iv. Why won't he shave?
(set between "A Thing Or Two About Loyalty" and "Peace? Off!")
A/N: Guy/Marian alert! Very silly. I'm sorry.
Marian had her father cornered just outside her chamber door, which is exactly what she wanted. "Father," she began, as loudly as she could without actually shouting.
"Marian," Sir Edward hissed under his breath, trying to take her by the arm, "don't you understand that--?"
"I know, I know," she muttered back softly, her eyes darting from the window to her chamber back to her father's face, taut with anxiety. "Do you know what this is?" she resumed in her extra-loud voice.
Her father flailed at her arm, still trying to get a word in edgewise in a soft whisper. His eyes were full of warning and meaning, and he reacted badly to a creak in the house's wooden frame. This was what Marian had been waiting for, clear proof that Robin
had not left her window like he said he would and was prowling around, hoping to gain something—heaven knew what—by spying on her.
She repeated her question to her father loudly, presenting him with a long-handled blade. He looked at the blade and back at her with a quirk of his eyebrows suggesting he thought she'd gone insane. She mouthed at him, eager for the charade to appear as natural as possible. "Yes, of course I know what it is," he said, as loudly as she had asked the question. "It's a straight razor."
"And you know what it's for, don't you, Father?" Sir Edward rolled his eyes at her absurdity and again bent close, trying desperately to whisper something to Marian between the theatrical shouting. "I am told it is for shaving," Marian went recklessly on. "You know how to use it, but some men of my acquaintance don't." She meaningfully tossed her head in the direction of her chamber and the window. "It seems to me that any man with the desire to appear decent and civilized ought not to neglect it."
Marian's father was looking at her helplessly, rendered speechless by sheer disbelief at what she was so blatantly shouting to the rafters. Of course, on her face was a sweet smile as she hoped by application of psychology to influence Robin to shave or grow a full beard, one or the other, rather than the scurvy outlaw stubble he insisted on sporting. She knew his objections—he had little time for personal hygiene, being an outlaw on the run—but at heart she knew he wished to please her. Surely a broad hint in this style would not be ignored?
Marian was startled by footsteps down the staircase and out the door, which then shut so loudly the oak trembled in its frame. She raised an eyebrow at her father.
"I tried to tell you, Marian," said her father, exasperated.
"Who was that?" she snapped.
He shook his head wearily. "Gisborne."
"Gisborne?" she repeated dumbly. She looked wildly over her shoulder to her chamber and its window. "I didn't hear him come in."
"No, you were too busy at your window."
"What was he doing? I was putting on a performance for the benefit of—"
"Robin Hood, yes, I gathered that," said Sir Edward.
Marian colored slightly. "Well . . . it makes no difference. Nothing compromising was heard—I'm sure it . . ." But she trailed off. If the farce had been entirely unsubstantial, why had he run off at the last moment? She chewed her lip, quieting her misgivings as her father merely gave her a look. He had only recently accepted her as the Night Watchman; flippant behavior was not going to justify his trust in her. She sighed and went back into her chamber, glaring at the open window.
Marian stilled her mortar and pestle and listened to the court outside the front door. Someone was riding up. She waited before getting to her feet and cleaning the half-powdered juniper berries from the pestle; there was no point in being caught off-guard in the middle of her work. Despite her recalcitrance with her suitor, she did believe herself a decent leech and sometimes the only help she could provide to both outlaws and the folk of Knighton were simple remedies. So she took a pride in her work.
Speak of the devil, she thought, as she saw Guy of Gisborne nearing the house. He was carrying something wrapped in expensive cloth. She rolled her eyes. Another gift. She composed herself.
"Marian," he said, his step echoing on the wooden floor.
She looked up disinterestedly from the floor and caught her breath. She had to conceal her surprise as he grinned and handed her the cloth bundle from his gloves, dusty from the ride. "I hope you like it," he said.
She took the bundle but stopped short of opening it. Had he? Yes, he had. He was freshly shaven, and had done a nice job of it, too—the angled planes of his cheeks were smooth. And what did she smell? Was it valerian?
"I hope you will allow that some men, tutored in the arts of war, find bad habits hard to break." His considered words were almost unintelligible to her ears. "But if decency and civilization require it, I can be prevailed upon to . . . clean up."
She blushed. "Sir Guy, I did not know that you were listening . . ."
"No subterfuge was necessary." His eyes gleamed. "You could have said that —"
"It is only that . . ." she struggled for an explanation. "It can be a bit . . . rough, on a lady's hand." What?!
He took her hand then, as she mentally fumed, and kissed the back of it gently. "I hope it gives no offense now."
"No, er . . ." She stared down at her hands, unable to dispel the notion that he was amusing himself a bit at her expense.
"Please, open it." She looked up fully for the first time and felt dull and malignant. Kissing her hand—it was no cheap ploy. In some ways he was like a spaniel—fawning was too strong a word, but she could see no malice in him at times like these. How wrong that was. He did so try to please her; the intentions seemed to be genuine even if there was no way she could ever . . . She unfolded the cloth and removed a pair of good-quality riding gloves. This time, even the gift was a good one . . .
"How thoughtful," she said, trying hard to keep the sincerity out of her voice.
"Let me help you put them on."
"I can put on my own gloves," she snapped, though she quickly realized that he only wanted another look at the engagement ring she was required to wear. As she slipped the gloves on, she saw him watching her meditatively. She held up her gloved hands, demonstrating with irritation that beyond a doubt, they did fit like a . . . oh, never mind.
"Can I hope that one day soon your lips might test the roughness you so disliked?"
She blinked and felt her color deepen. He wanted to kiss her. He brought a gloved hand up to trace down her cheek, even as she jerked away. She turned from him, slowly removing the gloves. "We are not yet married."
He snorted, and she knew that even a lady like herself couldn't be expected to remain so aloof for long, especially to her fiancé. "I did not say today, I said one day soon," he said sharply from behind her. There was such bitterness and disgust in his tone, she almost felt ashamed. She waited for him to lay a hard hand on her; she still did not put physical violence beyond him.
She heard him draw off toward the door. "I hope you will wear the gloves."
By the time she had turned around, he was gone. She did not know if, after a few days time, he gave up the pretense of neatly shaving because he never expected to gain his reward. A treacherous part of her might have granted it, had he asked again.
A/N: Was very tempted to call this "Shaving is a Tedious Thing" . . .
Sources (formatting will not allow me to include website addresses, so please PM me if you would like the links to the sources)
"A Brief History of Tattoos" from Tattoo You
"Crusading Vows & Privileges" by Paul Crawford, from ORB Online Dictionary: Crusades.
"Frederick the First, Holy Roman Emperor," Wikipedia.
"Healing and Hospitals" by Maggie Krzywicka from Medieval Medicine.
The Historical Atlas of the Crusades by Argus Konstam, 2004.
"The History of Tattoo Part 1" by Paul Sayce.
"History of tattooing" and "Tattoo" from Wikipedia
"Introduction" and "Wolf" by David Badke, from The Medieval Bestiary.
Ivanhoe by Sir Walter Scott.
"The later crusades, 1189-1311," A History of the Crusades by R. L. Wolff and H.W. Hazard, from University of Wisconsin Press Digital Collection.
"Medicinal and Magical Herbs of Medieval Europe" by Jarkko Kuisma.
"Tyre History" byTyre Festival.
"Tyre/Sour" by Ali Khadra.
"Wolf and Werewolf" by Douglas Harper.