Guy rode into Locksley well after dark flanked by his guards. Darkness had begun to fall as they had left the outlaws and so Guy had allowed his men to make a quick search for good bits of wood with which to make torches. Without their light, he would have had to stop in Sherwood for the night. Ever efficient, Thornton must have seen the torches and realized that company was on its way. As Guy entered the courtyard to Locksley Manor, Thornton opened the door and stepped out into the night bearing his own torch. Guy could smell roasting meat and his stomach rumbled in appreciation.

"Sir Guy," Thornton greeted him, seemingly unsurprised. But then, Guy knew, it took a lot to ruffle the older man's feathers. Thornton was one of the few peasants that Guy respected, and he had even sought the old man's advice before his curtailed wedding to Marian. Guy inclined his head slightly before dismounting, making it look to the others like he had been simply leaning forward, but he knew Thornton would know the respect he had just been shown by his master. Guy turned to face the squire and the manor.

"Thornton," Guy returned. "I apologize for our late arrival. We were…waylaid in the forest."

Thornton looked thoughtful, but did not respond to this, instead choosing to direct the men to their comfort.

"Cook has a stew heating. Had we known when to expect you, we would have had a proper meal."

Guy smiled, knowing that the old man had couched an admonition with the apology; he knew he should have sent a man on ahead, but then the whole "waylaid in the forest" thing had happened, and it had seemed best to just push on.

"Stew will be fine, Thornton," Guy replied, handing his reins to a sleepy stableboy and entering the manor. He ducked to make it under the lintel, rising to his full height once he was inside. The main room of the manor was awash in candlelight; the table set with the best of the silver—place-settings for two, Guy noticed with wry amusement and a touch of sadness. It had only been a few days, but Guy missed Addy already. Thornton followed Guy in, having given his torch to one of the guards.

"Might I ask where the Lady Gisbourne is?" he asked obsequiously.

"Lady Gisbourne stays home with our child," Guy answered shortly, trying to keep the emotion from his voice.

"Wonderful news, My Lord. Congratulations!"

A small, shy smile touched Gisbourne's lips at the unusual show of joy. Guy never expected such warm feeling from others.

Thornton clapped his hands together, his face lighting up as he turned to see to the master's supper. He had noted a difference in Sir Guy when he had last visited with his new wife. Sir Guy the married man, Lord of not only Locksley, but of Mablethorpe, was far gentler, far kinder than he had been previously as the sheriff's minion. Thornton was not happy with the way Sir Guy had been before, but being closer to power than the average villager gave him some insight into what motivated the nobility; sometimes, the nobility had even fewer choices than the poor.

Thornton also knew what Guy had lost so many years before, when his father had returned from the Holy Land, not a hero, but a pariah, scarred by leprosy and an unfaithful wife. Then the manor had caught fire and Guy had been blamed—had blamed himself—for Ghislaine of Gisbourne's subsequent death. The teen-aged Guy had left Locksley as the only supporter for his younger sister, who was barely out of toddler-hood; he had left carrying guilt for the death of his parents as well. Thornton had felt terrible for the teen-ager at the time, but there had been nothing he could do. When Sir Guy of Gisbourne had returned nearly twenty years later, he had been a man eaten up by a hard life, full of bitter disappointments; a man who was forced to answer to Vasey, the new sheriff of Nottingham.

In his capacity as Vasey's second in command, Guy had done many cruel things, but on the day he was to wed Marian, he had seemed as uncertain as any other bridegroom. That uncertainty, that touch of humanity, was what gave Thornton hope that one day, if Sir Robin was not to be re-installed as Lord of Locksley, Sir Guy could become a fair and just master. He had seen it when Lord Gisbourne had been at Locksley with Lady Adelaide—the way he would, just occasionally, smile or laugh with real humor instead of with a touch of evil. Mind, Thornton was intelligent enough not to rely on Sir Guy being kind, and was always on alert lest he or one of the other servants or villagers displease the master in any way. Thornton smiled in genuine joy for the master and his lovely wife as he placed Sir Guy's stew on the table for him.


Guy slept fitfully that night, missing his wife by his side. His body had grown accustomed to the feel of hers next to it in a bed. On the road, Guy's longing had not been so bad since they had made their beds on the rough ground each night. Now, though, in the relative luxury of Locksley Manor, Guy's body yearned for his Addy.

Finally, unable to handle the restlessness of waiting for elusive sleep, Guy rose and lit the bedside candles, dressing in the cold room by their feeble light. Taking up one of the fatter candles, Guy made his way carefully down the shadowed steps to the main hall. The staff was still abed, since it was hours before cock-crow yet.

Guy moved to the small bedroom off the main hall—it was used not only to house guests, but also to store the manor's books in a locked box to the left of the door. In case of fire, the books detailing the manor's finances could be retrieved and saved quickly since they were stored all together and on the ground floor.

Guy placed the candle on the table in the room and drew out his keys—Thornton had the only other set, and as the reeve of the manor, was responsible for keeping the books in Guy's absence. Carefully, Guy turned the key in the lock, listening to the tumblers click as they opened, the sound seeming loud in the quiet manor. He drew out the leather-bound book and closed the lid before putting away his keys, grabbing the candle, and once more making his way to the main room. There, he lit the candles in the sconce by the door, lifting it and setting it beside him at the table so he could better read Thornton's entries of the last few months. As with everything associated with the reeve, Thornton's handwriting was neat and deliberate. Despite the darkness, Guy found the accounts easy to read. In his absence, Thornton had run Locksley efficiently. Guy smiled, thinking of how one day he would present Locksley to Roger, and if Thornton kept up this sort of management, Roger would have a tidy income from his new manor. He found it ironic that only a year or so ago, he would have been displeased with the income; after all of his hard work at Mablethorpe, and with Addy's gentle influence, he found himself well pleased instead. It was unfortunate, he thought, that the sheriff would not share his viewpoint, and he would likely have to use some of the money he had brought from Mablethorpe to make up the difference on his taxes. Guy frowned and rubbed his forehead against the head-ache that was threatening to erupt across his skull. Addy would have rubbed his back and his head for him, and then kissed him until he forgot that troubles even existed. He decided then and there that he would meet the sheriff as soon as possible to settle the taxes. The sooner he paid his taxes in Nottingham and returned home to Addy, the better he would feel.


Deidre made her way to the cottage of the midwife in the relative warmth of mid-morning. The sun was out now and all around the rath, people were mending homes and fences and barns, taking stock of what damage had been done from the storm, what livestock were hurt or killed. Allan and Ruarc strode beside her, flanking her; neither man was willing to let her out of their sight at the moment and walked by her side with the grim expressions of body guards. Deirdre had rolled her eyes at their foolishness, but both men had been unrelenting in their protectiveness. At the midwife's home, the men had knocked, Ruarc entering before Deirdre, then waiting outside with Allan when the midwife had shooed him out the door.

"What's the story with those two?" Marga O'Brennan grinned at Deirdre, who returned the old woman's smile. Marga was old enough to have attended the births of nearly every resident of Malahide; her husband had died more than a dozen years before and she could still be seen at his grave daily, laying fresh flowers and speaking to him about this and that. Between her eccentricities and her herbal knowledge, most people would have labeled Marga a witch, but since she had birthed most of them, they chose to ignore the "signs" and treated her with a great deal of respect instead. Marga's daughter, Meara, was her assistant and would take over as midwife once the old woman passed on. These days, it was mostly Meara anyway who did the actual midwifing duties, with her mother attending as more of a consultant since her eyesight was beginning to fail along with her strength.

"They have appointed themselves my bodyguards, Mother" Deirdre responded, giving the old woman her title of respect. She touched the back of her hand to her forehead and bowed low as well. While Deirdre was a good Christian, she was also a good Celt and gave respect to the old ways and the old days.

"And why would you need bodyguards, Mistress A' Dale?" the old woman asked as her daughter entered the cottage. Meara O'Donnell decided to answer for Deirdre as Deirdre rose from her bow.

"That's a good question, Mother, since it seems Mistress A' Dale can well take care of herself." Meara grinned in admiration at Deirdre, who flushed and looked to her feet.

"What's happened?" Marga asked impatiently.

"It seems one of the lady's guests decided to force himself on her."

"No! Is that why you are here, my dear—to expel a possible child? I have the seeds right here. They are bitter and a bit greasy, but at least you and your good husband will not have to raise a by-blow."

Deirdre raised her head swiftly, the disgust clear in her voice.

"No! He was…unable to complete the deal."

Meara was almost doubled over with mirth. "She struck him with a fire-heated metal spoon before he could 'strike' her."

"I don't understand. Did the man get up into you or not?"

"No," Deirdre responded. "He was about to, but I put the spoon in the way of his intended target, and…"

Marga inhaled sharply. "Are you hurt, lass? Did you burn yerself?"

Deirdre grinned sheepishly. "A bit, but not as bad as I burned him."

Marga's sudden bark of laughter filled the cottage with its infectious sound and soon all three of the women were laughing so hard they could not stand.

"You should have heard him, Mum," Meara said when she could speak once more. "Screamed like a ban-sidhe, he did."

Marga wiped the tears from her eyes. "I'll just bet he did. I imagine there'll be no man for miles around would consider trying to force our little friend from this day on."

Deirdre shrugged, her smile crooked, her eyes downcast at the respect in the other women's voices.

"It happened so quick, it was all I could think to do," Deirdre responded self-consciously.

"Aye, and quick thinking it was, too! Now, up on the table, let's have a look at ye." Marga indicated a table near the fire and Deirdre hopped up.

"Lift yer skirts, lass. How'm I to see how burned ye are if ye don't?"

Deirdre raised her skirts so the old midwife could see her inner thighs.

"Ah, it's not so bad. Spread some of this on it," she continued, reaching for a jar of ointment.

"Twice per day--morning and evening, and it'll be clear in a few days."

"Thank you, Mother," Deirdre replied respectfully, lowering her skirts and taking the salve. "I have another reason for coming, though."

"Oh, and that would be…"

"I think I might be with child."

Marga lowered her brows in consternation. "I thought ye said the man never made it into ye!"

"He didn't. But I am a married woman," Deirdre added.

Marga smiled. "Well, why didn't ye say so in the first place?" She reached for a battered metal cup. "Go into the corner there. Meara an' me'll turn our backs while you do your business."

Deirdre took the cup and did as she was bade, handing the cup to the midwife for the older woman's scrutiny. Her face was alight with excitement at the possibility that she might be once more carrying Allan's child.

"Well?" she asked as the midwife peered into the cup.


Áinfean was walking around the Murtagh, gauging the damage that the storm had done. From the looks of things, they had been lucky to make it to land. The main mast had a crack in it that would have very soon toppled that heavy pole onto the deck; the keel was so scraped, that water would surely come in if the ship were not aground. Áinfean frowned—the repairs would take many weeks, possibly months with winter coming on. Luckily, the Murtagh was not expected anywhere—ever. Her cargo consisted of stolen wine, which could be traded to the A' Dales for accommodations for the duration of their stay, and bolts of cloth which could hopefully be traded to Lord O'Brian for help in acquiring wood and pitch and lengths of rope—whatever was needed to make the Murtagh sea-worthy again. There was, of course, enough gold and silver to help with the purchases as well, but wine went bad eventually, and cloth rotted—coin was not so perishable.

Thoughts of the A' Dales and O'Brian brought thoughts of the morning's goings-on to Áinfean's mind. Gustave had behaved poorly and had deserved what he had gotten as far as the captain could see. She smiled as she thought of Mistress A' Dale's spunk and quick mind, to have been able to protect herself like that. The reaction of her husband had been totally understandable, but what intrigued Áinfean was the reaction of O'Brian—he had acted like a lover, protecting his own. Áinfean wondered if the men shared the woman, although A' Dale had not seemed like the type who would be willing to share. Another mystery was the way in which Mistress A' Dale had defended herself. Very few people, even pub owners, used metal spoons for their cooking—wood was cheaper and easy to replace; the A' Dales were certainly well-off if they could afford metal cooking utensils. Áinfean tucked it in the back of her mind to find out exactly how well off, as well as the exact nature of the bond between Mistress A' Dale and Lord O'Brian.


A/N: Sorry it took me so long. I've been super-busy in RL. Please bear with me--I may not be able to post as often as before. Please review to let me know what you think!