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WENDENAL TURNED ANOTHER circle of the room, hand clasped behind his back, as the man reached the end of his account. He stopped and frowned when he realised there was no more to come. “Why cripple your horse?” he said. “So you were captured in his stead?”

“To stop me going after him.” The man’s voice was expressionless.

“If that’s the case, why not kill you?”

The man looked oddly pained. “Because,” he said, “he wants me to go after him.”

Wendenal stared at him for a moment in silence, wondering at this paradox. He gave a dismissive snort. “The portrait you paint is of a man as slippery as an eel. How do I know you are not Hood?”

A laugh rose in the man’s throat, became a guffaw. “Even Hood is not mad enough to kill the king’s deer and then cripple his own horse.” The laugh died away, his expression becoming suddenly dark – even, Wendenal fleetingly thought, shot through with – what was that? Grief? “It was my father’s horse,” said the man distantly. “Old, but... A knight’s horse. A destrier. If you had seen it, you would know.” Wendenal glanced at his serjeant, who nodded in confirmation. “All I had left of him, but for this hauberk and sword. He is – was – a knight. He served King Henry all his life, with a loyalty that never faltered. Even in... the most difficult of times.”

Wendenal knew at once to what the man referred. His father had stood against Richard when the rebellious prince had tried to take the crown from the old king. Richard had failed, and Henry had pardoned his sins. But now Henry was dead, and Richard king. This ragged man’s ill fortune was beginning to make some kind of sense. The man straightened and looked Wendenal in the eye. His voice was firm, resolute.

“My father’s lands were taken from him to be sold. Money to pay for more sides of bacon for Richard’s crusade. My mentor – Gilbert de Gaillon, the finest man I ever knew – was killed by him for standing up for what was right and good. Richard took my birthright, hastened my father’s death. And I have, with my own eyes, seen him preside over such acts of outrage that common mercenaries were shamed. If there were a means to end this cruel king, to put right this injustice... by God, I would take up its banner here and now.”

Wendenal affected an incredulous and grave expression. “You dare speak of the King this way, when you know your life already hangs by a thread?”

The man held his gaze. “I do so because you are William de Wendenal, High Sheriff of Nottinghamshire and Derbyshire, and I know your true feelings for Richard.”

Wendenal’s guest took this as his cue to step from the shadows. “I think we can dismiss the guards, now,” he said. The guards hesitated, and looked to Wendenal. He gave a curt nod. As they filed out, the guest walked up to Wendenal’s prisoner, who stood a full head higher than he, and lingered for a moment, looking up at him, his wine goblet still in his hand.

“Do you know me?” he said. The man looked deep into his face, frowning. “Let me simplify matters. I am John. Prince of England. There are other things – duchies and the like – but that’s the main one. I nearly had Aquitaine once. And then there was Ireland – but the less said about that, the better. I am also brother to Richard the Lionhearted. Lucky me. Now, perhaps, you can tell me who you are?” He raised his eyebrows and gave a wry smile. “It seems a fair exchange.” Wendenal marvelled at the easy charm that he knew he himself lacked.

The man looked from Wendenal to John and back, for the first time flustered. Then he bowed his head in what seemed genuine humility. “Gisburne,” he said. “Guy of Gisburne.” Then he added, awkwardly. “We met once. A long time ago...”

“Indeed?” smiled John.

“If my words caused offence...”

“They did not,” said John. He unfolded the fingers of his right hand and examined the gold rings upon them.

“Well, Guy of Gisburne,” said John. “If de Gaillon was your mentor, then you were once destined to be a knight, were you not...?”

Gisburne lowered his head again – but this time Wendenal thought it looked more like shame. “I was robbed of that opportunity by his death. His disgrace...”

John’s eyes narrowed. He nodded slowly.

“So. Another thing lost to you, courtesy of my dear brother.” Gisburne, his eyes still downcast, said nothing. John turned suddenly. “Sir William, will you release your prisoner to me?”

“As you wish, my lord.” It was a startling request, but not one Wendenal felt inclined to refuse. He was happy to have him out of his hair. Though what John wanted with this strange, shabby character, he could not imagine.

The prince sauntered over to the fireside, took a sip from his goblet, and set it carefully down on the hearth. “We thought we had found someone with information about Hood, Sir William. You feared he would disappoint us. But I see we have found much more than was promised.”

He wandered back to Gisburne, and before Wendenal knew what had happened, struck his bare hand across Gisburne’s face with all his strength. Gisburne staggered, his expression one of shock.

“What my brother took from you, I now give back, Sir Guy of Gisburne,” he said. “Be a true knight, and courageous in the face of your enemies.”

His face red from the blow, Gisburne stared wide-eyed at the prince, as if unable to comprehend this shift in his fortunes.

“You came late to your manhood, Sir Knight,” said John with a smile. “We must ensure you make the most of it.”