Gisbourne was shaking. His emotions threatened to overwhelm him, causing his body to shake with hatred, rage, regret, anxiety, and something he hadn't felt since he was a child...fear. Cold and unexpected, unmitigating fear.

He swore as he dabbed a wet cloth at the deep scratch on his arm, wincing from the sting as he washed away his blood.

He had failed in his mission. Failed to kill the king, and why? It had all been Locksley's fault.

Everything had been so well planned, so perfectly thought out and timed. The Sheriff had told him he couldn't fail...the plan was foolproof. But he hadn't accounted for Locksley.

The man was a fiend! Gisbourne knew he had killed him! He had stabbed him through with his sword, and watched him as he fell dead in the sand, but the next thing Gisbourne knew, Locksley appeared in the king's tent, fighting him like a man possessed. Blood poured from his side, staining his white Templar tunic scarlet. Never had Gisbourne faced such a skilled and determined opponent! Locksley had kept him from killing the king, and had wounded him besides. As Richard awoke and rose from his bed, Gisbourne had no choice but to run for his life.

He had failed his mission. Richard still lived. Even if Locksley were to die from his wound, Gisbourne would not be awarded his lands. He would get nothing. He had failed, all because of Locksley.

And what would the Sheriff and Prince John do to Gisbourne now? He shuddered to think.

...

King Richard stood by the bedside of the soldier he loved better than any other, while Robin lay weak and wounded in a hospital bed. Warrior monks, the Hospitallers, attended his wound. They had believed their nursing duties were over, for the cease fire should have stopped the never ending flow of patients dying in their care.

Much was also at Robin's side, never leaving him, nervously fretting over his Master.

"He has a tattoo," Robin whispered, struggling to be understood. "On his arm. A black wolf head tattoo."

"Robin," the king's voice was soothing, hiding the fury he felt toward the unknown man who had done this. "Rest. It is your duty now to recover. Let others deal with the Saracen assassins."

This marked the end of the cease fire. Once again, Saladin had not kept his word. Richard's armies would strike back, and soon, with a vengeance.

Brother William De Conti, a Hospitaller Knight, begged the king's leave to let the patient rest. "Your Majesty, he needs to sleep."

The king withdrew, but Brother William knew better than to ask the loyal Much to go. He set up a cot for Much next to Robin's, and there the servant waited, praying day and night for his master to get well.

...

Much waited in vain. Robin's wound became infected, and he took a dangerous fever. He thrashed about on his cot in the hospital, haunted by visions and dreams that tormented him, speaking aloud in his delirium, the voice from his parched lips sounding hoarse and faint, the meaning of his words unclear.

"White lilacs," he whispered, smiling faintly.

"It's a bush," Much told Brother William. "A bush back home in Locksley. His mother's favorite flower. His lord father had it planted when Robin's mother died. But why would he mention it now?"

Brother William only shook his head. Only the good Lord could understand what was truly in men's hearts, or on their minds.

Often, Robin's delirium was horrrific. He appeared to be reliving the killing he had done here in the Holy Land over and over again.

"His soul is troubled," Brother William cried. "Why didn't he say how troubled he is? I could have offered absolution!"

"He won't talk," Much explained.

Days passed, while Robin barely clung to life. The king led his armies south, leaving orders for Robin to return home to fully recover, if he ever became well enough to travel. Much and Brother William remained behind to care for their dying friend.

Rachel had heard about Robin languishing in the hospital, and rushed to his side. Several of the Hospitaller monks tried to keep the young Jewess away, but Much asked Brother William to admit her into Robin's presence.

"Oh, no," she sobbed, when she saw how ill and frail Robin was. "Much," she cried, "he cannot die!"

She held his hand in hers, his once strong hand that was now so thin and weak.

Robin opened his eyes and looked at her. Eyes, bright with fever, lit up even brighter at her presence.

He struggled to speak, and Rachel leaned close to his lips to make out the words.

"I knew I would find you again," he murmured, and Rachel felt her heart leap in her chest.

"I must tell you," he continued. "Why did I never say it?"

"Say what?" she asked, her voice soft and gentle.

What he had to say seemed so important to him. Rachel leaned her ear even closer to his dry, parched lips.

"I love you."

Rachel gasped. Had she really heard him correctly?

"Robin, I love you, too! Oh, my darling, I truly love you!"

"My love," he whispered. "My Marian."

Rachel pulled away, her eyes filled with pain. She turned to Much.

"Who is Marian?" she asked.