Robin cranked his crossbow into the firing position and secured it beneath his cloak. They were on their way to Salisbury. Master Baret had come to him saying he needed an escort. He wanted three men who were sober, honest and in no way associated with Dick Vowell. That posed a problem because there were only two places where you could recruit an escort in a hurry. One was the George and the other was the Julian.
If you went to the George you'd get Wat Gallor's mates. If you went to the Julian, you'd get Dick Vowell's. Neither appealed to the old man and they'd called on the services of Gareth and David, a couple of Welsh lads who'd arrived in town to join Guy Gascoigne's archers. Robin knew them as relatives of Owen Ap-Richard, who worked the country fairs with wooden heads you could shoot at for prizes.
They had spent the first night at an inn. It was bucketing down with rain and the road was impassable. If it had been left to Robin, they would have turned back. The direct route was flooded and they'd have to pick their way through the woods to reach their destination on time. That was no easy matter. Thornbushes and brambles were favoured by gamekeepers as cover for game and there was the ever-present risk of outlaws.
Gareth knew some archers who would act as guides. They were living rough while waiting to cross to France. Robin decided to leave the old man with David and set off with Gareth to find them. They went down a narrow path and were soon surrounded by dense vegetation. Tracks branched off to left and right. Without the sun, Robin soon lost all sense of direction.
'Are you sure we're going the right way?'
'Trust me, boyo.' Gareth brimmed with confidence. 'They've built a shelter like we have in Wales.'
'How do you know they'll be there?'
'They've got nowhere else to go, boyo. They've got to rough it in the woods until they can join Sir Guy in France.'
Robin grew uneasy. He'd left his charge with a sixteen-year-old and gone into unknown territory with a guide who would never admit to making a mistake. On top of that, they were being followed. On a ridge, above their heads, the birds were agitated. Nothing disturbs the greenwood more than human presence. Someone was keeping pace with them. If they were travellers they could join them. There was safety in numbers. But, if they were travellers, what were they doing up there? The ridge didn't lead anywhere.