I liiiive! And nearly a full month, two colds, and several drafts later, the next chapter is here! I hope you all are enjoying the holidays! You've all been wonderfully patient – I haven't received a single threatening letter for not updating, which is lovely. :P
So you all see what happens when I let Allan A Dale talk? I end up with a massive, rambling chapter that's nearly 8,000 words long. I've decided I definitely have too much fun writing Allan scenes – it's addictive. Next stop for me: Allan-aholics Anonymous….
This chapter brings a special guest in to narrate: LadyKate1, this one's for you.
Wanderingidealism: I have a feeling that if this version of Allan were also a bard, the songs he'd end up singing would probably make Much go beet red, Robin burst out laughing, and probably earn him a smack from Djaq. He's more the sort for limericks than ballads, methinks. XD
Lady Murdock: Thanks! It was fun writing Allan's ramblings, because for once I could just let him babble on, since he was trying to distract himself along with Much. I figured he'd let his guard down a little, too, since Much is about the least-threatening-looking thing in the world right now, the poor fellow. :P
Prats 'R' Us: Aw, I love your description of the outlaws as a family. And Allan as the annoying cousin that somehow always ends up staying to dinner… perfect. I'm pretty sure they could all use a scolding now and then. Maybe not Djaq – she's probably the one handing them out. ;)
A simple trip to London.
That was all this week was supposed to have been. A few days without Vasey's grating voice echoing through Nottingham's halls, summoning him like a hound to heel. A few days for Guy to handle things as he saw fit, with no danger of his orders being countermanded because of the Sheriff's whims. Meanwhile, Vasey would inform the prince of their preparations, what they'd accomplished in these early stages of gathering support and resources for the Black Knights. Simple enough. A transfer of authority they'd enacted a dozen times before without mishap.
How had the situation unraveled so disastrously?
Sir Guy of Gisborne rounded the corner at a ground-eating stride that sent a servant boy scampering for the safety of the kitchens. It was less the threat of being trodden on than the grim glint in his eye that sent the boy running, he knew. Vasey would reach Nottingham within the next quarter of an hour, according to his patrol's report, and very soon would be standing face-to-face with his Master-at-Arms, expecting an accounting of what had gone on during his absence. If anything was sure to result in one of Vasey's infamous rages… He let a long breath hiss out between his teeth as he turned onto the pillared corridor bordering the courtyard, the afternoon light falling between the pillars to leave wide swathes of shadow across his furious path.
Behind every decision Guy made as the Sheriff's lieutenant drifted the knowledge that whatever position and power he had depended upon Vasey himself, who chose his companions with the critical eye of a jeweler, accepting only the finest and rejecting the rest. As things stood, he had the Sheriff's ear, privileged collaboration on his most secret plans, and had even earned a measure of the wary man's trust; these were not things Hood would steal away from him so easily. Every word Guy spoke would have to be calculated, chosen with the care of a swordsman stepping into combat with a dangerous opponent.
Guy's decision to use the tax money as bait was surely what Vasey would light upon as the catalyst for this disaster, but even now, with the threat of all Vasey's outrage falling squarely on his shoulders, Guy knew his reasoning had been sound. The Sheriff's little shell game of moving the chest to his own rooms and doubling the guard was useless, with Hood's many sources of information. Before a day was out, Hood would know the silver's location and make some attempt to steal it. He would have been a fool to believe otherwise, knowing the brash outlaw and his magpie greed. What matter if Hood gave it all away, or said he did? Every theft clothed him in a new mantle of glory in the people's eyes, the same as if he'd fashioned the money into glittering garments. Hood's craving for adulation and applause would not let him pass up this great chance.
Knowing this, however, gave Guy an advantage. Use your enemy's momentum against them, twist and topple, then drive your blade home. So he'd sealed the room, shutters and door, and dismissed the guards to a different post across the courtyard. The outlaws would be allowed to reach the Sheriff's quarters, would neatly give themselves away by opening the shutters for light, and he could snare them all like rabbits as they fled. A second set of men would be positioned to herd the outlaws into a particular hallway with a locked door – a lock he'd had changed himself. It was a neat, simple plan, and the whole arrangement had worked perfectly in practice, awarding him the long-awaited sight of Hood and his men cornered like vermin, whites of their eyes flashing in the dark corridor as he advanced.
But somewhere along the way, he'd made some small miscalculation. Maybe the burly man's unreasonable strength, or Hood's animal desperation infecting his men as they fought. Either way, the solid oak door had broken, pouring out splinters of wood and the huddle of outlaws into the open air. He'd made one last effort, a lunge for the cliff edge as his plan crumbled beneath him, and snared the slowest of them, the one he later recognized as Hood's servant. A poor replacement for a season's worth of taxes and Hood's entire following, but something nonetheless…
Little chance of Vasey seeing things in that light, though, Guy reflected as he took a slow pull of the damp air and strode into place at the top of the castle steps. A careful scan of the courtyard showed his men standing ready in well-polished armor, both at the gates and forming a wide lane for the Sheriff's carriage to pass through. Most were attending their duties elsewhere in the castle and town, but he'd assigned a significant presence to the courtyard for the Sheriff's return: a show of strength and a formal welcome to put Vasey in a pleasant mood, for all the good it would do.
One of his men by the portcullis raised an arm in signal, and Guy answered with a short nod. As the mechanism began to rattle the gate upwards, joined by the echoing clatter of approaching hooves, he clasped his hands behind his back, squaring his shoulders and lifting his chin as he willed the frustration to settle in a quieter part of his heart. This day would not end in triumph. That was clear, much as it galled him. But he could hope to put matters in the best possible light – and he fully intended to, since only the barest portion of blame lay on his shoulders at all.
Two matched white stallions swung the Sheriff's carriage through the gateway in grand style, tossing their heads and making a fuss of the bits as if they were the Prince's own. Four mounted guards at each corner of the carriage reined in as the stallions came to a sharp stop before the steps. A little flurry of servants descended upon the courtyard, taking reins, reaching for luggage, and quickly opening the carriage door.
A moment later the Sheriff of Nottingham stepped down, surveying the ranks of armored men with a wide, toothy grin. The only change to his usual black garments was the addition of a voluminous dark traveling cloak to ward off the wintry chill in the air; the older man's taste for finery had dictated the thick ermine trim, no doubt, which gave the disturbing impression that an immense white-furred snake was slung over his shoulders, lazily considering its potential meal. With a chuckle, Vasey gave a congenial nod to the assembled guards and turned to the steps; his gaze slid up to meet Guy's, and without a word exchanged, before the black sandals had even touched the lowest step, Guy of Gisborne ceased to be steward of Nottingham. As if he'd exhaled and lost his grip on that power as he breathed, let it tumble down to the enigmatic man ascending the steps, once again he was merely the Master-at-Arms, lieutenant to the Sheriff: a position of undeniable power, but just as assuredly a step below the casual lordship wielded by the older man now standing beside him.
"My lord," Guy said with a slight inclination of his head. It was the greeting courtesy and rank demanded, a formal acknowledgement he offered without resentment, but the gesture was empty. The power already lay back in its master's hands, which were idly toying with a pair of expensive leather gloves, slapping them into one palm as the Sheriff took one last look at the assembled soldiers.
"Well, I see the castle's still standing," Vasey quipped in reply. "Thank heaven for little miracles, eh?" Another quick sweep of the courtyard, this time with narrowed eyes, as if inspecting the ranks of armor for smudges. "Hmm. No fields on fire, no peasants in the stocks…" He tilted his graying head up at Guy suddenly, a birdlike movement more reminiscent of his beloved hunting hawk than the palm-sized creatures that flittered in wicker cages far above their heads. "What have you been doing with your time, Gisborne?"
Ignoring the prickle of annoyance the jab provoked, Guy made no reply. Snickering to himself, Vasey turned and snapped his fingers for the guards to open the towering oak doors, leaving Guy to bite his tongue and fall into step. Vasey was a cunning man, a master at negotiating the treacherous politics of England in its current state, and there was an admirable ruthlessness to his ambition, but his sense of humor often left Guy clenching his fists and counting silently to keep his vexation hidden. Let the Sheriff have his little joke, bring matters up in his own time. Familiar a mantra as this was, holding back a sharp response was far more difficult today, with apprehension now joining the frustration twisting in his gut.
"How was your journey?" he asked, following the Sheriff's quick pace along the corridor. He hardly needed to ask, after the way the older man had finished up a long day of travel in such high spirits, and was all but skipping ahead of him now, but it was a safe enough question to fill the silence with. A merry chuckle was the only response at first, one hand coming up to wag a finger over his shoulder in Guy's direction.
"Tut, tut, Gisborne. All in good time… Let us just say that our mutual friend was quite impressed, and by that, I mean practically beaming and wringing my hand. I would venture to say we'll have his complete support when the time comes." This news should have been deeply satisfying, a crucial step toward their goal, but he could spare no time to enjoy this accomplishment, preoccupied as he was with the realization that the Sheriff was almost certainly making for his room, which left him only a handful of minutes to bring up the less pleasant news on his own terms. To let Vasey find the empty chest without any sort of forewarning would be little better for his career than Guy falling on his own sword here and now.
Pitching his voice to carry over their footsteps echoing along the stone, Guy said, "We did have a little trouble in your absence." A groan of mock-sympathy that Guy ignored. "The outlaws." Usually that particular detail would have caught Vasey's attention like a trout on a hook, but his voice held only idle amusement as he replied, "Ah, Hood and his little band of ragtag rebels… Spoiled your day off, did they?" Busy shucking off his cloak, Vasey didn't even turn around as he spoke, slapping disdainfully at the dusty fabric so that Guy wound up striding straight through the thin cloud of particles still hanging in the air. For an instant, he tasted hoof-trampled earth and coughed in irritation, slowing to swipe at his tunic, now coated with fine grey powder, but Vasey sailed cheerily onward with his cloak folded over his arm, and Guy had to quicken his pace or be left behind.
"They broke into the castle," he continued, a flicker of anger blunting his words. Even this only provoked a bark of laughter from Vasey, cheerfully ascending the stairs near his rooms two at a time.
"Probably had their collective eye on the taxes the people of Nottingham have so generously donated to their king's cause." A delighted cackle. "Oh, I would've loved to see the looks on their grubby little faces when…" Without breaking stride, Vasey pushed the door to his room wide, slinging his furred cloak across one of the guards' head and shoulders. "... they found…" Entering a step behind, Guy found Vasey already on his knees, dragging the chest from beneath the canopied bed; his dark eyes caught in the light of the candles, dancing eagerly. "…the strongroom entirely…" Vasey procured a key with a flourish and unlocked the coffer, swinging the lid back. "… empty."
For a long count of seconds, Vasey studied the bare wood of the coffer's interior, eyes narrowing and teeth sliding silkily against each other. Guy leaned his shoulder against the wall, arms crossed, as casual a posture as he dared take in the Sheriff's own rooms, and waited. Even the tiny birds in their cages fell quiet, as if a silent roll of thunder had warned them their master was close at hand and no longer in so merry a mood.
"Gisborne…" Vasey's voice was almost conversational, a deliberately false smile rounding his cheeks and thinning his eyes over the sturdy chest between them. "Would you care to explain why I am looking into an empty chest…?" His thumbs had begun a restless caressing of the coffer's dark wood. Guy resettled his shoulder against the stone, watching impatience draw deeper lines in the Sheriff's face, before he said simply, "I let Hood take the taxes."
This finally gained him the whole of Vasey's attention. The man's head snapped upward, leaving the smile behind, while his hands clenched against the banded wood of the chest. Probably wondering whether he'd heard correctly or not; outrage and disbelief waged messy war across his features. Guy wasn't sure whether he ought to be gratified that Vasey immediately took his word as truth, or disappointed that the trust between them could be so easily broken.
"I'm sorry," the Sheriff said slowly, the smile reappearing with a wolfish cast to the uneven teeth. "The travel, the dust… Must've gotten some in my ears." He made a show of jamming his little finger in one ear and working it around vigorously, eyes wide, and the stray thought passed through Guy's mind that perhaps God had made some mistake in His almighty plans, and the graying figure knelt on the carpet before him was meant to be somebody's jester. A jester with knives in his sleeves, most likely: the brown eyes held not one whit of humor, despite the comedy of his exaggerated motions.
"A calculated risk," Guy replied, weighting his words with calm and confidence. He was beginning a dance here as intricate as the most subtle swordplay. The man's mind could be changed, his mood swung in Guy's favor, but only if he finished without a single misstep. "I knew Hood would come for the money, and that he'd find it here." His slight nod indicated their sumptuous surroundings, the tapestry-hung walls. "He has his spies, his ways. So I made sure that when he arrived, he'd run into a little trouble of his own."
The Sheriff rose warily to his feet as he spoke, looking sidelong at the faint smile playing around Guy's lips.
"And?"
"He did," Guy said simply.
"What sort of trouble?" Vasey asked, his approach muted by the thick rug under their feet.
"A score of my best men, and a dead end."
A hesitant sort of wonderment began to spread across the older man's face, widening his suspicious eyes into something less guarded. Gone was the building storm, the black promise of rage, and in its place stood a balding child with bloodthirsty excitement gleaming in his hazel eyes.
"Gisborne…" he said softly, the faintest tug of a smile lifting the bearded lips. "Do you have something nice for me down in the dungeons? Hm?"
If only. Guy released a short breath, taking his eyes from Vasey's expectant face to study the wide tapestry hung on the wall beyond, a hunting scene. Against a backdrop of forest and posturing horses, a silver-threaded hunter thrust a narrow spear through a boar's jaws, scarlet stitches of blood dripping down.
"Gisborne? You know I hate it when you try to be coy."
Returning his gaze to Vasey, to the impatience simmering behind his eyes, Guy replied, "The next best thing to Hood himself: his servant." An intrigued quirk of the grey eyebrows. Lying to the Sheriff was tantamount to suicide, but he'd spoken only truth thus far – the manservant had been in the dungeons. And if he'd learned nothing else from Vasey, it was that some words, some conversations, required a showman's touch. "You remember him. That stammering fool you made Earl of Bonchurch." An appallingly ill-conceived plan; it had grated against all Guy's instincts to execute the outlaw and have done with it. A dead man posed no threat, could not run afoul of their plans. But Vasey had ignored his counsel and instead created an elaborate scheme to collect information against Hood, which had failed spectacularly.
"Yes… I remember him," Vasey was musing, eyes distant with recollection. "Lost me one of my better spies. That serving girl with the…" A vague gesture that could have indicated nigh well anything. "…the face. Pretty little voice, too." His gaze flicked sharply back to Guy, keen as daggers and firmly in the present. "How's his voice, hmm? Sung any lovely ballads about Robin Hood? No? Well, you never could carry a tune, Gizzy – never been one for the arts. No matter." Guy had to swing around to follow the Sheriff's path as he headed for the door, intent on wringing information from his newest prisoner without delay. A prisoner who was out of sight and reach deep within Sherwood Forest now.
Guy was suddenly tired to the core, but forced mastery into his voice as he announced, "He's not here." Vasey halted before the door, and Guy straightened to take a casual step closer, relieving himself of the temptation to sag against the wall. He had to wonder whether this might not be worse than falling on his sword, this slow slicing of his meager chances to ribbons. At least the boar wouldn't suffer long with that single, solid blow.
Vasey turned on his heel at his words, a theatrical wince slowly taking over his face.
"Oh… Gisborne. Did you play too rough and break Daddy's toy?" He tutted, shaking his head reproachfully.
This slow reversal of positions had left Guy standing with his back to the bloody tapestry and empty chest, Vasey standing between him and the doorway. And now he was face-to-face with the moment he'd been dreading since he'd realized the silent figure on the hill wasn't Hood at all, that he'd been duped yet again. All his careful words and planning meant hardly anything, tightly as he clung to them, because in the end, the outcome depended on the mercurial temperament of the man standing in front of him.
The Sheriff stood waiting patiently. There was still a trace of good humor left on his face, fingers dancing with typical restlessness, as if in time with a tune only he could hear. There was still a hope here of avoiding complete disaster. Vasey was no tactician in the field, but after years of working his way up the chain of command through a sea of nobles and politics, people with a smile on their face and a dagger ready to bury in your back, surely he could appreciate that even a solid plan could go awry through no fault of your own. Careful planning and management of resources could almost guarantee success, but without the power to rip open the veil to the future and steal its secrets, there was no way Guy could have prevented this: that much at least should be obvious.
Somehow, though, he felt reduced to a young boy standing before his father, caught in some wrongdoing. Fighting off the illogical guilt that was slowly trying to sink his heart into his stomach, he said, "I questioned him, but there was very little time. Instead I made the decision to focus on retrieving the money."
Vasey's tight-lipped smile twitched, his brows lifting incredulously.
"What is this, Gisborne? Are you telling me you couldn't break his will? You? What, did he look up at you with big, sad eyes, and you didn't have the heart?"
For an instant, Guy remembered standing over the crumpled, still body of Hood's servant, panting, fists crushing faint protests from the leather of his gloves, cursing himself for losing control of his temper and the situation, and his voice rose to stamp out the sting, the accusation of weakness.
"I broke near everything else but his will," Guy snapped. Whatever hold Hood had over that miserable specimen – hero-worship, promises of glory, or some perverse belief that dying for this cause was somehow noble – it had run deep. Deep enough that his blind and misguided loyalty had held up through three broken fingers, though at that point the fight had drained entirely from the man, body language that of a man desperate for an exit, a way out. Another finger, the paltry span of five minutes at the most, and he would have had the location of Hood's camp. But then Marian had appeared, circumstances had spun away, and now here he stood, fumbling through excuses. "If I'd had any more time, I would have gotten everything from him. But I couldn't chance Hood giving out the silver to the people, so I promised him what was left of his servant in exchange for the taxes."
Years of practice coupled with the slow-burning fire in his chest kept his jaw hard, eyes like flint, but he knew he was outmatched by the man standing opposite him. He'd seen statues standing guard outside the cathedral in London, distant saintly faces streaming rainwater, and they had looked more human than the stony visage across from him, disdain dripping from every feature and hardening his voice.
"Gisborne… Where is my silver…?" And there was no viable answer left to him, cornered like this, only a long moment to brace himself as the statue turned back into living flesh and its features morphed into a farcical expression of surprise. "Oh, wait a moment. I think I know this one. Is this the story where the Master-at-Arms bargains with criminals and manages to lose both his prisoner and an entire season's worth of taxes in one astoundingly stupid move? Please, please tell me you didn't actually hand over the prisoner to those-"
"Of course not," Guy interrupted. "I demanded Hood meet me himself, but-"
"It was a trap?" the Sheriff interjected, riding roughshod over Guy's attempt to explain. "Well, there's a shock!" The smaller man tilted his head sharply, eyes sliding up and down Guy's figure like an unwanted caress, and swirled a finger toward the stones at Guy's feet. "Clever little song and dance you did there, Gisborne. Been planning that long, have you? Each and every word lined up like your little soldiers to try and convince me that you aren't a complete and utter bumbling idiot?" The last words were half-screamed, setting off a flurry of panicked twittering and caged wings.
Guy tipped his head down, gaze fixed on the lower edge of the doorframe, fighting the urge to lash out in kind, the way the rising beat of his heart begged him to. This was a lost battle, but he would not allow the indignity of letting his temper control him again, a final humiliation for the Sheriff to throw back in his face.
"We have struck Hood a blow," he said doggedly, loudly enough to cut through the incomprehensible snarling as the Sheriff paced and clenched his fists impotently. At his words Vasey spun to face him again, teeth bared.
"A blow? Are you keeping count now? This is just a little sparring match, you and Hood with your wooden swords and grand words? No! This is Nottingham – my power, my control – being bled for all it's got, bleeding silver thanks to you and your pathetic mishandling of things!"
The fury kindling inside his ribcage leaped, flames that threatened to heat his words dangerously. This was why Hood pulled off victory after victory, why Vasey would never succeed in defeating the rogue lord without his help. Vasey only wanted his successes wholesale, couldn't accept the fact that a lost battle could be turned to provide the means to win the war; if this were a game of chess, then Vasey would be raging over the loss of a knight, drawing all his pieces back like a wounded limb when he could be taking advantage of the moment.
He lifted his head to take a long breath, but all he could see were swaying perches and tiny wings seeking egress in vain. Hardly caring if Vasey heard the weariness in his voice, he said, "It's likely enough the outlaw will die of his wounds, whatever Hood tries, and that's a message he will not be able to ignore. He values people more than their weight in gold, and yet he couldn't save his own servant – that will hurt him."
"I don't want Hood hurt! I want him dead!" Vasey screamed, rage strangling the words. "I want him dangling from a noose out there-" His arm stabbed toward the still-shuttered windows that hid the courtyard from view. "-with all his precious followers thrashing there beside him! I want a lieutenant who'll do as he's told without mucking things up every time I step out of the room…" His voice reached a feverish volume, making Guy's ears ring like a bow shrieking along the strings of a fiddle, but all his attention suddenly narrowed on dodging the paperweight that struck the wall a foot away. The smooth stone ricocheted away across his boots, and Guy made for the door while the Sheriff let out an animalistic snarl and lunged at the table for something new to throw.
As Guy ducked through to safety, an inkwell shattered against the doorframe a bare inch or two from his head, spattering cold ink and needle-like shards of glass against the side of his face. He pulled the door shut solidly behind him and stood there a moment with his hand clenched around the iron ring, swiping at the trickling drops of ink before they could reach his eyes. Something metallic – a goblet, perhaps – clattered dully off the other side of the door, and Guy flinched instinctively, as did the two men standing guard. His chest still felt like a bellows, each measured breath only adding to the fire in his heart, burning behind his eyes. But at the same time, all his hopes of turning this defeat into something useful had perished, dropping out of sight into a void he knew he could fill with fire if he chose.
He still hadn't decided whether his anger or weariness would win out when he gathered up the shreds of his pride and left, grateful for a instant that his men had the sense not to offer any sympathetic words. He didn't trust himself not to strike them, however well-intentioned their platitudes might have been.
Measured step after step gradually buried the sound of Vasey's continued outburst behind layers of stone and Guy found himself alongside the courtyard once more, the spaces between the pillars' shadows tinted golden with the beginnings of sunset. Two men stood at their post by the lowered portcullis, pikes in hand, while a stable boy led one of the guards' mounts across the empty space, watching the stallion's gait carefully. To the hollow tempo of hooves on stone, Guy stopped and leaned wearily against one of the wide pillars, hidden from view and able to let fury wrench at his features without witness.
He should have known better than to hope for any more positive outcome. He should have known, and yet he stood here with injustice searing hot lines across his heart, clenching his jaw, because his reasoning had been sound, his movements careful, and had his men been a few seconds faster, if he'd been harsher in his interrogations, quicker to close off the city, Vasey would have been dancing for joy and ready to give him a second lordship. It was the purest whim of luck that his plans had failed, the difference of a few moments' time. It should have worked. If nothing else, Vasey could have paid heed to the effort Guy had expended throughout this incident. He'd spent two dark hours hunting through Sherwood last night, had hardly slept, and managed to keep the mundane tasks of Nottingham uninterrupted throughout this whole debacle. Vasey would have sent men thrashing in a dozen different directions, screamed himself hoarse, and had nothing more to show for it than Guy himself had.
The only appeal this day still held was in the fact that his quarters at the castle were still prepared for him, and he could shut himself away without making the long ride back to Locksley tonight. Pushing away from the cooling pillar, he had taken no more than two steps when he heard someone approaching from behind, and half-turned. The soft sound belonged to light riding boots, and he recognized their wearer immediately: Marian.
She was dressed warmly and modestly in a cream-colored gown, her hair tucked back from her face, pinned loosely somehow at the nape of her neck. The cloak wrapped around her shoulders meant she'd either just arrived or was about to leave, though what had brought her to Nottingham today at all he couldn't begin to fathom. Checking on her pet peasants, maybe, or whatever women spent hours at market doing. He didn't know, and at the moment, he didn't care. For a long moment he contemplated throwing courtesy to the wayside and walking on, but she'd already caught sight of him and quickened her pace.
"Guy?" She sounded pleasantly surprised, a fact that would have lifted his heart under other circumstances. But yet again, she'd come across him at his worst. First in the dungeons, in the midst of inflicting pain, the distasteful and tedious side of his duties. And now he stood dusty and unkempt, ink drying on his face, chastised and chased out like a hound banished from its master's presence. Her footsteps drew nearer, and he fixed his eyes on the battlements in the distance, glazed with honeyed light from the setting sun, offering a short nod as he said, "Lady Marian." His greeting was deliberately brusque, and he prayed she would take the hint and let him go seethe over this newest humiliation in private.
Instead she stopped a pace away, her face growing serious when she inevitably caught sight of the mess on his face.
"What has happened? You're bleeding." Probably true – he could feel the ink stinging where the glass had grazed him – but barely more than a scratch, and not life threatening in the least. He couldn't deal with a woman's hysteria over a little blood right now. He spoke through clenched teeth.
"It's nothing. If you'll excuse me, I am not fit company for anyone at the moment." He turned away to walk on, but she caught his arm, and he tipped his head back with a sigh. The warning growl he'd meant his words to emerge in became something closer to a weary groan. "Marian, please."
"Let me at least offer my handkerchief," she said, her hand waiting. It was the practicality in her voice that made the decision for him, completely empty of anything that might become pity or scorn, and he acquiesced with the faint sensation that he'd lost his last bit of purchase on the reins of his life, left to whatever fate his mount carried him to.
Half-sitting against the wall between the pillars, Guy wordlessly extended a hand for the cloth, but Marian twitched it backward out of his reach with a faint frown.
"What, you don't think I can manage to clean my own face now?" he snapped, but she didn't flinch or tighten her lips in that way she had when she was offended. Instead she sat down beside him with her back to another pillar and leveled a blue-grey gaze at him, lips twisting gently with amusement.
"No, I just don't think you can see the side of your own face." Before he had a chance to protest, she had leaned closer, setting the cloth against his temple to soak up the still-drying ink. "I take it the Sheriff has returned." Her calm assumption and lack of pretension about the Sheriff's infamous tantrums made it easier for him to reply, "He has. Though if you're here asking favors, I wouldn't approach him just yet. He's not feeling particularly discriminating in his targets."
A soft sound of agreement or commiseration. No further questions about what had obviously gone badly wrong between him and Vasey, just the slightest deepening of her frown when her handkerchief came away stained a macabre scarlet and black. When he made to rise, she reached out to halt him without a thought, busy folding the mottled cloth over one-handed to a clean patch.
"There's glass." The slim arm blocking his way dropped suddenly, color blossoming faintly across the rise of her cheekbones. Her usual cool mask fell back into place a moment later, and she brought the cloth to his face again, dabbing carefully as she went on, "I'll see if I can brush it out…"
Silence fell between them again, concerned on her side, and filled with a thousand competing thoughts on his.
She hadn't said what her business in the castle was this evening, but perhaps it didn't matter. She'd also never offered an explanation for her presence in the dungeons the previous morning, as if the message had slipped her mind. Yet she'd ventured down into the cells to find him, to a place that always put a look of distaste on her lovely face, no matter how hard she tried to conceal it. If the substance of the message was forgettable, then perhaps the meeting itself held more meaning to her that he'd first thought.
He blinked when the silk suddenly pressed a sharp sting into his cheek, and Marian changed the direction of her careful strokes. A combination of the cool air, the chance to sit in relative quiet, and the gentle hand by his face had begun to dim the painful fire in his chest, and he shut his eyes tiredly. The silence weighed in his ears, though, and he spoke the first words that came to mind.
"The Sheriff has decided to blame me for every last piece of silver lost." He heard his own voice as if from a distance, dull and matter-of-fact. There wasn't enough fire left to heat his words anymore. "I don't know what he imagines I could have done differently." Marian did not immediately reply, though the silk left his face and he heard the sound of her fingers slipping swiftly across the fabric, brushing something away. He opened his eyes and she looked up, hand closing around the darkly-streaked cloth as she said quietly, "I've gotten all the glass out, I think." A few tendrils of hair had come loose from their fastenings, and curled along the curve of her cheek. She looked back at him for a short while, thoughtful and serious, before saying, "Surely there was something. Some… some part of all this that gave us an advantage over the outlaws." Something drew her eyes downward away from his, inkstained fingers toying gently with the crumpled handkerchief, and she asked, "What about the outlaw you captured? Did you gain nothing useful from him?"
These quieter words were clipped short. Probably lingering pity for the prisoner, who'd looked a pitiful sight in the brief seconds she'd been there, and revulsion for the whole business of interrogation, which was only natural. It was dark work, nothing any woman, especially one of Marian's station, should ever be associated with. He was surprised she had even brought the subject up, considering her horror yesterday, and kept his answer short out of deference to her obvious discomfort.
"Nothing." The stone was unforgiving against his shoulders and the back of his head, but the sun had sunk low enough to cast across the courtyard in a last burst of bold rays, and he shut his eyes to feel the warmth against his skin. "Not a word."
A soft sigh from beside him was her only reply, and Guy resisted the urge to echo it. A few moments later, a gentle weight fell over his hand where it rested on the stone beside him, pressing carefully over the silver clasps on the back of his glove as slim fingers wrapped hesitantly into his palm. He almost looked over in surprise, but managed to keep his reaction to himself, leaving his eyes shut; he would not risk the loss of this closeness because Marian caught a glimpse of the darker emotions in his eyes. Instead he closed his hand lightly around her fingers, returning the pressure of her touch that communicated her sympathy more clearly than words. Even through the leather of his glove, he could feel the warmth of her hand, a slow, spreading comfort like the departing rays resting on his face. In a moment, a few breaths from now, she would rise, lift formality up between them again like a shield, and they would go their separate ways. Tomorrow he would face the Sheriff again for the first in a long succession of days full of scorn and condemnation to come. But for now, for these few moments, he breathed deeply, and simply let himself be warmed.
Writing for Gisborne was an eye-opening experience - I surprised myself with how much I identified with the poor fellow. And now, a question for all you awesome people out there: How do you like your hurt/comfort/recovery - rare, or well-done? ;)
I'm torn between extending our last few chapters with the gang into several, or sticking with just one more chapter as originally planned. I'm biased, as I'm experiencing a bit of separation anxiety in letting this particular fic go... They grow up so fast... *sniffle* I don't want to draw out Much's recovery and the gang's eventual return to normalcy to the point of tedium, though, so what do you think? One more good, solid chapter, or are you still craving comfort after all Much's hurt? Is there anything that simply must be included before the end? Let me know what you have in mind, and I'll see what the gang cooperates with. :)