NEW IMPRESSIONS
"Who's that I hear?" called Robin as he came through the front door of the manor. "Is that my little brother?"
He strode into the dining hall with Guy and Meg close on his heels.
"Robin, Guy!" answered Archer as he embraced both of his brothers at once. "Yes, we're back, reasonably safe and mostly sound. I brought the lad with me, all in one piece, as requested."
"Rodger, darling, we're so glad to see you!" cried Meg as she hugged her son. "Archer, thank you for bringing him home to us!"
"Told you I'd look after him. Did you ever doubt me? No, don't answer that, Meg, dear."
He drew back with a teasing grin on his face, and then laughed as he patted Robin's stomach.
"What's this, Robin? The beginnings of a paunch?"
"Give over, it's nothing of the sort!" Robin retorted.
"It sure is. And you've lost more hair, too."
He ruffled his brother's tousled hair, which, although still quite brown, had thinned over the years. He pulled a lock of it down over his forehead. "There, that covers the bald spot."
Guy snickered, but Archer turned on him next.
"And Guy, well, no fat belly at least, but you've gotten grey, haven't you?" He flipped Guy's salt-and-pepper mane with boyish audacity. "What does your lovely wife think of it? Does she tell you it makes you look distinguished, or just old?"
Guy turned to Robin with a roll of his eyes. "What should we do with him?"
"Manure pile, head-first."
"Right. I'll get his arms, you get his legs."
With a simultaneous yell they grabbed Archer before he could make his escape, and bolted out the front door with him.
"Don't hurt him!" Meg called after them, but she was drowned out by the men's thunderous shouts. "Oh, dear."
"Boys will be boys," remarked Marian, "no matter their age. As he's already dirty, Meg, it can't do much harm. And he does deserve it."
Meg looked up at Rodger. "Speaking of dirty! You, young man, are going home straight away and have a long, hot bath."
"Yes, Mother." Rodger turned to grin at Marian. "Now I know for sure I'm really home. Just so long as she doesn't send Anna to my room to scrub me down."
"Go along," laughed Marian. "And enjoy. We'll see you tonight."
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Eleanor came downstairs after Rodger and his mother left.
"Is someone here, Mama?" she asked. "I thought I heard voices."
"Rodger and Archer are home."
"They are? For how long?"
"I believe for good this time."
"Oh."
"They'll be back for supper."
"Oh. How nice."
Marian watched her daughter return to her room without another word. Had she and Rodger written to each other since that awful night she had run off with Robert? If so, Eleanor had not told her. Eleanor had never mentioned Robert's name again, but neither had she spoken of Rodger.
They just need to see each other again to make a fresh start, Marian told herself. It will happen between them. It was meant to be. They just need time.
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Eleanor flipped impatiently through the gowns in her wardrobe. She pulled one out, looked it over, frowned, and thrust it back.
So, Rodger's come home. So what? He has a perfect right to be here. It's nothing to me. I probably won't see much of him anyway. He'll be busy soon, overseeing his family's lands and his part of the village. He'll waste no time finding some sweet girl to adore and worship him, and they'll get married and live in Gisborne Hall. Right next door….
Eleanor sighed. It's nothing to me if he does. Nothing at all. I've had enough of fickle, wishy-washy men. I'll find something useful to do instead. Maybe Matilda would be willing to take me on as her apprentice. Well, I'll think about that tomorrow. What shall I wear to supper tonight? Not that it matters. It's only Rodger. He's nothing to me, nothing at all….
Eleanor took nearly half an hour to decide on a gown—her prettiest one, as it turned out—and she pestered the maidservant Edith until that good woman was in a frenzy of fuss over the arranging of Eleanor's hair and the choosing of her ornaments.
"You look lovely, m'lady," said an out-of-breath and slightly pop-eyed Edith some time later, as she applied the finishing touches and surveyed her handiwork with satisfaction. "As pretty as a bride, I daresay."
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Eleanor joined her parents at the table. She saw them raise their brows at her choice of dress and elaborate hairstyle, but they soon resumed their conversation with each other. They were talking in murmured voices, so she could not hear what they were saying. She twisted her damp hands in her lap and waited for the front door to open. When it did, she jumped in her chair. And then, suddenly, Rodger was in the dining hall, gazing down at her.
Eleanor caught her breath and stared at him, at his six feet plus of black leather-clad masculine beauty. This was Rodger, her childhood friend turned annoyingly lovesick teenager? This tall and impossibly handsome man? It seemed an eternity ago that their drama, now so childishly melodramatic to her, had played out on the balcony of the king's palace. Did I really slap his face?
She rose to her feet. "H-h-hello, Rodger."
He smiled—that wonderful, slow-blossoming smile of his— and her treacherous heart turned her knees to water. He reached for her hand, and held it between both of his.
"Hello, Eleanor."
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"Do you know if Rodger is home to stay?" Eleanor asked her mother the next morning.
"I already told you yes."
"Oh. I thought he might have said differently since he got back."
"If you're so concerned, why don't you ask him yourself?"
"Really, Mama. He doesn't want to talk to me."
"He did last night at supper."
"Not very much."
"Perhaps, but he certainly stared at you. How could he not? You were very dressed up just for supper. What possessed you to wear your best gown and do your hair up like that?"
"Are you making fun of me?"
"Not at all. After all the years I couldn't get you to brush your hair? It was so tangled most of the time that you begged me to cut it off, remember? And you wanted to wear boy's clothes! Your father and I thought you looked beautiful last night."
"So? What's wrong with that? Can't I dress up once in a while just because I want to?"
Marian smiled and said no more. She knew perfectly well why her daughter had wanted to look her best. And there was no mistaking that Rodger had noticed. Oh, yes, he had. He'd scarcely taken his eyes off Eleanor the whole evening. Meg had looked at Marian and nodded her approval. Robin, catching the exchange of glances, had whispered in Marian's ear, 'What are you two up to now? You're scheming something,' but Marian had only shaken her head. That's when she had met Guy's eyes from across the room, and he had given her his amused and knowing smile. He knew what she and Meg were about, even if Robin didn't.
Yes, Guy, this is about our children. I know you want this as much as I do. We couldn't make things work between us, as hard as we both tried. There was always too much standing in our way, too much hurt and betrayal and mistrust. And Robin, of course. My first love, and my last. He separated us just as completely as Sheriff Vaisey once did. But now our children have this chance to make things right again, to have what we never could….
For the rest, she and Meg would trust to time and togetherness to finally join Rodger and Eleanor in love.
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Rodger and Archer gradually settled back into life in Nottinghamshire, after they had been thoroughly spoiled by their families with plenty of good food, drink, warm fires, and restful nights in soft beds.
Archer took up his new position at Sir William of Gloucester's' side. If any of the townspeople had feelings of uneasiness about Guy of Gisborne's rather dashing younger brother becoming the Sheriff's right-hand man, they were soon reassured. Archer was also the brother of Robin Hood, after all, and every bit as charming as that former outlaw and well-loved champion of the poor and oppressed.
Rodger spent his time getting reacquainted with his younger siblings. Richard was sixteen, as tall and wiry as ever, and still the apple of his grandfather's eye. Ghislaine was no longer a little girl, but was rapidly growing into a young lady.
"You'll be chasing off her suitors with a stick before too long," Rodger said to his parents.
"It'll be a good long while yet before your sister is wed, don't worry," answered Meg. "For one thing, she's got a mind of her own, and for another, her suitors will have to get past your father first. That should deter the fainthearted."
Rodger took one look at his father's grim expression, and had no more fears for his sister. Only a young man with a deep love for Ghislaine, and an extraordinarily stout heart, would ever dare ask Sir Guy for his daughter's hand.
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"There, that's the last of your clothes, at least the ones that could be salvaged," Meg said to Rodger one afternoon as she put the clean garments away. "We'll see what we can do as far as getting you some new ones."
"Thank you, Mother," Rodger replied.
"Don't thank me," she answered. "Thank the servants. They're the ones who did all the washing and mending for you."
"I will." He sat down on his bed. "Is it true what Richard told me, that Grandfather is turning his business over to him when he reaches twenty?"
"Yes. Is that okay with you?"
"Of course! I'm happy for him. Richard's always loved working in the shop with Grandfather. He'll be right in his element."
"I'm sure he will. He's never been the adventurous type like you."
"He's better off for it. I've had enough adventure to last me a lifetime."
"Good. You've done your duty to king and country. Now we need you here, Rodger. Your father needs you."
'Your father needs you'. Rodger thought back to his first glimpse of his father upon his return. Guy's hair, once so black, was now heavily streaked with silver. His broad shoulders were not as straight as they had once been, and his eyes were clouded with a lifetime's burden of sorrow and pain and regret.
I once thought he would never change. He always seemed so strong to me, so unbreakable, so invincible. But he's not, and only now am I realizing it. Father is nearing sixty years of age. He's getting old. And Mother—
The sunlight streaming through the bedroom window glinted on the soft white strands amongst her golden brown curls. He had not noticed them before, or the faint, tired lines etched on her pale face. The sight made his heart ache.
Mother is right. This is where my duty lies now. I need to be here. My family needs me to look after them.
Rodger stood. He towered over Meg, but she reached up to touch his cheek with as much motherly solicitude as if he were still a little boy.
"Rodger, what happened to your face?"
"It's nothing, Mother. Just a scratch."
"Just a scratch? Look at this, and here, on your chin."
"Father has a scar on his face, too. He said Uncle Robin gave it to him, with a knife, back when they used to hate each other."
"Well, that's ancient history now," Meg answered. "This is a lot more recent."
"I'm fine. It's all healed over."
He only hoped she would not ask him to take off his tunic, too, to inspect the rest of his skin. Not for anything would he willingly let her see that scar. He'd seen the scars on Father's chest and back, and knew how he got them, but his own were ones he preferred to keep secret for now. The deepest part of the sword wound still smarted when he stretched his muscles too far, but thanks to Archer's quick actions and diligent nursing, he'd been spared worse.
True, only two weeks after that fierce battle on England's border, he'd had to be hustled out by a servant in the middle of his friend Geoffrey's wedding because the wound had broken open and begun to bleed through the bandage and his shirt, but he'd made it back in time to enjoy the wedding feast afterward.
"Rodger, you didn't—"
His mind was pulled back to the present by his mother's long, searching look.
"Didn't what?"
Meg stopped herself, and shook her head. "Never mind. Come down to supper when you're ready."
'Don't ask him, Meg,' Guy had told her. 'Don't make him tell you. If he did, trust me, he doesn't want you to know. He wants to forget. He's home now. Let him forget. Let him put it behind him.'
And so it was that Meg never did ask her son if, in the months of war in the king's service, he had killed anyone.
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"Eleanor's gone to see a friend?" Rodger asked his mother the next day.
"A female friend."
"I thought she didn't like the company of other girls."
Meg laughed. "She doesn't, but even Eleanor has to be sociable sometimes."
"Who's her friend?"
"Someone she met at last year's harvest festival. She's been very lonely since you and Archer left."
Rodger grimaced. "I can't imagine why our absence would matter to her."
"Because you've always been her best friend, Rodger, ever since you were little children."
"We're not friends now. We can't be. I wanted—well, it doesn't matter. Forget it."
"You wanted to be more than friends."
"I did, Mother. But she didn't, and that's all there is to it. We can't go back and be friends again."
"I agree. You can't, not in the same way."
Rodger was silent.
"But all that's in the past now," Meg added gently. "You were so young. You've grown up, both of you. Are you so sure she still feels the same way?"
"Mother, what are you trying to say?"
"Robert hurt her terribly, Rodger. She was so ashamed of the whole affair. It was a hard lesson for her, but she has learned from it. I think she's the wiser for it, too. Perhaps now she can appreciate the merits of a truly kind, caring, and loyal man."
"Oh, and who would that be? Has she got another suitor already?"
"I'm talking about you, my dear son."
"Me?"
"Yes, you."
"She doesn't like me, Mother, not that way. Sometimes I think she doesn't like me in any way."
"You're so wrong, darling. She does, far more than she knows. I'll give you my motherly advice, for what it's worth. Forget the past. Swallow your wounded pride, and try again with Eleanor."
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Author's Note: So, did Rodger kill anyone? I'll leave that up to you, readers, to decide. It depends on how realistic you want the story to be. Real medieval warfare, or would you rather have Rodger keep a certain amount of innocence? Your call! More to come as soon as I can write it.