For the next few days, the caravans rattled along, with creaking wheels and jangling harnesses as a constant hum beneath the hearty chatter of the troupe. Following the fingerposts, they stopped at villages nestled in the hills along the way, each with curious faces eager for distraction. From Cheddar, the way wound through the gorge, Oswald poked his head out the window, craning his neck to gaze up at the jagged soaring cliffs. Robin nudged him, pointing to a large rock jutting out overhead, resembling the rough, proud visage of a lion.
From there they trundled on through the Levels, across a thin track between sprawling marshes that shimmered under a beating sun. Reeds swayed as island mounds rose from the mire, while ferries drifted lazily here and there, their oars slicing through the still waters in quiet strokes.
The caravans, however, brought noise with them wherever they went, be it music, laughter, or old George barking orders.
Before long, the lowlands gave way to the West Downs, where stone walls snaked across the sweeping hills and sprawling windswept plains. Here, they passed by ancient standing stones and barrows that thrummed with mysterious presence, kept well alone by the locals.
Days bled into a rhythm of motion and pause, drifting from hamlet to hamlet where they found little more than hovels huddled around weathered churches. These were sparse and hardy places, carved from the chalky soil. Life here was lean, with shepherds tending flocks and crofters coaxing barley from the thin earth.
The Players descended on these outposts each evening They set up in whatever space served, behind a graveyard, on a trampled green, or in the shadow of a crumbling tithe barn. Crowds gathered swiftly, where it was shepherds in coarse smocks, children with bare feet and bright eyes; alewives with aprons dusted in flour or the curious reeve or yeoman. Even the village priest might linger, torn between scorn and fascination.
On one occasion, they'd stage a raucous farce; the next, a morality play, with bawdy ballads or mournful lays to close the evening. The crowds roared or sighed, tossing coppers or crusts into a cap passed round by Edith.
For Oswald, it was a whirlwind he couldn't quite grasp, and the relentless pace gnawed at him.
Busy didn't begin to cover it. Up at dawn to pack, jolting through the day, performing until dusk, then collapsing onto a straw pallet as snores filled the caravan… only to rise and do it again! He had to balance this life as a player with his secret role as an undercover prince. Robin kept him tethered to a higher purpose, lending him dog-eared pages of Roman history by the firelight.
"To exercise the intellect, my lord, a prince must read histories and study the actions of illustrious men." From Caesar, he learned how a ruler must wield power decisively yet beware the knives of envy. Leadership, he gleaned, was a dance of strength and subtlety: strike boldly, but never blindly, and trust sparingly. He wasn't sure he liked it; the nunnery's quiet psalms felt kinder than this cold machination.
The lessons didn't stop at books. Robin had bartered a peddler for a pair of short and battered swords. One evening, as the troupe camped by the roadside, he dragged Oswald to a clearing.
Robin. Footwork first! A duel's won in the legs afore the arms. Step light, here, like this!
He slid forwards, left foot gliding, right pivoting to keep his balance, sword held low but ready.
Robin. Don't plant yourself like a tree, my lord! Flow, like water 'round a stone. Now, you.
Oswald mimicked him, awkward at first, boots scuffing the earth. His grip tightened on the hilt, sweat beading. Robin circled like a hawk eyeing prey, then lunged with the flat of his blade tapping Oswald's shoulder.
Robin. Too stiff. Again. Loosen your knees, bend, don't break.
They went at it until Oswald's legs ached and each parry was a lesson in patience and each stumble was a reprimand. For a fleeting moment, as Robin's sword flashed close, Oswald's mind turned dark. Now, he thought. One slip, a thrust too deep…could he claim it was a mishap? But Robin's eyes never wavered. Not yet, it was too risky, far too risky. A better time would come. He swallowed the thought, forcing a grin. Robin sank onto a fallen log, gesturing for Oswald to join him.
Robin. Sit, my lord. You've earned a rest.
His smirk softened to a reflective glint as he gazed into the dusk.
Robin. If your old man could see you now… Years ago, when he and your uncle were well at war, he was in need of support from the west. The proud Earl of March wavered, one foot poised to join the traitors. But your father met him on the field, not with words, but steel. In the thick of battle, he cut down three of the earl's finest warriors, yet spared the earl himself. March knelt there, mud and blood on his knees, swearing fealty to the king whose skill outshone his own. Turstin won his loyalty not through force alone, but by proving himself a warrior no man could scorn.
Oswald's fingers tightened on the sword's hilt, his heartstrings in a tangle. The story kindled a quiet joy for his father, the revered warrior-king. And yet this man killed him. How dare Morton weave this tale with earnesty, as if he hadn't ended his life? Robin's gaze settled on him and he forced himself to grin.
Oswald. 'A ruler must keep his friends close, but his enemies closer. Watch them, weigh their motives, use them if you can.'
Robin's brow lifted and a faint smirk tugged his lips.
Robin. Good, my lord. That's the marrow of it. Men are tools, some hammers, some daggers. The trick is knowing which ye hold afore ye swing. You're coming along well, Oz. Better than I dared hope. I see great things ahead. You're not just your father's son; you're forging your own path.
Oswald. Thank you. I'm trying, it's… a lot to carry.
Robin. You're a sperm, my lord.
Oswald. Oh. A sperm?
He blinked, tilting his head.
Robin. A sperm. Blind and grasping, a driven, relentless force pushing through darkness with one purpose: consummation, fertilisation. The world waits, vast and ready, for that vital element to arrive. A man enforces himself, his will upon the world, impregnating it with his vision!
That, young prince, is your destiny.
Oswalds fingers fidgeted, tracing the sword's pommel.
Oswald. I don't know if I'm ready for that. Not yet.
Robin. In time, you will be. The wheel turns, whether we will or no.
He stood, brushing grass from his cloak.
Robin. Rest now. Tomorrow's another step.
He turned, striding toward the caravans, where the troupe's laughter rose with the embers of the campfire. Oswald lingered a moment, his mind swirling as the stars emerged overhead.
He trudged back soon after and sank into his bedroll, the straw creaking beneath him.
As well as he had taken to this new life, he still missed the stone walls of the nunnery, its silence, the sisters' gentle hymns. More than once, as the caravan jolted over a rise, he'd pictured turning back, fleeing this mad dance of crowns. But the Players held him fast and tethered him. All save Will, who kept his distance, as frosty as he'd been at their first meeting. One odd moment lingered in Oswald's mind, resurfacing time and again: Will had fumbled a small bundle from his satchel, it appeared to be a ribboned garter, delicate and oddly feminine, its lace stark against the dirt. Oswald scooped it up, holding it out with a hesitant, "Er, yours?"
Will's eyes flashed, a flush creeping beneath his hat as he snatched it back. "Thanks," he muttered before hurrying off, ponytail swaying. Oswald blinked after him, contemplating the garter's softness. He spent a lot of time thinking about Will. Prickly, distant, yet somehow fragile beneath it all.
The next morning, their caravan shuddered along a muddy stretch of the Turnpike, a stone's throw from Longleat's wooded fringes. A sharp crack split the air, followed by a groan of wood. The caravan lurched, its left front wheel sagging into the mud, spokes splintered like broken teeth.
"God's Hooks, what now?!" The towers of the estate loomed faintly through the morning mist as the players spilled out and stretched their limbs.
George. Kit! You've been leanin' on that bloody axle again, ain't you?
Kit. Eh?
Robin prowled forward like a cat, kicking at the shattered wheel with a feigned wince.
Robin. Looks like the road's had its revenge, Master George. This wheel's done, split clean through. Must've hit a rut back somewhere back and only now given up the ghost.
Oswald's eyes flicked to Robin, catching the glint of mischief there. He'd seen him earlier, just before dawn, crouched with a mallet in hand.
George. What're we s'pose to do now?! We need to be in Salisbury tonight!
He flung his kindling down, hands on hips as Edith bustled over to peer at the damage.
Edith. Ohhh, we've had worse than that! We'll have it replaced in no time
George. And just where is this wheel going to appear from, woman?
Two wayfarers approached along the road, gaunt men in patched cloaks, leading a swaybacked mule laden with sacks. Their eyes darted warily, hands hovering near the knives at their belts. "Ho, travelers," the elder called, reining up a cautious distance away.
Old Wayfarer. Ye'd best watch yerselves on this stretch of Selwood now. Footpads and blackguards infest these parts, strippin' the carts bare. Took half me wares they did, the curs.
Edith. The rogue knights, you mean? I'd heard they were rounded up for trial.
Old Wayfarer. You heard well and true, goodwoman, but they've the judges in their pocket. They'll not be put away, mark my words.
His younger companion nodded, spitting into the dirt.
Young Wayfarer. Aye, they're bold as brass now and allowed to run wild. Keep yer blades sharp and yer wits sharper.
George. Bandits? As if this cursed wheel weren't enough! Now yer tellin' me we're sittin' ducks for thievin' dogs?
Edith. Oh, George! Look how red you're getting. Why don't you have a sit down?
Robin. There's a smithy here in Longleat. Me and Jack'll nip over, fetch a new wheel or the makings for one, and be back before you miss us.
Oswald. Aye. We'll fix it right quick.
George. Fine, fine! Off with ye, then! Well, don't dawdle!
Robin tipped his hat, steering Oswald away. Once out of earshot, Robin's grin faded to a conspirator's whisper.
Robin. We'll be leaving with more than just a wheel, my lord.
The mist swallowed them and they followed a winding path to the manor house. Its Bath stone walls were streaked with moss and ivy clung to the facade, curling around narrow windows that glowed faintly, like eyes peering out through the gloom. Their boots sank into the gravel in a steady stride.
Oswald. How will we win the Earl of Bath's favor, Robin? We're but strangers here.
Robin. By aiding him where he falters, my lord. These rogue knights plague his lands, put them away for good and his gratitude will be ours.
Oswald. You don't mean for me to advise him in the trial, do you?
Robin. Heavens, no! You're to be the judge.
Oswald. Robin, I'll make a fool of myself!
Robin. It's time you applied what I've taught you. Fear not! I'll be at your side as your clerk.
Oswald. And you suppose the earl will permit a wandering youth to preside over his court?
Robin. I suppose he'll have little choice. This way, my lord.
The manor's great doors stood ajar, guarded by a lone pikeman who shivered under his cloak, his attention fixed on the mist. Robin gestured subtly, and they slipped past, ducking into a shadowed archway where ivy masked their passage. A servant's wood-warped entrance to the side creaked under Robin's deft touch, and they stepped into a dim corridor. The air inside was stale, thick with the scent of wax and old tapestries. Voices drifted from deeper within, sharp with urgency, guiding them towards a drawing room adjacent to the great hall.
They paused at the threshold, peering through a half-open door. The Earl of Bath stood alone by a smoldering hearth, his velvet robes rich but rumpled, his face looked strained behind his silver hair. He clutched a goblet, muttering to himself, oblivious to their presence. Robin leaned in close and whispered.
Robin. Take the lead, my lord. Be bold! He's a man adrift.
Oswald swallowed before stepping into the room.
Oswald. My lord earl!
The earl started, his goblet clinking against a table as he turned, eyes narrowing.
Bath. Who are you to intrude upon my solitude? Speak quickly, for I've little patience this day!
Oswald. I am Jack, and this is Robin, my companion. We are Common Serjeants of London and coming from the road, hear tales of rogue knights and faltering justice abound. Your court stands poised to judge them, yet you fear they'll slip free once more.
The earl's gaze hardened, but his shoulders sagged.
Bath. You speak true, though it shames me. Sir Tycho and his ilk, once my knights, now bandits and my bane! They ravage my trade routes. My judges, corrupt or craven, I've dismissed, leaving me to preside. But I am… so very old, my wits dulled. Tycho and his cunning will undo me, and my people will scorn my rule.
Oswald. Permit me to judge in your stead, my lord. I vow to prove their guilt and free your lands!
Bath. A youth, to face such a serpent? Oh, by the rood! So be it. I've no better course. You there! Attire them as befits a judge and clerk.
He waved a hand, and a servant appeared, ushering them to don robes of somber black and a clerk's cap for Robin.
The great hall was a cauldron of murmurs, its benches packed with villagers, merchants, and grim-faced guards. Sir Tycho stood at the center, though bound, he emanated power. His fellow knights were at his side. Oswald ascended the judge's dais, the robe heavy on his shoulders, Robin at his side with parchment and quill. The hall fell silent, eyes pinning him like arrows.
Tycho. What is this?! This court is a mockery, presided by a boy. The earl strips us of our lands, names us thieves for seeking redress, and now this? Where is the justice?
Oswald's pulse quickened, but he recalled Robin's counsel to read the man, not his words. Shrewdness would be his blade, he cleared his throat and spoke up.
Oswald. Ahem. Justice lies in deeds, Sir Tycho. You speak of redress, yet merchants of the shire languish, their wares stolen.
He paused, scanning the hall, his nunnery-honed clarity cut slowly through his nerves.
Oswald. Are there victims or accusers present? Step forward and deliver your grievances.
A murmur rippled through the crowd, and a stout man in a patched doublet rose, his hands twisting nervously. "Master Douglas of Warminster," he said, bowing awkwardly.
Douglas. I accuse Sir Tycho and his men. A fortnight past, they waylaid my cart on the Turnpike. Silks and spices, all taken. My apprentice beaten stiff, left in the mud. They was laughing as they rode off!
The crowd gasped and muttered.
Oswald. What is your defense, Sir Tycho?
Tycho's lips curled, his arrogance undimmed.
Tycho. Well, lad… Those goods were unlawful, carried without the earl's seal of trade. We took what was forfeit by right, enforcing the shire's code. This man's greed brought his ruin.
The crowd wavered, some nodding at Tycho's claim. Oswald felt a prickle of doubt, but Robin leaned close with swift whispers. Oswald nodded subtly.
Oswald. You speak of the shire's code, Sir Tycho, but the honourable earl of Bath waived the seal for small traders a year ago. Master Douglas's goods were lawful, your seizure baseless. What say you now?
Tycho's smirk faltered, his eyes narrowing, but he offered no reply. The crowd's murmurs grew hostile, and Douglas sat, emboldened. Oswald pressed on.
Oswald. Let another accuser come forward!
A woman stood, her grey hair bound in a kerchief, her face etched with resolve. "Jornedence, widow of Frome," she said, shaking.
Jornedence. Tycho's men raided our farm. They took our grain stores, our winter's hope and burned the barn when we resisted. They said it was 'tribute' for their cause.
The hall erupted in angry whispers, Oswald faced Tycho again.
Oswald. Let another accuser come forward! Your defense, Sir Tycho?
The knight's confidence waned, his tone less assured.
Tycho. The grain was… owed, a debt from the landowners who swore aid to us in better days. We took only what was promised, Judge.
Robin leaned in again and Oswald's eyes gleamed, seizing the opening.
Oswald. You claim a debt, Sir Tycho, yet the landowners were tenants, lacking the authority to pledge tribute. The true lord of that land made no such vow. Your 'tribute' was theft, taken by force. Can you deny it?
The crowd roared and Tycho's face reddened, his voice cracking as he turned to his men.
Tycho. Fools! Why was I not told this judge would pry so deep? And why are his pockets empty!?
His knights shrank back in silence and the hall's outrage swelled. Oswald raised a hand, silencing the clamour.
Oswald. Sir Tycho, your words betray you. You and your men stand guilty of theft, arson, and betrayal of this shire's trust. Your titles are forfeit, your freedom bound to a monastery's labour. Let your stolen goods restore those you've wronged, and let this be a warning: justice bows to no man's coin or cunning!
The hall exploded in cheers, villagers and merchants chanting "Justice!" as guards seized Tycho and his knights, dragging them from the dais. "A curse on you, boy!"
Robin's gaze settled on Oswald, his eyes alight with pride.
Oswald. Your counsel saved me there, master Goodfellow.
Robin. It was your authority that carried the day, my lord.
Oswald. Who knew a forester could be so versed in the law?
Robin's lips twitched, a glint of mischief in his reply.
Robin. A woodsman learns the tracks of men as well as beasts, my lord, and he follows both with his nose.
They stepped down. The Earl of Bath, having watched from his high seat with his earlier frailty replaced by awe. He descended and clasped Oswald's hands.
Bath. By heaven, you've wrought what I could not! 'Jack?' Wasn't it? Name your reward, for you've saved my honour.
Oswald, heart pounding with triumph, smiled faintly.
Oswald. A wheel from your smithy, my lord, to mend our caravan. That will suffice.
The earl's brow rose, but he laughed with warmth.
Bath. A wheel, and a favour, should you come to something more fanciful!
He gestured, and a servant hastened to fulfill the order. They stepped into the misty courtyard, the crowd's cries of "Who was that young man?" followed them. Oswald's chest swelled and Robin clapped his shoulder with a grin.
Robin. Though the road ahead looms long, we're one step closer to your throne, my lord.
Oswald's smile widened, the fog parting as they walked back to the Turnpike.