Manna from Heaven 17 ... irritable (Guy of Gisborne/OFC)
Please check the comments, I've had to break it into three parts due to size constraints.
Manna from Heaven
Chapter 17
...irritable...
'This,' Guy thought to himself, 'had to be one of the earliest mornings he had ever gotten up for voluntarily.'
He hadn't slept well, was aware Genevieve hadn't slept well either. She finally fell asleep about the time he decided to just wake up and couldn't go back to sleep.
Truth was, he didn't want to go back to sleep because the nightmares were becoming intense again. Was there no peace? Would there ever be peace for him?
Who would have thought that this idyllic time would unravel this quickly? For the first time in years, Guy considered laying face first on an altar and confessing every sin he had ever committed, if it would repair things with his heart and soul. He would do anything to recapture the beauty of the night before last with Genevieve.
Her scent clung to him, all night he kept his nose in her hair. It was exotic, different from Marian's and he came to the conclusion that Marian's scent wasn't Genevieve's scent. It was wrong on her. At some point while dressing this morning, he realized he smelled of roses. His men would have a good laugh at that, but he didn't care. He left the bed as quietly as he could, got dressed quickly and waited until he was behind the barn to piss off his morning wood, so he wouldn't wake or disturb Genevieve. The sun was coming up as he saddled his stallion and left for Nottingham. He realized, as he left Locksley, that the tack he used on his horse was that that belonged to his father.
He hadn't thought of his father or his mother in some time. The memories were hazy, faint most times. Funny, how he remembered their smells more. Before his father left for the Holy Land, Guy was his father's shadow - hunting, fishing. The man taught him both, taught him how to feed himself, his family, before he left, before Guy was forced to grow up before his time. He taught his son to listen, to care, guided him.
And when he left...
The day before he left, he took Guy hunting. 'You are the man of the house now, Guy, l'homme de la maison. You must watch over your mother and sister. You must be strong for them.
Eighteen months after he left, Roger Gisborne was granted land and a title to go along with his previously earned knighthood for his heroic deeds on the battlefield, saving a high ranking commander. As a reward, he was given a title, now Sir Roger, and land, property, a small hamlet to call his, up in Nottingham, neighboring Locksley.
Isabella did not move well; for that matter, neither did Guy. They knew their mother was very fond of their little home close to the sea in the south of England, as were they. Moving north, into Nottingham, put her further from her family; a family who Guy discovered later, looked down on her and her children because she married a 'homme d'Angleterre', a man of England. Even if he was of Norman descent.
But Isabella soon fell in love with her new home, as did Ghislaine, for this place was larger and the children no longer shared a room, but had a bigger one each to themselves. Even Guy discovered he liked and appreciated that.
The Lord of Locksley - Lord Malcolm - was friendly, too friendly even then in Guy's young mind. He was a widower and his son, Robin, quickly became a pain in Guy's posterior. Unbeknownst to Guy, plans were being made for him, his education, Ghislaine looking ahead for her children. If her husband ever became lost in the Holy Land, she wanted to ensure Guy inherited without usurpers trying to take advantage.
The little village accepted them well enough... until word reached them that Sir Roger Gisborne had died in battle...
And the newly appointed bailiff began to sow discord among the people.
Guy was jolted from his musings by the noise, the wretched poor, at the outer gates. Did these people ever sleep?
Closing his thoughts, his memories, and locking them away, he rode into the front gates of Nottingham, ignoring the masses before the gates.
He stabled his horse, making sure he was hayed well and watered. For not the first time, the stableboy made mental note that if Sir Guy treated the populace near as well as he treated his horse, things would be much happier, indeed.
~~~...~~~
Guy was not the only one to enter the city gates that early in the morning. Robin Hood and his gang snuck in minutes later, taking advantage of Timmy's mother's wailing and pleading to be allowed in, at the same time distracting the guard. Once inside the gates, the group found a quiet place to discuss strategy.
"This," Little John muttered, "we do not like!"
"I don't like it either, Little John, but my concern is Timmy, brat that he is." Robin was searching, looking around. "Did Guy bring Lady Genevieve with him?"
Allan a-Dale sidled up next to Robin. "Wen' to the barn. Just 'is 'orse, is all. Looks if 'e left 'is lady at Locksley."
"This could be ugly," Much agreed. "I don't think that even Sir Guy would bring a woman to this." The guards began to prepare the hangman's scaffolding; making sure the levers and drops worked and that the rope was sturdy, not frayed. There was a straw filled cart underneath for the body. "So, we rescue them all?"
"No," Robin whispered. "We just save Timmy." He snarled his nose. "Longthorn can hang." Hood lifted his chin to the gang. "Go see if you can find out what he plans to do with Timmy. Don't try to rescue him yet. He needs to have the soup scared out of him." He watched as members of his entourage split up and disappeared into the early morning mist. For a moment, his eyes fell on Timmy's mother who had arrived early, crying and causing a fuss. She was not endearing herself to anyone at the castle doors. She was, in fact, annoying Robin.
"Robin?" All but Tuck had left and the good friar now stood at the outlaw's elbow. "Any reason why you are willing to look the other way for Longthorn?"
"I can't save them all, Tuck." Robin started to push off the post he was leaning against, but the larger man held him back. Tuck spent much time watching this gang, he now considered his charges, his flock. He watched Sir Guy of Gisborne also, and privately considered him one of his flock as well.
"'Tis no secret," Hood whispered, "the man tried to rob me of my birthright over twenty years ago. He would have succeeded had it not been for the town priest and the people."
"What would make him think he could steal a birthright, Robin of Locksley?"
Robin glared at the man. Sometimes, the good friar saw too deeply in one's soul. "Because he stole Gisborne's out from under him. His hate of the former bailiff is just. This execution is just." With that, he pushed off from the post and trotted off towards the side door into the dungeons.
~~~...~~~
Guy's first order that morning was to bring him breakfast, which happened fast enough. He ate heartily, wanting to get this part of the day over with. If things went as planned, he would be back in Locksley after lunch and he could go about re-wooing Genevieve. The longer he thought about it, the longer he mulled over what was in that infernal contract of hers, the more he dreamed of moving, escaping this damned country and its politics, escaping Vaisey, escaping Isabella. Let her have Locksley, the responsibility. Heh. Maybe he would send a missive to her husband when he left, letting the man know where she was. Let Vaisey and Hood fight it out. Guy realized he no longer cared who ruled England: John or Richard.
He just wanted peace in his life, a peace he could buy in southeast France; Languedoc. The further away from England, the better.
Of course, if Vaisey was unseated, died... naturally... and John offered him the sheriff's position...and he had worked damned hard to retain the Gisborne lands and title. There was that to remember.
There was the bang of a platter, as Isabella sat down next to him, her plate full. He watched dispassionately as she brought her over-loaded eating knife to her mouth, uncaring of her manners as no one was about. "When is the hanging?"
"As soon as you finish stuffing your face." Guy snarled. "For all of his so-called abuse, pity your husband did not beat table manners into you."
Isabella stiffened at the offensiveness of her brother's mouth. She started to call her sibling a vile name, but snapped her mouth shut when she realized the slur would be a secondary insult to her mother. The lower door banged open, a cold breeze and the echo of a woman's crying coming in through the passageway.
"What is that wretched caterwauling?" Isabella had returned her attention to her plate.
"Timmy's mother."
"You know, if you wait past lunch, there will be a bigger crowd." She pointed her knife at him. "You might even be able to roust up some musicians to play. I would pay to see you dance, for a change!"
Guy watched in black scorn as two of his guards forcefully dragged a child up the stairs, and down the hall. "Gentlemen!" he called out to them. "No need to be rough." He buried his nose into his goblet, his eyes still on Timmy. "I want this over with," his voice echoed eerily from the pewter. "I had things planned yesterday that I had to put off to today."
Pray she does not hate me and will be amenable after last night.
"I imagine you did," Isabella agreed maliciously. "Wet, rainy days are always best spent in bed, cuddled up." Her tone soured. "At least, that's what Thomas always said."
Guy held his hand up. The last thing he wanted to listen to was his sister complaining about her husband's lack of consideration in their marriage bed. That was not his problem. His main concern was at this moment being hauled into the hall. Timmy was sniffling, crying. He was filthy and no doubt needed a bath. Guy gestured for the child to sit to his right, across from his sister, who immediately made a face at the stench coming from the child and got up and left.
Heh! So that is how to get rid of my sister. Sit a filthy urchin next to her. I will remember that!
"How do you fare, Timmy?"
This started a new round of crying and apologizing and swearing it would never ever, ever happen again and it was just a rock and he just wanted a closer look.
Guy rolled his eyes. His desire to sire any -
more?
- children was diminishing rapidly. For a flash, he thought again of Annie, their son, a quick prayer in the back of his mind for their safety and well-being.
So many things I cannot atone for. Why do I bother?
"Sit. And stop sniveling." Guy snarled his nose. The boy was beyond ripe. "Man up." He motioned to the servant clearing Isabella's place. "Bring him some food." After the servant brought the fare, Guy walked around the table to the guard and whispered something in his ear, the guard nodding and returning to the dungeon. Guy waited until the boy was finished - his table manners equally atrocious as Isabella's. No, Guy reminded himself, the missive to Sir Rodrick would go out immediately after this nasty business was done and over with. The sooner Timmy was out of Clun, Nottingham, the better. When Timmy was finished, Guy nodded to the horrified servant to clean the boy's place and then jerked his head towards him. "Follow me." Timmy immediately began again to whine and cry. "Oh, shut it. You are not to die this day. Within the hour, you should be heading home on your own two feet, if I do not hear another word."
Quickly, the boy swallowed his crying, attempting very hard to not make a sound. He followed the tall knight to the landing outside the castle's doors, where the view of the gallows was, in the sheriff's words, magnificent.
A crowd was gathering and Guy would bet both of Vaisey's testicles that somewhere in the crowd, Hood and his gang were there or hidden. Timmy's mother stood at the foot of the steps and when she saw her son standing next to the leather-clad man, she picked up her skirts to join them, however the guard assigned to her held her back.
A lone man stood on the platform, hands tied. Longthorn was apparently resigned to his fate, his family, no where to be seen. Guy didn't blame them. Truly, who wanted to watch their loved one die? Guy's hand rested heavily on Timmy's shoulder. "Watch," he pressed down so the boy couldn't move. "Do not take your eyes from him no matter what." It was whispered low, so no one heard but the child he was speaking to. Seeing Isabella over to the side, huddled in her cloak, Guy decided to get it over with.
"Robert Longthorn, you are accused and found guilty of many heinous crimes."
He lifted his chin and jutted it back at Guy. "At least I've murdered no souls. Can you say the same?"
He was knocked flat by the backhand of the executioner on the platform. "Mind yer tongue, you filthy whoreson." While the guilty man picked himself up from the wood, the guard turned to Sir Guy. "Shall I cut out 'is tongue first?"
Guy was not deterred. Insults about his character were commonplace anymore and he discovered he no longer cared what the rabble thought of him.
At one time, he cared what Marian thought and when she finally told him the truth...
And now, Genevieve...
The Black Knight shook his head no. Schooling his face and features, Guy spoke up. "I will not apologize to one as you for taking back what was mine to begin with." Seeing Longthorn was standing, he flicked his wrist, signaling to the executioner to do his job. The noose placed around the man's neck, the hangman pulled a hood from his belt. "No." Both guard and prisoner looked at Sir Guy. "No hood. He does not deserve it." Guy's hand was pressing on Timmy's shoulder and reiterated to the boy to not look away.
"Good. I want to see your face," Isabella muttered darkly. Guy realized with a shudder, that his sister was now standing next to him.
"Sir Guy?" The executioner stood by the bound man, the hood in his hand.
"No. Leave it off."
Up on the ramparts, hidden in the misty shadow of one of the battlements, Much looked on in horror. "No hood?" he hissed to Robin, who watched from the next one, his arrow nocked, just in case.
Robin frowned, disgust on his face. "He's teaching Timmy an ugly, ugly lesson." His frown deepened. "And he's teaching it in an ugly way."
Longthorn realized that Sir Guy had a boy next to him, the same boy who was in the cell several down from him the previous night in the dungeon. "Sir Guy, please. He is just a child."
"SO WAS I!" Guy's fury erupted in a roar. "SO WAS MY SISTER! IT DID NOT STOP YOU! HANG HIM! NOW!"
The executioner stepped back and yanked on the level, the floor dropping out from under the man.
Longthorn jerked, kicked for several seconds...
Timmy jerked as well, attempting to pull away from Guy.
"Do. Not. Look. Away."
About the time Longthorn stopped kicking, Timmy fell to his knees, his breakfast spilling down the steps. Isabella curled her nose in distaste - whether it was to Longthorn or Timmy, was anyone's guess, and stepping away, took one last look at the dead man before spitting towards him and walking back into the castle, her cloak billowing behind her.
The boy still heaving, Guy beckoned to his mother. "Bring me a dipper of water." They waited until the cool drink arrived. "Spit, do not swallow." Guy watched as they cut the body down, after making sure the man was dead, before going down on one knee. "Timmy, listen to me carefully." He knew the boy's mother could hear him. "The next time you steal anything, you will be brought before the sheriff and it could possibly be you on that scaffold. Do you understand?" He nodded, opened his eyes to see his vomit on the steps and began to dry heave again. Guy rolled his eyes. He had seen disgusting things in his lifetime. It would take more than the spewings of a child to upset his stomach. "I think," he directed this to Timmy's mother, "that Timmy is too smart to be left to his own devices and that his energy would be best served with an occupation. Hmm?"
"I don't wanna be a prieeeeeest!"
Guy stood back up, patting him hard on the shoulder. "Leave that to me. Take him home, Ger." With that he turned and made his way back into the castle. He stopped as the door shut behind him and after standing in thought for a moment, he turned on his boot heel and headed to his chambers at the castle.
Shutting the door behind him, he went into the privy chambers and vomited his own breakfast.
~~~...~~~
Genevieve woke up with a headache and her eyes puffy and swollen as if she had cried all night.
What is it with this place? I have never cried this much in my life as I have since coming here! Must be the water!
She rolled over to find Guy's side of the bed cool to the touch. He had obviously been gone a while and looking about, she saw his clothes were not hanging up. The room had a chill, it was misty outside, more rain and cool temperatures coming for the day. Genevieve wanted to roll back over and stick her head under the pillow. She tossed and turned for several minutes, but eventually decided that sleep was not returning.
Besides, the bed was lonely and cold, even if she was mad at that man.
She tiptoed across the hall, making sure no one else was up that way and slid into the more austere, but warmest clothing she had. The black and grey fit her mood and truth be told, she wasn't sure if she wanted to rehash everything again in her mind. But she would and she knew it.
Breakfast was quiet, just her and the servants. Michael had been called home before Guy left. "It's a boy," Thornton whispered proudly. "Finally. After three girls, they have a son."
"I hope he's as red-headed as his father," Genevieve smiled.
"Oh, no doubt t'is," Joffrey was breaking a fresh loaf of bread. "'is wife is a red-head, too."
It was quiet while the household ate, a comfortable silence, in all honesty.
"Are you a-right, Lady Genevieve?" Thornton was clearing the table. Genevieve realized she had finished her meal and was just staring into the fireplace.
She scooted her chair back and stood up slowly. "Aye. I'm just preoccupied." She continued to stare into the fireplace. "This place is simply different and I need to come to terms with it."
"Different? How?"
Genevieve still had not looked at the man and he decided he was glad she hadn't. "The way you treat people, the way you treat children. What you call justice." She shook her head and turned. "What you call justice."
With that, she trudged up the stairs.
The fire in her room was blazing and the kittens were curled up in front of it. The first thing she did was dig out her iPad. It was still dead. She dropped it back into her gym bag. "It's dead," she whispered to no one, "but you know that, right?"
She pulled out her sketch pad, thankful that she had it, had the good sense to keep it in her briefcase or gym bag at all times. Pulling out the charcoal pencil and her eraser as well, she opened the pad to her initial drawing of the Strandage-Coach building. She liked her concept of it, liked the facade, but there was something... not right. For a time, she stared at it, trying to make it... work. Finally giving up, she turned the page.
Her house. Her home. The place she wanted to build and move to when she married and raise her and... and...
Well, not hers and Lamar's children, that was for sure. She scratched absently at the site of the implant. Yep, that was definitely coming out the minute she came to.
What if the implant doesn't work here? The thought suddenly occurred to her. What if it doesn't work? What if I get pregnant? How will I explain that? I got pregnant by a hot12th century knight 800 years ago while I was unconscious... oh that will fly like hell yeah right! What will happen? Oh shit! Lamar will think it's his, demand a blood test... and when it isn't his...The Gator will have a field day...
She shook her head. Best not to worry about that. Cross that bridge if and when you get to it, girlfriend.
She looked down at the hand-drawn layout. It looks pretentious, too large...
Looking again, she snarled. This wasn't her home. It was a house for Lamar... to impress his colleagues, his mother...
She turned the page again.
It was blank.
She stared at it for a time, flicking the charcoal pencil between her fingers, against the table. After God knows how long, she began to draw...
She drew the view from Guy's window, the little town of Locksley, with its pond, rough-hewn buildings, Locksley Hall. She drew Clun recalled from her addled and angry memory, with its wild array of stalls and even sadder circle of huts.
A profile... with long, black hair, sharp, jagged planes...
She got lost in the shading, the angles of his face...
And when she finished, her first thought was... he looks so angry.
And hurt. And heart-broken...and alone. So very alone.
"M'lady?"
Genevieve looked up from her sketch, gently closing the pad and laying the pencil down. "Yes?"
Eleanor pointed behind her. "Madame Isandra has pulled up with her cart. She said something about Sir Guy ordering more dresses for you."
For the first time since yesterday afternoon, during their ride, Genevieve smiled. "The faire." She set the sketch pad and pencil down on the table and stood up, cracking her back. "Let's help her and find out how many dresses we can squeeze out of her this time!" In rising, Genevieve was glad Isandra hadn't shown up a few hours earlier, when she was still lounging in Guy's bed, putting her in the position of explaining why she was there.
I shouldn't have to explain. It's none of their business anyway!
When she opened the door, the woman was outside, bringing in more cloth and fussing. It was trying to rain again, and while the cloth was under something to protect it, she wanted it in before it began to pour. Genevieve ran back into her room and opened up her sketch pad and flipping to blank pages, laid it on the small table. She slipped into her flats and began to rifle through material already being piled on the bed, discarding much, but hanging onto more interesting textures that caught her eye. The kittens were terrified with the new person in the room and all five immediately hid under the bed, spending the next few hours attempting to swat feet and swinging skirts as they came by.
The room had a chill and Genevieve asked Eleanor to stir the fire in the fireplace and to bring up refreshments for the three of them. Eleanor pointed to herself, mouthing 'Me?'
"Yes, you! We are going to need your help, so you might as well eat too!" She pointed at Isandra. "Sir Guy has not mentioned anything to me, so what is all this for, how many outfits am I allowed, and what kind of money am I allowed to spend?"
Isandra was grinning from ear to ear. She was going to make a pretty crown or two from this particular order. "Finally, he is going to outfit you as he should have to begin with, my lady!" The emphasis on 'my lady' was obvious.
"There is a faire. How many days, how many outfits?"
"Sir Guy made it very clear he wished for you to out-shine the stars in the sky!" Genevieve's head was spinning when the woman finished. Four days. Day outfits, night outfits, cloak, she would need something to ride in the coach...
"The coach? I don't think so! I'll be riding Zeus! So either a split skirt-"
"Lady Marian had split skirts," Eleanor interjected.
Ew. Genevieve did not want to dress like Lady Marian. Bad enough That Man was crying out for her the previous night in his sleep. Genevieve now wished she had taken French in high school.
"I do not ride side-saddle, so a skirt with lots of room." She began to pull colors, materials together. "Bliaut?"
"Yes?"
"Long, long sleeves and lots of skirt. How low cut in the chest?"
"As low as you dare, Lady Genevieve."
A slow smile spread on her face. "Heh heh heh heh..."
Genevieve pulled materials and laid them together, before grabbing her sketch pad and quickly drawing the outlines for her dresses. She fell in love with a sapphire blue velvet, found a sheer blue that matched...
"I'm going to need a chain belt with this. Something low, that hangs..."
"I will bring things for you to choose from."
She pulled a gossamer red, with a matching red satin
"Mademoiselle has lovely taste." There was a red velvet, a lot of red velvet... red brocade..."Ah. I take it red is your favorite color?" Genevieve nodded while sketching. "It is a... bold color."
"Anything wrong with it?" Genevieve did not look up.
"It simply takes a bold woman to carry it off." Isandra licked her lips nervously. "To not look the whore."
Genevieve continued to sketch. "I suppose I shall have to be bold, then." Now Genevieve looked up. "I do not wish to look the whore. Sir Guy's sister..."
"That one will hate you for the simple reason you are on her brother's arm." Isandra smiled evilly. "You might as well shine!"
Genevieve didn't know if she wanted Isabella to like her or hate her. There was enough hate in this place as it was, but at the same time...
Genevieve had quite the ego, when it came to clothes. An ego stroked and cultivated when she began to outfit herself as Lamar's ...
arm ornament...
It dawned on her that perhaps, she was now becoming Guy's arm ornament, that his sister would see her as such. How low on the social ladder was a mistress? Was she a mistress?
But upon reflecting, she didn't think Guy considered her to be an arm ornament, or a toy... she didn't know what he considered her to be.
I want to be your last desire.
Val, I will wake up and mourn a knight who has been dead over 800 years, that no one remembers and if he is remembered at all by history, will not be remembered well.
Except by you, chickiepoo. And those memories will be fully colored in all of its glory, by the light and by the dark and all of its hues and shadings, for he has it all.
She picked up a huge bolt of black velvet. "Well," she flipped through her sketch book. "Why don't I make a statement heard all over Nottingham without saying a word."
As she began to pull trims and braiding, the dressmaker smiled. This one, she thought, this one has sens de la mode.
Despite not having to measure Genevieve, they still spent several hours going through fabrics, drawing, adding, taking away from Genevieve's original rough sketches. Dresses, a cloak, footwear, small clothes - the seamstress swooned when Genevieve whipped out her thong and told her to make 'those' in matching undergarments. When Eleanor began to sag from taking things back to the cart as they were discarded, Genevieve pulled out of the diminishing pile a grey multi-purpose cloth, and a red, light wool. The material was not expensive, but it was heavier than what the girl was currently wearing. She turned her sketch pad, showing one more drawing. "This. For her. Split the cost among the rest." She pointed at both. "Not a word. Not to him. Not to anyone who will tell him."
Isandra shook her head and Eleanor waved her hand.
As Eleanor was loading the last in the cart, Genevieve began to tear the drawings from her sketchpad, coming to one that was not discussed in front of her young maid. "The footwear is made of what?"
"Leather, my lady. I know a tanner who is quite talented..." she gasped when Genevieve turned the last page and showed it to her.
"This. I want this. And it needs to be a complete secret."
~~~...~~~
The ride back to Locksley was long, Guy's mind everywhere but on his surroundings. The lesson taught to Timmy was harsh; he knew it was, but the truth was seeing a child at the end of a rope - and he had seen children swinging - turned his craw and it was the one thing that made him ill. Vaisey didn't care. A hung thief was a hung thief. After watching what he had watched this morning, knowing the man died at his hand, at his judgment... well...
There was no joy in it. He could not for the life of him understand why Vaisey took such perverse pleasure in taking a life. He found no satisfaction in this execution, although Longthorn deserved it. Usually Vaisey did nothing with the bodies; simply had them cut down, bagged, and thrown into the rubbish pile. Let the families dig through the waste for their loved ones.
Guy had been more caring. Certainly more caring than Longthorn deserved. He made sure a wagon - crude, yes - was under the scaffolding, so the family could take him and go.
He left instruction with the executioner to tell them the man was not to be buried on any of the sacred grounds in Nottingham. And as the wagon and executioner were gone when he looked after lunch, he guessed they had claimed the body and left.
He supposed it was his own close-call with a noose that made him sick. He still shook if he thought about it. He would rather be beheaded or run through with a sword than hang.
As with most of the day, he wondered about Genevieve, wondered of her mood, her feelings. She had been in no mood to be wooed the previous evening and truth be told, he had been in no mood to woo her. He gave her what he thought she wanted: space, warmth, and protection. Isn't that what most women wanted? Women of this time, of course, but she was not of this time and that fact was being brought home to him - and her - time and time again with the force of a sledgehammer. He spent the rest of the morning wondering, trying to come up with every possible single argument she would put up. But the bottom line, his deepest fear was she would hate him, like Marian secretly hated him.
And if that was the case, if she hated him, hated who he was, he would let her go. Guy of Gisborne learned from his mistakes and Marian was a mistake, as much as he hated to admit it. She wasn't his, had never been his to have. Had he let her go, when those niggling thoughts that she didn't love him, that she loved Hood, had he let her go, she would still be alive and both of them would be better off. He was sure if he ruminated enough, he would come to recognize the things Marian taught him, about humanity, life, himself. If Genevieve couldn't accept him for who he was, he would pack her things, take her to Ripley's Convent and once they arrived, tell her exactly what all was in that damned contract.
Every. Rotten. Disgusting. Thing.
And then he would turn and leave her and not look back and pray he did not see her disappear, for surely the moment she knew all, she would be gone.
And wasn't that what possessed you to turn her device back on when she left the room to change yesterday and let it die after you read that contract again? Voices. Telling how and why to do it. They just never stop in your head, now do they?
And that decision, regardless of how right it was, dragged him down all morning. The fear she hated him. And that he would be the better man by letting her go.
He knew his stallion hated him. After the execution and Guy spewing his breakfast in private, he went down and brushed that animal for an hour before he left, churning all those thoughts while he pondered and chewed on that bone.
He wrote Sir Rodrick, quietly hating the ink and quill after becoming used to the remarkable ease of Genevieve's writing utensils. He made quick work of salutations, mentioned the upcoming faire and then asked if he needed a squire. Sir Guy had a young boy in need of a firm hand.
Sir Guy almost added Timmy needed to be properly occupied and kept out of trouble, but decided that 'a firm hand' would tell Sir Rodrick all he needed to know.
Finding a messenger he trusted was difficult, but he found one and sending that missive off took a weight from his shoulders, a weight he did not realize he was carrying.
But the most amazing thing happened in the market. Genevieve needed to smell like something besides lavender and he rather liked the rose scent he woke up to in his arms this morning.
Guy smelled like roses as well and he really didn't want a repeat of that. Isabella sniffed twice at him this morning, looking at him as if he had grown pink tufts of feathers from his head. So his last so-called duty before he headed back to Locksley was to purchase soap in the market. Thankfully, the shopkeeper was close-lipped and said nothing as he chose a rosy-floral for Genevieve and something pine-scented for him. If Genevieve chose to leave him, then she'd have soap, or he would keep it and remember softer times.
You have nothing soft of Marian's, save her clothes. Besides Gisborne, you have not wanted to dwell on her. Demons, Gizzy. They claw at you as long as you let them.
After purchasing said soap and wishing he had sent Fiona, he headed to the stable to hear his name being called. He turned to see Isandra running red-faced towards him.
He raised an eye-brow.
"Sir Guy." The woman was grinning. "You certainly know how to make a woman happy."
You? Jesu, I shall take vows of chastity now.
He blinked several times. "Who?"
She back-handed him as if she were one of his men, which caused him to draw up. "Why, Lady Genevieve, of course." The seamstress was paying no attention to Guy's look of shock. "Mademoiselle has a fine eye for fashion and color!" She crooked a finger, beckoning him to lean down. "I guarantee she'll be the best dressed woman in Nottingham during the faire! And she has a few surprises for you!"
Surprises?
He put on his best, serious face. "Madame Isandra. I do not like surprises."
"Well, you will like these!" She poked him in the ribs causing his look to become blacker, which she ignored. "And she'll make a statement that will turn everyone's heads!"
"What kind of statement?"
The woman had the audacity to look put out. "Sir Guy! 'Tis a secret!"
He grasped her by the elbow tightly and pulled her up on her toes. "I believe I just said I do not like secrets."
Her face fell. "You must promise not to tell. She bade me to sew a bliaut in black velvet, under sleeves lined in yellow satin and trimmed in gold."
Guy's mind raced.
His colors.
This was not the request of a woman who hated him, who wanted to leave him...
She was making a very clear statement indeed.
He must have been lost deep in thought as the woman whispered, "Sir Guy, does this not please you?"
She was openly aligning herself to him. Openly...
"Yes, it pleases me." His mind raced, trying to think. "Is that all she requested. I believe I gave you instructions-"
"She has chosen quite a few outfits, my lord." Now the woman was smiling bigger. "Apparently, her favorite color is red, as she has chosen more than few dresses in it. If you are not sleeping with her," Guy drew up angrily at the audacious suggestion, "you should set a guard at her door to ensure no one accosts her. She also has ordered several dresses in jewel tones."
Oh, this is starting to sound expensive.
"Blue, green, and a lovely purple."
Guy's eyes closed as if in pain. Purple. Purple is expensive. He shook his head. He had never been beggarly with Marian and that had attained him nothing. Genevieve, on the other hand, bantered with him, mentally challenged him, talked to him as an equal, not down at him, asked his opinion, yelled at him when she thought he was wrong, and in the span of one night, gave him the world.
And despite the fact she was angry with him, that he had openly shown her a side of him he wished she had not seen, she was dressing in his house colors, his standards and publicly aligning herself with him.
Isabella will howl. Vaisey will shite. It will be worth it to watch Vaisey shite.
"Does she need anything else?"
Isandra began to tick her fingers. "She has ordered riding gloves, slippers, riding boots, stockings, small clothes-"
"What kind of small clothes?" Isandra snarled in disgust, holding her thumb and index finger barely apart. Ah, the thong. He nodded his head. "Good."
"Sir Guy," Isandra looked about. "She will need jewelry."
Guy snorted. What woman did not' need' jewelry?
The woman continued to prattle about inane things, but the only thing Guy could think about was Genevieve was dressing herself in his colors.
She does not hate me.
And just that alone made him anxious to go home and do nothing if that is what she desired. He had his horse saddled and brought to him and that ride home was longer than long, even if it was a decent clip of a trot!
He was aware he was watched, Hood and his gang hidden from various vantage points; even in the mist, he could feel the heat of Kate's hate, the furnace of Hood's detestation and desire to kill him. Much's distrust. And that big one's - Little John - he could feel his ire.
He wondered of Tuck. How did the good friar fit in?
Up until that Sunday past, he did not care. Now he did. Until God or whoever took Genevieve back to wherever it was she came from, he cared. Once she was gone, well then, he might no longer care.
Or he might would still care.
He would decide then.
Right now, he had sweet smelling soap in his satchel. Soap that did not smell like Marian. And he had a strong box of God knows what of things salvaged from his home, twenty years before. He wanted to look, wanted to see.
And strangely enough, he wanted Genevieve by his side when he did.
~~~...~~~
Manna from Heaven
Chapter 17
...irritable...
'This,' Guy thought to himself, 'had to be one of the earliest mornings he had ever gotten up for voluntarily.'
He hadn't slept well, was aware Genevieve hadn't slept well either. She finally fell asleep about the time he decided to just wake up and couldn't go back to sleep.
Truth was, he didn't want to go back to sleep because the nightmares were becoming intense again. Was there no peace? Would there ever be peace for him?
Who would have thought that this idyllic time would unravel this quickly? For the first time in years, Guy considered laying face first on an altar and confessing every sin he had ever committed, if it would repair things with his heart and soul. He would do anything to recapture the beauty of the night before last with Genevieve.
Her scent clung to him, all night he kept his nose in her hair. It was exotic, different from Marian's and he came to the conclusion that Marian's scent wasn't Genevieve's scent. It was wrong on her. At some point while dressing this morning, he realized he smelled of roses. His men would have a good laugh at that, but he didn't care. He left the bed as quietly as he could, got dressed quickly and waited until he was behind the barn to piss off his morning wood, so he wouldn't wake or disturb Genevieve. The sun was coming up as he saddled his stallion and left for Nottingham. He realized, as he left Locksley, that the tack he used on his horse was that that belonged to his father.
He hadn't thought of his father or his mother in some time. The memories were hazy, faint most times. Funny, how he remembered their smells more. Before his father left for the Holy Land, Guy was his father's shadow - hunting, fishing. The man taught him both, taught him how to feed himself, his family, before he left, before Guy was forced to grow up before his time. He taught his son to listen, to care, guided him.
And when he left...
The day before he left, he took Guy hunting. 'You are the man of the house now, Guy, l'homme de la maison. You must watch over your mother and sister. You must be strong for them.
Eighteen months after he left, Roger Gisborne was granted land and a title to go along with his previously earned knighthood for his heroic deeds on the battlefield, saving a high ranking commander. As a reward, he was given a title, now Sir Roger, and land, property, a small hamlet to call his, up in Nottingham, neighboring Locksley.
Isabella did not move well; for that matter, neither did Guy. They knew their mother was very fond of their little home close to the sea in the south of England, as were they. Moving north, into Nottingham, put her further from her family; a family who Guy discovered later, looked down on her and her children because she married a 'homme d'Angleterre', a man of England. Even if he was of Norman descent.
But Isabella soon fell in love with her new home, as did Ghislaine, for this place was larger and the children no longer shared a room, but had a bigger one each to themselves. Even Guy discovered he liked and appreciated that.
The Lord of Locksley - Lord Malcolm - was friendly, too friendly even then in Guy's young mind. He was a widower and his son, Robin, quickly became a pain in Guy's posterior. Unbeknownst to Guy, plans were being made for him, his education, Ghislaine looking ahead for her children. If her husband ever became lost in the Holy Land, she wanted to ensure Guy inherited without usurpers trying to take advantage.
The little village accepted them well enough... until word reached them that Sir Roger Gisborne had died in battle...
And the newly appointed bailiff began to sow discord among the people.
Guy was jolted from his musings by the noise, the wretched poor, at the outer gates. Did these people ever sleep?
Closing his thoughts, his memories, and locking them away, he rode into the front gates of Nottingham, ignoring the masses before the gates.
He stabled his horse, making sure he was hayed well and watered. For not the first time, the stableboy made mental note that if Sir Guy treated the populace near as well as he treated his horse, things would be much happier, indeed.
~~~...~~~
Guy was not the only one to enter the city gates that early in the morning. Robin Hood and his gang snuck in minutes later, taking advantage of Timmy's mother's wailing and pleading to be allowed in, at the same time distracting the guard. Once inside the gates, the group found a quiet place to discuss strategy.
"This," Little John muttered, "we do not like!"
"I don't like it either, Little John, but my concern is Timmy, brat that he is." Robin was searching, looking around. "Did Guy bring Lady Genevieve with him?"
Allan a-Dale sidled up next to Robin. "Wen' to the barn. Just 'is 'orse, is all. Looks if 'e left 'is lady at Locksley."
"This could be ugly," Much agreed. "I don't think that even Sir Guy would bring a woman to this." The guards began to prepare the hangman's scaffolding; making sure the levers and drops worked and that the rope was sturdy, not frayed. There was a straw filled cart underneath for the body. "So, we rescue them all?"
"No," Robin whispered. "We just save Timmy." He snarled his nose. "Longthorn can hang." Hood lifted his chin to the gang. "Go see if you can find out what he plans to do with Timmy. Don't try to rescue him yet. He needs to have the soup scared out of him." He watched as members of his entourage split up and disappeared into the early morning mist. For a moment, his eyes fell on Timmy's mother who had arrived early, crying and causing a fuss. She was not endearing herself to anyone at the castle doors. She was, in fact, annoying Robin.
"Robin?" All but Tuck had left and the good friar now stood at the outlaw's elbow. "Any reason why you are willing to look the other way for Longthorn?"
"I can't save them all, Tuck." Robin started to push off the post he was leaning against, but the larger man held him back. Tuck spent much time watching this gang, he now considered his charges, his flock. He watched Sir Guy of Gisborne also, and privately considered him one of his flock as well.
"'Tis no secret," Hood whispered, "the man tried to rob me of my birthright over twenty years ago. He would have succeeded had it not been for the town priest and the people."
"What would make him think he could steal a birthright, Robin of Locksley?"
Robin glared at the man. Sometimes, the good friar saw too deeply in one's soul. "Because he stole Gisborne's out from under him. His hate of the former bailiff is just. This execution is just." With that, he pushed off from the post and trotted off towards the side door into the dungeons.
~~~...~~~
Guy's first order that morning was to bring him breakfast, which happened fast enough. He ate heartily, wanting to get this part of the day over with. If things went as planned, he would be back in Locksley after lunch and he could go about re-wooing Genevieve. The longer he thought about it, the longer he mulled over what was in that infernal contract of hers, the more he dreamed of moving, escaping this damned country and its politics, escaping Vaisey, escaping Isabella. Let her have Locksley, the responsibility. Heh. Maybe he would send a missive to her husband when he left, letting the man know where she was. Let Vaisey and Hood fight it out. Guy realized he no longer cared who ruled England: John or Richard.
He just wanted peace in his life, a peace he could buy in southeast France; Languedoc. The further away from England, the better.
Of course, if Vaisey was unseated, died... naturally... and John offered him the sheriff's position...and he had worked damned hard to retain the Gisborne lands and title. There was that to remember.
There was the bang of a platter, as Isabella sat down next to him, her plate full. He watched dispassionately as she brought her over-loaded eating knife to her mouth, uncaring of her manners as no one was about. "When is the hanging?"
"As soon as you finish stuffing your face." Guy snarled. "For all of his so-called abuse, pity your husband did not beat table manners into you."
Isabella stiffened at the offensiveness of her brother's mouth. She started to call her sibling a vile name, but snapped her mouth shut when she realized the slur would be a secondary insult to her mother. The lower door banged open, a cold breeze and the echo of a woman's crying coming in through the passageway.
"What is that wretched caterwauling?" Isabella had returned her attention to her plate.
"Timmy's mother."
"You know, if you wait past lunch, there will be a bigger crowd." She pointed her knife at him. "You might even be able to roust up some musicians to play. I would pay to see you dance, for a change!"
Guy watched in black scorn as two of his guards forcefully dragged a child up the stairs, and down the hall. "Gentlemen!" he called out to them. "No need to be rough." He buried his nose into his goblet, his eyes still on Timmy. "I want this over with," his voice echoed eerily from the pewter. "I had things planned yesterday that I had to put off to today."
Pray she does not hate me and will be amenable after last night.
"I imagine you did," Isabella agreed maliciously. "Wet, rainy days are always best spent in bed, cuddled up." Her tone soured. "At least, that's what Thomas always said."
Guy held his hand up. The last thing he wanted to listen to was his sister complaining about her husband's lack of consideration in their marriage bed. That was not his problem. His main concern was at this moment being hauled into the hall. Timmy was sniffling, crying. He was filthy and no doubt needed a bath. Guy gestured for the child to sit to his right, across from his sister, who immediately made a face at the stench coming from the child and got up and left.
Heh! So that is how to get rid of my sister. Sit a filthy urchin next to her. I will remember that!
"How do you fare, Timmy?"
This started a new round of crying and apologizing and swearing it would never ever, ever happen again and it was just a rock and he just wanted a closer look.
Guy rolled his eyes. His desire to sire any -
more?
- children was diminishing rapidly. For a flash, he thought again of Annie, their son, a quick prayer in the back of his mind for their safety and well-being.
So many things I cannot atone for. Why do I bother?
"Sit. And stop sniveling." Guy snarled his nose. The boy was beyond ripe. "Man up." He motioned to the servant clearing Isabella's place. "Bring him some food." After the servant brought the fare, Guy walked around the table to the guard and whispered something in his ear, the guard nodding and returning to the dungeon. Guy waited until the boy was finished - his table manners equally atrocious as Isabella's. No, Guy reminded himself, the missive to Sir Rodrick would go out immediately after this nasty business was done and over with. The sooner Timmy was out of Clun, Nottingham, the better. When Timmy was finished, Guy nodded to the horrified servant to clean the boy's place and then jerked his head towards him. "Follow me." Timmy immediately began again to whine and cry. "Oh, shut it. You are not to die this day. Within the hour, you should be heading home on your own two feet, if I do not hear another word."
Quickly, the boy swallowed his crying, attempting very hard to not make a sound. He followed the tall knight to the landing outside the castle's doors, where the view of the gallows was, in the sheriff's words, magnificent.
A crowd was gathering and Guy would bet both of Vaisey's testicles that somewhere in the crowd, Hood and his gang were there or hidden. Timmy's mother stood at the foot of the steps and when she saw her son standing next to the leather-clad man, she picked up her skirts to join them, however the guard assigned to her held her back.
A lone man stood on the platform, hands tied. Longthorn was apparently resigned to his fate, his family, no where to be seen. Guy didn't blame them. Truly, who wanted to watch their loved one die? Guy's hand rested heavily on Timmy's shoulder. "Watch," he pressed down so the boy couldn't move. "Do not take your eyes from him no matter what." It was whispered low, so no one heard but the child he was speaking to. Seeing Isabella over to the side, huddled in her cloak, Guy decided to get it over with.
"Robert Longthorn, you are accused and found guilty of many heinous crimes."
He lifted his chin and jutted it back at Guy. "At least I've murdered no souls. Can you say the same?"
He was knocked flat by the backhand of the executioner on the platform. "Mind yer tongue, you filthy whoreson." While the guilty man picked himself up from the wood, the guard turned to Sir Guy. "Shall I cut out 'is tongue first?"
Guy was not deterred. Insults about his character were commonplace anymore and he discovered he no longer cared what the rabble thought of him.
At one time, he cared what Marian thought and when she finally told him the truth...
And now, Genevieve...
The Black Knight shook his head no. Schooling his face and features, Guy spoke up. "I will not apologize to one as you for taking back what was mine to begin with." Seeing Longthorn was standing, he flicked his wrist, signaling to the executioner to do his job. The noose placed around the man's neck, the hangman pulled a hood from his belt. "No." Both guard and prisoner looked at Sir Guy. "No hood. He does not deserve it." Guy's hand was pressing on Timmy's shoulder and reiterated to the boy to not look away.
"Good. I want to see your face," Isabella muttered darkly. Guy realized with a shudder, that his sister was now standing next to him.
"Sir Guy?" The executioner stood by the bound man, the hood in his hand.
"No. Leave it off."
Up on the ramparts, hidden in the misty shadow of one of the battlements, Much looked on in horror. "No hood?" he hissed to Robin, who watched from the next one, his arrow nocked, just in case.
Robin frowned, disgust on his face. "He's teaching Timmy an ugly, ugly lesson." His frown deepened. "And he's teaching it in an ugly way."
Longthorn realized that Sir Guy had a boy next to him, the same boy who was in the cell several down from him the previous night in the dungeon. "Sir Guy, please. He is just a child."
"SO WAS I!" Guy's fury erupted in a roar. "SO WAS MY SISTER! IT DID NOT STOP YOU! HANG HIM! NOW!"
The executioner stepped back and yanked on the level, the floor dropping out from under the man.
Longthorn jerked, kicked for several seconds...
Timmy jerked as well, attempting to pull away from Guy.
"Do. Not. Look. Away."
About the time Longthorn stopped kicking, Timmy fell to his knees, his breakfast spilling down the steps. Isabella curled her nose in distaste - whether it was to Longthorn or Timmy, was anyone's guess, and stepping away, took one last look at the dead man before spitting towards him and walking back into the castle, her cloak billowing behind her.
The boy still heaving, Guy beckoned to his mother. "Bring me a dipper of water." They waited until the cool drink arrived. "Spit, do not swallow." Guy watched as they cut the body down, after making sure the man was dead, before going down on one knee. "Timmy, listen to me carefully." He knew the boy's mother could hear him. "The next time you steal anything, you will be brought before the sheriff and it could possibly be you on that scaffold. Do you understand?" He nodded, opened his eyes to see his vomit on the steps and began to dry heave again. Guy rolled his eyes. He had seen disgusting things in his lifetime. It would take more than the spewings of a child to upset his stomach. "I think," he directed this to Timmy's mother, "that Timmy is too smart to be left to his own devices and that his energy would be best served with an occupation. Hmm?"
"I don't wanna be a prieeeeeest!"
Guy stood back up, patting him hard on the shoulder. "Leave that to me. Take him home, Ger." With that he turned and made his way back into the castle. He stopped as the door shut behind him and after standing in thought for a moment, he turned on his boot heel and headed to his chambers at the castle.
Shutting the door behind him, he went into the privy chambers and vomited his own breakfast.
~~~...~~~
Genevieve woke up with a headache and her eyes puffy and swollen as if she had cried all night.
What is it with this place? I have never cried this much in my life as I have since coming here! Must be the water!
She rolled over to find Guy's side of the bed cool to the touch. He had obviously been gone a while and looking about, she saw his clothes were not hanging up. The room had a chill, it was misty outside, more rain and cool temperatures coming for the day. Genevieve wanted to roll back over and stick her head under the pillow. She tossed and turned for several minutes, but eventually decided that sleep was not returning.
Besides, the bed was lonely and cold, even if she was mad at that man.
She tiptoed across the hall, making sure no one else was up that way and slid into the more austere, but warmest clothing she had. The black and grey fit her mood and truth be told, she wasn't sure if she wanted to rehash everything again in her mind. But she would and she knew it.
Breakfast was quiet, just her and the servants. Michael had been called home before Guy left. "It's a boy," Thornton whispered proudly. "Finally. After three girls, they have a son."
"I hope he's as red-headed as his father," Genevieve smiled.
"Oh, no doubt t'is," Joffrey was breaking a fresh loaf of bread. "'is wife is a red-head, too."
It was quiet while the household ate, a comfortable silence, in all honesty.
"Are you a-right, Lady Genevieve?" Thornton was clearing the table. Genevieve realized she had finished her meal and was just staring into the fireplace.
She scooted her chair back and stood up slowly. "Aye. I'm just preoccupied." She continued to stare into the fireplace. "This place is simply different and I need to come to terms with it."
"Different? How?"
Genevieve still had not looked at the man and he decided he was glad she hadn't. "The way you treat people, the way you treat children. What you call justice." She shook her head and turned. "What you call justice."
With that, she trudged up the stairs.
The fire in her room was blazing and the kittens were curled up in front of it. The first thing she did was dig out her iPad. It was still dead. She dropped it back into her gym bag. "It's dead," she whispered to no one, "but you know that, right?"
She pulled out her sketch pad, thankful that she had it, had the good sense to keep it in her briefcase or gym bag at all times. Pulling out the charcoal pencil and her eraser as well, she opened the pad to her initial drawing of the Strandage-Coach building. She liked her concept of it, liked the facade, but there was something... not right. For a time, she stared at it, trying to make it... work. Finally giving up, she turned the page.
Her house. Her home. The place she wanted to build and move to when she married and raise her and... and...
Well, not hers and Lamar's children, that was for sure. She scratched absently at the site of the implant. Yep, that was definitely coming out the minute she came to.
What if the implant doesn't work here? The thought suddenly occurred to her. What if it doesn't work? What if I get pregnant? How will I explain that? I got pregnant by a hot12th century knight 800 years ago while I was unconscious... oh that will fly like hell yeah right! What will happen? Oh shit! Lamar will think it's his, demand a blood test... and when it isn't his...The Gator will have a field day...
She shook her head. Best not to worry about that. Cross that bridge if and when you get to it, girlfriend.
She looked down at the hand-drawn layout. It looks pretentious, too large...
Looking again, she snarled. This wasn't her home. It was a house for Lamar... to impress his colleagues, his mother...
She turned the page again.
It was blank.
She stared at it for a time, flicking the charcoal pencil between her fingers, against the table. After God knows how long, she began to draw...
She drew the view from Guy's window, the little town of Locksley, with its pond, rough-hewn buildings, Locksley Hall. She drew Clun recalled from her addled and angry memory, with its wild array of stalls and even sadder circle of huts.
A profile... with long, black hair, sharp, jagged planes...
She got lost in the shading, the angles of his face...
And when she finished, her first thought was... he looks so angry.
And hurt. And heart-broken...and alone. So very alone.
"M'lady?"
Genevieve looked up from her sketch, gently closing the pad and laying the pencil down. "Yes?"
Eleanor pointed behind her. "Madame Isandra has pulled up with her cart. She said something about Sir Guy ordering more dresses for you."
For the first time since yesterday afternoon, during their ride, Genevieve smiled. "The faire." She set the sketch pad and pencil down on the table and stood up, cracking her back. "Let's help her and find out how many dresses we can squeeze out of her this time!" In rising, Genevieve was glad Isandra hadn't shown up a few hours earlier, when she was still lounging in Guy's bed, putting her in the position of explaining why she was there.
I shouldn't have to explain. It's none of their business anyway!
When she opened the door, the woman was outside, bringing in more cloth and fussing. It was trying to rain again, and while the cloth was under something to protect it, she wanted it in before it began to pour. Genevieve ran back into her room and opened up her sketch pad and flipping to blank pages, laid it on the small table. She slipped into her flats and began to rifle through material already being piled on the bed, discarding much, but hanging onto more interesting textures that caught her eye. The kittens were terrified with the new person in the room and all five immediately hid under the bed, spending the next few hours attempting to swat feet and swinging skirts as they came by.
The room had a chill and Genevieve asked Eleanor to stir the fire in the fireplace and to bring up refreshments for the three of them. Eleanor pointed to herself, mouthing 'Me?'
"Yes, you! We are going to need your help, so you might as well eat too!" She pointed at Isandra. "Sir Guy has not mentioned anything to me, so what is all this for, how many outfits am I allowed, and what kind of money am I allowed to spend?"
Isandra was grinning from ear to ear. She was going to make a pretty crown or two from this particular order. "Finally, he is going to outfit you as he should have to begin with, my lady!" The emphasis on 'my lady' was obvious.
"There is a faire. How many days, how many outfits?"
"Sir Guy made it very clear he wished for you to out-shine the stars in the sky!" Genevieve's head was spinning when the woman finished. Four days. Day outfits, night outfits, cloak, she would need something to ride in the coach...
"The coach? I don't think so! I'll be riding Zeus! So either a split skirt-"
"Lady Marian had split skirts," Eleanor interjected.
Ew. Genevieve did not want to dress like Lady Marian. Bad enough That Man was crying out for her the previous night in his sleep. Genevieve now wished she had taken French in high school.
"I do not ride side-saddle, so a skirt with lots of room." She began to pull colors, materials together. "Bliaut?"
"Yes?"
"Long, long sleeves and lots of skirt. How low cut in the chest?"
"As low as you dare, Lady Genevieve."
A slow smile spread on her face. "Heh heh heh heh..."
Genevieve pulled materials and laid them together, before grabbing her sketch pad and quickly drawing the outlines for her dresses. She fell in love with a sapphire blue velvet, found a sheer blue that matched...
"I'm going to need a chain belt with this. Something low, that hangs..."
"I will bring things for you to choose from."
She pulled a gossamer red, with a matching red satin
"Mademoiselle has lovely taste." There was a red velvet, a lot of red velvet... red brocade..."Ah. I take it red is your favorite color?" Genevieve nodded while sketching. "It is a... bold color."
"Anything wrong with it?" Genevieve did not look up.
"It simply takes a bold woman to carry it off." Isandra licked her lips nervously. "To not look the whore."
Genevieve continued to sketch. "I suppose I shall have to be bold, then." Now Genevieve looked up. "I do not wish to look the whore. Sir Guy's sister..."
"That one will hate you for the simple reason you are on her brother's arm." Isandra smiled evilly. "You might as well shine!"
Genevieve didn't know if she wanted Isabella to like her or hate her. There was enough hate in this place as it was, but at the same time...
Genevieve had quite the ego, when it came to clothes. An ego stroked and cultivated when she began to outfit herself as Lamar's ...
arm ornament...
It dawned on her that perhaps, she was now becoming Guy's arm ornament, that his sister would see her as such. How low on the social ladder was a mistress? Was she a mistress?
But upon reflecting, she didn't think Guy considered her to be an arm ornament, or a toy... she didn't know what he considered her to be.
I want to be your last desire.
Val, I will wake up and mourn a knight who has been dead over 800 years, that no one remembers and if he is remembered at all by history, will not be remembered well.
Except by you, chickiepoo. And those memories will be fully colored in all of its glory, by the light and by the dark and all of its hues and shadings, for he has it all.
She picked up a huge bolt of black velvet. "Well," she flipped through her sketch book. "Why don't I make a statement heard all over Nottingham without saying a word."
As she began to pull trims and braiding, the dressmaker smiled. This one, she thought, this one has sens de la mode.
Despite not having to measure Genevieve, they still spent several hours going through fabrics, drawing, adding, taking away from Genevieve's original rough sketches. Dresses, a cloak, footwear, small clothes - the seamstress swooned when Genevieve whipped out her thong and told her to make 'those' in matching undergarments. When Eleanor began to sag from taking things back to the cart as they were discarded, Genevieve pulled out of the diminishing pile a grey multi-purpose cloth, and a red, light wool. The material was not expensive, but it was heavier than what the girl was currently wearing. She turned her sketch pad, showing one more drawing. "This. For her. Split the cost among the rest." She pointed at both. "Not a word. Not to him. Not to anyone who will tell him."
Isandra shook her head and Eleanor waved her hand.
As Eleanor was loading the last in the cart, Genevieve began to tear the drawings from her sketchpad, coming to one that was not discussed in front of her young maid. "The footwear is made of what?"
"Leather, my lady. I know a tanner who is quite talented..." she gasped when Genevieve turned the last page and showed it to her.
"This. I want this. And it needs to be a complete secret."
~~~...~~~
The ride back to Locksley was long, Guy's mind everywhere but on his surroundings. The lesson taught to Timmy was harsh; he knew it was, but the truth was seeing a child at the end of a rope - and he had seen children swinging - turned his craw and it was the one thing that made him ill. Vaisey didn't care. A hung thief was a hung thief. After watching what he had watched this morning, knowing the man died at his hand, at his judgment... well...
There was no joy in it. He could not for the life of him understand why Vaisey took such perverse pleasure in taking a life. He found no satisfaction in this execution, although Longthorn deserved it. Usually Vaisey did nothing with the bodies; simply had them cut down, bagged, and thrown into the rubbish pile. Let the families dig through the waste for their loved ones.
Guy had been more caring. Certainly more caring than Longthorn deserved. He made sure a wagon - crude, yes - was under the scaffolding, so the family could take him and go.
He left instruction with the executioner to tell them the man was not to be buried on any of the sacred grounds in Nottingham. And as the wagon and executioner were gone when he looked after lunch, he guessed they had claimed the body and left.
He supposed it was his own close-call with a noose that made him sick. He still shook if he thought about it. He would rather be beheaded or run through with a sword than hang.
As with most of the day, he wondered about Genevieve, wondered of her mood, her feelings. She had been in no mood to be wooed the previous evening and truth be told, he had been in no mood to woo her. He gave her what he thought she wanted: space, warmth, and protection. Isn't that what most women wanted? Women of this time, of course, but she was not of this time and that fact was being brought home to him - and her - time and time again with the force of a sledgehammer. He spent the rest of the morning wondering, trying to come up with every possible single argument she would put up. But the bottom line, his deepest fear was she would hate him, like Marian secretly hated him.
And if that was the case, if she hated him, hated who he was, he would let her go. Guy of Gisborne learned from his mistakes and Marian was a mistake, as much as he hated to admit it. She wasn't his, had never been his to have. Had he let her go, when those niggling thoughts that she didn't love him, that she loved Hood, had he let her go, she would still be alive and both of them would be better off. He was sure if he ruminated enough, he would come to recognize the things Marian taught him, about humanity, life, himself. If Genevieve couldn't accept him for who he was, he would pack her things, take her to Ripley's Convent and once they arrived, tell her exactly what all was in that damned contract.
Every. Rotten. Disgusting. Thing.
And then he would turn and leave her and not look back and pray he did not see her disappear, for surely the moment she knew all, she would be gone.
And wasn't that what possessed you to turn her device back on when she left the room to change yesterday and let it die after you read that contract again? Voices. Telling how and why to do it. They just never stop in your head, now do they?
And that decision, regardless of how right it was, dragged him down all morning. The fear she hated him. And that he would be the better man by letting her go.
He knew his stallion hated him. After the execution and Guy spewing his breakfast in private, he went down and brushed that animal for an hour before he left, churning all those thoughts while he pondered and chewed on that bone.
He wrote Sir Rodrick, quietly hating the ink and quill after becoming used to the remarkable ease of Genevieve's writing utensils. He made quick work of salutations, mentioned the upcoming faire and then asked if he needed a squire. Sir Guy had a young boy in need of a firm hand.
Sir Guy almost added Timmy needed to be properly occupied and kept out of trouble, but decided that 'a firm hand' would tell Sir Rodrick all he needed to know.
Finding a messenger he trusted was difficult, but he found one and sending that missive off took a weight from his shoulders, a weight he did not realize he was carrying.
But the most amazing thing happened in the market. Genevieve needed to smell like something besides lavender and he rather liked the rose scent he woke up to in his arms this morning.
Guy smelled like roses as well and he really didn't want a repeat of that. Isabella sniffed twice at him this morning, looking at him as if he had grown pink tufts of feathers from his head. So his last so-called duty before he headed back to Locksley was to purchase soap in the market. Thankfully, the shopkeeper was close-lipped and said nothing as he chose a rosy-floral for Genevieve and something pine-scented for him. If Genevieve chose to leave him, then she'd have soap, or he would keep it and remember softer times.
You have nothing soft of Marian's, save her clothes. Besides Gisborne, you have not wanted to dwell on her. Demons, Gizzy. They claw at you as long as you let them.
After purchasing said soap and wishing he had sent Fiona, he headed to the stable to hear his name being called. He turned to see Isandra running red-faced towards him.
He raised an eye-brow.
"Sir Guy." The woman was grinning. "You certainly know how to make a woman happy."
You? Jesu, I shall take vows of chastity now.
He blinked several times. "Who?"
She back-handed him as if she were one of his men, which caused him to draw up. "Why, Lady Genevieve, of course." The seamstress was paying no attention to Guy's look of shock. "Mademoiselle has a fine eye for fashion and color!" She crooked a finger, beckoning him to lean down. "I guarantee she'll be the best dressed woman in Nottingham during the faire! And she has a few surprises for you!"
Surprises?
He put on his best, serious face. "Madame Isandra. I do not like surprises."
"Well, you will like these!" She poked him in the ribs causing his look to become blacker, which she ignored. "And she'll make a statement that will turn everyone's heads!"
"What kind of statement?"
The woman had the audacity to look put out. "Sir Guy! 'Tis a secret!"
He grasped her by the elbow tightly and pulled her up on her toes. "I believe I just said I do not like secrets."
Her face fell. "You must promise not to tell. She bade me to sew a bliaut in black velvet, under sleeves lined in yellow satin and trimmed in gold."
Guy's mind raced.
His colors.
This was not the request of a woman who hated him, who wanted to leave him...
She was making a very clear statement indeed.
He must have been lost deep in thought as the woman whispered, "Sir Guy, does this not please you?"
She was openly aligning herself to him. Openly...
"Yes, it pleases me." His mind raced, trying to think. "Is that all she requested. I believe I gave you instructions-"
"She has chosen quite a few outfits, my lord." Now the woman was smiling bigger. "Apparently, her favorite color is red, as she has chosen more than few dresses in it. If you are not sleeping with her," Guy drew up angrily at the audacious suggestion, "you should set a guard at her door to ensure no one accosts her. She also has ordered several dresses in jewel tones."
Oh, this is starting to sound expensive.
"Blue, green, and a lovely purple."
Guy's eyes closed as if in pain. Purple. Purple is expensive. He shook his head. He had never been beggarly with Marian and that had attained him nothing. Genevieve, on the other hand, bantered with him, mentally challenged him, talked to him as an equal, not down at him, asked his opinion, yelled at him when she thought he was wrong, and in the span of one night, gave him the world.
And despite the fact she was angry with him, that he had openly shown her a side of him he wished she had not seen, she was dressing in his house colors, his standards and publicly aligning herself with him.
Isabella will howl. Vaisey will shite. It will be worth it to watch Vaisey shite.
"Does she need anything else?"
Isandra began to tick her fingers. "She has ordered riding gloves, slippers, riding boots, stockings, small clothes-"
"What kind of small clothes?" Isandra snarled in disgust, holding her thumb and index finger barely apart. Ah, the thong. He nodded his head. "Good."
"Sir Guy," Isandra looked about. "She will need jewelry."
Guy snorted. What woman did not' need' jewelry?
The woman continued to prattle about inane things, but the only thing Guy could think about was Genevieve was dressing herself in his colors.
She does not hate me.
And just that alone made him anxious to go home and do nothing if that is what she desired. He had his horse saddled and brought to him and that ride home was longer than long, even if it was a decent clip of a trot!
He was aware he was watched, Hood and his gang hidden from various vantage points; even in the mist, he could feel the heat of Kate's hate, the furnace of Hood's detestation and desire to kill him. Much's distrust. And that big one's - Little John - he could feel his ire.
He wondered of Tuck. How did the good friar fit in?
Up until that Sunday past, he did not care. Now he did. Until God or whoever took Genevieve back to wherever it was she came from, he cared. Once she was gone, well then, he might no longer care.
Or he might would still care.
He would decide then.
Right now, he had sweet smelling soap in his satchel. Soap that did not smell like Marian. And he had a strong box of God knows what of things salvaged from his home, twenty years before. He wanted to look, wanted to see.
And strangely enough, he wanted Genevieve by his side when he did.
~~~...~~~