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Hanging beside her grandmother's compass was my seal.

"I forgot I had it," she admitted.

"Of course you did."

"It's a very good seal."

"It's the Crown's seal, Robin."

"Then it's a very good Crown's seal."

She removed the cord and placed the seal in my hand.

A mischievous smile spread across her face.

"You're going to forge your own authority."

"Technically, I'm using an existing instrument."

"You're a wanted traitor."

"So I've been informed."

She grinned.

"You're becoming a very accomplished outlaw, Sheriff."

"I blame the company I keep."

The convoy arrived on Thursday morning.

Twelve soldiers escorted two carts along the Mansfield road. Eleven prisoners sat inside with their wrists bound in front of them.

Captain Ralf Sedding rode at the head.

I'd estimated a one-in-four chance that he'd be commanding the escort.

For once, fortune had decided to favor me.

I stepped out of the hazel onto the road wearing my old sheriff's cloak.

Black wool, with the Crown's clasp fastened at my throat.

I'd worn it at every assize and official proclamation during my years in Nottingham.

The soldiers recognized it immediately.

The column stopped.

"Sheriff," Sedding said.

"Captain."

I held up the document I'd prepared.

"You have eleven prisoners from Thornby and Edwinstowe charged with aiding and sheltering outlaws."

"Yes, sir."