"Quit your snivelling," Gisbourne sneered to the terrified young woman, curled up crying in the fetal position on the floor of his bedchamber. He hated it when they snivelled. Relacing his trousers and falling, exhausted, into bed, he issued one final order.
"Get out!"
It was the king's fault, he told himself, before succumbing to sleep. If the king would hurry up and return, he wouldn't be forced to spend himself on unworthy whores, like this servant he'd ordered his men to bring him.
As if it helped ease the burning in his loins. Well, tomorrow would help. Tomorrow would bring the annual tax gathering, and the means necessary to collect it. One corner of Gisbourne's mouth turned up in a delighted sneer, as he fell asleep anticipating the suffering he would inflict on the filthy peasants of Locksley.
After all, when he hurt them, he was really hurting Hood.
...
Hugging her arms tightly against her chest, Bridget Thornton tried not to tremble or cry any more, as she made her way back to the servants' quarters, clad only in her torn chemise. It had been her turn to "rub the master's feet," as he sneeringly called it, and at all costs, she mustn't let her father know. What could he do, after all? Her father was an old man, and the only servant in Locksley Gisbourne deigned to speak a civil word to. She doubted Gisbourne even knew she was his steward's daughter.
Wiping her nose with the back of her hand, she made her way down the staircase, cringing from pain at every step while struggling to shut out the lewd laughter from Gisbourne's guards. She would hide her plight from her father. After all, it was better to stay silent and take it, then to challenge Gisbourne, and die.
If only the king would return, and restore good Master Robin to his rightful place, and end everyone's sufferings!
What those sufferings would be on the morrow, when yearly taxes became due, Bridget could only guess.
...
The following morning dawned cloudy and gloomy, just the kind of weather Robin feared would dampen Little John's spirits.
Much didn't like it that Robin had taken to inviting John, rather than himself, on scouting missions. Though, he had to admit, he was glad it was John who got knocked to the ground from Lambert's black powder, instead of himself.
"It's because I talk too much, isn't it?" he asked Robin. "I knew it! I knew you think I talk too much!"
"Well, silence is a valuable quality on a scouting mission, Much."
"I can be silent! Watch me! I'm closing my lips! There! Not a word! See? Or should it be 'listen?' "
"Much, it's not your talking...well, hardly," Robin explained, smiling with indulgence and affection at his best friend. "John needs me."
"And you think I don't?"
"You haven't been eating mushrooms."
"Oh! So that's what this is about? I keep away from all sorts of...sorts of...temptations! Yes, that's the word! And you reward John, who doesn't? The world is wrong!"
"John has troubles we don't know about," Robin explained. "He might not share them, but I know it helps, just to have a friend by his side."
Robin hoped Much would pick up on his veiled thanks for standing by his side, even when he wouldn't open up revealing his own troubles. But Much remained clueless.
"It's because of you, that I know to do this," Robin told him, causing Much's chest to puff out with pride.
"Well! Alright then! If you're sure it's because John needs you, and not because I...I talk."
"Ready, John?" Robin called, eager to begin their scouting mission.
Together, they set off, neither man having any idea what tragic events would unfold that day.