron.
Agnes. And what might that be, my lord?
Her voice quivered just slightly, the baron leaned in, his sharp eyes fixed on her, and offered a slow, deliberate smile.
Baron Grey. Just what you put in your lemon tarts. There is something in them I cannot quite place.
Oswald felt the breath he had been holding rush out of him. Beside him, Robin sagged slightly, rubbing a hand over his face in silent exasperation.
Agnes. My lord, it is but a touch of honey, nothing more.
Baron Grey. Wonderful. Ah, but I really must leave without any more delay. Perhaps, once this business with the prince is settled, I shall return under better circumstances.
Agnes' mouth pressed into a thin line.
Agnes. You will be most welcome, my lord.
The baron gave her a final lingering look before finally, mercifully, stepping back.
Baron Grey. Come, men. We ride.
The heavy footfalls of soldiers followed as they exited the refectory. A few moments later, the sound of horses moving out of the courtyard drifted through the open windows. Oswald exhaled sharply, sagging against the table.
Oswald. They're gone.
They scrambled to their feet, Agnes had turned from the doorway, ready to leave, when she caught sight of them. Her hands flew to her chest, her face draining of color.
Agnes. Oswald!
She rushed forwards, voice trembling with alarm.
Agnes. What are you doing here? You mustn't be seen! Those men were looking for you!
Before Oswald could even speak, her eyes darted past him, landing on Robin. Her expression hardened.
Agnes. And what is he doing here?
Oswald. It's a long story…but right now we need to be freed.
Her gaze flickered down to the rope still binding them. With a sharp inhale, she turned to one of the nuns passing by.
Agnes. Sister, fetch something to cut these bindings.
The nun hurried off, leaving Agnes to fuss over Oswald.
Agnes. Look at you! You're filthy and you look half-starved! Have you a fever?
Oswald. I've only been gone one night…
Agnes. All the same, you'll need feeding as soon as we get this rope off your wrists.
She clucked her tongue, brushing dirt from his shoulders with sharp, motherly swipes. Oswald flushed but made no move to stop her. Annoying as her coddling could be, he was just glad to be back.
Robin. He's fine, my lady. The boy is tougher than he looks.
Agnes shot him a glare but Oswald couldn't help but smile a little. The nun returned then, struggling slightly under the weight of a large woodcutting axe. She presented it to Agnes with both hands.
Agnes. Is that all you could find?
The nun shrugged apologetically.
Agnes. Well, it will have to do.
Oswald barely had a moment to process that before Robin took a startled step back.
Robin. Hold on just a minute!
Agnes pursed her lips, already raising the axe to test its weight.
Agnes. Oh, don't be a baby. If you keep squirming, you really will lose a few fingers. Now, put your arms against the table and be still.
Robin scowled but obeyed, resting his bound wrists against the sturdy wooden surface. Oswald hesitated, mouth opening to suggest something safer, but Agnes had already raised the axe.
He squeezed his eyes shut, bracing himself for a sharp, terrible pain.
A whoosh of air—
A loud thump—
The pressure at his wrists disappeared. Oswald's eyes flew open.
The rope lay severed, fibers splayed in a neat split where the axe had struck. He flexed his fingers, feeling the blood rush back into them.
Robin let out a breathy laugh, shaking out his own hands.
Robin. Saints above, woman. I was expecting a count to three!
Agnes ignored him entirely, turning her attention back to Oswald.
Agnes. You need breakfast. We'll have it prepared at once.
With thanks, he nodded, rubbing his wrists. Agnes turned to Robin with a scrutinizing look, now deciding what to do with him.
Agnes. And you? Are you staying?
Robin hesitated for a beat, long enough for Oswald to glance at him in surprise, before flashing an easy grin.
Robin. Gramercy, breakfast would be splendid.
Oswald stared at the axe in Agnes' hands, his fingers tightening against the table's edge. He imagined it coming down, not on the rope, but on the Earl of Morton's head. The image was so vivid, so satisfying, that it startled him. Shaken, he turned away from Robin, crossed himself, and whispered a prayer for forgiveness. If he were to take revenge on Morton, it would not be for himself. It would be for his father. For the man who had ruled with wisdom, who had knelt in prayer before battle, who had spoken of duty and honour as though they were as unshakable as stone. The man who had trusted his lords, only to be betrayed and butchered like a common thief. Oswald let out a slow breath, his fingers loosening their grip. No, it would not be vengeance for its own sake. It would be justice, a reckoning against a criminal.
Yet this was mere fancy. What could he do? He was no murderer. Morton would walk free, and he could do nothing but watch.
They both sat at the long wooden table. The scent of baking bread and herbs drifted through the refectory as the sisters prepared their morning meal. Oswald looked across at Robin, studying him.
Oswald. Where will you go now?
Robin. Oh, I have my plans. The way I see it, this country is ripe for change, but needs a force behind it. I mean to find sympathetic ears among the earls…see if any are willing to stand against Lothaire.
Oswald tilted his head.
Oswald. And if they are?
Robin let out a dry chuckle.
Robin. Then we shall have many fine speeches, plenty of oaths, and little action. Without a true figure to rally behind, rebellion is but a pipe dream. A king would change that. A rightful king.
Oswald's stomach twisted. Did Robin truly think he could be a powerful figure? The thought unsettled him…but also, strangely, intrigued him.
The sisters placed a spread of coarse bread, fresh butter and soft cheese before them with a pottage of grains sweetened with honey. They placed a pitcher of warm milk between them with a smile. Oswald thanked them warmly, breaking the bread and savoring the simple meal. As he ate, his mind wandered. He imagined grand halls filled with armoured lords, banners raised in defiance, armies mustering across the land. A war against Lothaire.
Robin finished his meal and pushed back his stool, brushing crumbs from his red beard.
Robin. Well, time I was off. Farewell, Oswald. A shame, but such is life.
He gave Oswald a short nod, then turned to leave. Oswald felt an unexpected pang of disappointment. So that was it? The villain would just walk away? No. He couldn't allow it.
His fists clenched beneath the table and he took a breath. He owed it to his father, to Wattle and Daub, daresay, to himself.
Oswald. Wait! Robin.
Robin paused, looking over his shoulder.
Oswald. You said you would teach me to be king. That you would take me on the road to my throne. That you would help me get revenge on Lothaire. Did you mean it?
Robin turned fully now, his keen eyes searching Oswald's face. A slow smile crept onto his lips…one Oswald recognized now, not as a simple countryman's grin, but as the expression of a schemer who saw his plans falling into place.
Robin. Aye, my lord. I meant it and more. I will help you claim your birthright. That I promise.
Oswald felt his pulse quicken. If he could gain Robin's trust, he could find the perfect time and place to make him pay for what he had done. But for now, he had to play along. He stood, meeting Robin's gaze.
Robin. Then I want to go with you. I've been thinking about it, I want to learn from you.
Robin extended his hand. Oswald hesitated only a moment before grasping it firmly.
Robin. I knew you would find wisdom, my lord. You honour your father and your people. But come, we have much to do and little time to lose. First of all—take off those awful clothes.
Oswald grimaced as he looked down at the nun's habit. He quickly found some more suitable clothing. Sturdy boots, a simple tunic, a wool cloak and a cowl to settle over his head, its folds concealing the pale angles of his face, leaving little more than a glimpse of his downturned gaze. As he dressed, doubts crept in. This was dangerous. The king's men were looking for him. He had barely escaped once…could he truly risk leaving the nunnery again?
But then another voice whispered within him. He had to do this. The thought of adventure stirred something deep inside him, an excitement he could not deny. And besides...he was somewhat curious. What might the Earl of Morton be able to teach him, before he was brought to justice?
Just before he left, he found Agnes. She folded her arms, eyes narrowed in suspicion.
Agnes. And where do you think you're going?
Oswald. I'm only endangering us all by staying here, I have to leave. Thank you…for everything.
Her expression softened, and without another word, she pulled him into a tight embrace. She whispered against his hair.
Agnes. You can always come back. There will always be a bed for you here.
For a moment, as he held her, it felt like he was embracing his mother again. He didn't want to let go. But he had to. She pressed a bundle of wrapped food into his hands.
Agnes. Something for the road. Travel safe, my child.
Oswald turned away before his resolve wavered. He and Robin set out and passed the nunnery gate. As they stepped outside, he took one last look at the only home he had known for ten years. Then, with his heart pounding, he followed Robin down the hill towards the village.