The Sheriff had called a special Council of Nobles. They each anticipated some diatribe on the escape of Robin Hood, but were greeted by something altogether unexpected

"His Majesty, Prince John!" a herald, hired especially for this occasion, cried out.

They all bowed and murmured expressions of surprise.

The guest began, "My dear nobles, I come to you with grave news and a purpose of highest import. We have word Richard left Palestine. Wherever he lands, though, he will be detained. He has many enemies in Europe. He has no idea how many."

The Sheriff smiled at this.

"So we must act quickly to consolidate power in England," John, Earl of Mortaigne and least loved son of the Queen Mother elaborated on his plan. "Nottingham has always been my last bastion of support, I am relying on you to champion the effort. We need funds. Now is the time. Taxes must be raised!" he said strongly. "And churches must be forced to turn over their gold trinkets," he added with disdain.

Not a single noble dared to offer a response.

The Sheriff clapped his hands. "Good, everybody understand? Now, do it!" he growled.

There was one person whose absence, although unnoticed, still bears mentioning. Guy of Gisbourne, wounded by the Sheriff's unending effort to undermine him and feeling no happiness, relief, or otherwise pleasant emotion at John's presence in Nottingham, had retreated to Locksley for the evening. He sent a message excusing himself, which the Sheriff didn't bother to read.

The truth was, Guy was tired. His life as the Sheriff's deputy frustrated him and his deadend love for Marian exhausted him.

He let himself think of her that night, as he nursed his pride by the fire. Since he had let her escape, he had been vigilant of his thoughts, chastising himself whenever they strayed to her. But he was in the mood to be self-destructive. He gave himself up to his favorite fantasy. It started with a memory—the memory of her walking down the aisle to accept him at the alter. After that, though, he had to let his imagination take over. In his mind, she cried at the end of the wedding.

"This is a day of joy!" he comforts her.

"And these are tears of joy," she says.

After he takes her to his bed that night, the details of which differ depending on his mood, he sits up with her that night and tells her all his secrets, all of the sins he has committed, every truth.

"I forgive you," she says.

"Master!"

Guy was startled from his dream.

"What is it?" he asked his guard, angrily.

"Someone's robbed our storehouse, they left this," he replied, handing Gisbourne an arrow with a piece of paper on it.

Guy tore the note off.

You never did pay me.

Allan A Dale

In a different script at the bottom was added:

And R.H.

Guy crumpled it up in his fist, threw it in the fire, grabbed the nearest thing he could find, which happened to be a bowl, threw that against the wall so it shattered, and barked, "Get me my horse!"