The Tavern Trickster

Rated: PG13

Disclaimer: I own nothing, okay? Are you happy now? (sob!)

Spoilers: All of season 1, none of season 2.

Sequel to "The Lute Maker's Daughter", set about a month later. You could read it without its prequel if you wanted, but you'd miss a lot. Better to start at the beginning.

Ships: I'm not telling!

Author's note: Ha ha ha! I'm back, and so is Lillian! I can't tell you how good It feels to be on break, and I'll have all the time I need to work on this for a while.

I'm a little unsure how this one is going to turn out. I have the plot roughly mapped out in my head, but I'm thinking the bulk of the narrative is going to be short, disjointed scenes that have more to do with character development than the adventure. Unlike the Lute Maker's Daughter, this story is going to take place over the period of a week or two (rather than just one, incredibly busy night), so there will be lots of room for downtime in the camp, which is always fun.

Please enjoy! Reviews are, as always, welcome.

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Allan crunched into his fresh apple, grinning smugly to himself as he licked a dribble of juice from his thumb. The first apples of the season were always the best – sharp, sweet, and new, bringing back myriad memories of all the autumns that had come before. Still, the autumns before he had (usually) had a roof over his head, or at least a friend whose home he could guilt or muscle his way into at night. Winters in the forests were hard, probably the hardest thing about fighting alongside Robin Hood. His cloak was starting to wear thin, and the chill autumn air whipped right through it. Allan sighed, gathering his arms around himself. At least the apples were good.

Much was in a sulk about something or other, Djaq was off delivering a letter, Will was working on some new carpentry project, and most of the others were either busy or missing, so Allan had snuck off dejectedly like a child bereft of playmates. He'd nicked an apple from the store and, on a whim, climbed a tree, settling himself down to take some time alone (and hide from Much's nagging). Draped awkwardly over a convenient formation of branches, he was quite enjoying his solitude when a familiar set of footsteps rustled beneath him.

Lillian, her hand clutched around a sheathed sword, crept past his tree, checking side to side guiltily as though afraid of being caught, a slightly embarrassed look to her. Her straight chestnut locks were tied back in a tight braid, and her cheeks had a light brush of pink to them from the cold. Her dark eyes flicked about her from side to side, checking for onlookers, but she didn't think to look up, where Allan was perched (extremely curious about her suspicious behavior). She seemed satisfied that she was alone, however, and in one quick movement pulled the sword from its scabbard.

It was funny, Allan thought to himself, how fingers so nimble on lute strings could be so utterly useless around the hilt of a sword. She was testing its weight experimentally, with the air of a child playing with a new toy. To be fair, it was new; Will had nicked for her it in town from one of the guards, and at last Lillian had a proper weapon -- not that stupid broken halberd she was so fond of, Allan added to himself. He had mocked her often for fighting with half a weapon.

Still, he thought as he watched her get to grips with her new sword, at the rate she was going she'd be better off with the halberd after all. She had drawn it with a flourish, obviously pleased at its shine and the delicate noise of steel-against-steel it made when she drew it from its scabbard. Her style, however, ended there. She was unused to having that much weight on so long a lever, and the tip of the sword drooped pathetically towards the ground. She hefted it upwards as best she could, and took a few clumsy, experimental slashes in the air, almost losing her balance. On a downward stroke, she whirled around suddenly, attempting an acrobatic flourish, but her sword struck a low hanging tree branch and the reverberating bounce back took her by surprise, and she dropped it.

With a snort of mocking (yet good natured) laughter, Allan dropped his apple core to the ground and swung down from his perch. Lillian jumped, looking embarrassed and nervous at being caught so unceremoniously. Upon seeing it was Allan, however, her features became harder, annoyed and standoffish.

"I should have known it was you, Allan-A-Dale. What, you have nothing better to do than spy on me?"

"I wasn't spying, I was here first," protested Allan, picking up her sword and handing it back to her, hilt first. She snatched it back without thanks. He grinned. "Well, at least that tree knows better than to mess with you again."

"Shut it," Lillian snapped. Allan held up his hands in mock surrender.

"All right, all right, don't get in a huff."

"I never touched a sword in my life," she added defensively. "Of course I am no good at it the first time." She seemed a little disappointed in herself, though, as though she had expected to somehow magically excel at it. She wistfully lifted the sword again, and turned it around in her hands - holding it all wrong, of course. Without a word of either derision or encouragement, Allan silently reached forward and corrected her grip.

"You could use a few lessons," Allan remarked slyly. "Someone who could show you your way around a blade."

"Oh, and that's you, is it?" Asked Lillian, sheathing her sword. She was no longer angry, but seemed prepared for the match of verbal sparring that always seemed to erupt between Allan and her.

Allan shrugged. "Only if you want me to. Of course, you could just wait until the next battle with a dozen armoured guards and trust to luck - or to one of us to rush in and save you."

That touched a nerve. She shot him a dirty look, but appeared to consider his offer. "All right, all right, I'll study with you. But quit making your snide little jokes, alright?"

"Wait a minute, now," Allan protested. "I didn't say I'd do it for free!"

Lillian raised a delicate eyebrow, not quite sure what he was getting at. "What could you possibly want from me? You know I have no money."

"Well..." shrugged Allan, stepping towards her with the sly grin he sometimes used to charm barmaids and peasant girls. Sometimes it worked, sometimes he got a mug of ale in the face. "You could pay me in kisses, I suppose..."

Lillian sighed and rolled her eyes. There was no getting around it; as she had gotten to know the gang a little better, and Allan had gotten more and more comfortable around her, he had gotten more and more impudently flirtatious. It wasn't as though he really thought anything would come of it, he didn't even seem to think about it much. There were two things that were second nature to Allan A Dale, joking and flirting, and Lillian was getting a little sick of his good-natured harassment.

She laughed at him mockingly, one eyebrow raised in derision. "You know what, Allan A Dale?"

"What?"

"You are really, really not as charming as you think you are." She shoved him away a little harder and more violently than was necessary, and he stumbled, laughing. He could be rejected a thousand times and take it in stride, that Allan A Dale.

Lillian knew better than to take him too seriously. He had piqued her interest with his offer. She took a few steps back, considering how to work around his lecherous flirting. "You know, if you were serious about teaching me to fight, I could pay you back in other ways."

Allan's eyebrows shot up. "... Other ways?"

Lillian rolled her eyes with a short exhale of irritation "Not those ways, Allan," she groaned.

Allan at least had the decency to look a little sheepish.

"I noticed you today," Lillian went on, "watching Robin writing to that Cooper. You looked... fascinated. And a little sad."

This was true. Robin had been carrying out some errands, writing out an order to a local cooper and sending it with Djaq. Allan had watched his fingers trace the letters on the parchment with more than a little fascination, trying to imagine where the scribbled black lines ended and the words began. He hadn't realized Lillian had noticed him. Allan shrugged, a little uncomfortable at her speculating on his feelings.

"Would you like to learn to read, Allan?" Lillian asked innocently.

Whatever Allan had been expecting, it wasn't this. He dropped his flirtatious manner and stared at her, flabbergasted. Allan was the poor son of a blacksmith who'd had no interest at all in books or 'any of that fancy rubbish'. Where he was born they didn't even have writing on the signposts, just pictures and arrows. For a man in his position to know how to read was... unthinkable. It was strange and alien and socially unacceptable.

And it was very, very tempting.

"What would I need to read for?" he asked warily. Lillian shrugged.

"I think you'd find it would become useful at the most unexpected times. Reading gives you a kind of power. It helps you understand the words you speak and the way you understand and express yourself. It allows you to learn about your world. Imagine being able to read the Bible on your own, cover to cover!" She was a persuasive speaker, and Allan didn't need much persuading to begin with. Literacy was more than just a useful tool. To men of Allan's class it meant self betterment, a taste of the life out of the slums and gutters that had been his home his entire life. The idea of reading was almost mystical, unattainable, never a real possibility. Even if he never used it again, it would be something to be proud of. He could read, the equal of any poncey noble in any stuffy castle.

"...yeah," he breathed ineloquently, looking up to meet her eyes. "Yeah, I think I'd like that."

"Good," said Lillian shortly. "You teach me to sword fight, and I'll teach you to read. Deal?" She held out her hand in a half-joking bargain handshake. He took it quickly. For the first time since they'd met, Lillian and Allan shared a smile that was not joking or teasing, or flirtatious at all. It was not sardonic or mocking, but instead it was a simple, mutual respect and understanding. They didn't quite know why, but something very important had just happened in both of their lives.

"Someday you'll have to tell me how the daughter of a poor lutesmith knows how to read," he added when she released his hand. She avoided both the question and his eyes.

"Never mind that," she murmured, drawing out her sword. "We can start with the first lesson now."

She held the sword out expectantly before her, as though waiting for it to teach her of its own accord. With a smile, Allan reached forward and yet again corrected her grip around the hilt. "There's your first mistake," he began. "Don't interlock your fingers, or you'll-"

Just what Lillians interlocked fingers might have done, however, she didn't find out, because a shrill whistle pierced through the still autumn air: Three long, high notes, and one short.

"Travellers on the North road," Lillian muttered, recognizing the code.

Allan nodded. "Lets go," he said shortly, and they took off through the chilled forest, stirring the leaves only slightly, as swift and silent as only Robin Hood's gang could be.