Ghosts of Nottingham (1.5)

[Jadeling Hawkins]

"Guards without their uniforms?" Robyn asked mildly, her fine brows raising in girlish surprise. "Why, how quaint. Whoever heard of a warrior coming into battle without his armor?"

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"Ah, izzat so, Friar?" Delia snickered, adjusting her corset once more. Then she spoke in a very low voice, so that even the robed man would struggle to hear. "Well, then may'aps I should stop by the abbey a liddle later on, let ye know what ye've been missin', eh? Seein' as yer lookin' out so for our poor souls, I won't e'en complain about yer mirror-bane face!"

It was the kind of talk that any good God-fearing woman would simply die before uttering in front of a friar. In front of most men, in fact. But it was typical conversation between Delia the information-snitching tavern lass and Cadfeal, the first man of the Merry Ones. But just as Delia was considering slipping her hand discretely into an entirely socially unacceptable position on the Friar's thigh, the air filled with trumpets.

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He hated the stench.

The streamers, he could live with, if he absolutely had to. The almost freed bosoms of nearly every tavern girl flouncing around, he could accept with a smile. Even all the incessant laughter, filling up an otherwise acceptable day so that a man could hardly think two straight thoughts to himself, he could handle.

But the stench. That foul, earthy stench that spewed forth from every one of the peasants...it was torture. What was the point of lifting oneself above it all if you simply had to squirm around in it again every time the daft fools decided to celebrate something? If he had had his way, Prince Johnathan would have simply tossed out a handful of uncooked meat for the beggars to grin over and slammed the castle door shut again. But Johnathan was not the one in charge of such decisions. He was simply responsible for showing up, looking decent, and trying not to gag as the peasants wobbled before the throne he sat in (next to his brother, the King's) and slurred out their greetings.

It was awfully boring and smelled terrible, but at least there were plenty of women doing their very best to ensure good fertility in the coming year. Some of them were wearing more lucky plants than blouse, and this suited Johnathan just fine.

And then, of course, there was the matter of the King's cunning plan. That should make the day more interesting.

"Gisbourne," His Majesty called idly, having seated himself with a most regal air and surveying the festival as one might a masquerade of children. "Gisbourne, do tell us...is all prepared, as we requested?"

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Still sitting with Edouard, Robyn's eyes had begun to gleam. Like all others in the tavern, she had of course heard the trumpets. Heralding with great metallic joy the arrival of her foe. With the corners of her lips tugging in the shadow of an eager grin, she caught up Edouard's hand in her own and lightly pressed her lips to his knuckles. "I pray your pardon, Monsieur. There is a matter which calls for my presence outside...Or, won't you join me? I do believe the festivities are soon to begin. I'd loathe to think you miss them."

[NorthernSoul]

There was a fanfare as the muted colours and the gold crests of the Royal procession entered the festival, slowly winding its way through the crowds who, Gisbourne noted with satisfaction, had stood aside out of a combination of respect and fear for the heavily-armoured garrison of guards that accompanied the King and his company.

Gisbourne stood to attention as the King passed him and took his lavishly-ornamented seat on the Royal stand. Prince Johnathan and Sheriff Marc passed too, taking a seat on the King's right and left respectively. Gisbourne's stance relaxed almost imperceptibly as the pair ascended the steps next to him, lacking the respect he had shown for the King. The Prince was nothing but an air-headed socialite with a weakness for any woman willing to flaunt a bit of flesh and Marc was nothing but an apologistic fool with no proper idea of how to govern a shire.

Once they had been seated, Guy followed them up the stairs himself, standing a few behind, between the King and the Sheriff. With a nod to one of his Captains, the rest of the guard assumed a tight formation around the Royal stand. He was not going to take any risks with the King's life. It was to be hoped, then, he thought sarcastically, that that damn Norman could find his bleary-eyed way to his position at the front of the unit.

The King spoke and Guy could not help but feel an element of relief from the dark mood he had been harbouring before. The King was one of the few people he had ever encountered who he had percieved to think like him. He knew the King only kept the fawning residents of his court around him because he had to be seen to do so. He had proved, through the upbringing and training of Gisbourne himself and through the trust he had in Guy, that his position in power was to be valued. Lord knew what would happen if someone like Marc or Prince Johnathan was leader of the country.

"Yes, Your Majesty," said Guy, inclining his sharp profile in a short bow. "All is prepared."

[Irish Wolf]

As the trumpets began to sound, Cadfeal down the rest of the ale from his tankard. If he knew Robyn (and he did) then she would be starting her fun soon, now that the king had make an appearance. His heart began to beat faster, adrenalin started to pour into his system as worry and excitement warred within his mind. What was she going to do? What was the sheriff up to? Where his men in place and where the reinforcements ready to come to their aid at the signal?

"I fear my flock" he warbled, turning his head right to left. A 'drunk' raised a mug to salute the friar, nodding to him, as another man passed behind him and patted the 'friar' on the back, disappearing into the crowd be a few other man, all carrying walking staffs.