Author stuff: Hey, y'all!
So, this fic is a beast of a thing that I started back in March 2016. Remember March 2016? Yeah. Season 1 wasn't even finished. That's how long it's been sitting in my google docs.
This had mostly been sitting there due to the vast amounts of research and redoing my research and then rewriting and rewriting some more. On the plus side, this is completely written. As in, it's done. However, I will be updating every Tuesday and Thursday. Mostly for my own sanity.
Since I had finished writing this back in February 2017, anyone not introduced before then didn't make it into the story. And then I got too lazy to add them in because trying to work too many characters in was a little complicated. So, y'all get this.
Enjoy!
Summary: Robin Hood AU. (Sort of.) After her father is arrested for harboring and aiding the wanted criminal, Chat Noir, Marinette must seek him out or lose her father to a crime he did not commit.
Noblesse Oblige
by forgottenyogurtgods
Chapitre un
Tricheure's Not So Great Escape
She woke up slowly, different things registering at different times. The smell of rain – of wet and earth and green – greeting her before she even dared to open her eyes. It was early, she could tell by the chill that still lingered in her room and the songs of the birds.
She turned over, pulling the light blankets tighter to her form. It was too early for her to be awake yet. Or she hoped so. The moment she opened her eyes she knew that she would be unable to return to the lull of sleep, no matter what time it actually was. She was half tempted to lie in bed all morning.
Down below, she could hear the sounds of her parents already working in the boulangerie. They had to be some of the first people up in the bastide. No one in Ville sur les Rochers ever awoke without smelling the bread baking inside the village walls.
The heat of the oven was only just starting to penetrate the floor of her room, as it usually did. This was quite the feat, seeing as how there was a whole floor between her and the boulangerie. Shortly after she had been born, her room was built on top of the main house. It was a little tower, of sorts, only accessible through a ladder and a trapdoor.
It was not unheard of for her to pull up the ladder when she wanted to be left to herself and unbothered. Or when she was angry or annoyed with one or both of her parents. This had become a rare event as she got older. She got along better with them – her mother in particular – now that she was out of her adolescence.
Speaking of her parents, she would have to go down soon and help them. There was a lot of dough that had to be mixed, kneaded, shaped, and baked. While her parents could manage the mass of villagers and villeins, her assistance eased the load somewhat.
After another moment or two of lying there, she opened her eyes. Grey light greeted her. She yawned and stretched, letting out a whine as her spine realigned and her muscles got used to moving once more. She wiped the gunk from her eyes, ignoring the feeling of the drool that had dried on her cheek while she slept.
Quick as she pleased, she went about her morning ritual of washing her face and lacing her kirtle, tying her apron around her waist. She braided her hair, pulling it back underneath a linen cloth and pinning them in place. She checked to make sure everything was straight, then started downstairs. She stopped when she saw her bare feet.
She'd forgotten her hose and shoes.
"Good morning, Maman, Papa," she said as she rounded the end of the stairs and stepped into the boulangerie. Her parents smiled at her and welcomed her when they saw her. Her father was kneading the dough, and her mother was checking the fire's temperature for baking.
"Good morning," her father, Tom, said. He bowed down so he could kiss the top of her head, the lowest he could reach while he worked. He was a tall and broad man, almost three times larger than his petite wife and daughter. He didn't seem to mind, though.
"Hello, Marinette," her mother, Sabine, said. She wiped her hands on her own apron, turning and opening her arms to hug the young woman. Marinette was quick to embrace her, pecking a kiss on her cheek. "Did you sleep well?"
"Yes," she said, slowly pulling away. "I had a good dream last night. Can't remember what it was about, but it was happy."
"Ah, maybe it was about some handsome knight who came to sweep you away?"
"No, I don't think so." Her mind went to her memories of the year before when knights would periodically show up in their village while they headed on to fight the war against the Britons.
"Maybe you dreamed about the mysterious bandit, Chat Noir," her father said, wiggling his fingers dramatically at her, "and his Green Men."
"He's just some vigilante," Marinette said, rolling her eyes. "He's going to get someone hurt or, worse, killed one of these days. He might drag the village down with him if he's not careful. People are already talking of an outlaw hunter making his way here."
"That's mere gossip," her mother said, sniffing.
"I know, maman. It's something Alya said a few days ago, and it kind of stuck with me. She said that she heard it from a reliable source, though. Said they both found it funny – though I don't find anything funny about it. But, you know her, she's amused by the strangest things."
"Alya has the strangest sense of humor," her father said. He passed the kneaded dough to his wife so she could start forming it into loaves. Marinette moved to join her, shaping the divided parts into round shapes. They made quick work of it, getting the loaves ready for the oven.
Baking was Marinette's favorite part. She loved the smell of yeast and the first bite into a freshly baked loaf – though, what they were working on had to be sold, not eaten by them. Not long after they finished the first forty loaves, people were lining up.
She knew most of them. They were the villeins employed by the vicomte and apprentices to local shop masters. And those she didn't she presumed were passing through and decided to get an early start, rather than wait for the Sanglier Bleu to prepare breakfast.
They were kept busy until almost two hours before noon. By then, Tom had started off to the mill to retrieve more flour. Sabine prepared the oven for the use of the church and cleaned up the work benches and troughs. Marinette, meanwhile, organized everything that had been exchanged for a day's worth of bread. Wood, cloth, yarn, nails, rabbits, hides. Really, anything they were given was accepted. Tom and Sabine knew everyone had more than one mouth in their homes to feed. While some members of the Guild did not agree with it, seeing as how Rochers was in a rather forested part of the Kingdom of France, they were willing to overlook it.
The rabbits, she decided, would make for excellent stew – though she would have to trade some things for vegetables to go with it. While they had a garden, it wasn't big enough to support all of their needs. Many of their neighbors were more than willing to help them out in exchange for some bread or cheese Marinette made.
The wood was added to their stockpile for the winter, and the yarn was added to her mother's basket inside their house – she rather liked the green hue the wool had been dyed. The nails were added to their repair box. The cloth – which was finely woven and wonderful beneath her fingers – and the soft hides were added to the family stores for later use.
"Marinette," Sabine said, looking out into the yard when her daughter returned back to the boulangerie.
"Yes, maman?" Marinette said
"Tricheure is out of her pen."
"What?"
Marinette peeked out the window her mother was staring intensely out. 'Lo and behold, the brown and white goat was feasting on her mother's pretty blue flowers. Sighing, she grabbed the broom and marched over to the goat. She batted the creature on the head a few times with it.
"Alright, Tricheure," she said, "time to go back to your pen."
She swept the ground near the goat's hooves. Tricheure bleated at her, not caring in the least. Marinette watched in horror as Tricheure continued to eat the flowers, yellow eyes never leaving the young woman as she did so.
"I don't think the flowers are poisonous," Sabine said, "but I don't appreciate her eating them."
Chasing the gravid goat around was not how she wanted to spend her afternoon. Then again, she didn't want to spend most of her afternoons at the boulangerie, but she didn't have much else to do. She looked back at her mother – who was watching her, bemused.
"You know, you could help me," Marinette said.
"No, no. You're doing just fine on your own."
Marinette batted Tricheure with the broom again. Tricheure started toward her, horns set in her direction. Marinette let out a cry and fell back onto her behind. She rolled away and quickly got to her feet. She looked over to her mother – who was trying, and failing, to hide her laughter – a terrified expression on her face.
"Not funny!"
"I don't know," a voice near the back gate said, "looks pretty funny from here."
Marinette glared at the speaker – Alya Cesaire, her best and dearest friend. The two had struck up a friendship when they were fourteen. One of them may have challenged an older, stronger boy who was bullying the other and wound up with a broken wrist.
"I hate you," Marinette said.
"And I love you, Mari of the bluebells."
"Alya," Sabine said in a honey-sweet voice, "could you be a dear and help Marinette with Tricheure?"
"Alright."
Alya ducked out of Marinette's line of sight, grabbing something from the boulangerie – something metal by the scraping sound it made being picked up. It got Tricheure's attention. She started chewing slower and looked back at Alya cautiously.
Marinette waited patiently as Alya walked slowly up behind her.
Three.
Two.
One.
A loud clanging rang behind her, startling her right out of her skin. It startled Tricheure, too. Alya cackled, chasing the goat around to her pen. It seemed that Tricheure knew she would be safe there, because she ran right through the open gate. She bleated pitifully at Alya and trotted into her shed.
"Hey, how do you close the pen?" Alya said, holding the gate closed.
"There should be a rope," Marinette said, attempting to calm her erratic heart. "Where did you learn to do that?"
"There's no rope."
"What?"
"No rope."
Alya gestured to the gate, which swung open just a smidge with a creak. Marinette looked around the pen, trying to spot the rope. It wasn't there.
"Hold on."
She raced back into the house and looked around. She saw her mother's yarn basket and shrugged. It would have to work. She dug for the smallest skein that wouldn't be worth much or be enough to work with.
She brought back the skein and unwound it. She quickly tied it around the gate with a tight knot and smiled.
"There," she said.
"Great patchwork."
"Thanks. Now, where did you learn to do that? The chasing thing with all the noise."
"Oh, that? I know a few goat herders who were willing to spill their secrets over a few pints of ale."
"Always lowering unsuspecting people's inhibitions for information," Marinette said, rolling her eyes.
"It's actually a lot of fun. You know, something you don't have very often?"
"Oh, ha ha." They rounded back to the front of the boulangerie. "She's back in the pen, maman."
"Thank you, dear," she said, finishing the last of the bread for the evening.
"Hey, maman?"
"Hmm?"
"Do you know what happened to the rope that tied the pen closed?"
"No. It's not there?"
"No."
"Oh, maybe your father knows. Be sure to ask him when he returns from the miller's."
"I will."
"Marinette," Sabine said, meeting her daughter's eyes, "go out and enjoy the day. It's nice and you're young."
Alya giggled and grabbed Marinette's arm. She stopped her friend from pulling her away too quickly, so that she could retrieve her bag and a few wheels of cheese to trade for vegetables for dinner. She rejoined her friend, looping her arm through hers, and they set off.
"Want to hear a nice bit of gossip?" Alya said. Marinette groaned.
"You know I hate hearing that kind of stuff."
"Liar."
"I'm not lying."
"But this is about the eldest Agreste son! I know you'll want to hear it."
"Fine. What is it?"
"He's returning from Paris. Apparently, he's finally recovered enough from the injuries he sustained during the war."
"That's… good."
"You don't sound happy about it," Alya said, pulling away to look her friend over. "I thought you had dreams of marrying an Agreste."
"Yes, when we were a lot younger. But I didn't really like the eldest son, he always seemed so… cold, you know?"
"Ah, it was the younger brother. How could I forget that? I'm pretty sure your name and his is still carved into the tree just beyond your yard –"
"Shush!" Marinette said, flapping her hands in Alya's direction. She looked about with wild eyes. "It was a long time ago. Besides, Adrien is, ah, yeah."
Alya winced, recalling the tragic accident that took the lives of Adrien and Gabriel Agreste. It had not been long after Gabriel's wife died, and it had been thought the eldest son, Félix, was dead as well. It had been terrible.
Their home, Champ Vert Manor, had been abandoned for quite a while. Now that she thought about it, Marinette realized, the place had been starting to look like its old pristine self again. All for the arrival of the man who didn't want it.
"Sorry I brought it up. I thought it might have been something you'd be interested in."
"I am interested in it, it's just…" Marinette trailed off, not sure how to properly end the sentence. Alya understood, though. She always did.
They stopped behind the back of the church. Smells from the kitchen permeated the air – the sweet smell of meat and onion and other root vegetables, honey, and… was that cordial? Yes, yes it was. Together, they peeked around the high bushes and into the backyard. Someone was usually outside, caring for the bees or tending to the garden.
Luck had it that the small friar, Brother Fu, was out. He had come to their village when she was still quite young – long before Alya and her family moved to Rochers. He set to teaching the children how to read and write. Some of the other monks frowned upon this – especially since girls were receiving an education, too – and brought it to the attention of the abbott, but it was waved off. It was "God's belief that all his children are equal", after all.
"Good afternoon, Brother Fu," Marinette said, approaching him while he tended to the lovely green cabbages.
"Good afternoon to you," he said, dusting his hands on his habit. He folded them in his sleeves and looked them over. "How can I be of service to you today?"
"We smelled cordial," Alya said, cutting directly to the chase – as she was wont to do. "Any chance of us sampling some?"
He chuckled and waved them along. He led them inside the dimly lit cellar – a place of high windows and golden light, that smelled of burning wood and dust. The heady smell of sweet cherry and the tang of something else mixed in.
"We just made this batch today," Brother Fu said, "so it's not quite ready yet, but we do have some that we made a few months ago. I would be more than happy to have some lovely assistants taste test it for us."
Alya and Marinette beamed at each other, happy to taste whatever they were willing to offer. The monks at their small church were known for making some of the best cordial one could find in their part of the kingdom.
The monks tended to cycle their store of beverages. The newer stuff was left in the back to ferment, the older stuff was brought forward when it was ready for use – to be closer to the entrance of the cellar.
Brother Fu explained this to them as he showed them around the cellar. Though Marinette had been there many times as a child, Alya had never had the opportunity to see it. She stared in awe at the expanse of it.
A monk – whose name escaped Marinette's mind – offered them sampling bowls for the cordial he was working on. Raspberry, Marinette realized. She liked raspberry, but it wasn't her favorite in cordial. She was more fond of strawberry. Alya liked the raspberry best, however. She delighted in the sample.
Brother Fu led them back to the front, where the aged stuff was.
"Be careful, girls," Brother Fu said, "it has a bit of a, uh, bite."
And he was right.
It was sometime before they made their way back to the boulangerie, their cheeks rosy and a little hot under the collar. They were giggling until they saw the look Sabine gave them when they walked up. Try as they might, they couldn't keep a straight expression on either of their faces.
"Hello, maman," Marinette said.
"Girls," Sabine said. "Did you have fun?"
"The brothers at Saint Anne's were very kind," Alya said. "They were making cordial, and we were invited to sample it."
"I hope you two didn't bully those nice men."
"No, maman."
A familiar whistling drew their attention to the road leading up to the bakery. Marinette's father. He smiled at them, pulling the cart around to help easily carry the flour inside the stores.
"Hello, my daughters," he said, ruffling Marinette's hair. He had long since thought of Alya as his second daughter. She was always welcome in the home above the boulangerie, no matter the time of night or day. "Anything new at the Sanglier Bleu, Alya?"
"Maman is trying a new stew recipe," Alya said. "Roasted turnips with seared mutton and browned onions in vegetable broth, served with a side of bread and butter."
"Sounds delicious," Marinette said, already feeling her mouth water. It wasn't often that she – or anyone in Rochers – had mutton very often. It wasn't often that any of them got meat. She'd always been curious as to the taste of it.
"I'll try to see if she'll save a bit for you. You do so much for everyone in the village. It's only right."
"Speaking of," Tom said, retrieving a basket with day old loaves stacked neatly inside. "I do believe my dearest daughter has yet to bring these to the young ones who need them."
Marinette smiled and collected the basket from her father. She started towards the gate, sobering up with each step.
"Feel like joining me on another adventure, Alya?" she said.
"No," Alya said, "I should probably start heading back. Maman could use my help. Katherine and May are good with the customers, but it's almost that time of day."
"Alright, see you tomorrow."
Marinette headed to the center of town, not too far away from her family's boulangerie. She could already see the children gathering in their usual spot. All of them eager to receive the bread – but all too thin and weary.
"Mademoiselle Marinette," one of them said, practically crying in relief. "We didn't think you'd come by today."
"Why wouldn't I?" she said, stepping up onto the wooden box that they always brought out for her. She wasn't sure she wanted to know where they got it from. "Now, youngest first. You know how things go."
It always broke her heart to see so many orphaned – from the war and the Great Pestilence. It didn't matter what caused them to congregate in Rochers – the biggest bastide in the area – it just hurt to know there were so many.
She had first brought the idea up to her parents a few years back – offer up the morning old bread to the orphans. Many of the villagers had seen her doing so and often paid more for their share to help cover the cost so more bread could be made for the children. Where any of them got such things, she hadn't the faintest. But she wasn't about to turn away the kindness of others so that she could, in turn, help those who needed it.
When the basket was empty, she bid farewell to those who remained. Many of the older children would share with the younger ones, taking care of one another first and foremost.
"Thank you, Mademoiselle Marinette," said the oldest of the orphans, Jaques. "We don't know what we'd do without you."
"I'm glad I can do something," she said. "If any of you need anything, anything at all –"
"We know. You're not far away. Really, Mademoiselle Marinette, we'll be fine. You should get going home. A lady such as yourself shouldn't be out so late."
"I'm hardly a lady."
"But compared to most of us," one of the girls said, a sweet faced girl with brown eyes, "you're very much a lady."
"You act like one," said one of the boys, "and you look like one, too."
The others agreed wholeheartedly, making Marinette blush. She wasn't quite sure how to respond. Thankfully, one of the boys realized that and sent her off for all of them. She promised to be back with more bread the next day, when she was able.
When Marinette returned, she checked Tricheure's gate. It was still secure, though the petulant goat was glaring at her, as if she'd been the one to chase her back to her pen.
Her father saw her out there, a frown on his face when she entered the home.
"Something wrong with Tricheure?" he said.
"No," she said, shaking her head, "at least, not now. She did get out earlier. Alya had to chase her back to her pen. The rope is missing. Do you know what happened to it?"
"I took it with me today, but I left rocks in front of the gate to keep it closed."
Marinette shrugged.
"Maybe she knocked them down to get out. Anyway, it doesn't really matter."
"Anyone hungry?" Sabine said, offering up two steaming bowls with good hunks of bread in them. Tom and Marinette took them from her, happy to lick the juices and broth from their fingers and arms.
They were part way through their meal when there was a knock on the door. They all stopped, looking at one another. No one was expecting any visitors. Slowly, Tom got to his feet and opened it. Marinette and Sabine followed him.
The Sheriff and a few of his men stood outside, the lot of them looking abashed and awkward. The Sheriff met Tom's eyes when the door opened.
"Is something the matter?" Tom said, looking at each of them. Marinette reached forward and grabbed her father's hand, squeezing it. He squeezed back. "We were enjoying our dinner."
"Thomas Dupain," the Sheriff said, nervously. He wet his lips before continuing. "Thomas Dupain, you are under arrest. We have eyewitness accounts of you harboring and aiding Chat Noir, a wanted outlaw, menace to the village, and a thief."
Author stuff cont'd.: (jazz hands) And that's chapter one, friendlies.
Look forward to seeing all of you again on Thursday.