Poor Guy - he just needs a hug.

Meg

Men. They were pigs at first – one was pig-ugly, the second a peeping-tom and the last, a mother's boy! Absurd! No man could hold me down. Not even my father.

Thus, I was willing to be condemned. I had no fear to speak my mind. My father's fury ignited my own powerful, righteous anger that quelled all terror. I would not be treated like cattle, and forced to breed! I was not a prize boar, set upon a pedestal for men to gawk at! It made me sick. I had rights – I wasn't a silly little girl.

Unfortunately for my father - he had me arrested.

With surprise, I gazed upon the female sheriff, Isabella. She empathised my views, released me and I became her equal. A friend.

Then he came. Sword agleam, eyes glittering with malice – Isabella's monster pounced from the shadows and pursued her like a snake. I was helpless – at a loss of what to do or say behind closed doors. I was no man! How different Isabella appeared now … shrieking, crying, begging … all of her swagger gone. But she was clever. And so was I. Forget the clumsy sword, wit was more deadly.

I sprang into Thornton's path. "I can make you rich!"

Silly, it sounded. I know. But greed was men's biggest flaw – that I know. His eyes flashed; gluttony overpowering suspicion.

"A Viking treasure?"

"Yes."

"If this is lie, it will be your last."

He brandished a knife. It was small … you could butter bread with it! But I was seized by his men, and thrown into the dungeons. Now I was scared – repulsed by the guard's sweaty, calloused hands grappling my arms. I screeched, brandished, squirmed as if they were parasites! They were. My yells were fruitless, ringing pitifully off stone walls. I felt pathetic – my drawn-out struggle had ended. Too tired to carry on. I was pathetic.

Head hung in shame; I saw him - a glimmer of eyes in the darkness, characterless - yet filled with a sadness I tried to ignore. I couldn't. Was death less painful than living? His soul was hollow … unloved. Guy of Gisbourne, the proud Black Knight sentenced to death by his own sister.

"Nasty piece of work you are, aren't you?" I said. "No wonder Isabella wants you dead." No answer. Typically.

I tried to hate him. I tried so hard convince myself he was another selfish, cold-hearted, abusive, narcissistic man – but anyone would hate "I'm thirsty … I'm starving …" repeated every minute.

"Be quiet! You silly girl!" he shouted.

Fuelled by defiance, I exclaimed: "I'm not stupid girl. I'm Meg."

Meg. My name seemed to act like a stimulant to his lonely being thereafter. When food arrived, mouldy and infested with worms, he handed me his own clean bread to me – Meg – not the nameless, moaning child.

"Here … keep your strength up."

His tone had changed; it was gentle. Touched by this act of kindness, I accepted his food and ate hungrily. "There must be some good in you yet."

His face clouded, eyes downcast. "You don't know me … besides, I thought you hated men."

I laughed inwardly. Hate now seemed a powerful word in his midst. I had used it so flippantly! Humour flickered across his gaze.

"I do," was my reply through mouthfuls of bread. "I do."

I remember after that, the frantic footsteps of Isabella – the woman who I had regarded a friend – saying the precious words, "release her .. release her." And when she did, I asked of Guy – her brother. The shock was paramount in her eyes.

"Are you mad? … can you not see how they manipulate us? … he's a cold-hearted killer …"

I gazed at his face. Cold-hearted killer … murderer? Manipulative? Seriously? Female instinct told me that she – Isabella – was the one who was manipulative. The one who was bent on power. Yes, men had abused me in the past but my heart was still true. And duly, he wasn't a bad man. Not at all …

As I breathed the wonderful stench of freedom, my mind was locked on one thought – to help him. Blinded by fear, I barely acknowledged the food piled in my hands as I descended the gloomy, soulless dungeons to where he sat cold and friendless.

"Thanks," was his rasped reply. "But no."

My heart bled. "You must ... for me .. It's the least I can do."

"You've done more than enough."

Tears, fresh – unashamed tears rolled down my face. I had made him think about someone he knew … opened his tarnished heart to redemption. I asked what happened … and baldly, he stated: "I destroyed her … I destroyed everything. " he added, voice breaking. I will never forget the grief behind his words … the sorrow … and that sealed everything I thought of him.

I left his presence with my thoughts locked on one thing … I don't regret the risk. The keys awaited my grasp, and with a submissive smile to that Isabella, I swept them from under her nose. I ran – loudly – descending the dungeon – the keys clanking happily in my fingers. Shakily, I unlocked his cell. He tried to dissuade me –

"I can't let her kill you. I just can't."

"You'd do this for me?"

"Yes."

He touched my face.

"Thanks," he said.

"Well this is touching …"

Her voice cracked like a whip through the moment, and her twisted, bellowing rage was unleashed. In the forage of bellows, sheaths of swords, and curses she condemned us. So that these "lovebirds" shall get their wish and remain eternally together … in death.

The strange thing about fear, is that time speeds up horribly fast. Before I knew it, I was pushed into the watery sunlight – my heart beating a tattoo against my ribs.

"I'm scared." I felt childish to admit it.

"When it comes, it'll be very quick," he said. I clung to his words like a drowning man – any fragment of reassurance. I tried to be brave. I tried to think that – if I was to die, it would be with him. My proud, Black Knight.

Like a vulture surveying her prey, Isabella sat down and said: "have the condemned any final words?"

And I remember them. "Very well Isabella you win. Kill me if you must but not her. I'll do whatever you want but don't take her life."

For a moment that woman, looked pensive – but bent on power, she hardened. "Proceed with the execution!"

"She's an innocent girl!"

The next moments happened in a terrifying, joyful blur. Arrows struck our executioner, and our fate was then undecided. We were free. I leapt into his arms, but fate was fickle – a spear … the spear … I acted on impulse, leapt before him so that his life wasn't taken. It was pain beyond endurance … my mind clouding … he carried me away. Away from harm.

I remember green, pleasant foliage and the scent of fresh air against my face. I think there was a lake – smooth as glass ... I .. I think ... My injury was testament for my … for my … liking to his being. Death was fickle – why do the good banish? Had my life been fulfilled? Was his redemption finalised till I was a fair corpse in his gentle arms? It was harsh – like life. But it was the faint glimmers that made it worth living. He had made it so. If I was to die, dying in his arms didn't seem such a bad way to go … my gentle, broken Knight.

"I … I have always quite liked you," I whispered through trembling lips. He kisses me.

Then, I remained quite still, and I remember being held close – held close to warmth I could no longer feel.

Fin.