By the time Lillian and Allan reached the north road robbery, most of the initial threats and jolly bullying were already over. Allan was disappointed. That was his favorite part (aside from the loot).
The caravan was small and dirty, but in Nottingham the smaller and dirtier the caravan, the more likely it hid jewels and riches. The Sheriff should know by now that he couldn't get one over on Robin Hood that easily. Robin stood, dead center of the road, bow drawn and his usual smug smirk on his face. The others materialized out of the bushes or from piles of leaves, weapons drawn, eyes wary.
The man slouched on the front of the caravan clutched the reins tighter, but a weary sense of inevitability flickered across his face. His clothes were worn and ragged, and a floppy-brimmed hat drooped down dejectedly to cover part of his face.
"You'd be Robin Hood?" he asked tiredly. He was neither old nor young, a rough, scratchy growth of stubble covering his mostly unremarkable face. His hair was dark but his eyes, Robin realized with a small jolt of surprise, were two different colours; one brown and one icy blue.
"That I am. He catches on fast, this one," The gang laughed. "So you'll probably know what I'm about to say next."
"I don't know what you plan to steal from me," the man insisted. More disbelieving laughter from the gang. "Honestly, I have nothing to steal besides the tuppence in my pocket. Search me, if you like,"
"Oh, don't worry, we will," Robin assured him, "And whatever's in your cart, as well. It must be good, since you've gone to so much trouble to make it look worthless."
"I think the rags were overdoing it," commented Much.
"It's nothing of value," the man said quickly. "Just a delivery… a delivery for the castle. Its not mine…"
"Then you won't mind if we have a look, " Robin said, just as John threw back the canvas on the back of the cart. Half a dozen small brown barrels were revealed with a flourish that didn't quite match the unimpressiveness of the sight.
"What's this, then?" John demanded.
The man looked helplessly from barrels to outlaws, outlaws to barrels. "It's for Sheriff Vaysey's store," he said finally. "Just a few casks of ale. Nothing of value."
"Nothing of value?" Allan breathed, his eyes widening at the sight of the alcohol. "That's the most valuable sodding loot I've ever seen,"
"Well, we can't take it," said Will, with finality. Allan glanced at him incredulously.
"What?" he stuttered, "We bloody well can! Why can't we?"
"How are we supposed to pass it out in the villages?" Will asked as though it were obvious. "Roll the casks into people's homes without being spotted? And what would they do with it anyway? We should leave it be. No use for it."
Allan stared at Will as though he had sprouted bright green horns. "No… no use for it? We can drink it, can't we?"
"We don't steal for ourselves, Allan," Will said coldly.
"Why in God's name not?" Allan said desperately. He appealed to Robin with most pleading, puppy-dog look he could muster. "Listen, mate, we've followed you through Hell and high water, lately, fighting for the cause and that. Don't we deserve a little something for ourselves? We're stretched thin enough, if we don't have a night of fun soon we're all going to go mad. Go on, disagree with me," he dared the assembled outlaws. None spoke. "That's what I thought."
"Taxes paid for this ale," Will insisted stubbornly.
"Best taxes the Sheriff's ever spent," muttered Allan. He tried a different tactic. "Look, we're not taking from any poor, impoverished brewer, we're taking from the sheriff. We can't just let him enjoy the spoils of his taxes, can we?"
Robin had been watching the debate between Allan and Will with a kind of amused detachment. He looked the barrels up and down, then back to Allan's hopeful face.
"You may have a point there, Allan," he said slowly. He had been noticing a slight heaviness about the gang of late, a dejected droop in their shoulders as the cold weather set in. "Winter's going to be miserable this year; why not have a night of wassail to raise our spirits before the cold sets in? And anyway," he added, with an impish grin. "Imagine the look on the Sheriff's face when he finds out a ragged bunch of outlaws are drinking his best, most expensive amber ale."
Allan looked like a dog that had been given a steak. "Really? Robin, d'you mean it?" He punched the air, laughing triumphantly, and slapped his friend heartily on the back (making Robin stagger forward slightly) "Robin, have I ever told you I love you?"
"No," Robin replied quickly, rubbing his shoulder where Allan had slapped it. "No need to start now."
"Come on, lads, you heard him!" he shouted jubilantly to the others. "Lets get this booty back to camp!"
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"Do you know what the working man's weakness is, Gisbourne?" the Sheriff queried delicately, groping into one of his bird cages to grasp his favorite sparrow. Safe from the biting autumn cold, the Sheriff had been reclining in his study all day, looking smug as a cat in a dairy. Gisbourne had naturally been curious why he'd been so obviously pleased with himself (even for Vaysey), so when he was summomed to the Sheriff's study he had attended without his usual stalling and foot-dragging.
Gisbourne raised an eyebrow, unsure of how to answer the seemingly arbitrary question. The Sheriff was toying with him again. He wished the half-mad noble would speak plainly now and then.
With a sigh, he played along. "No, my lord."
"Of course not," Vaysey said shortly. "You only tax and punish them, you don't have to understand them. I, however, am charged with keeping the peace in this shire, and have spent some time studying the lower classes' base minds. And do you know what I've found?"
He clutched the small, tawny bird in his hot, sweaty hands, pinning its wings down and holding it up to his face. "The working man's weakness, fortunately for us Gisbourne, is drink. Feed them enough liquor and you have them eating out of your hand... figuratively speaking of course," he sneered. "It makes them stupid and pliant, which is precisely what we want them to be."
"What has this to do with anything?" Gisbourne asked impatiently.
"Patience, Gisbourne," the Sheriff said silkily. "Robin Hood and his ragged gang are working men, simple, and easy to grasp. Their weakness is the same as any working men's." he smiled to himself. "And as such I have sent them a present. A little 'thank-you' for my utter humiliation a few weeks ago."
"A trap?" Gisbourne asked slowly.
"You could say that, I suppose," Vaysey answered with a grin. "Cheers, Gisbourne," he said, smiling, holding up his goblet of burgundy wine before putting the cup to his lips.
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"What on earth have you got now?" asked Djaq, bewildered, as the others emerged into camp, backlit by the warm glow of the setting sun. They each rolled (or in John's case, carried) a heavy cask of ale along the ground, panting a little from the effort. She had remained home from their latest robbery, as a single unguarded caravan didn't require the use of every team member, and was prodding unenthusiastically at Much's half-concocted stew with a wooden spoon. "This is the loot from the robbery?"
"Liquid gold, mate," Allan said cheerfully, standing his cask upright on a level patch of ground. "We're going to have ourselves a proper booze-up!"
"Alcohol?" Djaq sniffed disapprovingly. Allan nodded, straightening up and grinning his most Allan-ish grin.
"Won't you join us, Djaq?" he asked, in mock courtesy. She shook her head.
"A muslim is forbidden to drink the liquor of the grain," she said stiffly. She rolled her eyes at Allan's puzzled look. "Beer," she clarified.
"Naw, really?" he sounded deeply disturbed by this. "Ah, well. Here's to Christianity!" he said impudently, slapping a hand on the flat wood of one of the barrels. Djaq tried to look disgusted, but a small smile played about her lips.
Will looked guiltily at his feet. Tempting as the ale was even to him, he couldn't shake the feeling that it would be hypocrisy to take the spoils of a robbery for himself – especially for so trivial a reason. Djaq's refusal to partake was the last straw. He knew how tiresome drunkards could be to the sober, and he cringed at the thought of Djaq witnessing him embarrassingly, slobbering drunk (as he knew he would get, with Allan egging him on). Besides, he couldn't help thinking, she was bound to be a little impressed at his restraint, wasn't she?
"I'll keep Djaq company," he said quietly. "It's no fun being the only sober person in the room."
There was a small uproar at this. "Come on, Will," John cajoled. "You haven't had any fun in years!" Will simply shook his head stubbornly. Robin and John exchanged a meaningful glance, gesturing subtly towards Djaq. Will could be so transparent.
"Enough talk!" Allan said, tossing a wooden mug to each of them. "Drink now, talk later!"
When they'd cracked open the first cask of ale, the gang had settled into pleasant, relaxed conversation, warmed and comforted by the liquor which helped them forget their troubles, caught up in the pleasure of the moment. By the second, the energy level had begun to rise to the level of paralyzed laughter and raunchy jokes, and they began swapping amusing (and embarrassing) stories. To everyone's immense surprise, Lillian had brought out her lute and led them in a chorus of several of the bawdiest, rudest drinking songs that they had ever heard, their lyrics filthy enough to shock even Allan. Even Djaq joined in their helpless laughter. After their third and fourth, the gang began to tire, and became thoughtful and contemplative, breaking off into smaller groups, falling into quiet conversation. Much fell asleep by the fire, a pleasant look of contentment on his face. John had fallen into nostalgic reverie about his past, which Robin and Will listened to quietly (or at least, Robin smiled and nodded politely, and Will pretended to pay attention while sneaking furtive glances at Djaq when he thought she wasn't looking)
Lillian and Allan, however, were still giggling like teenagers long after the others had calmed down. They reclined by the fire opposite the others, making bawdy jokes and openly mocking one another. Lillian flushed like a red robin when she drank, which provided Allan with plenty of drunken amusement. He himself had gained a bright glow to his cheeks and nose, and was stumbling over his words incoherently. Lillian sniggered at him. He had his hands out expressively, his face a mask of mirth, as he delivered the punchline to his (extremely dirty) joke.
"…So the farmer says, 'that's not the udder!'" he slurred with a vividly descriptive hand gesture. Lillian spit ale all over herself and bent forward, cackling so hard she couldn't move or breathe.
"Not... the... UDDER!" she shrieked through her giggles. "Unbelievable!"
Allan chuckled too, watching her ridiculous hysterics. "Easy, there," he teased her. "Don't break a rib."
Her giggling subsided a little, and she leaned back again. Her hand slipped however, and she collapsed into Allan's side. He snaked an arm around her shoulder, still laughing, and Lillian looked down at it.
"Don't think I didn't see that," she slurred. "Up to your usual hijinn..hyjynks... hyj... tricks." Allan shrugged innocently.
"Dunno what you're talkin' about, love."
"I'm not your love," she snapped (or rather, sluggishly slurred). "My father warned me about men like you," she continued, wagging her finger drunkenly at him in mock disapproval, but did not make him remove his arm. Allan was the very picture of innocence.
"Me?" he said sweetly. "Now thass no' fair, Lill. Your father never met me."
"You're right," she said, taking another sip of ale. "If he did, he'd have had a lot more to say…"
It would be fair to say that Allan had drunk himself stupid. It would not be fair, however, to say he had lost his cunning entirely in the ale. He hadn't forgotten Lillian's mysterious hidden past, or how often she changed the subject when he asked her about it. Allan hated not knowing things, and he knew through his drunken haze that this was the perfect opportunity to worm a little more information out of her. For although Allan had drunk himself stupid, Lillian had drunk herself a little bit stupider.
"What was your old man like, anyway?" he asked in what he thought was a suave, subtle way. She didn't seem to notice, but her smile faltered.
"My dad? I dunno. My dad's a coward," she said, keen to avoid the topic. "What about yours?"
Allan sniffed in an aloof, masculine way. "He was a blacksmith. Nasty temper on him. Liked his ale a bit too much," he added, shaking his mug meaningfully. He was determined to get her back on track. "What d'you mean your dad is a coward?"
She shrugged. "He just never took risks for anything that was worth it. He did what he was told, you know? And you know what else?" she added with a sudden hint of anger, warming to the topic slightly, enjoying the opportunity to rant. "He never did a useful thing in his life. Never helped anyone, never created anything worthwhile. Too scared to. Just a coward," she finished, suddenly realizing she was raving.
Allan pressed her. "What do you mean, he never created anything worthwhile? He made your lute, didn't he?"
Lillian looked startled, and nervous. "Oh… oh yes, of course. I meant… besides the lutes."
To her surprise, Allan broke out into a loud bray of laughter. "Lill, you are the worst liar I have ever met!" he chortled. "When we first met, you said your father was dead, remember? And now you just forgot he makes lutes? Your father wasn't a lutemaker, was he. Do you even know who your father is?"
She slapped him for that, which he knew he deserved. "What are you, interrogating me?" she was suddenly angry, with the unfocused, disproportionate anger of a drunk. She pushed his arm off of her shoulder and shoved him violently away, checking hastily around the camp to see if the others had been listening to their conversation. They didn't seem to have been, but she was suddenly paranoid. "I told you to let it be," she slurred angrily.
"That was a month ago," he said defensively. "I thought by now you'd…"
Lillian interrupted him with a few well-chosen, colourful swearwords before storming off to her bed, leaving Allan to deal with the puzzled looks of the others.
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Author's note: I'm really not sure how much ale is in a standard, medieval cask. Do they vary in size? I'm also not sure just how much beer it would take to get the gang fairly drunk. Suffice to say, four casks sounded about right to me, but depending on how much alcohol a cask will hold, that might be way off.
