Allan-A-Dale understood all-too-well that the frequent trips to the Sheriff's dungeons were in some way Guy's version of a mind-game. But as much as the former lone grifter enjoyed games (mind-based or otherwise), he found no joy to be had in these dark journeys.
Such trips some version of a reminder (Gisborne no doubt thought) of where Allan had first found himself that had brought him to where he presently was. A warning of where he might (if he did not behave to Guy's complete satisfaction) once again wind up.
Still, he managed it; the dungeon walk. Still (he liked to brag to himself), he bore it well.
There was but one spot for sure and certain he avoided as though it were nothing but the blackest of abysses: his cell. The place of his torment-the site where he had sealed his treason-pact.
Treason. For surely Robin saw it that way: treason-not to the state, not to Richard (country and King). Rather, to the realm that was Sherwood, to its chief sovereign-its outlaw cabal; Robin's Court.
And Allan-A-Dale's punishment upon the discovery of his treachery? Banishment, not death.
Banishment and (indirectly) the employ of Sir Guy, and by extension, the Sheriff.
Banishment to the unwelcoming stone of Nottingham Castle, to friendlessness: to Will knowing that in the clutch he, Allan, had abandoned Will to Robin's anger, choosing self-preservation over their friendship bond. To Djaq, now knowing the unvarnished truth of him; of how wretchedly and faithlessly he had treated Will. Of how he had not been able to trust her with the truth. And Robin...
Robin.
All of which he chose not to think about.
But protracted trips for Gisborne on dungeon errands (actual or fabricated) made such deliberate suppressions of the growing catalog of his shameful acts much harder to sustain.
So, because such a small thing was yet in his control (unlike so many far, far bigger things), he avoided his prior cell, as one might avoid a bloke known to have Plague.
But soon enough time came when even his commitment to that course of action had to be broken with.
"Allan!"
"Allan!" again, hissed into the dungeon's artificial darkness.
Coming from just that unapproachable spot.
He turned toward his name without thinking, peered warily into the dungeon's midday night. It was more likely than not that more than one dungeon resident might share with him an acquaintance, recognize his face.
"'Oo's there?" he hissed back, taking his cue from the other man's covert tone.
"It is I," the voice called, a shackle rattled. "What news of Knighton?"
And he heard the hope of rescue spill over into the voice, the shuffling jangle of chain being gotten ready for the breaking.
The proper-ness of the diction echoed strangely amongst the usual, coarse occupants of the Sheriff's 'great unwashed'. It could belong to none but a noble: Sir Edward, still trying to be about safeguarding his people and lands, concerned for his now lord-less holding. Begging to know; 'what news of Knighton'.
Allan could not immediately decipher if Edward's request sounded more of Much irritatingly on again about Bonchurch, or of Robin, sincerely concerned with Locksley's precarious welfare.
At the sound of Edward's voice for a moment Allan was transported back to a season-long series of meetings: dark nights sitting as the coals threatened to die away upon the hearth of Knighton Hall, a cold (though generous) joint of meat in one hand, a cup of mead in the other, as Edward (at Robin's request) met with him to broaden his knowledge of Nottingham Castle's many weak points and secret passageways. Things naturally known best to the shire's previous sheriff.
And then, short weeks beyond those Sherwood-Knighton summits, the embarrassment of Tom having cased Knighton, and set his two accomplices to erroneously ransacking it in the name of Robin Hood.
Allan had apologized to Edward then. Earnestly. As he knew he must apologize to him now.
He moved as close (but no closer) as need be to be heard when speaking at a cautious volume. "Sorry," he began, his tone incredulous—how could Edward not know? "Knighton is ash," he told of the Hall. "The great chimneypiece alone remains. I have seen it with my own eyes. More than one outbuilding and cottage also damaged from cinders, caught upon that night's fickle wind."
"But Gwyn?" Knighton's lord gasped. "Fernand? Jeremy? The others?" Edward asked after the Hall's servants.
"All were found shelter-though none knows for how long," Allan related, his eye toward the scant light coming in at a high grating rather than upon Edward's face. "Knighton's rumored to become Sheriff's new garrison. Surely you know this," he pried, confounded at the lord's ignorance. "Surely Marian has told you."
"No," Edward huffed into the dungeon's damp atmosphere, his breath nearly visible. "She treats me as a child. Tells me nothing she thinks might discomfit me." His morale spiked. "But you are arrived, yes?" Edward asked of the man he thought his friend, his dependable compatriot. "To spirit me away?"
The temperature of the air immediately surrounding Allan-A-Dale seemed to drop by several degrees.
"Add this to your list of 'not been told'," Allan apprised the Lord of Knighton, wholly sardonic (toward himself) in his delivery, a cock to his brow. "I work for Gisborne now. Rescues are not our spec-ial-ity."
...tbc...
