A/N: I was reading over the marvelous reviews you gave me! Thank you so
much! You're all so loyal! See, some of my other stories get more reviews,
but have no consistent reviewers. All of you are so wonderfully loyal! Just
wanted you to know that it's very, very appreciated.
And I noticed that no one was very impressed with Richard. Well, have no worries, you weren't supposed to be! He's a bullying wimp who only picks on people smaller than he is. (And sometimes even they beat him up) I'm using him as a dim-witted tool for making Robin look better! *cast of characters point and laugh at Richard*
Another thing I have to mention. *sighs with shame* I haven't made up a background story for my sheriff yet, like I have for everyone else, but I really liked Dragon-of-the-North's. Hmmm - but thinking of my sheriff as a possible priest. *sniggers* Definitely like it. The irony kills me.
*** *** *** *** *** ***
THIRD DAY
*** *** *** *** *** ***
Robin staggered back towards the door in the early morning. The sun had not even finished rising, and already they were torturing him. His vision blurred hopelessly, and he felt as if he would fall senseless. Not again.
One of the guards kicked him, and he fell forward into the dungeon. It was a ways down, and he groaned painfully when his bleeding body hit the earth. Someone laughed above him.
"Shall we tighten the ropes round his wrists?" he sneered. The other only laughed. "Nay, the flogging should have been enough - for now. Sheriff's got something else planned." They laughed again, indulgent in the secret jest, and Robin stared at his ropes, wondering what new agony was planned. The tighter they pulled his bonds, the less chance for his broken wrist to heal, and at the moment, it seemed that wrist would never heal. There was much more blood staining them then there had been two days ago. The guards were growing more and more brutal hourly. The skin on his back would likely never heal from the floggings he had been receiving - he winced - every six hours. Yesterday, he had even stooped so low as to beg them to stop. It had been the fourth watch, and it was obvious that they enjoyed the whipping even less than Robin. Sickly had vomited twice at the sight of so much blood, although Domineering was determined to finish his task. But Robin had begged for mercy, gasping in pain, unable to bear another wound across his back. Surprisingly, they had stopped, and all he could think of at the time was his blissful respite from suffering. But his self-disgust had run so deeply afterward that he was unable to plead again. Even the sheriff had heard of it and come down to mock him in person. Robin had endured such derision for the sake of his skin, until his rage could no longer be contained. Then he had returned the insults and earned himself two score more of the lash next flogging. Two score. Cursed sheriff.
He lay his head against the wall, and felt the tears surging behind his eyes. Nay. Robin Hood did not cry. He had not sobbed since he was seven, and now was no time to begin such foolish behavior. But he was not Robin Hood. He was the scrawny peasant impersonating Robin Hood. Robin Hood was not thick enough to trust a member of the nobility. He would have known. But Robin hadn't. He had failed. The tears stung his eyes, pleading to be unleashed, but he could not cry. Instead, he began silently cursing Marian, going so far as to use Saracen and Norman French, until he ran out of insults. But thinking so often of her was crushing his heart into tiny, piercing shards that ripped through him, tearing his chest as the whip had ravaged his back. One solitary drop of saltwater penetrated his callused eye, and dropped to the moldy earth. Robin sighed wretchedly, drawing ragged breaths. One defense broken.
****************** ************* **************
I rode anxiously round the gates of Nottingham Castle. The pale lights of early morning beamed down on me, and the stark brutality of the citadel behind me was somewhat offset. The light yellow glow of morning was beautifully soothing to my frazzled and tortured nerves. My horse, however, whinnied nervously at the surprise of our abrupt halt, but I quickly soothed the loyal palfrey by cooing. A stable boy appeared instantly, and took my animal's reins in his hands.
Suddenly, a tortured cry rang through the air, disturbing the gorgeous glow of the scenery. I winced at the sudden scream, and my horse reared. Good God, who made that sound? I turned hurriedly to the stable boy. "Who screams so?" I asked, yanking my horse's reins out of the boy's hands in order to steady the animal. He shrugged. "It is likely Robin Hood, my lady," he replied, never meeting my eyes, "Or mayhap another one of the prisoners. Either way, 'tis a horrid sound" He cooed to the nervous horse, running his fingers along its nose, and it settled down. The boy had a way with animals, that much was easily seen. His hands dashed up and down the beast's neck, and it quieted instantly at the sound of his calm voice.
The screams would not end. I tried holding both hands to my ears, but the sound permeated through such feeble defenses. I ignored the nervous steward, who began questioning me as I passed. I was oblivious to the skittish pages, who begged me to please wait before disturbing the sheriff.
Instead, I flung open the doors to Nottingham's dungeons. The lord sheriff was leaning contentedly against a wall, humming to himself, arms crossed in smug self-satisfaction. The urge to clout him was so potent I could almost hear the snapping of his delicate nose bridge.
"I take it you enjoy this sound?" I screeched. He grinned. The Lord Sheriff of Nottingham grinned. It was quite the disgusting sight. Sadistic reptile.
"Can you have him scream any louder?" I snapped sarcastically. They had broken him. They had driven Robin to screams. The sheriff smiled again. "What a delightful proposition," he replied. He opened the door in the floor and screamed, "I want then to hear him scream in Barnsdale!" His voice was so full of merriment that it made my stomach churn. Robin immediately stopped screaming. As if he was going to be the cause of any joy for the sheriff.
"Foolish whelp," the sheriff cried, "Stubborn as an ass." From somewhere below our feet, Robin made a loud hee-haw sound. I would have laughed, if my mind had not revealed to me a nasty picture of the torture going on down there.
"Defiant Saxon dog!" the sheriff bellowed, "You will beg for your hanging!" Robin groaned, but still he replied saucily. "Have you not already said that line? Not very original, are we?"
The whip lashed again, and he fell silent, but the sheriff's face was crimson with animosity and frustration as he stared down at his prisoner. He was not used to outright insolence from those he tormented; he was instead accustomed to pathetic weeping and desperate pleading by the second day. It would doubtless take months to conquer Robin's mulish streak, and as the sheriff gazed down, I could tell that his mind was already processing this information. And it made him furious. He kicked the door shut with a loud thud, muttering darkly to himself.
I coughed delicately, attracting his attention. He peered at me, glowering as if I were Robin. And then he remembered who I was. Somehow he composed himself, erasing any trace of abhorrence from his face, and turned to me. "My lady," he said, voice breathy with anger, "have you come for your father?"
"My father returned to our home last evening," I spat, "from his trip to London." The sheriff reddened, and aught but an instant later, turned ghastly white.
"So you know," he murmured. You bet I knew.
** *** *** **** ***** ***** ***** ****
Nan grinned, her eyes alight with internal fire. Her fingers ran contentedly over the outlaw's plan for infiltration. Will nodded, staring at the stick and mud sketch/model. He smiled serenely. They could actually pull it off. Sara dumped another massive bundle of arrows in the stockpile beside him. "Well, I must admit, all that accursed fletching shall pay off." She glared at Will. "But don't you dare tell Robin I said that. I should never hear the end of it."
They all smiled slightly, even moody Adam, whose cap was pulled low over his eyes. David rubbed Nan's shoulder. "Are you sure you do not need to rest?" he asked her. She'd taken two watches last night, to fill in for the one that Robin usually had. She shrugged him off. "I need only payback," she murmured. David sighed. "Nan --"
She stood up. "If we allow the sheriff to think we shall execute a weasel's rescue, slinking in corners and hiding from his 'mighty' soldiers, he will continue to regard us as minor pests. But if we show him what we will do if he dares cross is, he will not attack us."
"Nan, you know that is inaccurate," Will replied, exasperation in his tone, "If the sheriff believes we threaten his 'supreme authority' in any way but as minor pests, he will descend upon us with a wrath. You saw how he treated Robin, and he was ONLY a minor pest." It took a great strength of will not to flinch at those words.
Nan squeezed the earth of Sherwood in her fist, making another building for their plan. "He will have to find us first." Will sighed with annoyance. There was no averting Nan's opinions. She would settle her score, one way or another.
"How are we going to avert the ban against weapons?" David asked, tracing a stick through the dirt, expertly changing the subject. Adam glanced upward, removing his eyes from the shadow for a minute. He had basically designed the plan for rescue, making numerous modifications to Nan's original idea, and was now content to lay back and let the others finish the idea.
Sara grinned broadly at David. "That's where my genius will come in, fox," she chirped, leaping triumphantly to her feet, "Watch and learn."
Sara removed the string from her bow and tucked it into her pocket. Then she leaned against her bow, dragging one foot awkwardly. In an extremely thick English accent, she murmured "Oh, please I do need it to keep myself up, you know," in a voice heavy with exhaustion.
She hopped off the stick, bowing, and then hunched her back, placing one gnarled hand upon the bow and forcing her hair to hang in front of her face. "Eh, need it for my back." She placed a hand on her spine, wincing as if in pain.
An instant later, she strode, using it as a man would. With her hair cut short, and now neatly behind her ears, she could easily pass for one. "It is my walking stick, you know. Came all the way from Yorkshire to see this bloody troublemaker hung. Bastard stole from my cousin. I'll be cheering when the crows get him." She laughed hoarsely, grinning obnoxiously at her own jest. Adam smirked from his corner, head bobbing imperceptibly in consent.
She hopped upward. "Quite a simple thing to do, once one has the hang of it. After all, Nottingham's guards do not expect longbows. Only the Welsh have them." She winked. "They'll be looking for something shorter. Of course, a staff might be more convincing, but we must make due. Need to be able to shoot, after all. And if this charade fails, I can always knock the guard senseless."
David grinned, clapping. "Clever, clever, clever, Sara!" he cried. Adam Bell commended her with a silent nod. Will smiled at her antics. Wasn't she always trying to cheer them up? Nan nodded as well, twirling a strand of her hair thoughtfully. "That is all fine, dearies, but what of the arrows?"
** *** *** *** **** **** ****
A/N: Again, many thanks to Eh, Man for beta-ing this story.
Not my favorite chapter; I got it out too fast, I think. Well, too bad for me.
And for those of you who didn't know, a score is equal to twenty. I found that out when we got the "big" dictionary. That thing has almost every word in it, I swear.
Isn't it kind of funny how there was almost a lull in updates after the Harry Potter book was released? Isn't that funny? It shows what literarily obsessed losers we all are. Yay! Such a bookish little community we have here. Speaking of which, does anyone know what "git" means?
And a question I need to ask you. Did they have chess in the Middle Ages? The dictionary says the word was circa 1150-1200. So, I suppose that they had it in Robin Hoodian times.
And I noticed that no one was very impressed with Richard. Well, have no worries, you weren't supposed to be! He's a bullying wimp who only picks on people smaller than he is. (And sometimes even they beat him up) I'm using him as a dim-witted tool for making Robin look better! *cast of characters point and laugh at Richard*
Another thing I have to mention. *sighs with shame* I haven't made up a background story for my sheriff yet, like I have for everyone else, but I really liked Dragon-of-the-North's. Hmmm - but thinking of my sheriff as a possible priest. *sniggers* Definitely like it. The irony kills me.
*** *** *** *** *** ***
THIRD DAY
*** *** *** *** *** ***
Robin staggered back towards the door in the early morning. The sun had not even finished rising, and already they were torturing him. His vision blurred hopelessly, and he felt as if he would fall senseless. Not again.
One of the guards kicked him, and he fell forward into the dungeon. It was a ways down, and he groaned painfully when his bleeding body hit the earth. Someone laughed above him.
"Shall we tighten the ropes round his wrists?" he sneered. The other only laughed. "Nay, the flogging should have been enough - for now. Sheriff's got something else planned." They laughed again, indulgent in the secret jest, and Robin stared at his ropes, wondering what new agony was planned. The tighter they pulled his bonds, the less chance for his broken wrist to heal, and at the moment, it seemed that wrist would never heal. There was much more blood staining them then there had been two days ago. The guards were growing more and more brutal hourly. The skin on his back would likely never heal from the floggings he had been receiving - he winced - every six hours. Yesterday, he had even stooped so low as to beg them to stop. It had been the fourth watch, and it was obvious that they enjoyed the whipping even less than Robin. Sickly had vomited twice at the sight of so much blood, although Domineering was determined to finish his task. But Robin had begged for mercy, gasping in pain, unable to bear another wound across his back. Surprisingly, they had stopped, and all he could think of at the time was his blissful respite from suffering. But his self-disgust had run so deeply afterward that he was unable to plead again. Even the sheriff had heard of it and come down to mock him in person. Robin had endured such derision for the sake of his skin, until his rage could no longer be contained. Then he had returned the insults and earned himself two score more of the lash next flogging. Two score. Cursed sheriff.
He lay his head against the wall, and felt the tears surging behind his eyes. Nay. Robin Hood did not cry. He had not sobbed since he was seven, and now was no time to begin such foolish behavior. But he was not Robin Hood. He was the scrawny peasant impersonating Robin Hood. Robin Hood was not thick enough to trust a member of the nobility. He would have known. But Robin hadn't. He had failed. The tears stung his eyes, pleading to be unleashed, but he could not cry. Instead, he began silently cursing Marian, going so far as to use Saracen and Norman French, until he ran out of insults. But thinking so often of her was crushing his heart into tiny, piercing shards that ripped through him, tearing his chest as the whip had ravaged his back. One solitary drop of saltwater penetrated his callused eye, and dropped to the moldy earth. Robin sighed wretchedly, drawing ragged breaths. One defense broken.
****************** ************* **************
I rode anxiously round the gates of Nottingham Castle. The pale lights of early morning beamed down on me, and the stark brutality of the citadel behind me was somewhat offset. The light yellow glow of morning was beautifully soothing to my frazzled and tortured nerves. My horse, however, whinnied nervously at the surprise of our abrupt halt, but I quickly soothed the loyal palfrey by cooing. A stable boy appeared instantly, and took my animal's reins in his hands.
Suddenly, a tortured cry rang through the air, disturbing the gorgeous glow of the scenery. I winced at the sudden scream, and my horse reared. Good God, who made that sound? I turned hurriedly to the stable boy. "Who screams so?" I asked, yanking my horse's reins out of the boy's hands in order to steady the animal. He shrugged. "It is likely Robin Hood, my lady," he replied, never meeting my eyes, "Or mayhap another one of the prisoners. Either way, 'tis a horrid sound" He cooed to the nervous horse, running his fingers along its nose, and it settled down. The boy had a way with animals, that much was easily seen. His hands dashed up and down the beast's neck, and it quieted instantly at the sound of his calm voice.
The screams would not end. I tried holding both hands to my ears, but the sound permeated through such feeble defenses. I ignored the nervous steward, who began questioning me as I passed. I was oblivious to the skittish pages, who begged me to please wait before disturbing the sheriff.
Instead, I flung open the doors to Nottingham's dungeons. The lord sheriff was leaning contentedly against a wall, humming to himself, arms crossed in smug self-satisfaction. The urge to clout him was so potent I could almost hear the snapping of his delicate nose bridge.
"I take it you enjoy this sound?" I screeched. He grinned. The Lord Sheriff of Nottingham grinned. It was quite the disgusting sight. Sadistic reptile.
"Can you have him scream any louder?" I snapped sarcastically. They had broken him. They had driven Robin to screams. The sheriff smiled again. "What a delightful proposition," he replied. He opened the door in the floor and screamed, "I want then to hear him scream in Barnsdale!" His voice was so full of merriment that it made my stomach churn. Robin immediately stopped screaming. As if he was going to be the cause of any joy for the sheriff.
"Foolish whelp," the sheriff cried, "Stubborn as an ass." From somewhere below our feet, Robin made a loud hee-haw sound. I would have laughed, if my mind had not revealed to me a nasty picture of the torture going on down there.
"Defiant Saxon dog!" the sheriff bellowed, "You will beg for your hanging!" Robin groaned, but still he replied saucily. "Have you not already said that line? Not very original, are we?"
The whip lashed again, and he fell silent, but the sheriff's face was crimson with animosity and frustration as he stared down at his prisoner. He was not used to outright insolence from those he tormented; he was instead accustomed to pathetic weeping and desperate pleading by the second day. It would doubtless take months to conquer Robin's mulish streak, and as the sheriff gazed down, I could tell that his mind was already processing this information. And it made him furious. He kicked the door shut with a loud thud, muttering darkly to himself.
I coughed delicately, attracting his attention. He peered at me, glowering as if I were Robin. And then he remembered who I was. Somehow he composed himself, erasing any trace of abhorrence from his face, and turned to me. "My lady," he said, voice breathy with anger, "have you come for your father?"
"My father returned to our home last evening," I spat, "from his trip to London." The sheriff reddened, and aught but an instant later, turned ghastly white.
"So you know," he murmured. You bet I knew.
** *** *** **** ***** ***** ***** ****
Nan grinned, her eyes alight with internal fire. Her fingers ran contentedly over the outlaw's plan for infiltration. Will nodded, staring at the stick and mud sketch/model. He smiled serenely. They could actually pull it off. Sara dumped another massive bundle of arrows in the stockpile beside him. "Well, I must admit, all that accursed fletching shall pay off." She glared at Will. "But don't you dare tell Robin I said that. I should never hear the end of it."
They all smiled slightly, even moody Adam, whose cap was pulled low over his eyes. David rubbed Nan's shoulder. "Are you sure you do not need to rest?" he asked her. She'd taken two watches last night, to fill in for the one that Robin usually had. She shrugged him off. "I need only payback," she murmured. David sighed. "Nan --"
She stood up. "If we allow the sheriff to think we shall execute a weasel's rescue, slinking in corners and hiding from his 'mighty' soldiers, he will continue to regard us as minor pests. But if we show him what we will do if he dares cross is, he will not attack us."
"Nan, you know that is inaccurate," Will replied, exasperation in his tone, "If the sheriff believes we threaten his 'supreme authority' in any way but as minor pests, he will descend upon us with a wrath. You saw how he treated Robin, and he was ONLY a minor pest." It took a great strength of will not to flinch at those words.
Nan squeezed the earth of Sherwood in her fist, making another building for their plan. "He will have to find us first." Will sighed with annoyance. There was no averting Nan's opinions. She would settle her score, one way or another.
"How are we going to avert the ban against weapons?" David asked, tracing a stick through the dirt, expertly changing the subject. Adam glanced upward, removing his eyes from the shadow for a minute. He had basically designed the plan for rescue, making numerous modifications to Nan's original idea, and was now content to lay back and let the others finish the idea.
Sara grinned broadly at David. "That's where my genius will come in, fox," she chirped, leaping triumphantly to her feet, "Watch and learn."
Sara removed the string from her bow and tucked it into her pocket. Then she leaned against her bow, dragging one foot awkwardly. In an extremely thick English accent, she murmured "Oh, please I do need it to keep myself up, you know," in a voice heavy with exhaustion.
She hopped off the stick, bowing, and then hunched her back, placing one gnarled hand upon the bow and forcing her hair to hang in front of her face. "Eh, need it for my back." She placed a hand on her spine, wincing as if in pain.
An instant later, she strode, using it as a man would. With her hair cut short, and now neatly behind her ears, she could easily pass for one. "It is my walking stick, you know. Came all the way from Yorkshire to see this bloody troublemaker hung. Bastard stole from my cousin. I'll be cheering when the crows get him." She laughed hoarsely, grinning obnoxiously at her own jest. Adam smirked from his corner, head bobbing imperceptibly in consent.
She hopped upward. "Quite a simple thing to do, once one has the hang of it. After all, Nottingham's guards do not expect longbows. Only the Welsh have them." She winked. "They'll be looking for something shorter. Of course, a staff might be more convincing, but we must make due. Need to be able to shoot, after all. And if this charade fails, I can always knock the guard senseless."
David grinned, clapping. "Clever, clever, clever, Sara!" he cried. Adam Bell commended her with a silent nod. Will smiled at her antics. Wasn't she always trying to cheer them up? Nan nodded as well, twirling a strand of her hair thoughtfully. "That is all fine, dearies, but what of the arrows?"
** *** *** *** **** **** ****
A/N: Again, many thanks to Eh, Man for beta-ing this story.
Not my favorite chapter; I got it out too fast, I think. Well, too bad for me.
And for those of you who didn't know, a score is equal to twenty. I found that out when we got the "big" dictionary. That thing has almost every word in it, I swear.
Isn't it kind of funny how there was almost a lull in updates after the Harry Potter book was released? Isn't that funny? It shows what literarily obsessed losers we all are. Yay! Such a bookish little community we have here. Speaking of which, does anyone know what "git" means?
And a question I need to ask you. Did they have chess in the Middle Ages? The dictionary says the word was circa 1150-1200. So, I suppose that they had it in Robin Hoodian times.