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[Seth Scolari.]

Cencio Scolari had chosen a dangerous path through Nottinghamshire, for a man of his stature and wealth. With every moment that passed, he stared out of the window of his carriage, having pulled back the coverings that were intended to shield him from view. He dismissed that thought of privacy, indulging instead in getting a feel for the landscape, before he even stepped onto Nottingham soil. The expression on his face was a mixed one. Awe featured predominantly. Italy, where he now resided, held completely different scenery, and the difference fascinated him to study. However, there was also the flicker of nerves that crossed his reasonably handsome face, though he would be doing his best to keep that particular emotion concealed from those who might use it against him. But he had a right to be nervous – He was no longer a local to Nottingham, and, passing along the forest road towards the town, he did not know who or what might be lurking in those dense trees.

That same foliage curved high overhead, the trunks groaning softly as the mild breeze struck them. Italy was a lot warmer, even at this time of the year, Seth thought, mildly petulantly to himself. The gaps between the thick canopy of green leaves cast flickering shadows across the ground as the carriage rumbled through. He had travelled in the handsomely built Italian carriage for the vast majority of the way through England, from the port at which he had landed. The travel from Italy, his home county, had not been a pleasant one for him, as sea crossings were not his most desired method of travel. There had been no other way for the Papal visit to reach England, their destination. Cencio was serving as an ambassador for both Italy, and Christianity, here on behalf of the Pope, as his Holiness could not make the travel due to ill health. The real truth of Celestine’s infirmity had most certainly not been made public.

And so, here Cencio, the Pope’s Camerlengo, was instead. Upon reaching London, his first port of call, he had spent some time with Prince John, on the request of Celestine himself. After a couple of weeks in the castle, he had embarked upon the second leg of his trip: To Nottinghamshire, to stay at the court of Sheriff Vaisey. Through word from John himself, Seth knew that the Sheriff was expecting him to make a grand entrance, as he should… Although that was exactly the opposite of Seth’s intention.

Several minutes later, Seth made a spur-of-the-moment decision, and called out to stop the carriage. His voice was young and light, and tinged with a faint Italian accent. The words were perfectly spoken. Upon his order, the coach ground to a halt across the small stones that scattered the path, wheels protesting as the pale horses were tugged to a standstill. The young man, twenty-eight years old, and no more than a child by Vatican standards, opened the trunk underneath his velvet-lined seat and withdrew a thick cloak, and a small pouch of gold coins. The small leather pouch, he tucked into an inside pocket of the cloak. Opening the door from the inside, the handle clicked faintly, and he stepped out of the coach.

Seth wore long dark robes, reaching to the ground, soft shoes, and swung the cloak over his shoulders in a single fluid movement. Under the cloak, and gleaming against the deep colour of his robes, Seth wore two chains. The first was longer; the pendant that hung from the centre, resting against his lower chest, was a cross, flecked with gold leaf. It was a simple item, although something that Seth always sported, no matter where he was. The second was a shorter chain, and the adornment was clearly pure silver. The small disk bore the embossed coat of arms of the Holy See and Vatican City: The Papal emblem. This consisted of two raised, crossed keys, emblazoned in gold. This was something that he certainly did not want to be seen, and so tucked it into the neck of his robes, dropping the chain below the collar, and folding the material over it, so that it could not be seen. As a final measure, Seth reached up, casually tipping the thick hood of his cloak over his ginger-brown hair and shadowing his face. His bright blue eyes did not rest for a moment, constantly flicking around the scene, just in case…

[Adam Thatcher]

Even the most pathetic of dogs occasionally got his day, Adam mused, as he crouched in the bushes by the side of the road, the unfortunately coloured blue tunic he wore luckily obscured from view by the thickness of the brambles. Adam was painfully aware of his own failings as an outlaw, even over-sensitive to them, since he often failed to recognise the skills he brought as a craftsman and the convenience that was his near-invisible nature and the new and unrecognisable nature of his face. Today, however, the fates seemed to be pushing him towards success in every way. The road he had been hunting nearby had been empty for close to three hours, ever since Adam had arrived, aside from the odd peasant farmer that was obviously no target for any member of a gang that prized itself on its ethics. However, just as he had been contemplating returning to camp, the sound of carriage wheels caught his attention, and quite possible the finest vehicle Adam had ever laid eyes on had rolled into sight almost immediately.

There was a slight problem, or there would have been, had it been any other member of the gang or if one had been with Adam. For all he knew, someone else had already spotted the finely crafted carriage and let it roll by, afraid for their souls or just too respectful to dare take what gold lay inside – for there must be gold inside, that much was clear from the status of the carriage. The problem lay in what was clearly visible through the small window; a dark clad young man with a crucifix glinting in the dappled sunlight. A preist, and if the carriage was any indication, one with power and position, which in the echelons of the Catholic Church, inevitably meant he had greater holiness than your average parish pariah.

Adam had never had much time for priests. If the accident of his birth religion had not been enough to isolate him from the Catholic Church, and the needlessly paternal attitude had not made him turn his obstinate teenage tail and flee than the sight of hundreds of Catholics, spurred on by the hatred of their religious leader, their link to God, slaughter one hundred and fifty people in fire and bloodshed at York had certainly done so. It was not that he was passionately Jewish, no faith could claim him now, but he could not believe as others did, did not believe. With religion he had renounced faith, and having done such he had no problem drawing back his bow and letting an arrow fly towards the beautiful wood work of the carriage not too far (but not too close) to the head of the man of God.

However, while his own feelings left him free to ambush the Church, it was only provided the gang did not hear of it. Robin and Much had fought in the Crusades, ostensibly for King Richard, but it had been the Pope’s war, against Jew and Saracen alike, for all the common tolerance that had existed previously, and thus Adam could not ask them to help him attack a churchman, not when he was still too afraid to reveal his ancestry. As for the others, well, it was hard to tell, but there was no mistaking how central the church was to village life around England, as a building and a philosophy. Indeed, the fear of reprisal and unpopularity was almost enough to stay his hand, but Adam had never been very reasonable where priests were concerned. It was like a rush of the same anger that had first caused his problems the night of the fire, though subdued and controlled, forced into the arrow as it cut through the air and sunk with a satisfying thud into the wood.

Drawing the rough sword he’d made himself all those years ago, Adam hurried down the bank, his eye caught by the glint against the priest’s chest. Oh yes, hear he had definitely caught himself a rich bird, for all the subdued dark plumage. Even the material of the cloak cost more than the average village family could scrape together in a year without buying food or clothing at all, and it made him a little sick to see it. Adam was used to finding himself alone in his disapproval of the high Church – while monks and local priests wore hair shirts, starved themselves, and tried to lead simple people to a simple ‘God’ abbots and bishops gorged themselves upon the wealth of a Church that demanded as much tax as Prince John.

Raising his sword, Adam couldn’t stop a grin coming to his face. “Welcome to Sherwood. I suggest you relinquish your valuables, particularly that trinket around your neck and the gold at your side, before I am forced to violence. And tell your coachman I am perfectly aware he is reaching for his dagger, and that with eyes and arms like his he wouldn’t hit me if I was an inch from his nose.” It might have been foolish to take on the carriage alone, without much possibility of back up, but hell, he got a might kick out of it.

[Seth Scolari.]

But, of course, entirely unaccustomed to the nature of the forest itself, and those who chose its depths in which to hide, Seth was facing the wrong way – Towards the distant town of Nottingham, rather than away from it. Even in the way that he was standing he was edging himself forwards, rather than taking the time to glance around, and survey the surroundings in which he had called the coach to a halt. The young churchman knew nothing of the outlaws, who stalked the way, scanning the distant horizons and pressing their ears to the ground for the sight or sound of some rich carriage, in order to rob. He had been warned, for a brief moment, although without much care on the part of the advisor, to take further precautions when travelling through a certain Sherwood Forest. Even before the man spoke, when the anger-fuelled arrow slammed into the side of his carriage with force enough to make Seth start, he knew exactly where he was, and cussed his blind intellect and rash judgement that the way was clear, and he would be safe. He was protected, although never safe.

The man was startled by the sudden blinding shot towards him, as the head of the arrow sunk into the wood, and stepped backwards. Even this simple gesture in itself was enough to show that Seth was entirely unprepared for what had happened, and the speed at which the arrow had been fired from a bow that was invisible to him for the moment. Had it been aimed to kill? Surely not. The very demonstration and action of the carriage passing through the trees, the crucifix displayed declaring the declaration of a passionate, undying love of the Lord in the vows that he had taken so long ago, clearly showing his vows to His Holiness. Surely even the outlaws that he now knew patrolled these woods as their territory would not take to murdering a man of the Church in cold blood in order to requisite the gold that he would be carrying. Regardless of that fact, he took a moment’s silent thanks. Needless to say, he was entirely sure that he would find out the purpose soon enough, when the owner of such a shot would appear to him in but a moment’s time.

Seth could not help a faint smile flickering across his soft lips as he heard the voice of the aggressor that had clearly fired the same arrow. Taking a moment to glance over its shaft, he could see that this particular bolt was nothing special, to his eyes anyway. At least he knew that it was not the authorities… However, he did not turn to face the younger man who spoke, the dark hood remaining covering as much of his face as he could, looking towards the distant Nottingham, rather than the outlaw, for Seth was sure he was that. Hearing the words – An innate sense of knowing who was contemplating wielding even a meagre weapon against him – He spoke softly, to his coachman. It was not a warning, merely humouring the boy’s words. Then again, Seth did not want another death on his conscience. The coachman was a companion of his – Had been since London.

“Thomas, stay your blade. You heard the man.”

His words were soft, and just about audible, with the direction in which he was facing, and the black cloth absorbing his speech. His voice was perfect English, tinged with a faint and melodious Italian accent that was unnatural, although acquired from years of residing in the country that he now called his home.

“Yes, sir.”

Possibly the worst thing that Thomas could have done: Acknowledging Seth’s status and position in front of the outlaw. Now he was certainly bound to believe that there was more gold around, and – If he felt no lack of honour, or even faint remorse, in abducting a clergyman from his path to the town – Would take his chance at getting hold of it. Some of the gold in the chest in the back of the carriage was a ‘peace offering’ to Sheriff Vaisey. Seth was growingly aware that he hated the Church. The rest of it was for Seth’s own personal gain.

Turning around, wanting to see the assailant’s face, Seth did not speak, but looked at him with piercing blue eyes from underneath the hood that he still wore. He was surprisingly calm, for one who had never experienced the threat of outlaws on the forest roads, although did not move to unhook the silver or gold from around his throat, or relinquish even the small pouch of gold that he had taken from the coach. Regardless of that, Seth silently scanned the younger boy up and down for a moment, almost inquisitively. He could see that the reputation that the outlaws had, of stealing from the rich and giving to the poor, clearly did not cover themselves, from the sight of the ratty clothing that he was wearing, and his weapon. Whetted with his own hands, no doubt. It was admirable, although he wondered whether the gold that he held would be of better use in the hands of those who really needed it…

[Adam Thatcher]

Sometimes Adam felt more like a Jew than anything else, and it was in those moments that he had to acknowledge that his mother’s faith and culture had seeped into him far more than his father’s. Perhaps because being Jewish had become so much more important to Ruth after she had been cast out for marrying a gentle, perhaps because in the Jewish community he was one child of ten than one child of a hundred, perhaps because even his flesh was marked from his very first days by Judaism and all it preached. He had been the only half-Christian Jew in the whole of York, perhaps the whole of England for all he knew, and perhaps the larger religion was less concerned about capturing the one stray than the smaller was to hold onto its own. Being Jewish was ultimately being one of his people, his race, far more than Christianity was, with its easy conversions and vast spread. It showed in his face, if you looked carefully enough, the slight shaping of the eyes and nose that suggested, perhaps, yes, this man was related to the Spanish Jews. Or perhaps, just perhaps, Adam clung to his Jewish roots al the harder because of the persecution they received. He had always loved knowledge, and by thinking himself a Jew, he could refute all that was said, every rumour, every hate-filled word, with perfect confidence and even disdain.

Never trust a Jew or Jewess. They lend money only to sell good Christian souls to the Devil, or drive good Christian men off their land with interest no honest Christian man would ask for. It is never the borrower’s fault; the Jews can tempt like the Devil himself. The Jews only want money – that is why they take up usury. No Jew has an honest profession. The Jews are in league with Lucifer – they destroyed Christ for him, caused the crucifixion. They are responsible for all evil – they break every commandment. There are simple ways to tell a Jew from others – they are richer, crueller, they have demons to do their work and they defy the Bible with their usury. They make deals with the Devil, blood sacrifices, that is why they must keep another Sabbath, for the Lord would strike them down if they chose the true day. They get magical powers in return, you can tell by the horns they hide behind hair and hats. They take our children and they kill them for their dark Lord. The King wants them dead. The King is in their power. The King is afraid. Killing a Jew is not a sin. They are not like us.

Adam had heard it all, though he rarely argued against them. It was not wise to show a great knowledge of Jewish customs and teachings, not when old men in darkened corners claimed the Jews were what held back Richard’s ransom, were the reason ordinary folk had to pay so much, had kidnapped the King in the first place and delivered him to his prison. No, Adam was content to know that they were wrong in every particular without risking his own neck. That, and occasionally take out his frustrations on any priests that came his way. He really didn’t like the manifestation of the authority of Rome in human form, the calm way they spoke the Pope’s edicts and the tacit but unspoken agreement they made with their congregations to subvert or destroy the alien, the heretic, the Jew. Adam was not unintelligent, he knew there was no order against the Jews from the highest authority, knew that the ordained teaching was to leave Jews in peace as fellow men. But he also knew that fervour, religious fervour that infected some priests like a disease, was enough to pull men away from the truth of God and into mobs. In its simplest form Adam liked the church, the sense of community, the plain faith and good work, but the Church? Adam could not stand its gross wealth, its Crusades, its unethical power over the smallest people.

So, when he got an opportunity to tip the balance momentarily in favour of the Jews (because when it got down to it, he was inside just an offended Jew, trying to assert a faith he did not even follow almost pathetically, even if he couldn’t recognise it in himself) he took it with gusto. The coachman’s words did not go misunderstood, and a slow grin, a parody of his usual pleasant smile, stretched out across Adam’s face like a lazy cat. Even the ever so slightly unnerving stare the priest was fixing him with was not enough to diminish Adam’s sense of his own luck as his mind raced through the possibilities. He had been expecting, with the fine carriage, perhaps an emissary of the Archbishop of Canterbury or Winchester, but the accent, tinged with something oh so foreign despite the impeccable English suggested otherwise. The carriage work too was finer close up, the work of a master craftsman, and Adam had a momentary tinge of jealousy as he recalled his own pathetic inability to carve even the roughest of spinning tops for the village children. He wondered momentarily if his guest (no rich man was a victim of the outlaws) came from John’s court, with all his authority and status. It would not go unheard of for a supposedly celibate and fasting man of God to enjoy months at a licentious and glutinous court without even a moral twinge.

Whatever the truth was, Adam knew he had landed the proverbial big one, even if his brothers in arms would be less inclined to see robbing priest as good work. “Wise advise from a man of letters. May I ask then, sir, who I have the honour of addressing as such in such surroundings? And who exactly pointed you towards Nottingham without warning you, if I may be so blunt, not to stroll around in the forest with only a cross and Latin words to protect you? And, thirdly, to complete a holy trinity of questions, why is your gold still attached to your belt if you want your head to stay attached to your neck?”

[Seth Scolari.]

The boy was not wholly Christian, not one of Cencio’s God’s children, for none of such a faith would have taken it upon themselves to relentlessly stalk the coach through this passage of the forest. Considering the moments in which he had remained seated by the tiny window, it might have been merely the presence of the father that had delayed any other outlaws from marking the way, and taking what was not theirs. He had heard stories of traipses through this very forest that had come to proverbially sticky ends in an attempt to stand against the men who would see to it that their victim gave up everything he owned, and now knew that he was the next unlucky soul to become ‘condemned’ by their hands. A Jew, Seth thought, with flicker of undeniable ferocity slipping through his eyes, although it had vanished in but a moment.

Even though his personality was a strong one, and he would have fought against the demanding tone of the younger man if that were in him, Seth knew that he had little option other than to obey. He was no fighter, and did not wield a weapon even as rough as the sword that was closely held in his direction. After his years in the Holy Land, he had not raised a sword since, whether the others that he knew requested that he learn to defend himself or otherwise. He had seen the occurrences of this Holy War, and there appeared no glory in the deaths that he saw. The only consolation for the dead and dying was that, with their defined sense of spirituality, in fighting for the cause of their religion, they would find another life in the paradise that they had dreamed of.

And so, the man merely stood, slowly raising his hands, palms turned to face towards the assailant, showing that he was unarmed, and meant no harm. He would not fight, even if he could. He did not know if the boy would go as far as to cause the death of the priest, even with a seemingly half-humorous threat, although he was sure that he could do some considerable damage. The palm of his right hand was scarred, ripped skin forming two deep, unskilled lines intersecting through the centre to form a rough cross, savaged into the flesh at the base of his left thumb. It was an old wound.

“My name is Cencio Scolari, hailing from Rome. I can only suppose that the name means nothing to you, from the position in which you and I stand. My brothers passed through this way several days ago, and I assume that they were permitted to reach their destination without such an interruption as has been forced upon myself…
My way was designated by those you would call your royals, at crown court in London, and I presume that they were the proud beholders of more knowledge than I when it comes down to those who shield the way. Why I was told no more than may appear evident, I am unaware. As it is, I feel safe to say that it is my faith that I shall hold as my protection, and not my words – Latin or otherwise.”

Of course, the matter of the gold still remained. It appeared that Seth was a wealthy man, and that would stand true, if he were not one of the more generous of His Holiness’ court. Handing the man everything that he wished to have, whether that be his name, purpose on this road to Nottingham, or indeed the gold that he held, would possible be the easiest way out of this situation. Then again, when he considered the options that he had, he was almost intrigued to find out more about this highway-robbing young adult, whether he be a Jew or otherwise. Seth was currently forcing his temper to remain in controlled conditions, under lock and key, rather than engulf him, as it so often did – He did not see why restraining himself for a little while longer would be the most ineffective method of control and self-sacrifice.

“The matter of my gold… There, even I cross myself with a dilemma. Am I to surrender myself and my belongings to you, for you to then do as you wish, yet escape death; or am I to resist that which you so desire, most probably causing your anger, and reduction to violence? No doubt that you may squander your newfound riches on drink and women… I suppose that the questions we need to ask of ourselves are: would I withstand the situation and perish on my moral high ground, and would you, disbelieving as you are, kill a holy man, a man of the Church, in cold blood, merely for a couple of coins?”

Dropping his left hand, the scarred palm, away from the form of weaponless surrender, Seth reached across his body and unto the deep side pocket of the long robe. A sudden and strong gust of wind blew through the canopy of trees under which they stood, forcing the hood back from Seth’s face. The fabric billowed slightly in the breeze as it dropped to his shoulders, exposing the face. He was a handsome man – Pale skin, scorching blue eyes and ginger-brown hair – Save for the pale and faint scar that curved above his right eye. For possibly the first time since their sudden and unexpected encounter, Seth looked away from the younger man, blinking several times in a faintly uncomfortable situation, dislodging the specks of dust blown into his bright blue eyes. When he withdrew the hand from his pocket, he held the small leather pouch of coins, and looked back to the boy, awkwardly silent.

[Adam Thatcher]

It could not be said that the surrender, such as it was, surprised Adam, since in his short time in Nottingham he had seen the proudest men give way to humility, or at least an undignified situation when threatened with the sword or the bow, but the serenity of the man before him was disconcerting. Adam could see little of the priest’s face beneath the heavy dark hood but the hands, one scarred, Adam noticed, with the mark of his faith, did not shake or tremble as they were raised and the voice that addressed him was level in tone. Indeed, the whole stance seemed so devoid of any emotion, be it fear, anger or pride that had Adam been a more superstitious man he might have queried the humanity of the man before him. Thankfully though, Adam had grown away from such rural superstitions by being living proof of their calumny, for since he knew that Jews did not have horns, he also knew that men were men, and always would be.

“I’m afraid you are quite wrong on several counts, but I am sure in Nottingham you will get used to that. Cencio Scolari, I know who you are. Your brothers were very proud to serve the Pope’s Camerlengo and spoke of you with much praise as they journeyed through the villages to Nottingham. I heard them myself, though I must admit I imagined you were among them at the time in disguise. Few people of note profess and follow the same plan when travelling through Sherwood, for reasons I assume are quite obvious now. But if you care to know about the well being of your brothers, they travelled safely and humbly, for they carried with them no more gold than I do now.” Adam had no time for priests, but monks were different. Priests dedicated their time to souls Adam couldn’t even be sure existed, but monks, humble men who did not rise through the church without taking ordination, monks who were men of earth, well, Adam could see how they served the people on earth, even sinners, and served them well. Nuns too; faith made them kind, not cruel, and gave them no power, only the respect that their deeds earned them.

Unfortunately, Scolari had managed to mention the other class of persons that Adam really could not stand. The Royal Family. “And you are wrong again if you call them my royals. I only consider royal those fit to be so, and the two so prone to worship by this or that half of England are certainly not. I see no King in Richard and no Prince in John, so you may conclude that mentioning an association with a court as drunken as it is ineffective and corrupt will not stay my blade for a moment.” His words came out far more bitterly than Adam could have foreseen, the result of the sentiments being hidden for so long from those around him. Robin Hood was perhaps the most patriotic man Adam had ever met, and the boy had enough sense to hide his anti-royal feelings from the entire gang as he had done his born faith and his half-race. The resultant bottling had clearly been more stressful that he himself had realised and being able to announce his views to a man he would probably never see again was quite a release. However, Adam was wary about releasing his emotions too vigorously, especially in the presence of Scolari who seemed almost emotionless, in case he lost the upper hand and found himself strung up in Nottingham Square before he could say ‘I fight for Robin Hood.’

Accordingly he lightened his tone and added, “Anyway, it seems they were no friends of yours not to warn you that undue wealth will never make it through Sherwood. And be aware of this; it is not your faith that protects you, but the blood in your veins. This is not the valley of the shadow of death – you aren’t in Nottingham castle yet. I do not kill priests and I do not kill you, because I do not kill, and nor does the man I fight for. You shall hear his name a great deal in your stay here.” There was a not undue amount of pride lining Adam’s tone as he spoke, still staring at the young priest in front of him, though his manner could have been called almost friendly had the situation not involved a sword and a surrender. The blatant hostility that had dogged Adam’s tone was ebbing slightly.

However, the Camerlengo’s next words brought the anger flushing back. Adam ignored the fact that if Scolari had not been warned of outlaws he certainly would not have been told of the mission of Robin Hood, of the non-violence of the gang and the cruel situation of taxes in Nottingham. Instead he just let anger flood his mind like a drug and stepped forward, his sword rising from vaguely pointing at the man’s midriff to his neck. “No doubt? For a man at the pointy edge of a sword in a new area you certainly seem sure about things you have no comprehension of. Your gold will feed the villages of Clun, Nettlestone and Locksley, and probably Rochdale too, which is fair because it is dear Mother Church making them starve in the first place.” Adam paused, breathing deeply, bitterness rising like bile in his throat. “You really think you can fool me? That carriage contains more than a couple of coins, as you full well know, and whatever you may think all of them are probably destined for Vaisey’s pocket unless I remove them from you now and deliver them into the hands of the people they should belong to. And as I already said, I won’t kill you, so you can stop worrying about your own skin.”

The gust of wind made the sword shudder in his hand and Adam sheathed it quickly, his anger cooling as quickly as it had come in his concern not to accidentally kill the man before him. His bow was still over his shoulder, but to all effect he was now unarmed as he moved towards the man almost as if a he was a wild animal. His youth surprised him – Adam had expected an older man to be the Pope’s Emissary, a man more like Vaisey and his co-conspirators. He was fair too, fairer than the Italian name suggested, and the oddity aroused Adam’s curiosity, though now was hardly the time to air it. For a moment the eye contact was broken but when it returned Adam found eyes as blue as his own looking back at him, like the eyes of a brother planted firmly in a stranger’s face. It was unnerving,, but Adam was not about to be put off his goal by a pair of eyes and he slowly stepped forwards to take the small purse, weighing it in his hand as he did so and keeping one eye on the coachman – there was an edgy look there he couldn’t bring himself to trust, and faith made people do strange and terrible things.

[Seth Scolari.]

As the man before him clearly said that he was wrong on however many accounts, Seth raised an eyebrow, accentuating the pale scar that carved across the skin of his forehead. He had gained this when he was a much younger man, although the story of how this had come about was almost lost, even to him. There were some things that were worth remembering, and others that it was much better to forget. However, on the forgetting side of things, everyone seemed to have apparently failed to warn him of anything that might have happened while passing through the forests of Nottingham. He was sure that this was just one of such events. However, he did not speak.

The bitterness that was clear in Adam's voice was not echoed in Seth's own. He had been told several times, by those older and more influential than he, that he must control his temper better than he had been doing so, for it was not the done thing for a high-powered member of the clergy to resort to raising his voice in the presence of others. There were far more peaceful, and much better ways of going about making sure his voice was heard. It was now that Seth breathed deeply, controlling himself as he returned the words regarding the Plantagenets to the younger man.

"The king in Richard is one who will stand up and fight for his people, and fight for his faith. He is one of the few royals that this country has been blessed with having who would sacrifice his own life for what he believed, that that is his motives as he crusades for the Holy Lands - The land that belonged to our forefathers should not be put on the line at the hands of the unworthy Saracens. They would claim the home of our Lord as their own, defile and foul the ground that they are not blessed enough to walk upon. Richard and his armies will do their part for England in that sense. John, on the other hand, has much to learn. He is a much younger man, so hopefully there is still hope and recognition as to what he could achieve for his country, if he put his mind to it. However, I fear that there is nothing more in his mind than riches and power. He is not the man blessed by God that he would so wish to appear as. I see you share my views in one opinion of their family."

Of course, he had been testing the boy. No one would have replied with a confession that the priest's words had been right in every sense, for revealing themselves truly. As Seth had already seen, this boy was like not many others that he had met. He was so sure about what he was fighting for that the anger showed through clear in his words. There was a man, Seth gathered, who robbed from the rich, and gave to the poor and needy - Those who would not otherwise have been able to achieve the money that they needed to survive. That was the first good thing. The second was that he was willing to take Seth's money and distribute them to the people that needed them more than the Sheriff he had heard so much about. John had spoken highly of the man called Vaisey, although he seemed nothing like anything else Seth had ever come across. A spiteful man, who took pleasure in taxing his population. The people for whom he was supposed to be caring. In correspondence from Richard that he had been privileged enough to lay hand upon, he had said entirely different. Seth was more inclined to believe the king, no matter who was currently in power. Even John would never go so far as to threaten a priest, a messenger of His Holiness. He valued his life far too greatly, even if no one else did.

What he clearly took from the conversation was that Adam was far more mature than his look gave him. Seth would have taken him for no more than a boy, although there was a certain age in his eyes that seemed to come from many more years than his face would have shown. Some spoke the same way of Seth, although he was not inclined to believe them. He was merely doing that which he felt he had been commanded to do, and he would do so with all the heart that he could muster, even in a place such as Nottingham. The boy seemed to be willing to do good in any way that he could. Perhaps it would serve Seth well to meet this soldier of his. A soldier who did not claim to be a killer, but who waged his own wars for the sake of not himself, but the people that would suffer at the hands of a ruthless tyrant of a king.

He watched the man looking at him, taking in every inch of his person, and the look in his eyes clearly showed that he was suspecting someone older. Seth was no more than a child by Vatican standards, although he had already proved himself time and time over, that he had maturity beyond his years. He did not move, making sure that his posture was entirely still and possibly slightly unnervingly so, as he retrieved the pouch of golden coins from his hand. Removing the leather bag, the scar was again visible, whether Seth wished it to be so or otherwise. It was marking himself for who he was, a certainly distinguishing feature, although it had been part of his visage for some time now. He still did not take his eyes from Adam, practically boring into his skull with those blue eyes, and meeting eyes as blue as his own. A strange sight, for a man used to gazing into deep brown complexions - For a fair Englishman in a foreign country, anything was that strange to be back home once more - Although it was a refreshing change.

[Adam Thatcher]

Adam watched the priest calm himself with a few deep breaths and some sort of inner peace with no envy. It was rare that Adam indulged his anger, rarer still that he let it actually raise its ugly head and focus in on some poor unsuspecting soul, but this was simply because it was rarely felt rather than any strong self control. As it was he felt almost contempt at the sight of the man refusing to let his temper rise. Still, any irritation he felt at that was soon swamped by the pale man’s words on the King and more importantly the Crusades. Those wars had done a number on Adam’s dual heritage, and had helped motivate his complete renunciation of religion as Christian fought Jew and Saracen without the faintest idea what either religion stood for nor what their claims upon the so called Holy Land were as a promised land and home of the prophet. True, Adam knew more than the average peasant, what with his Jewish mother and living in the same camp as Djaq, who was more than willing to talk to him about religious conflicts, but however much he thought about it the mention of the past Crusades still brought bile rising in his throat. Not only was Adam sure of the violence and bloodshed abroad, but he had firsthand experience of the same violence in the massacre of Jews at York and the starvation and economic problems that dogged the whole of England after the taxes.

Consequently, as he stepped away from Seth, purse in hand, Adam’s voice was strained with the anger he felt. “The king in Richard is one who will drain his people to their very hearts of money and work to pay for a war against peoples he does not know nor understand. He may fight for his faith but not for the people of England who would rather see him home and dealing with the problems that have blighted this land since he left it. The Holy Land is not his country, this is, and yet he would rather defend that foreign soil than spare a thought for what lies here. And as for the Holy Land –“ but Adam stopped there abruptly. He had had the words all prepared, had been ready to reveal all about his own feelings about the land of milk and honey, promised to one half of him and taken by the other as their own, the Holy Land of three peoples that belonged only to the oldest, the weakest and most forgotten, but Adam stopped himself. There was something in the ease with which the man before him calmed himself that set Adam on his guard. He suspected that the priest was a man who heard everything and understood more than that, and the young Jew had already said more than was wise to when confronted by an extremely powerful member of the Catholic Church. Adam wasn’t afraid, but natural reticence and knowing better were just as effective.

Shaking himself slightly, Adam let his sword dip and jerked his head roughly towards the carriage. “Now, I hope you don’t think I’m thick enough to be fobbed off with a small purse. Believe me, some of whatever gift you have for Vaisey will end up in the hands of the people whether you get it past me or not, since we have a knack of lightening his load, but it would do a lot more good if you would just surrender it now. So, will you and your man unload it willingly or do I have to bind your hands with your own crucifix?” A hint of a smile came to Adam’s face at the thought – it was too perfectly poetically justified and amusing to want to pass up, though he had no doubt it was the kind of action that would go down badly with Robin and pretty much every Christian ever. Damn. Adam moved to the carriage door, keeping his sword pointed towards the zealous coachman, who he figured was more likely to attack him than the fair clergyman however scarred he was. “Come on then!” he called to both men, enjoying himself a little more now that he had let out his anger.

[Seth Scolari.]

As he looked towards the boy who stood before him, he didn't know what to think. There was a moment when he thought that Adam was going to continue his rant, and that Seth would be subject to more of the same harsh tones from a boy who had seen far too much in his few years. But then, there was nothing. He ended what he was saying with a broken sentence, knowing that anything else he said would be met with conflict, even from the man who was supposed to be the victim in this situation.

It seemed as though that was the right way around for the moment, when he took a slight step backwards at the sharp tones that spilled from the mouth of the boy who stood before him; it looked as though Adam really was the criminal, and Seth was the 'good guy' in the spur of the moment. If anyone had approached them a few minutes earlier, when Seth was the one with the strong argument, then it would have possibly appeared the other way around. Although he was older, and probably the one out of the two of them with the most life experience, he was in awe of the beliefs and the values that the boy held, even at such an age. Maybe it was just the situation that he was in – Clearly an outlaw, living in the forest with no hope of achieving a ‘real’ life again – Although maybe it was something else.

It was all that Seth could do to keep himself from the blatant dramatics of the situation. It was far too tempting to roll his eyes at the boy, although he was above that, surely... Also, it might provoke Adam further. It would seem as though he had already broken the barrier that was holding back the anger, or the excitement that he still had, and Seth did not want anything more on his hands, and certainly not a fight, no matter what the situation. It was a highway robbing, yes, and he was supposed to be the victim of this, but whatever happened, he knew that the boy would get what he wanted – Whether the money was taken from the honest priest by force, to line the pockets of the poor who actually needed it, or if Seth found the better judgement that he knew would appear to him soon and handed the money over without a fight, he knew that Adam’s words were correct, and it would end up in his hands.

But Seth had a dilemma. Sheriff Vaisey did not know who he was, had not met him before and therefore certainly would not know him by sight. Whether he claimed to be a friend of Prince John or not, he knew that Vaisey would be instantly sceptical, and the only way that he could possibly win over and firm of trust in the being of a man he had already been informed was cruel and uncaring, working more to replenish his coffers than help his people would be to bring a gift. And if what he had been told about Vaisey’s lust for gold was as true as the description of his personality – Which had been confirmed as reality – He could not arrive empty handed, having claimed to have been robbed by outlaws or otherwise. It was this that forced Seth to speak.

“I know that you do not care for me as well as some of the other members of this community, so I take it that the only reason you have not dealt me the humiliation of binding my wrists with my own crucifix is that it would not go down well in the eyes of your leader – Am I right? You are not acting alone in this quest of yours...”