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[Genevieve d'Anjou]

It had been one week now that Genevieve had spent in Nottingham Castle. One week of cold nights, draughty halls and little society to speak of, as well as a thousand other complaints that felt too petty to voice but which still struck her forcibly and made her close to sick with wanting to be back home with her father. Everything compared unfavourably with her home in Anjou, from the food to the light to the weather, and even her maid who had been brought from France seemed sulkier and less obedient than she had been when Genevieve had been mistress of the castle they’d lived in, instead of a frankly neglected guest. Added to this were Genevieve’s failing to get over the unpleasantness in the forest during her arrival and the bout of nausea the channel crossing had brought which had lingered for several days and still lurked at the back of her mind whenever the young woman thought of eating, producing a thoroughly dissatisfied indignant noblewoman.

The previous evening had been typical of her stay in Nottingham Castle and had done nothing to improve the cloudy mood hanging over her. After once again being snubbed by the sheriff, an odious little man in her opinion, Genevieve had been forced to dine alone in her chambers, which if large, felt bare and uncomfortable for a girl far from home. The food, a measly dish of clearly the smallest game hen the cook could find in the miser’s kitchen, had arrived stone cold, without wine and with no apologies of any sort to console her. After eating what she could of the repellent food she had prowled around the upper hallways for some time, hoping merely for a little company of a calibre of person similar to hers, or even just higher than a servant. Instead she found herself ordered back to her rooms by a very disagreeable guard, who had ignored her threats of a whipping and practically manhandled her back to the iron door that marked her chambers.

Following this most objectionable treatment she had attempted sleep, but been awoken by some ruckus in the middle of the night that nobody had yet explained and which had sounded very much like a raid. After the events in the forest and all the tales of bandits she had heard, Genni had been scared out of her wits, and had attempted to run from the room to seek safety elsewhere, since she had only her maid in the chambers and a small dagger to defend them both seemed pitifully woeful. Admittedly, art of her had been almost gratified at the thought bandits would target her specifically, since it awarded her far more recognition of her importance and lineage than anyone at the Castle had yet to do, but this fleeting pleasure had been robbed when she had approached the door to her chambers and found it stubbornly locked. On arrival she had been informed the key was lost, but no amount of shaking would dislodge the sturdy wood and Genni was forced to conclude she had been locked in, like a common animal. There was no reason not to assume it had happened every night, and the idea outraged her.

She had not slept a wink the rest of the night and when at the crack of dawn Genevieve detected the sound of her door being unlocked, she flung it open and proceeded to berate the hapless guard whose duty it had been until she was red with fury. She had been met with a confused silence, possibly because she had spoken, in her passion, mainly in French, with the odd Latin exclamation thrown in for good measure and the poor boy had not understood a word. Genni had had to restrain herself to not slap the man until she got an answer and instead had thrown her energies into pounding the floors of the castle, trying to examine every nook and cranny to find what it was that the sheriff or his men were so afraid she might find on a night time prowl. She was convinced she was locked in not for her own safety, but to prevent her finding out something, though what threat she posed was hard to see. Still, something in the look of her host told her he was not a man well disposed to looking after his guests unless they were somehow to his benefit.

Indeed, for her entire stay, though short so far, Genevieve had the feeling she was merely being tolerated as a guest rather than welcomed, and that instead of lifting her to the highest esteem of all around her, particularly the local nobles (if these one village apiece half breed English knights could be called noble, which Genevieve doubted) her connections to the family of Anjou and the Royal Family itself were only just managing to keep her fed and clothed. Her blood connections were proving invaluable, certainly, but not in the way she had expected – Genevieve wanted to be attended to, fawned over and generally admired and pandered to on every little manner, as was the custom usually, not treated as a child to be tolerated for so long and left to amuse herself. It was infuriating, and Genni was determined to tip the balance in her favour once more.

Genevieve did not pride her connection to the house of Aquitaine for no reason, for it had gifted her with that manipulative Machiavellian streak that dominated their women, and which regulated the passions of her Angevin roots as surely as ice water, letting her burn slow and long and accomplish her goals. While she could not help occasionally flaring up, as she had done with the guard and would no doubt do several times a week if her conditions remained so appalling, she could see beyond the immediate source of annoyance to ehr grander goals. Already she was weighing up the gold in her dowry chest in her room, the influence of her father and how soon she could write a letter to her cousin, John, in her mind and wondering how she could combine these factors to manoeuvre the Sheriff. For once she left out the charms she knew she possessed best, her marriagability and her beauty, as she suspected in the Sheriff she would find a man well versed in negotiation, too clever to insult her with the first and too focussed to be distracted by the latter. No, the issue of her marriage which had brought her here would have to wait until she was happier with the situation.

Both marriage and her negotiations were far from her mind, however, when Genevieve returned from her scouting, tired and dissatisfied, to go to the chapel and escape the menaces around her. Her dress, though simple, was too tightly structured to be conducive to secret hunting and was far more suited to quiet prayer, and her ribs ached a little (though having found the kitchen her stomach was more pleased, having discovered it was possible to have warm food in England if one demanded forcefully enough.) Her hair was slightly wild, as Genni had not let her maid perform her wonders upon it before she left that morning, and the girl was slightly out for breath. Altogether, she gave the impression she was overtaken by some slight passion, which though not alarming, was not wholly proper, especially ina religious building. It turned out to be a suitable appearance though, for as Genni turned the corner to the beautiful refuge she was confronted by the tall darkly dressed man she had seen about the place quite regularly, and who appeared to hold power of some kind, quite blocking her way entirely. Her chest swelled with indignation, for despite the man being considered imposing looking, Genni was not the type to be imposed upon by anyone other than the Lord Jesus at the Second Coming (and even then, not so much.) Speaking in French, the language of nobility and thus hoping to humiliate him, she said icily, “Sir, would you kindly remove yourself? You are impeding my progress and my prayer.”

[Guy of Gisbourne]

Guy wasn't entirely sure why he was in the chapel. Oh, sure, it was a rainy day and he was frustrated and more than a little bored; on such days generally taken to wandering around the castle, but usually such wanderings took him in the direction of the dungeons or even the mews. The chapel was not normal, and as Sir Guy lounged in the doorway he decided that it was something to do with the quiet. A lot had been happening of late. He needed room to think, and what better place than an empty chapel? Anyway, the vaulted ceilings of the holy place offered more room. Being indoors was particularly oppressive on grey days such as these, but high ceilings and the colors of stained glass offered some refuge from the bad memories and bad moods certain to arise during foul weather.

Guy crossed his arms over his chest and studied the glass appreciatively, savoring the way light filtered through blues and greens and golds. It wasn't very much light, but it was enough to make the colors sing, and the colors themselves were enough to banish memories of darkness. Being shut inside dreary Nottingham Castle during a storm reminded Gisbourne of nothing so much as the weeks and months trapped underground; endless weeks of pitch-black and rot with nothing but screams to break the silence. The man knew the effects these memories had on him, and more often than not welcomed the additional anger---but today he needed to think. He really needed to think. There had been a break-in, a robbery; one he hadn't been prepared for and one that happened right after half his guard force rendered themselves intoxicated. There were more than a few men sitting in the dungeons today, and as far as Guy cared they could stay there forever.

Gisbourne's interest in the stained glass faded into a scowl, and he crossed his arms more tightly across his chest at the thought. Half of his force had, of course, done a stellar job--but taken unaware there simply had not been enough of them, and he was taking the heat for it. The lieutenant supposed that this was fair, in its own way; as commander he was responsible for the behavior of his men. That did not mean, however, that he wasn't beyond furious for having to accept the actions of such a group of clods as were currently under his employ. The fools couldn't have waited another day to get drunk? Really?

Nottingham's wolf clasped his hands behind his back and started to pace, dark head bent deep in contemplation as he growled to himself. No, this wasn't acceptable. The men who had failed him, well, most of them would hang for shirking their duty; they were all soldiers trained and not a one of them could argue that they didn't deserve it. Maybe the three little ones, under seventeen and egged on by their elders. Maybe the one with the broken leg. But some of these failures were older even than he and had still decided to leave Nottingham in danger. No, the rules of war were very clear on this point. Guy did not necessarily approve of war, but in this time and in this place he had a duty to perform, and it was an important duty. Nottingham's safety was in his charge and it was up to him to see that things went smoothly, to keep bandits away from the citizens whether for good or for ill. He would have to start on the arrangements as soon as possible, although in his experience a gallows did not require that many arrangements. He---

A footstep sounded in the hall outside, and smooth as silk the lieutenant whirled to plant himself in the doorway, arms snapping right back into a protective wall across his chest. Guy felt an eyebrow rise when he discovered who the intruder was: the prissy little French thing driving everyone mad with her high-and-mighty ways. Gisbourne could not exactly call himself rebel-minded; he served the nobility and was slowly earning a place among them, but he had to admit that sometimes the blue of blood drove him crazy with irritation. Noble ladies, in particular, tended to rub the wrong way, and this haughty child lifting her chin to him was no exception.

Guy did not move as he stared down at her, eyebrow arched; only his expression changing when Genevieve scolded him in French. Gisbourne's brow descended into a look of calculation, followed by a narrowing of the eyes and a simple shift in stance that left his weight lying squarely across the doorway. The Lieutenant was not a man especially gifted with languages; he tended to have difficulty remembering rules and rarely even had an interest in learning. But he had a solid talent when it came to understanding. Guy could not speak French, but through long experience he could understand it, and he knew very well that this young lady wished to humiliate him by making him seem ignorant. The dark man eyed Vaisey's guest with a languid smile for a moment, then almost immediately decided to return her favor. She wanted to play the game; she could not complain when she lost.

This would be entertaining.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Gisbourne offered d'Anjou a nod, his bulk still solidly filling the door. The nod was immediately followed by a wolf's grin. "Ah, non, mademoiselle." Guy's lips drew back further from his teeth, and he fixed the young lady with a baleful stare as the deeps of his voice grew rough. "Kazat tahua wa zimska."

The language of the Moors was a frightening thing; Guy had certainly thought so the first time it grated on his ears. His uttered sentence was perfectly innocuous, but he had also done his best to imitate the harsh tones of his captors, and even the slightly sadistic Lieutenant had to be pleased with the results. It was a good rendition, and while this girl was bold enough to look him in the eyes and order him about, even she would have to feel a shiver at the unfamiliar voice. He smirked. "Ah, sorry, does the Lady not know Moorish? French is too pretty a language for me."

His hand darted out to take arrogant little Gen by the wrist, snatching her close. "Allow me to translate. The Lady impedes her own progress by her arrogance to the men who would protect her. That and the constant child-tantrums." Guy watched her closely, studying her eyes with no hint of sympathy. "Perhaps no one has informed you that Nottingham is a town on the brink of war. I realize you are a very fine and very useless Lady, to which 'war' means little at all, so let me explain in small words: every man, woman, and child in this castle has more to worry about than a demanding, irritating, and whiny French.....girl. -I- have more to worry about. I was here first, and your life is in my hands, and it would be well for you to keep that in mind during your visit."

His eyes crinkled up in a false smile. "If you wish me to move, you will be a good girl and ask me nicely, in English, with none of that holier-than-thou cheek you're giving me now. I will then escort you in, polite as you please---but I am in the role of general, now, and will not be ordered about by civilians no matter how highborn. It sets a bad precedent." Guy threw her wrist away from him, then gave her a musing look. "Anyway, I don't believe I impede your prayer at all. To the best of my knowledge a prayer works just as well in a hallway as it does a church. Unless you wish to imply that God is deaf and the belfry his ear trumpet, in which case you would be guilty of blasphemy."

[Genevieve d'Anjou]

When the attack came, Genevieve could not say she had not been warned. The promise (or, more accurately, threat) of England had come bound indissolubly with the knowledge that this was a barbaric country of few morals and fewer good people or proper character. True, a series of French monarchs had done their best to right a country with a language as confused as its ancestry, which at one point claimed Latin roots and the next those of the Norse, but even those kings had become prey to the attitudes of a country bathed in mud and pettiness, where land was everything and nothing, for it was all too small and too cold for the nobles of France, a pathetic land. The Germanic sound of the language, crude and harsh against her naturally French formed sounds was enough to confirm these tales in her mind, for what civilised people could speak in such a way. Had not Stephen and Matilda, her grandmother on one side, fallen into the soiled and tawdry mess that was England and had not royal fought royal in a ghastly upheaval of the natural order? Even Henry, a good, Angevin monarch in his day, had fought his sons who now ruled. Yes, Genevieve had been warned that much of England was barbarous.

However, she had never expected such treatment, especially not from one who appeared to consider himself a noble (though in her opinion, not even the loosest definition of that word could apply to the rough soldier who dared to cross her.) The tales of bandits and the gloomy, beaten faces of the peasantry had led her to expect some such from them, but now she found her views entirely wrong, for the people treated her well enough while it was odious fellows of no repute who treated her as if she was no more than the dirt beneath their shoes. Those who should have been overjoyed to be seen as her equals, who should have craved her friendship, now kicked her like a dog. It was enough to make a girl cry.

Thankfully, for all the wolf’s words, Genevieve was no girl and more eager than ever to prove it so. True, she recoiled at the sound of the snarled words, so unlike any European tongue she had ever heard, German or no. Perhaps it was her vague inkling that the language was Saracen, but to her untrained ears it sounded savage and sinister, and coming from a man who looked more beast than any she had ever met it was a menacing occasion. It was not, however, a threat of violence, rape or death, and Genevieve schooled herself to show no fear, instead allowing disgust to ripen across her features. Her lip curled and her nostrils flared as she eyed the unpleasant man as though he were something foul smelling that had made its way out of her horse’s behind. It was not feigned, but she was more disgusted with his behaviour and with herself for allowing that she be sent to such a crude and distasteful place than with his words, offensive though she was sure they must be.

Self control however, rare and weak in Genni when only slightly tried, disappeared when the man (she knew his name vaguely – he was knight of some bizarre village nearby that did not even hold his name, a fact she had found amusing and quaint at the time but now that she met the man, thought thoroughly suitable for a man without a noble bone or characteristic in his body) dared to touch her. It was a step too far and for a second, a mere second, Genni wondered if perhaps the bandits and barbarians had a firmer place within the walls of the castle than any of her cousins knew. She was confronted with a man who appeared to know nothing of the customs and ways which had dominated her existence, of the subtleties of court games and politics and the niceties of family connections, honour and glory. To say it did not frighten her would not be true, for here there was, in the roughness of the actions, in the snarl of his lip on a face much closer and much crueller than it should have been, a sense of the violence she could not allow near her person. Her wrist hurt in his grip, and physically she was aware of just how powerless she was against a man with no regard for status or influence. Fear froze her movements, fear iced her veins and for a few precious seconds fear stopped her mind from moving on to the logical conclusion and action. But not for long.

Noble blood is rarely calm and placid, and the insult of the action brought her anger firmly into play. Her mind raced through the possibilities – surely, surely no man was immune to influence, certainly none who wished to succeed, could be entirely beyond her power – logically eliminating her fears even as her fury allowed her to ignore the ifs and buts and the remains of the threat. As her wrist was returned to her like a discarded toy, Genni took a step back. To all who did not know her, it would have seemed a retreat, but by now one of her sisters would have been dodging back, aware of what was coming. There was a pause, which Genni took to anticipate the move and build her fury, before a ringing and satisfying slap echoed off the vaulted roof of the chapel. She caught him well, for one so tall, and for a general who, had she had any respect for the man remaining at all, she might have expected to have better reflexes.

When the hit stopped echoing around them and the sting in her hand subsided, Genni found the control and logic to begin to return his insults blow for blow, and found to her surprise that she enjoyed it all the more for having a true insult to object to, rather than the petty dalliances of court. Real anger still shot through her veins and every word mattered far more when her pride was at stake. “A man who speaks Saracen one moment should hardly disgrace himself by speaking of blasphemy the next, and certainly not in the house of God. And as for the men who protect me, why do so by locking me up like a common prisoner at night? Are you fearful that I too shall be stolen from under your nose?” It did not take much to piece together a ruckus at night and the foul mood of the Lieutenant the next morning, but Genni sincerely hoped her barb stung a little. Now that the violence was absent again, she wanted to bring it out, to prove that the little whiny French girl could test him as well as any outlaw.

“As for the war, general, though I was not aware of such a promotion, I know war. I have had a brother die in it, though I did not know my cousin intended to wage one from Nottingham.” There was no harm in mentioning the royal connection, for though so far it seemed to have had no sway, it might have been that the man’s head was far too thick to understand it’s significance. “As for the conditions of my prayer, I intended confession. I would advise the same for you, but there would seem to be too few priests in the world, and though we have but met, the thought of a few more moments with you is enough to make me swear off eternity. I do believe I would rather be damned. So, have I spoken enough of your crude tongue to gain admittance to the one place you can claim no sovereignty over, or must I curse you until Doomsday?” Her tone, carefully tempered to conceal almost all of her rage for fear of it being termed a ‘tantrum’, sounded almost bored, though her heart still pounded a little in anger and a residing hint of terror almost bordering on excitement.

[Guy of Gisbourne]

It wasn't as bad as it sounded.

The slap echoed throughout the chapel, and his cheek stung, but really the little thing trying to hurt him hadn't managed as much damage as it seemed. How could she? She was a flyweight, attempting an open-hand strike on a man head and shoulders taller than her. Guy sensed the slap coming the moment the girl took a step back, noting the tensing of her shoulder; the way her eyes flicked up and back to gauge how far the distance was...he simply hadn't expected her to actually go through with it. For a moment the dark man was startled, staring at the girl unbelieving as the echoes knelled against stone; then his eyes hooded again and he was watching her in silent contemplation as she went into a rant. Guy's first impulse, of course, was to hit her back, and had the situation been even slightly different he might have. Not hitting women was one thing, but not hitting women attempting to attack was folly. Gisbourne didn't care what anyone thought of him for violence to the fairer sex, if they started something he was duty-bound to finish it and would do so with no remorse. In this case, however, the Lady was not guilty of a crime; other than being annoying. There was no one here to see his authority being overstepped. And, most of all, the frightened little bird had dared to fight back.

How did he feel about this?

He didn't know. Guy never knew, anymore, what he ought to feel. Had Gen's terror persisted and tears began, he might have felt badly for terrifying her. He might just as well have relished his power over the haughty creature; Gisbourne's emotions varied moment to moment and were often unknown even to him--nearly always unpredictable. Her striking him and yelling was not a solution, and while half of him was twisting itself into a cold fury at her persistence, the other half was remembering a maid over a decade ago; another woman who had dared to look him in the eyes. Marian.

Gisbourne struggled for a moment or two after the little hen ceased pecking, then gave up for the cause of brown hair, brown eyes, and a bold spirit. He laughed, humorlessly, and moved away from the door. "I never said that I cared if you blasphemed; only that such a statement would be blasphemy." The wolf shrugged, calmly. "Blaspheme all you want. I don't believe in God or angels or prayer, so it means nothing to me." Sir Guy regarded the girl carefully, flicking his gaze down and up again in a swift assessment. "And if you really don't want to be with me, I don't recommend threatening to damn yourself. I am going to Hell with everyone else I have ever met, so unless you take some care you will find yourself enjoying my company for a very long time." His face was dark. "I've already lived through Hell, though; so if you would like to keep your cardinal sin--Pride, m'lady--I do assure you that the eternal sort is surely not as bad as what we mortals cook up for each other."

She was moving forward, but Sir Guy stopped her with a heavy and surprisingly careful hand on her shoulder. "Not yet." He dropped his hand and darted in front of the girl, moving swiftly onto one knee and taking her wrists in his again. "Don't hit like that."

Gisbourne looked up to meet her eyes, threatening smile gone for a look of solemn contemplation. "You see what you did? That slap sounded good, but it hurt you more than it hurt me. See." He swung her arm in a pantomime of her slap, her hand spread to guide it to his cheek. "The spread fingers don't do much damage; it just makes noise. And you, bold chick, are a prime target for bandits and men even more unsavory than me; what with your proud ways and pretty bearing. These slaps of yours will do nothing."

Guy closed her fingers into a fist, arranging her thumb neatly over the other four. "A fist, like this. Fingers straight, thumb on the outside but out of the way." He guided her arm back to her waist, so her wrist faced the ceiling. "When you strike always start with your wrist up, then rotate it out, like so....so your fist will...hit. Yes. That way. Faster now, like this. Good. Now if you throw your weight into it, and breathe out during the strike--" He pulled away, curling his own hand into a fist before squinting and thrusting out with a grunt. "---You get twice the power."

The knight regarded her again, suddenly feeling a little sorry for this child who might soon be the Sheriff's bride. "You are very small, though, so even a good punch wouldn't do much to deter a real attacker." Guy rested his arm across his knee. "But you seem like a brave girl, and if you are, you'll take some advice. Nottingham is a rough town, with rough people in it. We don't care about your carriages and pretty gowns and fine food because there are more pressing things to think about; and there are plenty of desperates around who would think nothing of harming you. Really harming you, not just playing big and dark and scary because they happened to be in a bad mood and you were in the way." He met her eyes stolidly, checking to see that she understood before he continued. "Should that happen, punch. Should you punch, aim between his legs and show no mercy. To win, I promise that you will have to cheat."

He rose and offered out a hand to her. "Sir Guy of Gisbourne."

[Genevieve d'Anjou]

Genevieve had intended to sweep past the unnerving man with all the grace of her forebears and only a slight exhalation of breath and a narrowed eyed glare to make her point. It would have worked in the French court, where despite all rumours of excess, carnal pleasures and inglorious behaviour, subtleties of expression mean everything, and an unspoken word was just as important, if not more so, than the carefully chosen insults and jests that echoed in those richly decorated halls. Here, however, the walls were bare stone, and the people seemed equally unaffected, hard and blunt in actions and words, and none of this was condusive to a silent, haughty exit. Indeed, once again she was stopped in her tracks quite forcibly.

What happened next, as the man took hold of her again (and Genni asked herself had she not made her objections to that perfectly clear the first time?) and then stunned her just as much again by kneeling, was incredibly disturbing and close to frightening. Nothing so rough, so uncultured, so instinctive had ever happened to her before – every move of her life was planned out like a chess game in which she was one piece, and she had been secure in the knowledge that every other person planned just as carefully, considered their words and actions with the utmost care. It had been one of the rules, one of the many things that distinguished the nobility from the lower classes, for while the lower strata of society were free to throw their passions around as they wished, to say all they liked without fear of being ostracised to some extent, the nobility Genni knew and understood prided themselves on the excellence of their highly wrought sentences and patterns of behaviour. The rules kept them in check, prevented power accumulating too quickly with individuals or families, and yet gave those who deserved it an edge, an influence that proved their importance in small, trivial ways and by thus doing, prevented armies being raised. Genevieve knew that a Count who received the proper depth of bow from a lesser lord would not consider seizing the tempting castle on their borders, or manipulating the man out of office. Rituals kept them all in place, and Genni lived by them. After all, they placed her unequivocally near the top of the pyramid.

Now, however, all semblance of those rules of etiquette and status appeared irrelevant, and the startling realisation left her mind with two logical possibilities, neither of which seemed particularly appetising. The first was that the nobility of England, indeed the very structure of society, was completely different in ways she had never imagined. Genevieve had conceived taht they might be somewhat uncouth, less well trained, have not received the excellent opportunities nobility offered in France, but she had still expected the same mannered discourse, the same games of power and the pleasant cordiality with which these were conducted, as all understood each other perfectly even if deeper motivations remained nessecarily a secret. When all was said and done, the nobility of England were still French at the core, still found their roots in the ancient establishments of that nation. The idea that all was different in England was terrifying – it robbed Genevieve of all she had known and all that she could do – she was used to giving way to the houses of Europe, not the petty, cruel words of a mere knight who did not even listen to her words when she spoke.

No, no, that thought was too frightening to contemplate, and with some force Genni turned to the other option, which though it presented more immediate danger to her person, did not upset her views of the world as the other did, and was all the more consoling for that fact. It was simply this; Guy of Gisbourne was mad. Not the raving madness of a lunatic, for Genni had seen this before. A servant back in Anjou had gone made after the death of his wife, and that had been dramatic, unyielding and crazed. The old man had made no sense, had crawled in mud and screamed the whole night long, threatening every angel and saint and begging damnation in his lucid moments, while for the rest he spoke gibberish. The asylum in Normandy had taken him, but not the memories that flashed upon Genni’s inward eye. No, Gisbourne was not mad as that man had been, but if this were not normal conduct as she suspected and dearly hoped, then he was most certainly unhinged. It was as if morality had been stripped from him and he had achieved that kind of recklessness against fate and authority that soldiers just home from the crusades had seemed to have. In the hands of a man of authority it seemed far more dangerous, especially to a girl who lived by knowing exactly what to expect next, but far less so than an upturning of her world.

Such logical thinking however could not impede her more instinctive reactions. For all her thoughts that the man before her might be not wholly sane, it did not stop her recoiling from his touch quite visibly, leaning back as far as possible as he puppeted her hands. Genevieve let him do so more out of shock than fear, and there were even hints of excitement and a morbid curiosity to her feelings as she watched him create a first. What was this strange man, and why did he do such things? What would he do next? Anger featured strongly as well, but wiser thoughts prevailed and though her newly created fist shook a little as it was released, Genevieve kept her look cool and her tone civil when she spoke. His words took a few moments to process, and within them Genevieve almost thought she detected a tacit apology in his talk of bad moods, though her hackles were raised slightly at the patronising tone of his words, if not his voice, and the repeated word ‘child’ which stuck like a burr in her throat. Still, she remained her own mistress, and severely commanded her voice to reveal nothing that could possibly rouse the man back to his more insufferable menace.

“Lady Genevieve of Anjou,” she replied, longing to add some comment dripping with sarcasm but restraining herself smartly. Sir Guy may have been instructing her on self defence, but she was in no mood to have to put the lesson to use. “I thank you for your tutelage,” she proceeded, but oh how hard it was to keep her voice level, without even allowing her slight, almost hysterical feeling of amusement surface, though she suspected it showed in her eyes, “but you forget I have brothers. Any brave woman (she could not resist the correction) with five brothers learns such tricks early in life. The greater skill is learning to never have to use them. I thank you all the more for your advice, though. Nottingham has not been a friendly place as yet, but I would know it better and hope it comes to know me.” She paused at laying her hand in his (had he not taken it by force twice? giving it a third time seemed laughable and foolish) but did so all the same, if tentatively. It was a reversal of the old phrase, for Genni put her hand in the wolf’s twice bitten, once shy. English idioms never truly seemed to fit the French young lady.

[Guy of Gisbourne]

She was laughing at him, and Gisbourne knew it. Sir Guy's eyes narrowed at the young lady, and he paused a moment to balance the sum of her arrogance and amusement against her spirit and courage. The total came out even, so for the moment he wouldn't hate her. Lady Anjou had earned another chance by taking his hand, and he would give it to her. Guy hesitated just long enough to repay the girl for her recoiling snubs, then grasped her hand and touched it briefly to his lips. This action was beyond strange to the Lieutenant, for he had not yet met any ladies proud and worthy enough to merit it. Guy dropped her hand hastily, stepping back to stand imposing and tall once again. "An honor."

There was a silence, then the wolf moved in for the kill. "Woman, then, but I am old and any maid under twenty is a child to me. Any man, for that matter." He smirked at her. "Fancy yourself a woman if you like, but you laugh at me, and that is childish folly. At least, 'tis folly not to hide it." The black eyes bored into hers, unmoving. "It upsets you that you cannot guess what I will do next, doesn't it? I admit that I can be a trifle...unpredictable, but there are some rules to go by. Rules enough to prove me sane."

The great man took a step forward, reaching out a gloved hand to light one of the candles on the altar for her. ((Not Catholic, don't know what that candle rack thing is called, forgive me >,< )). "Like you, milady, I am proud. Not because I am related to greatness; not because my mother was beautiful or my father rich...only because of what I am, what I myself have done. I am a common man who fought bravely and intelligently enough in His Majesty's crusade to earn a title and a town. I was four months prisoner of the Saracens and managed to survive it. I have seen horrors, Lady, and I've seen enough of them to know one thing: sometimes the son of serfs gives his life for his friends, and sometimes the son of kings turns tail and runs." Guy's stare was hard. "The rest of England will likely fawn over you for your rank, but I will not. I value people for their capability and quality; I know too many blue-blooded nobles good for nothing at all to be entranced by your lineage. I call you 'Lady' only because you are brave; because you did what I would do should someone like myself start bullying me. That merits my respect. Not your pedigree."

He turned to look at her, mentally adding an assassination attempt to his list of achievements. Agree with it or no, there was no denying that such a thing required guts. And failed or no, he was proud of himself for even trying. Guy was not one to worry much about changing the world as it was, but the Crusades had become a cause in themselves; a cause greater, to him, than the case of starving peasants or unjust taxes. Monetary issues could wait, especially when thousands of men were dying needlessly overseas in a vast and unforgiving desert. It was yet one more reason for Guy to loathe the man known as Robin Hood; for all his humanitarian ways the rogue was a hypocrite, a supporter of a bloodbath. Ridiculous.

Gisbourne realized he had trailed off and continued, harshly. "This, then, is your rule: I will do what I must to keep my pride and my position intact. The ruckus you heard last night? Half my guard decided to get drunk. They await trial now, and the simple fact is that I cannot now afford to take orders from anyone but Sheriff Vaisey. Nottingham's safety--your safety---, is in my hands, and I have to seize what remains of my authority to ensure that what happened last night will never happen again. Surely you can understand that."

He crossed his arms again and shifted his weight to the right. "No need to recoil so from me, either. I am not a good or a patient man, but you are in my care and I take that duty seriously. I'll not harm you."

Guy studied her a moment, then motioned towards the altar with his hand. "Confess, say your prayers, and then perhaps you will come and take dinner with me. Cook gives me warm food, on pain of death, and you look half-starved."

[Genevieve d'Anjou]

Manipulation was a fine game, even when it was played on the less subtle and less enjoyable field of threats and plain speaking. Genevieve felt the hesitation as much as any spoken insult, but she did not show it for her offence was tempered with the relief that came with the confirmation that everyone, even this strange unyielding man before her, played the game to some extent. For a moment Guy, with his threatening behaviour and far too revealing words had made her doubt the knowledge that had propelled her life from the start, but his simple pause that was clearly an answer to her own, less intentional snub, made her feel once again that however unpleasantly straightforward and unnerving the man might be, and whatever rules he professed, there were others that were unthinking but always true in social discourse that she could use to control, understand and most importantly, manipulate those she wished to.

Still, it was clear to the young lady at least that Guy had not spent enough time in the company of true nobles (though true could have been substituted for French in Genevieve’s mind without changing any of her meaning.) If his opinions and words did not give him away, which they did to the highest extent, then the way he dropped her hand as if it was a red hot iron, for a single moment showing a hastiness and uncertainty that bordered on vulnerability told Genevieve all she needed to know about how often Guy of Gisbourne was in the company of ladies. Forgivingly, though she could not help but find the situation funny, Genni bowed her head and gave a slight but definite curtsey. It was not the full to the floor affair she had practiced for greeting Kings, Counts and Earls, but it could nto be mistaken for a slight – Genni was not in the habit of curtseying to anyone other than these three groups, far too aware of her own roots and upbringing. No, the kiss had gained both her amusement and a slight respect, and Genni felt honour bound to repay it.

Her amusement at the quickness and hesitancy of Guy’s action however did nothing to prevent her feeling angry at Guy’s denunciation of the nobility and his once again calling her a child. The constant stare from the black eyes was unnerving her, but rather than admit any kind of fear further to that she had already shown, Genni instead obstinately channelled her emotions into anger. “My brother was not running when he was struck down in the Crusades you speak of so highly! Not everyone counts pride earned by blood spilt.” He had touched a nerve – Genni’s defence of her brother’s memory was tempered by the knowledge that her youngest brother was also putting himself in harm’s way, and any suggestion that Raoul had been a coward or that Matthieu was not in mortal danger met her unbridled anger.

“You misunderstand nobility entirely if you imagine pride in it is unwarranted. You pride yourself on your achievements. Very well, so do most men,” Genni said a little more diplomatically, though in her mind she added ‘of little rank.’ “But they also pride the achievements of their fathers, and their fathers’ fathers. Such is nobility – my ancestors earned it, and each successive generation has upheld the honour. If you would honour a king, you must honour those he appoints as worthy to stand alongside him. My mother, God rest her soul, was beautiful, my father is rich and I am related to greatness, but that is not pride in nobility. Nobility is far different from whatever you imagine it to be. It is responsibility for every serf, every child, every grain of wheat in every field one rules over. If the nobles of England have forgotten this it is hardly my fault.”

Genni moved towards the confessional, a dark foreboding box with thick velvet curtains. There was an obvious patch of wear from the hands of many penitents moving aside the curtain, but it was thick with dust. No doubt confession of sins was not much called for in Nottingham. Genni twitched the other curtain, revealing for a moment an empty seat next to the grate – there was no priest to hear her prayers. Instead, Genevieve turned back to Guy and eyed him speculatively. She was still angry, but she knew enough about nobility to recognise where Guy’s own position was relevant to her argument. “You are right in one respect. You are proud of your title, earned in battle. But, as I’m sure you know, you are not noble, not as I am, or my brothers are. Honour is earned, nobility learned. I cannot explain it better than that. Mere achievement is not enough – one has to be born so to understand it.” Genni was searching for the right words to explain it, but they would not come. She wanted to show him that unless a person was born with the weight of nobility, of responsibility about them, they could not be truly noble, but she couldn’t see how she could put it.

“I don’t think I can convince you though,” she eventually said, conceding defeat with a small smile. Her outburst had calmed her, and she was beginning to feel that the whole idea was pointless. Her unstoppable force had met what seemed to be an unmovable object. “Nor shall you convince me to renounce my family and earn my own way. That is not a woman’s path. I shall dine with you, though only because your men are on trial and you seem to need consoling. If I am entrusted to your care it is only right that you are in mine as well.” Genni moved away from the confessional, her irritation that there was no priest fading now that her interest was caught by Vaisey’s wolf. Guy might not have been pleasant, comforting or even safe, but he was interesting, and Genni needed some distraction from the misery of life in Nottingham.

[Guy of Gisbourne]

Gisbourne had a brief moment of amusement at the suggestion that he needed consoling, but that passed in a flash as he swiftly bent his head down to hers. "You misunderstand me." The low voice throbbed raw with anger now, but she had curtsied and he would keep himself in check--at least a little. "First, I never fought with any French soldiers while I was in that miserable, God-forsaken desert. My remark was not meant to be a slight on your brother, and you do me ill to assume that thing first of all. If your brother was anything like you, I do believe he died bravely. That does not, however, mean some of my superiors were anything more than cowards. Secondly, I do not think highly of the Crusades, only those soldiers who endure them with courage. They are a senseless waste of time and life, a veritable Hell for men who, on the whole, don't deserve it." He allowed himself a half-smile. "Had a man I didn't like suggested that the Desert Bloodbath had my support, he would have found himself in a great deal of pain very quickly, Lady. I won't align myself with it. Not ever."

He would not point out that he had no wish to honor his King either, not wishing to frighten this odd little creature completely away. Instead he looked away, hands clasping behind his back as the dark eyes studied the brilliant colors of the stained glass. "Thirdly...you are right in thinking you cannot convince me of your views. I do not like being told that my birth makes it impossible for me to learn nobility....for you said yourself, your ancestors learned it. And very long ago, surely there were no nobles. Meaning that somebody earned it, and then they learned it. Hundreds and hundreds of years ago your ancestors were as common as mine." Gisbourne bent his head still further, searching the girl's eyes. "There's another reason I don't like to hear that, one which outweighs even common sense, so if you are kind you'll not argue it again. One more thing." Guy's hand came out from behind his back to straighten a tapestry on the wall. "You are correct in stating what nobility is, and I salute you for understanding it as it is meant to be. But even you cannot deny that sometimes the blue-blooded fail."

Sable brows knit as he looked at her, the dark gaze becoming searching. How would this nobly blooded girl take what he was about to say? "If you would, I would have you look into the eyes of the quiet little weaver lass, recently fled from Devonshire. Fled because of a fine lord, what bows and compliments pretty as a picture, I'm sure; he can probably turn a gallant dance. But away from the Court one of his servants is taken into the barn, where the fine words become threats and curses of the most devilish nature. The bows turn into blows. And a maid just your age now walks unwed and heavy with child."

He studied her intently. "Those are only whispers, of course. Perhaps the babe was of her own doing; perhaps she loved unwisely. But the way she flinches makes me think not. The way even the kindest touch sets her trembling and pale makes me think not. That, and she is a good girl, one of few. I am not easily moved to pity, Lady, but Nottingham's weaver-maid has mine, as much as I am capable of giving. She does not deserve her fate." Gisbourne adjusted one glove, a rare look of regret crossing through his eyes. "But it is the way of the world, whether one is French or English or Saracen. There are the powerful, and there are the weak, and the one will always prey on the other. The maid I speak of did not deserve to be born female and poor and pretty....weak...but she was, and the local predator took advantage of that the moment he could. So it is, so it will always be. Blood has nothing to do with it."

Guy shook his head and strode out the door, harsh voice now echoing off the walls. "You keep your pretty manners, Lady; I like knowing what a man's about once I know him."

[Genevieve d'Anjou]

Often Genevieve felt self-conscious of her obvious temper – it was not fitting, not appropriate for a Lady of any court. Some thought it childish, though Genni herself knew it was now nothing like the fitful petulant anger she had experience when she had been what she termed a child – before she was thirteen. No, she was just passionate, easily roused, characteristics fine in any other class of woman, but totally unsuitable for an unmarried Lady. It was embarrassing but at times unstoppable, and it was almost a relief to find someone who seemed just as angry as her. True, the idea that someone was angry at her was deeply unsettling and new, and normally she viewed visible anger in others as weakness and vulgarity, but not having to hide her own thoughts and anger in return was almost pleasant. She could almost understand why the man before her so obviously disregarded the rules of society if this was the freedom of expression that was gained.

Almost. Genevieve was sure she was as stubborn as him, and Guy was not about to change her entire mindset in one conversation. Particularly when he insisted on insulting said mindset with every word out of his mouth. As he made the offensive (but, she had to admit, utterly true) comment about her ancestors, looking at her as if her eyes were about to surrender her soul, her lips thinned so much they nearly disappeared into a small line. It might have been true, but it defied all etiquette to actually mention it, and besides, those who had been common and raised to the nobility did so through merit and, if stories were to be believed, through God. Needless to say, Genevieve appreciated these stories and if any natural scepticism led her to doubt them, years of tutelage restored her faith that she was where she was meant to be in birth and class.

Genni wrinkled her nose at the start of the story. How many times would the discontent find innocent victims to fling at her, like dirty laundry in an attempt to make her regret herself, regret her birth? Had she not already renounced all claims to control the lives and lusts of the English nobility? If one lord wholly unconnected to her defiled a woman, reneged on his responsibility to keep her safe and healthy rather than bed her with his power, it was not Genevieve’s fault or responsibility. Such a man, in her opinion, renounced all claim to nobility by doing so, indeed it was against nobility to do such a thing, an impossibility for the truly noble, but Genevieve was not King, could not take and give honours as she pleased.

She could not help feeling pity though. For all that the girl’s story was misused as a weapon against Genevieve, she had no doubt that it was true and all too common. Still, she was not to be deprived her answer and she followed (some might say chased) the obstinate lieutenant out of the chapel quickly. “I do not doubt your story, but blood has everything to do with it. Men like you who prize their achievements, who consider nobility to be within their grasp or already gained hand that girl her fate just as much as that philanderer’s son of a lord. That he is despicable I understand and believe, but you are hardly fit to be his judge. Local predator,” she scoffed, looking him up and down. If anyone was a predator...

“Will you marry her? She is pretty, young, weak... poor, but that is no matter if you are as close to the Sheriff as you insist.” Genevieve moved quickly to stand in front of Guy, stopping him in his tracks and meeting his eyes as confidently as if he’d been a mere stable boy. The hypocrisy of the nobility was not new to her, but it was a shame to see it in the man who appeared o forsake every redeeming element of that class, and she shook her head in exasperation. “No, of course not. You pity her, but you won’t touch her, won’t save her by ruining yourself because there is a distinction, one you feel as strongly as I. You are not noble, you will never be noble, not if you married a queen, but, and this is what I mean be earned and learned nobility, with luck and a good marriage, your child could be. You must earn it so that your son might grow up learning it, being truly noble.”

Genevieve folded her arms across her chest and looked at Guy speculatively. She suspected that the look of regret he had shown did not often grace his features, but she was not about to forgive him because of it. “As for the girl, I can do her more good than you can. Those of us born female, pretty and weak,” she said, spitting the words rather bitterly, “must support each other when men will not. I can give her a position, money enough, find her a home for the child if she is too young, a husband if she is not. She will never be beyond reproach by the crueller members of this world, who would believe all they hear, whatever contradictions that produces, but with my help she could live well enough. Recover, even. Women have more power than you give them credit for, Sir Guy. Your example of a lord is no noble in my eyes, for all his pride, so do not dare reproach me with him again.”

[Guy of Gisbourne]

Surprisingly, Guy laughed. "Me? Marry her? Lady, I thought I told you that I pitied the lass! I've no wish to punish her." He smirked at the angry little Lady, leading the way through the castle with a tone of enjoyment in his voice. She was so easy to nettle! "I would consider it had I not my heart set on another, but in all truth I think the weaver would rather die than marry someone like me. I can't blame her. She has too much of the angel in her to ever justify pairing her off with a devil such as myself, and anyway she is so frightened. I help her by keeping far and away from her; never giving her cause to fear me. As for Vaisey..." Gisbourned paused in the hallway and snorted. "The thought of him giving money for a cause however just is likely the best jest I've heard in weeks. Vaisey keeps his money for himself. "

But he grinned at her, finding it funny that Genni was so easily annoyed. It was a bit like tormenting a very loud and very small bird; really most amusing after he decided to not take her insults to heart. "I like your idea, though, Lady Spitfire. Makes me glad to have brought the matter up to you."

Guy strode onward, chuckling to himself. Genni's rage had put him in an inexplicably good mood, and despite himself he really did like her idea. The soldier led her through the twists and turns of Nottingham Castle, at last stopping in a bare little room with only fireplace, table, and chairs to its name. Gisbourne paused politely to pull a chair out for the noble lady, dark eyes dancing with mirth. "Food will be delivered shortly; I believe I will go fetch the weavermaid and bring her before you. Now that the topic has you so aroused it would be a sin for you not to meet her." He chuckled, then whisked out the door with a chipper farewell.

-----
True to his word, warm food did indeed arrive--within the hour and steaming on its platter. Guy arrived a little later, one hand lightly around the arm of the small maid following his footsteps. Vaisey's wolf poked his head in with a grin and a swift 'I'm back,' then led the girl forward and released her arm to stand her on her own two feet. "Miss Mochrie, this lady is the one who wanted to meet you. Lady Genevieve d'Anjou, all the way from France. Lady d'Anjou, Miss Renna Mochrie." It was too much for him to smile at her, but he released her and stepped back, careful to keep the black gaze away from the lass' eyes.

She was as Guy had described; small and sweet and heavy with child. The maid had wide green eyes and softly bowed lips with dark hair that curled around her face--pretty. Pretty, but with cheeks pale as sand and a belly rounded huge. Renna gathered her skirts and curtsied as well as she could with her burdened, eyes fixed embarrassed on the floor. Her voice was soft. "How may I serve milady?"

((Debating actually making her a full character for this site buuuuuuuuut that application is hecka long. XD and I have homework. So it's not happening today!))