Well, chapter 13-- I keep thinking it is an unlucky number :lol: Comments are still gold!

DeanParker: What?! Not a single word in all capital letters? lol. Thanx for the comment dear!
KeepingAmused: Oh wow, thank you!!! You don't have to worry about me not finishing this anyway, I always finish what I start, and I will probably always write. ;)
Daze: Awww I'm sorry... I just happens to like writing angst I guess. The don't have the ending finished but I have it sketched in my head. I post as I write, pretty much. The parting between Maz and Robs will bring some character development to Marian, b/c I think she needs to learn to be a liiittle less independent...
Dina: Oh poor mrs Baker got a plan alright ;)
xxCCxx: Melinda is Melinda and Marian is Marian, Occam's razer and all that jazz. (that response made very little sense didn't it:lol:)
LadyElsii: Ay, it is a bit sad. You don't really want to be an oc in my fics, they tend to get into trouble.
GateWatcher: Well, Robin have been to war. He can handle this. :)
Jess: hehe okay, just take a deep breath before you read this chapter lol. Put in another MP reference btw lol.
LoonyLover: I'm sorry about making you sad... I just like writing angst/adventure/drama more than I like writing fluff (don't worry, I still do write fluff lol). Much is a darling though isn't he? Furthermore English is indeed not my first language. I'm Swedish so I speak Swedish.

Love,
Trix


Chapter 13: The guard's widow

-In which there is a widow, a bored nobleman, two useless guards and some plagued outlaws, but the nasty killer rabbit remains brutally neglected by the writer.

The quill scratched the parchment as Sir Guy formed a row of slapdash numbers in the ledger, resting the tip against the paper while he mused over the calculation. He cursed loudly as a ragged pool of black ink sprawled out across the characters, and drew a thick line over it with an exasperated sigh. Keeping the books over the Nottingham guard was not his favourite part of the job and he constantly put it off. Unfortunately a chore that is neglected becomes considerably heavier when it finally forces your attention, and the desk was filled with papers staring at him in silent accusation. The sheriff was neat about these things but Guy didn't have it in him - even less so these days it seemed. His numbers looked sloppy and aggressive, as if they were attacking the parchment, and the sides of the ledger were filled with crossed-over lines and spots where he had been holding the quill wrong. Guy sighed as his mind started to stray away from the present chore, getting lost in another fantasy rather than remaining engaged in the necessary numbers. He imagined a mirror-image of the room his physical body occupied in this very moment - still busy with the same dull bookkeeping - but in his mind Marian stood by his side. She pressed her cool lips against his cheek as she leaned over and studied his crude calculations, laughing tenderly while she tugged the quill from his hand. 'You do it all wrong, love' she smiled and her fine letters were interlaced with his, the elegance end beauty of her handwriting soothing Guy's aggressive characters. It was such a prosaic little piece but it sent a pang of loss through his body. Once a person was gone so were all the dreams. They were nothing but hollow ghosts now; eternally vain and useless. Guy snorted and pushed away the futile fantasy, forcing Marian's apparition to disperse back into the nothingness of history. His hands were smeared by black ink, and he rested the quill against a paper while he wiped them on a piece of linen cloth, falling back into the chair with another sigh.

"Guard!" he sneered.

"Sir."

"My cup is empty, I suggest you fill it," Guy ordered in a snappy voice, and watched the soldier saunter off in the lazy manner of Nottingham guards. Useless, the lot of them. What he really needed was a good clerk to do his numbers and an obliging maid to pour him a bath, but unfortunately Vaysey used a sort of minimalist principle when it came to hiring people. He trusted as few employees as possible to carry out a wide range of chores not normally within their job description, with the ones highest on the ladder being most intensely exploited. As much as Guy enjoyed the lack of competition, the massive and sometimes rather unsuitable workload was a definite drawback.

The door to the study was opened with a squeak and the guard returned, holding a decanter pinched between his torso and upper arm in a noticeably ungraceful way. He did an obscure gesture with his axe towards the corridor as he lazed his way towards Guy.

"There's a lass out there m'lord," he slurred in a dull voice. "Waiting for you I reckon. Said to say it was urgent."

"A woman," Guy answered and cocked his eyebrow. "Anyone you know?"

"Could be Tommy's widow," the guard shrugged. "One of those bland ones you know."

Guy took a sip of the wine and frowned at the messy ledger. Well, any distraction was a good distraction faced with the bloody bookkeeping. He had been considering seeking out the widow Baker anyway, savouring the chance to taint Robin's name in the presence of one of his precious people.

"Very well," he grunted. "Let her in and leave us."

"Will do, Sir," the guard answered and Guy ignored the knowing smirk on the man's lips.

Melinda Baker wasn't the distraught wreck Guy had expected when she entered the room with steady, confident steps. Her features displayed hardness rather than grief and her eyes were unyielding in the pallid face, remained fixed even as she bent her knees in a twitchy curtsey. Guy raised his eyebrow quizzically but instead of greeting him the widow Baker stood in the middle of the room as if she was waiting for him to make the first move.

"Yes?" Guy snapped; demonstratively studying a paper to signal that he was a busy man. "I haven't got all day." The widow remained silent and he flashed an impassive look in her general direction. "Well? What is it? Have you come to negotiate your compensation?" he continued with a sigh. "It is a fixed sum, based on the number of years your husband has served here. It cannot be argued." Guy had explained this to widows before, although never to one who was quite this composed. They usually pleaded and cried, begging for mercy and compassion even though they should know Guy had neither of those characteristics in abundance.

"The compensation is a joke," Melinda Baker finally responded calmly.

"Well, you husband hadn't been with us for long Mrs Baker," Gisbourne continued patiently, keeping his voice professional and slightly bored. "If you wish I can put in a word for you with the matron, there might be a minor position vacant in the kitchen. Obviously that is assuming there is no needy offspring hanging from your apron-- The sheriff does not hire mothers, however pitiful."

"I don't want no job in the castle!" The widow Baker came alive so suddenly that Guy flinched in spite of himself and nearly knocked over his cup of wine. "You think I came here to be pitied? I may not be a posh lady but I have my pride. I am here to offer you to help me, Sir."

Guy snorted and looked at her with astonishment. He didn't like her way to say 'sir', over-pronouncing the title in a distinctly mocking manner, and she had some nerves to come here and offer him to help her. Who did she think she was!? "Really?" he scoffed sceptically. "Surprise me Mrs Baker."

"Oh it's simple enough," she responded. "I need to know that fancy yob who killed my Tommy, you see. Robbing Hood, they call 'im on the streets."

"You want to get cosy with Robin Hood?" Guy snorted. "Well, I would like to introduce you but I'm afraid we're not on the best of terms with each other." He gave out a laughter - no longer bothering to appear distracted in front of this commoner - and looked at her in open amusement. The paper he had pretended to study slipped over the edge and danced down towards the floor when he let go of it, and he bent down to shuffle it in under the ledger instead.

"Ay, but that is not important," the widow Baker insisted. "They praise him as a hero, the townies. A murderer! See, if I have this my way Robin Hood will not live to see another spring. And that, m'lord, is a promise."

"That is a promise from a woman," Guy jeered, leaning his elbows against the armrests as he sank deeper down into the chair. "Means less than the breath it takes to utter it."

"That is a promise from a widow," Mrs Baker snapped back. "He may steal your pennies but he stole my life, sir. I want this done my way-- it is fair."

"Life isn't fair," Guy scoffed in a slightly muffled voice. "You can't always get what you want Mrs Baker; I thought the poor knew that if anyone."

"Ay, wise words from a bitter man," the widow smirked sarcastically. "Are you too proud to work with a commoner then m'lord?"

Guy watched her thoughtfully for a couple of moments; the brown hair that seemed duller and flatter than the first time he saw her; the tense lips; the bold eyes that hid such fury. He was not one to make elaborate schemes; in truth that was the sheriff's territory. Yet this woman was his weapon and his alone. Consequently this would be his game, if he chose to play it, not the sheriff's. He took up the quill and tapped it against the desk, giving the ledger another dreaded look before he slammed it shut.

"No," he answered with a sigh. "I will listen to this plan of yours madam. Continue, but keep it short. I will not see my time wasted."

----

"I have been wondering if you meant it," Robin said and turned his face to Little John. His voice was soft and hesitant as he spoke; breaking the silence where the two men sat slumped down by some trees outside the camp. It had been a wild flight back into Sherwood after the sheriff's feast and the outlaws were exhausted. "Did you mean what you said that time in the barn, John?" Robin continued cautiously.

John flinched and shifted his position; seeming uncomfortable as if he wished to crawl out of his own skin. This conversation was unexpected and it was a sore topic still; an issue that normally only was addressed out of malice. This was not the case this time, and thus John remained silent but stayed put instead of strolling off. Robin gave out a short, snorting laughter.

"You are silent. Silent means yes," he mumbled.

"No," John sighed. "Silent means—I do not know. It means that I am not sure. Sometimes I get tired."

"I get tired too you know." Robin whispered the words, his eyes aimed firmly at the ground while he rummaged through the brown leaves with a stick. John put a hand on his shoulder and gave him a friendly thud. In times like this he seemed so much like a little boy, in spite of all the years abroad, regardless of all the wars he had been fighting, in spite of having lost and learned and lost again. They sat in silence for a while, watching almost hypnotically as the stick moved around and around in the mess of dead leaves and soil.

"But since I met you I have been less tired, Robin," John finally said and leaned back towards the tree. "What you do is good. You give people hope. You take an old, useless outlaw and you make him feel proud again."

"Today as well?" Robin asked with a sceptically raised eyebrow. He knew the answer and only posed the question to prove John wrong in his attempts to comfort him. "Did you feel proud today?"

John's silence made Robin laugh again; an eerie, hollow sound. "This time silence means no," he smiled.

"Today you lost it, Robin," John answered gravely. "You need to see that and learn."

"Learn, John? I hardly even remember—"

"What is it you don't remember?"

John and Robin looked up to see Much walking trough the leaves. His face still had red spots from the exhaustion of the flight and his hair seemed more unkempt than usual. It was tucked in behind his ears but a couple of strands had fallen out since he didn't wear his usual cap to keep it in place. Robin gave him a dry smile.

"This day. It is hazy—I just see—I just feel. I feel but I don't see. It is confused—"

Robin laughed a little without managing to get his friends to see the amusing side of the tragedy. Much took a deep breath and aimed his eyes at the sky, collecting strength for what he was about to say.

"It is Marian," he finally responded, and saw the smile fade from Robin's lips. "You have to talk about it. Master, I am sorry but this does not work—"

"Talk about it," Robin snapped. "That is the miracle cure is it? Talk and everything is fine—everything is fine." His eyes got lost in the leaves again and he lifted the stick. He had subconsciously moved it in two arches that formed a crude heart, and now the sketch seemed to taunt him. It spoke when he could not, put his feelings on display, and he wiped it away with a couple of swift sweeps. "I miss her so much," he murmured into the dishevelled soil. "I miss her so much, but I almost got us killed today. I killed—"

"You killed who?" Much asked cautiously when Robin left the sentence hanging unfinished.

"A guard. Only a guard. But it could have been a townsperson. It could have been anyone on that square."

Only a guard, Robin repeated under his breath It was only a guard but one that hadn't threatened him. One that would simply be replaced by someone else, faceless men who he might have seen a hundred times but still failed to tell apart. They were the sheriff's weapons. Just a guard, but a useless killing, and every guard was a life in the end. What were his noble principles worth if he disregarded them as soon as this fury trapped him? This day had been a disaster and he could not let it continue like this. He may be a man, but not only a man. Robin Hood was a hero, a principle, a cause. When he first aimed his bow at the sheriff of Nottingham he had made a choice, and since that day his life was not merely his life. He had responsibilities.

Robin pressed his lips together as he formed a promise to never loose control again, hardly aware of the two men that watched their leader with puzzled expressions. If his mouth hadn't tasted salt all of a sudden he wouldn't even have known that he was crying, and he silently cursed himself for falling apart in front of them. Another dishevelled heart in the leaves.

"We will keep a low profile," he mumbled to his few remaining men. "Help the poor the best we can and spend the winter finding new allies. But we do not talk about Marian, and we do not mention this day. My thoughts are mine and mine alone—I will not share them unless I wish to. These are my orders and you will abide by them - or you better not to follow me at all." He swallowed and listened to his friends' soft breaths, smiling inwardly at the silence embracing his words. "Now leave me alone," he finished softly. "Please."

Robin kept his eyes shut, and thus he couldn't see the look of grateful relief passing between Much and John, nor the nodding heads or worried smiles. He could only feel the comforting pats of their hands on his shoulder, rocking his heavy body back and forth. Then he heard the rustling of leaves and his side felt cold as John rose, depriving him of the heat radiating from the big man's body. There was a change in the way the air closed around him and their steps moved away from him, further and further off until there was nothing but the sound of the forest surrounding him. A wind moved the branches and stirred up the leaves, it smelled of earth and the air was chilly but damp as though a rain was approaching. Robin opened his eyes and aimed them at the sky. The naked branches were crossed into a web against the gray clouds; desperately reaching out for something to hold on to through the winter. He clenched his hands and unclenched them, feeling the rough skin of his fingers rub against his palms. This body of his was warm; he moved; his chest rose and sunk in steady breaths - and thus he must be as alive today as he had been half a year ago. It was strange because he didn't feel it. The world moved when it should be still, he lived when he should be dead. Time didn't stop in honour of his grief, and no matter what; he had no choice but to follow.

---

The guards' names were John Dibley and Just Roger, and neither was a stranger to Melinda. John was a dumb but harmless man with a pale, weak face and a big nose splitting it like a ridge. He had occasionally been a guest in the Bakers' house while Just Roger, called that because that was how he presented himself, only was known to her through Tommy's stories. He was a typical bully as far as Melinda understood it; short and muscular with a substantially undershot jaw that became even more prominent because he had a habit of holding his head cocked. It was not the guards she would have chosen to accompany her but they would have to do.

Sherwood Forest was thick but naked around the little retinue and Melinda let her eyes dart from tree to tree. It was getting dusky and she was beginning to feel slightly discouraged, sensing the first heavy drops from a late autumn rain fall upon her untied hair. She had expected this part of her plan to be quick yet it seemed to go on forever.

"Are you sure this is where they use to be?" she asked Just Roger in a hushed voice.

"Yeah it's prime outlaw territory alright," the guard grunted. "Look, are we done soon? It's getting bloody cold."

"Oh shush," Melinda exclaimed, then lowered her voice to a murmur again. "Why is it that big lads like you always whine like little girls when it comes down to it?! I will shout again, give me a rough shuffle--"

"Look I'm still not sure," John suddenly said.

"What?"

"Just wha' we're saying and stuff."

Melinda tried not to roll her eyes. They had been out here for hours trying to catch the outlaws' attention and that dumb-wit still didn't have a clue about anything. He had the intellectual prominence of a goldfish!

"It's easy!" she whispered. "Listen. My late husband worked in the castle right?"

"Yeah Tommy-boy, 'im I knew alright."

"Yes, and he was killed in service. Now Guy suspects that he nicked stuff from the castle and hid it in the forest."

"He does?"

"No," Melinda sighed. "But that is the story. Now you have taken me 'ere because you want me to find the stolen stuff, right? It's either that or death."

"Dunno," John peered at her and crumpled his face in thought. "Some stuff is true and then some ain't—it's confusing that's all I'm saying."

"We'll get them outlaws' attention," Melinda ignored the objections. "And when we do they will try and save me, because I'm all poor and needy you see. All you 'ave to do is say 'If you save her she'll become an outlaw'. You think you can manage that? They will save me, and then I'll be in."

"Yeah about that, in where exactly?"

"In their gang," she sighed and turned to Just Roger. "Now give me another shuffle and I'll scream."

"Again," Roger grunted.

"Yes again! You get paid for this lads, don't you forget that. Sir Guy ordered you 'ere. He's mate of mine - now what is he to you, ey?" She cringed as she heard her voice form the word 'mate', referring to Sir Guy of Gisbourne. Indeed she had no love for him; he was merely a person who happened to have sufficient resources and hate the right people. Their friendship was temporary and founded on common enemies rather than shared tenderness.

Just Roger's hand closed around Melinda's arm and he shuffled her forward, forcing a loud shriek from her lips.

"No!" she yelled. Her voice was getting hoarse from all this yelling and she swallowed to gain new strength. "No please don't hurt me! I'm telling you I don't know where the money is!"

"Listen wench, if we return to Nottingham without 'em you will hang you will." Roger spoke the rehearsed words in a loud voice that clashed with the way he stared uninterested at the surroundings.

"No! Don't hang me!" Melinda yelled, pausing to hear if there was any sign of approaching outlaws. "Please! I'm just a widow! Let me go!"

"You heard the lady, let her go."

Melinda hid a smile and turned to the voice. At last they were here! Robin Hood and two of his men appeared from behind a tree, emanating out of nowhere by the looks of it, with the weapons drawn and aimed at the guards. Just Roger muttered 'finally' and gripped Melinda's arm harder.

"This is Sir Guy's business. Do not interfere." He said and turned to John Dibley who stood with a dumb look in his face. "Your key," he murmured.

"Mine?" John answered puzzled. "Oh right—um. If you—if you take her she will become an—no wait—she will be—she will be—"

Melinda shut her eyes and let her head dip down. Could it sound any more rehearsed?! That fool! Her hair draped around her face and she murmured 'an outlaw' so low that only the guards could hear it.

"Oh?" John continued. "Oh, an outlaw! She will be an outlaw if you—if you—then she will be outlawed!"

Robin Hood and his men stared at the little retinue with suspicious looks, seemingly unsure how to react to the peculiar situation.

"They're not Guy's best men are they?" one of the outlaws pointed out and turned to Robin who held his bow aimed at the guards.

"Hardly," Robin answered with a snorting laughter. "Outlawed you say? Good, I need new recruits. Now I suggest you let her go!"

The rain had started to pour down and Melinda sensed the familiar smell of wet wool surrounding her. Roger's hand was holding her arm in an absentminded manner as if he was on his way back to Nottingham already. He murmured something sounding like 'bloody rain, bloody outlaws, bloody woman, I'm bloody done 'ere I tell you', and she heard the chain mail rustle as he scratched his crotch with the other hand. Hood's words caused him to let go of Melinda and throw her down into the leaves, much in the same way as the matrons threw out the garbage over Nottingham's alleys in the early mornings.

"Alright, don't say I didn't warn you," Just Roger shrugged. "She's a handful this one. Come on Johnny, I need a mug of warm ale me."

The guards sauntered off and Melinda clenched her hand around a fistful of damp leaves in triumph. Tears streamed down her cheeks and she wondered how they could fall so easily when all this was a charade. The poor widow saved by Sherwood's most chivalrous outlaw. Such a sham! A set of footsteps closed in on her and she felt something warm over her shoulders, recognising it as a man's arm draping a cloak around her crouched body. This was it. She was about to meet her husband's murderer eye to eye for the very first time, and all she could feel was a hollow cheer over the successful act she had just pulled off.

"Madam." She recognised the voice as belonging to Robin Hood, and looked up into a pair of concerned eyes as he kneeled by her side. Strange. He was so young and pretty, his eyes so filled with honest compassion when he looked at her. A couple of brown bangs were plastered against his forehead, wet from the rain, and he still held the odd bow clenched in his hand. That bow. The weapon instantly reminded Melinda who she was looking at and she had to force herself not to spit at him. The devil came in all sorts of shapes; from beauty to abhorrence and everything in between. She, if anyone, should know that what appeared innocent and harmless could be nothing but a sleeping dragon. There might be true empathy in his face but in the end that was why she had chosen to get her revenge like this. She needed to know this man, know how a hero could become a villain within the matter of a moment. If she was to kill, she had to know who she was killing. Otherwise she wouldn't be any better than her enemies. "It is alright," the young man continued. "You are safe with us. I will not let those men hurt you anymore. You are a widow?"

Melinda nodded and one of the other outlaws made a little kick against a bough on the ground, causing a rain of damp brown leaves to tumble down the gentle slope they stood on.

"Much," Robin smiled. "Whatever had that branch done to you?"

"Nothing!" the one called Much exclaimed. "It's just—it's just all this! A widow! I mean she has just lost her husband and they treat her like this!? This world—it's appalling sometimes isn't it? Appalling!"

The third outlaw, a big bear-like man, grunted in agreement and put a palm on Much's shoulder.

"This is Much," Robin continued with a smile that was tender but tired. "Don't worry; he is nicer to women than he is to branches. The big man is called Little John—don't laugh—and I am Robin Hood. Our camp is not far from here, and the Sherwood hospitality does not recognise wealth or status. Everyone is a nobleman and everyone is a commoner under these trees. What is your name?"

"Melinda," Melinda responded in a trembling voice, feeling another victorious cheer rise in her chest. "My name is Melinda Baker."

NEXT: The writer of this fic continues to refuse writing any killer rabbits whatsoever into the story. Furthermore, weather the next chapter should be Marian/King/Carter/German dudes or Allan/Luke/Will/Djaq/French people, remains uncertain.