I apologize for the very liberal use of translation software. I do NOT apologize for making you imagine it tho.
Guest reviewer: thank you very much! I'm so glad you're enjoying this story, and I hope you like where it's going. :)
Parlay
Nine year–old Guy of Gisborne clutched his forearms tightly as his father led his mother, dressed in her finest gown and delicate lace cap and veil, into the massive room. He trailed behind, accompanied by his father's men, listening to the guttural chatter of servants and lords alike.
It was a split-tongued version of his French. Equal parts Norman, Norse, and Latin were chewed and spat into his ears as he held his head high in the onslaught.
His mother turned to him and bent to speak softly. Like polished silver, her voice.
"Nous ne serons pas longs, mon doux. Sois patient avec eux." (We will not be long, my sweet. Be patient with them.)
"Oui, Maman." (Yes, Mother.)
Guy allowed himself to be guided away and sat with a priest whose Latin was only somewhat better than his French.
…
Thirteen year old Guy of Gisborne struggled to understand. The world was simple, black and white. If someone was wrong, they needed correction. If they were right, they deserved reward. Thus, if he was wronged, he should punish the ones responsible.
His mother stood like a statue as he raged with the clumsy passion of a boy.
"Maman, they were wrong to lie! I did not do all they said!"
She watched in silence.
"I do not deserve this shame! Our house does not deserve it!"
His words were met with a raised eyebrow.
It only made him more frustrated. "Why will you not help me? Do you like seeing me this way?"
His mother sighed, and secured her embroidered shawl around her shoulders.
"Mon fils, il n'y a rien que je puisse dire pour te calmer quand tu es en colère." (My son, there is nothing I can say to calm you when you're angry.) She laughed darkly. "Et certainement pas dans cette langue barbare." (And certainly not in this barbaric language.)
Guy's anger ebbed. "Tu ne mérites pas ça." (You do not deserve that.) Just saying the words felt better. He slumped into a nearby chair and felt his shoulders droop. "Tu mérites mieux que cet endroit froid et laid." (You deserve better than this cold and ugly place.)
With a wave of her elegant hand, she dismissed the idea. "Donc, ces amis à vous. Y avait-il de la cruauté? Étiez-vous blessé?" (So these friends of yours. Was there cruelty? Were you hurt?)
"Non." (No.)
"Mais vous avez offensé, puis ont été rejetés..." (But you offended, and then you were rejected...)
He squirmed under her scrutiny. "Oui." (Yes.)
His mother knelt down next to him on the hard floor. Guy tried to stop her, for his mother should never stoop on the hard stones, but she placed her hands on his knees and held his hands.
"Quand nous sommes rejetés par ceux que nous aimons, nous ne les rejetons pas non plus. Tu te souviens de ce que nous faisons?" (When we are rejected by those we love, we do not reject them too. You remember what we do?)
Guy drew shuddering breaths. Here were lessons learned over a life of being on the outside, being different. Of being the shy, quiet foreigner in a land of obstinate, loud people.
His mother tried so hard.
Guy took his mother's hands in his and closed his eyes. He drew her words from deep within.
"Si vous avez fait du tort à quelqu'un et qu'il vous rejette, donnez une deuxième fois et une troisième." (When you have wronged someone and they reject you, you give a second time, give a third time.)
She pressed her forehead against his.
"N'arrête jamais. N'arrête jamais de donner à ceux que tu aimes." (Never stop. Never stop giving to those you love.)
…
Sixteen year old Guy of Gisborne did his best to hold very still. He and the other young conscripts were being inspected and he desperately wanted to get away from the ranks of common soldiers. He'd even prepared a set of ready answers to most questions he imagined the Sergeant-at-arms and the constables might ask.
His teeth were dispassionately inspected, his shoulders shaken to ascertain their build, and his legs prodded to discern their strength. He expected this. It was disgusting, but not surprising.
What was surprising was the man who did none of these things. The sharp-faced little man peered at them all, then pulled the master aside.
"Tell me, are any of them able to read?"
The master shook his staff at them. "Letters! Step up!"
Guy and two others stepped forward.
The sharp faced man approached them.
"Not you." He nudged he first boy back with a finger, then looked up into the face of the second boy.
"Name."
The boy had barely made a sound when the man raised a hand to silence him.
"You're Welsh. I though you said they could read?"
Finally, the little man stepped directly in front of Guy. Guy, who had grown quite tall despite his spare rations, kept his eyes straight forward, and so could barely see the top of the man's head.
The man whistled to call the master.
"This one. Who is he?"
"Guy of Gisborne. Landless lord."
The man made a noise of lazy interest. "Educated, then?"
The master shrugged. Guy doubted he knew what it even meant, but he also knew better than to answer for himself.
Guy suddenly found himself pulled down to his knees by his collars. The little man stood over him now, face darkened by the sun behind him, blinding at the edges. The man came closer, and spoke by his ear.
"Think you're special, do you? Better than these pikers?"
Guy looked straight ahead. There was no possible answer.
The man continued. "You're landless. Which means you've lost lands. Which means you're full of fire, something they wouldn't understand. So if you won't say it, I will. You are better than them."
The little man lifted a heavy purse and tossed it to the master. "Have Guy of Gisborne's things thrown in a bag and brought to my carriage."
He turned to Guy again. "I am Vaisey, a constable of Staffordshire."
The silence turned to something else. Finally, after many seconds, Guy looked up. "Yes, my lord. I look forward to being in your service, my lord."
Vaisey rolled his eyes. "French. Well, Guy, keep an English tongue in your Norman head or you're like to lose it."
…
Twenty-one year old Guy of Gisborne grinned in appreciation when the kitchen girl leaned over ostentatiously to serve him his plate, her full breasts nearly spilling out onto the platter alongside his portion of roast.
She was French. Moved with her father some three years ago to serve the sprawling branches of the Plantagenet royal family, but found themselves unwelcome in much of the country. Nevertheless, her father was a good man and she a fine kitchen girl, and would no doubt be a good cook someday.
Judging by her figure and pretty face, she was like to end up a wife before too long.
But beside that, she was a rare chance to hear his language spoken by a native tongue. He had grown rusty after years of disuse, but after a few visits to the kitchen he was weaving flirts in between begging for sweets and beer.
"Enjoy your supper, m'lord." She bobbed her head with a smile and started to leave.
"Cateline, wait," he called softly. "Will I see you later?"
She paused, then turned with a tiny, secret smile.
"Oui."
.
The next day found Guy serving as Vaisey's head guard. He led the escort around Vaisey's carriage and circled around the column as they traveled to Vaisey's next meeting.
As he wove his mount through the trees lining the road, Guy struggled to keep his focus. Flashes of Cateline's hair wrapped around his arm, her sweet smile, and the feel of her breath and lips on his skin kept echoing from the night before.
"Gisborne!"
Vaisey's bellow from the carriage obliterated Guy's musing. He tapped his heels to spur his horse, and trotted up to ride alongside the carriage.
"Yes, my lord?"
Vaisey pulled the curtain aside and, picking his teeth, squinted up at him.
"My dear boy, I meant to mentio this earlier, but I had the most disturbing news." Vaisey paused. His flair for the dramatic was becoming predictable, but Guy knew better than to rush him.
"Oh? What news, my lord?"
"It seems that some servants in my house were found to be leperous," Vaisey snuck a glance up at Guy, who kept his face carefully frozen.
Vaisey feigned interest in the forest beyond. "It's said they brought their pollution from Gaul. A certain kitchen maid and her father? I heard you knew the girl?"
A patch of rough road allowed Guy to look away. The horse would have avoided the pits and rocks without his help, but Guy could not help reacting.
"Cateline," he uttered, before he could claw the name back.
"Ah, yes. Well, they're being shipped to the colony." Vaisey's piercing gaze never wavered. "I cannot possibly risk the rest of my household, can I?"
"No, my lord."
Vaisey jutted his chin with a nod. "Hmm, no."
Guy was about to break away, to continue his patrol, when Vaisey called to him.
"Gisborne," he said sharply.
"My lord?"
Vaisey narrowed his eyes. "Lepers, Gisborne. Lepers."
…
Thirty-one year old Guy of Gisborne stood in the shadows, staring across the main hall. A series of guests had arrived at Nottingham castle and Vaisey was in his element, extracting promises of loyalty from some and pickpocketing the rest. Guy tracked the discussions, movements, and connections of everyone in the hall, though he found himself returning to one subject in particular.
Marian was subdued, muted somehow. She tended her father with a smile but it faded too quickly to be genuine. She winced at the cackle of a painted little ponce bounding by. She was weary, tired in a way that sleep could little help.
Guy wondered momentarily if it had anything to do with the recent sightings of Hood in the castle, but dismissed the idea for another day. If he was irritated when he approached Marian, it was unlikely to help him.
The hall had only recently been re-opened for the warmer months, as it was excessively expensive to heat otherwise. The stone walls were still quite chilly, and though it was comfortable to Guy, he doubted that Marian's father, pale and gray, thought it so.
With a flick of his wrist, Guy signaled to the head of his guard and instructed him to take over the watch. Now to Vaisey.
Bodies parted as he walked across the hall. Guy was a decidedly less festive figure than the surrounding company, who whooped and swilled, toasting futures and fortunes that depended on machinery they did not understand, nor knew their place in.
"Ah! Gisborne, have you come to join the merrymaking?" Vaisey lowered his voice, but not much. "Or are you going to be making Marian? Eh?" He sniggered at his cleverness. "Methinks she needs a better companion than that withered old husk." Vaisey elbowed Guy in the side as his hangers-on giggled.
"My lord, I beg your leave to escort Sir Edward and Lady Marian to their rooms."
A passing serving girl paused and offered her large platter of meat to the group. Vaisey sniffed. "Of course. Get him out before he expires in my party. Though Guy," Vaisey plucked a juicy bit of meat from the platter and held it up. "I admit, I recall your tastes being a bit more… polluted."
Guy had to bite his cheek as Vaisey tongued the meat. He bowed and left without another word. Sometimes that was best.
To say that Marian was happy to see him might be an overstatement, but she was relieved and that was as good a place as any to start.
"My lady, how do you enjoy the party?" He let his smirk tell her his real feelings.
Maran fixed a smile on her face and spoke softly. "How do you think?"
He chuckled. "Will you allow me to escort you and your father?"
She was wary. "Where?"
"Do you care?"
As it so happened, she did not.
Guy waited outside Sir Edward's chambers as Marian assisted him. When she closed the door behind her, Guy offered his arm. She took it.
"I don't want to go back to my rooms yet. I just move from one cell to the next."
"Where would you like to go?" Far better to let her choose. There was no point to an apology.
Marian said nothing. For a few minutes, Guy feared imminent dismissal, but her grip on his arm remained firm and they merely walked, turning at corners with little purpose other than to keep moving. Suddenly she stopped. Guy nearly stumbled.
She stared forward. "Books."
"Come again?"
Marian turned with determined purpose. "Where are the books? There was a small library with some twenty or thirty books and scrolls."
Guy blinked. "Ah, I believe the sheriff… relocated the library. I do not know where."
Torchlight from a nearby pillar danced in her eyes. It had not before.
"But," Guy hesitated. "I may have a few. In my offices. And my private rooms."
Marian drew a shuddering breath. "You may, or you do?"
"I do."
Deliberation was apparent in her eyes. It was unsettling. Guy had seen expressions like that in the faces of men before battle.
"Your offices are too close to the main hall."
With a knowing nod, Guy set them in the direction of his own quarters. He was no fool. She wanted to avoid Vaisey and her own walls. He was the means to that end.
The latch was strangely loud. The bolt banged in its housing like a blacksmith's hammer and anvil and Marian jumped when the metal scraped free. She looked to him nervously.
"Books, Marian. Just books."
She nodded, and slipped by him silently. His heart lurched. There was no denying the satisfaction of seeing her in his space. Guy closed the door and bolted it.
The rooms were far from grand, but they were suitable for a titled resident. The large space was separated into areas, with his bed thankfully far removed from where the chairs were. Marian had her back carefully turned from it.
Guy retrieved his precious two books from their hiding place. So few reminders of his mother remained, but it was fitting that Marian should know of them. He cradled his books carefully and brought them to Marian, who rested in one of his chairs.
She stared into the fire. It set gold in her hair. "Will you read to me?"
"Can you not read?"
"I can. I am tired." The crackling fire held her attention.
Without looking, Guy gently opened a book and began to read out loud.
Marian frowned. "That is French."
Guy looked up. "It is written in French."
She turned her head. "I did not know you could read French."
"I am French."
"Oh." She turned back to the fire and sighed. "Please, keep going."
"Do you understand?"
"No. But I like the sound."
It took a moment to adjust to this knowledge, the idea that Marian liked anything about him. Guy resumed, then tripped on his tongue and felt his face warm. He'd kept the books, secreting them for years and stroking the covers in stolen moments, but forgotten their contents.
Marian stirred after a few pages. "What are you reading?"
"Ah, a poem. A very long poem." It was Tristan and Isolde. He was not about to confess it.
She sighed again, but this time she smiled drowsily. "It's beautiful."
It was not, but Guy continued to read. It was a horridly tragic love story, but she did not need to know that. He read until his throat was raw and Marian's eyes grew soft and dreamy. She need not know that he ended the story while the lovers were still happy.