Cast of Characters

Guy of Gisborne – Anti-hero

Isabella of Gisborne – Anti-hero's sister; owner of some over-active tear ducts

Lady Ghislaine of Gisborne – Mother of the above

Sir Roger of Gisborne – Antihero's father; leper and welcome sight

Lord Malcolm of Locksley – Usurper of the above and would-be rescuer

Bailiff Longthorn – Vindictive commoner with a taste for arson

Swain – Well-meaning village priest

Robin of Locksley – Loud-mouthed brat

Year: 1174

Setting: Gisborne Manor, its surrounds and Sherwood Forest

Scenario: The fire that destroys Guy's home

"Guy! Guy, come here for a moment!" Ghislaine of Gisborne's summons would usually have brought her seventeen-year-old son running but today he did not move an inch from his comfortable position under the oak tree outside. Let her yell, Guy thought rebelliously, pretending he did not hear. She's got no right to order me around, not when she's about to hand us all over to him! Instead of rising, Guy wormed his way deeper into the hollow made between two of the roots, staring with a surly expression at the villagers going by outside the manor fence. His argument with his father at the leper colony was still ringing in his ears – why had Roger allowed Malcolm to do what he had done? Didn't he care anything for his wife and children? "Guy!" The voice was closer now, and clearly more harassed. Looking up reluctantly, Guy saw his mother standing at the manor door. Her dark curls were pinned up under the veil she wore for riding and her green skirts were an inch deep in mud. A frown marred her usually smiling face as she surveyed her errant offspring.

Mentally shrugging, Guy rose and walked nonchalantly towards Ghislaine, taking a sort of savage pleasure in the gradual darkening of her expression with every second that passed. He stopped before her, staring over her head. "Guy," she snapped. "Sit with Isabella whilst I change. The fields were muddy today – I can't go to Locksley like this." A groan escaped her son even before she'd finished speaking – his meaning was clear. There was nothing Guy hated more than minding his younger sister. His mother laid a hand on his shoulder. "Please," she said, more gently. "We're dining at Locksley tonight, and I haven't much time..."

The repetition of "Locksley" distracted Guy for a moment. "Locksley? After what he did to Father? I'll hold my tongue about you and Locksley, Mother, but you can't expect me to sit down to dinner with that man!" he hissed, almost disbelieving. Ghislaine passed a hand briefly over her face. "Guy, please. Your father would expect you to behave like the nobleman we raised you to be. So – you will dine with Malcolm tonight, yes?" she almost pleaded. Guy scowled. He could easily rebel against any of her curt orders, but when his mother asked him, so gently, to do something... Guy jerked his head in the vague semblance of a nod and Ghislaine sighed in relief. "Thank you, cherie." She walked inside and headed straight for the stairs. Guy turned into the sitting room instead, where Isabella was amusing herself by the fire with a wooden doll. As he grew closer, Guy was hit with a powerful memory. Roger had given that doll to Isabella before he had left for the Crusades, when she had been just an infant...

The door opened audibly behind him and Guy turned – perhaps it was his mother's maid, returning from an errand. Instead, the person in the door was tall, and swathed in a long grey-brown cloak. Sir Roger of Gisborne hesitated in the doorway, looking from his son to his daughter nervously. Noticing him, Isabella's face lit up. "Papa!" she squealed, and flung herself forwards to hug her father. Roger swept her up in his arms, beaming. Guy hung back, remembering the last time he had been this close to his father. Was Roger angry? It was difficult to tell, when he was standing there, laughing at something his daughter had just said. Then he looked up, meeting his son's eyes with what Guy was surprised to recognise as pride and... respect. "Where is your mother? I must speak with her," he asked Guy, his tone serious despite the evident joy on his face. Wordlessly, Guy gestured up the wooden staircase. "Father..." he began, intending to apologise, but Roger shook his head. "Enough of that, lad. You were right. It's going to be alright now," he reassured his son, extending his hand. Guy gripped it gratefully, feeling the weight of responsibility fall from his already broad shoulders.

Roger set Isabella on her feet once more, and headed upstairs, taking them two at a time in his old way. Grinning, Guy led his sister to a seat by the fire. It was going to be alright. His father had made a promise to him – and Roger never broke promises. "Has Papa come back forever?" asked Isabella, wonderment still evident in her voice. Guy nodded vigorously. "Yes. He's going to take us all away, I know it – to France, maybe, where Uncle Gervais is. And we can all live together – no Locksley, no interfering Bailiff Longthorn; just you and me and Mother and Father. Just think, Belle." It was a mark of how happy Guy was that he used his sister's nickname – usually he avoided calling her anything, avoided even speaking to her.

But Fate intended Guy to enjoy his bliss for only a few precious minutes. The door suddenly burst open, revealing the last person Guy of Gisborne wanted to see. Malcolm of Locksley. "Where is he?" Malcolm demanded harshly of Guy, looking around. Guy rose angrily – what rights did Locksley have here? He would force him to know his worthlessness! Looking around, Guy caught sight of a log, half-burning in the fire. Catching it up, he raised it, ready to strike. A flicker of uncertainty appeared in Malcolm's eyes, but he ordered coolly, "Out of my way, boy."

Guy scowled. Boy? He was a man grown – able to defend his father. "No! Not after what you did to my father!" he gritted, and lunged at Locksley, brandishing his makeshift weapon. Locksley's reflexes took him backwards, out of harm's way, but Guy swiped again. Malcolm ducked smoothly, and came up under the swing, grappling with Guy. Guy felt himself be thrown away, catching the edge of the table in his stomach. The torch flew from his grasp, grazing along the wood and setting fire to it.

Time seemed to freeze. Guy, Malcolm and Isabella stared, mesmerized, as the flames licked up the walls quickly. Locksley was the first to snap out of his stupor. "Get out! Get out! Get your sister out of here!" he ordered urgently, a note of panic creeping into his deep voice. Guy didn't wait to argue – seizing Isabella's hand, he sprinted outside.

The whole village seemed to be gathered there. So Locksley hadn't been man enough to do the job alone? Bailiff Longthorn was at the front of the crowd, bearing several large flaming torches. He appeared to be making some sort of speech, and as Guy and Isabella neared the group, Guy heard, Longthorn say, very distinctly, "Look! Sir Malcolm is burning the place!" Guy's ice-blue eyes widened in shock – surely this didn't mean what he thought it meant? "No!" he protested, "It was an accident!" If they set fire to the manor, Ghislaine and Roger could easily get trapped... But Longthorn wasn't listening. "It's the only way to get rid of the disease," he continued matter-of-factly, handing out his torches.

"No!" Guy pleaded. "You're wrong, don't do this!" The village priest moved forwards now, believing Guy. He looked highly disapproving, and for once Guy was glad to see him. "Stop! Stop!" he shouted, trying to imbue his voice with the same commanding texture it had on a Sunday, when he preached to his flock in Locksley Church. But the crowd was wild now and far beyond Swain's ability to reason with them. They moved forwards as one, and soon Gisborne Manor was dotted with the flicker of flames, nestling into its walls and roof. "Wait!" cried a smaller voice from behind Guy. "My father's inside! No! No!" Robin of Locksley had arrived, and was now fighting against Swain's arms to get to the burning building.

The fire had taken hold quickly, hungrily devouring all the fuel in sight. The smoke clogged Guy's mouth and nose and bit fiercely at his eyes, as he clung to Isabella. She was weeping, but thankfully she did not resist his arms. "Let me go!" Robin demanded wildly. "My father's inside!" Swain was having difficulty holding his charge back now, and Robin easily twisted himself around to glare over Swain's shoulder at Guy. "Yours too!" he reminded Guy harshly. "And your mother! Do something!" If only it were that simple, Guy thought. Cowardice locked him in place, watching his home turn into a beacon that would light the countryside for several hours to come. Father promised it would be alright. He doesn't break his promises! He'll get her out. He promised, he promised, he promised... Guy told himself, his words becoming a solemn, childish mantra as around him, hell rose up.

Isabella's wails, the crackle and hiss of the flames, the fog of choking, burning smoke... everything seemed to have been conjured from his worst nightmares. And Roger never came. Ghislaine never emerged, an unneeded apology for worrying her children forming on her lips. No one came.

*

At last the fire died away, leaving a broken shell where once there was a home. Shattered souls where once there were lives. Longthorn and some of the village men went inside Gisborne Manor then, to search for bodies. Guy knew he should have offered to go, too, but he couldn't bear the thought of coming across the corpse of one of his parents, of being forced to try and identify which of them it was... The men returned empty-handed. The bailiff approached the small group of four – the children and Swain – forcing a look of insincere concern on his features. "Children, we've searched what is left of Gisborne Manor. Your parents... there's nothing left." Guy felt as though he had been punched in the stomach. They couldn't be dead. That was impossible. Unthinkable. Unreal. Isabella shook in Guy's arms, her tears soaking into his tunic. Anger welled up in Guy, burning out his grief. "You killed them!" he accused Longthorn. "All of you – you murdered them."

Longthorn sneered, and shook his head. "You started the fire, boy," he smirked coldly. Guy flinched, as he realised the truth of Longthorn's words. It's my fault. They're dead because I couldn't keep my temper. It's my fault, Guy reflected morbidly. Bowing his head, he turned away. He could stay here and watch these people sneering at him, despising him, or worst of all, pityinghim. Isabella followed, guided by Guy's hand on her back, her face a glittering mask of tears.

*

Much later, Guy returned. It was dark now, but Guy could have guided himself back home in his sleep – as he often had, after a hunt or ride. Isabella was still crying, but silently now, and Guy bid her to wait for him under the oak tree he had rested under in a different lifetime. He had to do this alone.

Gisborne Manor was barely recognisable as the home Guy had left just a few short hours ago. Everything had been blackened by the flames that had killed half of its occupants. Guy ran a hand along one of the collapsed beams as he entered, only to have it collapse into ash at his feet. Yet another sign that he was evil. He destroyed things, he was bad luck...

Tears threatened to overwhelm him, and Guy moved on. This was no random visit to his old home. He knew exactly what he was looking for. In the corner of the sitting room, there was a loose flagstone, which, when lifted, provided a deep and protected hiding place for valuables. Ten months ago, when the herald had come from the Holy Land, announcing the supposed death of Guy's father, Ghislaine had removed any jewellery that reminded her of her husband and hidden it there. Guy had seen her do it, even though she hadn't seen him. It would still be there, if it hadn't been ruined by the flames.

Kneeling, Guy brushed away the ash and bits of charred wood that covered the floor, before levering up the heavy flagstone and setting it aside. Beneath it lay the few trinkets Guy had hoped to find – a necklace or two, the flimsy, silvery riding girdle Roger had bought as a birthday gift for Ghislaine, a pair of earrings for Isabella's birth. And a single ring. Silver, and set with a twist of precious stones. Guy exhaled slowly as he pulled it out. The engagement ring. When Roger had been away at war, Ghislaine had often told him and Isabella the tale of how she and Roger had met and become betrothed, and then married. And this ring had always appeared at the right moment, from the chain Ghislaine wore it on around her neck.

Guy rose, not bothering to recover the hole. Carefully placing his prizes into his belt purse, he returned to Isabella.

*

The next day, the silversmith at Nottingham bought several items from a young man heading for France with his sister. Two necklaces, and a riding girdle.