Chapter 12: Journeying north

Allan had never realised how much he liked having feeling in his bottom. It was not something he had ever felt the need to consider. But having spent four long days in the saddle, his mind and nerves deadened until all he could feel was the steady rhythm of rocking back and forth in time with his horse's movements, his rear end was thoroughly and completely numb.

He wriggled slightly, trying to alleviate some of the numbness and achieve some semblance of sensation, but only managed to disturb his balance and had to throw his weight to the right to prevent himself from losing his seat. The horse fretted beneath him, Allan's unsteadiness alarming it.

Allan muttered some nonsense words to calm the horse, relishing the fact that he could finally loosen his tongue. The tense ride north had allowed little opportunity for conversation, and the silence had tested his patience to the limits. All he wanted to do was break into a lairy tavern ditty, but he was loathe to offer himself as a target for Robin's tongue, which was becoming sharper the longer they travelled.

The long journey, along with the anxious atmosphere, had provided the perfect opportunity for a lot of thinking and self-analysis. However, if there was one thing in the world Allan could not stand, it was having to spend more than five seconds thinking about something. Especially if that thing was himself, and his own messed up life.

He honestly did not know what to do next. He didn't even know who to be, or how to act; he had become so good at putting on a show, so accustomed to wearing a mask, that he didn't know who he was anymore. He had vowed to himself that he would return to his old self, only concerned with number one; but he didn't like who he had been before. Allan couldn't believe just how selfish he had been in the early days of the gang, and detested the memory of being a traitor. He liked being the new Allan, who enjoyed going on deliveries because he got to help people and see their gratitude. No longer was he only interested in the thrill of the chase; he enjoyed the simple pleasure of a grateful smile from a mother with a newborn babe, or a father whose pride was damaged as he could no longer provide for his family. He liked the fact that he was willing to put his own neck on the line for others, instead of trying to save his own skin.

The only problem was that with his newfound sense of himself came the new understanding of his feelings and emotions. It had been so much easier when he could satisfy himself with a tumble in a hay barn or lecherously pinch the bottoms of the tavern maids; when he could joke about his escapades and boast about women because love meant nothing to him, and the concept of loyalty to a woman was entirely alien.

But now he was in love, and as he had always believed it was more hassle than it was worth. He just didn't know what he was doing wrong – he had decided to confess, no matter how hard it had been for him, rather than spend months mooning after her as Will had done with Djaq. But it hadn't worked, and now he was tormenting himself, wondering if he should have bided his time and slowly worked his way into her affections by proving himself to her.

His ruminations were interrupted by a shout from ahead and Allan almost fell from his horse for the second time in ten minutes. He had been slouched in the saddle, his mind wandering, and the abrupt yell shocked him. Yanking at the reins he halted his horse and looked at Robin, following his pointing finger. Shading his eyes from the sun he could make out rough outlines of cottages and fences, shimmering in the hazy sunshine.

"About bloody time," Allan muttered, before mustering an innocent look as Much sent him a chiding glare.

They had ridden further north than Allan had ever been before. They had travelled through Yorkshire, passing close to Rochdale. He hadn't mentioned his hometown despite their proximity to it, and had been relieved that none of the others had broached the subject. They had continued through the valleys to the north of Rochdale, surrounded by green hills and burbling streams, before passing into open grassy plains where a fresh spring breeze blew back the hair of the riders and encouraged the playful spirits of the horses. Further north still and mountains had risen on the horizon, until they were riding beneath rocky crags mottled by lichen and stubbled with growths of gorse that clung to the outcrops with thorny fingers. Finally, after four long days and restless nights, the village of Hayworth was in sight.

"Remember to guard your tongues," Robin warned them, looking pointedly at Allan. "Esther is known as Rose now, to protect her and the boy. Do not let your tongues slip and give them away."

With that he urged his horse forward again and the others followed, guiding their steeds towards the village at a gentle pace so as not to alarm the villagers. As they approached a few of the farmers working in the surrounding fields looked up in mild interest and a cluster of children with matching dirty knees and laughing, expectant faces gathered by the entrance to the village, the shyer ones hanging back.

Allan was struck by the difference between Hayworth and the villages in Nottinghamshire. In Locksley, Clun and the others the villagers were terrified of any strangers in case they were associates of the Sheriff. Their villages were supposed to be refuges, safe havens; but they had been invaded and pillaged many times over by the authorities that were supposed to protect them, and they were fearful of any newcomers. Here, though, they received only a couple of wary looks from washerwomen hanging their dripping bedclothes on washing lines.

Robin reined in his horse next to a man squatting on a stool fletching arrows and dismounted swiftly. "Excuse me," he began politely. "Do you know where I can find Rose?"

The man looked up. "Rose, eh? And what would a young whippet like you be wanting with our Rose?"

"We have a mutual friend," Robin offered by way of explanation. The man narrowed his eyes, seemingly suspicious of his reason, but sensed that Robin was not willing to explain any further.

"Down the lane and on the left, behind the pig pens," the man said shortly, turning his attention back to his arrows.

"Thank you," Robin said graciously, with a slight smirk at his comrades. The other outlaws all dismounted and they led their horses through the village, tethering them to the fences around the pig pens, before approaching a small thatched cottage tucked away in the shade of a mighty beech tree. A young boy with a crop of sandy brown hair was swinging a roughly made wooden sword in wild arcs. "William?"

The boy turned his head, but as his attention was caught his sword was above his head and the sudden shift in balance sent him tumbling to the ground. He looked up sheepishly as Robin chuckled. "Hello," he replied, rubbing a dirty hand over freckled cheeks.

"Is your mother in?"

The boy nodded and scrambled to his feet. The front door was ajar and he pushed it fully open. "Ma?" the boy called. "There's people here wanting to see you.

There was a pause, then a rustle of skirts as a woman came to the door. She was wiping floury hands upon an apron that covered her skirts, and her hair was tied up beneath a kerchief, but her face was not tired and drawn like the faces of the women in the Nottinghamshire villages. In fact, her face was striking, with high cheek bones and shining eyes. It was easy to see how the King had taken a fancy to her. "Can I help you?" she asked, her face kind but her tone laced with suspicion.

"My name is Robin Hood," Robin introduced himself. "And these are my men. I need to talk to you – it is urgent. And private." He cast a glance at the boy, who was listening with wide eyes.

"Why should I trust you?" Rose asked.

"I have come on behalf of Richard," Robin replied carefully. Rose gasped, clutching a hand to her mouth as if to stifle the sound that had already escaped. Still covering her mouth, the other hand clutched against her stomach as if she suddenly felt nauseous, she backed into the house. Robin took it as an invitation and followed her, along with Much, whilst John took up his usual position of look out and Allan turned to the boy who was staring at the door to the cottage as it swung closed.

Allan picked up the wooden sword that had clattered to the dusty ground when William fell. He offered it to the boy. "You're handy with a sword," Allan told him. "You'd make a good fighter."

William beamed as if he had just received the greatest praise in the world. "I'm gonna be like my pa," he said proudly. "Ma always says he was a great warrior." Allan searched awkwardly for a change of topic, not wanting to discuss the boy's father, but William rescued him. "Is that a real sword?" he asked, his eyes widening even further as he pointed at the sheath hanging from Allan's belt.

"Yeah," the outlaw replied, sliding the sword from its sheath and laughing as William's young face brightened with the utmost delight. "Here." Squatting on the ground he very carefully handed the sword over. As William examined every inch of the gleaming blade Allan kept one eye on the cottage, wondering what was happening within its walls.

Inside the cottage Rose was perched on a chair, elbows resting on the table, her fingers still clutched to her face. Robin had told her his story and she believed him, but was still shocked at the turn of events.

"So Richard…Richard is alive?" she whispered, looking at them hopefully.

Robin nodded. "The last we heard, he is well. But you and William are in danger. We are to take you under our protection until the King sends word for your future. I imagine he will wish you to be taken to where his mother is being protected."

"But we can't…we can't just leave!" Rose fretted. She had absentmindedly pulled the kerchief from her head and was now twisting it nervously between her fingers.

"Rose, you are not safe here," Robin said quietly. "Neither is William."

She stared at him, her hands suddenly still, then expelled a weary sigh. "I know," she admitted. "I knew we would never be truly safe here."

"We will leave at dawn," Robin instructed. "Tell no-one of our plans."

XX

As the first fingers of sunlight danced through the mist that hung over the village, causing the droplets of dew that clung to the blades of grass to sparkle, Rose shouldered a pack and crept from her cottage, leading a sleepy William by the hand. She paused briefly to cast a wistful look at the building she was leaving behind; she knew that her life would now be uncertain for many months, and she would have nowhere cosy and welcoming to call home.

She crept through the quiet village, wincing when William sent a stone skittering across the path and when a cow let out a soft moo. She was terrified that someone would emerge from their home and ask her what she was doing, but she was soon out of the village and unnoticed.

The previous night, the outlaws had left the village with a small wagon that would bear Rose and William back to Nottinghamshire. They were hiding beyond the treeline a few hundred yards from the village boundary, where they had slept, so as not to arouse suspicion. As soon as Rose and William reached the temporary camp they were settled into the wagon, and as the sun rose above the horizon the wagon began to travel southwards, surrounded by its guard of outlaws.

The wagon creaked and groaned as it trundled over the rough road. When the sun was high in the sky the group stopped for a short rest, before continuing on their journey. They hadn't been travelling for long before Robin's sharp eyes caught movement on the horizon.

Standing in his stirrups he shaded his eyes with a hand, squinting in the sunshine. He could make out three horses and riders moving swiftly up the road on which they were travelling.

"Trouble?" Allan asked, guiding his horse to pace beside Robin's.

"No," Robin replied, shaking his head. "Can't be soldiers; there are only three. Probably travellers. Just act normally."

They continued on their way. Despite Robin's assurances all the outlaw's muscles had tensed, and they each had a hand resting upon their preferred weapons. As the distance between them and the approaching riders shortened, a shout was borne upon the breeze.

"Sounds like a woman," Much said with a frown.

Allan squinted into the distance. "It's Cass!" he said delightedly. "And Will."

The relief was palpable, but short lived, as Robin's brow furrowed. "There must be something wrong, I told them to stay behind."

As Much and John stayed with the wagon Robin and Allan rode forward to meet Cassie, Will and Tristan. As they reached them Cassie pulled her horse to a halt, gasping for breath. The horse's flanks were heaving, its coat stained with sweat. When they had broken camp that morning Will had realised that Gisborne and his guards had set up an encampment only a couple of hundred yards further down the path, and they had ridden as hard and fast as they dared to stay well ahead of their enemies.

"Gisborne," was the only word Cassie managed to pant.

"He's coming," Will contributed, breathing just as heavily. "We have to go, now."

Robin took charge immediately, formulating a plan even as Will spoke. "Allan, ride back to the wagon," he ordered. "Put Rose on the horse that's pulling it, and tell John to take the boy. We're going to go through the forest."

He pointed towards the trees that lay to the west of the road they had been travelling on. As Allan turned his horse, ready to follow orders, he realised that Robin's face had fallen. The leader was still pointing towards the forest, but emerging from the trees that harboured their escape route was a familiar figure clad in black, followed by two dozen guards whose armour glinted and clanked in the afternoon air.

"HOOD!" came the shout from Gisborne, whose familiar smirk was upon his face.

Robin froze and the blood drained his face as he came face to face with Gisborne for the first time since the Holy Land. For the first time since he had killed Marian. His ears were deaf to Cassie's nervous squeak and Allan's pessimistic mutterings as the world faded until only he and Gisborne were in focus.

Robin kicked his horse into a canter and drew his sword.

Author's Note: Oooh! Robin/Gisborne showdown! Also, to try and avoid confusion, I'm just going to keep calling Esther Rose, because it is what she is known as now. But they are the same person!

I watched the first ever RH ep again earlier and I cannot even put into words how much I love the scene where Much cries in the bath. Its just...incredible. Heartbreakingly incredible!

I think my stories need more Much.

Thank you for the reviews! Oh, and Biancaneve, with regards to age I imagine Tristan to be around 18. And in my head, by this point Luke would be about 16/17? So yeah, a similar age, and a little brother substitute for Will! Although there really is no subsitute for Luke version 2, the hot Luke!