i.

Coming up behind Djaq was always a bit of a discomfiting moment for Allan. Sure, moving camp in the forest, dodging trees and soldiers, or on missions into Nottingham or the villages—especially in the castle when adrenaline ran high—it was easy—deceptively easy—to think of her as just another one of the lads. And she was, wasn't she, really? She moved quickly and lithely and almost never stumbled in her footing. Because she was smaller than the rest of them, she could squeeze into tight spaces—and never complained if her, ah, front, got in the way as she barrelled, face-forward, into hiding spots.

Her clothes were masculine, so there was no tripping over long gowns or snagging sleeves on branches. In her loose-fitting yet practical brown and faded trousers and top, from behind she looked just like another bloke. A little bloke. That was the reason women—except Marian—seemed forbidden to wear trousers, he thought. It wasn't to keep men's minds off the shapely limbs they might expose wearing trousers—though that was a factor, Allan admitted—but to keep 'em slow and doddery and tied to the kitchen, thinking that was all they were good for. Allan had seen a fair bit, and he'd known a few girls. Though Marian and Djaq, on the surface, looked like anomalies, find him a peasant mother of ten who couldn't punch as hard as any man. And he'd heard tell that the King's mother was a right firecracker. Maybe more women should join the outlaw gang? He sank on his heels meditatively, all the while still watching Djaq out of the corner of his eye going about domestic business in the camp. "Have you got that water, Much?" she asked.

The reply came incoherent but probably in the negative from across the camp and to the fire, where Robin's toady was cobbling together some kind of meal. "Fine," rasped Djaq, moving past Allan in a streak of brown, "I'll get it myself." She leaned over Allan to reach some of her laundry—scraps of clean cloth she had picked up here and there—which she had left to dry in a tree. "Can you get out of the way?" she asked, not unkindly.

" 'Course," Allan replied. He sidled a few paces and leaned against a round oak, making sure not to get sap on his jerkin. Djaq maintained in general a higher standard of grooming than the others, but Allan suspected that was because she was a Turk and not because she was a girl. Those Turks were all about washing and tidying up, something that, on the surface, Allan could see the reasoning behind, but to him it still felt foreign and suspicious. They all stank in the forest; what point was there in disguising it? If he was entirely honest—and when was he ever?—she had an individual whiff about her which was much more pleasant than the beefy and salty parfum that clung to the leather and wool of the outlaws of Sherwood Forest.

He must have smiled as he thought that, for as she took with her a small wooden bowl of water and one of her scraps of cloth, she cast a sardonic eye at him. "What are you looking at?"

" Nothin'." He straightened up. "I was, just, uh, you know . . ."

"Of course you were," she replied. He thought she was going to tell him to bugger off—not in those exact words, perhaps—but she said nothing further and did not go far into the underbrush before kneeling down with her bowl of (cold) water and began cleaning her face.

"Um, Djaq?" he said. "Don't take this the wrong way, but why do Turks wash so much?"

"Excuse me?" He regretted his words now. He was about to disappear before he could get a bollocking, but she stood up and looked at him, her skin shiny from the cloth. "First of all, Allan, I'm not a Turk. I come from Ascanson. I've never ridden on the steppes of Asia, and I never used a bow until I came to this country."

"Oh," he replied uncertainly.

She smiled with such generous sincerity that his stomach did a flip. "But since you've never been out of this country, I forgive you your ignorance. Turk is what Franks say when they mean a Mohammedan. Saracen they also say, which is scarcely more accurate."

"Right," said Allan. "I knew that." Her smile grew teasing. His brow clouded over. "What's a Frank?"

Djaq walked forward and reached up, unexpectedly tousling his hair as she moved past him to her leather bag, strung over the same tree branch. "You, silly. You're a Frank."

"No, I ain't," Allan replied, now with some heat. "I ain't French. What you on about? I ain't even Norman." He spat onto the forest floor of dead and decaying leaves, but without real venom. "I'm English."

Djaq returned from her leather bag, now with a thin, sharp knife, a tiny comb made of ivory, and a small container of salve. "Frank. Foreigner. Westerner. European." She turned her back on him and began wetting down her hair with the comb. "We can't be bothered to keep distinctions like who is English, who is French, who is German, who is from this or that duchy. Pah!"

Allan's face was burning now because he was sure she was making fun of him. "That ain't fair. Minute ago you were saying I didn't know the difference between Turk and Saracen and Arab and Mohammedan and—"

Djaq looked childlike with her hair wetted down and poking out at odd angles around her round face. She had a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. "I know. I just wanted you to see how it felt, to be labelled indiscriminately."

"All right," Allan replied, stung. "I got the message." He kicked at the forest floor. "Just wanted to know why you do so much washing."

Djaq had been ready to raise the knife and use it to trim the stray hairs at the base of her skull. She huffed. "That's easy. It's because I'm civilized, and you, Allan a Dale, are a barbarian."

Allan picked up his cloak off the branch upon which it had hung. Girls—were—infuriating! No matter whether they fell on their knees to pray to Jesus or Mohammed! "You could have just said you wanted some privacy. You didn't have to insult me," he snapped. He whipped on his cloak and strode off. Djaq sighed in disgust and went back to trimming her hair.

Much padded up in Allan's wake. "What was all that about?" he asked.

"Ask the civilized Christian," Djaq replied drily.

"What? Allan? A civilized Christian?!" Much laughed a belly laugh. "Here's your water, by the way." He nudged a small pail of steaming water from the fire on the bare earth beside her. "Are you cutting your hair?"

Djaq bit back a retort. "Yes, Much, I am," she explained with exaggerated slowness.

"You cut it very short," the miller's son observed, rocking on his heels.

"It's kept me alive, this far," she replied. She cocked an eye at him. "You've been to Ascalon?"

Much put his hand to his forehead—an Eastern gesture of respect—completely by rote. "Yes. Wasn't much of it left by the time we got there."

Djaq nodded, leaving her comb and knife for one moment and standing. "Sometimes my homesickness is like a weed growing in my heart, its roots squeezing and squeezing. But you know what, this would never have done in my father's home," she said, indicating her hair and her clothes. "Sometimes I'd like to be Safiyyah and not Djaq, Djaq my brother's identity, but sometimes I don't think Safiyyah has anywhere to go. I've got to be Djaq, Djaq or nobody." She sniffed and stared at Much levelly.

Much opened his mouth and then said nothing. His eyes flicked over to where Allan was standing in the undergrowth, having heard everything. Still, Much said nothing. "Anyway, I suppose you wouldn't understand." Much again opened his mouth to deny this, but Djaq had already turned away.

ii.

Everyone hated nights when it rained. No shelter seemed dry enough, and even the warmest summer day could turn damp and miserable when the heavens rendered Sherwood Forest floor soggy. Everyone grew irritable, which put most of the gang into a sullen silence until it was dark enough to go to sleep, all but the one on watch, and that was usually Robin. He hated rainy nights more than any, and his positive and industrious character turned to flamboyant show-off when he was bored.

Djaq was determined not to get to that point and had been formulating her plan the moment the rain started to pour. She came from a much more hospitable clime, but she was determined to show that if she could bear it, the others could, too. She waited until after the anonymous stew that Much had ladled out had been consumed, and each man was cleaning his bowl to be returned to the common stores. They were huddled closely together under a bit of thatch underneath the forest's natural canopy. It was by no means water-tight, their make-shift shelter, but it was better than being in the open air.

Much was sitting nearest the fire, stirring the stew-pot mechanically, though there could have only been a few drops of water and some bones left in it. Robin was leaning far out under the edge of the canopy, bow and arrow idly in hand as if any minute he expected to practice archery. His boredom and dejection was so palpable Djaq had to hide her smile in her bowl as she sipped the last of Much's concoction. Little John was hunched over across from Much, sitting on a stump, staring broodingly into the fire, which kept spitting as raindrops hissed into it. Will and Allan were the only ones showing any kind of industry. Will was whittling away at some small piece of wood, purpose yet unknown, and Allan was diligently shining a metal object he'd found. It had appeared worthless to everyone else, yet he had doggedly clung to the belief it would be worth something, if someone took the trouble to polish it up. Allan lounged on his cloak and a bit of straw nearest Little John and Will was on the other side of him.

After Djaq had returned her bowl to Much and sat down again between Allan and Will, she noticed Will moved incrementally closer to her and Allan moved incrementally away. Allan still hadn't forgiven her for what he saw as an insult. It was also the truth, she mused, to a certain school of thought . . .

"All right," Djaq announced, stunning everyone out of their stupor. "I've had just about enough of you throwing your clothes at me and saying, 'Oh Djaq, will you mend this for me?' and 'Oh Djaq, you know how to sew, can you fix this for me?'" Djaq's gaze swept from side to side. Allan had lifted an eyebrow and was sharing a sardonic, "what-did-I-tell-you?" look with Little John. Robin had not even turned his head from contemplating the rain. "Just because I'm a girl. So now that we've got nothing better to do, I'm going to teach you outlaws how to sew."

Everyone laughed except Much, who sat up straight and said, "But I can sew. Who do you think mended Robin's clothes in the Holy Land?"

This only made them laugh even more, and Robin gave Much a strange, disapproving look and muttered under his breath, "Much . . ." Much, for his part, protested wordlessly like a fish on dry land, then thrust out his underlip in a pout and crossed his arms over his chest with exaggerated dignity.

"Be serious," Djaq reproved. "We are meant to be self-sufficient out here. What happens if I get wounded? Who's going to mend your clothes then?"

Will and Allan both said something at the same time, but it was drowned out in the general sounds of exasperated grunting. Little John gave Allan a look, loaded with meaning but incomprehensible as a reference point, and Allan shut his mouth. He scratched the back of his neck before adding a quarrelsome, "Men ain't meant to learn how to sew. That's women's work."

Djaq was heartened that the sounds of assent were much less certain now. "Oh really? Where is that law written?"

Allan shrugged. "Everyone knows it." Sudden conviction struck him. "It's like to be in the Bible."

"The Bible?" Little John gave a burbling laugh. "Have you ever read the Bible?"

"Well, it's in Latin, innit?" Allan replied sourly. "I can't read Latin."

"Have you ever read the Bible, Robin?" Will asked. "I mean, properly read it?"

Robin, who up to this point had been looking vaguely amused at the whole exchange, suddenly became serious and even grave. "Yes," he said. "In Latin and in Greek."

The gang erupted into wolf-whistles, distrustful and yet grudgingly impressed at the extent of Robin's learning. Djaq's father, who was by no means a scholar but an educated man, knew Arabic, Latin, Greek, French, enough to converse in, but had never taught her to read in these languages. Her read English was still pretty poor.

"Well, am I right, then?" pursued Allan, unwilling to let it go.

"Allan," Robin replied with a smile, "I am no clergyman. I did not memorize the Bible."

"What's the point in that?" Allan muttered with the same rote pursuit as a dog chewing an old bone. "If you can't call it up for practical advice, what's the use . . .?"

"That's enough," said Little John in a solid voice that brooked no argument. Allan stopped talking and looked away, his expression showing he wished he was anywhere but there.

"Sewing, then?" Djaq prompted hopefully, flipping up the inside of her outer garment where she had kept all her spare needles.

A few hours later, and they were all like children at their mother's knee, sitting cross-legged in a circle under the canopy on dry pine needles and straw, with the fire as their light which Much diligently and pointedly kept tended. Djaq could not fault him; his long voyages to the Mediterranean had taught him stitching, mending, sewing buttons, hemming, and darning, though he drew the line at decorative embroidery when she playfully suggested it. Will, unsurprisingly, was the most adept and obedient pupil, for his woodworking meant he was good with his hands. He smiled up at Djaq as she came to inspect his cross-stitching, and for not the first time, she felt painfully old. She was not much more than a year or two older than him—they had worked out their birth years, more or less—and he was no innocent, but she had seen so much more of the world than he had . . . Robin, surprisingly, had shown little aptitude, claiming his fingers and thumbs were too large and got in the way. Little John had completed a very competent patch over a hole in the knee of his trousers, and said with a satisfied grin, "This is I like." Allan looked likely to run away, but instead had done as she asked with the others, caving with a look of regal boredom.

She had taken back her needles and thread, satisfied that she had not only passed the time more agreeably but had contributed to the group's well-being.

"So what does it say about sewing? Your . . ." Djaq caught a breath of the word "heathen" before Allan went on, "holy book?"

Djaq glanced over her shoulder at him. "About sewing? I cannot recall." The rest of her pupils were stirring, and she felt confident enough to make a flippant remark. "I suppose all Peoples of the Book have that problem."

"Peoples of the Book?"

"She means Mohammedans, Jews, and Christians," Robin interjected suddenly. "They all have in common parts of their holy book. And some of the same shrines." There was silence except for the rain and the sizzling fire.

"Then why are we fighting a Holy War?" asked Little John suddenly. "If we all believe in the same thing?"

Djaq, Robin, and Much all looked at each other, overwhelmed by the simplicity of the question and the hundreds of years of history attached to it. "It's not quite the same thing," Robin said in a low voice.

"One faith must be the right one," pursued Little John. Djaq and Much eyed each other, remembering their discussion of which God was the correct one to pray to.

"Doesn't the Bible say," Will interjected suddenly, "that Christians should defend their religion? Isn't that what God wants?"

"And so the Qu'ran says," Robin announced loudly, looking at Djaq. " 'Fight in the way of Allah against those who fight against you . . . Kill them wherever you find them . . . Fight the unbelievers totally, even as they fight you'." Now everyone was looking at Djaq, and her face burned. Robin's eyes were glowing with passion, and it was difficult to know how to respond.

"But, Master," Much suddenly spoke up, "Master, does the Qu'ran not also say, 'In the Name of God, the Merciful, the Compassionate,

By the light enshrouding

And the day in splendour

And that which created the male and the female,

surely your striving is to diverse ends'?" Djaq felt a smile uplift her face. Much looked desperately from one face to another. "Does it not ask for peace? Do we not all crave peace?"

"Yes, we do," said Robin. "That is my point exactly, Much. Words can be twisted." He held up a hand to stop Little John, who looked as though he was about to furiously disagree. "Holy words in the mouths of bad people—even Scripture—can be twisted." He gently touched Djaq's shoulder. "We know Djaq. We know she's a good person, and we know she can be trusted."

Djaq shrugged at him. "And you're not so bad yourself."

"So instead of worrying about Saracens murdering us in in our beds, let's worry about the Sheriff."

"A parody of a Christian," Will said, his voice thick with rancor.

"Indeed," Robin said.

"It's stopped raining," said Much. The sun had also gone down, and the night sounds of Sherwood Forest were filling the air. Slowly, the tense mood dissipated, and the men went off to pass their time elsewhere. Robin left to take the first watch, and Much attended once more to the cooking fire, putting away all the food implements for the day, to be used again the next morning. Will went back to his whittling. Little John appeared to take a snooze in front of the fire.

Djaq was at a loose end. None of the men would meet her eye. She began treading off the main camp path to bed down for the night. "So the message I'm getting," Allan said, taking her aside, "is that we're all totally different, yet we're also the same." His voice was treacly with sarcasm.

"I wish there were more men in England like Robin."

"What, forgive and forget?"

"Forgive, yes, for Allah wills it," said Djaq. She rounded on him. "One hundred years ago,

when the first Franks—"

"—oh, not the bloody Franks again—"

"—captured Jerusalem, they claimed to have come for the Prince of Peace, to the city He loved best. The streets ran with blood, Allan. Iftikhar-ad-Dowla shut himself up in the citadel, and the Crusaders were merciless. So I try to forgive this, but I don't forget."

"Then it's hopeless," Allan said, with a sad smile.

"Of course it's not hopeless," Djaq replied, slapping his shoulder affectionately. Chortling, she walked away, leaving Allan standing, staring up at the stars.

"That's not what I meant," he said.

iii.

It was dawn. It had been a clear night, so the outlaws had slept out in their own beds of dry leaves and straw, with their cloaks wrapped around them. Djaq had kept watch, and Will had been observing her for the past five minutes. The others were still asleep—if their snoring was anything to go by—and no one had stirred. The grey light matched the color of Will's cloak which both kept him warm against the chill and masked his gaze. When he'd woken, Will had seen Djaq just getting up from a prostrate position on the ground. She must have been praying. If she had been still praying, he would have closed his eyes, for that was a personal moment between her and her God.

Luckily for him—he smiled—she had brushed off her knees and had taken up her bow and was practicing stringing it and testing the weight. Her bow was slightly smaller than the others', as it was predicated on height, but it was still larger than Robin's curved bow. She still needed practice, for though she was a good marksman and could more than take care of herself in hand-to-hand combat, her arm strength was less developed than a man's. She would never admit this and therefore never admitted to having to practice.

She'd finally given up on testing the weight and was slipping her cloak on when her eyes flicked to his. Unruffled, he said quietly, "You missed a spot."

"Excuse me?"

Will shook the sleep from his limbs. "When you cut your hair."

Djaq's hand went automatically to the base of her scalp. Will cast aside his hood and moved quietly toward her. "You're joking with me," Djaq said softly, smiling slightly. Will shook his head and pointed. Her fingers still hovered away from the unsightly hunk of hair. Gently, Will reached down and held out the lock of hair until her fingers overtook his.

"Your hands are cold," he said.

Djaq seized the offending piece of hair, and Will dropped his hands away. They held each other's gaze silently. "Let me cut it for you," he whispered, brandishing his knife. Djaq's lips moved, but she said nothing. "Do you not trust me?" Will asked.

Djaq nodded unblinkingly, then indicated with her chin that they should move from the middle of camp, where the rest of the men were still sleeping. "Let them sleep," she whispered, a trace of a smile playing about her lips. Will assented, and screened by three sapling poplars, she knelt down on the forest floor.

"You do much in the way of barbering?" Djaq asked, jesting, though Will could see in her eyes that her thoughts were much darker. He wondered at this, if she had just been at prayer.

"No," Will replied, gently teasing the lock of hair in his hand as he knelt down next to her. "I am good with my hands, though."

"I noticed," Djaq tossed over her shoulder. Somehow, the flippant way she said it made the heat rise in his cheeks. He had not been this close to her, on his own, since the first day they had met. She had never said a word about this moment, when he had stumbled upon her exposing far more flesh of a woman than he had ever seen—had any right to see—though by accident. It could have been anyone, he had told himself firmly, any one of them could have stumbled upon her like that. Yet he could not help burning with jealousy at the thought of any of them—but especially Allan and Robin—taking that moment away from him. He had behaved honorably, had he not? He had repressed all lustful thoughts; he had not declared or even articulated to himself his feelings for her. A lesser man would have seen her sinuous form in his dreams, but Will's respect for Djaq was like the troubadour's devotion for the ladies of Aquitaine, as it he had heard it sung in King Richard's Occitan.

Had circumstances been different, had she had a choice in the way girls of a village had a choice to whom they were betrothed, he might have behaved the way he had been brought up to behave: stealing kisses in the fields, holding hands and lying back in the grass and speaking of the future. But circumstances were far from ordinary, and he valued her as much as a compatriot as he did as a woman. He had never before in his life encountered such a startling combination of womanhood and innocence, beauty and boyishness. He knew he never would again.

"Well, get on with it," Djaq said, though her voice was full of laughter. "I'm going to catch a cold sitting on this damp grass."

"Sorry," said Will bashfully. He clipped the bit of hair and smoothed her hairline out with his fingers. The skin of her neck was prickled with goose-pimples. He wanted to kiss her there, and it was awkward to control this sudden urge. She looked at him, her eyebrow raising as if she thought he was mad.

"All right?" she asked.

"Yes," he sputtered, getting to his feet and brushing himself down. "Just . . . today's my brother Luke's birthday." As he said it, he had to admit it was true, and that it had been hovering in his mind since he awoke. He raised his eyes to hers.

"Your brother?" Djaq asked, her face visibly falling. "In Scarborough?" Will nodded. He didn't often let thoughts of his father and brother wash over him. It wasn't necessarily that they were too painful—though they sometimes were; the period before Robin had returned were colored in unvented anger, frustration and despair—but that it was a different part of his life. It did not do to dwell on what he could not change.

Djaq placed a hand on his shoulder. His jerkin and shirt absorbed the warmth of her hand, which also strayed to his collarbone. "You are homesick. You miss your family."

Will chewed his lip. In a way, she was right—he grieved for his mother daily, and whenever their tribulations brought them near to a shrine or a holy well he said a prayer for her. He was pleased, in a way, to think of his father and brother living safely away from Nottingham, and his feelings of regret for leaving their home in Nottingham were mingled with pride in what he had achieved since then. Will Scarlett, as was, would have made a good, perhaps even a great, carpenter. He might have even been content with that lot in life. But now, life had opened up its possibilities—through tragedy, of course.

She misinterpreted his silence and gripped his shoulder more tightly. Realization dawned on him. "You're homesick, too, aren't you?"

Djaq's lip quivered, but only for a moment. She regained control with an iron will that had no doubt been forged over her long, suffering journey from Palestine. Djaq still held him quite firmly there, by the collarbone, but she looked down and said nothing. "I like this," Will breathed, barely above a whisper. He had decided to take a chance, heart in his throat. "I like that we don't have to speak." He looked up from the ground and meaningfully directed his gaze at her face. "To understand each other."

For a moment, he was afraid she would brush him off with a laugh and a joke, or that she would tease his intensity. Will knew his personality was both passionate and like a well that ran deep underground; some might mistake it for aloofness. But she raised her eyes to his and shared his gaze, thickly, unbrokenly. Nothing has to be said, he thought to himself, heart thumping wildly in his ribcage. We know each other without speaking a word . . . Djaq's hand, seemingly of its own volition, left Will's shoulder and reached up to gently brush his cheek—the lightest, most feather-like touch.

Then someone yawned, very loudly. It was more like a deer crashing through undergrowth than a yawn. Will sheathed his knife; Djaq dropped her hand and picked up her cloak. The camp was coming to life. Much was complaining about something. "I'd better—"

"You know, I'll just—"

Djaq went toward the camp, going her way, and Much went to look for wood for the camp fire, going his.