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sword at his side, his father’s bow over his shoulder. The horse was eating still and easy enough to catch. The gates of Nottingham were open when Robin got there; and from all around, people came streaming in for the market. Carried along by the crush of cattle andsheep and pigs and people, Robin rode up the narrow streets and into the market square. As expected, there were sheriff’s men loitering by the castle gates and the market traders were setting out their stalls around the square. The scaffold stood in the centre of it, the hanging rope swinging in the breeze. He had hoped to find his father already in one of the cages – it would have helped – but they were all empty. Robin was sitting on his horse looking into the last of them, when a voice spoke up from behind him. “They tell me there’s only one this morning for the rope. Killed the king’s deer, he did. Not likely to be killing any more, is he? Poor beggar. Still, be a nice day for a hanging. I never miss one, you know. Never.” The man squinted up at Robin, shielding his eyes against the white glare of the sun. Robin left him and rode over the drawbridge into the castle courtyard. Hedid not think twice about what he was doing. In fact, he did not think about it at all. He just did it.
    The courtyard was full of soldiers, and a smith was shoeing from a smoky shed nearby. Robin tied up his horse and strode into the castle. He tried to look as if he knew where he was, all the time searching for a stairway that might lead him down to the dungeons below. No one challenged him. No one even appeared to notice he was there. He saw two soldiers emerging from a narrow doorway below the main staircase. As he passed them, one of them spoke. “Like Samson. Sheriff’s own words.”
    “Sheriff’s idea was it then?”
    “I heard it was Guy of Gisbourne,” said the other. “He said that if this fellow was big like Samson, well then, maybe we’d better treat him like Samson. He did it himself by all accounts.” Robin’s heartchilled. The stone stair spiralled down into the darkness, lit only sparingly by torchlight. He came to a long corridor, two guards at the end of it, sitting at a table playing dice. Robin walked towards them, hand on the hilt of his sword.
    “You come for Samson?” said one of the guards. And he didn’t even wait for a reply. He threw him the key.
    “In there,” he said, pointing Robin to one of the dungeon doors. “Help yourself. He’ll hang well, that one. Good and heavy.” And they went back to the dice.
    Robin unlocked the door and went in. His father sat on the stone floor, his head in his hands. When he looked up, Robin saw there was a bandage around his eyes and a rope around his neck. Robin crouched down beside him and helped him gently to his feet. “It’s me, Father,” he whispered. “It’sRobin.” His father reached out, felt for Robin’s face and held it tight between his hands.
    “They’ve put out my eyes, Robin,” he said. “I’m no use to you any more, no use to anyone. Let me die, Robin. Just leave me and let me die.”

  
    For some moments father and son clung together and wept silently. “Until now, Father,” said Robin, his voice hushed, “I have obeyed you in everything, but blind or not, I shall not leave you here to die.” And he loosened the rope around his father’s neck as he spoke. “We shall walk out of here, me as a sheriff’s man and you at the end of this rope as my prisoner. Just play the games I play, Father, and we shall both live.”
    “What for? What is there to live for?”
    “To fight. We will fight this tyrant, and we shallbring him to his knees, I promise you – if it takes my whole lifetime.” He pulled gently on the rope. “Forgive me, Father, but from now on I must treat you as they would. It won’t be for long. And curse me back all you like, it’ll be all the better if you do.” He took a deep breath, and then shouted into his father’s face. “Up, you