So, I've decided to continue this, thank you to everyone who reviewed, it is much appreciated. :) It's a little less fluffy, but the overall premise of the story is romantic, because I am a love junkie. It takes place before Brothers in Arms. I do not own any of the characters from Robin Hood BBC, but I'm hoping that if I'm a good girl this year I'll get one of them for Christmas…
A few minutes later, the trio unceremoniously arrived back at the small campsite that had served as the gang's latest headquarters. John, Will, and Allan all stood facing a large oak tree, where their visitor was tied rather sloppily. The man was slender, with a nose like a bird's beak and thin, hollowed cheekbones that all combined to give him a haughty appearance. Allan approached Robin first. "Thank God you lot are back. Caught this bugger on the smaller road outside Nettlestone. Think he's lost. He had a purse, but the money…well, let's just say that whatever these are, they won't do us much good at the tavern." Disappointed, he handed Robin a strangely printed coin.
Robin flipped the coin between his fingers, studying the markings intently. This was no shilling, that was for certain. He glanced up at the sickly-looking fellow tied to the tree. Their strange interloper hadn't uttered a word since his arrival. His expensive clothing and hairstyle were clearly foreign and Robin could bet no man in England had a mustache like that and lived to talk about it. He turned to him and said, slowly, "What is your name?"
The man stared back at Robin without so much as a peep. He didn't even appear to comprehend the question. "Your name?" Robin repeated. The man's eyebrows went up, indicating that whatever Robin was saying, it was completely lost on him. Suddenly Robin had a flash of understanding. A regular tower of Babel we have here, he thought to himself. Slowly, stumbling a bit over the difficult sounds, he forced out, "Sprechen Sie deutsch?" Another puzzled look from their captive decisively indicated that no, he did not speak German. Robin decided to try another avenue. "Vous parlez français?"
The look of utter relief on the man's face was like a starved man at the head of a great feast. "Ah! Merci! Tu dois me libères, j'ai affaires pressant dans chef de la police à Nottingham. S'il vous plait! J'ai de l'argent peu. Je ne veux pas se battre avec vous."
The gang stared at the man like he had sprouted horns and proclaimed himself King of the Hill. Much leaned in curiously. His expression turned indignant. "I think he just swore at us!" he exclaimed. "I heard a 'bloody' something in there, I know it."
Robin ignored him. "He speaks French, "he mused aloud. A plethora of questions arose in his mind – what was a man who could speak no English doing in the heart of England? Why travel alone, with no retinue to protect him, when he clearly was of a relatively privileged background? Was this of the sheriff's doing?
Marian pushed Much aside. "Hush," she admonished. "He said that he has urgent business in Nottingham, and that he has little money. He does not wish to fight." She took a deep breath. "Let me speak to him. The sheriff could be trying to secure foreign allies to serve his own ends. Or, he could be visiting his cousin. Nothing a few pounds won't fix." She dug into her purse.
Robin was intrigued. "You know French?"
Irritated, Marian replied, "Yes, I know French. Unlike you, I paid attention during my lessons instead of lighting things on fire." She knelt down to the weary Frenchman's level. In her hands she held a small dagger and several gold coins. She proceeded to inform him in her best French that if he was working for the sheriff, whatever he was being paid would be doubled if he agreed to turn around and go home. If he chose to continue his affairs in Nottingham, he would be strung up like a Christmas wreath and left for the crows to pick on.
The small man listened and frowned. "Non, non, tu ne comprends pas. J'envisage les mariages. Je vais se recontrer Guy à Gisborne." The expression on his face spoke volumes. Who were you expecting, the King of England?
Marian fell back on the ground. Gisborne sent for a…French wedding planner? The weight of this revelation echoed around her like a church bell. Although Guy hovered around her as though his life depended on it, he had not formally proposed to her. The idea that he was already making arrangements for nuptials that did not yet exist was infuriating to her.
When Marian was eight years old, she had known a village boy that had caught a butterfly one hazy summer day. The boy had boasted to all of the other children how beautiful the tiny creature was and how he alone possessed it. A girl suggested he let it go, so it could fly away and be in its natural state, but he vehemently refused. He kept it cupped in his grubby hands for hours until that evening when he opened his fingers. The butterfly lay in a tiny dead heap in his palm. He was horrified, but there was also a certain satisfaction in his eyes – as though, even if it had died, at least he had been able to own it for a little while and have some hand in its fate.
Marian had seen in Guy the same terrifying desire to control, to possess, to own. The bare truth of it was that he would suffocate her, content to keep her locked up if it meant that he could greedily keep her all to himself.
It had occurred to her in the past that he was the sort of man that refused to let things unfold organically. He saw no obstacle that could not be felled by force. Of course, he had approached her in the traditional way, bringing gifts and offerings of "friendship," though they both knew that was pretense, a mere stepping-stone for him to work his way into her good graces. But when met with resistance, Guy was quick to anger, turning vicious and ruthless, lashing out with a rage unparalleled by any other person she had ever known. She had seen what this was like, and though he did not intimidate her, there was something uncontrollably driven, something evil in him that she did not want to be on the receiving end of.
And yet…sometimes her pity outweighed her revulsion for him. When she could catch a rare glimpse of a shred of compassion that the sheriff had not yet belittled out of him, she found herself feeling…something. She could not quite grasp what that meant, but it kept her from slamming the door in his face and instead, quietly closing it with an apologetic smile.
"Marian?" Robin's voice interrupted her miasma of thoughts. "What did he say?"
She blinked briskly, realizing that while she was lost in her own mind, everyone had been expectantly waiting to hear her translation of their French prisoner's reply. Hesitating, she nervously pushed her hair behind her ear and said, "He is the new master of celebrations for the sheriff. Apparently he decided that he wanted some couture in his parties." She got up and wove through the rest of the gang as she made her way towards her horse. "I must be getting back before my father recognizes my absence."
Much snorted and folded his arms in defiance. "I'll show the sheriff what couture means." The gang was silent. Much swallowed sheepishly. "What…does couture mean?" Little John groaned as the rest of the gang started to disperse to their prior activities. When his inquiry went ignored, Much too went back to skinning potatoes.
"A party planner," Will shook his head as he began to untie their foreign prisoner. "S'pose the worst he can do is order the wrong flowers, eh?" The slight man rubbed his chafed wrists and adjusted his disheveled clothing. With a snobby grunt, he headed in the direction of his horse.
Robin was very quiet. Les mariages. Guy à Gisborne. He hadn't paid as little attention in his lessons as Marian had purported.
As the Frenchman passed him, Robin grabbed his wrist. "Restez-vous," he mumbled at him, never taking his eyes off Marian.
If my French is crappy, please pardon me. I'm on my way to hopefully becoming fluent and I like to pepper my stories with a little bit of francais every now and then, just for…craps…and giggles. :) By the way: Restez-vous means Stay.