![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
King of the Oak 1/3 Robin/Guy
Title: King of the Oak (1/3)
Pairing: Robin/Guy
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Probable liberties taken with the architecture in Locksley.
Summary: A sequel to Lion’s Heart. Robin and Guy fail to resume business as usual. In this part: an agricultural dispute and exploration.
Gisborne had quietly come to the realisation that he was cursed. He had Robin of Locksley’s house, estate, and peasants. They were undeniably securely his. He had Robin’s…Robin’s…Marian. He’d even had the man himself, the brief possession of a night. It seemed unfair then to be conscious of the fact he was wearing another man’s life like badly fitting boots. It insisted on pinching him unexpectedly, some days. This was one of them.
“And I am telling you, this isn’t a difficult order. Plough the damn field!”
“But master! It’s bad luck! The crops will fail, and come winter we’ll all starve.”
“Well we’ll starve A LOT BLOODY FASTER if there’s no seed in the ground.”
They were in the middle of said field, and the ploughman was getting on Guy’s last nerve.
“But it’s the third year!”
Quite simply he’d had enough. He drew his sword.
Fsst.
And now there was an arrow between his feet.
Wonderful.
His day just kept getting better.
“You know, fields definitely don’t get ploughed if you kill the ploughman.”
And there was Locksley, stood grinning on a ridiculously narrow fence that by rights shouldn’t have held his weight. He wobbled a little as the ploughman that had irked Guy so much bolted.
Guy held his ground. It was very, very unlikely he could reach his throwing dagger before Locksley could knock another arrow to his bow. With anyone else it would have been easy enough, but Hood seemed to bend time to his will when it came to archery.
“What do you want?”
“Oh, nothing, just keeping an eye on things, as I do. Checking you’re doing a proper job of stewarding my lands.” Hood paused, and considered him. “I think we need a little chat about farming.”
What?
“How many fields have you ploughed, Gisborne?”
He went for the dagger anyway. As expected, in half an instant Hood had an arrow pointed right between Guy’s eyes.
“Answer the question.”
“As many as you have, Hood. I’m no peasant.”
“Right, that would be none then. Did it ever occur to you that the people who actually make a living at ploughing fields, like Matthew, might know more about it than we do?”
Matthew? Who was…oh, the ploughman.
“Peasants need to follow orders. Not answer back.”
“And good lords give good orders. Listen closely Gisborne, I’m trying something new.” And Hood lowered the bow, very slightly, leapt from the fence, and strode towards him.
New? They weren’t fighting?
“The ground under your feet. God put strength into it, and the strength feeds the crops when they grow. If the strength is sapped year after year after year then nothing will remain but weakness, and the harvest will be sick and wasted. Some years, the ground must rest, to regain its strength. That’s what Matthew meant.”
“That’s not what he said!”
“No, but you were looming over him and yelling, like you’re trying to do to me now.”
He was. It was instinctive, to try and make Locksley step back, to flinch.
“What now?”
“Nothing.” And Hood turned away. Just turned his back, as if he had nothing in the world to fear.
Guy caught him by the hood, and had a knife at the man’s throat in an instant.
“You don’t want to do that.” Hood stated calmly.
“Oh, I think I do.” He was pressed against Hood’s back, tightly in control of this situation, of his life.
“You really don’t.”
And apparently, Guy wasn’t the only one holding a dagger, because there was a terrifying hint of pressure now, delicately pressed against his skin, between the top of his breeches and his jacket.
“Oh.”
“Let go of me Gisborne.”
“Say please.” He hissed, without really understanding why, but then Hood took a deep, sharp breath, and Guy remembered. Oh. Oh.
“No. We aren’t playing. This isn’t a game, you said yourself that it was done with.”
Yes. He had. And now he was stood with Locksley in the middle of a field, reacting in completely inappropriate ways to a dagger pressed against his flesh, and the knowledge that another man’s life was dependent on how steadily he held his blade. Not for the first time in his life Guy wondered if he had been born subtly wrong. Men didn’t do this, weren’t stirred by it.
But close as he was, he knew that Hood was stirred too. That Hood was just as wrong as he was. And that knowledge compelled him to bring his dagger away from Hood’s throat, and to close his hand, strangely gently, around Hood’s wrist, easing that blade away from his belly.
Hood turned to face him, and they both knew Guy could use that grip to twist and turn him about.
If they were fighting.
But instead, they were staring at one another.
“Leave the field fallow. Please.”
And Hood broke free, and bolted.
Guy felt a shiver run through him.
When Guy got back to the house he couldn’t shake off the odd feeling of chill. He was sat in front of the fireplace, ignoring servants as they bustled around the house, cleaning and carrying.
“Bring me my cloak, the old thick one”, he snapped at a passing servant girl, who flinched in surprise, before scuttling off.
He was on his second cup of wine by the time she got back. And she was holding the wrong cloak. He snarled at her, and she fled again in search of the right one. When she returned, it was with a dubiously coloured blanket.
“Does it amuse you to disobey my instructions?” He growled, wondering if he was angry enough yet to spring out of his chair so pleasantly close to the fire.
“No-no, it’s just it doesn’t seem to be, it’s not…”
“My Lord, if I may?” Old Thomas ventured, as he often did when it looked like Gisborne was about to devour a servant.
“What?”
“I think the cloak Sally is looking for may be in storage.”
“Where?”
“Storage.”
“No, WHERE is the damned storage, you fool, if it’s so difficult for her to find.”
“Ah, in the roof space, it’s, there’s a lot up there, so perhaps if you would just give me some time?”
The man was nervous, and that didn’t happen. Guy had never wondered where things went when he wasn’t using them. He supposed he’d vaguely assumed there was something between parts of the ceiling and the roof, but never really known it.
He remembered Locksley, perched on his windowsill. He remembered his words: I know this house better than you do.
It was his house. He was going to explore.
Or at least, that’s what he thought he was going to do. Because before he’d even reached the next floor he’d been subject to a continual stream of servants pestering him for decisions they’d normally make themselves.
“Only, sir, I thought you might need those boots for next week, so I was wondering if you wanted them reheeled, because I know you favour them, or a new pair, because they’re smarter.”
Boots? What did he care for boots? They were black, and functional, and so far as he could tell, all the same.
“Reheel them then, if I like them so much.”
The girl vanished, to be replaced by another blocking his exit for the stairs.
“There you are sir! Cook says, do you want lamb or beef for dinner? Because the lamb wants using up, but you had it last night.”
“Lamb!” He growled, and shouldered past her. That was about the sixth query he’d had to deal with, and it was taking him over an hour to get into this damned roof space, which was ridiculous. He hadn’t been aware he’d had this many servants.
A lad appeared this time, and from the way he was panting, he must have actually run to find Gisborne and ask him a silly question. Guy decided that was his cue.
He dodged the boy and bolted up the stairs, darting into the storage room he needed and slamming the door behind him.
He had just run away from his own servants.
Locksley probably never had to do this.
He’d not brought a ladder, but the farce that would probably commence should he actually ask for one encouraged him to drag an unwieldy piece of furniture under the opening in the ceiling and clamber on top of it. It was quick work pulling himself up under the roof.
It was dark, and he had to let his eyes adjust.
When they did, he was surprised.
He had wondered, when he had first wandered into Locksley’s life, how this stranger, an Earl, had been willing to live so sparsely. He’d thought nobility tended to accumulate objects of value and interest.
Well, apparently he’d been right. Guy had just never seen most of it because it was up here, stashed away safely.
There were chests, and boxes, and miscellaneous objects all bundled together in the small space. It was hard to tell in the gloom what any of it was.
He stepped forward to find out and stopped in alarm when something crunched under his feet. He knelt down and discovered he had crushed a little toy sword. It lay next to a little wooden shield, and a miniature bow.
He smirked, and wondered if a little Locksley had been as dangerous as he was now. Presumably not, if his weapons were so easily destroyed.
Guy opened the first chest he came to, and was surprised. Dresses. Clearly not Hood’s. He hoped.
The next held cloaks and fine clothes, for a male figure broader and taller than Locksley’s. They were a little too fiddly and ostentatious for Guy’s taste, but they looked to be worth something.
He was holding up a dark cloak, and deciding its warmth outweighed its pompousness when a very quiet creaking nearly made him pause.
Instead he carried on, gazing at the garment as if there were nothing of more interest in the world to him than the cut of his clothes.
But he was holding his breath, which meant those little sounds of exhalation making their way to his ears belonged to someone else.
He dropped the cloak, and made a feigned noise of interest, pretending to reach deep into the chest, whilst checking the hilt of his sword was unobstructed, and his stance was steady.
Right.
He drew his blade, and span, with a wordless cry designed to intimidate.
There was a squeak of surprise, and he found himself facing Locksley’s outlawed manservant, who was clutching a little ornate box, and looking terrified.
He bolted for the exit, but Guy was before him, holding the blade, furious at this trespass.
And then the servant didn’t look terrified any more, but quiet and competent. Holding his sword and ready to engage.
“Put that down, thief. I have better things to do than skirmish with Hood’s lackeys.”
“Well, if this is inconvenient for you, I can always come back another time. Wednesday perhaps? I like Wednesdays.”
“Put. The box. Down.” He put all the command he could into his tone, and it worked on guardsmen and servants and peasants. But not this man, who Gisborne was willing to bet only responded to one voice, and that unfailingly. He was well trained.
“Ah, no. And really calling me a thief is a little unfair, because I’m not, really, well, I mean generally yes, through no fault of my own you understand, it’s not my fault I can’t always get Robin to listen to reason, I mean I do try, but he’s difficult to handle, and anyway, in this particular instance I mean, I’m not thieving.”
Through all that dithering, which to Guy sounded convincingly like panic, the sword blade never wavered, and the servant’s gaze didn’t either. He was tensed, awaiting the first move and the opportunity for escape.
“That doesn’t belong to you.” Guy didn’t know why he was talking rather than acting, it wasn’t something he usually cared to indulge in. Perhaps he was just waiting to see the man blink.
“No. It belongs to my master.” There, a blink. And Guy was lunging forward, weight behind the blade, to be met with a surprisingly strong parry.
They clattered about, diving over and around various obstacles, and as Guy’ breath came faster, he felt a vague unease.
The servant, Mulch, Mencsh? Was good. His swings weren’t as wild and showy as Locksley’s, they were economical and accurate. They were dangerous. Guy hadn’t anticipated a fight with a competent opponent, and he revised his strategy. Throwing all his force behind his blade and hoping to overwhelm the man with sheer power wouldn’t work.
Which was a pity really, because Guy was good at that. Instead, he had to concentrate furiously, on where his feet were placed, what his body was communicating to his enemy.
It was a little embarrassing really, that he only won through luck.
The servant swung, and there was a brief instant where his guard was down on his right, which Gisborne dived for, and the man was compensating by leaping backwards when suddenly, the toy bow and sword were wrapped about his feet, and the servant went down, gasping.
He had a blade at the man’s throat faster than he could blink.
“Now, what’s in the box?”
The servant stared at him silently.
He applied a little pressure to the blade.
“It’s a simple question. Don’t you think your master would rather you answer it than have you bleed to death?”
Still he stared in silence.
“Or perhaps not? Does he value you less than those peasants outside? Would he throw away his money and his wealth for them, but let you come alone and die on a fool’s errand?”
Guy could take to this talking trick, because there was a sting of pain in the man’s eyes that had nothing to do with the sword Guy was holding.
“Who said I let him come alone?”
Damn damn and damn. That was Hood’s voice behind him, but there was surprise in the servant’s eyes. He really must have been alone at first.
“Get where I can see you Locksley, or he dies.”
“I’m sure I’d find you a lot scarier if I didn’t have an arrow pointed at the back of your head. And Much, can you please not run off like that?”
“Me? Me! How many times do I ask, no beg you master, not to run headfirst, alone, into the most dangerous situations you can find? And have you ever listened?”
“Well, just because I’ve acquired some bad habits doesn’t mean you should follow my example.”
“ENOUGH!” Gisborne yelled, and in the quiet following he heard clattering in the room below. Guardsmen. Perhaps they would surprise him and do something useful.
But then, instead of getting an arrow in the back of his head he was being dragged backwards by Hood’s familiar hands, and the servant was leaping upright.
“Master we can’t go out through the house.”
“Not a problem. Through the roof!”
And then he was spun about, and the point of Hood’s arrow was a lot closer to Guy’s eye than he felt comfortable with.
There was a crashing noise as Much broke a man-size hole through the roof, and Hood’s attention flickered for a second. Long enough for Gisborne to knock the arrow from his bow.
Instead of retaliating, Hood was off, dashing for that patch of sunlight, with Guy at his heels.
The servant didn’t leave, but stood by the hole like a guardian, sword in hand.
Robin and Guy had been moving too quickly for such a small space, and they ploughed straight into him.
Guy didn’t know what was happening, just that it was very bright, he was having difficulty trying to breathe, and he was lying on something uncomfortable.
There were men’s voices around him.
“Christ, is he dead?”
“Don’t be stupid, it’s not that far a drop.”
“Yeah, well it is if you land on your head.”
“Hood and his man scarpered quick enough, can’t have been that painful.”
“Well, Hood’s got a thick skull ain’t he? Stands to reason.”
Ow. He hurt. And that uncomfortable thing he was lying on hurt the most.
He tried to pull it out from under him.
“Look! He’s alive!”
“Oh, thank God, I didn’t want to be the one to explain it to the Sheriff.”
“Shut up, he isn’t deaf either!”
“You don’t know that, my Suzy said landing on your head can do weird things to a man.”
“Really, ‘cos that’s not what she was saying to me last night.”
As a scuffle between his guardsmen broke out, Guy managed to focus on what he held in his hands.
That box.
Clumsily, he prised it open.
Oh.
That was rather anticlimactic.
Pairing: Robin/Guy
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Probable liberties taken with the architecture in Locksley.
Summary: A sequel to Lion’s Heart. Robin and Guy fail to resume business as usual. In this part: an agricultural dispute and exploration.
Gisborne had quietly come to the realisation that he was cursed. He had Robin of Locksley’s house, estate, and peasants. They were undeniably securely his. He had Robin’s…Robin’s…Marian. He’d even had the man himself, the brief possession of a night. It seemed unfair then to be conscious of the fact he was wearing another man’s life like badly fitting boots. It insisted on pinching him unexpectedly, some days. This was one of them.
“And I am telling you, this isn’t a difficult order. Plough the damn field!”
“But master! It’s bad luck! The crops will fail, and come winter we’ll all starve.”
“Well we’ll starve A LOT BLOODY FASTER if there’s no seed in the ground.”
They were in the middle of said field, and the ploughman was getting on Guy’s last nerve.
“But it’s the third year!”
Quite simply he’d had enough. He drew his sword.
Fsst.
And now there was an arrow between his feet.
Wonderful.
His day just kept getting better.
“You know, fields definitely don’t get ploughed if you kill the ploughman.”
And there was Locksley, stood grinning on a ridiculously narrow fence that by rights shouldn’t have held his weight. He wobbled a little as the ploughman that had irked Guy so much bolted.
Guy held his ground. It was very, very unlikely he could reach his throwing dagger before Locksley could knock another arrow to his bow. With anyone else it would have been easy enough, but Hood seemed to bend time to his will when it came to archery.
“What do you want?”
“Oh, nothing, just keeping an eye on things, as I do. Checking you’re doing a proper job of stewarding my lands.” Hood paused, and considered him. “I think we need a little chat about farming.”
What?
“How many fields have you ploughed, Gisborne?”
He went for the dagger anyway. As expected, in half an instant Hood had an arrow pointed right between Guy’s eyes.
“Answer the question.”
“As many as you have, Hood. I’m no peasant.”
“Right, that would be none then. Did it ever occur to you that the people who actually make a living at ploughing fields, like Matthew, might know more about it than we do?”
Matthew? Who was…oh, the ploughman.
“Peasants need to follow orders. Not answer back.”
“And good lords give good orders. Listen closely Gisborne, I’m trying something new.” And Hood lowered the bow, very slightly, leapt from the fence, and strode towards him.
New? They weren’t fighting?
“The ground under your feet. God put strength into it, and the strength feeds the crops when they grow. If the strength is sapped year after year after year then nothing will remain but weakness, and the harvest will be sick and wasted. Some years, the ground must rest, to regain its strength. That’s what Matthew meant.”
“That’s not what he said!”
“No, but you were looming over him and yelling, like you’re trying to do to me now.”
He was. It was instinctive, to try and make Locksley step back, to flinch.
“What now?”
“Nothing.” And Hood turned away. Just turned his back, as if he had nothing in the world to fear.
Guy caught him by the hood, and had a knife at the man’s throat in an instant.
“You don’t want to do that.” Hood stated calmly.
“Oh, I think I do.” He was pressed against Hood’s back, tightly in control of this situation, of his life.
“You really don’t.”
And apparently, Guy wasn’t the only one holding a dagger, because there was a terrifying hint of pressure now, delicately pressed against his skin, between the top of his breeches and his jacket.
“Oh.”
“Let go of me Gisborne.”
“Say please.” He hissed, without really understanding why, but then Hood took a deep, sharp breath, and Guy remembered. Oh. Oh.
“No. We aren’t playing. This isn’t a game, you said yourself that it was done with.”
Yes. He had. And now he was stood with Locksley in the middle of a field, reacting in completely inappropriate ways to a dagger pressed against his flesh, and the knowledge that another man’s life was dependent on how steadily he held his blade. Not for the first time in his life Guy wondered if he had been born subtly wrong. Men didn’t do this, weren’t stirred by it.
But close as he was, he knew that Hood was stirred too. That Hood was just as wrong as he was. And that knowledge compelled him to bring his dagger away from Hood’s throat, and to close his hand, strangely gently, around Hood’s wrist, easing that blade away from his belly.
Hood turned to face him, and they both knew Guy could use that grip to twist and turn him about.
If they were fighting.
But instead, they were staring at one another.
“Leave the field fallow. Please.”
And Hood broke free, and bolted.
Guy felt a shiver run through him.
When Guy got back to the house he couldn’t shake off the odd feeling of chill. He was sat in front of the fireplace, ignoring servants as they bustled around the house, cleaning and carrying.
“Bring me my cloak, the old thick one”, he snapped at a passing servant girl, who flinched in surprise, before scuttling off.
He was on his second cup of wine by the time she got back. And she was holding the wrong cloak. He snarled at her, and she fled again in search of the right one. When she returned, it was with a dubiously coloured blanket.
“Does it amuse you to disobey my instructions?” He growled, wondering if he was angry enough yet to spring out of his chair so pleasantly close to the fire.
“No-no, it’s just it doesn’t seem to be, it’s not…”
“My Lord, if I may?” Old Thomas ventured, as he often did when it looked like Gisborne was about to devour a servant.
“What?”
“I think the cloak Sally is looking for may be in storage.”
“Where?”
“Storage.”
“No, WHERE is the damned storage, you fool, if it’s so difficult for her to find.”
“Ah, in the roof space, it’s, there’s a lot up there, so perhaps if you would just give me some time?”
The man was nervous, and that didn’t happen. Guy had never wondered where things went when he wasn’t using them. He supposed he’d vaguely assumed there was something between parts of the ceiling and the roof, but never really known it.
He remembered Locksley, perched on his windowsill. He remembered his words: I know this house better than you do.
It was his house. He was going to explore.
Or at least, that’s what he thought he was going to do. Because before he’d even reached the next floor he’d been subject to a continual stream of servants pestering him for decisions they’d normally make themselves.
“Only, sir, I thought you might need those boots for next week, so I was wondering if you wanted them reheeled, because I know you favour them, or a new pair, because they’re smarter.”
Boots? What did he care for boots? They were black, and functional, and so far as he could tell, all the same.
“Reheel them then, if I like them so much.”
The girl vanished, to be replaced by another blocking his exit for the stairs.
“There you are sir! Cook says, do you want lamb or beef for dinner? Because the lamb wants using up, but you had it last night.”
“Lamb!” He growled, and shouldered past her. That was about the sixth query he’d had to deal with, and it was taking him over an hour to get into this damned roof space, which was ridiculous. He hadn’t been aware he’d had this many servants.
A lad appeared this time, and from the way he was panting, he must have actually run to find Gisborne and ask him a silly question. Guy decided that was his cue.
He dodged the boy and bolted up the stairs, darting into the storage room he needed and slamming the door behind him.
He had just run away from his own servants.
Locksley probably never had to do this.
He’d not brought a ladder, but the farce that would probably commence should he actually ask for one encouraged him to drag an unwieldy piece of furniture under the opening in the ceiling and clamber on top of it. It was quick work pulling himself up under the roof.
It was dark, and he had to let his eyes adjust.
When they did, he was surprised.
He had wondered, when he had first wandered into Locksley’s life, how this stranger, an Earl, had been willing to live so sparsely. He’d thought nobility tended to accumulate objects of value and interest.
Well, apparently he’d been right. Guy had just never seen most of it because it was up here, stashed away safely.
There were chests, and boxes, and miscellaneous objects all bundled together in the small space. It was hard to tell in the gloom what any of it was.
He stepped forward to find out and stopped in alarm when something crunched under his feet. He knelt down and discovered he had crushed a little toy sword. It lay next to a little wooden shield, and a miniature bow.
He smirked, and wondered if a little Locksley had been as dangerous as he was now. Presumably not, if his weapons were so easily destroyed.
Guy opened the first chest he came to, and was surprised. Dresses. Clearly not Hood’s. He hoped.
The next held cloaks and fine clothes, for a male figure broader and taller than Locksley’s. They were a little too fiddly and ostentatious for Guy’s taste, but they looked to be worth something.
He was holding up a dark cloak, and deciding its warmth outweighed its pompousness when a very quiet creaking nearly made him pause.
Instead he carried on, gazing at the garment as if there were nothing of more interest in the world to him than the cut of his clothes.
But he was holding his breath, which meant those little sounds of exhalation making their way to his ears belonged to someone else.
He dropped the cloak, and made a feigned noise of interest, pretending to reach deep into the chest, whilst checking the hilt of his sword was unobstructed, and his stance was steady.
Right.
He drew his blade, and span, with a wordless cry designed to intimidate.
There was a squeak of surprise, and he found himself facing Locksley’s outlawed manservant, who was clutching a little ornate box, and looking terrified.
He bolted for the exit, but Guy was before him, holding the blade, furious at this trespass.
And then the servant didn’t look terrified any more, but quiet and competent. Holding his sword and ready to engage.
“Put that down, thief. I have better things to do than skirmish with Hood’s lackeys.”
“Well, if this is inconvenient for you, I can always come back another time. Wednesday perhaps? I like Wednesdays.”
“Put. The box. Down.” He put all the command he could into his tone, and it worked on guardsmen and servants and peasants. But not this man, who Gisborne was willing to bet only responded to one voice, and that unfailingly. He was well trained.
“Ah, no. And really calling me a thief is a little unfair, because I’m not, really, well, I mean generally yes, through no fault of my own you understand, it’s not my fault I can’t always get Robin to listen to reason, I mean I do try, but he’s difficult to handle, and anyway, in this particular instance I mean, I’m not thieving.”
Through all that dithering, which to Guy sounded convincingly like panic, the sword blade never wavered, and the servant’s gaze didn’t either. He was tensed, awaiting the first move and the opportunity for escape.
“That doesn’t belong to you.” Guy didn’t know why he was talking rather than acting, it wasn’t something he usually cared to indulge in. Perhaps he was just waiting to see the man blink.
“No. It belongs to my master.” There, a blink. And Guy was lunging forward, weight behind the blade, to be met with a surprisingly strong parry.
They clattered about, diving over and around various obstacles, and as Guy’ breath came faster, he felt a vague unease.
The servant, Mulch, Mencsh? Was good. His swings weren’t as wild and showy as Locksley’s, they were economical and accurate. They were dangerous. Guy hadn’t anticipated a fight with a competent opponent, and he revised his strategy. Throwing all his force behind his blade and hoping to overwhelm the man with sheer power wouldn’t work.
Which was a pity really, because Guy was good at that. Instead, he had to concentrate furiously, on where his feet were placed, what his body was communicating to his enemy.
It was a little embarrassing really, that he only won through luck.
The servant swung, and there was a brief instant where his guard was down on his right, which Gisborne dived for, and the man was compensating by leaping backwards when suddenly, the toy bow and sword were wrapped about his feet, and the servant went down, gasping.
He had a blade at the man’s throat faster than he could blink.
“Now, what’s in the box?”
The servant stared at him silently.
He applied a little pressure to the blade.
“It’s a simple question. Don’t you think your master would rather you answer it than have you bleed to death?”
Still he stared in silence.
“Or perhaps not? Does he value you less than those peasants outside? Would he throw away his money and his wealth for them, but let you come alone and die on a fool’s errand?”
Guy could take to this talking trick, because there was a sting of pain in the man’s eyes that had nothing to do with the sword Guy was holding.
“Who said I let him come alone?”
Damn damn and damn. That was Hood’s voice behind him, but there was surprise in the servant’s eyes. He really must have been alone at first.
“Get where I can see you Locksley, or he dies.”
“I’m sure I’d find you a lot scarier if I didn’t have an arrow pointed at the back of your head. And Much, can you please not run off like that?”
“Me? Me! How many times do I ask, no beg you master, not to run headfirst, alone, into the most dangerous situations you can find? And have you ever listened?”
“Well, just because I’ve acquired some bad habits doesn’t mean you should follow my example.”
“ENOUGH!” Gisborne yelled, and in the quiet following he heard clattering in the room below. Guardsmen. Perhaps they would surprise him and do something useful.
But then, instead of getting an arrow in the back of his head he was being dragged backwards by Hood’s familiar hands, and the servant was leaping upright.
“Master we can’t go out through the house.”
“Not a problem. Through the roof!”
And then he was spun about, and the point of Hood’s arrow was a lot closer to Guy’s eye than he felt comfortable with.
There was a crashing noise as Much broke a man-size hole through the roof, and Hood’s attention flickered for a second. Long enough for Gisborne to knock the arrow from his bow.
Instead of retaliating, Hood was off, dashing for that patch of sunlight, with Guy at his heels.
The servant didn’t leave, but stood by the hole like a guardian, sword in hand.
Robin and Guy had been moving too quickly for such a small space, and they ploughed straight into him.
Guy didn’t know what was happening, just that it was very bright, he was having difficulty trying to breathe, and he was lying on something uncomfortable.
There were men’s voices around him.
“Christ, is he dead?”
“Don’t be stupid, it’s not that far a drop.”
“Yeah, well it is if you land on your head.”
“Hood and his man scarpered quick enough, can’t have been that painful.”
“Well, Hood’s got a thick skull ain’t he? Stands to reason.”
Ow. He hurt. And that uncomfortable thing he was lying on hurt the most.
He tried to pull it out from under him.
“Look! He’s alive!”
“Oh, thank God, I didn’t want to be the one to explain it to the Sheriff.”
“Shut up, he isn’t deaf either!”
“You don’t know that, my Suzy said landing on your head can do weird things to a man.”
“Really, ‘cos that’s not what she was saying to me last night.”
As a scuffle between his guardsmen broke out, Guy managed to focus on what he held in his hands.
That box.
Clumsily, he prised it open.
Oh.
That was rather anticlimactic.
no subject
I don't know if I ever commented or not (because I'm a terrible, terrible person) but I adored the characterization and subtle humor in your previous fic and I'm really delighted to see you writing a sequel.
I particularly enjoyed Guy realizing that Much was in fact dangerous. And Robin's itty bitty toy weaponry.
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
You've made me a believer of Robin/Guy shipping again!
I love the way you balance the tenderness with the hostility.
And a bigger part for Much! (mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm)
Can't wait for the next installment. I'm hopelessly hooked!:)
no subject
no subject
But really, I love you. I'm so thrilled to see the continuation of this! I'll read, and comment properly, when I get back again :)
no subject
And you will be able to read parts one and two close together now. So really it's good. Honest.
no subject
no subject
no subject
I also liked the idea that the servants are saving the 'good' stuff for the real Locksley. ;)
This series is awfully awesome. Hope you continue. :D
-K
no subject