SECRETS KEPT….
Rodger was three months past his twelfth birthday. He and his family traveled into Nottingham one chilly late fall morning, to go to the marketplace and visit with Grandfather. Mother rode next to Father, and Rodger beside Richard. His brother held Ghislaine on his saddle in front of him. She flailed about playfully, and Mother cried, "Be careful of her, Richard! Don't let her fall!" but Rodger wasn't worried. Richard was a very responsible older brother. He wouldn't let his sister fall off. Even if she did, she wouldn't fall very far, because Richard's pony Sam was not much bigger than Prancer.
Ghislaine could ride with him, he supposed, but Starlight was high-spirited, and quite as much as he could handle without a squirmy little sister in the saddle with him. She was only four years old. He didn't want to take the chance that she might get hurt. Sam, on the other hand, was a steady, jolly little fellow, much like Prancer had been. Ghislaine was perfectly safe on his back.
The overwhelming grief Rodger had first felt at Prancer's death had eased somewhat, and he could remember him now without tears. As he'd grown older he'd seen that everyone suffered loss, everyone grieved. It was part of life, and part of growing up. If it wasn't a pet that one grieved for, it was a friend, a brother or sister, or a parent.
Mother had lost her own mother when she was young, and her older brother as well. Father's parents had died in a fire long ago, in a house on the same spot where they now lived. Father never talked about them or his sister Isabella, at least not in front of Rodger. Rodger often wondered how Father felt about these people whose names never crossed his lips. Did he still grieve for them, or was it true what Mother said, that time healed all wounds, or at least made them easier to bear?
He wished he knew more about his parents. Mother would tell him stories about her childhood and her memories of her mother and brother, happy stories for the most part, but Father was silent about his past. When Rodger asked him questions, he changed the subject. Rodger's curiosity about certain mysteries thus remained unsatisfied. Intriguing mysteries, such as those surrounding the former Sheriff Vaisey, whose name was never mentioned by the residents of Locksley without a shudder. What was this man's connection to his father? Was he the reason why some people didn't like his father? For years, he'd heard bits of whispered conversations about the matter, but when he asked openly, no one would tell him.
They reached Grandfather Wallace's house on the outskirts of Nottingham. Mother and Richard and Ghislaine were greeted at the door by Grandfather and his wife, and welcomed inside while a servant led their horses to the stable. Rodger and his father waved goodbye, and continued on their way to the marketplace. They would meet back later to have supper together.
Father and son rode down Nottingham's busy main street, lined with shops and market stalls. Rodger was very conscious of his handsome new set of clothes as they did so. His outer tunic, belted at the waist, was of fine black wool, embroidered at the neck and cuffs with silver threads. He also wore his new boots, tall black leather boots just like Father's.
The Gisbornes always had beautiful clothes, well-made and well-fitted, because Grandfather was a successful cloth merchant who provided generously for his only daughter's family. If the other village boys, dressed in the worn, colourless hand-me-downs and cast-off garments of their fathers, looked upon him with envy, he was careful to make light of his attire. Mother, he knew, would never approve of vanity. She did her part to help the poorest villagers in Locksley by providing them with clothing for their families. She did so quietly and without fanfare, and Rodger, and his father, were rightly proud of her for it.
But with his twelfth birthday had come a new awareness of his appearance. He couldn't help but feel a measure of forbidden pride when the townspeople turned admiring glances toward him and his father, wearing their fine clothes and riding their beautiful horses as they made their way down the street. He and Father always seemed to have these experiences when they rode together into Nottingham. People watched them. From some came nods of acknowledgment and respect, from others even an amicable smile.
Occasionally, however, they were the recipients of a hostile glare, and today was one of those days.
A young man and a boy stood together at the front entrance of a shop, and stared, with unfriendly eyes, at him and his father as they passed. Why? They were just riding their horses down the street on market day, among the throngs of buyers and sellers.
"Father, why is that man looking at us?"
"What man?"
"There, in the doorway of the shop we just passed. See? There's a boy standing next to him."
"You can't stop people from staring if they want to, Rodger. Just ignore them if it bothers you."
Rodger turned around and looked straight ahead, as Father did, but he felt as if the two pairs of eyes were now boring into his back. He forced himself not to look around at them again, in case they were still watching.
"Don't wander too far, Rodger," Father said as they pulled up in front of a business, dismounted, and tied their horses. "I won't be very long."
He gave Rodger a smile, and briefly reached toward him and laid his hand on his shoulder. Rodger smiled shyly back, and thought of Eleanor. She and her father were the best of friends. Why couldn't he have such an easy, comfortable relationship with his father?
At least Father had finally stopped whipping him for misbehaviour. Not that the other boys in the village weren't whipped by their fathers. Oh, no. Some of them even boasted about how they endured it without a whimper, or declared that someday they were going to wrestle that stick out of their father's hand and break it—you'd see if they didn't!
Rodger was certain they were just bragging. He knew the friends of his childhood too well not to know that they were every bit as scared of their fathers as he was of his own father. He only wished he could laugh it off afterward as they did, but every experience at the end of Father's belt, even if it was, in hindsight, admittedly deserved, had been an agony of humiliation. Eleanor had her own grounds for bragging. Her parents had never whipped her for anything, so she had nothing to fear from her father and was free to be chummy with him.
Though the physical punishments had ceased, Father remained stern and hard to please. It was impossible to imagine ever joking and laughing with him as Eleanor did with Uncle Robin. But when Father's approval rested upon him as it did now, and it showed in his smile and his strong hand gently touching his son's shoulder, it meant everything to Rodger.
Guy disappeared into the leather worker's shop to pick up his new coat, leaving Rodger to explore the other shops and stalls in Nottingham's busy main street. So much to see and hear and smell! It was a delightfully grown-up feeling, too, to be allowed to walk around on his own without Father and Mother, or his younger brother and sister tagging along.
He went from stall to stall, but not without purpose. He hadn't told Father that he was looking for a gift for Mother. A dismal cloud of guilt from those broken vases still hung over his head, even though it had happened years ago when he'd been a child. Well, he wasn't a foolish little boy anymore. He was much older and wiser now, and eager to get Mother a truly special gift.
He came upon a jeweler's stall. Mother liked necklaces. Perhaps a new necklace for her? He fingered some necklaces that were far too expensive for the small amount of money he carried, and sighed. Maybe Father could help him out a bit. He stepped away from the stall, and looked back to see if Father was out of the shop. Instead, to his surprise, he found himself looking straight into the face of the scowling boy from the doorway.
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Guy shrugged into the new leather coat and flexed his shoulders.
"Fits good," he told the shopkeeper. He checked his reflection in the mirror.
"Any alterations, Sir Guy?"
"No, this will do nicely. My compliments to the tailor."
"Thank you, sir. I will let him know."
The man beamed happily. People could say what they liked about Sir Guy of Gisborne, but he had been one of his best customers for many years, and it gave him great satisfaction to fit his creations on a man who wore them so well.
Besides, Sir Guy was unfailingly polite to him now. Gone were the days when he simply flung his payment on the counter and stalked out of the shop with his purchase. Or worse, exploded in angry threats of serious bodily harm if his order wasn't ready on time.
He'd made clothes for Sheriff Vaisey, too, once upon a harrowing time. Now, there was a customer whom no one in his workshop was sorry to see dead and buried!
Guy paid for his coat, and went outside to his horse. Unobtrusively, he pulled out the two knives secreted away in his old coat, and slipped them inside the hidden pockets of the new.
He never left home unarmed. No one knew that he carried a concealed dagger or two with him whenever he went into Nottingham, though he sensed that Meg, and possibly Robin, suspected as much.
Both Robin and Meg had demonstrated a remarkably uncanny knack for reading his thoughts. But they also understood how uneasy he felt every time he went in public. If they were aware of the daggers in his coat, they said nothing of it.
Walking around with his sword on his hip was just asking for trouble, but the smaller and well-hidden weapons gave him a sense of security. They were easy to reach if, God forbid, he ever needed to defend himself. He wore his heavy leather coats in town, whatever the weather, for the same reason. He couldn't walk around Nottingham dressed in a mail shirt and helmet, but he wore the next best thing whenever he left his house in Locksley.
Years ago, when he'd been Vaisey's hated and feared lieutenant, his coats had been designed with extra padding in certain places. He hadn't been able to keep many secrets from Vaisey, but this was one he did keep. In that final swordfight with the former Sheriff, Vaisey's blade had cut through the leather and the padding, and gouged his skin, but went no deeper. He had a long scar across his chest to remind him, but the coat had saved his life.
Since then he had upped his protection even further. The tailor cleverly hid a light and flexible barrier of chain mail between the lining of the coats and the thick leather shell, which made his coats strong enough to turn the blade of all but the most determined assassin. The extra expense was worth it to Guy for the peace of mind.
He had promised Meg solemnly, on the night she agreed to marry him, not to lose his temper and resort to violence, and so far he had lived up to his promise. The malignant stares from some of the townspeople provoked him, but he had his children to think of. Especially did he think of Rodger, who watched and imitated his every action. He didn't want his son to follow down the same dark path that had nearly destroyed him and everyone he cared for.
Having secured the knives in his new coat, he untied their horses and started down the market street to look for his son.
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"Hello," said Rodger politely.
The boy didn't answer him. He was younger than Rodger, fair-haired, with a round face and snub nose, and bright blue eyes that might have been friendly and pleasant if he were smiling. Instead, his expression was decidedly hostile. Rodger felt his own face begin to flush under the boy's penetrating stare.
"Did you want something?" Rodger asked when the silence became unnerving.
The boy stepped closer to him.
"You're Guy of Gisborne's son, aren't you?"
The boys in Locksley village teased him on occasion, but it was good-natured ribbing for the most part. They liked him. This boy, however, this stranger, did not. There was something hatefully repellant staring out from the Nottingham boy's eyes that Rodger had never encountered before. Almost unconsciously, he backed away a couple of steps.
"Yes, I am. My name's Rodger of Gisborne. Why do you ask?"
The boy leaned in toward him and spat the words into his face. "Did you know your father's a murderer?"