I've Picked Up a Thing or Two

by DCWash

Set about five years after series one. The fighting’s over and everybody’s settling down. Allan’s just gotten the keys to his new place. Now what’s he supposed to do with it? Picks up only a few days after "The Prodigal" leaves off.

First Foray into Fanfic (try saying that one three times fast!)

Title: "I've Picked Up a Thing or Two"

Author: DCWash

Characters: Will, Allan, surprise guests; other gang members mentioned

Rating: PG (Some mildly rough language and mild and brief sexual innuendo)

Disclaimer: Characters belong to history and the BBC more than to me.

Summary: Set about five years after series one. The fighting's over and everybody's settling down. Allan's just gotten the keys to his new place. Now what's he supposed to do with it?

Length: Loooong--6662 words.

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The rain started just as Will headed off to Allan's house—not hard, but enough that he was glad to have his cloak to shelter both his person and the bag of tools he had slung over his shoulder.

It was about time Allan got something out of all his work with Robin. As the fighting wound down and it became more obvious they were going to be on the side of the winners, it also became move obvious that Robin would reward the members of the gang as best he could. But, for the longest time, nobody really knew what that "best" could be. The rise and fall of Vasey created terrible confusion about who owned what, what had been forfeited when, who would gain land and favor and who would lose. The powers in Nottingham and London were still sorting it all out.

The first thing that became obvious, though, was that Robin would at least get back the title and lands he inherited when his father died—that, at worst, things would go back to the status quo ante for him. That meant he could immediately live up to the promise he made to Much all those years ago in the Holy Land for freedom and the Bonchurch estate--simply put, that was one thing he was sure he actually had to give. Similarly, Will and John were formally granted their freedom and titles to the houses they lived in before they moved to Sherwood. John grumbled a bit that if life in that house was so wonderful he wouldn't have run off to the forest in the first place, but Robin had been hinting lately that more would be forthcoming, and Will had faith.

But what about the others, the people who came to the gang from territory outside of Robin's original control? Besides letting them keep the horses they had in Sherwood, the only way to quickly reward them would be for Robin to evict some long-standing tenants, which nobody wanted. And so they waited. It wasn't so bad for Winifred, who just up and moved back into her abandoned house in Featherston, or for Djaq, who could live with Winifred and earn money practicing medicine until she married and moved in with Will. It was Allan that caused the most worry.

He had come from no place and had no place to go. To make things worse, as far as anyone could tell he had no legitimate skills to ply. Will and Djaq were so caught up in the thrill of peace—of finally being able to get started with real life—that they didn't think too much of it: Cheeky Allan would always be cheeky Allan and would always get by just as he always had. But Winifred, who was old enough to be Will's mother and who had fretted over them all since the first time she had encountered the gang, worried. As she said, "Allan came to Robin as a thief and a fighter. Robin made him a better thief and fighter—and gave him a sense of pride and honor, and a conscience. And what good is all that to a thief? It's a recipe for disaster." Everybody assumed she was joking but it wasn't long before they started worrying, too.

At first Allan would camp out with whoever could offer him a roof, pitching in as best he could with whatever needed to be done. Then he started taking off for longer and longer periods of time, trying to hustle up work and money, and each time returning a little thinner and a little scruffier. Nobody really knew what he did when he was gone. Everybody was kind of afraid to ask.

Eventually it got to the point where he issued a more-or-less formal goodbye to Winifred, leaving his horse with her because he didn't think he could afford the upkeep. He made it sound like he was moving away for good, though he couldn't say where to, only that he was a "town boy," and that he needed to "do better." Winifred though he didn't know himself where he was going or what he was going to do, but that he was ashamed to be so shiftless when the lives of everybody around him had improved so much. The whole thing left her in tears, half-convinced it was the last time she'd see him alive.

She didn't realize how close she'd come to being right. A couple of months ago, Will was awakened before dawn had fully broken by Winifred pounding on his door. She had run all the way from Featherston to fetch him back to make what could be his last goodbyes to Allan. A man returning from delivering milk to the Nottingham castle had almost literally run over Allan in the gutter, beaten to a bloody pulp. He tried to help as best he could but Allan couldn't say much more than "Featherston" and "Locksley." Since the milkman was going that way anyway, it seemed the best thing he could do was deliver Allan to a friend's door. Djaq was left in charge while Winifred ran for Will, treating—as best she could—what literally looked to be a smashed-in skull as well as various other breaks and bruises and ruptures.

Somehow, Allan lived through it all. He never fully explained what had happened, partly because the blows to the head left him rather hazy about it all himself. Apparently he was working in one of the rougher taverns in Nottingham when a group of guards started giving one of the girls a hard time. Allan intervened. Bad idea. First he got sacked for his trouble, then, it seems, he got set on by the guards.

Physically, he had recovered. (Or, at least mostly. His right eye still drooped a bit in the corner where it seemed to have met with a steel-toed boot.) Mentally, it was another matter. He was much more subdued; the humor and cheekiness, while not completely gone, were much less evident. When Will visited the recuperating Allan, he'd sometimes catch Allan staring into space, looking almost tearful. John said all it meant was that some he'd finally had some sense pounded into his thick skull. It didn't seem to bother Winifred or Much that much either—they both seemed to think he had finally felt the fear of God. Djaq was a bit concerned the beating had left him with a brain injury, but also said people frequently recovered from those, though it could take a long time. Only Will was truly bothered. He had the impression his friend had just…given up. That the constant hustle he had to perform to simply live had finally gotten too exhausting, and that making the mental effort to put one figurative foot in front of the other had finally proven too be too much.

As for Robin…well, Robin was in an awkward position. The one thing Allan had been able to make clear when Winifred first went out to round up his friends was that he did NOT want her telling Robin about this—that sense of pride and honor kicking in, presumably. Of course, when a bloodied man shows up in a tiny village, people talk, so Robin eventually found out anyway. But there was only so much support he could provide when he wasn't supposed to know Allan was hurt--or even that he was back--in the first place. Once it was clear Will wouldn't be betraying a confidence, he and Robin had several conversations about the matter, analyzing their friend, speculating on what had happened, and trying to figure out what they could do to make things better, but they never came up with a satisfying answer.

Or, at least, they didn't in those wine-filled nights. It looked now like Robin had made some kind of breakthrough. Will didn't know what it was, exactly, but Allan said he had a house—one of his own—and he could only have gotten it through Robin. He also said he could use a bit of help getting the place in order, which was why Will was walking in the rain to the crossroads just outside of Locksley proper.

There he found what everybody called "The Old Tollhouse." It was a bit of a misnomer: the house was actually quite new, built when Vasey put a toll gate across the road entering Nottingham and gave the concession by one of his followers. When Vasey fell the toll collector fled, though the gate itself had been an annoyance ever since.

The door and window shutters were wide open, despite the rain, but Will didn't immediately see any sign of Allan.

"Al-LAN!" he shouted, looking around. It really was a pretty location. But prettiness won't get you far in this world, at least as far as land was concerned.

"Oi! Will! Over here!" Allan was standing in the doorway, waving both arms over his head—as if Will wouldn't recognized him elsewise—and bearing a huge grin. It was the biggest smile Will had seen on his face in…well, in ages, since even well before the latest beating. As Will met him in the doorway, Allan stood gesturing around him. "Innit…innit just…well, innit it just…" He was beaming. For the first time since Will had known him, glib Allan was speechless with obvious joy. "….just…." Here he was reduced to a blissful sigh. Crikey! He's like a four-year-old who's just tied his own shoes for the first time, Will thought. Next he'll be hugging himself and dancing in a little circle.

It was a nice enough house, Will would grant him that, but now that he was inside, he could see that it was hardly the palace Allan took it for (though he would never tell Allan that). As far as he could tell, it was only one room, like the house he had grown up in and now owned, and not any bigger than that cottage, either. There was a window to the right of the door, and anther corresponding door and window on the far wall. Neither of the windows had anything separating the interior of the house from the outside besides wooden shutters that served to keep out the worst of the weather but also kept out the light. The floor was made of hard-packed dirt, not wood or stone or tile, and there were two stalls against the left wall, each with their own small shuttered windows, where Will assumed the toll collector had put his animals in winter just like most other peasants did in an effort to keep the place warm. On the other hand, Will the carpenter could tell it was a solidly-made house, with thicker walls than he expected. And instead of an open hearth in the middle of the floor like you usually saw in cottages, this house had the modern convenience of a large fireplace and chimney built into the right-hand wall. That meant there were no holes in the roof to let the smoke out, which in turn meant the roof wasn't letting the by-now hard rain in, either. And if the shutters leaked a bit, well, that was the nature of the beast—even Robin's shutters leaked, and Will was sure they leaked in the castle as well.

The house was also totally devoid of furniture, unless you excepted a large but battered chest under the far window and a straw pallet on the floor. Which was why Will was there. When Allan said he needed "a bit of help getting the place in order," he really meant, "I need you to make me some furniture." Will had more than enough work of his own to do, so they came up with a compromise: Will would teach Allan how to do it himself. Nothing fancy, just the rudiments, but enough that he could keep his arse and his food off the floor.

Food. The thought reminded Will that he hadn't had his supper yet, but Allan was actually nattering on about getting right to work, and Allan was so seldom in a mood to work that Will thought he'd better strike while the iron was hot. He plunked his bag of tools and damp cloak onto the floor and stood there—the plunk because there was no place else to put them, the standing because there was no place else to put himself.

"Right. You got the log I told you to get?"

"Right here." Allan rolled a couple of foot-wide stumps out of one of the stalls. "I didn't want to take out a whole tree for this little job, so I knocked down the posts for the toll gate instead. I did cut off a couple of little sycamore branches, though, like you said."

"You knocked down the toll gate? You mean you're not going to be the toll collector?" Will had assumed Robin had given Allan the concession as a reward for faithful service, much as Vasey had done with his own follower.

Allan laughed. "Hell, no! When Robin brought me out her, that's what I thought, too, but he went into a proper rant about it. Said the toll was an example of everything wrong under John and the Sheriff and taking the gate out would be 'a symbol of our new freedom for all to see' or some tosh."

Will supposed that made sense, though he was surprised Robin would give Allan a house but not the means to maintain it. "Okay then. Take this saw and cut a couple of slices off the log about an inch thick. We're going to make stools." He upended the other stump and finally sat down.

"What, you trust me with your saw? You're not going to do it?"

"Today…" (Well gestured majestically.) "I am the teacher, and you are the student."

"God, you sound like that blind git who designed the castle strongroom." But Allan started sawing.

"Besides," Will said in a more normal voice, "I've been hammering and sawing all day and I'm tired. It's your turn." I'm also hungry, he thought, but he was afraid Allan wouldn't have any food to offer and he didn't want to embarrass him.

"So, what are these then?" Allan was referring to the slice of stump now laying on the floor, as well as the one in progress. Neither one were of exactly what you would call uniform thickness.

"Seats."

"Just two?"

"You're just one person. How many do you need?"

"Well, a lot more than that, I hope. And a couple of tables. Or maybe one big one and two little ones."

Will was slightly dumbstruck. Except for manor houses like Robin's, just about every house he had ever been in had probably a stool for each person, and maybe—maybe—one table. Most people used a chest for their table. They seldom had a real bed, but if so only one for the two grownups to share. That's what made a manor house a manor house and a cottage a cottage.

Allan started to laugh. "Oh, didn't I tell you?" (He knew full well he didn't.) "I'm turning this place into an alehouse."

Christ. An alehouse. Of course Allan would open an alehouse. What else did you expect? For him to start raising dairy goats?

Will had to ask, "Does Robin know?" In a way he could see it, but he could also see putting Allan in charge of an tavern was like putting a fox in charge of a henhouse. Allan answered—or rather crowed—"It was his idea!" He used it as an excuse to stop sawing.

"I don't know the whole story, but he's got some kind of grand plan for Locksley, and he says every village that ever amounted to anything has a church and an alehouse. He was thinkin' this would be a good spot for a tavern even before I came back. It's right on the road to Nottingham so you'd get the traveler traffic, but close enough to the center of Locksley that mums could send their kiddies over to fill up a jug for supper. So he's tryin' to get a priest for the chapel and he thinks I could run the alehouse! Now, he wanted to lay down some rules about whoring and gambling and what not, but we came to an accommodation, you might say. I guess he reckons I've been in enough of these places to pick up a thing or two."

"But you own it? You're not just going to run it for Robin?"

"Signed, sealed, and delivered."

Will was beginning to see the logic of it all, but he did have one question. "Where are you going to get your beer?"

"Make my own, what did ya think? My mother made beer, your mother made beer, everybody's mother makes beer…like I said, I've picked up a thing or two. In fact…" Allan started to smirk and beam again. "…I've got some that should be ready by now. Hold on…."

Finally! Sustenance! Will thought.

Allan went back into the stall and came back with a wooden cup filled with something kind of yellowish brown. With things floating in it. "Now we can celebrate!"

Will had a sip.

Never having actually drunk rat's piss himself, Will couldn't personally attest that this was what it tasted like, but he felt pretty confident the two flavors—that of Allan's beer and of the urine emanating from a rat—would be quite similar. Except that Allan's was more…sour…if that was the right word for the extra flavor he tasted.

The best he could do was keep his head down and not say anything.

"Here, let me try. I've been dyin' to see how this would turn out." Allan grabbed the cup from Will's hand and slugged down a swallow. And then ducked his head and looked at the floor, just as Will had done….

"Jesus. That's bad!" But when he looked up, Will was a bit surprised to see Allan's cheeky grin back in place.

"Allan…."

"No loss, really. I mean, I knew better than to throw everything into this first batch. It's still experimental, you know? Brew up just a little bit, taste it, tweak the recipe, brew up another little bit, keep going til I get it right." He returned to sawing, finishing up the second slice and proceeding to a third.

Will was wondering where Allan was getting the money to buy the supplies for these experimental brews, let alone the money he'd need to keep body and soul together until he learned to make proper beer, and enough of it to turn a profit. But he struggled with a tactful way to ask.

He struggled until Allan had finished a fourth slice and was about to start on a fifth, at which point Will decided it was best to finish the matter at hand.

"Okay, enough with the sawing. Time to do something with these seats. This…" Will pulled a fat drill out of his tool bag. "…is an auger."

"Yes, I know." Allan was partly irritated at Will's sense of superiority over all this, partly amused. He decided amusement was the more profitable emotion under the circumstances.

"Now you're going to take one of the seats and drill three holes in it for the legs, about an inch from the edge."

It took a while to get the first hole done—for one thing, with no workbench, it was hard even for Will to figure out how do drill a hole in the seat without also drilling a hole in the floor—but Will used the time to decide how to broach the subject of money. He was making good money himself by building a new house for a kinsman of Robin's, and wanted to feel out Allan to see if he needed a "loan"—one that he knew would never be paid back.

"So if this alehouse is Robin's idea, is he also going to equip it?" It was obvious that he wasn't equipping it with furniture, so Will added, 'With…I dunno…mugs, and trenchers, and cheese, and all." Cheese. Trenchers. That's a hint, Allan. Though I'm also curious about the more general answer.

"Well, well he gave me a purse of start-up cash. That's what I used to buy that first sack of barley. I'll be going into Nottingham to pick up the other things before too long, I suppose."

"It's just that…hey, you're drilling that hole too close to the edge. When you try to put the leg in, it'll break through." Allan had moved on to the second seat.

Will didn't want to rain on his friend's parade, really he didn't, but he seriously doubted if any purse of "start-up cash" was going to be enough to make an such an isolated tavern commercially viable. Every other village alehouse he had known had been run by a farm family as a way to make extra money off their surplus grain, but Allan was no farmer. He wouldn't be able to depend on his own crop for the bulk of his livelihood, which also meant he wouldn't be able to depend on his own efforts to supply the raw materials for his beer. He'd have to buy grain at market, paying the full retail markup. How was this going to work? And if it failed, what then? What other chances would Allan have?

Allan had finished drilling, and, as if he could read his friend's mind, looked up at Will and said, "I'm going to make a go of it, Will. I have to. A little land comes with the house. Not much, but when you put it together with the alehouse... I mean I can have a garden, maybe run a couple of pigs, get some chickens…" The cheer that had previously been in his eyes was fading, replaced with a growing desperation. Tell me it will work, Will. Please, tell me!

The telepathy between the two men worked both ways. "Ah, well, that makes all the difference, doesn't it?" (Though the image of Allan weeding a garden and feeding chickens was almost as ludicrous as the image of Allan tending dairy goats.) "Now where're those branches? They're going to become the legs of the stools.'

While they sawed the branches into shorter sticks to make into legs ("How tall do you want these stools?" "I dunno. As high as my bum?") and whittled them down to fit into the seat holes, Allan prattled about his land. He was right: it was a "little" land—about fifteen acres, when it usually took about fifty to support a free family. ("But it's just me that's livin' on it, not me and a wife and a mother-in-law and a passel of sniffling urchins," Allan made a point of saying.) Given the circumstances, it sounded like a nice plot: a good-sized coppice across the road that Allan could burn into charcoal. ("And if you could use any of the bigger trees for lumber, Will, just say the word! We'll work something out.") and some land next to it the toll collector had used for a few rows of crops. There was some nice pasture land further down, close to the river, that if nothing else would support his horse and might even produce enough hay to sell. He had already started turning ground next to the house for the garden, and Will had noticed a couple of sheds nearby that could be used to store hay or stable animals or for any number of other purposes, like as a brewhouse. There was even a largish spring running behind the house, down to the river, so Allan would have a source of good water for the beer and wouldn't have to haul it far at all. Will had about come to the conclusion that it really mightwork, that Robin had actually put some thought into this and hadn't just acted impulsively out of sense of guilt. And for once, Allan wasn't talking about getting rich, but only about surviving. Turn a pig into ham and bacon and use that and dried garden peas to get through the winter, make enough cash from the alehouse to pay the taxes, have his own ready supply of fuel, keep the roof in repair…this was sounding more feasible and less like a pipe dream as the conversation continued.

By the time two stools were finished (though they were a little wobbly), Allan had built a fire out of the wood scraps and lit a couple of rush lamps. Will assumed he was staying for the night--even if sleeping on the clay floor under his cloak would be better than walking back home in this weather. It had gotten dark enough that there was no point in having the doors and windows open, and the weather had gotten bad enough that the wind and water coming through them made things uncomfortable. Will was in the process of closing the front door when he stopped and stared up the road.

"My God! There's somebody out walking in this!" It was hard to tell, but it looked like an old hunchbacked woman, struggling against the horizontal rain.

Allan came over to look as well. "Well, when she gets closer, call her over to come in and dry out. And no, there's no point in running out to get her yet. All that will do is get you soaked and it won't get her here any faster." He then went over to build up the fire.

When she finally got inside the tollhouse, they found she wasn't a hunchbacked old woman after all, but actually a young woman carrying a child on her back and a bundle in her arms. She was clearly exhausted and cold, and the child wasn't in much better shape. She also looked vaguely familiar.

Allan started bustling about like a housewife, taking her cloak from her and trying—vainly—to find a place to hang it before settling on spreading it on the chest to dry. "Here, love, have a seat by the fire. And take those wet shoes off. And maybe the stockings, too. How's your boy? You all right, mate?" My God, he's a tavern landlord already! Will thought.

"Have you eaten? I don't have much, just some bread and cheese, and something like beer, but it'll fill you up." What? NOW you talk about food? It's just because she's prettier than me, innit? Will suppressed a grin.

"Oh, thank you!"

As Allan went off to the stall for what Will presumed was the bread and cheese and beer (Oh, PLEASE, bring enough back for all of us!) he called over his shoulder, "What were you doing out on a night like this, anyway?"

"I'm heading to Nottingham. My sister lives there. I was a kitchen maid at Lady Glasson's house, but when she died last month, her son broke up the household and I needed to find work. I'm hoping my sister can help me find a job where she lives. I thought I left in time to get there before dark, and the clouds didn't look so bad then. I guess I was wrong."

The boy was showing few more signs of life. He was sitting on the floor in front of his mother, leaning back onto her legs. He appeared to be about five years old, though he could have been tall for his age, and had a shock of black hair. He was looking around him with evident curiosity. He whispered in his mother's ear.

'Shh! No, we're not going to ask them that. Because it's rude, that's why," she whispered back.

He caught sight of Will, who had started knocking together another stool so at least all the adults would have something to sit on. He stared for a bit, then whispered to his mother again.

"Now that we can ask him. In fact, why don't you ask him yourself? Go on!" She gave him a little nudge.

The boy got up and went over to Will, with some hesitation.

"What're you doing?"

"I'm making stools so we have something to sit on." Will had already finished the first one he had started, in about a quarter of the time it took Allan. But then, my dad must have helped me make my first stool with I was the same age as this one. "You want to help? Now that we've got three grown-up stools, we need a little-boy stool."

Allan came out with the food and the cup of beer. He grinned as he heard Will and put a chunk of the cheese and of the bread on the stump they hadn't attacked yet for the two woodworkers to eat. He took the rest over to the woman and sat next to her. It hadn't been Will's intention to act as Allan's wingman, but that wound up being the effect anyway, which suited Allan just fine.

Will the boy "helped" Will, Allan chatted her up. "So what's your name, love? I'm Allan a Dale and that chappie with the hatchet is Will Scarlet. And this…" he gestured broadly, "…is going to be the new Lockesly alehouse."

The woman had spread her curly brown hair over the front of her shoulder so it could dry. It made her look even more familiar. Where have I seen her before? Will looked over at Allan only to see the same expression on his face, as if he was trying to place her. But now, the woman was looking at Allan the same way—the names evidently meant something to her, but what?

She took a sip of her beer. Allan had wondered how she would react. All things considered, she was actually quite gracious. She obviously tried her best to keep from making a face, but still wasn't completely successful. She said, "I'm sorry, but I think this is a little strong for my son. I don't really like him to drink beer at his age. Could I trouble you for some water instead?"

Will pursed his lips together to keep from grinning. Every child he had ever known, himself included, had started drinking weak beer--which this was--as soon as they graduated from their mother's teat, it being so much safer than water. If the woman was asking for water instead of beer for her son, it must be bad. And in fact, Allan was a little flummoxed—he didn't keep jugs of water around for that very reason. "Um…" He took the cup, stood up, and tossed the contents out the back window, then filled it full of rainwater running off the eaves and brought it back.

"Seth! Seth! Come over here. You need something to wash your supper down." The boy proudly took his newly-finished stool and toddled over to her. Seth…Seth...another ring of familiarity.

Now that he was fed and watered and warm and dry and off the cold clay floor, the little boy was acting more like a little boy again. In this case he started rummaging around the bundle, obviously looking for something specific.

"Alright, if he's Seth, what's your name again, love?" Allan wasn't giving up, and, in honesty, it was a fair question under the circumstances.

"Annie. My name's Annie…Seth, what are you doing?"

"You said I could play with my toy when we got there if I was good! And…I've been good! And…we're there!" he said defensively. Will kind of liked how he showed spirit without being completely sassy.

"Well, we're not 'there' yet, but you have been good, so go ahead."

He pulled a wee bow and quiver out of the bundle. It was as if lightening struck. "Allan!" Will hissed.

"Seth! Annie! You're that Seth and Annie! Of course! That's why you're familiar!" Will and Allan's words were scrambling on top of each other, a mile a minute. Annie not only looked confused, but looked a little frightened. Seth, on the other hand, was oblivious.

"Oh, of course! You barely met us, and Seth here was too young to remember. We were with Robin's gang in Sherwood Forest! We're the ones who…" Will nudged Allan. They had no way of knowing how much the child understood about his parentage, and these weren't the circumstance in which to blurt it out. "...who helped you out when he was a baby and you were working at Nottingham Castle." Good cover, Allan! Will thought.

Now the penny dropped. Annie's eyes opened in big circles of amazement. "You two….!" She looked from one to the other. "You're the one….!" She pointed at Allan. And now they were all laughing, which did get Seth's attention…briefly. The bow and quiver were much more interesting than anything grownups could say. Which made them laugh all the more. "I've kept that on a shelf since you gave it to us. I didn't want him to break it, but he's getting old enough now that I let him play with it on special occasions."

"Fwippp! Fwippp!" Seth was imitating an arrow being let loose from a bow. Will was actually interested in whether his toy worked or not—and, to be honest, wouldn't mind playing with it himself--so concentrated his attention on Seth while Allan and Annie sat and chattered on like a house afire, Annie telling him about life in the manor house and Allan telling her about his plans for the tavern. (Will found out he was thinking of naming it "The Bow and Arrow.')

Eventually, conversation died out, and Seth started to get sleepy again. Annie moved to get up, and started gathering her things together.

"Wait! What are you doing?"

"Thank you very much for your hospitality. You've been very kind, but I have to get to Nottingham. It's not very far.'

"Yes it is far! You can't go back out in that! You have to sleep over here!"

Annie's eyes narrowed. She really didn't know these men. When Allan said "can't" and "have to," did he really mean "shouldn't" and "should"? Or did he mean something darker?

Allan understood the look a second or two before Will did. "Look," he said more calmly, and a little chastened. "Your sister's not expecting you to show up this late after walking through the dark and the rain. And all it will do for us back here is make us worry. You can leave at first light if you want. Will and I won't bother you. Trust me."

"Oh! So you two are…." She seemed relieved, and to understand now, and gestured at the single pallet on the floor.

"What? No!" Allan said, shaking his head and wincing a bit. "Why do people always think that?" Will muttered.

"Well then…" Annie seemed hesitant again, and not a little suspicious. "How do I know you're…honorable men?"

"'Honorable men'?" The wording made Allan give a little laugh. "Well, I'm not the least bit honorable, but Will here certainly is, and besides, he's betrothed to a woman who's good with a sword, so he won't dare make a false move. And he's bigger than me, so if I lose my head or something, you can holler to him and he'll take me out. He's done it before!" Will nodded vigorously, making it look to Annie as if he relished me memory of taking Allan out.

She still seemed a little unsure.

"Look," he said, more patiently still. "You and Seth can sleep in one of the stalls over there if you want. They're not as solid as a prison cell or anything, but it'll put at least something resembling a wall between us, and you can latch the door. Or you can sleep out here next to the fire, and lock us in the stalls instead." Will looked at Allan. He wasn't so sure he liked the sound of being locked in a small stall all night long. Allan ignored him but gave Annie his biggest, most winning, least cheeky smile, the smile Will internally referred to as number 96 to differentiate it from his many other smiles. "What do you say?"

She looked at Seth, who had fallen asleep again, slumped over his little stool and clutching his little bow. That seemed to make the decision for her. "Well…alright. We're staying in there," she said firmly, pointing to the stall on the left.

"There you go!" Allan sounded relieved. He gathered up the straw pallet and helped Annie with her bundle, leaving the dead weight of the sleeping Seth for Will to carry. They all settled in for the night, and Allan blew out the rushes. It sounded to Will like Annie and Seth went right to sleep. He couldn't say the same about Allan.

When Allan woke up, sunshine was pouring through the open back window instead of rain. Will appeared to be gone, but he heard noises in the right stall, the one he used as a storeroom and something resembling a kitchen. He walked back there, first noticing Seth still sleeping in the other stall, and found Annie puttering around as if she was looking for something.

"Oh!" she said, startled. "I just thought I'd make some breakfast. Kind of paying back your hospitality."

"Yeah, well, bread and cheese is all I have. Or had. I think we finished it last night. As you've probably found out by now." She laughed a little more heartily than was warranted.

An awkward silence settled on them. Jesus, this is like morning after a one-night stand, only without the fun part leading up to it, Allan thought.

"Well, then…." Silence again. "I'd better wake Seth up and get going. It's…past first light."

Allan wasn't overjoyed to lose her, but she had a point: she did have places to go and people to see, and he had no reason to detain her. He stepped aside.

She got Seth onto his feet, and as they reached the door, Allan—whose judgment was never the best this early in the morning—said, "Listen, if you're going to be in Nottingham…I going to need to go there to market…maybe sometime we can, you know…." And he gave her what Will thought of as Smile 74—and it was the wrong one. It had a little too much leer to it, under the circumstances. Her eyes narrowed like they had the night before, and she shot him a look that would dissuade anybody but the one and only Allan a Dale. But she also said, "Maybe," giving him far more encouragement than she intended.

As she walked through the front door, bearing her bundle again but at least with Seth ambulatory, she turned to Allan. "Listen, your beer…."

"Yeah, I know it's rat's…it's awful."

"You know why?"

If I did, I wouldn't let it taste that way, now would I? Allan thought, but managed to keep to himself.

"You soaked your barley to make malt, right? And then dried it before you boiled it in water?"

"Yeah?"

"Well, you soaked it too long. So it didn't just germinate, it sprouted. And then you didn't dry it out enough, so it started to spoil before you cooked it. That's why it tasted so sour."

"Wait, you know about brewing?"

"Well, yeah. I mean, I'm not certified as a master brewer or anything, but my mother made beer for our family, and I helped her. Then I helped the brewer at the castle, and then at Lady Glasson's. So…

"So you've picked up a thing or two?"

"Yeah. I guess you could say that." It was as if she hadn't thought of that before, but the idea made her a little proud.

And with that she headed down the road. Allan waved, wishing she would turn around. She didn't, but Seth did….and waved back.

Well, that's something, I suppose. And Allan went back inside to toss out what was left of the beer and start all over again.