Ghosts of Nottingham (1.5)

Jadeling Hawkins · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **Jadeling Hawkins** on Fri Oct 03, 2008 7:19 pm

With the King's announcement made, the meeting quickly dissolved. There was no further need for his Highness to sully himself by lingering with those who were beneath him...and so without much further ado, William the usurper bade his new living companions to follow the servants to their new quarters, and without so many words expressed a need for them to hold back on any complaints. After all, he had made his decree...and king's word was law. As the king took his leave of the bothered nobles, he did not seem overly impressed with any one in particular...even his brother, and even the beautiful gem that had been fluttering her eyes at him since he entered the room. For what beautiful woman wasn't impressed with His personage?

"Your Highness," Johnathan called politely, hurrying after the tall figure of his brother through the now torch-lit stony halls. "Forgive my intrusion, but might I perhaps ask a favor?"

No other noble, man or woman, would be so bold as to directly ask favors of the king. But Johnathan was William's brother...and had put forth a good deal of effort to place him in the throne. The sort of effort that was worth the odd favor here and there, if only to maintain silence. So William, though he did not pause or even incline his head to meet Johnathan's eyes, indulged. "But of course. We always delight in aiding our dearest brother. What favor do you wish?"

Johnathan smirked, his eyes flickering back in the direction of the room where the dissatisfied whispers of the nobles were beginning to slip through the cracks...where he had left the delectable daughter of the baron or whatever it was she had said her father was. "Well, Your Majesty...I do so loathe to encroach upon thy servants, but I wondered if there might be some chance of a specific destination for my quarters. You see, Highness, I have just made the acquaintance of a most fascinating young lady...and I would be most pleased if I might have a chance to further the acquaintance."

"Very well." William cut short what was sure to be a long and winding and suggestive speech about the various ways a man might know a woman, all of which Johnathan would have likely gleaned from him while he had still been a mere Sheriff. "We shall have the servants transport thy belongings into the room next to that of the lady. Now we must pardon ourselves, for there is a list of unloyal subjects that needs reading.."

Jadeling Hawkins · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **Jadeling Hawkins** on Sat Oct 04, 2008 1:46 am

While Gilbert and Hugh enjoyed their repast (and their lovely servers) a table on the opposite side of the tavern was full of men who glowered at the raucous bunch. There was nothing particularly sinister in the bunch of rough-coated men...nothing out of the ordinary for peasants who had enough extra coin to afford a few tankards. Men with hands that had seen rough work, blacksmiths and wood cutters and stable heads. Men who had lived the last fifteen years under the oppressive weight of unnecessary taxation, and who knew of the woodland rebellion that thrived throughout the area all around the castle. They had each come to recognize the look of a soldier, particular the ones whose blades were on the market. They were often the kind that wound up dragging off out of luck cousins and sons and the like, who had failed to provide a large enough sum from their wages to afford the latest tariffs. And they were not at all popular with the townsfolk.

But perhaps these ones were in fact interested in a nobler cause than the one that could be found with a full purse? Not likely, but The Hood had never exactly carried out strict recruitment policies. But simply staggering over and demanding to know the cost of the soldiers' loyalty would have caused the thief in the woods to flush with shame on each of their accounts. So as one of the younger bar maids swayed past the table, she was caught and whispered to, her curly red head bobbing discretely with understanding. The curvy lass slipped a few chipped coins into the inner pocket of her apron, and set the frothing old tankards in front of the rough workers before returning behind the cloth door that led to the back room. When she came out, she wore no apron and carried no mugs or platters. She wore nothing but her humble and figure-enhancing garments that matched what nearly all the other women wore in the tavern, as a means of encouraging eager patronage. As she made her way to the section that was stuffed with Normans and Lord knew what else, she began to bat her large blue eyes and twine a bit of bright red hair around a dainty finger. Without awaiting a hail, she strolled over until she was close enough to reach out and stroke the brawny shoulder of a lone man...but kept her touches to herself for the moment.

"How now, ye gentlemen? What be a strappin' gaggle of lads doin' in a likkle shire the likes o'Nottingham? I heahd all've the lads was away at some big battle these days. Did ye stop swingin' ye blades for a bit of a breathin' moment, eh?" The lass, Delia by name, fluttered her lashes charmingly and spoke in her sweetest tones. It seemed the men positioned themselves to face (when not drinking or drinking in the affections of a maid) Gilbert, and so it was he to whom she addressed her innocent questions.

TheAlmightyForkNinja · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **TheAlmightyForkNinja** on Sat Oct 04, 2008 1:45 pm

Lettie sat where Robyn had left her, stunned beyond belief. What had happened to her “reward”? Was it because she was young that she was getting punished and not rewarded? Robyn had said she would reward whoever had stumbled upon the raid, but Lettie had ended up in the stinky, sweaty sewer’s hut. Why did she always get cheated? Why?

Lettie felt like crying, but she wouldn’t. She couldn’t. She had thought that she had finally found a way to make Robyn proud of her, but it hadn’t worked. It had only made her mad.

At this rate, she would never make Robyn happy. Never. Not even if she disappeared.

On second thought, disappearing sounded like a good idea. No one would miss her. She would just make her own band of Merry Men composed of completely girls here on age. She would show Robyn.

Her first conquest would be the castle. She would go straight to the source of all this mess. The King had killed her parents, so now she would return the favor. With or without someone else’s help.

If Lettie killed the King, especially on her on, maybe she would finally get the respect she wanted. Besides, she would also get the revenge she had dreamed of since her parents had been killed.

Lettie jumped up from the pile suddenly, startling the nearby woman. She quickly ran out the door, follow by yelling from the other woman in the sewing hut. Robyn wouldn’t be pleased that she had left the hut, but then again, she didn’t plan on returning until she had destroyed the King. That fact in itself would be enough to cause Robyn to be joyous at her return.

She darted off into the woods, a look of complete mischeif in her face because of her new resolve.

.The-Literate-Angel. · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **.The-Literate-Angel.** on Sat Oct 04, 2008 6:38 pm

Cassandra left the room, noticing the King's indifference towards her. It did not please her at all and she was disheartened greatly, but she had other opportunities that would present themselves and she would take full advantage of them at that time. The servant that had taken her to the meeting room also took her back to her own. When she walked in her ladies-in-waiting were standing ready to receive her. She stopped before the servant could close the door and turned to him.

"Excuse me, but could you be so kind as to bring me my head guard. It is important."

He nodded meekly and ran off to find the man in question. The three woman looked at each other in confusion, but her quick look turned them back to attention. She looked at the three of them, eyeing them carefully. They fidgeted a little under her cold gaze, but she turned away from them and headed over to the bed.

"Well your lucky, my dears. Everything seems in place and we are to be staying here, with the King, for a long while. I hope you are prepared since you shall accompany me to a lot of places and if any of you embarrass me in any way I will punish you all severely."

They nodded, slight shivers running up and down their backs at her stare. She turned to them again, looking slightly irritated.

"Well? Aren't you going to help me undress. I am tired and wish to retire you idiots so hurry up."

They quickly set to undressing her, taking off her many layers and folding them delicately in a dresser that was provided with the room. Rose lotion was rubbed over her body, making her skin soft and creamy, before a white virgin dress was put over her head. It fell to her calves and white lace framed the neckline. She sat before a mirror and her ladies-in-waiting brushed out her hair, being careful not to pull to hard.

After her evening preparations were complete a knock came at the door before a man stepped in, her head guard. He stood in peasant garbs, but he was clean and well trimmed. Quiet handsome, but far beneath Cassandra. He bowed before rising.

"You called for me, my lady?"

She nodded, barely glancing at him. She raised a hand up and waved for him to enter. Shutting the door behind him he kneeled before her.

"I need you to return to my father's estate and fetch my knight. We are to stay here until the detestable Robyn Hood is caught, though I have no problem with that. I want him here by the morrow, do I make myself clear?"

He nodded quickly, responding in the same way.

"Yes ma'am. Perfectly clear. He shall be brought to you by tomorrow."

She smiled in satisfaction.

"Good. You may leave now. Also tell my father I shall be here longer then expected as well."

He nodded, standing up and heading to the door.

"I shall inform him, my lady."

With that he closed the door. Cassandra rose and headed for her bed. Her ladies-in-waiting left to their own rooms. She lay upon the bed, placing her dagger underneath her pillow. She thought of her new predicament and smiled, grateful for the King's wisdom and insight.

Saint Michel · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **Saint Michel** on Sat Oct 04, 2008 7:36 pm

Gilbert stared at the woman, trying to understand what she had just said. Was that English? And he'd thought he had a grasp of the language.

"What is this feame saying?" he asked Miles, one of his men-at-arms who of all of them spoke English the best.

Miles shrugged, shifting slightly in his seat. "She wants to know who we are and why we're here, in a word."

"Does she?" Gilbert's eyes narrowed. This pretty slip of a girl was a bold one, to walk up and start asking questions. Had she been a man, he might have cuffed her soundly and sent her on her way, but as it was he replied in a harsh voice, "We have carried the cross to the Holy Land, mon feame, and have wet our blades with the blood of heathens on the sands of Galilee. Our being in Nottingham is our business, and ours alone."

He was unsure how much of what he had just said had been lost in his accent. He leaned forward and, staring the girl in the eye, said, "You will not ask us of our business again, mon feame." That part, he hoped, was clear.

Jadeling Hawkins · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **Jadeling Hawkins** on Sun Oct 05, 2008 12:49 am

Delia's large eyes fluttered slightly, she appeared to be take aback by Gilbert's terse reply. Her finger worked furiously curling a red lock around it, and her full lips pulled into an endearing smile. She fought to ignore the clearly satisfied expressions on the other women around, as they likely assumed she was wishing to pull a portion of their nightly wages away. Instead, she seated her curving young figure onto one of the benches next to Gilbert, to the obvious disappointment of man she had been standing so close to before.

"Well garn, Sah, ye have me apologies for me nosiness. Ye'll have to forgive a poor gel for wantin' to know a handsome soldier!" Delia batted her eyes several more times, her sweet smile widening. She eased the muscles in her face and pulled up her shoulders, releasing the bright curl of red hair and pressing her hands into her lap to give herself an overall appearance of sweet ginger-headed naivety. But no matter the unwitting posture she held, or how widely she propped open her liquid blue eyes, or how daintily she crossed her ankles...there was a certain keenness in her eyes that could not be masked. But it was unlikely that a group of drunk, lusty crusaders would notice.

"For soothe, Messur, I be glad that ye and thy fellows be here! For Laird knows, good King William could use a few good men to rid 'im of...well, I donnae want to dig into thy business..." The lovely lass lowered her lashes and summoned a humble blush. She wanted to know where the soldiers' loyalties lied, and whom they intended on aiding in the home-front war...but it was clear that merely lowering the neckline of her dress and leaning forward was not going to loosen the lips of this Norman.

Saint Michel · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **Saint Michel** on Tue Oct 07, 2008 5:05 pm

Gilbert had his own sense of honor, but he wondered now whether a sharp cuff might be exactly what this nosy young beauty needed. Instead, he growled, "I would ask you to be on your way, mon feame, or else I shall not be so polite the next time I ask."

He returned his attention to his tankard, taking a long drink while next to him Joppa shook his head.

"You're a right poor one, mon sieur." The big man, a friendly smile on his face, slipped his arm around the red-haired girl. "Now, now, [i]mon chere[/] pay no mind to my ill-mannered lord. Why don't we talk, you and I?"

Gilbert snorted, then turned his back on the duo. His barmaid -- for that was how he now thought of her -- sat on the bench beside him, watching the redhead with narrowed eyes. "Tell me," he said, "What is your name?"

"Mildryth."

He laid a hand on her thigh, then gestured to the ale he had bought for her. "Come, we will have a toast."

NorthernSoul · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **NorthernSoul** on Thu Oct 09, 2008 5:41 am

The King ended the gathering and Guy left the hall. Dismissing his twisting disappointment at the King's failure to even acknowledge his presence by telling himself that King William obviously had more important royal matters to attend to, Guy returned to his suite of rooms located in the castle's gatehouse. They had been assigned to him when he had arrived in Nottingham a month ago and were not particularly large nor particularly fine. But they were some distance from the rooms where court was held and overlooked the entrance to the castle. Through the thick, distorted glass of the diamond-shaped window panes, the tiny lights of peasant campfires shone up from clearings scattered through Sherwood Forest, their glow muffled by the canopy.

He was just about to remove his scabbard and sword when there was a knock at the door. He opened it to find one of the Sheriff’s bodyguards standing outside.

“What?” he said abruptly.

“Sir Guy,” the guard said, shifting his feet, meeting Guy’s glare with a mixture of nervousness and suspicion. The Sheriff’s bodyguards did not trust him, Gisbourne knew. “The Sheriff apologises for summoning you at such an hour but he wishes to talk with you in his chambers immediately.”

Guy scowled but went out into the corridor, closing the door behind him and striding away towards the main atrium of the castle. The bodyguard was left to stare blankly at the dark oak of his door.

"Ah, Gisbourne," said Philip Marc. The huge man was sitting in an ornate wooden chair beside the fireplace. It was far too small for him and to Gisbourne he looked absurd; a man sitting in a child's chair. "More taxes are expected from Locksley tomorrow; the carriage is setting out at dawn and should arrive here at the castle by noon. Bearing in mind what His Majesty has said, I want you to ride out to Locksley tonight and accompany it back to Nottingham. We cannot afford another ambush from that trickster Hood so extra protection is required."

Gisbourne detected more than a hint of admiration in the Sheriff's tone. He respected the outlaws. Every fawning inflection, every swish of that damn cloak grated on Gisbourne's nerves like a sword slicing at chainmail.

"I've already assigned a dozen soldiers to that carriage," said Gisbourne boredly. "There are in Locksley as we speak."

"No, Gisbourne, I want you there. If Hood tries anything, I want you to be there to direct the men yourself," said the Sheriff.

Managing to keep his face expressionless, Gisbourne inclined his head.

"As you wish, I shall set off immediately," he said, through gritted teeth. Philip Marc nodded and turned back to the fire.

"Very good, Gisbourne. I'm sure you'll do the King proud."

Once he'd left the Sheriff's chambers, Gisbourne scowled.

"Get my horse saddled," he barked, to the nearest guard. "Now!"

Three solid hours of riding through the forest and a straw mattress in a local inn to look forwards to. The sound of Gisbourne's boots echoed away as he stalked down the corridor towards the yard.

Jadeling Hawkins · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **Jadeling Hawkins** on Sat Oct 11, 2008 10:54 am

If Delia looked affronted when Gilbert sharply refused her attentions again, the expression vanished when Joppa took up his place. He did not seem to be in charge, but surely he would know of the intentions of the group...so Delia smiled her sweetest and nestled herself into the space between Joppa's arm and chest, one hand coyly toying with the details of his collar.

The next few hours passed swiftly. Delia was thrilled with her success, gained with but a few simple questions and a handful of lingering kisses to loosen Joppa's lips. She was careful, never asking outright what she needed to know and never failing to bat her eyes and squeal with excitement when appropriate. By the time she had gleaned all that was possible from the Norman, she was sitting delicately stretched onto his lap. Her head was tilted back and she was giggling as the king's new swordsman kissed at her soft throat. But her eyes fluttered as she glanced discreetly around the tavern for an excuse to leave the lusty man's side. At last, she caught the stare of the owner, who was sitting behind the bench. Still giggling as she dropped her head to nuzzle her face against Joppa's, Delia slipped her fingers into his hair so that the owner could see them. With a fluid, indistinguishable motion, she eased her ring finger and thumb into a curled position, leaving the rest unfurled. It was a recognized signal, and the owner acted immediately.

"Delia!" The owner, a rugged old man named Robert, suddenly snapped out across the floor. "This be a pub, not a brothel! Gittup an' serve those pints!"

Delia pulled back from Joppa, shooting the owner a most impressive pout. She served Joppa with the same full-lipped pout, patting his cheek apologetically. "I'm sorry, darling! I s'pose we'll have to meet up some other night!"

And treating the helpful man with another lengthy kiss, her hands resting suggestively at his hips, Delia stood and swayed away to retrieve her apron and serving plate. Her first stop was the group of irritable tax paying citizens who had been grumpily watching the carousing knights since they had arrived.

"Well?" Asked the blacksmith, his voice coarse like the cover of his well-used anvil. He accepted another drink, his eyes flicking towards the knights suspiciously.

"King's men. Newly arrived and recruited." Delia replied in a chipper, if muted, voice. "Swords for hire, just's I thought. That one Mildryth's got 'er legs around already is the one most've 'em listen to. Donnae know if he be the leader, but he's the decision makin' 'un. No good for us, 'e's stubborn."

"Tchah." This was the only reply from the stable owner, followed by an angry slurping sound as he quaffed his drink in a single swig. Delia shook her head and sighed, returning the plate to her side to rest under her arm.

"I s'pose I'll be the one tellin' the Hood? Right then..." And she turned on her heel and retreated into the back room once more. This time, she didn't come out.

Delia dressed herself in a cloak that was hidden in the back, warm enough to keep the cold night air away and dark enough to at least help disguise her under the starry sky. She pulled on some of Robert's sturdy leather boots, which were far too large for her dainty feet, but would help when traversing the woods. Then, with a simple nod to the cook, Delia slipped out the back door and hurried to get out of the light of the tavern's windows and towards the nearby woods...

NorthernSoul · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **NorthernSoul** on Sun Oct 12, 2008 6:42 pm

Meanwhile, several miles away on the outskirts of the forest, a horse galloped through the trees, shadows cast by the waning moon flickering over its straining neck and the cloak of its rider.

Although a lone rider was not likely to be noticed by the more illegal inhabitants of the vast Sherwood forest, particularly at night and on an exceptionally fast horse, Gisbourne was not taking any chances. He had spurred the horse into a gallop almost as soon as he had left the castle two hours previously and had not let it slow to a canter since. The hooves of his horse beat along a path that had been used fifty years ago by stone-masons transporting stone from a nearby quarry to rebuild Nottingham Castle, transforming it from an old wooden Norman fort into the grey and bleak bastion of today. The path was long overgrown and brambles and ferns were creeping over the tree roots to engulf what little of the crude track remained.

But, even though his horse was the best in Nottingham (a grey Arab brought back from Ascalon; a league above the Sheriff's dull-witted Jennet), Gisbourne could feel it tiring. He tugged at the reins and it slowed gratefully. A few hundred yards into the trees, a small stream trickled its way over roots and moss-slick rocks. He dismounted, leading it through the stooping trees, fastening its reins to a stump whilst the horse dipped its head towards the water.

Ten minutes here, he thought as he leaned back against the gnarled bark of an oak tree. Then an hour more and he'd be in Locksley. Damn Philip Marc.

He spat onto the ground then, never letting himself relax, always listening for the slightest rustle, the smallest crack of a twig, Gisbourne waited.

TheAlmightyForkNinja · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **TheAlmightyForkNinja** on Sun Oct 12, 2008 8:46 pm

Lettie was walking down a road in the forest near Nottingham, somewhat confused as to her location. She had been here before, and she knew he way home, but she didn’t know her way to the castle. Robyn had taken her close to the castle, but never really near it. She had also never taken a direct route so Lettie wouldn’t be tempted to run off on her own like she was doing now.

Lettie sighed as she walked on down the road. She wasn’t being very quiet about it either, since she didn’t believe she had anything to worry about. No one was going to attack a poor innocent little girl like she appeared to be. Well, not anyone in their right mind would anyway. Besides, if they were crazy enough to attack her, she was crazy enough to defeat them. She could beat anyone or anything, remember?

Just then, she spotted a man up ahead, leaning against an oak tree. It was getting kind of dark, but she could still see his outline. Then Lettie got an excellent idea. She could ask him how to get to the castle! Surely he would know! He looked like he was important enough to know what he was doing!

“Excuse me, Sir? Can you tell me how to get to the castle?” Lettie asked with a voice as sweet as sugar after she had skipped up to him. She gave him her biggest smile, and tried to look as young and innocent as physically possible. She also had he hands intertwined together behind her back and she rocked slightly, trying to make herself look younger.

NorthernSoul · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **NorthernSoul** on Mon Oct 13, 2008 6:02 pm

Out of the night came the sound of footsteps.

Gisbourne froze. Even if he hid, there was no time to move his horse without drawing attention. He could either ride away or stay and see who would be walking a seldom-used path in Sherwood Forest in the middle of the night. Though Guy was no coward, he knew that he would stand little chance if Hood decided to turn up with more than three or four men, particularly with the outlaw's rumoured skill with a bow and arrow. Most of it was undoubtably the conjecture and story-telling of idle, ignorant peasants with little else to do but dream up stories of a hero who would save them from their poverty rather than actually go and, as Guy believed he had done, work themselves out of it. They were too close to his life back in Yorkshire and their beggar children and their down-turned eyes set into grubby expressionless faces made him hate them almost as much as he hated the jewel-encrusted nobles in Nottingham Court.

However, despite this, he also knew his chainmail and light-padded leather armour could only withstand so many arrows.

But the footsteps came closer and he could tell they were made by one person, walking alone, and that person was light; a light-set man or a woman, perhaps even a child. Gisbourne decided to stay.

He didn't move from his spot as he played the tired traveller, head drooping a little as he watched his horse drink. A girl, small, slight and certainly no older than sixteen, approached. Her hair was shorn short, around her chin, and she was dressed haphazardly in a dyed green tunic and the breeches of a peasant. Gisbourne could probably have knocked her over with a feather-light blow. His steel-grey eyes darted towards the shadows behind her, wondering if this was some kind of elaborate ambush.

But no, he thought with scorn, as she spoke in such sugary tones they were practically crystalline, she genuinely had no qualms about approaching a stranger, a man who was obviously a soldier no less, alone in the forest in the middle of the night.

"I was just heading that way myself," said Gisbourne, in a tone far removed from the thoughts going on inside his head. He stood up and untied his horse, leading it a few yards down the path before inclining his head towards the direction in which he'd come. "It's this way, lass," he said, forcing himself to slip into a regional accent he'd tried for a long time to disguise. The words felt bitter and coarse on his tongue. "What business do you have in Nottingham Castle at this time of night? That Robin Hood can't be everywhere to protect young lasses like you, especially if you decide to go wandering about in the dark."

TheAlmightyForkNinja · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **TheAlmightyForkNinja** on Mon Oct 13, 2008 9:46 pm

As the man asked Lettie what business she had at the castle this late, she knew she had to come up with some story fast, and it better be good. She couldn’t tell him she was on her way to kill the King. That certainly wouldn’t turn out well, especially if he was of the court, like he was dressed.

“None really. I’m actually trying to get to my Uncle’s home near the castle before it gets to dark to see. I merely asked for the castle to give you a general direction,” Lettie said, giving him another precious and innocent smile. She stressed the world near slightly, hoping he would believe she merely needed in the vicinity of the castle. He would know she was up to no good if she wanted to go to the castle. If he got her close enough, she was sure she could find it.

“And Robin Hood? Please, Mister, how old do you believe I am? I quit believing that old wives' tale years ago. If there really was a Robin, he would have killed the King by now,” Lettie said, looking at the man like he thought she was a little girl. That was one part of her lessons she had learned well. If every confronted about Robyn, deny her existence and treat her like she was male. Her mentor had said that would get them both in less trouble that way.

“You don’t believe in Robin Hood, do you?” Lettie said, looking at him suspiciously. If he did, she was going to have to watch out for him. Surely, anyone who had heard of Robyn Hood had heard of the daring Merry Woman in training Scarlet Marie Roberts!

NorthernSoul · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **NorthernSoul** on Tue Oct 14, 2008 4:54 pm

Gisbourne, unseen in the darkness, narrowed his eyes. He did not believe the girl's saccharine words for an instant.
"Oh aye," he said, forcing a hint of the sardonic from his tone. "I believe in Robin Hood, lass. I've heard tell that he ambushed a carriage carrying the taxes from Beaton not yesterday. I'd like to shake his hand, for what he's done," he added, whilst inwardly considering the immense satisfation he'd gain from slitting the outlaw's throat instead.

As they walked, Gisbourne's horse nodded it's head silently, grey mane catching the moonlight, glad for a brief respite from the driven gallop it had sustained for the last couple of hours.

"Who's your uncle, lass? I've lived in Nottingham these past few years; maybe I know him," he said, waiting for the slip.

TFairy · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **TFairy** on Wed Oct 15, 2008 4:03 am

Alex had fallen asleep on the single chair in the hut, and was now aware of the darkness filtering into the small hut, making it harder to see. Robyn and the 'guard' were still talking outside. She could hear the soft munching of patch as she grazed on the grass surrounding the hut.
That's it Alex thought pushing aside sleepy thoughts, I'll be able to reach Nottingham before it gets too dark
She started banging on the wooden door, and to her utter surprise, it agreed to let her out. She caught a flash of the man's grin as she lost her balance and fell forward, catching herself just in time. She straightened herself, and glared at the 'guard'.
She nodded at the thief, and snatching the reins from the boy, she reached into a cleverly hidden pocket in the saddle and tossed the promised money at Robyn. Not waiting for a word, she lept onto the horse, urging her on into the forest along a quiet path Alex often used. The sound of a rider alone at this hour would arouse interest. Alex just hoped that the curfew time hadn't passed as Patch galloped through the forest. Two figures were in the distance, maybe they could tell her.

kingmonkey+1 · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **kingmonkey+1** on Mon Dec 29, 2008 12:28 pm

"It's dark now, Monsieur Cadfael," Édouard said, tightening the seal of his flask once more. "I had best be going. No doubt, my stylishly late arrival is already putting me on the list of disloyal nobility. Hah! As if I could be disloyal to an English king who is not a king, when I am not even an Englishman!"

Édouard rose and tightened his jacket. Cadfael rose, too, and tightened his grip on the pommel of the sword he had fingered more than once this night. Édouard glanced at the blade and back at the owner who, he was certain, would have no qualms about using it on him.

"Might I remind you, I am on your side. I have come to your people with this information, yes? I'd hope you'd treat your allies with a bit more courtesy than this."

Saint Michel · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **Saint Michel** on Tue Jan 13, 2009 2:42 am

Three months have passed...

The Holy Land -- an ironic name if ever there was one, for there could be no place on Earth more clearly cursed by God -- was nothing but a confusion of shimmering heat and swirling dust. Gilbert stood in a fighting crouch, facing a Saracen with a red cloth wrapped about his helmet and a wild black beard. Gilbert lunged, thrust, cut, parried, and lunged again, but the Saracen seemed to anticipate every single attack made. There was a clash of steel as blades met again, and then Gilbert's sword was gone and suddenly he was disarmed and on the ground. The Saracen stood tall above him, and Gilbert could do nothing as the other man raised his blade...

"NO!" Gilbert sat bolt upright. He was covered in sweat, and trembling. He was in bed, in a large room with wooden walls and a high ceiling of oaken beams. The Holy Land? No, the draft from the badly shuttered window was far too cold.

Someone stirred in the bed next to him. "Cor, what's the matter wit' yew then?" the woman asked sleepily in English.

England. He was in England. Nottinghamshire, England. Gilbert said nothing, but sank back down into bed, his head suddenly pounding. His mouth was sour with old ale.

"Yew all right, my lord?" The woman went on. "Yew look a fright, so's yew do."

Eyes closed, Gilbert shoved her roughly. "Ale, woman!"

"Aye, my lord castellan." The serving girl, whose name Gilbert had forgotten, dressed quietly and disappeared through the doorway. Gilbert lay still for a minute more, then abruptly rose and half-leapt, half-fell over the chamber pot, where he was suddenly and violently sick. When it was over he was left on his hands and knees, his arms shaking. At last he pulled himself to his feet and staggered over to the washbasin, where he scooped up a mouthful of water and brought it to his cracked lips.

It was then that Gilbert caught sight of his reflection in the water below. His face had always been long, but now it was practically gaunt. He hadn't shaved in over a week, and the stubbly beard was streaked with dried ale. It was his eyes, though, that startled him: red-rimmed and bloodshot, blankly staring, like a dead thing.

"Ware, the gate! Riders approaching!" the voice of the sentry on the wooden ramparts rang clear in the air

Gilbert took a seat on the edge of the bed, listening for the sounds of combat in bailey below and for the crackling of flames as the wooden keep around him took fire. But there was no noise save the creak of gates and whinnying of horses. Aslockton Castle would stand another day. Montjoie, Gilbert thought.

"Ho, mon frere, I have returned!" cried Hugh a few minutes later as he strode into the room, taking of his gauntlets. "Another easy patrol, God be praised, and now I-"

He stopped, took a sniff of the air, then recoiled. "Lord, brother, it smells like a poor alehouse in here! And you!" He stared at Gilbert. "You look a fright."

"So I'm been told," Gilbert said in a sarcastic voice, his head lolling slightly as he did so.

"Have you left this room at all since I left?" Hugh exclaimed, eyes wide in disbelief. "You look like you've been floating facedown in the river for a week." He kicked a discarded cup from its place by his toe. "What have you been doing, trying to drink all the ale in the Shire?"

"I have," Gilbert declared, rising to his feet, "been practicing my English." He swayed once, twice, three times, and then toppled forwards. Hugh leapt forward and caught him just before he hit the ground. "Oh, mon frere, we should leave this place," he said in a sad voice, cradling his brother in his arms. "We should have gone home long ago. Or to Ireland."

"Ireland?" Gilbert replied, eyes half-closed, "What is there in Ireland for us?"

"In Ireland we can be free," Hugh said, holding him tight. "In Ireland there will be no lord nor sheriff who would make my own brother drown himself in ale out of shame for his service."

"Shame..." Gilbert murmurred, "Service..." He passed out then, in that room in the keep of Aslockton Castle, while outside another day dawned bright on Nottinghamshire.

TFairy · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **TFairy** on Tue Jan 13, 2009 5:36 pm

"No!"
"Alexandra, come to your senses!"
"I refuse to marry such a pig father. Rose is betrothed, why can't herself and her husband run the..."
"Because she is not my heir Alexandra! You are too high strung. Even after being caught..."
"Don't bring Robyn into this father. What I do is my own choice, and anything that follows is my own fault.'
"This is not your house! Little time I have left in this world, but this is not your house yet!"

Alex and her father stood opposite ends of the room, after waiting several moments for her suitor to leave. Both were glaring at each other, fists clenched, breathing heavily after their screaming match.

Her hair was short now, cut to her shoulder in front of the people of her own village and of Nottingham about 3 weeks ago by one of the Sheriff's men, a punishment for 'unknowingly' escorting Robyn in and out of Nottingham. The sheriff had warned her personally that any other incidents involving Alex and Robyn would end in a trip to the gallows. Her father had found out about Alex helping Robyn and her men long before that though, and was not too pleased his daughter was involved with such bandits. A noble woman with short hair was bad news for most men, a sign she was a trouble maker, and Alex knew deep down that she should be grateful that the Lord had taken an interest in her, but she had a feeling it was her land he wanted, not her. She needed to marry soon, for the physician had told her that her father only had a few weeks left, just over a month. But she could marry someone she didn't love.

"I'm sorry Alex, I just want to make sure you are happy and well looked after before I go."
"Let Rose and Mark be your heirs. I am happy now, and Rose will look after me,"
Her father starting coughing harshly backing into his chair in the corner. Alex rushed to his side, concerned.

"Go to Nottingham, fetch either the physician or whatever medicine he thinks I should have,"
"You'll be all right Father?"
"I'll be fine, no short cuts through the Forest,"
"It;s the quickest way,"
Alex was out the door before her father could reply. He couldn't help a smile slip out when he noticed Alex's sword was gone. He prayed she wouldn't get caught.

Jadeling Hawkins · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **Jadeling Hawkins** on Wed Jan 14, 2009 1:59 am

The weather had decided to be compliant.

That was the most agreed upon subject between the many farmers, carpenters, blacksmiths and general peasants as they gathered for the yearly Spring Festival. It was a secular matter, a time of celebration for a year's turning away from winter that had been organized long ago by those who had originally constructed the shire around the great forest. It was a time to eat well, drink excessively, dance with strangers, and exchange flower sprigs as gifts of fertility. There was no true religious meaning behind the festival, which in the end only made it all the more energetic in the celebration stage.

There were contests, of course. Contests with silly prizes such as kisses from one's preferred maid, or a special gold coin from the king. Rock throwing, cooking, archery...

Robyn had yet to miss a single one. And she had yet to show up looking the same at a single one!

This year, however...she knew that His Majesty was planning something special. She had been told so. She had been warned, repeatedly, not to come. She had been promised a noose around her neck if she dared set foot outside of her safe forest home during the Spring Festival. And so, she had of course arrived in an extra special disguise. Even most of her men hadn't recognized her as she had strolled out, alone, of the camp. Those who did had stared with gaping mouths.

Robyn Hood was dressed as a girl.

Moreover, a common peasant girl. She wore a brown and gray gown, a tan shawl tossed around her shoulders, all borrowed from a thankful lass whose family had nearly lost its farm. Robyn's pale blond hair was surprisingly long (as it was nearly always hidden away under her hood) and on this day was allowed to flow halfway down her back. Truly, the only part of the woman that was recognizable were her eyes. Her laughing green eyes, which surveyed the may poles and smoking pigs of the festival with great amusement. She had already passed by a few dozen villagers who would have known her had she been in her hood, or had she spoken to them in her cheerful voice, and none had given her so much as a thankful nod.

The day was looking to be a good one.

NorthernSoul · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **NorthernSoul** on Wed Jan 14, 2009 1:02 pm

Surrounded by the gaiety and lightness of the festival; the dashes of colour in bunches of daffodils and hyacinths and the ribbons that trailed from the hair of children as they played about the bottom of the maypole, Guy looked even more out of place than usual with his dark tunic and breeches, dark hair and resolutely bored expression.

He leaned against the wooden stand from which the King and his retinue (including Gisbourne himself) would watch the day's proceedings. Officially, he was in charge of supervising the security of the festival preparations, ensuring that that damn Hood wouldn't interrupt proceedings. That damn Hood who he had heard so much about, (indeed who's work he had witnessed so much of in the ransacked carriages that often arrived at the castle, devoid of their wealthy owner's valuables) but whom he'd never actually seen with his own eyes.

In reality, Gisbourne had over sixty men stationed at various points around the large green just outside the centre of Nottingham where the festival would take place. If Hood tried anything, he'd not only be stupid, but he'd be dead.

He hoped he'd try something.

But now it was simply a matter of waiting until His Majesty arrived. So Gisbourne waited by the stand, watching with a steel-grey sardonic gaze, as the peasants of the city inanely decorated ramshackle stalls with strings of flowers, piled tables high with rich, fatty sweetmeats and chattered, with animation and enthusiasm, about absolutely nothing. He hated it. It reminded him of the village back home. It reminded him of how centred on their own tiny, insignificant lives these people were, how they never raised their eyes to the horizon, instead focusing on the next meal, the next morsel of gossip, the next ignorant judgement of their neighbour.

Gisbourne idly and unsubtly eyed a pretty peasant girl with a cascade of pale blonde hair that tumbled down her back then crossed his arms across his chest, settling down to wait.

Ghosts of Nottingham (1.5)

a topic in Books & Literature, a part of the RPG forum.

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