Dicslaimer: Robin Hood and most of the characters are based off of the *drum roll* BBC re-edition. Heloise and Robert belong to Lady Evelyn Fae of Wattyland. End of story... or well, at least not this story... yet...
Sherwood Forest
Three days later.
For three nights, the storm raged. The winds roared and snow beat against the outer walls of the cave. Inside, the outlaws drank, ate, talked and slept. Each took a turn on guard duty, more out of routine than desperate need. As the hours wore on, the echoes of their chatter faded away, replaced by the sounds of the wind and the almost continuous sizzling of wood on a fire, as one by one, each outlaw returned back to the inner sanctuary of their own private thoughts.
On the third morning, Robin woke first. Stretching his arms out like a cat, he rolled onto his back, catching the first streams of sunlight dancing on his bare torso. Shrugging off the deer skin cover, he stood up and followed the ray of light to the source: an almost miniscule crack in the wall of the cave
The main chamber of the cave itself remained shrouded in darkness. The fire had burnt itself out, leaving only blackened lumps of wood in its place. Djaq, Will and John were fast asleep still on their separate bunks. Allan was where Robin had left him, unconscious and sprawled out on the cave floor, an empty cup resting in his hands. Robin fervently hoped that the wet patch on Allan’s crotch was a result of an ale spillage rather than anything else.
At the opening of the cave, Much snored happily, oblivious to being on guard duty. Robin crept past him, out through the narrow arch and into the sun light.
The storm had passed. In its place was a world of white and a clear blue sky. Using his hand as a shield from the bright reflection of sun on snow, Robin surveyed the area. During the seventy or so hours, several feet of snow had fallen, covering trees and trails in its wake. As Robin took a hesitant step forward from the step leading into the cave, his bare foot sunk into the snow like a knife through butter. Gritting his teeth against the burning pain, he pushed his foot through the layer until it collided with the hard earth beneath.
The pain overwhelming, Robin leapt back, as if scolded, rubbing his hands ferociously against the numb skin of his leg and the wet breeches congealing to his thigh. As a man of almost six feet tall, for snow to reach halfway up his thigh, this meant trouble.
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“I can’t see why we ‘ave to dig our way to Nottingham,” Allan whinged, shovelling snow miserably. It had taken Robin less than an hour to wake up the rest of the gang and have them attire sensibly. It had taken him longer to stir Allan, finally resorting to the use of a snowball. Bleary eyed and majorly hung over, the young man stared at the snow resentfully. “I ‘ate snow. Mam never said it brought anythin’ good.”
“It doesn’t snow every week, Allan,” Much chirped happily, making a neat pile out of snow. “We can make the most of using it to freeze the meat for winter.”
“What’s wrong with salt? Salt doesn’t wake you up!”
“Allan, Much, shut up,” John growled, his own head banging from drink and the cold.
Robin stared out impatiently from his perch at the opening of the cave. Wrapped in furs and leather, the cold bothered him little. It was the slowness of his team that infuriated him and left him barking orders and biting his lip.
“Allan, stop moaning! Much and John, just leave him and get on with it! Djaq, now’s not the time…” The Saracen woman glared at him reproachfully as she admired her snow angel.
In three hours since beginning, the group had made little process. From his vantage point, Robin could still spot the dark hair of Will Scarlett in the distance, creating the basic line for which the path would follow.
The cave itself was situated in a secluded area of forest, half a mile from the main road that led to Nottingham. At this rate, the gang wouldn’t reach the castle by the end of the week. And if going by the hasty message in the scroll, Robin did not have time to gamble with.
“Come on, men!” he barked, grabbing his own shovel and moving down the recently cleared track to aid Djaq. “For Malmesbury!”
“For the King!” Much exclaimed, repeating the group’s catechism.
“For Robin Hood!” All of the gang roared, excluding Will who was too far to pick up the conversation.
“For bacon, a bed and a warm woman to share it with!” Allan added, groggily ploughing through the snow.
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Nottingham Castle
The Sheriff, swaddled in warm bear skin, watched the work from the window of his privy chamber. Smirking, he sipped at mulled wine as his numbskull guards cleared away snow and debris from the castle courtyard. His page boy stood next to him, a jug of yet more wine in his hands. The Sheriff licked his lips. The delicacy had been a gift from Gisbourne’s lands in France. The people there were known for their aromatic beverages and the Sheriff savoured every drop.
From behind, his ears pricked up as the door opened and the wizened form of the jailer arrived. The ugly runt of a man hobbled over, his mouth hanging open and drool coating his chin.
“M’lord,” he snorted, snot oozing from his wonky, red nose. “We ‘ave a problem!”
“Spit it out, Randall,” the Sheriff sighed. “Not on me, you blithering fool!” The jailer took an alarmed step back. “What is it?”
“You see, m’lord, we’re running out of food for the prisoners. The guards ‘ave been using the gruel to feed the animals and… we ‘ave none left, m’lord.” The idiot bowed, staring down at the floor.
“Now that is a problem. How many prisoners have we got?”
“Eleven, sire. Ten are just common thieves. Then there’s ye’ chef.”
“Still alive, I take it? Well, we’ll just have to see about that.” The Sheriff leaned forward and poked his head through the window. “Guards!” he roared. “Clear the snow off the gallows.” Turning back to the jailer, he grinned. “Does that solve your problem, Randall?”
“Yes, m’lord. Thank ye’, m’lord!” The jailer bowed his way out of the chamber, an ugly grin plastered to his face.
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Heloise laughed. The feeling felt strange and alien after the last few days of boredom and silence. Clutching her brother’s hand, she smiled up at him as he gazed back affectionately at her. This was right. This was how things should be. Just the two of them. Alone.
Heloise was not naturally good with people. Her mother had died at her birth and her nursemaid had passed away when she was but a girl of seven. At that age, her father had decided against finding another nurse and merely allowed her to grow wild whilst he busied himself with hunting, wedding yet more short-lived wives and defending his lands. By her ninth birthday, Heloise could climb up a tree, curse like a sailor and play games with a dagger, her favourite being the one where she had to look the other way whilst she blindly stabbed between her fingers. All of these skills she had learned first-hand from the band of mercenaries who resided at the castle regularly.
Things had all changed when Robert appeared. As the Earl’s recognised bastard, he had lived a subsidised lifestyle after the death of his own mother, having been raised and educated by monks at a nearby abbey. However, from a young age, his skills at riding and swordplay had outweighed his pious potential. At ten, he was employed as a squire to the Earl of Winchester’s son. At fifteen, having already made a name for himself in the tourney circuit, he returned to Malmesbury to aid his father. And that was when the siblings finally met.
The summer had been a magical one: warm and clear. Robert was used to young girls; the Earl of Winchester had four granddaughters, all below the age of twelve. It was he who acted as a medium between father and daughter, persuading the Earl to purchase material for the growing child and to hire a woman to oversee her manners and virtues.
For all his faults, the Earl did love his only daughter but a lack of time, understanding and responsibilities had kept them apart. The arrival of his son only bridged the gap further and (only after her lessons with Mistress Matilda) Heloise would join the men, riding, hunting or overseeing the running of their lands.
Now at the ripe ages of fourteen and twenty, their friendship had changed from being of one admiring the other to a companionship of equals. An alliance against the rest of the world. In Robert’s company, Heloise could be truly open. Robert never judged, rarely frowned and knew what to say in return.
“He is such a creep,” she moaned, squeezing his fingers as they walked down the chilly but mercifully deserted corridor.
“You are too mean to our host, sister,” her brother laughed. “The Sheriff is a good man. He could have left us to freeze outside his gates. We did look like a pair of street urchins when Sir Guy brought us in.”
“That was the outlaws’ fault and not our own,” she pouted. The bruising on Robert’s cheek had faded to a pale yellow and the skin around his left eye remained darker than the skin of his right. That had been a gift from the largest of outlaws when Robert had dared to fight back.
“They brought us to the castle. Now they could have left us to freeze.”
“Stop being so optimistic,” she grumbled, smacking him playfully in the torso with her free hand. He winced slightly, Heloise only then remembering the extent of his bruising. “They took all of our belongings.”
“What we were foolish enough to wear on us! The rest is all safe, waiting for us in Lincoln.”
“But they took my coronet. That was the last present Father bought for me before he left for Ireland-” Her words stumbled and warm tears sprung in her eyes. Turning away from her brother, she blinked them away, ashamed at the sign of weakness.
“Father will have three more of them made for you. He has silver and sapphires aplenty!”
“But that coronet was different. He had it especially constructed so that it would-“ Both words and feet stumbled as the pair turned a corner to come face-to-face with a continuous line of people emerging from a dank set of stairs. The line was flanked by guards and if Heloise and Robert had looked pitiful when they arrived, these people were a thousand times worse. Weak and ragged, many could barely walk without support. Their rags clinging to emancipated frames, their large hungry eyes stuck to the sibling’s rich attire and well-fed bodies. Heloise’s hand grabbed at Robert’s wrist as his hand moved instinctively for his long sword.
“Don’t worry, friends, you’ll soon be well-fed. The Devil cares for ‘is own!” A hideous man, evidently the gaoler from his gait and set of keys, followed the procession out of the stair case, half dragging an adolescent boy with him. The boy was about Heloise’s age with sandy hair and blue eyes. He was not as thin as the other prisoners and, even in chains, put up a good fight against the guards.
“Excuse me,” Heloise stepped away from her brother who had attempted, in vain, to shield her from the sight. “Where are you taking these men?”
The jailor spent most of his time in the dungeons. Rarely did he emerge, blinking at the sudden light like a bear at the end of hibernation, from his lair and only ever to hang prisoners or to beg the Sheriff for a hanging. He had heard nothing of the guests and so he had no clue who the identity of this mysterious pair was or the Sheriff’s plans for them.
“These ‘ere are thieves, m’lady,” he crooned, licking his lips at the rich pickings before him. “They’re bein’ ‘anged for crimes against our good Sheriff!”
“Yes but is hanging really the answer?” Heloise’s eyes were not on the line. These thieves were mainly middle-aged: some having been long-term criminals whilst others had been first-time offenders. Heloise had seen their like before and had seen many of the same creed hanged under order of her father. Her eyes were on the boy. She felt the stirring of emotion in her chest: pity, anger and… empathy. The poor barely reached middle age. But to see someone of her own age, facing death, raised doubts in her mind. Doubts that had never been there before.
“Stop,” she said, raising her hand. “Stop it.”
“Sister?”
“Excuse me!”
“Stop the execution. Stop it.”
“’Hoo do you think ye’ are?” The jailor growled. “Ye’ women are all the same. Soft in the ‘art, soft in the ‘ead!”
“I am the daughter of the Earl of Malmesbury and heir to his title and lands. I order you to take these prisoners back to their cells. There will be no hanging today.”
“Ye’ may be all ‘igh and mighty but ye’ ‘ave no standin’ ‘ere. Let me get the Sheriff…”
“What is it Randall?” The group turned at the sudden addition of yet another voice amongst the fray. Dressed head to foot in fur, the Sheriff’s rat-like face peeped underneath a dark hood. “Why is there a hold-up?”
“M’lord, this little lady says there’s no execution.”
The Sheriff cursed inwardly. He should have seen this coming. He knew the Lady Marian would object so he had cleverly had her diverted by keeping a guard outside of her father’s sick-room. For her to see the hanging, she would have to lean from the window and he knew she would never betray the dutiful daughter mask she wore to leave her father’s side for a moment.
Heloise on the other hand was like a slippery eel. He could feel safe in the knowledge that she was in his hand and yet a moment later, she’d have slithered off and he’d be left with a handful of air. He had hoped she would spend the morning surveying the rich material he had ordered to be laid out in her chamber whilst she had broken her fast in the Great Hall. Any woman would have fallen over herself to start sewing. Instead, she had gallivanted off with her scum of a brother to explore the castle and see things she shouldn’t.
Swallowing his annoyance, the Sheriff smiled at her, his lip muscles aching. Never, in his life, had he been forced to smile so much in such a little time. It was unhealthy…
“But, my dear, justice is important.”
“Justice is not apparent when you are killing people before they have lived.” This stunned the Sheriff. He spun around to survey the prisoners, only just catching the handsome young man glaring resentfully at him. Of course. Little Lady Heloise was not fighting for the rights of the lesser man, he thought gleefully, she would only fight for their rights if they had dirty-blonde hair and cornflower blue eyes. This foolishness would prove useful in the long run.
“Randall, free the prisoners,”
“M’lord, but-?”
“Just do it, Randall. They have survived the cold perhaps it’s a sign-“ He looked piously upwards, his hand clasped in false prayer. “- for us to give them life,”
“If ye’ say, m’lord,” the jailor grumbled, using his set of keys to unlock the chains.
“Guards, escort the eleven from Nottingham,” the Sheriff shook his hand dismissively. The prisoners looked at each other in surprise and elation as the guards shoved them away. Some called in thanks whilst others remained silent, smiles of relief plastered on all of their faces. The youngest was last to leave. He looked back once, his face without a smile, his blue eyes large and distrusting.
After they had vanished from sight, the Sheriff turned back to Heloise and Robert who stood before him, their mouths open in disbelief.
“You are right, Lady Heloise. It is injust.” Clasping her hand, he bowed and kissed it. In turn, he was rewarded with a dazzling smile. A vain man, the Sheriff pretended to ignore the direction of Heloise’s grey eyes as she looked briefly away from the Sheriff’s face to the direction that the blonde man had disappeared.
“Thank you, my lord Sheriff,” she smiled, her eyes back on his face. Curtseying politely, she walked away, her dumbstruck brother stumbling after her.
“M’lord…” Randall began as the pair vanished from view.
“Don’t worry, Randall, you’ll have your hanging. Get a team of guards together and a group of horses. Gisbourne and we shall go hunting this afternoon. After all, the snow is still deep outside of the castle. How far can eleven thieves get within such a short time?”