Robin was in search of a drink. He rarely indulged in the luxury of a good bender, but the restless memories that plagued him circled his dreams like a wolf at the kill. He'd trained until his arms ached and his store of arrows had melted away. He knew no one well enough to inflict his company on them in this mood. Sleep was the last thing he needed. His course was clear: ale, followed by more ale, until his mind went quiet and his face met the floor.

But all Robin's intentions, good or ill, fled at the sight of the tall woman with the bloody face. He strode to her side. "My lady - you are wounded! Do you need help?"