The Nocturnal Fugitive
Ever so slightly the eleven year old placed his bare feet on the cold wooden floor. He shivered as the chill crept up his spine and into his marrow. But he was still determined to accomplish his plan for the night. His mind drifted to the fact that, with his Father being home again, he himself was under lock and key in his own house. Strict man that he was, the lad's Father, was single-minded in his quest for his son to have the brightest mind in all of England. He kept his son inside at the books for hours upon hours, never letting up. His Father was proudly proven when his son could rattle off figures, places, and words that no other noble's child could even fathom.
The boy on the other hand, felt stifled. Hidden from the world, till his Father wanted him to perform - like a dancing bear on a chain. The youth was forbidden to play, for that was a horrendous waste of time in his Father's scrupulous eyes. Glaring at the plaguing thoughts, the young man quickly tugged on a pair of dark pants to cover his braise. He snatched a yellow ruffled shirt off the back of his desk chair and pulled it over his head. The yellow was a stark contrast to his dark black locks and made his pale lightning blue eyes gleam.
Slipping his feet into a set of black boots, young Guy was ready for departure. Leaning out the window, Guy placed a foot tentatively on the rose trellis. It held firm as he rested more of his weight on it. Though very lithe and thin himself, Guy realized that the trellis was old and could collapse under any new amount of pressure.
Still clinging to the windowsill, Guy swung the other leg out onto the lattice. Unfortunately, it missed and landed upon a rose branch, causing a loud cracking sound to vibrate in the darkness. Startled by the noise and his miss-footing, Guy slipped. He dare not scream or yelp for fear of being caught, the reprisals would be far too severe to make falling to his death look unpleasant.
He gripped the ledge and willed his foot back onto the safety of the framework. He let out a breathless sigh as both of his feet held him in place. Regaining some of his nerve, after a while of meditative thought, Guy moved his right hand down from the ledge and on to the trellis. He slid his right foot down a notch and repeated the process on the other side of his body.
He cringed as the thorns pricked at him and pulled his clothing. At one point, an especially large spike embedded itself into his neck. A trickle of blood oozed from the minute hole and Guy swiped at it. The lesion was more of an irritant than a real wound, and Guy prayed to God, that his Mother wound not see it. She would kick up a caring fuss before appreciating the trouble she was causing and draw his Father's unwanted attention to it. Guy could just hear his Father, Lord Roger, asking how he got cut studying where Cathay was.
After much arduous effort, Guy made it down the lattice. He wiped his brow when his feet squished into the soft dirt of the ground. Glancing at all the windows was his next occupation, mainly at his Father's and Isabella's, they would be the worst to deal with. If Isabella were to catch him, there was one of two options that would play out: she would tell Father to make herself look like the perfect child, or she would force Guy to bribe her into keeping quiet. Both prospects were unpleasant. Thinking about his sister, made Guy frown. She was their Father's pet, allowed to do anything that she wished - and he knew she made the most out of her position as daughter and baby. At seven years old she was a terror to Guy, it did not help that he was the firstborn, no - that just caused him more problems. He was supposed to know right from wrong the second he took his first step, Isabella was allowed to make mistakes and keep on making them.
Seeing that everything was all clear, Guy bolted for the woods. Once far enough away to be undetected, Guy grabbed hold of a tree and began to climb it. He paused in a moment of reflection: Why was he doing this? Hadn't he only gotten down from a trellis that he had no joy in descending from? What was the point in climbing this tree when he had to climb the same lattice in just a little while? Was there any true pleasure in clambering up someplace high? Guy shook his head, pushing questioning thoughts to the back of his brain - he was good at that, being able to detach himself from any task that he was doing or any punishment that he was enduring. He was going to climb trees, like all the other boys that he watched longingly from his bedroom window - while he was supposed to be studying.
He scaled the tree and looked over the forest below. The ferns were springing up, with curled and uncurled leaves. Half trying to be inconspicuous so as to have people not see them, the others vainly endeavoring to making themselves large enough to warn humans before they were crushed, smothered with uncaring boots and shoes. Guy smiled, thinking about the imaginary world of ferns he had invented, he was shook from his reverie at the sudden notion that such dreams were childish. Young Guy grew serious yet again, fleeing from the world of make-believe.
Atop his perch, Guy spotted the creek, a ruisseau as his Mother would say, and he remembered that there were stepping stones leading from one side to the other. This was a fortunate thing, the lick was too fast to swim, and at a depth of seven feet, too deep to walk. Quickly Guy scurried down the greenwood tree and over to the stream, subconsciously attempting to avoid all ferns.
The stones were slick and far spaced, but Guy cared not. He took a mighty leap and landed on the first stone. He continued all the way across the creek, delighting in the fact that he could avoid getting wet and still explore the other side.
About another hour had passed, Guy discerned, as he tore through the undergrowth. He was a Crusader now, fighting against the infidels (who strangely all looked like his Father) as they attacked from all angles. He was running, through bushes and scrubs, avoiding the thoughts of the babyish behavior he was indulging in.
It was as if someone had struck him on his face, when he heard the sound. If there were words to describe it, Guy would have probably said: a strangled chittering chuffing sound, followed by a barking scream. But Guy's wits were not functioning well at that time, or they would have also told him that he had disturbed a badger, all they could tell him was to run - run away from the creature or monster, whatever you want to call it. And run he did.
He crashed through the forest as if the devil himself were on his heels, after his soul. Guy galloped over to the wide rill and began to frantically leap onto the stones. One, two, three, fou-
The splash was drowned out when his head went under the rapidly running water, not before it cracked against the fourth stone. Guy's head buzzed with multiple sensations, one of them remembering that he couldn't swim, his Father having denoted it a waste of time and a ability that his son would never put to use. Now if his skull hadn't hurt so much, he might have panicked - causing him to sink. As it was Guy was only semiconscious and, therefore, floated merrily down the creek bed on his back, with the ever increasing thoughts that he was going to drown.
He knew not how long it had been until his hand touched a shallow part in the stream but he gripped it appreciatively. Head still spinning he crawled ashore and began to stagger back the way he had come. He thanked the Lord that he was still counted among the living. Guy began to wring out the wet and dirty shirt that clung to his back. He also jiggled his head to alleviate some of the water that dripped out of his hair. Young Guy found that was a practice to be avoided as it caused a serious uproar in his fuddled mind.
Guy groaned when he looked at the lattice. He blinked several times, trying to focus his attention. His head hurt and he could feel a large bump starting to form. Seizing the trellis, he slowly clawed his way up to his recently abandoned room.
He tiptoed over the floor and stripped, shoving his soiled clothes under the bed. He slid under the covers after having donned a new braise, and breathed deeply over the night's occurrences. A nagging thought entered his brain, robbing him of slumber. What would his parents do when they saw the contusion on the side of his head? Guy growled at the thought, so instead of sleeping, he plotted his excuse.
He pinioned himself at the edge of his bed, fighting sleep for the rest of the night. When his Mother gave a swift knock at the door to rouse him, as she did every morning, Guy threw himself out of bed and onto the floor with a loud bang!
Ghislaine, his Mother, cast open the door to Guy's chamber and rushed inside. Startled, she found her boy on the floor and tangled in his bed sheets, fighting to get up. Quickly she knelt beside him, "Guy! Guy, are you alright my love?"
"I'm fine Mother," was the reply from the black haired lad.
She swept him up into her arms apologizing for startling him so - especially when she took in the swelled up lump on his head. This ate at Guy's conscience and he continually reassured her that it was not her fault, as her own black locks tickled in his eyes while she held him.
"Come," she said, lifting him up off the floor. "Let us go and break our fast."
Guy nodded and looked at her with expectant eyes. She took the hint and left her grownup, eleven year old, boy to dress. He made his way downstairs, after a few minutes, and sat at the breakfast table. Without warning, his Father, who was already seated, grabbed Guy's face and turned it to the wounded side, "What happened to you?"
Before Guy had a chance to reply, Ghislaine answered Roger, "Guy fell out of bed this morning. I startled him."
Rodger heaved a sigh, "Guy Crispin,"
Guy flinched at the use of his middle name. His Father, who hated the name, always used it to make Guy feel addled. Saying things like he was soft and, on occasions when his Mother was not present, had mush for brains - with the name of Crispin.
"You need to-" his Father stopped, not sure what he could tell his oldest child to do, but needing to think of something to reprimand him on. "You need to be more careful. No son of mine is going to fall out of bed and make a fool out of himself. I won't hear of it."
Guy looked down at his plate and said subdued, "Yes Father."
"You have no wits about you," Roger mutter, more to himself than anyone.
Guy smirked and thought, Si je n'avais pas tout, je n'aurais jamais tombé du lit - If I didn't have any, I would never have fallen out of bed.
A/N
I hope that went well… Please review, I would really appreciate it. I hope I got little Guy in character… This is part of an AU story that I am writing, meaning that Guy lives nowhere around Robin - for now. But there will be a few tales with Robin and Much when they are little. Thanks for reading.