Ada Carlisle was not a brave woman. Surely not. Had she been a brave woman she would have stood up to her father's edict. She would have begged him to reconsider. If Ada had been a compelling sort of girl, she would have persuaded her father to allow her to stay. She would have convinced him that she did not want to be sent off to her uncle. Anything really to remain with baby Thomas. Yet she'd kept quiet as her father ordered her to pack her things.

"May I say goodbye to my brother, father?" she asked, keeping her eyes on the ground so he wouldn't see her tears. An irritable old knight, Ada's father would be sure to discipline her in the event that she started acting like a spoiled child.

He nodded to show his consent and that was all Ada needed. She raced to the nursery, lifting her skirts to gain speed. Even from the outside she could hear him crying. Did he know what was happening? Did he know that they were forcing her to leave him? Ada entered the room. A knot formed in her throat at the sight of Thomas, with his short brown hair and pudgy, bright skin. "You may give him to me, Mary."

Mary, God bless her eyes, hurried to do as Ada bid. She placed little Thomas in her arms, and then retreated back near the hearth. Ada stared down at him, squealing. Another wave of tears attacked her. "Has he been fed?" she asked gently. At the servant's nod, Ada managed a small smile. "Good, he is to be taken care of as well as a prince. Do you hear me, Mary? Take care of him." Thomas had yet to stop fussing. Ada gave him a tip of her finger. "I love you, little Thomas. I love you." Oh, why were they so cruel? Why did they not let her stay? Mother had died birthing Thomas. He had no one but her. Father wouldn't look after him, Ada knew. It was a woman's work.

"There, now, m' lady," Mary tried to console her. "We'll make sure he misses nothing, we will. I'll take care of the lad myself, I promise."

Wiping her tears away, Ada smiled gratefully at Mary. "I'm sure you shall do a fine job of it, Mary. Thank you." She grew quiet for a little while, then raised her head. "Mary, I'll take Tommy to sleep with me, you may take him on the morrow after I am gone. I'll be leaving before dawn."

Just as said, Ada took Thomas to her rooms and set him on her large bed. Surprisingly enough, he fell asleep without much resistance, and Ada started packing her coffers. Perhaps the servants would tell him stories of mother and her. Perhaps he would grow knowing he was loved.

When she was done the sun has set. Ada knelt next to the bed and went about her usual prayer. She didn't dare ask God what waited her in Nottingham. If her uncle was anything like her father, then she was only trading one jailor for another. The rest of the night she spent watching Tommy sleep. Her father needn't know that she would have rather run away with the boy and pretend to be the mother. Lord help her, but she would have done that had she thought she actually stood a change.

Alas, Ada was not so foolish as to think a woman who had never worked a day in her entire life, a woman who knew little but her father's estate would be able to survive on her own out there. She would only make her brother's life worse. Instead she kissed the babe's forehead and tried not to weep at the hollowness in her heart.

The dawn came along with heavy fog rolling in. Ada hadn't slept a wink, so when Mary came knocking on her door, she bid her enter. Thomas was sleeping peacefully. "Quiet now, Mary," Ada whispered. "Have him brought to his chambers."

Mere moments later it was her father that came. Ada pulled one of her travel dresses, a thick, brown frock over her head and tied the middle with a golden rope. She inclined her head towards her father, and waited for him to speak.

"I trust you have gathered everything you may have need of, daughter." His cold, cold eyes pinned her to her spot. He came closer to her, his steps measured. Raising his hand, he pulled hers to him, palm upwards, and placed a heavy bag in it. "Make me proud." He leaned in and kisses Ada's forehead, then her cheeks.

Her father wasn't a bad man, not at all. By all accounts he was a brave, moral man. But his temper, Ada had always feared his temper. He was easily provoked, and heavy of hand when insulted or angered. Ada herself had been on the receiving end of his admonishments more than once. Now, in this moment when he held her, her heart thumped though; it was not out of fear. She felt protected. Ada had always found it strange that she could both fear and love a man with such fervour. Parting was a hard thing.

"I shall miss you, father. May God keep you and Thomas in good health." This she'd murmured into his chest, her eyes filling with unshed tears. It seemed like she had transformed into some sort of gray cloud, ready to rain down at the softest gust of wind.

"I have something else for you," her father said, pulling the object out of his pocket.

"Mother's cross," Ada stated, a bit stunned. Father had kept it on himself at all times since mother's death. "You cannot mean for me to have it, father."

To her neck he bound the lock, the silver cross settling against her chest. Her father said nothing more. He helped her out of her room and down the stairs and into the carriage that would take her to Nottingham. Ada waited until the curtains had been drawn before she started crying in earnest. Now there was no going back. She had left father, and Thomas and everything else she had ever known.

NottinghamTown was a few days journey away. At a languorous pace one might even take a whole week to reach it. Yet, as per her father's orders, Ada was to make no stops. Glad for this small mercy, the daughter was only too pleased to lock herself inside her carriage and not speak to anyone. She feared that if she allowed herself to step outside, she would turn around and run back to her father's manor. That couldn't be allowed to happen. He would be furious with her.

So, for days on end, Ada kept to herself, her only company a bottle of water and a few crusts of bread. She wouldn't have been able to eat anything else anyway. Her mother's cross dangled from her neck, the cold, shiny metal a glimmer of light against her dark clothing. Ada had always loved her mother's necklace. She fingered the trinket, taking comfort in its familiarity. Perhaps things would turn out fine, she considered. Her uncle might even find her a husband. Ada only wanted a good man willing to give her a family.

Love was not a part of her equation. As a mature, down-to-earth sort of maiden, she understood that a good marriage was more than fleeting attraction. Her parents hadn't been mad about one another, and still theirs had been a successful union. For certainly, they cared about one another, but they weren't given to grand gestures or the like. Ada thought that she could be satisfied with something like that. Her husband needed only to make a bit of room for her in his life. Not much, Ada was by her very nature a person that didn't take up much space. She preferred to keep to her corner and observe the world.

Her father had often lamented the fact that she hadn't been born a man. He would tell her that it was a pity her skills were never to be put to use. "You are a good reader of people." Ada didn't think it was particularly true, but she didn't dissuade her father from believing what he would. She didn't hold herself a wit, or superior to all others. Yet she knew that she did have certain advantages.

Indeed, unlike others of her peers, she had a fondness for learning. It was one of the whims her father approved of, and even encouraged. He'd brought scholars to his halls so his daughter may learn from them, philosophers and man of the clergy. Why, sometimes she even had the pleasure of encountering poets. She would certainly miss that.

Would her uncle allow such activities? Ada doubted he would. Most men preferred a woman incapable of questioning them. She'd hear her father's friends complain about that once. "Whyever do you allow this nonsense to go on, sir? It will help her none to quote Cato or Plato in the marriage bed." Ada had been so mad then, she had almost rushed out of the hall. Only her father's stare had stopped her from acting like a senseless child.

Lucky for her, these thought kept her occupied until she reached her destination. "NottinghamTown, my lady," one of the guards called to her. Ada pushed the curtains away, and gave the man permission to help her down.

She looked upon the open gate and the walls of stone. It seemed a bleak place to her. All those hidden corners she couldn't see scared her. There was something ominous about this place. Ada took a deep breath, indecision churning in her stomach. She could run away. The Lord knew, she could climb atop a horse and run far, far away from this wretched place.

Before she could make her decision, her uncle was there to greet her though. "My niece," he spoke with faux affection, coming her way rather like hawk. Ada had never seen the man in her life. But she knew him by his resemblance to her father. Still, there was no need for him to act quite so close. "I hope your journey was an easy one."

Falling into a proper curtsy, Ada murmured some polite reply or another, making sure to keep her eyes downcast. She wouldn't show him her distress. Searching her cloak, she came upon a letter she had to give to him. "Sir, I am grateful for your concern. My father wanted you to have this." She handed him the letter with a fluid movement. Only then did she dare to look up.

Guards surrounded her uncle. Ada supposed she should not have been surprised. He was the Sheriff. The man read her father's words, his lips pursing from time to time. Ada waited patiently, her hand clasped together in front of her. Waiting for a particularly hard thing for her to do.

Finishing the letter, Vaisey looked upon his niece once more. "You mother has died?" It was quite like he could not believe his eyes. "Has she really died?"

Ada nodded her head slowly. "Unfortunately, she did. It was childbed fever." A woman's worst nightmare, Ada considered. "Did you know her well, sir?"

Vaisey nodded in return. "Once. I knew her quite well once, many years ago." Then, as if remembering something, his head snapped up. "Enough of that. You must be hungry and tired after your journey. Come, sit and my table and eat with me."

"You are most gracious, sir." Ada followed behind him.

As he'd said, food was waiting on the table for them. Wasting no time, the young woman sat down, and served herself from the roasted rabbit and the delicious looking mutton. Her uncle's eyes would sometimes linger upon her. There weren't any long looks, nothing to signal anything but passing interest.

"You look a lot like you mother," the Sheriff remarked at some point, wiping his hands on a cloth.

"So I've been told," Ada agreed. In fact, it was many times that she'd been told that she was her mother's spitting image.

"Do you miss her?" Ah, such questions always inspired melancholy within Ada's chest. The man started eating again nonchalantly.

"Yes, and I suppose I shall for a long time." Her mother's death had been hard blow.

For the remainder of the meal, the Sheriff did not speak again. Ada was quite fine with that. She wasn't the sort that needed to fill the silence in order to feel comfort. Left to her own device, she looked about the room while chewing on the meat. It was a sparsely decorated hall. Somehow it reminded her of home, only with a bleaker outlook. Home had been warm, where this hall was cold. Silently, the girl wondered if it was such a lifeless place all the time. Her father's hall always had some guests. With a dainty shrug she pushed the thought away. Who was she to judge?

Nearly done with her food, Ada too cleansed her hands as the last bite of meat went down her throat. A goblet had been placed before her. Hoping that it would be water and not wine, Ada lifted it and put it to her lips. Just as the liquid sloshed against her lips, the door burst open.

Out of habit, she climbed to her feet, setting the cup down. Curios to see what the interruption was, Ada dared a look at the door. Her uncle looked bored. "Ah, Gisbourne. Finally, I thought I would be waiting until my bones turned to dust." Suddenly his niece held little importance.

The man he'd called Gisbourne didn't pay her any mind. Thus Ada was obliged to keep silent and unnoticed. She melted prettily in the background, felling like she was intruding. It was that sort of feeling that left her both confused and annoyed. What did it matter that she was overlooked? She was a woman, she should have been used to it by now.

"How rude of me!" Vaisey sudden exclamation broke through Ada's train of thoughts. She looked up towards the man. "My dear, this is Guy of Gisbourne, he hold Locksley for me."

"Pleased to make your acquaintance, sir." Ada stared at him unabashedly for the first time. Oh, and how she was struck. He looked like some sort of demon, mighty and powerful and too much for her eyes. He was cruelly handsome, with enchanting blue eyes and fine, sharp features. Ada tore her gaze away, and willed her heart to stop beating so loudly. "Gisbourne, my niece, lady Ada of Carlisle."

"My lady." He said the title with little care, yet still proper. Of course he had no regard for her. Ada hadn't thought he would. Yet the pang in her stomach irritated that rational part of her. This was no poem of love; her life was no poem. Or if it was, she rather though it a grim one of souls lost and difficulty of breathing.

"I know you will excuse us, my dear," the Sheriff addressed her, his hand making a dismissive move. "The servants will show you to your quarters. Tell him if you have need of anything, and it shall be provided for you."

Removing herself from her uncle's presence, Ada followed the servants walking in front of her. Her rooms had a view to the interior court. It was rather nice, even if all she got to see was dust and stone. At least she had a balcony. Her old rooms had no such splendid addition. Ada traced her fingers against the sturdy stone and sighed. There were times when she wished she'd been born a simple woman, one without understanding of the world. It would have hurt less. Did they not say that ignorance was bliss?

"Here starts my new life," Ada said to the empty air, always a good listener. She sat down upon the bed. "Holy Ghost, let me not reach too high. Keep me grounded." Hybris, Ada let her thoughts run free, hybris was the downfall of many. How could they think to reach for the starts and not expect to fall? Smothering any trace of it within her, the young woman took her mother's cross between her fingers. She played with the thin chain in hopes that the storm within her would calm down.

Unwillingly she found herself thinking of the man she'd met in her uncle's hall. It should not be allowed to a mortal to look like that. Greek statues belonged in temples, not among people. A bitter laughter spilled from between her lips. Oh, she knew what hopes her heart was entertaining. Like any woman with wit, she shooed Cupid away with an angry gesture. No, she wouldn't fall in this trap. Not even one as young as her could be tricked so easily.

A handsome face did not make one the perfect recipient of romantic fantasy. And yet, his eyes had been blue, too blue and penetrating. He had looked right through her, and her heart had jumped right out of her chest and into his hands. Ada shook her head. What was wrong with her? She did not even know him. Surely, surely, sentiment could be subdued by a clinical analysis of what had transpired. She refused to allow herself to sink to the level of a scullery maid infatuated with the unattainable lord of the manor. She knew her limits, and she wasn't about to exceed them.

One fist against her bothersome heart, Ada ordered herself to quit while she was ahead. "Dwelling on such matters will help you none," she told herself, her voice surprisingly firm. "You know this, silly girl. You needn't throw your hand into the fire to know it burns." But the fire was already scorching her, flames bright and unforgettable.