Title: Out of the Frying Pan/Into the Fire
Author: whytewytch4
Word Count: 1576
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: One naughty word, mention of violence.
Characters: Allan, bit of Robin and Much
Disclaimer: Tiger Aspect and the BBC own the rights to Robin Hood 2006. No copyright infringement is intended. No money is being made. Some dialogue is from the show as well, but I did it from memory; used because it was necessary for the scene—not trying to plagiarize!
Summary: Allan meets Robin for the first—and second--time.
A/N: Thanks to omteddy for beta! Written for "Treat Allan Right" rh_intercomm challenge on Live Journal.
Out of the Frying Pan
Allan took aim, pulling the bowstring back to his cheek and holding his breath as he focused on the deer that was blithely grazing in the little clearing. He hoped his stomach would not growl and give away his presence to the animal; he had not eaten since Tom had disappeared, along with all their stuff, three days before. Allan could almost taste the succulent venison—he would take it off the spit while it was still hot, and probably burn his mouth on the dripping grease. He licked his lips in anticipation.
The snort of a horse and the jangle of its tack made Allan's heart rate skyrocket; with no little trepidation, he turned his head slowly to look behind him. There were guards—half a dozen of them, all mounted. Terror-stricken, Allan dropped the bow and ran without another thought.
Never had his legs churned so quickly, as the thunder of the horses' hooves spurred him on. He knew he had to get off the road, and fast, or they would have him. He leapt for the safety of the bramble bushes, and ironically, was snared on them by his cloak. He struggled, trying to lose the cloak—better the cloak, than a hand; a pickpocket needed his hands.
Rough hands grabbed him and yanked him from the bush, scratching his arms and legs on the sharp thorns. Moments later, the guards had him well in hand and were bringing him to their captain, a man of middling years; he must be a father, Allan guessed, and decided to play on that.
"Please sir, my wife," Allan paused, trying to look desperate. It was not difficult. "My wife expects a baby. We will lose it if she does not eat!" Allan put all of his charm and innocence into his voice, praying for a miracle.
Unfortunately, if the captain had children, he still had no concern for the children of peasants.
The captain sighed heavily, used to hearing every excuse—whether they were valid or not was not his concern. "And when the baby is born, you will say you have two mouths to feed! The law says you must lose a hand."
"The law's an ass!" Allan declared hotly, scared senseless. He had lived for so long on the wrong side of the law that he felt only loathing for most of the laws he knew; with no wife and children of his own, he did not have to bow to it as he saw many men do. Although escaping would have been good, he reflected grimly.
"Still, you are allowed a trial. Or you could admit your guilt and we will take only a finger." The captain sounded almost bored.
"I will lose the trial, and my 'and. Go on, take the finger!" Allan could have bit his own tongue off, knowing that if he went to trial, he would at least stand a chance of escaping before the sentence was carried out. Wenches who brought the prisoners their food could often be coaxed into using their wiles to steal a key.
Allan continued fighting as the guards forced him over to a fallen tree trunk, where another of their member was waiting, grinning eagerly with an ax in his hand. He showed Allan how to place his hand on the trunk so that he could remove the finger. Allan balked in terror, shaking his head from side to side.
"I changed my mind," he said, hoping they would bring him in to their lord instead, hoping that said lord had a pretty daughter who would not want to see such a charming man thusly reduced.
"There's no appeal," responded the guard with the ax.
In the blink of an eye, three arrows appeared between the guards' fingers. Allan, his own eyes wide, watched the guard swallow as he saw how closely the arrows had come to removing his own fingers. Not so fun on the other side, is it? Allan thought a bit smugly before all of their gazes were drawn to a hooded figure that stepped calmly from among the trees.
The figure spoke, his voice clear and educated, arguing the letter of the law with the captain. The captain was finally convinced to concede the win when the man drew his bow and shot an arrow into the air that landed in the captain's saddle horn.
"Release him!" the captain nearly shouted, as the arrow quivered between his legs, and Allan felt the hands that had been holding him let go. He spread his arms wide as he stepped over the trunk—the quickest path to disappearing into the forest lay beyond it—and grinned widely.
"God bless you, sir. God bless you all gents!" he called to the men that the hooded warrior had hidden in amongst the trees. Just as soon as he was out of view, he ran as if the devil were chasing him, and didn't stop until he reached a town called Nottingham.
Into the Fire
Nottingham was a drab little city, its denizens dirty, with lifeless eyes, but Allan decided to head for the nearest pub to down a pint or two of ale and think on his good luck. Tom had left less than a week before, taking with him their horses, their supplies, the gold they had won or stolen—everything. The bow Allan had been caught aiming at the deer had been stolen. Before he could get a drink, he would need to find some money. He leaned casually against a wall, scoping out the market, looking for a likely target. Most of the people looked too poor to have a fat purse, and Allan did not want to steal from someone who really needed it unless he had to.
There! Allan spotted his mark, a lord of some sort—small, balding, and looked to be wearing black silk pajamas. Allan shook his head at the ridiculous little man—he must be insane, but to be able to afford silk, he was also rich. Allan sidled up to the man, bumping into him and excusing himself before bowing and scampering off. Not fast enough though, as the little man roared, "Guards! Catch him!"
Which was how Allan wound up in the dungeon of Nottingham Castle, having been informed by a tall, lean man with dark hair and blue eyes, that it was foolish to try to rob the sheriff.
Allan was leaning back, contemplating his current situation, when three other men were thrown into the cell next to his. He heard them speaking of Locksley, and of their lord, Robin, who they claimed would save them. They spoke of how good their lord was with a bow, and Allan scoffed at first—bows were not the weapons of rich men—but the more they spoke, the more he thought their lord must be the man in the forest who had rescued him. With a flash of inspiration, Allan had his escape plan—he would simply claim to also be from Locksley.
Toward evening, when the other men were taken from the cell to be brought before this Robin of Locksley, Allan told the guard that he was from there, too, and demanded to be brought before his lord for justice. The guard hustled him out, and the man who was sitting in the outer jail spoke up.
"You're not from Locksley," he said calmly.
"I know, but I figured you saved me once…" Allan looked at the lord expectantly.
"That was miles from here! Here I am known! I cannot save my men and I cannot save you. Now I fear you will share their fate!"
"What fate?" Allan asked nervously.
A bearded man dressed in many colors rubbed his neck and Allan truly began to panic—this was so much worse than the thought of a single finger!
"Throw him in with the Locksley lot," the jailor intoned in a bored voice.
"Wait! I'm not from Locksley! I'm from Rochdale—Rochdale! That's why they call me Allan A' Dale!" he screamed, although no one listened. The guards threw him back in the cell and walked away, sniggering, as Allan launched himself at the bars.
"I'm from Rochdale!" he bellowed once more at their retreating backs.
The tallest of the prisoners, a slender young man with dark hair and deep brown eyes, spoke up.
"You're wasting your breath."
"Yeah, well it's mine to waste. At least until they take it away tomorrow. I don't know about you lot, but I ain't hangin'! I got places to see yet, and women what would weep for days if I died. No, gents—the dangle's not for me. I ain't hangin' tomorrow—you'll see."
Allan settled down with his back against the wall, picked up a chunk of stale bread and went to eat it, chucking it across the cell and wrinkling his nose in disgust as he spotted the maggots. Once he got out of this, Allan swore to himself he would get far away from Nottinghamshire—maybe head to Scarborough, way up north. A man could live fine on the lords up that way, and his luck seemed to have run out in this part of England. Yeah, tomorrow he would simply walk away and disappear into the crowd; he would hit the gates running and never look back until the sea air hit his nostrils.