Tally Ho
Title: Tally Ho
Author:
capt_facepalm
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: BBC Sherlock and Robin Hood
Characters: Robin (who has a hooded cloak), Guy de Lestrade, diminutive John
Summary: Traditional introductions ensue...
Warnings: Flattery bordering on plagiarism, historical anachronism, and random meta abound.
Word Count: 1075
Author's Notes: One-shot crossover gift fic for
gardnerhill
.oOOo.
‘May I remind my liege that Rule One states "Do not act incautiously when confronting little bald wrinkly smiling men" ‘
‘Come now, Lestrade, the rogue blocking yonder bridge may be small of stature, and his tunic may be wrinkled, but there is nothing to indicate age or hairlessness underneath that cowl!’
‘True Robin, but the way the varlet is smiling... I like it not! You have too many enemies in these parts and your brother would flay me should anything happen to you.’
The young noble let out a derisive snort and urged his horse forward to get a closer look at the one who challenged his passage.
‘Let me get a better look at you, knave, before I make my decision.’
The peasant let his hooded cowl fall back revealing himself to be a youth with fair hair and deep blue eyes.
‘See, Lestrade?’ the young noble called back to his companion. ‘Neither aged nor bald at all! Rule One need not apply in this instance.’
‘Sire,’ the peasant said. ‘I only ask a few farthings or some victuals, for use of my bridge. The river is neither fast nor deep. Your men and your horses could easily ford it and bypass me all together.’
‘Your bridge?’ the lordling snorted. ‘Who are you to tell me where and where I cannot pass within my own lands?’
‘I am just a simple man on a crude-cut bridge. You need not accept my challenge.’
The young lord flushed as his entourage sniggered at the peasant’s remarks. Of course he had to accept the challenge. His pride demanded it even if his sense of honour did not. Besides that, his companions were of a merry sort that would never let him live it down.
‘Alas, you leave me no choice. But be warned: I am equally expert with bare-hands as I am with hand weapons, and I have made a study of the mystical martial arts of the Far Orient. Do you still maintain your challenge?’
The peasant smiled and raised his staff into position and assumed a combative stance. ‘If it is a fair fight, then you shall have your dunking, and I shall have my supper.’
‘When this is over, should you still draw breath, I will drag you behind my horse to the dungeons of Nottingham, there to await your fate at my brother’s discretion.’
‘Are you going to bore me to death, or are you going to fight?’
‘Lestrade, hand me your stave. By Jove, I will teach this miscreant some manners!’
Thus armed, the lord strode purposely toward his opponent. His other companions dismounted and stood along the river bank to watch the contest.
The two adversaries engaged in a preliminary exchange of tentative strokes, each to trying to gauge the other's’ strength and agility. The young nobleman’s suspicions were confirmed. The peasant could match his strength, but not his agility.
The contest escalated and blows were exchanged in earnest. Robin’s flurry of blows failed to land but forced the peasant’s slow retreat.
‘You fight quite well for someone with no formal training. Perhaps you have been deceiving me.’
‘Perhaps I am a character in a morality play,’ the peasant countered.
Distracted by that incredulous statement, the young noble failed to completely block the blow aimed at his head. It sent him staggering back several steps before he rallied. The opponents were once again on equal terms.
It was now the nobleman’s turn to astound his adversary.
‘You have been in Jerusalem, I perceive.’
Robin took advantage of the brief opportunity and swung a savage blow at the youth’s head. The peasant dodged aside, saving his head, but taking the staff’s full momentum on his shoulder.
‘Aha! You have a weakness there... and old injury, perhaps?’ he gloated. ‘What else should I know about you?’
‘You know nothing of me!’
'Not so! Although we have never met, I knew you came from Jerusalem. From long habit such thoughts course so swiftly through my mind, that I arrived at the conclusion without being conscious of intermediate steps. There were such steps, however. My reasoning ran thus:
‘Here is a peasant of a common type, but with the air of a well-travelled man. Clearly a pilgrim, then. He has just come from the Orient, for he is brown as a nut and that is not the natural tint of his skin, for the scars on his wrists are fair. He has undergone hardship and sickness, as he is thin as a lathe. His left arm has been injured; he moves in a stiff and unnatural manner. Where in the Orient could a young English serf have seen such hardship and received a slavers’ mark? Clearly on the ill-fated Childrens' Crusade, which landed him, in chains, in Jerusalem.’
‘You amaze me, Sir!’
‘You seem astonished.’
‘Indeed, I am. I am filled with wonderment!’
‘Really? that’s not how people normally respond.’
‘No? What do they do?’
‘They scream: “Burn the witch!” ’
‘And yet you persist with such demonstrations?
‘I am working to improve my craft. I have yet to achieve deductive perfection. Tell me, did I neglect some niggling detail?’
‘Only that I have expert knowledge of my bridge’s integrity,’ the peasant replied and poked one of the knots with his staff. The planking beneath the brash nobleman suddenly dropped several inches, setting the him off-balance. Wide-eyed, Robin teetered as the peasant regained his feet. With a satisfied grin, the youth give him a gentle nudge which sent him, in all of his finery, backwards into the water.
‘You also talk too much. So... what’s for supper?’
‘Ha ha!’ the noble spluttered as he dragged himself ashore. ‘Whatever Much managed to find in the woods!’
‘Champignons et lapin à la cocotte,’ one of the retainers supplied.
‘Zounds! Not again!’ the others chorused.
‘If you want venison, you lot better improve your archery.’ The man poured the water from his boots. ‘What is your name, boy?’
‘I am called John, son of Wat. And who are you?’
‘I am Robert Holmes, Hereditary Thane of Sherwood and Locksley; sometimes called Robin. But my friends call me Sherlock, and I implore you to do the same.’
.oOOo.
Prithee apply thy quill to ye olde guestbook...
Author:
capt_facepalm
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: BBC Sherlock and Robin Hood
Characters: Robin (who has a hooded cloak), Guy de Lestrade, diminutive John
Summary: Traditional introductions ensue...
Warnings: Flattery bordering on plagiarism, historical anachronism, and random meta abound.
Word Count: 1075
Author's Notes: One-shot crossover gift fic for
gardnerhill
.oOOo.
‘May I remind my liege that Rule One states "Do not act incautiously when confronting little bald wrinkly smiling men" ‘
‘Come now, Lestrade, the rogue blocking yonder bridge may be small of stature, and his tunic may be wrinkled, but there is nothing to indicate age or hairlessness underneath that cowl!’
‘True Robin, but the way the varlet is smiling... I like it not! You have too many enemies in these parts and your brother would flay me should anything happen to you.’
The young noble let out a derisive snort and urged his horse forward to get a closer look at the one who challenged his passage.
‘Let me get a better look at you, knave, before I make my decision.’
The peasant let his hooded cowl fall back revealing himself to be a youth with fair hair and deep blue eyes.
‘See, Lestrade?’ the young noble called back to his companion. ‘Neither aged nor bald at all! Rule One need not apply in this instance.’
‘Sire,’ the peasant said. ‘I only ask a few farthings or some victuals, for use of my bridge. The river is neither fast nor deep. Your men and your horses could easily ford it and bypass me all together.’
‘Your bridge?’ the lordling snorted. ‘Who are you to tell me where and where I cannot pass within my own lands?’
‘I am just a simple man on a crude-cut bridge. You need not accept my challenge.’
The young lord flushed as his entourage sniggered at the peasant’s remarks. Of course he had to accept the challenge. His pride demanded it even if his sense of honour did not. Besides that, his companions were of a merry sort that would never let him live it down.
‘Alas, you leave me no choice. But be warned: I am equally expert with bare-hands as I am with hand weapons, and I have made a study of the mystical martial arts of the Far Orient. Do you still maintain your challenge?’
The peasant smiled and raised his staff into position and assumed a combative stance. ‘If it is a fair fight, then you shall have your dunking, and I shall have my supper.’
‘When this is over, should you still draw breath, I will drag you behind my horse to the dungeons of Nottingham, there to await your fate at my brother’s discretion.’
‘Are you going to bore me to death, or are you going to fight?’
‘Lestrade, hand me your stave. By Jove, I will teach this miscreant some manners!’
Thus armed, the lord strode purposely toward his opponent. His other companions dismounted and stood along the river bank to watch the contest.
The two adversaries engaged in a preliminary exchange of tentative strokes, each to trying to gauge the other's’ strength and agility. The young nobleman’s suspicions were confirmed. The peasant could match his strength, but not his agility.
The contest escalated and blows were exchanged in earnest. Robin’s flurry of blows failed to land but forced the peasant’s slow retreat.
‘You fight quite well for someone with no formal training. Perhaps you have been deceiving me.’
‘Perhaps I am a character in a morality play,’ the peasant countered.
Distracted by that incredulous statement, the young noble failed to completely block the blow aimed at his head. It sent him staggering back several steps before he rallied. The opponents were once again on equal terms.
It was now the nobleman’s turn to astound his adversary.
‘You have been in Jerusalem, I perceive.’
Robin took advantage of the brief opportunity and swung a savage blow at the youth’s head. The peasant dodged aside, saving his head, but taking the staff’s full momentum on his shoulder.
‘Aha! You have a weakness there... and old injury, perhaps?’ he gloated. ‘What else should I know about you?’
‘You know nothing of me!’
'Not so! Although we have never met, I knew you came from Jerusalem. From long habit such thoughts course so swiftly through my mind, that I arrived at the conclusion without being conscious of intermediate steps. There were such steps, however. My reasoning ran thus:
‘Here is a peasant of a common type, but with the air of a well-travelled man. Clearly a pilgrim, then. He has just come from the Orient, for he is brown as a nut and that is not the natural tint of his skin, for the scars on his wrists are fair. He has undergone hardship and sickness, as he is thin as a lathe. His left arm has been injured; he moves in a stiff and unnatural manner. Where in the Orient could a young English serf have seen such hardship and received a slavers’ mark? Clearly on the ill-fated Childrens' Crusade, which landed him, in chains, in Jerusalem.’
‘You amaze me, Sir!’
‘You seem astonished.’
‘Indeed, I am. I am filled with wonderment!’
‘Really? that’s not how people normally respond.’
‘No? What do they do?’
‘They scream: “Burn the witch!” ’
‘And yet you persist with such demonstrations?
‘I am working to improve my craft. I have yet to achieve deductive perfection. Tell me, did I neglect some niggling detail?’
‘Only that I have expert knowledge of my bridge’s integrity,’ the peasant replied and poked one of the knots with his staff. The planking beneath the brash nobleman suddenly dropped several inches, setting the him off-balance. Wide-eyed, Robin teetered as the peasant regained his feet. With a satisfied grin, the youth give him a gentle nudge which sent him, in all of his finery, backwards into the water.
‘You also talk too much. So... what’s for supper?’
‘Ha ha!’ the noble spluttered as he dragged himself ashore. ‘Whatever Much managed to find in the woods!’
‘Champignons et lapin à la cocotte,’ one of the retainers supplied.
‘Zounds! Not again!’ the others chorused.
‘If you want venison, you lot better improve your archery.’ The man poured the water from his boots. ‘What is your name, boy?’
‘I am called John, son of Wat. And who are you?’
‘I am Robert Holmes, Hereditary Thane of Sherwood and Locksley; sometimes called Robin. But my friends call me Sherlock, and I implore you to do the same.’
.oOOo.
Prithee apply thy quill to ye olde guestbook...