Hi readers, thanks for your patience. This chapter took a little longer than usual simply because I was getting depressed at the mounting evidence that Djaq and Will wouldn't be returning for S3. However, a recent interview with Jonas Armstrong (Robin) hinted that they would be back, and I suddenly felt the muse return!

Hopefully this was worth the wait!

Chapter Six: Allan-a-Dale

That night it was her father's turn to visit her dreams. He appeared first in quick snatches: his soft, firm voice weaving in and out of her consciousness, her thoughts catching glimpses of his frail body and nimble fingers. Finally he solidified himself in a memory that blossomed in her mind, and she recalled the sadness of her father's face after he realised that despite all the accumulated wisdom of his lengthy years, he could not comprehend the mystery of his own son. The words of their argument echoed in her sleeping mind, of Djaq's determination to join the army, of her father's despair that his son had no interest in becoming a physician, of the terrible irony that the gifted Syed could fix almost any wound save the one that severed him from his boy. It was poison to his heart that the medicinal skills he valued above all else were met only with his son's desire to maim and kill; to make wounds instead of healing them.

But when Djaq set his mind upon something, nothing and nobody would stop him from blindly following his convictions…and Djaq had hated the invading pale-skinned men with an intensity that his twin had never before seen in their lifetime together. Almost overnight, his mischief, his smile, his laughter and his carefree nature had dissolved into a terrible hatred for the infidels, taking with them his father's long-cherished dream of passing on all his learning to a willing receptacle. All had been washed away by Djaq's desire for bloody glory on the battlefield.

"I'd be better off teaching your sister!" Syed had yelled after Djaq after one such disagreement, the first and last time Safiyah had ever heard her timid father raise his voice. It was that comment, yelled in anger and frustration that had sealed her fate, for – though much quieter and less prone to passionate outbursts – her father was just as stubborn as Djaq.

And so it was Safiyah had found herself in boy's clothes, her hair wrapped up in a turban, answering to her brother's name as she passed her father his surgical tools with hands that trembled at the sheer audacity of it all. Whilst in the darkened operating room the real Djaq was never mentioned or acknowledged, and in some odd way Safiyah felt that she became Djaq in her father's eyes – the Djaq he wanted: obedient, studious, interested…Then when the surgery was over, the spell was broken, and she was his daughter again, the activities of the room never to be mentioned so long as she was shrouded in her veils.

It was an illusion she maintained for her father's sake, allowing him to make her the son he so dearly wanted, all the time gradually absorbing what it was he had to teach: the workings of a body's organs, the limits of human endurance, how to cut, stitch, clot or clean a wound, how to be firm and business-like in dealing with the sweat and agony of frantic patients, and how sometimes, despite your best efforts, you had to watch them die. Every time she stepped out of that dark, smelly room she felt years older…

She awoke slowly to the drizzly cold English morning and unconsciously raised a hand to her head. Her father had once explained the phenomena of phantom limbs to her, and right now she could have sworn she felt the weight and length of her hair as her dream-self unravelled the turban and let it fall past her shoulders, slipping from the heat of her old home into the cold of her new one. She gazed around her blearily. Most of the men were already awake, though Much was still snoring, and Allan was staggering around half-asleep. However, Robin was scratching something in the ground with a stick and she yawned, stretched and went over to have a look.

"Just working out our positions," Robin explained as she leaned over and gazed at the surprisingly good diagram of the road through Sherwood Forest. "We'll set up a watch, see who this man is, and then confront him once we're sure we have the upper hand."

Djaq wrinkled her brow at the myriad of complications that could arise with such a simplistic plan, but said nothing. One by one, the other outlaws gathered around to look at the map.

"The nearest campsite to the edge of Sherwood is here," Robin told them, pointing with the stick. "We'll have Will rig up one of his alarms, and have someone on watch at all times. When whoever-this-is turns up, I'll scout ahead to check it out. Meanwhile, you four – I mean five – will race ahead here: to the ambush point." He pointed to another area on his rough map, a point at which the road through Sherwood significantly curved as it turned toward Nottingham. If the outlaws were to cut through the woods, they could gain a significant head-start on whoever was trying to make their way to the sheriff.

"'Ang on," said Allan. "How will we know for sure who this guy is? For all we know he could be loaded with guards 'n weapons 'n who knows what else. Whoever he is, he seems pretty determined to make it through to Nottingham."

"We don't want to stop him getting to Nottingham. Just find out his business," Robin told him.

"What about the drop-offs?" John asked. "How do they get done if we're all just sitting around waiting for a stranger to pass through?"

Robin sighed in frustration. "They'll get done. One of you will see to it."

"But that will take twice as long!"

"This is more important John," he insisted. "This man could prove to be a valuable ally or a dangerous enemy and I don't like not knowing which it is. We need to intercept him before he gets to the sheriff, which means we need to be near the road at all times." He spoke in a tone of voice that allowed for no argument, not through sheer forcefulness, but in the way he had clearly already made up his mind, a mind which was now racing ahead to the preparations that had to be made. The others were simply swept along in its wake.

So it was that John departed to take care of the day's distributions among the poor, whilst the others followed Robin to the next campsite so that Will could prepare another trip-wire alarm across the road. The remaining men settled into a range of tasks as the vigil began: Robin fletching several arrows, Much preparing food (muttering to himself about the dreary state of the weather all the while) and Allan entertaining himself by throwing pebbles at the back of Much's head from his resting place under a tree. The activity reminded Djaq so much of her brother – it was just the sort of irritating, pointless thing he used to do – that she turned away, sharpening her sword with the whetstone she'd found in the camp's supplies.

Lulled by the repetitive task, she dazed off into a reverie. She'd been dreaming of her father last night, and now – inevitably – her thoughts turned to his last patient, the one she'd blocked from her mind for so many months now. But now, after the cleansing rainfall of the previous day, it seemed the right time to finally bring the poison to the surface and let it be washed away.

On the night it had happened, she'd been awoken by her father shaking her shoulder and addressing her as Djaq. Wearily, she slipped out of bed and into the boy's clothes she kept hidden in the chest in the corner, her practised hands wrapping her braid around her head and under the folds of the turban. Quickly she'd scampered after her father's footsteps, trying to shake the vestiges of sleep from her mind – if this was an emergency, she'd need to be alert.

She'd arrived at the door of her father's surgery to find a small commotion going on, the kind of upset caused by frantic people desperately trying to keep quiet. She drew nearer, recognising her uncle and her father gesturing wildly over a body lying limply on a roughly-made stretcher, carried at one end by a panic-stricken Bassam. She only understood when the man who was at the head of the stretcher stepped out from the shadows and into the lamplight, and she gave a frightened squeak that she knew was about to burst into a terrified scream. But before it escaped her lips, her father whirled around: "Shh!" he hissed, and ushered her quickly inside the room. "Djaq – prepare for surgery."

She stood stock-still for a moment, overcome by the fact that a pale-skinned Englishman with the dreaded red cross emblazoned across his chest was standing in her house, and then hurried to obey her father's orders. As she prepared the surgical equipment, she kept her ears trained on the whispered conversation taking place at the door, one that was alternating swiftly between Arabic and English. The men seemed to be arguing about money, and the Christian man was pointing desperately to the man on the stretcher.

"We must work on him now!" her father insisted, cutting into the argument and gesturing Bassam inside.

"No!" his brother-in-law snapped. "Payment first. We do not treat infidels for nothing!"

"You do not treat anyone at all," Syed replied calmly. "I am the physician here, and I say bring him inside."

Bassam and the Christian pushed past her uncle and hurriedly hefted the unconscious body onto the operating table. Safiyah stared down in awe. It was another white-skinned youth, no older than she was: his eyes shut, his face grey, and his breaths shallow and weak. At his side was a dark stain soaking through his white uniform to the bed below, but she was too shocked to even begin the procedure of cutting away the cloth to expose the wound.

"Bassam, light a lamp," her father was ordering. "And Djaq – wake up! I need you for this."

She roused herself and began to prepare the patient, watching out of the corner of her eye as her uncle and the Englishman argued – the latter finally handing over a purse of money before both stormed off in opposite directions. As her father cleaned his hands, she carefully snipped the man's tunic away, revealing the gory mess of blood and torn flesh underneath. The youth gave a small moan and whimpered something.

Bassam neared with a small lamp to light Syed's way, and then gave a start as he glimpsed her face up close. "You…you are not Djaq-"

"Quiet Bassam," Syed hissed, taking his place in front of the wound. "Give Djaq the lamp and leave us."

Confused and afraid, Bassam did as he was told. Safiyah didn't look up as the door closed, but her heart was thrumming in terror. The secret was out. Bassam would not tell anyone on purpose, but he was a simple man, and already she could imagine him accidentally revealing the family secret to a willing listener…

"Djaq, I need you to concentrate. Watch me carefully."

Her father's calm and stern voice cut through her turmoil. It is night, she reminded herself. Bassam could not tell anyone until morning, and perhaps her father could explain the situation to him properly by then. For now, she was safe. Leaning over, she watched her father beginning to work, peeling back the layers of tissue and flesh to close the wounds from the inside out. Hypnotised by his work, Safiyah held the lamp with a steady hand, passed her father the necessary tools, and tried to memorise the movements his fingers made.

"You see, Safiyah?" he finally said, the only time he would ever acknowledge her true self in the confines of this room. "They are the same as us inside. No need to fear them."

She nodded, suddenly exhausted, as the last stitch was made, and glanced at the face of the man on the table. His face was still, but his eyes were open, and they were watching her. She clapped a hand across her own face, horrified that a stranger – a foreigner no less – had seen her. Feeling naked and horrified, and suddenly furious at her father for the indignity, she fled from the room into the darkness.

"Djaq," Syed called after her. "Don't tell your brother."

Her intense train of thought suddenly broke when something hit her on the shoulder. Glancing down, she saw a pebble that had fallen near her hand, and turning around she saw Allan gazing intently up at the leaves of the tree (an oak tree, she told herself distractedly) that he was sitting under. She turned back to her work, but a moment later another pebble struck her lightly on the back of the head. She turned around and glared at the sight of Allan studiously examining his fingernails.

Yet just before she made a scathing comment that would put an end to his nonsense, she suddenly remembered the first time she had seen him. Much had been trying to convince her that the best way to escape the slave cage was to temporarily convert to Christianity – one would think that he thought unlocking the cage door was too simple to be truly effective – and she'd felt her brother's mischievous streak brim to the surface. Just as she'd goaded Much into renouncing his own God, Allan had grabbed his shoulder with timing that would have made the real Djaq proud. For that reason alone, she decided to indulge his insolence. For now.

"I am a good shot," she called to him. "And if I were to throw something at you it would be larger than a pebble."

He smiled back.

"Don't know what yer talkin' about."

"Is there nothing else you can do to amuse yourself?"

His smile widened further.

"Actually, yeah. Come 'ere. I'll show you a trick."

She scoffed disdainfully and shook her head, but was mildly alarmed when he got to his feet and began to approach her. Hesitantly rising to her feet, (keeping sword in hand) she ordered herself to maintain the upper-hand in whatever followed. She failed miserably, for as he neared, he unexpectedly stumbled and fell against her, pushing her back a step.

"Oops, sorry," he muttered, avoiding her gaze and pulling a small wooden ball from his pocket. He waved it across her face and danced it through his fingers before hiding it in his fist, twisted his hand dramatically through the air, and opened his hand with a flourish to reveal his empty palm.

"Now – where did the ball go?" he asked her.

She pretended to consider the question.

"Do you mean the ball you hid down your sleeve or the ball you put in my pocket when you pretended to trip?"

He blinked at her, then his shoulders sagged. She smiled and returned the ball hidden in her waistcoat pocket to the hand that had already shaken out an identical ball from its sleeve. Allan gazed at her speculatively.

"How'd you know?"

"I once knew someone who liked to play similar tricks. I'm afraid I know them all," she told him, shrugging apologetically.

He gave a disappointed sigh and returned the trinkets to his own pocket. She gazed at him for a moment, sensing that his restlessness went beyond simple boredom and wondering if it was safe to dig a little deeper. Before she made up her mind, he spoke again.

"So…lookin' forward to your next ambush?"

"It's not really something to look forward to, is it?" she asked, raising an eyebrow, and he gave her a bitter laugh in reply.

"You got that part right. According to Robin, we're supposed to enjoy life or death situations."

He gazed at her intently, measuring the impact his words had on her, and she realized that he was trying to pull some answers from her in much the same way she was attempting to do to him. Determined to keep her thoughts to herself, she was deliberately vague.

"Still – it is for good reason, is it not?"

He shrugged.

"Suppose. Still doesn't mean it's fun to leap out in front of a moving carriage that could be loaded to the teeth with weapons."

She looked at him thoughtfully, deciding not to point out that carriages didn't have teeth, and considered sharing the idea that had been swirling through her head all that afternoon. If anyone were to listen to her plan for stirring up mischief, it was this one.

"Perhaps there is a way to even our chances. Have you never considered scaring your enemy before attacking it?"

"What'd'ya mean?"

"I have come to learn that Englishmen are rather…superstitious. It would be easy enough to arrange something that would scare them into giving us the answers Robin seeks without putting ourselves in too much danger."

A small smile flitted across his face, but then his eyes narrowed as another thought occurred to him. "Scared men are quicker to panic."

"They are also more likely to do as they are told."

There was another short silence before he spoke again: "What did you have in mind?"

She took a deep breath and continued: "If these men are to travel at night as Marian supposed, then we could use flaming torches and sounds in the trees to make them believe these woods are haunted. Or if they come in the day, it would take only a few rustling bushes to hide our numbers and make them believe there is an army of us lying in wait. I am sure between the six of us we could come up with more ideas."

As she had suspected, his eyes gleamed with the thought of playing such an elaborate trick. He gazed at her for a moment longer, half-smiling, half-serious, and she suddenly and unexpectedly faltered under the strange blueness of those eyes. In defence, she did what Djaq had always done when cornered in a conversation he didn't want to be a part of: fell instantly and totally silent. Allan shrugged and shifted his gaze to the space behind her and asked: "What do you think Will?"

She whirled around to see that Will had returned from his task on the roadside and had once again come upon her unawares. He had apparently been listening to most of their conversation, for he said:

"My brother pokes holes in practice arrows to make them whistle when he fires them – the sound is strange enough to scare those who don't know what it is."

"Yeah, yeah," Allan agreed. "My brother used to cover 'imself with leaves 'n twigs till he looked like a demon straight outta hell. Thing like that jumpin' out unawares is sure to put the fear of God into you."

The two of them began to exchange ideas, becoming more and more enthusiastic about the arrangement, before she quietly pointed out that it might be best to share the plan with Robin before putting it into action. Together they bounced off to do precisely this, with Djaq more than happy to let them take credit for the idea. After all, she probably shouldn't meddle in their leader's decisions at this early stage – but judging from the glance Robin gave her over Will and Allan's shoulders, she suspected he knew it was her anyway.

That night, after an afternoon of rigging the ambush point with various traps and tricks, (reminiscent of so many childhood games she could almost hear her brother's spirit laughing beside her) Allan and Will sat down either side of her by the campfire. The feeling that had warmed her throughout the chill of the day quickly evaporated. Completely unintentionally, she had done it again and been friendly when she should have been aloof. Tomorrow, she promised herself. Tomorrow I'll stick to the plan.