The Outlaws: A Play!
Original Complete Post
Original Drabble Posts: 1/ 2/ 3/ 4/ 5/ 6/ 7/ 8/ 9/ 10/ 11
Rating: a mild PG
Word count: 3907
Characters: Robin, Much, Allan, Little John, Tuck, Kate, Guy, Will, Djaq, Prince John, Isabella, some guards and loads of villagers
Spoilers: some S3 character development
Summary: The outlaws stage a dinner theatre.
Disclaimer: I have no rights to anything, make nothing from this, and mean no infringement. But I do have a lot of fun with it all. :D
Sources: In the original drabble, I had linked here as my source for the play they were performing, in that case called "Robin Hood and the Knight." My normal source for the RH ballads and such is The Robin Hood Project at the University of Rochester, which lists it as "Robyn Hod and the Shyrff of Notyngham," and has a slightly different interpretation of who delivers some of the dialogue-- which turns out to be the normal interpretation. But, I stuck with Mr Manly's take on it. I also found "The Tale of Gamelyn" at the RH Project, and here's my source for Little John's lullaby.
The First Fytte: Robyn Hode
prompt: "The Outlaws; a Play!"
Much cleared his throat and darted a nervous glance at Tuck, who was watching expectantly from where he sat in front of the stage they’d erected.
"Robyn Hode and his menye
With the Sheryff takyn be."
Tuck nodded encouragingly, and Much broke into a grin.
Robin stepped confidently forward. “Be-holde wele ffrere Tuke,
Howe he dothe his bowe pluke.”
“Why do I have to be the Sheriff?” Allan broke in, interrupting the scene again. Robin groaned and threw his hands up, his concentration broken.
“Allan, as I keep explaining, you’re the only one who owns black leather clothing,” Tuck sighed.
The Seconde Fytte: Lyttle John and Guy of Gysborne
prompts: "Little John; costume" and "Robin/Guy; men in tights"
“There is NO way I am wearing THIS,” Little John protested, clutching a handful of fabric.
“Oi!” yelled Kate. “I worked hard to make that!”
“Much worked hard to make the stew, but it was still squirrel,” Guy grumbled. Facing Tuck, he threw his arms out. “Really?”
Tuck was having difficulty making eye contact with him or Robin, both of whom were in tights and short tunics. "Erm, perhaps trousers would be preferable?” he suggested to Kate.
“Do I tell you what to do with the script, Mr. Director?”
“No...”
“Right. I’m the costume mistress. John, put on your tights.”
The Thirde Fytte: The Mynstrel's Supper
prompts: "Guy; singing for his supper" and "Little John; lullabye"
Tuck clapped for attention. “Now! For a dinner theatre, we’ll need more entertainment, giving our guests time to eat.”
“I could sing,” suggested Much.
“NO!” everyone shouted. Diplomatically, Tuck added, “We need you to prepare the food. But music’s a good idea. Who can sing?--besides Much.”
Kate nudged Little John, who reluctantly raised a hand. “I only know lullabies.”
“That’s fine. Anyone else?”
Allan hesitated before saying, “Guy’s got a great voice.”
“Allan,” Guy growled warningly. “I don’t sing,” he protested.
Tuck shrugged. “Very well. Then you don’t eat.”
Guy sighed and capitulated. Then he smiled.
Allan would pay.
The Fourth Fytte: Guy of Gysborne and Allin a Dale
prompt: "Guy/Allan; naked"
“Allan, come here a moment?” Guy called from backstage.
Allan found Guy standing beside a bedsheet-partitioned dressing area.
“Look,” said Guy. “I offered to play the Sheriff, but Tuck’s afraid I’ll make the peasants nervous in my own leather. So, I’m supposed to try yours on.”
“But, I didn’t bring any other clothes...”
“Right. Just wait here while I give them a try.”
“Okay.” Allan ducked into the partition. “Hey, Guy, I really appreciate this.”
“My pleasure,” Guy replied, grabbing the clothes passed to him. Then he whistled as he wandered off, leather in hand.
“Guy?” called Allan nervously.
“Hello?”
The Fyfth Fytte: Surpryse and Dysmayye
prompts: "Much/Tuck; confession" and "Allan/Kate; peeping"
“Tuck? I... I have a confession,” Much said.
Tuck set aside his script. “Go on.”
In a rush, Much mumbled, “I may have taken your darts to use as kebob sticks for the dinner.”
“You what?”
Suddenly, from backstage, Kate screamed. “Allan A Dale! You disgusting, twisted, loathsome-- get back here!”
Allan ran around the curtain at the back of the stage, wearing nothing save a bedsheet wrapped loosely around his waist. He paused when he saw Tuck and Much.
“Hey, either of you seen Guy?”
They mutely shook their heads.
Kate barreled out then, and Allan took off into the woods.
“Pervert!” she shrieked, before storming after him.
There was a moment of silence in their wake.
“What were we talking about, again?” Tuck asked.
Much blinked innocently, seizing the opportunity to escape. “Oh... nothing.” He smiled, and then fled before Tuck remembered.
A moment later, Tuck did. “Much! You know those have sleeping powder on them, right?” He set off after the errant chef.
Onstage, Robin and Little John exchanged a look. “Does this mean rehearsal’s over?” John wondered.
The Sixth Fytte: The Carpenter's Worrie
prompt: "Will/Djaq/The Outlaws; returning home"
“That’s the shoddiest workmanship I’ve ever seen.” Will ran his hand over the boards. “It looks like someone’s taken apart a barn and built this out of the scrap.”
“And what is it doing in the middle of the forest, so close to camp?” Djaq queried.
“It’s probably some scheme of the Sheriff’s,” Will muttered. “Which means Gisborne’s likely involved.”
“Why would Gisborne build a stage?”
“To act, and now sing, upon,” a voice drawled.
They spun around, wide-eyed.
“Will! Djaq!” Robin grinned, hugging them.
“Why are you with Gisborne?” Djaq exclaimed.
“And why are you wearing tights?” asked Will.
The Seventh Fytte: Fryar Tuck and His Crewe of Players
prompt: "Robin/Guy; accents"
“Now, that is a stage!” Much exclaimed.
Will smiled. “Well, this one won’t collapse under you, anyway.”
“The other was sturdy enough,” protested Little John.
“And how clever is this curtain system?” Kate enthused, testing it out.
Off-stage, Allan sighed. “No, no; slur the vowels more.”
Robin tried again, with better results. “Now, let’s hear yours.”
“ ‘The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain.’ Hey?”
“Yeah, that’s it! Um, your bedsheet’s sagging.”
Allan tightened the knot, shooting a frustrated look at Guy.
Tuck called for attention. “Time to rehearse our musical numbers.”
Guy stepped forward, clearing his throat.
The Eighth Fytte: The Monke's Prayer
prompts: "Tuck; blind faith" and "Guy/Allan; accident"
“Our performance is on Saturday,” Tuck announced. “Kate, how’s Allan’s new costume coming?”
“It’ll be ready, but I’m no leatherworker. You had to throw the old one in Locksley Pond?” she said to Guy.
“It was an accident.” His lips twitched.
“And my normal clothes?” Allan asked, shivering at a breeze.
Guy shrugged. “No idea.”
Kate blinked innocently.
Tuck cut in. “Fine. Much, are you sure the darts are clean?”
“I’m sure! Well, mostly sure. I mean, it’s possible that a little powder--”
“Go clean them.”
“Right.”
Tuck studied his friends. “It’s in God’s hands,” he murmured to himself.
The Nynth Fytte: Songe of the Shrew
prompt: "Guy; laryngitis"
This wasn’t happening.
“You do not have laryngitis,” Tuck insisted.
Guy rasped, “No?”
“Who’s going to sing the ballad?” Tuck glanced around desperately.
“You could do it,” Will murmured to Djaq, who frantically shushed him.
Much decided to bide his time.
“Allan?”
“You must be joking.”
“Robin?”
“Only at arrowpoint. And maybe not even then.”
Kate whispered to Tuck, “I'll find out if he’s lying.” Then she shrieked, “I told you he couldn’t be trusted! But nobody listened, and now he’s ruining our play! What’s next?”
Guy exclaimed, “‘Sblood, woman! Will you never... stop... Oh.”
Tuck smiled. “From the top?”
The Tenth Fytte: The Knyght's Lesson
prompt: "Guy/Djaq; chemistry lessons"
Djaq sprinkled yellow powder onto some grey granules, creating a flash of light and a puff of smoke.
“That’s perfect,” Tuck nodded.
Guy rubbed at the scorch mark. “How’d you do that?”
“You wouldn’t understand,” she replied coldly.
Apparently, she still hadn’t gotten over that whole “destroying a chance for peace in the Holy Land” thing.
“Try me.”
Djaq studied him for a moment. “Fine.”
Alchemy was never his strongest subject. But, he gave it a shot.
“I’m better at braiding hair than trimming it,” Kate informed him, studying his scorched ends.
She tested the shears.
He suppressed a whimper.
The Eleventh Fytte: The Play's the Thinge
prompt: "The Outlaws; a Play!"
Onstage, behind the closed curtain, the gang gathered into a circle. They could hear the conversations of the villagers gathering beyond.
Tuck performed a short blessing, then said, “This is it! Is everyone ready?”
“The kebobs are cooked,” Much confirmed.
“I have a costume,” Allan said uncomfortably.
“Guy’s got a haircut,” Kate giggled.
He twitched his head. It really wasn’t bad, but still...
“I’m in my tights,” Little John muttered.
“The flash powder’s in place,” said Djaq.
“I’ve got my fight with John worked out,” Robin stated.
They all exchanged excited glances.
“Then, here we go!”
They got into place.
The Twelfth Fytte: Robyn Hod and the Shyrff of Notyngham
prompt: although unnecessary since it's not officially part of Drabble Fest, there were a few that came to mind: "Little John; this, I do not like," "Much; a happy moment," "Kate; gratitude," "Robin/Guy; sharing willingly"
The curtain slid smoothly open as Will tugged on the ropes.
Tuck stepped forward amongst a smattering of applause from the villagers who had come to the production. Faces from Locksley, Clun, Knighton, Nettlestone, Treeton and Nottingham Town looked at him expectantly from the benches Will had constructed. Tuck smiled at them.
“Thank you all for coming out here today! Things have been more difficult than ever lately, and Robin and the rest of us wanted to give you an afternoon away from your worries. So, sit back, enjoy your meal-- I see the food and drink is coming round now--“ he indicated Much, Djaq and Kate, who were passing out kebobs and cups of mead, “--and I present to you, ‘Robin Hood and the Sheriff of Nottingham.’”
There was another bit of applause, mostly from the front of the audience, who hadn’t received their kebobs yet.
In the wings, Little John tugged unhappily on his tunic. It was no use; the fact was that he was about to walk out, in front of everyone, in tights. Even the cloak they’d added to the costume wasn’t enough to make it right. This, he did not like.
But there was nothing for it; Tuck walked offstage, and Allan went on from the opposite wing. John went out to meet him, trying to ignore the steady gaze of the audience.
As Allan approached the center of the stage, he did his best not to wriggle against the crooked seams of his costume. Kate did all right with fabric, but she hadn’t been lying-- she was rubbish with leather. These trousers were going to be joining his old ones in Locksley Pond as soon as he could get out of them. If he could get out of them; did she have to make them so tight?
Little John, in the part of the Knight, bowed to “Sheriff” Allan. “Sir Sheriff, for thy sake, Robin Hood will I take.”
“I will thee give gold and fee if this behest thou hold me.” Allan suppressed a grin as a murmur rippled through the audience. He’d nailed that impression, if he did say so, himself.
They both exited. Allan ducked behind the backstage curtain, where he was alone for the time being, and did his best to adjust the seam on his trousers.
Onstage, John’s Knight challenged Robin to an archery contest, a stone throw, and finally a wrestling match, all of which Robin won, to the cheers of the audience. John felt a little silly losing the last competition, even if he knew it wouldn’t do to have a Sheriff’s man defeat Robin. He decided to make Robin work to win this one.
As John pinned him for the third time, Robin wheezed, “What are you doing?” He might have been trying to whisper, but the arm clamped across his throat made it difficult.
“Entertaining the guests.”
Robin’s eyebrows shot up and he gave the big man a sarcastic grin. “Well, if that’s the way you want it.” He landed an elbow in John’s stomach, giving himself a chance to wriggle out.
They grappled in earnest then, not noticing the audience gaping at them. Robin finally got the upper hand and quickly recited his line: “Sir Knight, you have a fall,” before John could toss him around any more.
They both jumped to their feet, and John grabbed the wooden sword he’d discarded before the match. “And I the Robin, quit shall.” He lunged at Robin, barely giving him time to jump out of the way and retrieve his own fake weapon. Gasps from the audience gave them both the impetus to ham up the swordfight, and it wasn’t until Robin noticed Tuck gesturing frantically from the wings that he brought it to an end, sticking the sword between John’s side and his arm. The crowd roared in approval as the “Knight” staggered and went down.
Standing next to Tuck in the wings, Much repeated his line over and over under his breath. He’d peeked out at the people on the benches earlier and his mind had gone blank, so he was making sure he wouldn’t forget it now. Robin delivered his last lines of the scene, and Will closed the curtain to allow John to exit.
Will opened the curtain again, and Robin strolled onstage, disguised as the Knight. Still muttering the line under his breath, Much made his entrance, dirt rubbed onto his face and clothing, as though he’d been in a rumble.
Robin held up a hand. “Well met, fellow man! What heardst thou of good Robin?” He was still a tad out of breath from sparring with Little John, but tried to hide it.
Loudly, Much replied, “Robin Hood and his men, with the Sheriff taken be.” He desperately wanted to look out at the audience and see what they’d thought of his line, but knew he shouldn’t. At least nobody had laughed. But he was still incredibly nervous.
With his head turned so that only Much could see, Robin winked. Much relaxed, happy to know that his friend thought he’d done well.
Having been unable to find a comfortable way to wear his trousers, Allan barely made it onstage in time to beat Tuck in a fight and capture the outlaws, who were played by everyone but Little John and Kate. Those two were playing the Sheriff’s men in the final scene, during which Robin escaped and freed his gang. The scene was made more exciting because of Djaq’s flash powders, which she set off during the fight.
Guy kept his distance from her as much as possible during that sequence.
Privately, Tuck felt that he’d cheated a little when writing the gang’s escape, since it really hadn’t required much in the way of creative thought. But the villagers loved it, standing and applauding when the gang ran off and the Sheriff was left enraged. Allan yelled and jumped around like Vaizey, though not as boisterously as he might have done in properly-made clothing.
They all bowed, and Will ducked to the side in order to close the curtain.
Allan immediately shot backstage, shedding the crooked leather jacket and trying for the trousers. But then, he ran into a problem.
In the big fight at the end of the play, he’d gotten sweaty. And now, he couldn’t get the laces, which Kate in her infinite wisdom had made from suede thongs, undone.
The seams were chafing, the knots in the laces were stuck, and Allan felt himself torn between the impulses to shout obscenities and burst into tears.
“Need some help?” Kate asked from behind him.
He spun around, ready to let her have it-- but then he noticed the shears she was waving at him.
It was possible that he’d been this happy before, but he sure couldn’t remember when that might have been.
“You are brilliant!” he exclaimed, surprising them both when he grabbed her face and kissed her exuberantly. He then snagged the shears from her hand and ducked behind a nearby shrubbery, where he’d hidden his change of clothes.
“You’re right; I am,” she replied softly, hurrying away before he discovered that he hadn’t concealed his clothes well enough.
Stepping into the wings, Guy swigged mead from the cup he’d left there, trying to ignore the weird feeling in his stomach. Maybe it was from the lingering scent of burnt hair that he couldn’t seem to wash out. Of course that was it; he certainly wasn’t nervous about singing in front of a bunch of peasants.
Tuck came up beside him. “Ready?”
“Do I have a choice?”
Chuckling, Tuck admitted, “No.”
“Then I guess I’m ready.”
Guy set the cup down and walked back out onto the stage. He glanced at Will. The young man still seemed baffled by the concept of their collaborating on this, much less permanently being on the same side, but he offered Guy an almost-friendly nod as he opened the curtain.
The crowd, having been discussing the play they’d just seen, took a minute to quiet down. Guy accepted the cold stares of people he’d wronged for years, but was pleasantly surprised to see several non-hostile faces, and even a couple of smiles.
Focusing on those, he cleared his throat and began to sing “The Tale of Gamelyn,” a ballad he’d always strangely enjoyed despite its glorification of outlawry. It certainly had a closer appeal now.
“ Lithes and listneth and harkeneth aright,
And ye shul here of a doughty knyght;
Sire John of Boundes was his name,
He coude of norture and of mochel game.
Thre sones the knyght had...”
As he sang, he noticed many of the glaring stares relaxing. Perhaps it was the song; perhaps it was the honeyed cakes and refills on mead that his companions were passing out. As he noticed a couple of villagers slumped over onto their neighbors, it also occurred to him that perhaps Much hadn’t cleaned all of the darts well enough.
But most of them were clearly hanging onto his story, and he felt a kinship growing with his audience. It was all going beautifully, and he was well into the fourth fitt when the unimaginable happened: he took a breath incorrectly, and his throat closed up. He coughed; he couldn’t speak. The eyes on him, so engrossed a moment earlier, started to grow impatient, and Guy felt the beginning of panic come on.
Then a hand clapped his shoulder and the cup of mead he’d left offstage was pressed into his hand, and Robin picked up the tune where it’d fallen off.
“Adam the spencere took up the clothe,
And loked on Gamelyn and segh that he was wrothe...”
He reclaimed the audience’s attention as Guy gulped the beverage. When Guy lowered the empty cup, Robin glanced at him, waiting to see if he was able to pick up again.
Guy resumed the song; when Robin turned to exit, he stayed him. With a gesture, he invited Robin to join him, which Robin did after a moment’s hesitation. The baritone that had started the song was mixed with the tenor that had saved it to finish out the piece.
“ They lyved togidere the while that Crist wolde,
And sithen was Gamelyn graven under molde.
And so shull we alle may ther no man fle:
God bring us to that joye that ever shal be!”
There was a moment of silence when they finished, and Guy felt the panic start to creep back, but then the villagers broke into thundering applause, marked by some whistles and cheers.
Stunned, he glanced at Robin, who grinned and indicated that he should take a bow. He did, almost automatically, and then couldn’t help himself; he broke into a grin of his own. Sweeping his arm out for Robin to bow, too, he was so caught up in the moment that he didn’t notice the couple walking down the aisle in the audience.
“Bravo! Huzzah!” a singsongy voice called out, instantly bringing everything to a halt.
Standing in the middle of the audience was Prince John, with Isabella on one arm.
“Why, Brother, I thought you limited your singing to the bath,” she taunted.
Everyone’s weapons were either backstage or in the wings. Much tossed Robin his bow and quiver, while Kate flung Guy’s sword to him. The other outlaws joined them onstage, armed and ready. Robin instantly had an arrow drawn, but the prince merely smirked.
“Oh, Hood, I don’t think so.”
Twenty armed guards stepped out of the trees, surrounding the audience.
“Go ahead, Robin,” Isabella sneered. “I dare you.”
Realizing the fruitlessness of the situation, Robin went to lay down his bow. Reluctantly, the others followed suit. As he crouched, Robin noticed a movement in the wings. As subtly as possible, so as not to call attention, he peered over to see what it was.
There stood Allan, loosely clad in the bedsheet once more. In each hand he clutched a pouch, which Robin recognized as holding the ingredients for Djaq’s flash powder. He mimicked throwing the pouches and shooting them with arrows. Robin gave him a slight nod, and stood again, bow primed.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Prince John asked in a bored tone.
Robin smiled and called, “We thought you’d like to be part of the entertainment!”
Isabella blinked. “What?”
Allan stepped out and launched the pouch of black powder at them, which Robin split open with an arrow right before it landed at their feet. They jumped back, but the outlaws were quicker; Allan had already pitched the second pouch before the first had reached them, and Robin hit it perfectly. They’d used less than half a handful of each substance for the small explosions onstage; there had to be half a pound or more in each of the cloth bags. The resultant reaction was like a bolt of lightning striking the ground.
As he threw the second pouch, Allan twisted a bit too much, and his sheet fell away. Despite the spectacle of the giant flare, a couple of whistles and catcalls sounded. He could’ve sworn that one came from the stage, but that couldn’t be right.
The villagers who weren’t distracted by the flash onstage scooted away from the one in the aisle, but the guards were in the way. Nobody was sure where it had begun, but a leftover chunk of honeyed cake hit a guard in the head. Then another. Then a mushroom from a kebob managed to lodge itself in another guard’s visor.
Suddenly, food was flying and all was chaos. The guards were running, pelted with leftovers as they retreated.
The gang used the distractions to surround Prince John and Isabella, who were stamping out small flames that licked at their hems. The odor of singed hair hung around Isabella. Too late, they realized that they were at the point of several swords and an arrow with no help in sight.
The prince grabbed Isabella and held her in front of himself. Not that it mattered, since Guy’s sword hovered at his back, but it gave him a feeling of safety, much like the blanket he’d had as a child. He missed that blanket; Mother had given it away when he was twelve.
“Robin,” Isabella murmured nervously. “Don’t do anything hasty.”
“Didn’t you know, Isabella? Plays are carefully rehearsed; there’s nothing hasty about them.”
“You’ll swing for this, Hood,” Prince John declared from over her shoulder.
Robin gave a harsh laugh. “I doubt it.”
The villagers had regrouped off to the side, near the stage, waiting to see what would happen.
Thinking for a moment, Robin suddenly got a twinkle in his eye as he said, “Why shouldn’t these two get to join in the fun?”
“What are you thinking?” asked Allan, making a quick grab for his sheet as it drooped again.
With an impish smile, Robin replied, “There’s still one more song left. And there’s plenty of room for them at the back.”
Not long afterward, Prince John and Isabella were securely tied to trees behind the last row of benches, and gagged so as not to disturb the rest of the audience. Everyone else had regained their seats, and held freshly-filled cups of mead.
Little John took the stage. He’d meant to change out of his tights before doing so, but had found himself grown rather fond of them by now. Softly, he sang a lullaby to close out the day.
“Sing! Cuccu, nu. Sing! Cuccu
Sing! Cuccu. Sing! Cuccu, nu.
“Sumer is icumen in--
Lhude sing! Cuccu.
Groweth sed and bloweth med
And springth the wude nu--
Sing! Cuccu.
“Awe bleteth after lomb,
Lhouth after calve cu,
Bulluc sterteth, buck verteth,
Murie sing! Cuccu.
Cuccu, cuccu,
Well singes thu, cuccu--
Ne swik thu naver nu!”
Sleepy, relaxed faces smiled as he finished and took a bow, and the applause this time was heartfelt, but more muted. The villagers filed out, stopping to thank and congratulate the performers as they did so.
When the gang was mostly alone, Guy said, “There’ll be guards returning soon for them.” He tilted his head at the nobles struggling ineffectively against their bonds.
Robin nodded. “We can leave cleanup for tomorrow.” He smiled at his friends. “Great work today, lads. Now, my gang, this way!”
*
Original Drabble Posts: 1/ 2/ 3/ 4/ 5/ 6/ 7/ 8/ 9/ 10/ 11
Rating: a mild PG
Word count: 3907
Characters: Robin, Much, Allan, Little John, Tuck, Kate, Guy, Will, Djaq, Prince John, Isabella, some guards and loads of villagers
Spoilers: some S3 character development
Summary: The outlaws stage a dinner theatre.
Disclaimer: I have no rights to anything, make nothing from this, and mean no infringement. But I do have a lot of fun with it all. :D
Sources: In the original drabble, I had linked here as my source for the play they were performing, in that case called "Robin Hood and the Knight." My normal source for the RH ballads and such is The Robin Hood Project at the University of Rochester, which lists it as "Robyn Hod and the Shyrff of Notyngham," and has a slightly different interpretation of who delivers some of the dialogue-- which turns out to be the normal interpretation. But, I stuck with Mr Manly's take on it. I also found "The Tale of Gamelyn" at the RH Project, and here's my source for Little John's lullaby.
The First Fytte: Robyn Hode
prompt: "The Outlaws; a Play!"
Much cleared his throat and darted a nervous glance at Tuck, who was watching expectantly from where he sat in front of the stage they’d erected.
"Robyn Hode and his menye
With the Sheryff takyn be."
Tuck nodded encouragingly, and Much broke into a grin.
Robin stepped confidently forward. “Be-holde wele ffrere Tuke,
Howe he dothe his bowe pluke.”
“Why do I have to be the Sheriff?” Allan broke in, interrupting the scene again. Robin groaned and threw his hands up, his concentration broken.
“Allan, as I keep explaining, you’re the only one who owns black leather clothing,” Tuck sighed.
The Seconde Fytte: Lyttle John and Guy of Gysborne
prompts: "Little John; costume" and "Robin/Guy; men in tights"
“There is NO way I am wearing THIS,” Little John protested, clutching a handful of fabric.
“Oi!” yelled Kate. “I worked hard to make that!”
“Much worked hard to make the stew, but it was still squirrel,” Guy grumbled. Facing Tuck, he threw his arms out. “Really?”
Tuck was having difficulty making eye contact with him or Robin, both of whom were in tights and short tunics. "Erm, perhaps trousers would be preferable?” he suggested to Kate.
“Do I tell you what to do with the script, Mr. Director?”
“No...”
“Right. I’m the costume mistress. John, put on your tights.”
The Thirde Fytte: The Mynstrel's Supper
prompts: "Guy; singing for his supper" and "Little John; lullabye"
Tuck clapped for attention. “Now! For a dinner theatre, we’ll need more entertainment, giving our guests time to eat.”
“I could sing,” suggested Much.
“NO!” everyone shouted. Diplomatically, Tuck added, “We need you to prepare the food. But music’s a good idea. Who can sing?--besides Much.”
Kate nudged Little John, who reluctantly raised a hand. “I only know lullabies.”
“That’s fine. Anyone else?”
Allan hesitated before saying, “Guy’s got a great voice.”
“Allan,” Guy growled warningly. “I don’t sing,” he protested.
Tuck shrugged. “Very well. Then you don’t eat.”
Guy sighed and capitulated. Then he smiled.
Allan would pay.
The Fourth Fytte: Guy of Gysborne and Allin a Dale
prompt: "Guy/Allan; naked"
“Allan, come here a moment?” Guy called from backstage.
Allan found Guy standing beside a bedsheet-partitioned dressing area.
“Look,” said Guy. “I offered to play the Sheriff, but Tuck’s afraid I’ll make the peasants nervous in my own leather. So, I’m supposed to try yours on.”
“But, I didn’t bring any other clothes...”
“Right. Just wait here while I give them a try.”
“Okay.” Allan ducked into the partition. “Hey, Guy, I really appreciate this.”
“My pleasure,” Guy replied, grabbing the clothes passed to him. Then he whistled as he wandered off, leather in hand.
“Guy?” called Allan nervously.
“Hello?”
The Fyfth Fytte: Surpryse and Dysmayye
prompts: "Much/Tuck; confession" and "Allan/Kate; peeping"
“Tuck? I... I have a confession,” Much said.
Tuck set aside his script. “Go on.”
In a rush, Much mumbled, “I may have taken your darts to use as kebob sticks for the dinner.”
“You what?”
Suddenly, from backstage, Kate screamed. “Allan A Dale! You disgusting, twisted, loathsome-- get back here!”
Allan ran around the curtain at the back of the stage, wearing nothing save a bedsheet wrapped loosely around his waist. He paused when he saw Tuck and Much.
“Hey, either of you seen Guy?”
They mutely shook their heads.
Kate barreled out then, and Allan took off into the woods.
“Pervert!” she shrieked, before storming after him.
There was a moment of silence in their wake.
“What were we talking about, again?” Tuck asked.
Much blinked innocently, seizing the opportunity to escape. “Oh... nothing.” He smiled, and then fled before Tuck remembered.
A moment later, Tuck did. “Much! You know those have sleeping powder on them, right?” He set off after the errant chef.
Onstage, Robin and Little John exchanged a look. “Does this mean rehearsal’s over?” John wondered.
The Sixth Fytte: The Carpenter's Worrie
prompt: "Will/Djaq/The Outlaws; returning home"
“That’s the shoddiest workmanship I’ve ever seen.” Will ran his hand over the boards. “It looks like someone’s taken apart a barn and built this out of the scrap.”
“And what is it doing in the middle of the forest, so close to camp?” Djaq queried.
“It’s probably some scheme of the Sheriff’s,” Will muttered. “Which means Gisborne’s likely involved.”
“Why would Gisborne build a stage?”
“To act, and now sing, upon,” a voice drawled.
They spun around, wide-eyed.
“Will! Djaq!” Robin grinned, hugging them.
“Why are you with Gisborne?” Djaq exclaimed.
“And why are you wearing tights?” asked Will.
The Seventh Fytte: Fryar Tuck and His Crewe of Players
prompt: "Robin/Guy; accents"
“Now, that is a stage!” Much exclaimed.
Will smiled. “Well, this one won’t collapse under you, anyway.”
“The other was sturdy enough,” protested Little John.
“And how clever is this curtain system?” Kate enthused, testing it out.
Off-stage, Allan sighed. “No, no; slur the vowels more.”
Robin tried again, with better results. “Now, let’s hear yours.”
“ ‘The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain.’ Hey?”
“Yeah, that’s it! Um, your bedsheet’s sagging.”
Allan tightened the knot, shooting a frustrated look at Guy.
Tuck called for attention. “Time to rehearse our musical numbers.”
Guy stepped forward, clearing his throat.
The Eighth Fytte: The Monke's Prayer
prompts: "Tuck; blind faith" and "Guy/Allan; accident"
“Our performance is on Saturday,” Tuck announced. “Kate, how’s Allan’s new costume coming?”
“It’ll be ready, but I’m no leatherworker. You had to throw the old one in Locksley Pond?” she said to Guy.
“It was an accident.” His lips twitched.
“And my normal clothes?” Allan asked, shivering at a breeze.
Guy shrugged. “No idea.”
Kate blinked innocently.
Tuck cut in. “Fine. Much, are you sure the darts are clean?”
“I’m sure! Well, mostly sure. I mean, it’s possible that a little powder--”
“Go clean them.”
“Right.”
Tuck studied his friends. “It’s in God’s hands,” he murmured to himself.
The Nynth Fytte: Songe of the Shrew
prompt: "Guy; laryngitis"
This wasn’t happening.
“You do not have laryngitis,” Tuck insisted.
Guy rasped, “No?”
“Who’s going to sing the ballad?” Tuck glanced around desperately.
“You could do it,” Will murmured to Djaq, who frantically shushed him.
Much decided to bide his time.
“Allan?”
“You must be joking.”
“Robin?”
“Only at arrowpoint. And maybe not even then.”
Kate whispered to Tuck, “I'll find out if he’s lying.” Then she shrieked, “I told you he couldn’t be trusted! But nobody listened, and now he’s ruining our play! What’s next?”
Guy exclaimed, “‘Sblood, woman! Will you never... stop... Oh.”
Tuck smiled. “From the top?”
The Tenth Fytte: The Knyght's Lesson
prompt: "Guy/Djaq; chemistry lessons"
Djaq sprinkled yellow powder onto some grey granules, creating a flash of light and a puff of smoke.
“That’s perfect,” Tuck nodded.
Guy rubbed at the scorch mark. “How’d you do that?”
“You wouldn’t understand,” she replied coldly.
Apparently, she still hadn’t gotten over that whole “destroying a chance for peace in the Holy Land” thing.
“Try me.”
Djaq studied him for a moment. “Fine.”
Alchemy was never his strongest subject. But, he gave it a shot.
“I’m better at braiding hair than trimming it,” Kate informed him, studying his scorched ends.
She tested the shears.
He suppressed a whimper.
The Eleventh Fytte: The Play's the Thinge
prompt: "The Outlaws; a Play!"
Onstage, behind the closed curtain, the gang gathered into a circle. They could hear the conversations of the villagers gathering beyond.
Tuck performed a short blessing, then said, “This is it! Is everyone ready?”
“The kebobs are cooked,” Much confirmed.
“I have a costume,” Allan said uncomfortably.
“Guy’s got a haircut,” Kate giggled.
He twitched his head. It really wasn’t bad, but still...
“I’m in my tights,” Little John muttered.
“The flash powder’s in place,” said Djaq.
“I’ve got my fight with John worked out,” Robin stated.
They all exchanged excited glances.
“Then, here we go!”
They got into place.
The Twelfth Fytte: Robyn Hod and the Shyrff of Notyngham
prompt: although unnecessary since it's not officially part of Drabble Fest, there were a few that came to mind: "Little John; this, I do not like," "Much; a happy moment," "Kate; gratitude," "Robin/Guy; sharing willingly"
The curtain slid smoothly open as Will tugged on the ropes.
Tuck stepped forward amongst a smattering of applause from the villagers who had come to the production. Faces from Locksley, Clun, Knighton, Nettlestone, Treeton and Nottingham Town looked at him expectantly from the benches Will had constructed. Tuck smiled at them.
“Thank you all for coming out here today! Things have been more difficult than ever lately, and Robin and the rest of us wanted to give you an afternoon away from your worries. So, sit back, enjoy your meal-- I see the food and drink is coming round now--“ he indicated Much, Djaq and Kate, who were passing out kebobs and cups of mead, “--and I present to you, ‘Robin Hood and the Sheriff of Nottingham.’”
There was another bit of applause, mostly from the front of the audience, who hadn’t received their kebobs yet.
In the wings, Little John tugged unhappily on his tunic. It was no use; the fact was that he was about to walk out, in front of everyone, in tights. Even the cloak they’d added to the costume wasn’t enough to make it right. This, he did not like.
But there was nothing for it; Tuck walked offstage, and Allan went on from the opposite wing. John went out to meet him, trying to ignore the steady gaze of the audience.
As Allan approached the center of the stage, he did his best not to wriggle against the crooked seams of his costume. Kate did all right with fabric, but she hadn’t been lying-- she was rubbish with leather. These trousers were going to be joining his old ones in Locksley Pond as soon as he could get out of them. If he could get out of them; did she have to make them so tight?
Little John, in the part of the Knight, bowed to “Sheriff” Allan. “Sir Sheriff, for thy sake, Robin Hood will I take.”
“I will thee give gold and fee if this behest thou hold me.” Allan suppressed a grin as a murmur rippled through the audience. He’d nailed that impression, if he did say so, himself.
They both exited. Allan ducked behind the backstage curtain, where he was alone for the time being, and did his best to adjust the seam on his trousers.
Onstage, John’s Knight challenged Robin to an archery contest, a stone throw, and finally a wrestling match, all of which Robin won, to the cheers of the audience. John felt a little silly losing the last competition, even if he knew it wouldn’t do to have a Sheriff’s man defeat Robin. He decided to make Robin work to win this one.
As John pinned him for the third time, Robin wheezed, “What are you doing?” He might have been trying to whisper, but the arm clamped across his throat made it difficult.
“Entertaining the guests.”
Robin’s eyebrows shot up and he gave the big man a sarcastic grin. “Well, if that’s the way you want it.” He landed an elbow in John’s stomach, giving himself a chance to wriggle out.
They grappled in earnest then, not noticing the audience gaping at them. Robin finally got the upper hand and quickly recited his line: “Sir Knight, you have a fall,” before John could toss him around any more.
They both jumped to their feet, and John grabbed the wooden sword he’d discarded before the match. “And I the Robin, quit shall.” He lunged at Robin, barely giving him time to jump out of the way and retrieve his own fake weapon. Gasps from the audience gave them both the impetus to ham up the swordfight, and it wasn’t until Robin noticed Tuck gesturing frantically from the wings that he brought it to an end, sticking the sword between John’s side and his arm. The crowd roared in approval as the “Knight” staggered and went down.
Standing next to Tuck in the wings, Much repeated his line over and over under his breath. He’d peeked out at the people on the benches earlier and his mind had gone blank, so he was making sure he wouldn’t forget it now. Robin delivered his last lines of the scene, and Will closed the curtain to allow John to exit.
Will opened the curtain again, and Robin strolled onstage, disguised as the Knight. Still muttering the line under his breath, Much made his entrance, dirt rubbed onto his face and clothing, as though he’d been in a rumble.
Robin held up a hand. “Well met, fellow man! What heardst thou of good Robin?” He was still a tad out of breath from sparring with Little John, but tried to hide it.
Loudly, Much replied, “Robin Hood and his men, with the Sheriff taken be.” He desperately wanted to look out at the audience and see what they’d thought of his line, but knew he shouldn’t. At least nobody had laughed. But he was still incredibly nervous.
With his head turned so that only Much could see, Robin winked. Much relaxed, happy to know that his friend thought he’d done well.
Having been unable to find a comfortable way to wear his trousers, Allan barely made it onstage in time to beat Tuck in a fight and capture the outlaws, who were played by everyone but Little John and Kate. Those two were playing the Sheriff’s men in the final scene, during which Robin escaped and freed his gang. The scene was made more exciting because of Djaq’s flash powders, which she set off during the fight.
Guy kept his distance from her as much as possible during that sequence.
Privately, Tuck felt that he’d cheated a little when writing the gang’s escape, since it really hadn’t required much in the way of creative thought. But the villagers loved it, standing and applauding when the gang ran off and the Sheriff was left enraged. Allan yelled and jumped around like Vaizey, though not as boisterously as he might have done in properly-made clothing.
They all bowed, and Will ducked to the side in order to close the curtain.
Allan immediately shot backstage, shedding the crooked leather jacket and trying for the trousers. But then, he ran into a problem.
In the big fight at the end of the play, he’d gotten sweaty. And now, he couldn’t get the laces, which Kate in her infinite wisdom had made from suede thongs, undone.
The seams were chafing, the knots in the laces were stuck, and Allan felt himself torn between the impulses to shout obscenities and burst into tears.
“Need some help?” Kate asked from behind him.
He spun around, ready to let her have it-- but then he noticed the shears she was waving at him.
It was possible that he’d been this happy before, but he sure couldn’t remember when that might have been.
“You are brilliant!” he exclaimed, surprising them both when he grabbed her face and kissed her exuberantly. He then snagged the shears from her hand and ducked behind a nearby shrubbery, where he’d hidden his change of clothes.
“You’re right; I am,” she replied softly, hurrying away before he discovered that he hadn’t concealed his clothes well enough.
Stepping into the wings, Guy swigged mead from the cup he’d left there, trying to ignore the weird feeling in his stomach. Maybe it was from the lingering scent of burnt hair that he couldn’t seem to wash out. Of course that was it; he certainly wasn’t nervous about singing in front of a bunch of peasants.
Tuck came up beside him. “Ready?”
“Do I have a choice?”
Chuckling, Tuck admitted, “No.”
“Then I guess I’m ready.”
Guy set the cup down and walked back out onto the stage. He glanced at Will. The young man still seemed baffled by the concept of their collaborating on this, much less permanently being on the same side, but he offered Guy an almost-friendly nod as he opened the curtain.
The crowd, having been discussing the play they’d just seen, took a minute to quiet down. Guy accepted the cold stares of people he’d wronged for years, but was pleasantly surprised to see several non-hostile faces, and even a couple of smiles.
Focusing on those, he cleared his throat and began to sing “The Tale of Gamelyn,” a ballad he’d always strangely enjoyed despite its glorification of outlawry. It certainly had a closer appeal now.
“ Lithes and listneth and harkeneth aright,
And ye shul here of a doughty knyght;
Sire John of Boundes was his name,
He coude of norture and of mochel game.
Thre sones the knyght had...”
As he sang, he noticed many of the glaring stares relaxing. Perhaps it was the song; perhaps it was the honeyed cakes and refills on mead that his companions were passing out. As he noticed a couple of villagers slumped over onto their neighbors, it also occurred to him that perhaps Much hadn’t cleaned all of the darts well enough.
But most of them were clearly hanging onto his story, and he felt a kinship growing with his audience. It was all going beautifully, and he was well into the fourth fitt when the unimaginable happened: he took a breath incorrectly, and his throat closed up. He coughed; he couldn’t speak. The eyes on him, so engrossed a moment earlier, started to grow impatient, and Guy felt the beginning of panic come on.
Then a hand clapped his shoulder and the cup of mead he’d left offstage was pressed into his hand, and Robin picked up the tune where it’d fallen off.
“Adam the spencere took up the clothe,
And loked on Gamelyn and segh that he was wrothe...”
He reclaimed the audience’s attention as Guy gulped the beverage. When Guy lowered the empty cup, Robin glanced at him, waiting to see if he was able to pick up again.
Guy resumed the song; when Robin turned to exit, he stayed him. With a gesture, he invited Robin to join him, which Robin did after a moment’s hesitation. The baritone that had started the song was mixed with the tenor that had saved it to finish out the piece.
“ They lyved togidere the while that Crist wolde,
And sithen was Gamelyn graven under molde.
And so shull we alle may ther no man fle:
God bring us to that joye that ever shal be!”
There was a moment of silence when they finished, and Guy felt the panic start to creep back, but then the villagers broke into thundering applause, marked by some whistles and cheers.
Stunned, he glanced at Robin, who grinned and indicated that he should take a bow. He did, almost automatically, and then couldn’t help himself; he broke into a grin of his own. Sweeping his arm out for Robin to bow, too, he was so caught up in the moment that he didn’t notice the couple walking down the aisle in the audience.
“Bravo! Huzzah!” a singsongy voice called out, instantly bringing everything to a halt.
Standing in the middle of the audience was Prince John, with Isabella on one arm.
“Why, Brother, I thought you limited your singing to the bath,” she taunted.
Everyone’s weapons were either backstage or in the wings. Much tossed Robin his bow and quiver, while Kate flung Guy’s sword to him. The other outlaws joined them onstage, armed and ready. Robin instantly had an arrow drawn, but the prince merely smirked.
“Oh, Hood, I don’t think so.”
Twenty armed guards stepped out of the trees, surrounding the audience.
“Go ahead, Robin,” Isabella sneered. “I dare you.”
Realizing the fruitlessness of the situation, Robin went to lay down his bow. Reluctantly, the others followed suit. As he crouched, Robin noticed a movement in the wings. As subtly as possible, so as not to call attention, he peered over to see what it was.
There stood Allan, loosely clad in the bedsheet once more. In each hand he clutched a pouch, which Robin recognized as holding the ingredients for Djaq’s flash powder. He mimicked throwing the pouches and shooting them with arrows. Robin gave him a slight nod, and stood again, bow primed.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Prince John asked in a bored tone.
Robin smiled and called, “We thought you’d like to be part of the entertainment!”
Isabella blinked. “What?”
Allan stepped out and launched the pouch of black powder at them, which Robin split open with an arrow right before it landed at their feet. They jumped back, but the outlaws were quicker; Allan had already pitched the second pouch before the first had reached them, and Robin hit it perfectly. They’d used less than half a handful of each substance for the small explosions onstage; there had to be half a pound or more in each of the cloth bags. The resultant reaction was like a bolt of lightning striking the ground.
As he threw the second pouch, Allan twisted a bit too much, and his sheet fell away. Despite the spectacle of the giant flare, a couple of whistles and catcalls sounded. He could’ve sworn that one came from the stage, but that couldn’t be right.
The villagers who weren’t distracted by the flash onstage scooted away from the one in the aisle, but the guards were in the way. Nobody was sure where it had begun, but a leftover chunk of honeyed cake hit a guard in the head. Then another. Then a mushroom from a kebob managed to lodge itself in another guard’s visor.
Suddenly, food was flying and all was chaos. The guards were running, pelted with leftovers as they retreated.
The gang used the distractions to surround Prince John and Isabella, who were stamping out small flames that licked at their hems. The odor of singed hair hung around Isabella. Too late, they realized that they were at the point of several swords and an arrow with no help in sight.
The prince grabbed Isabella and held her in front of himself. Not that it mattered, since Guy’s sword hovered at his back, but it gave him a feeling of safety, much like the blanket he’d had as a child. He missed that blanket; Mother had given it away when he was twelve.
“Robin,” Isabella murmured nervously. “Don’t do anything hasty.”
“Didn’t you know, Isabella? Plays are carefully rehearsed; there’s nothing hasty about them.”
“You’ll swing for this, Hood,” Prince John declared from over her shoulder.
Robin gave a harsh laugh. “I doubt it.”
The villagers had regrouped off to the side, near the stage, waiting to see what would happen.
Thinking for a moment, Robin suddenly got a twinkle in his eye as he said, “Why shouldn’t these two get to join in the fun?”
“What are you thinking?” asked Allan, making a quick grab for his sheet as it drooped again.
With an impish smile, Robin replied, “There’s still one more song left. And there’s plenty of room for them at the back.”
Not long afterward, Prince John and Isabella were securely tied to trees behind the last row of benches, and gagged so as not to disturb the rest of the audience. Everyone else had regained their seats, and held freshly-filled cups of mead.
Little John took the stage. He’d meant to change out of his tights before doing so, but had found himself grown rather fond of them by now. Softly, he sang a lullaby to close out the day.
“Sing! Cuccu, nu. Sing! Cuccu
Sing! Cuccu. Sing! Cuccu, nu.
“Sumer is icumen in--
Lhude sing! Cuccu.
Groweth sed and bloweth med
And springth the wude nu--
Sing! Cuccu.
“Awe bleteth after lomb,
Lhouth after calve cu,
Bulluc sterteth, buck verteth,
Murie sing! Cuccu.
Cuccu, cuccu,
Well singes thu, cuccu--
Ne swik thu naver nu!”
Sleepy, relaxed faces smiled as he finished and took a bow, and the applause this time was heartfelt, but more muted. The villagers filed out, stopping to thank and congratulate the performers as they did so.
When the gang was mostly alone, Guy said, “There’ll be guards returning soon for them.” He tilted his head at the nobles struggling ineffectively against their bonds.
Robin nodded. “We can leave cleanup for tomorrow.” He smiled at his friends. “Great work today, lads. Now, my gang, this way!”
*