FIC: "A Life Less Ordinary" (Chapter 10)
Title: A Life Less Ordinary
Fandom: Robin Hood
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Outlaws, Marian, Carter, Guy, Sheriff. Canon pairings.
Setting: Post-season 2
Spoilers: 2.13
Summary: They’d saved the King, but had they saved England? An alternate season 3 fic.
Disclaimer: The title comes from the Danny Boyle film, the rest belongs to the BBC
Prologue I Chapter 1 I Chapter 2 I Chapter 3 I Chapter 4I Chapter 5 I Chapter 6 I Chapter 7 I Chapter 8 I Chapter 9
In this chapter: Guy meets with Prince John in London, and Allan receives a message.
A/N: Thanks to ladykate63 for looking over the Guy scenes and for her insights.
Chapter 10: The Phony King of England
Westminster Palace, London
Guy’s boots echoed loudly against the cobbled stone floor of the palace. A servant had led him to the cloisters which surrounded one of the palace gardens, but had not ventured outside themselves. He had been summoned by Prince John himself, his first audience even though he had been in London for many weeks. Guy felt extremely foolish walking aimlessly through the covered walkways that edged the carefully tended gardens, and whilst he could see several servants meticulously attending to them, collecting leaves, examining branches, gauging the temperature of the earth, he could not see the Prince.
Eventually, after it seemed like he had almost done a full rotation of the cloister, Guy saw him, gazing out at the gardens through one of the arcades, his face half in shadow from the arch above.
The Prince was of average height but very lean, his slim shoulders and build perhaps making the man seemed shorter than he actually was. He had an angular, sharp nose and what seemed to be rather small eyes which darted about taking in everything and everyone around him, including each and every servant and Guy himself. John also had a crop of fine golden curls which framed his face and seemed to pick up the light when he moved his head. Guy was of course no judge of handsomeness, but he had heard the servant girls speak of John with admiration - whether this had to do with his appearance or his power as Regent he did not know - but they had seemed to like those curls.
It was with some trepidation that Guy approached - all he knew was that Vaisey had sent him to London to provide the Prince with an update regarding Richard’s capture, but he simply couldn’t shake the feeling that he may have been offered up as a sacrificial lamb, should the Prince not be mollified by the action. After all, Vaisey had promised to kill Richard, not imprison him.
But Guy put any fear aside and bowed deeply. “Your Highness,” he addressed him, trying to neutralise his Northern accent. Londoners sounded somewhat different to those in Nottinghamshire, and Guy had found he’d immediately single himself out as from the north the moment he opened his mouth. There’d been some snide remarks flung his way in the taverns, not that Guy cared for the opinions of drunken fools, and regardless he’d made them rethink trifling with him further. But Guy couldn’t very well shove the Prince’s face in a bowl of soup or punch him in the gut if he impugned him, so he tried to keep his accent mellow, just in case.
“Guy of Gisborne,” he introduced himself when the Prince did not reply. “You sent for me?”
Prince John seemed to remain in deep contemplation for several moments, before turning to Guy and starting ever so slightly, as if he had not noticed him standing there. If it was a feint to put Guy ill at ease, it worked.
“Sir Guy of Gisborne,” Prince John said finally, and smiled with what appeared to be some warmth. “You come at last.”
“Sire?” Guy was confused and somewhat anxious. “Your servants have only just summoned me…”
Prince John smiled again, wider this time, his lips parting to reveal very straight teeth. “Do not be concerned, Sir Guy,” he told him. “I meant only that I have been thinking for quite some time that we should meet. You are after all, the man who has twice failed to kill my dear brother.”
Guy found himself holding his breath, unsure of how to respond. The Prince’s tone had been light, almost conversational, and the comment did not seem like an accusation.
“My Lord, I…”
Prince John waved a dismissive hand. “I told you not to worry - I am not about to order your death, Sir Guy.”
Guy allowed himself to breathe again, although he did not fully relax.
“It is true you have failed me,” the Prince continued in the same light tone. “But it is no easy task, to kill a King, and it would not be advisable on my part to surround myself with men so comfortable with regicide. Do you not agree?”
“I’m sure you are correct, Sire,” Guy was able, somehow, to formulate a response.
“Naturally, there is your Sheriff,” the Prince continued, “he would have no such qualms about dispatching his sovereign. That is why you are here, Sir Guy, and he is in Nottingham.”
“Why am I here, my Lord?” Guy asked.
“To tell me of the progress in the North, naturally,” John replied. He began walking away from Guy, down the walkway and Guy obediently followed. “The tax collections in the northern shires seem to have been more successful lately,” the Prince continued. “So long as they do not take the route directly through Sherwood.”
“There has not been a direct attack on Nottingham Castle for some time,” Guy informed him. Of course, he could not take credit for that, because the Outlaws seemed to confine themselves to picking off travellers in the woods, rather than venture in the town itself. Ever since - but Guy clamped down on that thought before it could jump into its mind. He’d promised himself that he would close the door on that particular event, and move on. Of course, putting that into practice was proving somewhat more difficult.
“I have heard the people saying that Robin Hood has lost his heart,” Prince John said casually. “He is no longer the hero he once was.”
Guy felt his own heart constrict in panic, and wondered briefly if Prince John knew the reason why Hood seemed to have lost his will, or he had read something his own expression. But studying Prince John quickly, he sensed no accusation, no knowing tone - it remained light and casual.
“He is…not as active as he once was,” Guy spoke very carefully, conscious of each word. “His gang have barely been sighted in Nottingham, in fact.” He paused for a moment, and then curiosity got the better of him. “If you don’t mind me asking, Sire, what else have you heard the people say?”
Prince John laughed then, a thin, dangerous sound which Guy couldn’t help but compare to a snake’s hiss. “Vaisey told me that you were brawn over brains,” he said, clearly amused. “It is a figure of speech, Sir Guy,” Prince John explained when Guy made no answer. “I have not heard the people say anything. I have people to do my listening for me.”
Guy felt his cheeks burn with shame. “Of course, Sire, forgive me.”
“You need not apologise for amusing your king,” Prince John told him. “Now tell me of my dear brother,” he changed to subject.
Guy complied, explaining their plot in detail, the pact with the Duke Leopold in Austria, and his promise that Richard would be kept under heavy guard to discourage any rescue attempts.
“Is that all?” Prince John questioned, looking at Guy even as he walked half a step behind him, perhaps correctly sensing that his report was slightly incomplete.
Guy felt he could not possibly lie to the Prince, not when he would be the next King with the power to grant title and lands and, naturally, the right to take them all away.
“Duke Leopold informed us that your mother, Eleanor of Aquitaine, has written to him demanding the release of her son.”
The Prince’s mouth twitched unpleasantly. “That is not unexpected.”
Guy took a deep breath. “She also wrote to warn him that if Richard’s continued imprisonment was in any way connected with or condoned by your Highness, then she intended to disown you. She…she indicated that he should exercise caution when choosing allies.”
Prince John stopped his ambling, sighing as he leant against the nearest arcade, once again gazing out into the garden in contemplation.
“Mother always did like Richard best.” There was a barely-concealed hate in his tone. “Such was my misfortune of not being the first-born,” he added with clear longing, turning to Guy in what seemed like a conspiratorial pose. “The second son is the spare, never expected to actually accomplish anything. To have all the promise of power and greatness so close, and yet prevented from grasping it. And I was not even that, with four brothers before me.”
“I imagine being a younger son is something like being a dispossessed lord,” Prince John continued after a brief pause, gazing back out at the garden again. “But the cards have fallen in our favour, haven’t they, Sir Guy?” he added. “We have taken the inheritance that fate wished to deny us. Whether we shall keep a hold of that bequest remains to be seen.”
“I would give my life to ensure that you do keep it, Sire,” Guy told him. He wasn’t sure if that was the truth, but it sounded like the sort of thing that should please a Prince.
But to Guy’s surprise John looked back at him, his upper lip curled into a sneer. “Loyalty,” he shook his head and appraised Guy with derision. “It is a repulsive thing, Sir Guy.”
“My Lord?”
“Loyalty for loyalty’s sake, I mean,” the Prince continued. “It blinds your judgement - makes you weak. You should be loyal to me because of what I can give you in return - Vaisey a least, understands this. Were another to offer him better terms, or more power, he would take it in an instant.”
“You do not want my allegiance, Sire? My devotion to you as my King?” Guy was confused.
“That is not the way the world works, Sir Guy,” Prince John spoke to him as if he were a child. “It is better to understand that. My brother does not - he believes he is anointed by God and therefore all shall love and devote themselves to him. That is why he will never see betrayal coming.”
“But I know that people all have a price,” he continued. “That they all reach a point where they would sell their own family to achieve some selfish goal.” That seemed to amuse him, and Prince John smiled the same unsettling smile. “Loyalty is a falsehood - a contract which can - and will - be broken as soon as one party stops being of use to the other.”
“And Vaisey is still of use to you?” Guy couldn’t help but ask, for the question had been forming in the back of his mind for some time.
“For now,” Prince John told him, his amused smile clearly indicting that he knew exactly what was on Guy’s mind. “As you know, I have made a pact with him to ensure that he retains control over the northern shires. And he in return, although he has failed to kill my brother, he has at least gotten him out of the way. In fact, the situation will give me a legitimate excuse to raise taxes that not even Richard’s supporters can argue with.”
“And what can I do for you, my Lord?” Guy asked, desperate to prove his worth.
“Wait,” Prince John told him. “And when I have use for you, I will call on you.”
“I am yours to command.”
“Good.” Prince John nodded.
Guy knew when he was being dismissed, and so gave Prince John a bow and began to walk back down the corridor, footsteps echoing on the stones.
“Know this, Sir Guy,” Prince John called after him, and Guy turned back to see the man’s face hard and his eyes cold. “I would raze Nottingham to the ground if it gave me pleasure - pact or no pact.” The Prince blinked at looked away, in an instant serene once again. “Remember that.”
“Yes, Sire.” Guy bowed again, and took his leave.
************************************
Trip Inn, Nottingham
Allan sat alone at his usual table in the corner of the ‘Trip, experimentally plucking stings on the lute he had just purchased from a passing trader. He’d bargained him down, but it had still cost Allan almost all of his month’s pay. Now he wouldn’t be able to afford those new boots he wanted, but on seeing the simple but fine craftsmanship of the instrument, he knew he had to have it.
It had been Robin’s idea, surprisingly, for them each to take a small portion of the money they collected from their efforts each week. In the past he’d been adamant that they give all of that they acquired to the poor and live entirely off the land. To do otherwise, he argued, made them little more than common thieves. But while Robin had seemed to sustain himself off of the worship from the people, it had never made Allan’s belly feel less empty or fix the holes in his socks.
But a change had taken place on their return from the Holy Land - Robin had all but stepped down as the leader of their gang, claiming that they should all make the decisions as a true team. How much of Robin’s change of heart was a true desire to improve morale and how much had to do with the time he seemed to need to wallow in his grief was unclear. But Allan felt on the whole it had been a positive change. They discussed their plans in detail and when there was disagreement, the opinion of the majority carried the day, rather than Robin handing out orders without explanation as he’d once been prone to do.
And each outlaw took a very small amount from the haul each week to spend as he wished. Robin never spent his share and Allan suspected he put it back into the store, Little John sent almost all of his to his family and Much seemed to devote his to those mysterious trips he kept taking. Only Allan seemed be at a loss of what to do with his share, which he found somewhat comic considering it was the lack of coin which in part had contributed to his betrayal of the gang. But now he would rather die than turn on them again, and had their trust as well as money in his pocket and yet sometimes he felt more miserable now than he had then.
Allan plucked a light tune on the lute, the memory in his fingers from what seemed like a lifetime ago. He’d grown up in the house of the local Earl at Guildford and had been taught the instrument by his mother, a kitchenmaid who’d been the daughter of a minstrel herself. By the age of five he’d learned to play several tunes and sing, much to the delight of the household and when he was eight he was permitted to entertain the Earl and his family. Afterwards, the Earl patted him on the head and told him what a good job he’d done, the pleased look in his lord’s bright blue eyes forever imprinted on Allan’s mind. When he’d returned to his mother, she had cried with happiness and pride and held him tightly.
But she’d died less than a year later bringing Tom into the world, and Allan lost the will to recite tales of legend and romance and happy endings. The Earl himself died when Allan was thirteen and the widowed lady of the house threw him and his brother out without a second thought. He’d had to leave his beautiful lute behind, not that he had played it in years.
They’d moved to London and gotten by through the art of pickpocketing and the occasional con, although when Tom was old enough he’d taken off with his band of lads. Allan had a hard run after that, trying to get used to being a single conman when most of his repertoire was directed to a double act. He ended up relieving a local craftsman of a lute and found a job of sorts playing at a local pub in Cheapside. It didn’t pay, but the patrons often made requests and gave him a few coins to recite their favourite ballad. One of the barmaids took a particular shine to him, and he lived with her for some time.
Thinking back, Allan couldn’t quite remember her name, although he had been quite infatuated with her. He remembered her dark green eyes and wavy blonde hair, her buxom figure and warm smile which was so different to the false, flirtatious grin she gave the customers - her true smile she reserved for Allan alone. He often played for her in their small room above the pub, singing a sweet tune of love and devotion as she rested her head against his shoulder. But one day Tom had come back begging for his help with a new scheme in the West Country and Allan couldn’t say no to the prospect. But he’d left the lute with her as a parting gift, and had played her favourite song one last time.
It was that tune of love he played now. “Do you like that, eh, Bash?” he addressed the small pigeon on the table before him, pecking at a small pile of grains he had placed there for her.
Bashirah was Lardner’s mate; the one treasure from the Holy Land Allan had. Djaq had given him the cage before they’d left, telling him the birds name and how to care for her. If ever there was an emergency, Djaq had said, they could use the pigeons to send one message. Bashirah came with them to England as she would easily be able to find her way back to Acre, and Lardner stayed with Will and Djaq in the hopes that he would be able to find the outlaws camp once again, having flown the journey before, or at least seek out his mate somehow.
But mostly, she was a comfort to Allan, a reminder of people who loved him, even though they were far away. Bashirah cocked her head from one side to the other and cooed.
“Ah, see, it’s pretty isn’t it?” he addressed her, playing a few more notes. “Bet it reminds you of Lardner, eh?” He smiled wistfully. “Bet you miss ‘im - well, I know how you feel old girl.”
Bashirah hopped forward and nipped Allan’s finger. “Ow, alrigh’ - I’ll stop.” He put down the lute on the table.
“You shouldn’t take orders from a bird, Allan-A-Dale.” Susie, the Trip’s barmaid, appeared at his side, flipping her blonde hair. “It’s strange.”
“Been taking orders from birds all me life,” he told her. “Including you,” he swatted at her behind playfully and she giggled, pushed his hand away and putting a pint of ale in front of him.
“Spent my last penny on this thing,” he indicated the lute.
“Compliments of the house,” Susie told him, and sat down on the seat opposite. “Boss is grateful for your lot chasing away those thieves from last week.”
“All part of the service,” he said dismissively. For a moment, her hair glinting in the firelight, Susie reminded Allan of his London barmaid - she had the same smile.
“He’s not going to be too happy about that bird,” Susie continued, giving Bashirah a distasteful look. “If you weren’t one of Robin Hood’s men…”
“But I am, so he can lay off,” Allan leant back in his chair. “Plus, she’s harmless, aren’t you Bash?”
Susie laughed again and shook her head. “Why do you bring her in here, anyway?”
Allan shrugged. “Just in case, I suppose.” It was more a comfort than anything - someone to talk to, as if just by speaking to the bird she could relay the message to Will and Djaq.
“And you were playing her music,” Susie continued, still amused. “I tell you Allan - it’s strange. You should be playing music for me!”
Allan gave her a crafty grin. “Would you like me to?”
She shrugged. “If you wanted to, I wouldn’t object. I certainly wouldn’t bite your hand,” she added saucily.
Laughing, Allan was about to pick up the lute again when he heard a commotion from the other side of the room. Several patrons near the door were swearing loudly and swatting at something in the air. Susie stood and rushed over, trying to calm them down.
“It’s a ruddy bird!” one man exclaimed, and sure enough, there was a small grey pigeon flapping around, darting between hands that were trying to shoo it back out the door. Allan rose immediately.
“Don’t hurt ‘im!” he cried, dimly aware that Bashirah was fluttering behind. He reached out his hands, and as if sensing a friendly, the bird landed on his outstretched palms. Allan felt his heart beat wildly; it was Lardner. And sure enough, there was a small piece of parchment tied to the bird’s leg. He undid the string with shaking fingers, but felt the eyes of the entire pub on him. As friendly to the outlaws as the Trip was, he couldn’t afford to draw to much attention to himself.
Lardner clasped in one hand, and the small scrap of parchment in the other, Allan ran as fast as he could back to the camp in Sherwood. Robin, Much and John were all there, discussing the plans for their upcoming raid when Allan arrived, almost crashing into the cooking pot in his excitement.
But he was out of breath from the run it took several minutes for him to speak, gesturing with Lardner until the bird grew upset with the treatment and forced himself free from Allan’s grip. Bashirah, who had followed him back to camp like always, perched herself beside Lardner on a nearby tree.
“Lardner….” Allan tried to explain between lungfuls of air as he all but collapsed on a nearby bunk. “Message…can’t….” Eventually he just held out the note to Robin, who took it from him and read the message. Robin blinked twice and then seemed to read it again, holding the edges of the small parchment between each thumb and forefinger.
“What does it say?” Much finally asked.
Robin cleared his throat but did not look up. “It’s from Will and Djaq,” he told them. “They’re coming home.”
Allan grinned from ear to ear - he’d figured that much. Much let out a whoop of delight and John banged his staff against the ground in a clear an expression of glee. Only Robin did not seem filled with joy, in fact, he had gone very pale, his eyes darting back and forth as he appeared to read the short message over and over.
“What is it Robin?” Allan asked. “Bad news?” For the first time, he wondered whether Will and Djaq were returning because something terrible had happened.
“No,” Robin answered, his voice catching with emotion, his hands holding the small sheet of parchment taut until it could not withstand the pressure and ripped in half.
“Marian’s alive,” he said finally. “She…she’s coming home with them.”
The camp immediately fell silent. Allan looked at Much, his mouth agape and for once in his life clearly at a loss for words, at Little John, whose entire face lit up with happiness even as he shook his head in wonder, and Robin, whose fists were still clenched around the now two pieces of parchment, his knuckles white, a faraway look in his eyes.
Only Allan found a voice to speak; the only word suitable for such a situation.
“Blimey.”
Fandom: Robin Hood
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Outlaws, Marian, Carter, Guy, Sheriff. Canon pairings.
Setting: Post-season 2
Spoilers: 2.13
Summary: They’d saved the King, but had they saved England? An alternate season 3 fic.
Disclaimer: The title comes from the Danny Boyle film, the rest belongs to the BBC
Prologue I Chapter 1 I Chapter 2 I Chapter 3 I Chapter 4I Chapter 5 I Chapter 6 I Chapter 7 I Chapter 8 I Chapter 9
In this chapter: Guy meets with Prince John in London, and Allan receives a message.
A/N: Thanks to ladykate63 for looking over the Guy scenes and for her insights.
Chapter 10: The Phony King of England
Westminster Palace, London
Guy’s boots echoed loudly against the cobbled stone floor of the palace. A servant had led him to the cloisters which surrounded one of the palace gardens, but had not ventured outside themselves. He had been summoned by Prince John himself, his first audience even though he had been in London for many weeks. Guy felt extremely foolish walking aimlessly through the covered walkways that edged the carefully tended gardens, and whilst he could see several servants meticulously attending to them, collecting leaves, examining branches, gauging the temperature of the earth, he could not see the Prince.
Eventually, after it seemed like he had almost done a full rotation of the cloister, Guy saw him, gazing out at the gardens through one of the arcades, his face half in shadow from the arch above.
The Prince was of average height but very lean, his slim shoulders and build perhaps making the man seemed shorter than he actually was. He had an angular, sharp nose and what seemed to be rather small eyes which darted about taking in everything and everyone around him, including each and every servant and Guy himself. John also had a crop of fine golden curls which framed his face and seemed to pick up the light when he moved his head. Guy was of course no judge of handsomeness, but he had heard the servant girls speak of John with admiration - whether this had to do with his appearance or his power as Regent he did not know - but they had seemed to like those curls.
It was with some trepidation that Guy approached - all he knew was that Vaisey had sent him to London to provide the Prince with an update regarding Richard’s capture, but he simply couldn’t shake the feeling that he may have been offered up as a sacrificial lamb, should the Prince not be mollified by the action. After all, Vaisey had promised to kill Richard, not imprison him.
But Guy put any fear aside and bowed deeply. “Your Highness,” he addressed him, trying to neutralise his Northern accent. Londoners sounded somewhat different to those in Nottinghamshire, and Guy had found he’d immediately single himself out as from the north the moment he opened his mouth. There’d been some snide remarks flung his way in the taverns, not that Guy cared for the opinions of drunken fools, and regardless he’d made them rethink trifling with him further. But Guy couldn’t very well shove the Prince’s face in a bowl of soup or punch him in the gut if he impugned him, so he tried to keep his accent mellow, just in case.
“Guy of Gisborne,” he introduced himself when the Prince did not reply. “You sent for me?”
Prince John seemed to remain in deep contemplation for several moments, before turning to Guy and starting ever so slightly, as if he had not noticed him standing there. If it was a feint to put Guy ill at ease, it worked.
“Sir Guy of Gisborne,” Prince John said finally, and smiled with what appeared to be some warmth. “You come at last.”
“Sire?” Guy was confused and somewhat anxious. “Your servants have only just summoned me…”
Prince John smiled again, wider this time, his lips parting to reveal very straight teeth. “Do not be concerned, Sir Guy,” he told him. “I meant only that I have been thinking for quite some time that we should meet. You are after all, the man who has twice failed to kill my dear brother.”
Guy found himself holding his breath, unsure of how to respond. The Prince’s tone had been light, almost conversational, and the comment did not seem like an accusation.
“My Lord, I…”
Prince John waved a dismissive hand. “I told you not to worry - I am not about to order your death, Sir Guy.”
Guy allowed himself to breathe again, although he did not fully relax.
“It is true you have failed me,” the Prince continued in the same light tone. “But it is no easy task, to kill a King, and it would not be advisable on my part to surround myself with men so comfortable with regicide. Do you not agree?”
“I’m sure you are correct, Sire,” Guy was able, somehow, to formulate a response.
“Naturally, there is your Sheriff,” the Prince continued, “he would have no such qualms about dispatching his sovereign. That is why you are here, Sir Guy, and he is in Nottingham.”
“Why am I here, my Lord?” Guy asked.
“To tell me of the progress in the North, naturally,” John replied. He began walking away from Guy, down the walkway and Guy obediently followed. “The tax collections in the northern shires seem to have been more successful lately,” the Prince continued. “So long as they do not take the route directly through Sherwood.”
“There has not been a direct attack on Nottingham Castle for some time,” Guy informed him. Of course, he could not take credit for that, because the Outlaws seemed to confine themselves to picking off travellers in the woods, rather than venture in the town itself. Ever since - but Guy clamped down on that thought before it could jump into its mind. He’d promised himself that he would close the door on that particular event, and move on. Of course, putting that into practice was proving somewhat more difficult.
“I have heard the people saying that Robin Hood has lost his heart,” Prince John said casually. “He is no longer the hero he once was.”
Guy felt his own heart constrict in panic, and wondered briefly if Prince John knew the reason why Hood seemed to have lost his will, or he had read something his own expression. But studying Prince John quickly, he sensed no accusation, no knowing tone - it remained light and casual.
“He is…not as active as he once was,” Guy spoke very carefully, conscious of each word. “His gang have barely been sighted in Nottingham, in fact.” He paused for a moment, and then curiosity got the better of him. “If you don’t mind me asking, Sire, what else have you heard the people say?”
Prince John laughed then, a thin, dangerous sound which Guy couldn’t help but compare to a snake’s hiss. “Vaisey told me that you were brawn over brains,” he said, clearly amused. “It is a figure of speech, Sir Guy,” Prince John explained when Guy made no answer. “I have not heard the people say anything. I have people to do my listening for me.”
Guy felt his cheeks burn with shame. “Of course, Sire, forgive me.”
“You need not apologise for amusing your king,” Prince John told him. “Now tell me of my dear brother,” he changed to subject.
Guy complied, explaining their plot in detail, the pact with the Duke Leopold in Austria, and his promise that Richard would be kept under heavy guard to discourage any rescue attempts.
“Is that all?” Prince John questioned, looking at Guy even as he walked half a step behind him, perhaps correctly sensing that his report was slightly incomplete.
Guy felt he could not possibly lie to the Prince, not when he would be the next King with the power to grant title and lands and, naturally, the right to take them all away.
“Duke Leopold informed us that your mother, Eleanor of Aquitaine, has written to him demanding the release of her son.”
The Prince’s mouth twitched unpleasantly. “That is not unexpected.”
Guy took a deep breath. “She also wrote to warn him that if Richard’s continued imprisonment was in any way connected with or condoned by your Highness, then she intended to disown you. She…she indicated that he should exercise caution when choosing allies.”
Prince John stopped his ambling, sighing as he leant against the nearest arcade, once again gazing out into the garden in contemplation.
“Mother always did like Richard best.” There was a barely-concealed hate in his tone. “Such was my misfortune of not being the first-born,” he added with clear longing, turning to Guy in what seemed like a conspiratorial pose. “The second son is the spare, never expected to actually accomplish anything. To have all the promise of power and greatness so close, and yet prevented from grasping it. And I was not even that, with four brothers before me.”
“I imagine being a younger son is something like being a dispossessed lord,” Prince John continued after a brief pause, gazing back out at the garden again. “But the cards have fallen in our favour, haven’t they, Sir Guy?” he added. “We have taken the inheritance that fate wished to deny us. Whether we shall keep a hold of that bequest remains to be seen.”
“I would give my life to ensure that you do keep it, Sire,” Guy told him. He wasn’t sure if that was the truth, but it sounded like the sort of thing that should please a Prince.
But to Guy’s surprise John looked back at him, his upper lip curled into a sneer. “Loyalty,” he shook his head and appraised Guy with derision. “It is a repulsive thing, Sir Guy.”
“My Lord?”
“Loyalty for loyalty’s sake, I mean,” the Prince continued. “It blinds your judgement - makes you weak. You should be loyal to me because of what I can give you in return - Vaisey a least, understands this. Were another to offer him better terms, or more power, he would take it in an instant.”
“You do not want my allegiance, Sire? My devotion to you as my King?” Guy was confused.
“That is not the way the world works, Sir Guy,” Prince John spoke to him as if he were a child. “It is better to understand that. My brother does not - he believes he is anointed by God and therefore all shall love and devote themselves to him. That is why he will never see betrayal coming.”
“But I know that people all have a price,” he continued. “That they all reach a point where they would sell their own family to achieve some selfish goal.” That seemed to amuse him, and Prince John smiled the same unsettling smile. “Loyalty is a falsehood - a contract which can - and will - be broken as soon as one party stops being of use to the other.”
“And Vaisey is still of use to you?” Guy couldn’t help but ask, for the question had been forming in the back of his mind for some time.
“For now,” Prince John told him, his amused smile clearly indicting that he knew exactly what was on Guy’s mind. “As you know, I have made a pact with him to ensure that he retains control over the northern shires. And he in return, although he has failed to kill my brother, he has at least gotten him out of the way. In fact, the situation will give me a legitimate excuse to raise taxes that not even Richard’s supporters can argue with.”
“And what can I do for you, my Lord?” Guy asked, desperate to prove his worth.
“Wait,” Prince John told him. “And when I have use for you, I will call on you.”
“I am yours to command.”
“Good.” Prince John nodded.
Guy knew when he was being dismissed, and so gave Prince John a bow and began to walk back down the corridor, footsteps echoing on the stones.
“Know this, Sir Guy,” Prince John called after him, and Guy turned back to see the man’s face hard and his eyes cold. “I would raze Nottingham to the ground if it gave me pleasure - pact or no pact.” The Prince blinked at looked away, in an instant serene once again. “Remember that.”
“Yes, Sire.” Guy bowed again, and took his leave.
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Trip Inn, Nottingham
Allan sat alone at his usual table in the corner of the ‘Trip, experimentally plucking stings on the lute he had just purchased from a passing trader. He’d bargained him down, but it had still cost Allan almost all of his month’s pay. Now he wouldn’t be able to afford those new boots he wanted, but on seeing the simple but fine craftsmanship of the instrument, he knew he had to have it.
It had been Robin’s idea, surprisingly, for them each to take a small portion of the money they collected from their efforts each week. In the past he’d been adamant that they give all of that they acquired to the poor and live entirely off the land. To do otherwise, he argued, made them little more than common thieves. But while Robin had seemed to sustain himself off of the worship from the people, it had never made Allan’s belly feel less empty or fix the holes in his socks.
But a change had taken place on their return from the Holy Land - Robin had all but stepped down as the leader of their gang, claiming that they should all make the decisions as a true team. How much of Robin’s change of heart was a true desire to improve morale and how much had to do with the time he seemed to need to wallow in his grief was unclear. But Allan felt on the whole it had been a positive change. They discussed their plans in detail and when there was disagreement, the opinion of the majority carried the day, rather than Robin handing out orders without explanation as he’d once been prone to do.
And each outlaw took a very small amount from the haul each week to spend as he wished. Robin never spent his share and Allan suspected he put it back into the store, Little John sent almost all of his to his family and Much seemed to devote his to those mysterious trips he kept taking. Only Allan seemed be at a loss of what to do with his share, which he found somewhat comic considering it was the lack of coin which in part had contributed to his betrayal of the gang. But now he would rather die than turn on them again, and had their trust as well as money in his pocket and yet sometimes he felt more miserable now than he had then.
Allan plucked a light tune on the lute, the memory in his fingers from what seemed like a lifetime ago. He’d grown up in the house of the local Earl at Guildford and had been taught the instrument by his mother, a kitchenmaid who’d been the daughter of a minstrel herself. By the age of five he’d learned to play several tunes and sing, much to the delight of the household and when he was eight he was permitted to entertain the Earl and his family. Afterwards, the Earl patted him on the head and told him what a good job he’d done, the pleased look in his lord’s bright blue eyes forever imprinted on Allan’s mind. When he’d returned to his mother, she had cried with happiness and pride and held him tightly.
But she’d died less than a year later bringing Tom into the world, and Allan lost the will to recite tales of legend and romance and happy endings. The Earl himself died when Allan was thirteen and the widowed lady of the house threw him and his brother out without a second thought. He’d had to leave his beautiful lute behind, not that he had played it in years.
They’d moved to London and gotten by through the art of pickpocketing and the occasional con, although when Tom was old enough he’d taken off with his band of lads. Allan had a hard run after that, trying to get used to being a single conman when most of his repertoire was directed to a double act. He ended up relieving a local craftsman of a lute and found a job of sorts playing at a local pub in Cheapside. It didn’t pay, but the patrons often made requests and gave him a few coins to recite their favourite ballad. One of the barmaids took a particular shine to him, and he lived with her for some time.
Thinking back, Allan couldn’t quite remember her name, although he had been quite infatuated with her. He remembered her dark green eyes and wavy blonde hair, her buxom figure and warm smile which was so different to the false, flirtatious grin she gave the customers - her true smile she reserved for Allan alone. He often played for her in their small room above the pub, singing a sweet tune of love and devotion as she rested her head against his shoulder. But one day Tom had come back begging for his help with a new scheme in the West Country and Allan couldn’t say no to the prospect. But he’d left the lute with her as a parting gift, and had played her favourite song one last time.
It was that tune of love he played now. “Do you like that, eh, Bash?” he addressed the small pigeon on the table before him, pecking at a small pile of grains he had placed there for her.
Bashirah was Lardner’s mate; the one treasure from the Holy Land Allan had. Djaq had given him the cage before they’d left, telling him the birds name and how to care for her. If ever there was an emergency, Djaq had said, they could use the pigeons to send one message. Bashirah came with them to England as she would easily be able to find her way back to Acre, and Lardner stayed with Will and Djaq in the hopes that he would be able to find the outlaws camp once again, having flown the journey before, or at least seek out his mate somehow.
But mostly, she was a comfort to Allan, a reminder of people who loved him, even though they were far away. Bashirah cocked her head from one side to the other and cooed.
“Ah, see, it’s pretty isn’t it?” he addressed her, playing a few more notes. “Bet it reminds you of Lardner, eh?” He smiled wistfully. “Bet you miss ‘im - well, I know how you feel old girl.”
Bashirah hopped forward and nipped Allan’s finger. “Ow, alrigh’ - I’ll stop.” He put down the lute on the table.
“You shouldn’t take orders from a bird, Allan-A-Dale.” Susie, the Trip’s barmaid, appeared at his side, flipping her blonde hair. “It’s strange.”
“Been taking orders from birds all me life,” he told her. “Including you,” he swatted at her behind playfully and she giggled, pushed his hand away and putting a pint of ale in front of him.
“Spent my last penny on this thing,” he indicated the lute.
“Compliments of the house,” Susie told him, and sat down on the seat opposite. “Boss is grateful for your lot chasing away those thieves from last week.”
“All part of the service,” he said dismissively. For a moment, her hair glinting in the firelight, Susie reminded Allan of his London barmaid - she had the same smile.
“He’s not going to be too happy about that bird,” Susie continued, giving Bashirah a distasteful look. “If you weren’t one of Robin Hood’s men…”
“But I am, so he can lay off,” Allan leant back in his chair. “Plus, she’s harmless, aren’t you Bash?”
Susie laughed again and shook her head. “Why do you bring her in here, anyway?”
Allan shrugged. “Just in case, I suppose.” It was more a comfort than anything - someone to talk to, as if just by speaking to the bird she could relay the message to Will and Djaq.
“And you were playing her music,” Susie continued, still amused. “I tell you Allan - it’s strange. You should be playing music for me!”
Allan gave her a crafty grin. “Would you like me to?”
She shrugged. “If you wanted to, I wouldn’t object. I certainly wouldn’t bite your hand,” she added saucily.
Laughing, Allan was about to pick up the lute again when he heard a commotion from the other side of the room. Several patrons near the door were swearing loudly and swatting at something in the air. Susie stood and rushed over, trying to calm them down.
“It’s a ruddy bird!” one man exclaimed, and sure enough, there was a small grey pigeon flapping around, darting between hands that were trying to shoo it back out the door. Allan rose immediately.
“Don’t hurt ‘im!” he cried, dimly aware that Bashirah was fluttering behind. He reached out his hands, and as if sensing a friendly, the bird landed on his outstretched palms. Allan felt his heart beat wildly; it was Lardner. And sure enough, there was a small piece of parchment tied to the bird’s leg. He undid the string with shaking fingers, but felt the eyes of the entire pub on him. As friendly to the outlaws as the Trip was, he couldn’t afford to draw to much attention to himself.
Lardner clasped in one hand, and the small scrap of parchment in the other, Allan ran as fast as he could back to the camp in Sherwood. Robin, Much and John were all there, discussing the plans for their upcoming raid when Allan arrived, almost crashing into the cooking pot in his excitement.
But he was out of breath from the run it took several minutes for him to speak, gesturing with Lardner until the bird grew upset with the treatment and forced himself free from Allan’s grip. Bashirah, who had followed him back to camp like always, perched herself beside Lardner on a nearby tree.
“Lardner….” Allan tried to explain between lungfuls of air as he all but collapsed on a nearby bunk. “Message…can’t….” Eventually he just held out the note to Robin, who took it from him and read the message. Robin blinked twice and then seemed to read it again, holding the edges of the small parchment between each thumb and forefinger.
“What does it say?” Much finally asked.
Robin cleared his throat but did not look up. “It’s from Will and Djaq,” he told them. “They’re coming home.”
Allan grinned from ear to ear - he’d figured that much. Much let out a whoop of delight and John banged his staff against the ground in a clear an expression of glee. Only Robin did not seem filled with joy, in fact, he had gone very pale, his eyes darting back and forth as he appeared to read the short message over and over.
“What is it Robin?” Allan asked. “Bad news?” For the first time, he wondered whether Will and Djaq were returning because something terrible had happened.
“No,” Robin answered, his voice catching with emotion, his hands holding the small sheet of parchment taut until it could not withstand the pressure and ripped in half.
“Marian’s alive,” he said finally. “She…she’s coming home with them.”
The camp immediately fell silent. Allan looked at Much, his mouth agape and for once in his life clearly at a loss for words, at Little John, whose entire face lit up with happiness even as he shook his head in wonder, and Robin, whose fists were still clenched around the now two pieces of parchment, his knuckles white, a faraway look in his eyes.
Only Allan found a voice to speak; the only word suitable for such a situation.
“Blimey.”