John had been running almost all night. His breathing was labored, no more than a rasping wheeze, and every step he took was torture. His legs shook, and he had been fighting the urge to vomit on and off for several hours now. The gash above his temple was swollen and throbbing, and the blood had clotted thick and stiff in his hair. But he had to get as far into the forest as he could, because they were looking for him. He knew that if he stopped to rest, he might never get started again. So he kept going, sometimes walking, sometimes jogging, glancing over his shoulder as if he would be able to see his pursuers when they got started. Maybe, if he was lucky, they wouldn't come after him until the morning. Until they found— what he'd done.
He was shivering with cold and drenched with sweat. The soles of his feet were tender with blisters, and the knee he had twisted a year ago during a tournament melee was aching again, sending daggers of pain up his leg every time he put weight on it. The cloak John had around his shoulders was soaking wet and the hem was heavy with mud. His shoes were soft leather, which was just fine for walking on stone or wood or carpets, but which offered no protection against the night chill and the rough terrain underfoot.
John had to stop. He was so exhausted he could barely see, even though the terror of discovery urged him on, and he began to look up into the trees for a sensible place to hide until morning. They were tall, sturdy oaks and broad, strong pines, but few had branches low enough for him to reach. John was no slouch: his training as a squire meant he was brawny enough to climb a tree without much struggle, but that was in top condition. Now, after running all night and no food or water in hours, he knew he was going to need to go easy on himself.
He spotted an oak off to his right with a trunk that had split into three, not five feet above the ground. The bark was rough under John's hands, and his arms shook when he tried to pull himself into the air, but with some effort and a great deal of grunting, he managed to wedge his knee into the crotch of the tree and climb aloft. The next stage, scrambling up the northernmost limb, was another matter. It was the most horizontal of the three, but even that was very vertical. There were some knots around which he fitted his hands, and although his arms burned and his legs trembled, he was able to gain some leverage and begin to pull himself up the tree.
Soon, though his hands were now scored and cut from the bark, John was able to reach the place where the next limb split off. He was panting, and there was a sharp pain growing beneath his ribs. He just needed to rest. John pulled himself up and up, now finding hand and footholds that held him, and finally wedged himself into the nook of the tree ten or twelve feet above the ground, hidden by the foliage. The bark was rough and cold against his cheek, and his legs were cramping now from the predawn chill, but he pulled his cloak around him and fell into a fitful, shivering sleep.
John awoke to the sound of voices, and his heart leapt into his throat. His head was swimming. The sun had risen and the morning mist had cleared, and the only thing between him and the sound of men on horses was the fluttering leaves. He knew his clothing might help him blend in, dark and drab as it was, but he prayed they didn't look up.
Instead, he looked down. Peering carefully around the limb that held him, John could see the tops of four helmeted heads below, and the four horses that were stamping with impatience. He couldn't see the sigils sewn onto the breasts of the armored men, but their colors were unmistakably the red and white of his lord. That is, his former lord. John pressed his cheek more firmly to the bark and tried to steady his breathing. It sounded loud and harsh, rattling in his chest, and he was certain that a single movement would betray him. They were so close!
A large bird, black and green, landed on a branch near John's head, and regarded him with one beady eye. He stared at it, trembling. His heart hammered in his chest. If it made a sound, and drew the attention of the knights below him…
It opened its mouth and crowed, a single harsh note that stung John's ears. He winced, and the leaves rustled around him. Below, the men in armor shifted and clanked, looking around.
"We can't have lost him just like that," the first one said. John recognized the low, gruff voice of Sir Stewart, and he covered his mouth to keep in a sound of shock. Sir Stewart had always been kind to him, but John couldn't blame him for his loyalty to his lord. His former lord.
"He's wily, that one," the second one said. Sir Antony. John pressed his forehead to the branch and prayed for patience. "He could'a been leading us on a wrong trail the whole time."
Yes, thought John, yes, you're all wrong. I could be anywhere. How could they have caught up to him so quickly? His escape must have been discovered almost immediately, and on horseback they could cover a great deal more ground than he ever could. John's hands were shaking. His throat was parched, and his head ached. He would be no match for them if they caught him now.
"We'll split up," Sir Stewart was saying. Antony, you and James go back the way we came and see if you can find any signs of his whereabouts. Rowan and I will proceed in this direction, and we will reconvene at midday."
"I'm afraid that won't be possible." The voice, which John did not recognize, came out of nowhere. Then, as John watched, a tall, slender figure in brown breeches and a long green cloak stepped out of the trees, as though he had materialized there among the leaves. He carried a longbow in one hand, and the strap of a quiver was visible over his left shoulder. His face was shadowed by the deep folds of the cloak, but John knew instantly who he was.
So did the men on the ground. They had drawn their swords in a heartbeat and pulled their horses close together. The man in the cloak did not seem perturbed by this display. He didn't even lift his bow. He took a step closer to the knights, and said, "You have trespassed on my territory, good sirs. I must ask that you depart as quickly as you came, or you will find yourselves in a spot of trouble."
"Your territory!" Sir James cried, his voice ringing out like a bell. "You are an outlaw, and have no territory to claim. It is you who are in trouble!"
The outlaw seemed to laugh to himself, and at that moment John realized that the whole clearing was surrounded, the space between the trees suddenly filled with cloaked, hooded men, all of them armed. They had bows and swords and long, stout staffs. John hadn't heard them approach.
These men of the hood were the stuff of legends. Their leader, a man called Robin, was a staple of stories mothers told their children to make them behave. Be good, or Robin of Sherwood will take you away. It seemed to John that he had been spoken of forever, but he knew it couldn't be true. The outlaw had only become renowned in the past ten years, but in that time he had gained a sort of mythical notoriety. Everyone knew his name. Sensible people were afraid of him, and didn't venture too deep into Sherwood Forest, lest they fall afoul of his band of criminals. John didn't count himself among sensible people. Certainly not now.
The horses began to shy, bumping into one another in their anxiety, and the circle of hooded men began to close. Their demeanor became steadily more threatening as they advanced, raising their swords and nocking their arrows, and the knights swung around to face them on all four sides, as if they could keep the outlaws at bay by staring them down.
John held his breath. They couldn't fight. Mounted, the knights were at an advantage of height and leverage. But they were outnumbered nearly four to one, and their horses smelled danger.
Sir Antony's horse reared suddenly, kicking out, and Sir Antony struggled to hold on. As soon as the horse's feet touched earth again, it bolted, breaking the circle of outlaws and carrying Sir Antony away into the forest, back the way they had come. Sir Stewart gave the leader in the cloak a glance over his shoulder, and then the other three knights followed Antony away.
The outlaws watched them go, silent for a long few moments, and then they broke out into whooping and laughing, cheering their easy victory. John's hands slipped on the branch he held, damp as they were with relief. The knights were gone, but now his hiding place was surrounded by armed strangers, and he was no safer than he had been. They were outlaws, so they might not kill him for what he'd done, but they might just kill him for the sake of it.
Then again, perhaps they hadn't noticed him. The knights had not stated their business, nor could word of John's disappearance have reached this deep into the forest in so short a time. No one knew he was missing, so no one would know he was here. He stayed still. His hips and groin were numb from being wedged between the tree limbs for so long, and he couldn't feel his feet. Now that the overwhelming terror had passed, he began to shiver again with the cold.
Below, the outlaws had regrouped, and were facing leader, who had pushed back his hood. Even from a distance, John could tell he was handsome, with short dark hair and a strong jaw. He was lean, but the muscles of his arms and shoulders were powerful from drawing his bow. He did so now, lazily taking an arrow out of his quiver and fitting it to the string. He drew back with a swift movement, aimed, and the arrow cut through the foliage by John's left hand and stuck, vibrating, in the trunk of the tree by his head. John let out a yelp of surprise, and the outlaws laughed.
"Come down from there," Robin called, as if he'd known John had been hiding the whole time. "Come down and face us."
John wanted to do nothing of the sort. But he was not an idiot, and so he began to obey. His legs were weak under him, and his feet were sore and blistered. His hands refused to close around the branch, and he would surely fall. His head pounded. He was scraping and scrambling his way out of his hiding spot when Robin added, "Bring the arrow. I don't need to be wasting them on you."
John reached above him and yanked the arrow out of the bark. He put it between his teeth. It tasted like wood and lacquer, and made his mouth numb. Down and down he climbed, slow as an ant, testing every foothold and whispering to himself to keep hold of the branches.
When he reached the first crotch of the tree again, a man's height above the ground, Robin murmured something to his companions and three of them approached John, offering hands and help out of the tree. John accepted, too exhausted to preserve his dignity, and stumbled to the ground. Then Robin's companions half-carried and half-dragged him across the ground to stand on shaking legs in front of the infamous outlaw.
"What's your name, boy?" Robin asked, taking the arrow from John when he offered it. Up close, John could see the weathered tan of his skin, the warm hazel of his eyes, the white scar above his right eyebrow, the stubble on his cheeks and jaw. He was just as handsome as from afar, but now John could see his flaws, his humanity.
"John Lytel," John said, "son of Richard Lytel."
Robin's gaze didn't waver. "What are you doing here, John Lytel?"
"Running away."
"Running from what?" Robin asked. There was a smile playing around the corners of his mouth. John wondered if it was smart, answering this man evasively, or if he should spill everything right away.
No, he thought, a man's got to have some secrets. "The lord's justice," he said.
"Aren't we all," Robin replied. Now he did smile. "I won't begrudge you a bit of mystery, John Lytel, but if I'm going to take you back to my camp, I need to know you're not dangerous."
John faltered. Take him back to the camp? Was he Robin's prisoner now? He stammered, "T-take me back?"
Robin raised both eyebrows. "I'm guessing, judging by the state of you, that you don't have any supplies, and that you haven't eaten in twelve hours or more. Your lips are chapped and your eyes are too bright, which means you're probably dehydrated. That wound on your head isn't doing you any good either. I'm a soft-hearted man, lad, and I can't just leave you to wander around my forest aimlessly until you drop." He smiled. "Besides, you might be worthy of my protection, and I'd hate to ignore my vow just because I found you perched in a tree like a great bear cub."
Around him, the outlaws laughed again. John flushed, swaying on his feet. The outlaw standing beside Robin reached out and grabbed his upper arm to steady him, and John realized from her grip and her smell that she was a woman. He looked around him. Now that he could see their faces, John realized almost half of the outlaws were women, armed like their male counterparts. He knew he was staring, but he couldn't help it.
"Eyes on me, bear cub," Robin said, and John refocused. His head was swimming. Robin looked into his face, assessing him, and asked, "Tell me now, are you dangerous to my people?"
"No," John said. How could Robin know? John could be lying. But Robin's gaze made him feel broken open, like there was nothing left to hide. Robin might even know of his crimes, just by looking at him.
"Good," Robin said. "Marian?"
The woman who still held John's arm stepped behind him and took hold of his other arm. Before John realized what she was doing, she had bound his arms behind his back, wrist to wrist. He pulled feebly at the rope, but it was no use. Then she covered John's eyes with a thick, scratchy length of fabric and tied it in a knot behind his head. John's breathing was coming faster and faster, though he tried to steady himself. He wasn't ready for this.
"Forgive us our habits," Robin said, very close to John's ear. "Our hospitality has a price."
John was made to walk, not by force, but guided gently by the elbows. Marian, the woman, was on one side of him. He couldn't tell if it was Robin on the other. A few times a voice said, "Step up," or "There's a bit of a slope," and he only stumbled a few times. But he was tired, and keeping himself moving was getting harder. His toes dragged in the leaves and the dirt on the forest floor. "Not far now," said the voice.
He could smell horses: the warm, comforting scent of their bodies, and the sharper, earthier smell of their shit. They were stamping and blowing, waiting for their riders. Marian and the other outlaw stopped John, and Robin's voice said, "Oh, bugger, you'd better untie his arms."
John's arms were untied. Someone guided his hands to grip the neck of the horse in front of him and the shoulder of the outlaw behind him, and then he was lifted bodily from the ground to sit astride the horse. Someone climbed up behind him, and then in his ear again Robin said, "Hang on, John; it's a bit of a ride."
John clung to the horse's mane. He felt Robin take up the reins, and swayed as they lurched into motion, first backwards and then forwards again. They were no more than walking, but John's head was aching, and every step made it feel like the blow he'd taken was being repeated, again and again. He sagged, his stomach churning.
"Oh, no you don't," Robin said, sliding an arm around his waist. "If you're going to be sick, you tell me."
"I am," John croaked. He leaned farther, and Robin stopped the horse to hold him nearly sideways. John coughed, heaved, and coughed again, but there was nothing in his stomach to bring up. His throat burned. Robin hauled him back upright and pressed a water skin into his hands.
"Rinse and spit," Robin said, "and then finish it. You'll be easier to transport if you don't pass out."
John did as he was told, spitting the mouthful of water away and taking a few long swallows from the skin. The water was cold and tasted clean, and John had barely stopped to breathe before he'd finished it. Robin murmured, "Walk on," and urged the horse back into motion, and took the skin out of John's grip.
"Rest," he said softly. "You're safe."
John had no reason to believe him, but he did.
It was two at that slow pace, perhaps more, before John started to hear other voices. Around them, the band of outlaws had been almost completely silent, and behind the blindfold John had no idea how many were with them at any time. But now he could hear the sound of water running, and with it came the shouts of children. He smelled wood smoke and cooking meat, John straightened up. Robin's arm around his middle still supported him, and when Robin felt him shift he tightened his grip automatically before he realized John was conscious.
"Where are we?" John asked. His mouth was sour and his tongue was thick. His stomach was twisting on itself, no longer nauseous but terribly hungry.
"Nearly there," Robin said.
"How does no one find you?" John wasn't thinking clearly. The blow to his head had made him slow. He couldn't just ask the most famous criminal of his time what his secrets were.
Robin only laughed. "They're not very persistent," he said proudly. "You're in for a surprise, lad."
He couldn't handle another surprise just now. He shook his head, which made it throb again, and Robin halted the horse with a firm jerk of the reins.
"All right," Robin said, dismounting easily and taking John's hand in his, "down you get."
"Careful," John said, sliding. He'd always prided himself on being a decent rider, but blindfolded and without a saddle was not a manner he'd ever practiced. Robin guided him safely to the ground, and then untied the blindfold.
John sucked in a breath. They had come to a halt in a clearing as large as the yard at the castle, full of people. There were men and women at stone-ringed hearths, and children running between them. There were a few dogs lying in the grass or pacing near a fire, wagging hopefully. There were men seated on the ground, fletching arrows, and a woman bent over a great sharpening stone, laying a blade along its whirring edge. There were animal skin tents erected in the clearing, low and brown and not much more than a shell against the wind and rain. John's mouth hung open. With this many people and this much activity, how could Robin's band of men— and women, and children— have avoided discovery for so long?
Robin was grinning at him. "Come along," he said, gesturing for John to follow. "Let's get that nasty cut looked at and find you something to eat."
John followed, eager and yet still unsteady on his feet. Robin led him past a few fires and two children throwing a ball, to a tent by a huge maple tree with a man sitting in front of its mouth. The man was between thirty and forty, balding on top, with weathered hands and bare feet. He was chewing something, which he spat out as Robin approached.
"Successful hunt, then?" he asked, nodding at John.
"Caught a bear cub, Friar," Robin said, "hiding in a tree."
"Come here, bear cub," the man said. John went to him, and the man made him kneel on the ground. The dirt was cold under John's knees and he felt the dampness of the earth soaking into his trousers. He bowed his head.
"You were struck."
John winced as the man touched the wound, but he lowered his eyes in answer.
"Here," the man said, and John felt Robin shift behind him to look, "is where the edge of something hard caught him. A metal gauntlet, perhaps, or a bracelet of some sort. This isn't the kind of injury one gets from falling or knocking one's head. Someone caused this." The man looked at John again, ducking low to meet his eyes. "How long ago did it happen?"
"Last night," John said. "After nightfall.""
"Right," the Friar said. "Not out of the woods yet, my boy. We'll have to watch you carefully. The bruising's just starred, but that's the least of our worries. Have you felt ill?"
Robin snorted. The Friar looked between them, eyebrow raised, and said, "I suppose that's a yes." He reached behind him for a bowl of water and a rag. "Robin," he said, dipping the rag, "do stop hovering and get the lad some food. He's shaking."
"Yes, Friar," Robin said with a laugh, and John heard him turn and walk away, his boots crunching on the leaves.
The Friar began to dab at the cut on John's head, wiping away the blood. "What's your name, my boy?" he asked.
John told him.
"Well John," the Friar said, "as I say, we will watch you carefully. Head injuries like this aren't to be taken lightly, and I know Robin hates it when one of his boys drops dead without asking permission first."
"I'm not—" John started, confused. Though the Friar's touch was gentle, it made his whole skull ache. "That is, I'm not one of his boys."
"Oh, not yet," the Friar said, "but he never picks up a stray without it coming to live with us full time. Drink this." He put a mug into John's hands, and John sniffed it carefully. "Something to help the pain," the friar said.
It smelled familiar enough. John recognized the scent of poppy cooked in milk, so he took a tentative sip. It was sweet and a little bitter, and it hit his empty stomach like fire. A tingling sensation worked its way from his belly out to his fingers and toes, and his head swam.
"I have to sew you up," the Friar was saying, and now he had a bit of black thread and a wicked-looking, curved needle between his fingers. John shook his head, wanting nothing to do with that needle. "Yes, lad," the Friar argued, and eased him down onto the ground. John stared at him.
The first prick of the needle felt far away and muffled, so he decided it wasn't so worrying after all. He let the distant pain wash over him, and focused instead on the strange sensation of his legs being gone. He tried to wiggle his toes, and wasn't certain if it had worked.
"Stop squirming," the Friar said. John blinked, and it felt like it took an hour. The Friar was helping him to sit back up. "There he is," he was saying, "coming back with a bite to eat. You sit still, now."
"Oh, Friar," Robin said, walking up with a plateful of something, "he looks awful, what did you do?"
"Only the necessary procedures," the Friar said. "Put that down, my boy, and hand me the bread."
Robin obeyed, and John soon found the bread in his own hands. Eating it suddenly seemed like a terribly demanding task, so he only stared at it. His stomach was pinched with hunger. He gave it a go after all, and lifted the bread to his mouth.
Once he had tasted it, it was no trouble at all getting the rest of it down. He finished the heel of bread and the cupful of soup he was offered, and drank another full skin of water. By then he was beginning to feel the second stage of the poppy drink, and was beginning to sway, too tired to keep his eyes open.
"Now, John," the Friar said, "lie down here, and I'll wake you up in a bit."
"No," John tried to say, thinking that he was doing a terrible job of keeping himself safe and alert among these strangers. They were criminals, beyond the law, and they might do anything to him. Then again, they had only been kind so far, and he was hard pressed to think of a reason not to give into the pull of morpheus. He let the Friar help him once more to the grass, and then everything went black.
Some time later, he was shaken awake.
"John, can you hear me?"
"Yes."
"How many fingers do you see?"
"Three."
"And what is your mother's name?"
"Evelyn."
"Good. Lie back."
When John awoke again, it was nearly nightfall. The shadows of the trees had grown long, the air was chill, and he had been covered at some point with a blanket. He sat up. His head still ached, but not as badly as before. There was a woman watching him, he realized. It was Marian, who had helped him keep his feet.
"Hello," she said. She was sitting near the mouth of the tent, her knees up and her elbows propped upon them. She was swearing trousers and a tunic, and a sword lay on the ground beside her. She made no move to take it up.
"Hello," John returned. How dangerous was she? He hadn't known there were women outlaws, although he supposed, now that he thought about it, it wasn't an unreasonable thing to think they might exist.
"How are you feeling?"
"Er," John said, rubbing his eyes, "better. Thank you."
"You look better," she said. "I'm glad the Friar sewed up that gash on your head; it must've been awful."
John shrugged one shoulder. "Yes, well."
She smiled. Her dark face was finely featured and delicate, her chin pointed and her eyes large and bright. She looked like the kind of ladies that populated his lord's castle, and it made him wonder where she'd come from. Her black hair was pulled over her shoulder in a long, thick braid that reached almost to her belt. Some of it had escaped the braid, and were loose around her face in fine, soft strands.
John was staring. He looked away. His mum had told him never to stare, especially at ladies, lest their protectors or chaperones catch him at it. John wasn't sure Marian had or needed a chaperone. She was sitting by him alone, and Robin was nowhere to be seen. John didn't think she really needed him, either.
"Do you feel up to eating something?" Marian asked.
John frowned, touching his head, and then said, "I think so. Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet." Marian rose to her feet and offered him a hand up. "You haven't seen what kind of slop that clod Arthur's managed to put together."
John followed her across the camp, now quieted down in the evening dusk. The men and women he had seen before by their own fires were now grouped near their tents, the children with them: families. John was staring again.
"Did they—" he started, and stopped, embarrassed, when Marian looked at him.
"Did who, what?"
"All those people," he said. "Did they come here like that, or—?"
Marian stopped to look in the direction he was pointing. "Did they come here like what?"
"Already…" John said, knowing he sounded mental. "Already families."
She began to laugh. "Not all of them! No, Adelaide and Bill were married a year ago. The Friar does come in handy,. They've got a little one on the way, bless them. Bill's been taking fewer shifts on the rangers because of it. And the Pevinsies, them, over there, they were run off their farm last year, I think, and came to us as a bunch. Their two oldest ones are keen on joining up with Robin, but their mum doesn't want them getting into that kind of danger." She grinned at John. "Not that I blame her, sensible woman."
"How did they end up here?"
"Luck," Marian said.
"Good luck or bad?"
She motioned for him to get moving again. "That's up to you, I suppose. Or up to them. I'd say it was good. Mac is a fine farmer, and he keeps us well in food. One gets so tired of eating venison all the time. It's good to have some variety."
They had reached their destination. Robin was holding court around a campfire that was big enough to seat fifteen or twenty around its rim, and it must have been Arthur who was cursing under his breath as he ladled soup out of a large iron pot. John sat where Marian told him to and eventually he was handed a bowl and a trencher. Despite Marian's warning, the soup was hot and rich and had chunks of meat and potatoes in it, and it filled John's stomach as well as any of Old Madge's meals ever had. They were a civilized lot, the outlaws, and more generous than John had any right to expect.
He ate quietly, secretly hoping the others would take no notice of him. There were a dozen men and maybe half as many women sitting by the fire, all in the same sort of boots and breeches and heavy green cloaks that Robin and Marian wore, and which he had seen on the outlaws earlier in the forest. These, he guessed, must be the Rangers. Already they were laughing and joking with one another, talking with their mouths full and elbowing each other in their jests. Their boisterous good cheer began to rub off on John. He found himself smiling at some of the jokes, blushing at the cruder ones, and he found that as the fire warmed him from the inside out, and as his stomach was filled with good food, the ache in his head lessened, and he began to feel rather more like himself again.
Then, of course, Robin called for quiet and all eyes were on John.
"Now, John Lytel," Robin said. His face was flushed, but John didn't know if it was the fire or the wine. "We have put you to rights with our medicine, you have shared in our food and drink, and now you owe us something in return, isn't that right, lads?"
The outlaws agreed as one, and John's heart sank. All the warmth from the fire seemed to have drained out of him. He knew he was indebted to the outlaws for their hospitality, but he had empty pockets and nothing to give.
"He's only asking for a story," the man next to him whispered, sensing his distress. "Where you're from, how you got here. Something like that."
John swallowed the knot of panic that had stopped his throat. A story. He could tell a story. It didn't have to be true. The outlaws might be the only ones who would appreciate the truth, but he couldn't bring himself to relay it. The look on Lord Simon's face… John wouldn't be able to describe it.
He settled for a story from before his time at the castle, when he had been lost in the wood as a child. It was before Robin and his outlaw band had been spoken of in hushed tones, and the night John had spent under the trees had only been terrifying to a child's mind. The outlaws laughed when he revealed at the end that it had ben merely an old, broken stump that had kept him up a tree all night, convinced he was being hunted by a huge, shaggy bear.
After his story, the bowls and pots disappeared, and a few of the outlaws brought out instruments. One of the men had a lute in his arms, and he played as well as the wandering minstrels John had seen at the castle. His voice was low and sweet, and he knew all the best old songs. Another had a flute, and he accompanied the lute when it was played alone, so as not to drown out the singer's voice. A few of the better known songs were sung by all, not leaving the music to the minstrel alone, and John joined in on a few verses that he liked the best. He was still somewhat shy, not certain yet how long his stay would be.
Eventually, the fire burned down to smoldering embers, and the men and women began to go away in ones and twos. John looked around, suddenly aware that he was without a shelter. He'd have slept on the ground if he'd been asked, but Robin came around the circle to collect him, and took him back to the tent of the Friar.
"Tuck's asked to watch over you tonight," Robin explained. "He wants to be certain you won't succumb to your injury in your sleep. Sentimental old man." He smiled warmly, and patted John gently on the shoulder. "In you go."
John went in. The Friar was waiting for him with a bed of blankets on a mat of straw, and it turned out to be just as comfortable as his bed back… back at the castle. He couldn't think of it as home anymore. Despite the outlaws' kindness of good food and drink and a warm bed, John slept poorly. His dreams were full of blood and rage and fear, and when the Friar woke him in the middle of the night to see if he was still alive, he heard dear Sarah's sobs echoing in his ears. The morning, he prayed, would be brighter once again.