Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Author Note: Set post-series and after the audio-play 'The Knights of the Apocalypse.'

TOO MANY MIRAGES

Richard saw Nasir when he was visiting Huntington. Richard was paying respects to the distant cousin who had taken up the Earldom. Robert of Huntington had cast away his right the moment he'd entered the forest and had shown no yearning to return. Richard had sacrificed a great deal to follow his King, to do his Christian duty in the Holy land, but it was thoughts of his home, of Leaford Grange and the daughter who lived there, that had kept him focused on both succeeding and returning. He could not imagine discarding something so vital and loved.

De Rainault was at Huntington, no doubt hoping for more patronage. The new earl, a young man with dark red hair and an apparently light gaze, did not show him any particular favour. He provided a good feast and entertained his guests with some sort of ease.

"My cousin told me of you, of your wise advice," he told Richard, shaking his hand in a quiet moment. "I hope to hear some of it, as I learn this place."

Richard dipped his head, moved by his old friend's compliment. "I'm honoured to be thought so."

De Rainault snorted at that, mouth half soaked with wine already. At the young earl's offended expression on behalf of his guest, De Rainault was quick to explain, of course.

"You must not have heard, my lord, but Sir Richard's daughter didn't listen to his advice or perhaps she did. You see, she married Robin Hood, lived in Sherwood Forest with him and his men, traitors to the crown that forgave them once, criminals and killers every one of them."

Richard did not let loose his temper; he was quite used to De Rainault's snipes and sneers. He had encountered such men before too; men that gloried in their own position and liked to cut down everyone else further. Richard knew not to act on his anger rashly, impulsively, especially not in front of such company. A soldier knew when to strike and when to wait. His anger would be satisfied eventually; God would see to that.

"My daughter made her mistakes, it's true," Richard agreed, his tone coloured a little by De Rainault's company, that could not be helped. "But she was pardoned by the King and now lives in Kirklees Abbey."

"How very noble," murmured De Rainault with mocking eyes. "In seclusion, isn't she? To truly concentrate on her penance?"

That was a fact not widely known, only by those who had visited the abbey or had had someone visit for them. Richard's hand tightened around a goblet but he did not throw accusations. So De Rainault was keeping a close eye on Marion, suspicious perhaps of her sudden disappearance from Sherwood. As though it was not really true, as though there was something to suspect.

"So I am told," Richard ground out, pointedly not glaring at De Rainault.

The young earl did not seem shocked or put out by the conversation. "Robin Hood, my wayward kinsman. It broke his father's heart I'm sure."

"Undoubtedly. And if he should...approach you or any here at Huntington, you will...inform me?" asked De Rainault, his gaze acquisitive.

The young earl nodded without hesitation. Richard had talked with the former Earl some months ago, he knew that Robert had in fact reconciled with his father though he had refused to be made heir again. Was the new earl robing himself in collaboration purely for politics or because he truly believed Robin Hood was a criminal menace to be stamped out?

Richard did not spy Nasir until late into the evening, when most guests had either left or gone to bed. De Rainault had vanished and the young earl was talking to his chaplain. Richard was looking out of a window, lost in thoughts he kept rigidly silent, gazing down at the stable yard, when a figure mingling amongst the servants there looked up, as though he had always known of Richard's gaze.

He was hooded and hunched, moving as though he cringed, nervous of upsetting one and all. He did not adjust his posture but his eyes were briefly visible, sharp and knowing. He nodded once, jerkily, but Richard knew that to be false. Nasir had always shown himself to be entirely confident with or without a weapon. A stranger in a very foreign land, yet even now able to blend in.

Nasir only seemed to be clear there for a moment, then he vanished among the others. Richard looked for him vainly but could see no sign. Perhaps Nasir had already left the Huntington estate. Perhaps he had been there to see Richard, to take news of his well-being to the forest. Perhaps he had been seeing Huntington for Robert's sake or to keep an eye on De Rainault. Nasir had given no signal that there was any trouble for Marion. Richard's hand clenched around the goblet once more.

Richard dreamed sometimes of the Holy Land, of dry heat, of the leg injury that still ached in winter, of the half-remembered faces and sounds of unending battle, the loss and victories. He remembered mirages, how some days men impossibly saw all that they wanted. Hope, as clear as the steel in their hands. He wondered how often he experienced that now, in England.

Richard was sure he'd seen the large man, John, when he'd visited Nottingham market for horses. John was not a man easy to disguise and Richard had glanced past a skittish bay to see a tall figure in a hat that covered his face and a bearded chin. The man was handing a bag to a baker and then took a seat in a potter's cart.

Richard didn't know how Robert's men spread the money they stole from De Rainault and the crown; he didn't know how the people of Nottingham helped, though they undoubtedly did. The cart began to move and the man sitting in it glanced up past the brim of his hat but didn't seem to look at Richard. In fact, he looked studiously away.

"My lord?"

Dust obscured the cart now. Was Marion driving it? Richard hadn't spied red hair or the familiar way that she always flicked reins when controlling horses. She had always loved to ride.

The bay whinnied, showing too much white of eye. Richard wouldn't have bought it for his daughter. The temperament wasn't right at all.

Richard never seemed to see Scarlet. But there were glimpses of him in many a soldier's face, his anger and grief in any number of serfs and free men. Some days Richard saw it when he caught his own gaze in too many reflections.

The boy, Much, bumped into Richard as he returned to Leaford Grange after a visit to a nearby crofter. Richard almost didn't recognise him – his eyes were no longer as wide, his face narrower and much less open. He was more man than boy now. But there was enough there for Richard to grip Much's hands as the he tried to scramble away. Much refused to be caught though and wrenched himself free, scrambling behind the white horse that Marion had always ridden and then away.

Richard was stunned into inactivity for a moment, because Much had worn an expression of sheer hatred when he had looked at Richard.

Edwin, Richard's steward, emerged from the house and noticed his master's expression.

"What is it, my lord?"

Richard didn't follow the instinct that told him to shout for someone to grab the boy and bring him to Richard at once. What would that do? Someone might recognise Much and inform De Renault who would seize him and wring words of Marion from him, no doubt. And what could Richard ask Much? Why did you look like that? How is Marion? Marion was supposed to be living in an abbey. Any words could be used against her and Richard, the nuns, the people of Leaford Grange. Richard's household was large enough to include a great many people. In these times, many would do whatever was asked, for coin.

Much had been Robin of Loxley's brother, Richard remembered that story. Perhaps that accounted for the change in him, though not the burning look he had directed at Richard.

Robert was a story now, a tale that children and serfs told. He was Robin Hood, king of Sherwood, Herne's Son. He helped those that were poor, helpless and needy. He took lives to save others; he stole to redress De Rainault's cruelty. It was admirable work but he was creating a war, putting lives at risk that, until now, had been hard, yes, but they had been safe. He was fighting against the king. Rebellions were always crushed. Hadn't Marion learned that?

Richard had never seen the forest god that Robert's men and so many serfs claimed walked among the trees. Even Tuck, a man of God, had spoken of his existence, as though such a ridiculous story were fact. Did Marion believe in something, someone, so unreal? When she had sought sanctuary in a nunnery more than once?

Richard went to church regularly. He listened to the sermons and gave money. He looked past the expressions and whispers full of his wild shameful daughter. He missed her beside him, in a way he tried not to linger on. But he didn't miss her white expressionless face, her dull eyes and tight mouth. How she had heard the whispers too, how withdrawn she had been, affecting contentment and acceptance with where she was. Leaford Grange had no longer brought her happiness. She hadn't drawn comfort from it, as Richard had after her mother's passing or his own return home.

It hadn't been Marion's home anymore.

"Goods from Barnsley, my lord."

Richard nodded distractedly, as though such words weren't precious to him. He focused on signing his name on the parchment before looking up. There were two young boys with Edwin, who both gave ragged bows. Richard wondered briefly where the boys had come from – which village? One was managing to stand without fidgeting and his bright eyes stayed fixed on Richard.

"Well, the goods?" Richard asked at last.

The boys turned and lifted a large basket, filled with cabbages and there was a small bucket of berries and something else, a bunch of drying herbs? Richard's gaze crossed the basket's contents briefly.

"Everything else?"

"Outside, my lord," supplied Edwin.

This basket must have been the only one required to be delivered personally to Richard. He nodded to the boys.

"Very well. Leave it here. Everything beyond see counted and stored. If it is all correct, see that they're fed and rested before their return."

"My lord."

The boys were nodded out by Edwin who followed. Richard waited only a moment before inspecting the basket thoroughly, his fingers sure and quick. It had been too long since he had received news of his daughter. The goods and their placements told him scarce but solid facts – Marion was well, De Rainault was pressing very close still but the nuns at Kirklees were holding fast and Marion had been present when needed to stave off any accusations from De Rainault of falsehood and treason. Marion did not think she would be able to meet with her father, not for a long while yet.

Richard fingered the neck of his shirt and allowed himself to think of the last time he had seen her – he had been hunting with his hawk and men, there had been word of outlaws nearby. He had done his best not to gaze amongst the trees, to search shadows for familiarity. But there had been a moment when he had been separated from the rest, pressing his horse faster than any unusued to mounted soldiering could.

Marion had emerged from a thicket, just as Richard had been about to pass by. She hadn't made a sound, aware of Richard's distant company. So she had melted away, back into the trees, like a dream or a mirage, when hoofbeats had thundered, heralding the arrival of Richard's men. She might not have been real, no trace of her left. He had wondered since, when he allowed himself to think of it, if she had been there at all.

She had looked well and bright. She had looked happy, at home in clothing unfit for her and in a surrounding that Richard wished still to pluck her from, for her safety. But she had been safe before and had chosen danger again, the same danger that was now posed to too many thanks to Robin Hood, the same danger that had killed her husband. Richard had told her so once and she had pressed her lips together, accusation in her eyes, perhaps at how Richard had left Leaford, and her, more than once, fighting for the King.

That was different. Marion had lifted her chin, her own sense of duty and comradeship as obvious as any soldier's. That wasn't all Richard had seen but he had turned away.

Now, when Edwin returned to Richard's study, he found his master folding a letter for sealing, his age plain upon his brow and his fingers and the desk splashed with ink, as though too much somehow had been broken.

-the end