Robin Hood: from the desert to the tower (2/3)
title: from the desert to the tower (2/3)
pairing: Guy/Marian
series rating: NC-17; part two: PG-13
word count part two: 2609
warnings: swears in this bit; violence & sex in part three
a/n: Huge, huge thanks to my beta, starbuck_a_dale, who makes things make sense and is far too nice. Part three will be posted Wednesday or Thursday; there are, again, some historical and architectural notes at the bottom. Concrit is always welcome : )
Summary: Gratuitous post-2x13 wish-fulfillment. Marian's not dead, and she and Guy have a swordfight. And sex.
Allan grips her arm, hard, and Marian wants to run just as much as he does. John's stayed out in the kitchen and she feels horribly exposed. But she shakes off Allan's grasp and kisses the Seneschal in greeting as if nothing is wrong. There is his lady-wife, and here his youngest daughter, not yet married. Marian responds to pleasantries while searching for a way out of the situation, but then she sees a servant carrying her things through the hall and she knows that she is stuck.
*
There she stands, the woman he has loathed and loved, just inside the entryway. She is resplendent in aqua and gold, tired from travel but beautiful as ever. His eyes move slowly up to hers and there they are arrested, for some energy, some overwhelming force of emotion vibrating between them holds them immobile. It is only when she drags her eyes back to Beaumont and his wife, swallowing visibly, that he becomes aware of the pain shooting down his right arm. He has crushed the pewter goblet in his hand. Guy drops it and stands, barely managing a nod to his conversation partner, the countess Alais. His hands shake, his breath is shallow; he must leave. He doesn't give a damn if he's thought uncourtly.
*
In her bed, curled tightly to avoid the elbows of her bed-mate, Marian stares into the darkness and lets herself remember that day for the first time.
She is dizzy with heat, with fear, with freedom; there is pounding in her head: the urgent slap of feet on stone, the steadily increasing pulse of her blood, the desperate thought repeated over and over again, stop this. And then she sees Richard, prone, and Guy with sword outstretched and shining in the unbearable sun. Clarity resolves around her faith in Robin, for that is all she has left. She will do whatever it takes to stop this.
She thought she could reason with him, but he is beyond reasoning: his goal too close at hand. And so she means to shock him out of his trance, and she does, but she hasn't thought far enough ahead to prepare herself for the emotion that flickers across his face. His eyes fly to her, his attention snaps from his goal, and disbelief gives way to devastation a fraction of a second before she hears Robin's arrow zip through the air. She has a fleeting moment to fear that the arrow flies too true-but by some small mercy Robin has not aimed to kill. She sees Guy fall to his knees and then there are arms around her and shouts, relieved laughter and voices thanking God. When next there is a break in the crowd, he is gone. And then Robin's hands take her face again and the sorrow drains away.
*
“Goddammit Gisborne, stop pacing!” Guy halts where he stands, running his fingers along the mantelpiece so he doesn't have to look at Vaysey. It is late, but his mind is racing, and he's been moving around the room with his whirling thoughts while Vaysey attends to correspondance.
“You should have told me,” he mutters.
“You would only have been insufferable for longer. Two days, Gisborne,” The Sheriff says, his voice lightening almost to a sing-song, “Two days and you can have your revenge. On her and Hood, all at once. How delicious will that be?”
*
The Seneschal invites her on a walk the next day. She responds graciously to her host and he shows her to the ornamental garden. It is neat and tidy and probably lovely in summer with its small fruit trees and ordered hedges, but now it is the end of winter-Christmas was lost somewhere in the days of travel and worry and despair, days that bled together in a dark dream she has tried to forget-and wet snow still lies on the quiet beds; only here and there do tips of crocuses and iris and tiny hard buds of linden trees lend any color to the scenery.
"I must confess," Robert begins, "that though you are more than welcome to my hospitality, I asked you here for a reason."
Marian's mind flicks back to his other guests and she feels for the reassuring hardness of her dagger under the folds of her mantle. She looks at him coolly; his expression is shrewd but, she thinks, tired.
"The Sheriff of Nottingham has not been here long, but he has brought much interesting news." Marian's eyebrows shoot up before she can control her reaction. Robert notes it; anyone with a position as delicate as his must be extremely perceptive.
"Yes, he is the reason I was made aware of your presence, but not my reason for bringing you here. You are safe in my halls." She lets herself relax the tiniest bit.
"So why did you ask me here, my lord?"
He stops and fiddles with the end of a pear-tree branch. "You must know that I am in an interesting position. Both King Philippe and Eleanor want my allegiance, though their reasons change as quickly as the political landscape. Returning from the Holy Land as you are, I assume there is much you do not know." He begins to walk again and tells her of John's efforts to win over the populace in England, which are surprisingly successful; the shifts in power there, Eleanor's desire that the Norman castles be fortified, and John and Philippe's collusion.
"I am loyal to Richard, my liege lord and the man who gave me this position," he continues, "but Philippe is his lord, at least where these lands are concerned. I am also in the difficult position of playing host and jailer to Philippe's sister on Richard's orders. You can imagine how much Philippe likes that-which is made more worrisome by the disturbing reports I've heard about John's recent activities, including the possibility of movements against Richard's continental possessions.”
She sucks in a breath-has the situation truly grown so dire?
"In sum, my lady, I wish you would tell me what you know of Richard's plans. Is the fight successful in the Holy Land? Does he return soon? If there is trouble-political or military-I can hold out for some time, but I cannot last indefinitely."
Marian walks in silence a few steps, trying to figure out his aims. Does he mean what he says? Is he one of John's allies, trying to get information from her? That niggling worry that Robin and Richard will linger in the Holy Land appears again, and she tries to quash it. She knows, at least, what Richard's intentions are and if he makes good on his promise-he took the cross years before he was able to go on Crusade, surely that is an indication that he is a man who keeps his word-being honest cannot harm them.
"Peace has been concluded. The King was set to leave Outremer shortly after us." His progress would be much slower, with the masses of men and equipment and the family and allies scattered across Europe to whom he would have to pay visits on his procession home, but surely even the news of an actual return-coupled with the Pope's stern warnings-would deter any actual plotting.
He takes her hands in his. "Thank you, Lady Marian," he says, and she wishes she knew him well enough to read exactly what was in those words.
*
Marian sees him from a distance before he can see her. Her heart begins to pound, but she stays her course. I saved the king, she tells herself, and she finds with sudden surprise that she bears Guy no anger. Not for her months of imprisonment, not for his attempt to kill the king. She should, but it has been burned away with heat and travel and guilt.
Guy walks with the stiffness of a convalescent, holding his arm close in what Marian imagines-hopes-is only habit at this point. Then his eyes focus on her and he turns deliberately and walks away.
She is not prepared for how hollow it makes her feel.
“Leave him be,” Allan tells her at the midday meal, when her glance has strayed one too many times in a particular direction.
“But I should-”
“He's not gonna want your apologies,” Allan says, and she has a hard time meeting his eyes. He is right, of course, but she has spent so many years acting conciliatorily towards Guy that it feels strange to do nothing about the breach between them, even if it is irreparable.
She does not see how often Guy's gaze lingers on her, and how he curses himself every time it does.
*
The next time they meet, Guy does not see her, and thus cannot avoid her. She doesn't see him either and runs smack into his shoulder. As he hisses in pain, unable to control his reaction, her eyes widen in alarm and then soften in sympathy. The last thing he wants is her goddamned pity.
“I am sorry,” she says quietly.
“Of course. Wonderful,” he mutters as the pain subsides, attempting to sidestep her.
“Guy,” she says, and hearing his name on her lips is the most wonderful and painful thing he can imagine.
He turns, more because he's curious how she's going to try and backtrack than because he actually cares or will believe what she's going to say. She seems to know that, and her expression crumples a little. He feels a spike of petty glee.
“I am glad your wound is healing well,” she says after a moment. Christ, will she never cease? But he gathers his defenses around himself again and bows slightly, mockingly. And then continues on his way.
*
That night she dreams of Robin. He stands behind her, running his hands down her arms. He kisses her temple, her cheek; nuzzles her neck through her hair.
“Come with me and you shall be Queen of Acre,” he whispers. “Come with me and we shall free the Saracens from taxes.”
But her contentment turns to despair, for she cannot rise from the chair she sits in. Can he not see her skirts are weighted down with embroidery frames and babies and keys, with cheese molds and spindle whorls and dark, heavy loaves of bread? He tugs at her hand-she cannot stand-and then he is gone.
*
They wait in the dark, in the cold. The fire is low so as not to draw attention. Thoughts of her, so close, keep flitting into his mind and he keeps shoving them out; he's got no clue what he's feeling anymore. Guy tries to draw the cold inside himself and goes over the plan in his head yet again. The number of stairs to the towers. The pattern of lefts and rights to Alais's room. Those three who should not be here, who could prove dangerous.
It's as if Vaysey has been planning for this. He couldn't have, Guy knows, but he also knows he will work any situation to his own advantage. For weeks he's been grinding Guy down when he doesn't think he could be ground down any further. For weeks he's had Vaysey's voice in his ear, mocking, then soothing, drawing his ire and then tempting him with visions Guy's not quite sure he cares about anymore. All of it revolves around, comes back to, her. He wavers from the fire of anger to ashes of despair. He's ready for it, for something, anything, to be over.
*
Marian wakes despondent, unsettled, and tosses and turns for what seems like hours. Finally, after a pointed tug on the blankets from her bedmate, she rises and pulls on her clothing. The air is cold, but the view from the battlements of Rouen, coloured softly in shades of grey and purple with the silver river threading through it, is worth it.
She finds Little John standing atop one of the corner towers.
“You can't sleep either?”
He's wrapped up in his cloak, staring out over the city, and he shakes his head.
“I've slept in the forest too long to be comfortable inside stone walls.” And then, after a pause, “They remind me of Nottingham.”
His eyes go to her, and she knows he's questioning her decision to stay. Marian deliberates: If they are wanted here, there is no way they will be able to leave. But the Seneschal has declared his loyalty and gotten his information, and there is no reason he should keep them. Every reason they should go. She will speak to Robert at a decent hour.
Then something creeps into her consciousness, something soft, distant, but rhythmic, triggering warning signals. She listens hard, and her eyes find John's as realization hits them at the same moment: hooves. Many. It is not right for this early.
From their vantage point they scan the city. The sound is not localized, but it is growing louder. Then she sees a group of mounted men crossing a square. Two more, there, on a street leading to the castle. Marian whips around to see if the guards along the wall have noticed. What she does see is two familiar figures in black, moving silently through the courtyard. They are armed.
“I do not like this,” John says.
“Nor I,” Marian replies, as they watch Vaysey and Guy confer for a moment before splitting up. Guy makes for the stairs to the battlements; Vaysey has rounded the keep and is out of sight. What is most worrying is that both seem to be heading towards the barbican.
“Robert warned me that there were dangerous things happening. John, if they are planning the treachery I think they are, we cannot let them do this.”
John nods, his face grim. “I'll wake Allan.”
“I do not think we have time, not if they're going to open the gate. You find Vaysey. I'll go after Guy.”
“Lady Marian-”
The anger she thought she'd laid to rest is back; it was banked but not extinguished, and when she looks at John her face is flushed and furious.
His eyes widen; obeying those above him in the social rank is still a deeply ingrained habit. “You are not even armed,” he says quietly.
“I will find a weapon,” she replies, voice steely. They nod to each other, and then race down the tower stairs.
Marian cuts through the keep and in the hall finds a man asleep with his sword belt by his pallet. She grabs it, wrapping it twice around her waist as she runs. She has heard no clash of steel from the direction of the gate, and it worries her. The hoofbeats are louder, she hears when she dashes out of the other side of the keep. They seem more centralized in front of the castle as well. She takes the stairs to the battlements two at a time until her skirts almost trip her up. The castle wall extends to her right; to her left is one of the towers that rises over the main gate. A guard is sprawled on the ground; she does not know if he is dead, but there is blood.
Marian tightens her hand on the sword at her side, draws a breath, and steps into the darkness of the tower. She prays frantically for her eyes to adjust, for she can hear him, she knows it is him, pulling at the chains that bind the winding mechanism for lifting the castle gate.
on to part three
Notes
There was a castle in Rouen, but it is no more. It stood, fittingly, where the rue du Donjon meets the rue Philippe Auguste. Alais (also known as Alys) was Richard's long-term fiancée, but after a purported affair with his father, Henry II, they could no longer marry. Rather than send her home-which would incur her brother King Philippe of France's wrath and lose them her large dowry, she was kept basically as a prisoner, and was held in Rouen at this time. A barbican is a fortified gate to a castle or city, often with towers and other defensive features. A keep (or donjon) is the main part of the castle that housed the hall, living quarters, etc.
pairing: Guy/Marian
series rating: NC-17; part two: PG-13
word count part two: 2609
warnings: swears in this bit; violence & sex in part three
a/n: Huge, huge thanks to my beta, starbuck_a_dale, who makes things make sense and is far too nice. Part three will be posted Wednesday or Thursday; there are, again, some historical and architectural notes at the bottom. Concrit is always welcome : )
Summary: Gratuitous post-2x13 wish-fulfillment. Marian's not dead, and she and Guy have a swordfight. And sex.
Allan grips her arm, hard, and Marian wants to run just as much as he does. John's stayed out in the kitchen and she feels horribly exposed. But she shakes off Allan's grasp and kisses the Seneschal in greeting as if nothing is wrong. There is his lady-wife, and here his youngest daughter, not yet married. Marian responds to pleasantries while searching for a way out of the situation, but then she sees a servant carrying her things through the hall and she knows that she is stuck.
*
There she stands, the woman he has loathed and loved, just inside the entryway. She is resplendent in aqua and gold, tired from travel but beautiful as ever. His eyes move slowly up to hers and there they are arrested, for some energy, some overwhelming force of emotion vibrating between them holds them immobile. It is only when she drags her eyes back to Beaumont and his wife, swallowing visibly, that he becomes aware of the pain shooting down his right arm. He has crushed the pewter goblet in his hand. Guy drops it and stands, barely managing a nod to his conversation partner, the countess Alais. His hands shake, his breath is shallow; he must leave. He doesn't give a damn if he's thought uncourtly.
*
In her bed, curled tightly to avoid the elbows of her bed-mate, Marian stares into the darkness and lets herself remember that day for the first time.
She is dizzy with heat, with fear, with freedom; there is pounding in her head: the urgent slap of feet on stone, the steadily increasing pulse of her blood, the desperate thought repeated over and over again, stop this. And then she sees Richard, prone, and Guy with sword outstretched and shining in the unbearable sun. Clarity resolves around her faith in Robin, for that is all she has left. She will do whatever it takes to stop this.
She thought she could reason with him, but he is beyond reasoning: his goal too close at hand. And so she means to shock him out of his trance, and she does, but she hasn't thought far enough ahead to prepare herself for the emotion that flickers across his face. His eyes fly to her, his attention snaps from his goal, and disbelief gives way to devastation a fraction of a second before she hears Robin's arrow zip through the air. She has a fleeting moment to fear that the arrow flies too true-but by some small mercy Robin has not aimed to kill. She sees Guy fall to his knees and then there are arms around her and shouts, relieved laughter and voices thanking God. When next there is a break in the crowd, he is gone. And then Robin's hands take her face again and the sorrow drains away.
*
“Goddammit Gisborne, stop pacing!” Guy halts where he stands, running his fingers along the mantelpiece so he doesn't have to look at Vaysey. It is late, but his mind is racing, and he's been moving around the room with his whirling thoughts while Vaysey attends to correspondance.
“You should have told me,” he mutters.
“You would only have been insufferable for longer. Two days, Gisborne,” The Sheriff says, his voice lightening almost to a sing-song, “Two days and you can have your revenge. On her and Hood, all at once. How delicious will that be?”
*
The Seneschal invites her on a walk the next day. She responds graciously to her host and he shows her to the ornamental garden. It is neat and tidy and probably lovely in summer with its small fruit trees and ordered hedges, but now it is the end of winter-Christmas was lost somewhere in the days of travel and worry and despair, days that bled together in a dark dream she has tried to forget-and wet snow still lies on the quiet beds; only here and there do tips of crocuses and iris and tiny hard buds of linden trees lend any color to the scenery.
"I must confess," Robert begins, "that though you are more than welcome to my hospitality, I asked you here for a reason."
Marian's mind flicks back to his other guests and she feels for the reassuring hardness of her dagger under the folds of her mantle. She looks at him coolly; his expression is shrewd but, she thinks, tired.
"The Sheriff of Nottingham has not been here long, but he has brought much interesting news." Marian's eyebrows shoot up before she can control her reaction. Robert notes it; anyone with a position as delicate as his must be extremely perceptive.
"Yes, he is the reason I was made aware of your presence, but not my reason for bringing you here. You are safe in my halls." She lets herself relax the tiniest bit.
"So why did you ask me here, my lord?"
He stops and fiddles with the end of a pear-tree branch. "You must know that I am in an interesting position. Both King Philippe and Eleanor want my allegiance, though their reasons change as quickly as the political landscape. Returning from the Holy Land as you are, I assume there is much you do not know." He begins to walk again and tells her of John's efforts to win over the populace in England, which are surprisingly successful; the shifts in power there, Eleanor's desire that the Norman castles be fortified, and John and Philippe's collusion.
"I am loyal to Richard, my liege lord and the man who gave me this position," he continues, "but Philippe is his lord, at least where these lands are concerned. I am also in the difficult position of playing host and jailer to Philippe's sister on Richard's orders. You can imagine how much Philippe likes that-which is made more worrisome by the disturbing reports I've heard about John's recent activities, including the possibility of movements against Richard's continental possessions.”
She sucks in a breath-has the situation truly grown so dire?
"In sum, my lady, I wish you would tell me what you know of Richard's plans. Is the fight successful in the Holy Land? Does he return soon? If there is trouble-political or military-I can hold out for some time, but I cannot last indefinitely."
Marian walks in silence a few steps, trying to figure out his aims. Does he mean what he says? Is he one of John's allies, trying to get information from her? That niggling worry that Robin and Richard will linger in the Holy Land appears again, and she tries to quash it. She knows, at least, what Richard's intentions are and if he makes good on his promise-he took the cross years before he was able to go on Crusade, surely that is an indication that he is a man who keeps his word-being honest cannot harm them.
"Peace has been concluded. The King was set to leave Outremer shortly after us." His progress would be much slower, with the masses of men and equipment and the family and allies scattered across Europe to whom he would have to pay visits on his procession home, but surely even the news of an actual return-coupled with the Pope's stern warnings-would deter any actual plotting.
He takes her hands in his. "Thank you, Lady Marian," he says, and she wishes she knew him well enough to read exactly what was in those words.
*
Marian sees him from a distance before he can see her. Her heart begins to pound, but she stays her course. I saved the king, she tells herself, and she finds with sudden surprise that she bears Guy no anger. Not for her months of imprisonment, not for his attempt to kill the king. She should, but it has been burned away with heat and travel and guilt.
Guy walks with the stiffness of a convalescent, holding his arm close in what Marian imagines-hopes-is only habit at this point. Then his eyes focus on her and he turns deliberately and walks away.
She is not prepared for how hollow it makes her feel.
“Leave him be,” Allan tells her at the midday meal, when her glance has strayed one too many times in a particular direction.
“But I should-”
“He's not gonna want your apologies,” Allan says, and she has a hard time meeting his eyes. He is right, of course, but she has spent so many years acting conciliatorily towards Guy that it feels strange to do nothing about the breach between them, even if it is irreparable.
She does not see how often Guy's gaze lingers on her, and how he curses himself every time it does.
*
The next time they meet, Guy does not see her, and thus cannot avoid her. She doesn't see him either and runs smack into his shoulder. As he hisses in pain, unable to control his reaction, her eyes widen in alarm and then soften in sympathy. The last thing he wants is her goddamned pity.
“I am sorry,” she says quietly.
“Of course. Wonderful,” he mutters as the pain subsides, attempting to sidestep her.
“Guy,” she says, and hearing his name on her lips is the most wonderful and painful thing he can imagine.
He turns, more because he's curious how she's going to try and backtrack than because he actually cares or will believe what she's going to say. She seems to know that, and her expression crumples a little. He feels a spike of petty glee.
“I am glad your wound is healing well,” she says after a moment. Christ, will she never cease? But he gathers his defenses around himself again and bows slightly, mockingly. And then continues on his way.
*
That night she dreams of Robin. He stands behind her, running his hands down her arms. He kisses her temple, her cheek; nuzzles her neck through her hair.
“Come with me and you shall be Queen of Acre,” he whispers. “Come with me and we shall free the Saracens from taxes.”
But her contentment turns to despair, for she cannot rise from the chair she sits in. Can he not see her skirts are weighted down with embroidery frames and babies and keys, with cheese molds and spindle whorls and dark, heavy loaves of bread? He tugs at her hand-she cannot stand-and then he is gone.
*
They wait in the dark, in the cold. The fire is low so as not to draw attention. Thoughts of her, so close, keep flitting into his mind and he keeps shoving them out; he's got no clue what he's feeling anymore. Guy tries to draw the cold inside himself and goes over the plan in his head yet again. The number of stairs to the towers. The pattern of lefts and rights to Alais's room. Those three who should not be here, who could prove dangerous.
It's as if Vaysey has been planning for this. He couldn't have, Guy knows, but he also knows he will work any situation to his own advantage. For weeks he's been grinding Guy down when he doesn't think he could be ground down any further. For weeks he's had Vaysey's voice in his ear, mocking, then soothing, drawing his ire and then tempting him with visions Guy's not quite sure he cares about anymore. All of it revolves around, comes back to, her. He wavers from the fire of anger to ashes of despair. He's ready for it, for something, anything, to be over.
*
Marian wakes despondent, unsettled, and tosses and turns for what seems like hours. Finally, after a pointed tug on the blankets from her bedmate, she rises and pulls on her clothing. The air is cold, but the view from the battlements of Rouen, coloured softly in shades of grey and purple with the silver river threading through it, is worth it.
She finds Little John standing atop one of the corner towers.
“You can't sleep either?”
He's wrapped up in his cloak, staring out over the city, and he shakes his head.
“I've slept in the forest too long to be comfortable inside stone walls.” And then, after a pause, “They remind me of Nottingham.”
His eyes go to her, and she knows he's questioning her decision to stay. Marian deliberates: If they are wanted here, there is no way they will be able to leave. But the Seneschal has declared his loyalty and gotten his information, and there is no reason he should keep them. Every reason they should go. She will speak to Robert at a decent hour.
Then something creeps into her consciousness, something soft, distant, but rhythmic, triggering warning signals. She listens hard, and her eyes find John's as realization hits them at the same moment: hooves. Many. It is not right for this early.
From their vantage point they scan the city. The sound is not localized, but it is growing louder. Then she sees a group of mounted men crossing a square. Two more, there, on a street leading to the castle. Marian whips around to see if the guards along the wall have noticed. What she does see is two familiar figures in black, moving silently through the courtyard. They are armed.
“I do not like this,” John says.
“Nor I,” Marian replies, as they watch Vaysey and Guy confer for a moment before splitting up. Guy makes for the stairs to the battlements; Vaysey has rounded the keep and is out of sight. What is most worrying is that both seem to be heading towards the barbican.
“Robert warned me that there were dangerous things happening. John, if they are planning the treachery I think they are, we cannot let them do this.”
John nods, his face grim. “I'll wake Allan.”
“I do not think we have time, not if they're going to open the gate. You find Vaysey. I'll go after Guy.”
“Lady Marian-”
The anger she thought she'd laid to rest is back; it was banked but not extinguished, and when she looks at John her face is flushed and furious.
His eyes widen; obeying those above him in the social rank is still a deeply ingrained habit. “You are not even armed,” he says quietly.
“I will find a weapon,” she replies, voice steely. They nod to each other, and then race down the tower stairs.
Marian cuts through the keep and in the hall finds a man asleep with his sword belt by his pallet. She grabs it, wrapping it twice around her waist as she runs. She has heard no clash of steel from the direction of the gate, and it worries her. The hoofbeats are louder, she hears when she dashes out of the other side of the keep. They seem more centralized in front of the castle as well. She takes the stairs to the battlements two at a time until her skirts almost trip her up. The castle wall extends to her right; to her left is one of the towers that rises over the main gate. A guard is sprawled on the ground; she does not know if he is dead, but there is blood.
Marian tightens her hand on the sword at her side, draws a breath, and steps into the darkness of the tower. She prays frantically for her eyes to adjust, for she can hear him, she knows it is him, pulling at the chains that bind the winding mechanism for lifting the castle gate.
on to part three
Notes
There was a castle in Rouen, but it is no more. It stood, fittingly, where the rue du Donjon meets the rue Philippe Auguste. Alais (also known as Alys) was Richard's long-term fiancée, but after a purported affair with his father, Henry II, they could no longer marry. Rather than send her home-which would incur her brother King Philippe of France's wrath and lose them her large dowry, she was kept basically as a prisoner, and was held in Rouen at this time. A barbican is a fortified gate to a castle or city, often with towers and other defensive features. A keep (or donjon) is the main part of the castle that housed the hall, living quarters, etc.