Hi everyone: there was another delay for this chapter, though it wasn't through procrastination (promise!) but because it just kept getting longer and longer without giving me any decent place to cut it. So hopefully you're all in the mood for a long, meaty chapter!

Chapter Seven: Plans

She was on the last watch of the night, fighting back sleep and occasionally pulling her cloak tighter around her shoulders in the dead silence of the early morning hours. Robin was with her, his decision being that two pairs of ears and ears were better than one when it came to waiting for this mysterious traveller, but since conversation had long since dwindled away, she let her thoughts return to the memories that a stray pebble had so rudely interrupted.

For a while Safiyah had been afraid to return to her father's operating room. Instead, she kept to her mother's rooms, letting Fatima fuss over her hair and skin and nails to such an extent that her mother eventually asked her if she'd finally fallen in love. She shook her head silently, the image of the wounded Christian wriggling in her mind like a loose tooth. How did her father find him? What would happen to him? How would he get home? Was he even still alive?

Often she'd find herself trailing past the door, listening for the sounds of movement within, but there was always silence. At mealtimes, her father steadily avoided her gaze, and she was afraid to even think about the subject in her brother's presence. Djaq could sense her agitation behind the layers of veil and gauze, and it took all her concentration to pretend that it was the line of Christian invaders creeping closer and closer to their home that had her so worried. Knowing her like he did, Safiyah doubted Djaq was fully convinced, but as he was also preoccupied with news of the approaching skirmishes, he did little to breech the subject. For that she was thankful, as it chilled her to think that the white-skinned stranger would not survive her brother's wrath should he discover who it was her father was keeping hidden in their own household. She held her breath every time Djaq needed to pass the door of the clinic, feeling only marginally satisfied in the knowledge that Djaq abhorred the room and never went inside. Still, it would take only a feverish dream…a call for help cried out in English...perhaps a tendency to sleepwalk…and he would be discovered. The whole situation was a keg of black powder waiting to be set alight, and she wanted nothing to do with any of it. If she just kept quiet, pretended that he wasn't there at all, let her father take care of it – perhaps somehow the stranger would leave as quietly and as discreetly as he had come.

Yet – inevitably – when her father was called away to the city hospital to tend to the influx of wounded soldiers carried in from the front line, it was to her that he turned. She was left with strict instructions to tend to the wounded man whilst he was away, and it was with frustration bordering on fury that she accepted her father's instructions.

"He is only a boy," Syed told her gently, beseechingly, firmly. "A boy who is a long way from home. There is no shame in this." Safiyah, who obeyed her father in all things, nodded reluctantly, but had never wished more than at that moment that she could have been born a boy.

For hours she agonised over whether she should approach him as Safiyah in her veils, or Djaq in his turban, and finally decided on Djaq…it would be safer, and surely Allah would not mind a wounded, half-delirious youth see her face, particularly if she was acting with her father's permission. On the morning her father departed and the household was still drowsing in their beds, she took a prepared dish of food and a flask of water into the dim surgery room, hoping she would find her patient still asleep. Not so. His eyes flickered open as she approached, and she realized that he could not be more than nineteen years old, with only the barest shade of stubble on his chin. Though she never did get around to asking how old he was, he was clearly younger than her – though the lack of hair on her own chin probably meant that he believed she was the younger of the two.

He gave a dry cough and then spoke as she quietly placed the food on the bedside table. She did not know much English, but could tell from his tone that he had asked a question, and recognised her father's name in amongst the foreign words. Clearly he was asking where he was.

She pointed to herself and offered a stilting reply.

"Father. Gone – work."

He nodded in what she hoped was understanding, and she moved to the injury at his side. He did not flinch as she carefully removed the stained bandages, unravelling them across his belly and gently pulling them out from underneath his back, surprised at how emotionless she felt. The male body was nothing new to her, her embarrassment at the sight of half-naked men having dissolved after countless surgeries, and there was nothing new about this one save the colour of his skin. However, as she checked her father's stitches and began replaced the old gauze with fresh bandages, his unblinking gaze began to unnerve her. She finished up quickly and then gestured to the food she'd brought. He hesitated, then began to speak in halting Arabic.

"You," he said, and stroked his wound, before saying: "Father," and twisting up the leftover bandages in his palm. She looked at him, baffled for a moment, and then began to comprehend – he was telling her that she was gentler than her father. She nodded, and poured him a drink from the flask into the cup that Syed had left for him, standing on the bedside table.

"Drink," she told him in Arabic.

He took the cup and raised it to his lips, saying a single word in his own language as he did so. She repeated him, guessing it was English for what she had just told him. He went on to take a few tentative bites of the food she'd brought him, and she hid a smile at the effect the spices were obviously having on his tender English tongue. He grimaced at her, then gestured to himself, making another unfamiliar sound.

"To – ma," she repeated carefully, assuming that it was his name, then pointed to herself.

"Djaq."

"Jack," he repeated, and offered her some of the food on his plate – a pointless gesture all things considered, but one that made her relax slightly.

"No. You eat," she told him, using up the last of her English vocabulary, and then left him. That was the beginning of it all.

In the days, then weeks, and then months that followed, she tended to Thomas even after her father returned home, and between the two of them and their shaky grasp of each other's languages, they began to communicate in an odd mix of sound and gesture which grew more comprehensible as each day passed. After they had pointed at everything in the room and telling each other its name in both languages, she brought down some of her father's books and they pored over the pictures, pointing and sounding out the words as they went. From what she could gather, he was a young nobleman whose family had fallen upon hard times, leading him to join the Holy Pilgrimage in the attempt to seek his fortune and restore what was lost to his family's holdings. In return, she told him news of the war outside the city, about how she helped her father in his work, even about how her brother (who remained nameless) wanted to join in the fighting. Most of the time though, she was happy to listen to him talk away his anxiety, gradually storing up new words, adding to her growing vocabulary…

Gradually Thomas regained his strength, taking hesitant steps around the room, one hand on what he thought was a boy's shoulder for balance. It scared her sometimes to have him so close to the secret, and yet strangely at ease when she realized that he was the type of boy to be delighted at such a ruse.

She eventually came to understand why she enjoyed his company: he was something that belonged entirely to her, removed from Fatima's primping and Djaq's constant agonising during their sparring sessions; even her father's pretence that she was his son in the confines of the darkened room. Thomas was simply glad of someone to look after him, talk to him, and assure him that in this place he was not expected to fight or kill in the name of some God that they were both having trouble understanding. Forbidden from leaving the room and forced to hide under blankets in the corner whenever Syed saw a new patient, Thomas looked to a youth called Djaq to keep him from going mad. For her part, she was more than happy to oblige, exchanging her time and attention for English words, descriptions of the world that existed outside her own country, and the sense that she was wanted for herself and not the skills that had been imposed upon her by others seeking their own self-gratification.

Syed had not told her much about the Christian who had brought Thomas to them, simply because there was little to tell. Syed had come across the two of them hiding in an alleyway; Thomas moaning softly and his companion frantically attempting to staunch the flow of blood from the wound. Presenting himself as a harmless old man and introducing himself in fractured English, Syed had ushered the Christians toward the house, stopping to seek aid from his brother-in-law and Bassam on the way. When Thomas had regained consciousness, he recalled nothing past the Saracen warrior plunging a scimitar into his side, and the gush of blood and hot pain that followed. Whoever Thomas's saviour had been, he could never remember, and after so many months of coalescence in Syed's household, it seemed unlikely that the soldier would ever return. If he's even still alive, Safiyah thought sadly. Either way, it meant that it would be up to her and Syed to smuggle Thomas back to his own people.

She was not sure what her father intended to do, or what Thomas's own plans for the future were, but for the present, she simply let herself enjoy the sense that she doing more to regain peace by befriending an Englishman than her brother could do in his violent desire to drive the invaders from their shores. But by the time Thomas was back to full strength, the problem that hung over both of them could remain silent no longer. Finally, she opened the topic for discussion.

"What is it you want to do when you leave here?"

He was silent, looking up sadly from the bed.

"I have to go, don't I…" It was a statement, not a question, and she shrugged helplessly.

"You cannot stay here forever." She hesitated, and then ploughed ahead. "But I do not want you to go."

Thomas gave a sad smile. "You're a good friend Djaq. And I never thought I'd say that about a Saracen – I mean, not after what my people came here to do."

He shifted, a little embarrassed, and Safiyah was silent, grappling with her understanding of the word he'd used. Could she really be considered his friend when she kept the most fundamental part of herself hidden from him? Or was it perhaps a truer friendship when one was valued for their companionship instead of their gender?

She shook her head in confusion, and sat next to him wearily. Misinterpreting her mood, Thomas clapped on her back reassuringly.

"I know I can't stay," he told her. "But my people probably think I'm dead by now. Maybe I could take this chance to go home…?"

He sounded so young when he said it, his eyes so wide and hopeful, that Safiyah's heart ached for him. It was selfish of her to keep him here, not to mention impossible. But to get him home, or at least on a ship bound for England… that much she could do for him. She had already formulated a plan to get him to the relative safety of Acre, an idea born out of her own disguise as Djaq.

Her uncle was a merchant, and every week he would take a range of supplies from his warehouses in the city to the port. It would be simple enough for Syed to insist that he allow a young man to accompany him for the journey – a young man dressed in Muslim robes, his skin darkened by dye, and who would say little for the duration of the trip so as not to give away his English accent. As she relayed the plan to Thomas, his eyes took on a faraway glaze, and his mouth lifted in a dreamy smile. He was thinking of English sky and soil, of his family and his home, of all the things he'd told her about in their months together. She wondered suddenly if he had a sweetheart waiting. He hadn't mentioned one, but that droopy smile on his face was certainly reminiscent of Djaq when he was besotted with his latest love – a look, she realized sadly, that she hadn't seen on her brother's face in some time.

"It is up to you on when you want to leave," Safiyah told him. "My uncle's journey is every two weeks."

Thomas nodded thoughtfully, then looked around. "I'll be sad to leave this place…though happy to get out of this room. How can I ever thank you? You and your father?"

"My father always said that the best gift a patient can give his physician is to live a long and healthy life. To make sure all his efforts were not in vain."

He laughed, and clapped her on the back again. "I'd be very happy to follow those instructions."

She smiled and blinked back tears – boys don't cry – she told herself firmly, and told him: "Then I shall tell my father to prepare the dye, and I'll bring you some of my bro – some of my clothes."

He nodded.

That was the plan – but like most of the plans Safiyah had for her life, it did not go as she anticipated.

A noise in the darkness broke her out of her sad reverie, and she glanced over at Robin. He looked back, and they both strained their ears toward the road – a steady trundling sound filtered through the darkness – the unmistakable sound of carriage wheels rolling across the forest floor. Silently Robin rose to his feet and disappeared into the foliage. A few moments later he reappeared, his eyes gleaming with excitement.

"Wake the others," he whispered, grabbing her arm and steering her in the direction of the camp. "I'm going to run ahead and prepare." He shot off into the forest like an arrow from his own bow, and Djaq staggered much less gracefully back to the campsite to rouse the others.

She awoke Much first of course, though it took several rough shakes, but he made so much noise in getting up that the ruckus woke John at the same time. It took only the briefest of touches on Will's shoulder for him to open his eyes and leap to his feet, and as the others sorted out their weapons and clothes in the drizzly night, she glanced around for Allan. For reasons she couldn't fathom, Allan seemed to prefer to sleep away from the warmth of the campfire and the other outlaws, and she remembered that on this night he'd hunkered down among the roots of the large oak tree. Scampering among the raised roots, she finally spied him sprawled out under an overhanging tree branch and reached down to shake his shoulder firmly.

He frowned, shifted, and then opened his eyes, a sly grin creeping across his face as he realised who it was.

Before any lewd comment crossed his lips, she reached up and grabbed the branch above his head, shaking it firmly and deriving much satisfaction from the outraged yelp that followed the downpour of rain onto the man below.

"The ambush!" she hissed, and turned around, letting him catch up on his own.

Trusting the wind through the leaves to hide the sound of their passage, the outlaws chose speed over stealth in reaching the ambush point. Robin was already there, and gestured to the others to gather around.

"It's a four-person carriage with one driver. Can't see how many people are inside, but there aren't any escorts. Get ready and take your positions."

There was a flurry of activity from the others, and Djaq leaned herself against a tree and concentrated on lighting the two torches that had been hidden in a hollow log, struggling against the wind and cold. She could hear the other outlaws around her, sorting out their assorted props and assuming the hiding places that they'd agreed upon earlier in the day. Finally, the flint sparked between her fingers, and fire caught hold of the torches pushed into the damp earth before her. Pulling her hood over her head, she made sure the flames were hidden behind the tree, and listened intently for the sounds of the oncoming carriage.

It took several minutes of waiting in the rain and darkness for the carriage to trundle into earshot, and she glimpsed a darkened shape on the road below her. She squeezed her eyes shut and waited for her cue. A few moments later, she heard the sound of something heavy crashing to the ground – the large fallen log that John had lugged from the forest and propped up amongst the other trees had just been pushed down onto the road. A horse neighed in fright and she heard the eerie, high-pitched whistling of arrows pierced with holes that Will and Allan were currently shooting into the trees.

She peeked around the tree and noticed that the driver had jumped down from his seat and opened the carriage door, looking around suspiciously and gesturing helplessly at the fallen tree before them. A darkened figure poked his seat out of the carriage door as the driver made the sign of the cross upon his chest. At her side Much began to pull on several strings – causing the canopy overhead to sway threateningly – and Djaq began to creep forward with the torches, letting them flicker ominously through the foliage. She kept them far away from her body, lest the men decide to shoot some arrows, but as far as she could see both men were weapon-less. Out the corner of her eye, she could see Will and Allan creep forward with their own torches, and in the light that they created, she could see their faces: Will was intent and focused on the task before him; Allan meanwhile, was having the time of his life with all the theatrics.

She took the opportunity to wave the torches a little more frantically, to match the similar display that Allan was putting on, and glanced down at the road again. The passenger had emerged entirely from the carriage, and – as far as she could see – was gazing about warily – whilst the thoroughly spooked driver was edging toward the open door of the carriage.

Robin took that moment to make his grand entrance, stepping out into the road wrapped in Little John's giant cloak with several blankets stuffed underneath in order to give him a strange, misshapen air.

"Halt!" he cried, deepening his voice and raising his arms in the air menacingly. "Who goes there? What is your business in Nottingham? Tell us now and we will let you pass!"

The driver gave a yelp and sprung into the carriage, but to Djaq's alarm, several more men emerged from its interior. They were each holding something in their hands…she couldn't quite make it out…

But her preoccupation with the men dropped out of her mind like a bird shot from the sky when their leader spoke.

"You, I presume, are Robin Hood, the one-time Lord of Locksley and Earl of Huntington."

It was not the eerie confidence or wry humour with which the voice spoke, nor the fact that it displayed no fear despite the circumstance its owner found himself in that made her drop her torches in shock. It was that she recognised the voice, its commanding and regal tone ringing out loudly over the wind and rain and the beating of her own frantic heart.

No, it can't be, she though, stumbling back from the torches hissing at her feet. Not here. How is it possible…?

She could hear Robin's voice now, and though she was too shocked to register his words, she could tell he was disconcerted at the stranger's demeanour. As she moved back, poised somewhere between rushing forward or fleeing in terror, her hands fluttering pathetically from her hair to her heart in horror, another noise cut through her indecision. A strange fizzing noise, very faint, followed by a large bang and a piercing shaft of light that lit up the forest around them for the briefest of moments. Around her, she could sense the other outlaws reel back in fright and hear Robin shouting from the road. Dazed by shock and awe, a small voice in the back of her mind murmured: black powder, as several more bangs and confusing bursts of light flashed around her. Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw the other outlaws begin to retreat, bewildered and spooked. Their tentative moments, along with Robin's faraway call of "retreat!" caused her swirling mind to finally react, and she turned on her heel and rushed into the darkness of the trees; running more from the sound of that voice than from the confusion of the black powder explosions.

For a few minutes there was only the sound of the wind whipping past her ears, the flurry of the foliage as she crashed through it and her own panting as she struggled to put as much distance between herself and the terrible voice as possible. She wasn't sure how far she ran, as shock and panic took its toll on her reason, but eventually she found herself slowing. Gradually she came to a stop, gasping for breath and concealing herself behind the nearest tree.

Taking into account her latest situation, she realized that she was not only hopelessly lost, but more than likely separated from the other outlaws in the vastness of Sherwood Forest. She'd lost track of the others, though it seemed unlikely that any of them had managed to keep together in the ensuing chaos. And there was always the possibility of the travellers following the outlaws into the trees…

A sinking feeling that felt close to despair crept across her, but she stiffened at the sound of movement nearby. Someone was close, shuffling about cautiously to her left. For a few moments she was silent, her hand on the hilt of her sword, hoping for some indication that it was one of the boys. In the sudden silence, she knew she couldn't move without giving herself away, but as the minutes stretched by, she grew more and more impatient. Perhaps she should take a chance. Perhaps she should make a run for it. Perhaps she should do what her brother would have undoubtedly done in this situation and leap out with her sword flashing.

Finally she summoned up her courage, prepared for flight, and called out softly:

"Who is there?"

"Bloody hell Djaq, I thought you were one of that lot on the road chasin' me through half the ruddy forest."

Allan. She leaned back, exhausted with relief, as he continued to rant in the darkness about witchcraft and magic and how a man couldn't expect to keep body and soul together in the midst of such goings on.

"Allan? Djaq?"

She stifled a shriek as another voice pierced the darkness to her right, followed the soft sound of approach. Will appeared out of the gloom and peered anxiously at the two of them.

"Are you two all right?" he asked.

"Yes fine," Djaq told him, as Allan snorted.

"Speak for yourself, mate!"

Ignoring him, Djaq turned to Will. "Are you alone? Where are the others?"

He shrugged helplessly. "I just ran. I think I saw John and Much head northward. Not sure about Robin."

"It's close to morning," Allan said. "No use going after any of 'em now. I say we hunker down till first light."

Djaq saw Will nod in agreement and her shoulders slumped.

So far, she told herself wryly, your plan is working perfectly.