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We'll take a rest here, briefly, from spying on Sherwood, where things continue as we might expect, full of small victories and disheartening set-backs, the occasional musing on those of the gang (and for Robin, Marian) now incommunicado, at their task in France. [So we'll give Jonas a week or so off, without him having to suffer a broken foot to earn it.]

Luke is a nice addition to things, and his skills at a forge (as well as his wood-skills, learned from his father) have come in handy. Little John's wear-and-tear from his time of hard-use at Knighton have begun to heal nicely, and Sir Clem, though not risking riding out into the forest again, continues in secret to regain strength and mobility, and is believed (in spirit, if not in action) by Robin to be in harmony with the outlaws' cause. Publicly his traitor's mask remains in place for the Sheriff and all others to see.

Guy treasures his prized bracelet, growing more gaunt as the days go by, his interest waning in all things not related to Robin Hood.

The Sheriff plots, almost forgetting to oppress the peasantry such is his fixation on the news he expects any day from his man sent to Calais.

[As I have explained in sections prior, the sum of this telling is meant to span an entire season. But, due to my personal time constraints, I have not outlined each of 13 tussles and A-plots for the Sherwood gang. Feel free to do so on your own, in your free time. I should be glad to read them in mine. ;) We, however, are bound for France, where things are really heating up.]

FRANCE - The road to King Philip's castle - For amusement, and to pass the time on their journey, Allan has been giving Aislinn (newly-christened Asher, whom he has quickly devolved into calling just, 'Ash') lessons in pick-pocketry. She has decided for him that his new moniker will be 'Llanio'.

Allan: Now, when you're lifting summat sharp off a gent, like a blade...[shows her his favorite, Robin-given dagger]

Aislinn: [perplexed, muses to herself] You really would think such nimble fingers would make quick work of lute playing...

Allan: [replaces the blade within one of the many interior pockets of his vest][smarting at her diminution of his lute skill] Oi! You're supposed to be paying attention.

Aislinn: [reaching in his vest, trying to locate the dagger by feel][protests] I am! That was a pretty scoring on the blade [her knowledge of forge-craft coming out], can I see it? I wonder how it was done? [her hand erroneously withdraws a shiny silver pennywhistle] What's this? Cheating on the lute, now, are you?

Allan: Naw, but give us a listen.

Allan plays sharply, sprightly, and is actually very good.

Aislinn: [genuinely] That's great, but...the whole point is...you're the singer. You can't sing and blow.

Allan: [reflectively] Mind you, I did once know this girl...

Aislinn: [used to his laddish segues by now] Of course you did.

Allan: [looking for a way to make this possible] I know! We'll put it about that you're, what's the word? Castrati. That way I can play a bit and you can sing one or two. Know any good ones?

Aislinn: I know a hundred plus two. I do not think Asher will thank you for gelding him with such glee, [smiles] but I, surely I do.

She has wanted to be able to do some of the singing, has longed for it since first hearing of their job.

Allan: [chuffed] I've started writing something of my own. It'll make good use of your drum, I think. Wanna hear a bit of it?

Aislinn: [skeptically] Just not with the lute, please.

Allan and Aislinn have auditioned and (miraculously), with the help of Allan's force-of-personality and some wheel-greasing gold, been admitted, for indefinite length of time, into the combined holiday courts of Philip II of France and England's Queen Mother, Eleanor of Aquitaine.

They will be fed and housed in return for their services, and given, for the most part, free run of the castle and grounds.

Allan predictably fronts as though he had no doubt about that eventuality. Aislinn breathes a (more realistic) sigh of deep relief.

The Sheriff's man has proven none too hardy for travel, and became seriously sickened on the crossing (perhaps he should have quaffed less ale immediately prior). Pleased by this development, and always preferring the upper hand, Allan, eager to make use of this delay in their nemesis' arrival moves them in to the castle immediately.

He additionally pays several female "dockworkers" he finds to take the Sheriff's chap and 'nurse him back to health' (i.e. waylay him indefinitely at their local house of ill-repute). The "workers", their chemises warmed by Allan's Sherwood gold, and their hearts (or something like their hearts) charmed by his smile, are only too happy to oblige. Allan and Aislinn celebrate their first small victory by working to establish themselves at Court before the spy/messenger/assassin's eventual arrival.

They are surprised to learn of the addition of Eleanor and the Aquitaine Court, and uncertain what her presence here might mean for the cause of King Richard; whether it bodes well or ill.

Several days pass as they become acquainted with the castle and staff, and get to know by sight the seemingly endless number of visiting nobility.

It does not take long before both manage to befriend the page Tristan, perhaps the best guide to such things in the castle.

SCENE - Kitchens. Allan and Tristan have just finished their suppers. Soon Tristan will have to leave to wait on the knights' tables in the Great Hall, and Allan will be expected to set up in the Great Hall (or a nearby spot) to play (as will some twenty-five or so other balladeers currently housed at the castle employed as entertainment).

Allan and Tristan have been acquainted for some time, and Tristan has not stinted on carrying tales of his new minstrel friends to Salima and Marian in the castle-proper.

As he would with any new trouvre-type, Tristan is pumping Allan for information on his favorite subject: Robin Hood. Allan, of course, must not risk his cover, but feels confidant admitting he has some knowledge of the growing-ever-more notorious outlaw.

Allan: Well, first things first, he's definitely not as tall as they say.

Tristan: [too starry-eyed over discussing Robin to even feel dismay over Allan's comment] Who would you say is the best man among his band? The giant Jean Le Petit? Wild Will Scarlet-hanged but yet living-expert with his axe?

Allan: [feeling satisfied from a good meal, and perhaps a bit homesick] Yeah, well, his true right-hand man, loyalest of the loyal's gotta be Much, innit?

Tristan: [had been waiting with bated breath][puzzled, but the rapt expression not yet gone from his face] Who?

Allan: Much. [checks Tristan's blank response] You mean to tell me you haven't heard [making it up on the spot] of the tale of Much [further adlibbing] the Miller's Son?

Tristan violently shakes his head, 'no'.

Allan: [lying through his teeth, flying by the seat of his pants] How he left a good job in the city? Workin' for the man every night and day? How he never got a minute of sleep...bravely distinguishing himself on Crusade? [he has Tristan in the palm of his hand] How the Sheriff of Nottingham personally gifted Much the lodge and fields at Bonchurch in an effort to break his unwavering loyalty to Robin Hood?

Tristan again shakes his head, 'no'.

Allan: [affecting an air of casual indifference, reclines against the wall where he's seated on a bench and allows himself a casual stretch] Well, I don't know what kind of troubadours you employ here, but I can say your ignorance on the matter-through no fault of your own-does not impress me very much. Anyhow, I don't recall the full lyrics just now. I shall have to consult with Ash and get...back...

Just then, Salima, coming to get Marian a tray from the kitchens (where she would personally oversee its making) passes near enough by them to come into Allan's direct line of sight.

Allan: [not finishing his earlier sentence] Who is that?

Tristan: [slight shiver enters his voice. He is only ever fully comfortable around Salima when Marian is present] The Lady Salima. [spoken as though he said, 'the witch-woman Vampira']

Allan: She is-

Tristan: [incorrectly intuiting that Allan finds her physically repulsive] She is half-Saracen. [echoes belief/fear of the castle servants that she is all Saracen] So she says. Her looks are thought to be...quite [relishes the word] repellent. [curiously] In your travels have you ever seen anything to match them?

Allan: [smirking his disbelief] Repellent?

Allan, as almost at any time, but even more so when on a job, saw the world through several filters simultaneously: grifter, thief, outlaw, and man (though not always necessarily in that order). It was just such filters that kept him alive and free. For example: the grifter saw people for what they were, rather than as they wished to appear; the thief saw any mark's greatest weaknesses and their secrets; the outlaw saw the best way to exit any situation, or saw a myriad of ways in which any situation might turn unfortunate for his interests; and the man, he saw the possibilities of pleasure (of many, and different, kinds) and happiness, and often set the other filters in search of acquiring such (whether it be food, shelter, safety, or sexual gratification).

What Allan saw before him in the kitchens was this: The Lady Salima stood slightly taller than those (even the serving men) around her, and the heavily embroidered burgundy-colored bliaut she wore did far less to conceal her striking figure than did the shielding garments commonly worn by women in the country of her birth.

Her breasts and hips added tempting shape to the shoulder-to-floor garment, cinched compellingly, wrapped twice about the waist and knotted in front of her abdomen with a well-tied scarf. This silken girdle managed to hug to the top rise of her bum, somewhat, as the long ends of the scarf billowed out with her movements, like a curtain falling among her skirts below her waist and above her leg. It put him (and no doubt others) in mind of what one might find concealed behind the fabrics.

Unlike the other women of her age surrounding her here in Philip's kitchens, her head went uncovered without veil or wimple, or even coif; most likely she was unmarried. Her hair was caught up in golden cord-threaded buns on either side of her head, from each of those hanging heavy in a braid-thick as the ropes that raised the drawbridge, black as the color of tar, without highlight or lowlight; only one deep, inky color. She wore a narrow (no thicker than her smallest finger) gold circlet about her forehead.

Her arms (undoubtedly like her unseen legs) were long inside trumpet-flared sleeves, and wielded with grace. Her hands were expressive and unmistakably feminine. And her face, this visage Tristan had been lead to believe was sub-human; it completed a fantasy come to vivid life. Surprisingly (as Tristan and others among the servants appeared to be unable to see it), several of her facial features were decidedly European. Her eyes were a rare clear and unmuddied green, like expensive glass beads, meant only for sale to the nobility, Allan had seen once at a summer faire.

To sum her up as repellant? Mystifying. What he saw was a woman whose equal he had yet to encounter, despite his having more than a passing interest in the feminine form, despite his having had more than a fleeting experience with all shapes thereof.

Allan: [trying to sort the truth out for Tristan] It is only that her skin is different, as she is from Palestine.

His mind filled in the fact that she would be darker still than her current barley beer complexion, were she to be more frequently outdoors.

Tristan: [tired of the topic of Salima] And you have been to Palestine in your travels? To see many like her? For she attends at the Lionheart's command, it is said, on my Lady Matilda.

Allan: [off-handedly, absently giving away more than he perhaps should] I have seen the Holy Land.

Salima arrives unexpectedly to join their chat.

Salima: [doubtful] A crusading jongleur? A religious pilgrim bard? [for she already knows much of Allan from Tristan's tale-carrying]

Allan: [startled by the subject of their conversation (and of his private contemplation) coming so suddenly to confront them] Well, not exactly.

Seeing to propriety, Tristan introduces the two and excuses himself to his further chores.

Salima waits for Marian's tray to be completed, sitting at the long trestle table near Allan, and eating the occasional morsel from the food set out, as she wants it.

Salima: [setting out to quiz him, and his motives] [conversationally] As I understand it from Tristan, you are not a very ambitious musician.

Allan: [as though he has not heard her, inclining his head] How's that?

Salima: You spend all of your time here in the lower kitchens. It is hardly the place to earn gold, or inspire a noble's patronage. For that matter [she referenced their bustling, noisy surroundings], it his hardly the place to sing and be heard. [arriving at the meat of it] If I did not know better, I should suspect you for a spy, or [cushioning her accusation by back-pedaling], are you trying to learn how to...

Allan: Make a pudding?

Salima: Or are you in love with one of the scullery maids?

Allan: Yeah. [grabs on to the idea] [thumb-points to a pretty girl, emptying a pot by the fires] That's my Nell.

Salima: [she cannot yet tell if Allan is a spy or simply a lazy lothario][dryly] Her name is Brigid.

Allan: [not missing a beat] Yeah, well, Nell's my pet name for her. [catches Brigid's eye, waves and smiles, makes slight 'kissy' face.]

Brigid, a somewhat ruddy-faced, pleasantly stout lass (quite pretty) is confused, but flattered. She blushes and looks away.

Allan: I'm not tryin' to be funny, but if I didn't know better, my lady, I'd have you out for a spy.

Salima: Because of my origins?

Allan: [genuinely not having thought of that, he's so very used to D'Jaq] [covering] Well, there's that, to be sure, but as I hear it you are attendant on a certain lady who claims to carry the seed of our great King. In that precarious of a position; half his kingdom wanting her and the child dead, the other half wanting the child, anyone concerned would, of necessity, turn spy. [gestures to Marian's (though of course he doesn't know it's hers) tray, nearly ready] I see you monitor the preparation of her meals, ensuring they are not poisoned.

Salima: [accepting the tray to leave, without denying his astute observations] Well, jongleur, we shall no doubt cross paths again, as I am to the lower kitchens several times a day, and you seem to have taken up residence here...with your beloved Nell. [her eyes spark, baiting him, she has always liked a riddle] Perhaps some time I might even have the pleasure of hearing you sing.

As she swept away, Allan found that he felt, atypically, somewhat breathless.

TBC