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Little John had managed to jam a wagon axle into the mechanism from outside.

According to Merry, he'd then sat on it to make certain nobody removed it.

We passed beneath the raised gate one at a time.

Alana and I supported Hugh between us.

Robin came last, walking backward with an arrow ready.

We emerged into a narrow lane behind the butchers' row just as Nottingham began waking for the day.

I didn't allow myself to relax until we'd put several streets between us and the castle.

Even then, I kept looking over my shoulder.

The safe house was an old wool store about two miles south of Nottingham.

By noon, it had become a gathering place for everyone involved in our efforts against Fitzwalter. Sefa examined Hugh for nearly an hour. He had two broken ribs, extensive bruising, and a fractured cheekbone that concerned her.

She cleaned his injuries, bound his ribs, and ordered him to remain in bed.

Hugh complained.

Sefa threatened to tie him down.

He stopped complaining.

His wife arrived that afternoon.

When she entered the room, I quietly excused myself.

I stood in the yard for a while, giving them time alone.

The rest of our news arrived throughout the day.

Prior Aldwin had received the financial record at Blyth.

He'd copied it in his own hand, authenticated the copy beneath the priory seal, and secured the original in his strong room.

His message was brief. He wrote that he'd buried two soldiers who returned from the northern border garrisons half-starved, and he'd be pleased to help expose the men responsible.

Merry's merchant contact had successfully delivered the council correspondence to a member of the royal household in London.

There was even a receipt confirming its delivery.

Peverel's archdeacon had authenticated the archive transcript and sent another copy to the diocesan registry in Lincoln.

I was beginning to appreciate the usefulness of churchmen who took personal offense at being lied to.

Then, near dusk, my rider returned from the north.

He was filthy, exhausted, and riding his third horse.

But he brought the news we'd been waiting for.

Osbert Crane was alive.

He'd spent the last six years living on a small farm outside Alnwick, using his wife's family name.