> "The madness of slavery is over, the time of liberty has been granted, English necks are free from the yoke." Gerald of Wales, ~1216

The barons gathered the same evening John had been routed by mecenaries, their own armies yet to arrive. But they had come, these brave men righteous and true--or so Robert had been told of them. When he arrived at the royal court and saw them, however, he found fat merchants and petty aristocrats arguing over whether to invite the French to invade.

"We'll not cede an acre to those continental aliens! We only need their steel; their boots can stay home!" shouted one.

"You, who sail a French ship and ride many French mistresses, now say they're unwelcome? You talk of aliens, yet you've got a floating bedroom full of them!" came a snide rebuttal.

"Louis can be bargained with; he's a fit man for hard times as these! We all know John will return, and he'll rain iron upon us, if we have no royal shelter!" insisted a man who trembled at the thought.

Robert listened carefully, marking each man in his mind. The jingoist; the racist; the coward. Tall, fat, frail, fit; he marked them, thirty in total. He tried to weigh them, but found each wanting. Uncharitably, he thought they'd weigh more accurately as pork than as politicians.

"Gentlemen," he interrupted.

Here and there, a head turned. But the conversation did not abate, and even those faces turned away after a glance.

With an ease borne of long battle and a grace borne of long hardship, he rose from the abandoned throne of England where he had been lounging.

"Gentlemen, a word," he said again, his voice powerful.

This time there was more attention, but still not enough.

There were no arms permitted in the royal hall, by order of the Merry Men who occupied it, but Robert had little need of steel when wood could suffice. He kicked a stool up with one long leg, catching it as it somersaulted, and flung it across the table. It clattered alarmingly, barely missing a man at the far end. A silence descended.

Thirty angry faces stared hard at the Hero of Nottingham, but he had captured his audience.

"I am aware that there are many considerations to be made for the return of John and his armies. First, however, we feed and clothe the good folk of England who have suffered, under his rule and the long absence of his brother Richard."

He leaned forward to rest his hands on the table, hands hardened with callouses from wielding bow and sword in service of the land while these men wielded pens and forks in service of the coffer. He was an imposing man, a kind killer and a noble brigand, and each man in his presence knew him to be capable of a great and righteous wrath.

"We start with the people; those were my terms. Then, once we have ensured the wellness of the populace, once I have been paid my pittance, I will take my company and go. You can take as much time as you like after, to bicker about who gets what measure and profit."

"What are you, Arthur reborn, then?" scoffed a great fat baron, whose fief included much of the land about London itself. "What lands do you hold, that gives you vote and voice?"

"None, sir. Only the holding of the blades and the pikes surrounding this hall," Robert warned. "Would you throw me out, knowing the doorman might take offense?"

They looked amongst themselves, those thirty. Robert narrowed eyes as his instincts shouted. They were not looks of concern, but of conspiracy.

"I think your contract is over, mercenary," said one.

In the silence, they heard outside a commotion. Marching, shouting, a call to arms. The armies of the barons, arriving at last.

"Perfidy! We are betrayed! To me, men!" Robert shouted, pushing himself away from the table, searching for a weapon. "John Lyttle, to me! I've need of your axe!"

No rebel, no Merry Man of the company who served Robin of the Wood, did appear. The shouting outside grew quiet, a peppering of arrows against wood and stone proclaiming why. The door to the royal court remained sealed, and if blood trickled under it, none could tell whose.

Robert's hands found a rod for the curtains, stout and heavy. It would have to suffice. He put his back to the wall, and thirty men drew their hidden knives against him.

There in the halls of power, where once reigned the pettiest tyrant of English lore, did Robin of the Wood do his last righteous battle. Four men he killed bravely, and one later died of his wounds; twenty and five survived, when they had knocked him to the ground and pierced him with their daggers.

Not a whole day had passed from the routing of the wicked John--that King who should have stayed Prince--and the bleeding of the last true hero of England.

Marian, virtuous and true, was taken and sold; Lyttle John and the other men of the company, even those who surrendered, were all branded traitors for their services. They were hung on gallows and mounted on pikes, living and dead, officially denounced. Speaking their names was declared a crime akin to blasphemy, and their families were shunned.

Knowing they dared not admit such men as themselves could be defeated by a lowly villain, the conspiracy of barons decided that the five fallen among them had never arrived at all. Their remains were fed to pigs and pits and fires, as nameless members of the Merry Men, their confederates forsaking decency as well as truth. Twenty and five were the barons recorded; twenty and five were the names listed as great men who thwarted a greater foe.

The barons had their rebellion, their glory, and England.

And the people, as usual, had nothing... nothing but stories. Stories of a man who had once tried to help, who had once stood up to injustice. Stories of a man labeled foe, for daring to be a hero. Stories, legends, myths, even: tales of the man called Robin Hood.