Err, ok. I shied away from writing this story because it contains that most terrible of creations, the female original character. Also, it's a multichapter, and I already have one of those going, so it won't get updated too often. I just knew I had to start this before season three or I wouldn't manage to. So, um, yeah. Enjoy.

Title: Silence Reigns
Chapter 1: In Robin's Court
Rating: T because it's my favourite.
Summary: The rest of Robin's gang find diversion in a raid, but it proves more serious than they expected.
Pairing: Past Robin/Marian and nothing else yet. They will come, though.

For two months the four remaining outlaws had sat still, avoided foes and said nothing.

Not literally, of course. Much was still among them, and day to day activities would have been rendered nigh on impossible if any of the members couldn't speak. When they did speak, however, gathered close around the fire, they only discussed what had been done that day and what would be done the next. They discussed division of spoils, the poor of Locksley and food. All in all, nothing.

There was none of the grand philosophy that had passed before, no friendly banter, no casual teasing. All roads led to Marian, and her death haunted the forest as if it were a fifth member. It sat with them at meals, lived in every shadow and, when Robin broke off to be alone, day after day, month after month, it followed him, hanging around his shoulders like a child, like a lover. The outlaws said nothing.

Gradually, words were removed from their vocabulary. Gisbourne was one of the first to go because of the hate and the anger it stirred up in Robin's eyes, and the sorrow the inevitable memory brought swelling to the surface. The word had been replaced by him, then it, and then a look. The Holy Land was lost, and all the Arabic – without Djaq there was no one who understood it, but the whispered words that rang with mysticism had comforted them on many a night. Locksley nearly disappeared but Much refused to let it go, muttering the word with a fierce determination that none could beat.

MA words went after Allan carelessly mentioned a marriage in Nottingham and Robin was silent for a week. Laughter was gone – Allan's "I'm not being funny," remained, and was true, and it was rare that other words followed it. The outlaws began to dread sunshine, silent and fickle, and preferred rain, sleet, hail, wind, where pure noise could drive them into themselves and away from the grasping, gasping hole that was Robin that would suck them in and destroy them and doing so, destroy itself.

Three of the outlaws longed for raids and attacks, thieving and robbing, all so that their tongues could move freely. In the heat of the moment they could say anything, and even though they didn't, the freedom was there and they relished it. As to the fourth, the leader, the rock, every fight was that fight, every enemy that enemy, and only arms and looks and words could prevent death. Robin the hero was gone, and a murderer-to-be stood in his place and did not smile his smile.

The carriage had been trundling along the Great North Road through Sherwood for several hours, and its occupants had yet to realise they had been taken hostage. Even if only four remained, they were the best in the business and two by two the train of guards had been picked off in pairs, quickly knocked out and left lying in the road, their horses led off to be of better use to the community. With the heat and weariness of days of riding, each pair didn't realise the one behind had been taken until they themselves were felled by a quarterstaff blow to the temple.

Soon enough the last pair was taken and it was John and Allan who had ridden their horses up to the driver, dispatched and replaced him with Much and guided the carriage away from the main road into the deeper forest, as Robin watched from the treetops, bow in hand, waiting for any hint of a rescue party. None had appeared and as Much brought the carriage to a stop in a clearing, the three remaining outlaws prepared for a fight from whatever nobleman and wife had decided to travel in such luxury.

They waited. Time passed. Eventually, Much hopped down from the seat and, much to the consternation of the others, opened the door and looked. And looked. And kept on looking until Allan moved forward and pulled him away, before stopping in his tracks. The door was wide open now, and all the outlaws could see what lay inside the carriage, covered by a shawl.

"I'm not being funny, but that's a kid," Allan breathed and Much, lost for words nodded slowly. John looked stunned, still holding his quarterstaff defensively though knowing it was ridiculous to do so. Only Robin seemed unaffected as he swaggered up and examined the entirety of the carriage's contents. To whit: One small girl, sleeping, face covered with the shawl, sitting on a fur covered seat- correction, fur covered trunk, with three smaller locked boxes at her feet. Grabbing the smallest of these, Robin hefted it out, accidentally knocking against the bulk under the shawl as he did so. The sleeping body move, a face appeared and, no sooner had the outlaws registered that there was a pair of eyes staring at them, the mouth had also opened and a scream unlike any other was filling the air.

Almost comically, all four outlaws backed up, Robin dropping the casket so that he could stuff his fingers in his ears. After a few seconds, however, when it became clear there was no train of guards to come to her rescue, the screaming stopped and the girl stepped out of the carriage onto the red and gold forest floor. Her steps were dainty, but her grip on the carriage side belied the fact that she rarely had to leave it unescorted. She stood before the outlaws, breathing deeply and holding herself with an almost royal posture, looking at them with something akin to disdain.

The four eyed her warily for a moment, as she watched them, before she set off in a run towards the edge of the clearing. Unfortunately for her, she could not even hope to outrun any of the fit, healthy men who had taken her captive and Allan caught it before she was no more than ten feet away from the carriage. She kicked and struggled and Much blushed because, even though he wasn't the one lifting her forcibly off the ground, it was becoming clear that the girl was not the eight or nine year old they had thought she was. The line of her form, though undoubtedly helped by a corset, was not created by it, and as she struggled, Allan could feel small breasts push up against him.

Luckily for the group's ears, the girl, or rather young woman, seemed to be of a rather feeble disposition and gave up. Quickly, quietly, Robin moved back to the carriage and with the help of John began to unload the trunks as Allan bound the woman's hands together, stopping her running again with a dark look. Much, at a slight loss, decided to hiss remarks at Allan when Robin wasn't looking, his servant's training kicking in when the girl, whoever she was, managed to look down at him imperiously despite being nearly a foot shorter.

"Allan, is that really appropriate? For a woman to be bound, why, we're not brigands." The propriety of his words and the anxiety in the outlaw's voice brought the girl's attention on him, and Much shrank back slightly behind Allan, unnerved by the ominous silence of the girl.

"Listen, mate, she bit me. Looks wild round the eyes too. And 'ey, what would Djaq say 'bout this lady stuff, eh?"

"Allan, look at her!"

Finished, Allan stepped back to survey his handiwork, and its victim. John and Robin joined them after a moment and they watched the stubbornly silent girl with some interest. She was short, that much was obvious, but certainly not the child they had mistaken her for – her face had lost the prettiness of childhood and its angular nature showed only a hint of the beauty it might one day gain, if properly cared for. Her skin was white in a way that only a woman kept out of the sunlight day after day could be, and had the delicate gold bracelets and necklaces been not enough of a clue, it would have shouted aloud her claim to nobility. The dark hair and eyes which might one day have been called beautiful only added to her peculiarity, and she was striking if nothing else, as was the glare she turned on each outlaw. Much, being the least observant and the least comfortable in the silence, broke it.

"So… who is she?"

Allan glanced around and, seeing no other takers, decided to speak. "Well, she's a lady…" Robin snorted, and Allan managed to look offended. "You can do better, can you?"

"She's more than a lady. She's noble. I'd say a daughter of a baron. And she's not English. Look at the carriage. That was converted from a cart at whichever port she arrived in, you can see the different woods." It was true, the thing was roughly made, with no craftsmanship. Had Will been among them still, he might have been offended by the shoddy, last minute work. "If she lived in England her own carriage would have brought her, and her guards would have known more about the dangers of Sherwood. My guess is she's French, with that colouring."

"So that's why she's not talking," Much muttered, glad to have some sort of explanation for the silent hatred the girl shone with, but Robin shook his head.

"That kind of background? She'll speak English as well as she can French. Other languages too, probably. But why's she here, why's she here, that's the key." Robin seemed to be rambling now, but the outlaws hadn't seen him take so much pleasure in words or even speak this much in months and were glad to let him continue. "She's not just a touring noble, she'd have to go with a brother or father for that. No, she's been sent to England for a reason. Aha, no, wait, yes. Got it!" Robin, confident in his assumption, gave the largest trunk a hefty kick. The girl started forward as the lid swung open, revealing a white dress, beautifully embroidered, sitting at the top of a considerable trousseau. "Marriage. Boys, we've caught ourselves a blushing, biting bride."

Finally, the girl spoke, spitting venomously in lightly accented English. "Yes, brigand. How proud you must feel at having captured a young woman. You will not feel so proud soon. My fiancé is one of the most powerful men in this –" it was clear the girl, in her vanity, wanted to say land, but she held her tongue, "shire. You will pay when he hears of this!" The young bride had the sense to stay still, too afraid of her captors to try attacking the man who had spoken so derisively of her, but managed to make her words sound more cutting than an actual attack.

In a royal court, the girls tone of voice and remarks would have caused a sensation, but in the forest court, where Robin ruled, they were ridiculous and appeared so to all assembled except the furious maiden. A year ago, Robin would have laughed, but now only a brief glimmer of his cocky smile passed over his face as he turned away from the girl with a dismissive gesture. "I doubt it. You are in the hands of Robin Hood."

The name meant nothing to the girl, for she retorted immediately, "Then Robin Hood will soon meet his death at the hand of Guy de Gisbourne!"

This has to be the most impressive (and consequently, most clichéd) cliffie I've ever written, so forgive me. If you want to, please review.

Thankies