Welcome

[Adam Thatcher]

Climbing the tree had seemed like a good idea at the time. If you lived in the forest and had to regularly flee from patrols and guards it was no doubt a good idea to do more than merely stand behind them – while the canopies hid very little in the winter now that spring was in full stride there was a full body of leaves to hide anyone, provided they nipped up there quick enough. Thus, having done his duties for the day delivering to the area around Rochdale, Adam had decided to improve his outlaw skills which were severely lacking by learning how to climb trees, and had selected for his target one a good distance from the camp, just in case he did something very embarrassing, and because he was rather naturally shy particularly about his weaknesses. It wasn’t a particularly special tree, just an old oak typical of Sherwood Forest. It wasn’t impossibly high, or overly complicated, it was just a tree, a normal oak tree. So clearly the reason why it had all gone horribly wrong lay with the climber, and Adam had a niggling idea that he knew exactly what it was.

He couldn’t climb trees. Well, that wasn’t really accurate. He couldn’t climb down trees. Adam had managed to make it quite far up the broad-boughed tree and had spent some minutes stretched out on one particularly old and large bough, enjoying the breeze and the isolation. Then, unfortunately, he had made the mistake of looking down, and his fear of heights had kicked in instantly, panic rising in his belly. He hadn’t realised he’d been that high – a good twenty or thirty feet off the ground – and it seemed far more to him, now occupying his twelve-year old mind. Even if he was in a tree miles from York, his mind was pulled back to the events on that clock tower nearly ten years ago when his friend and master had fallen to his death on the stones before, leaving Adam hooked in the air, unable to comprehend the spreading stain of red he could see far below him he was so panicked and afraid. Even as he panted for breath he was fast learning the rules of tree climbing, the first of which was clearly start small, and the second seemed to be not to look down ever if he didn’t want to fall to, if not death, considerable pain. However, it wasn’t that easy to start learning and remembering new rules when all he could see was a church tower in York that loomed like a gothic monstrosity in his twelve year old eyes. Now it was the same as his heart beat faster in his chest and he scrabbled from branch to branch, trying to find a way down. And then Adam learnt the third and most crucial rule of climbing trees.

When choosing a tree to climb, walk round it to check it doesn’t protrude over some rocks, or hard ground, or in Adam’s case, a LAKE. He’d been managing quite well to not look down at all, but when he found himself decisively stuck he decided to risk a glance down, only to find his rippling reflection looking back up at him. He was considerably lower down now, but when face with a choice between a twenty foot drop to dry land and a ten foot drop to a lake, Adam would pick the land every time, broken limbs and pain be damned. He really didn’t enjoy swimming, and the prospect of returning to camp dripping wet and looking like a drowned rat – and from the laughter he’d got the last time he’d been swimming in a village in Northumberland he knew that was what he looked like wet – was more than the shy man could bear. The road was a few meters away but tantalisingly out of reach, since Adam had managed to swing himself onto a branch there was no escape from, unless he found someone to help him.

Closing his eyes tightly, Adam tried to relax himself enough to drop into the water, hanging from it upside down like a sloth, pretending that beneath his branch was a nice pile of leaves instead of cold water. As he breathed slowly and tried to stop himself thinking too hard, the sound of a twig snapping made him flinch and reach for his knife. Doing this, however, meant he removed his hands from the bough and he found himself plummeting into the water, eyes still shut. It was freezing cold despite the warmth of the morning, and Adam couldn’t even see his own hands in the murky water. Strangely, Adam felt none of the panic that the height of the tree had brought on and even though it was almost a minute before his wildly kicking feet found the lakebed, and for all of that time he couldn’t breathe he felt as calm as if he were walking through the forest, which wasn’t perfectly relaxed, but tense enough to bear. Emerging coughing and spluttering and up to his waist in water, Adam lumbered around blindly for a few moments, trying to see the potential attacker he thought he’d heard. He could see nothing, but then he still was a poor outlaw. He almost couldn’t tell which tree it was he fell out of, until he hit his head on a lower hanging branch he hadn’t spotted before. Wading to the shore, Adam still had the eerie feeling he was being watched, and peered around. “Anybody there?” he asked cautiously, before cursing himself. As if an enemy would announce themselves as guilessly as he usually managed to. He shivered uncomfortably, not enjoying the slimy sensation of his clothes slipping against his skin.

[Marian Fitzwalter]

A quiet walk through the woods on a cool spring day, not an ideal use of time for some like Marian but pleasant none the less. However, there was another reason for all this, as displayed by her assortment of knives, her bow and arrows. She was looking for a decent target; she needed to get some practice in. She didn’t want to be caught short again and there hadn’t been much call for all things ranged recently. Also without company she could stop thinking about what needed to be done and about what should have been done. Leading a bunch of outlaws was a lot more stressful than she had expected, well hoped it would be. If she was that sort of person she would have admitted it to Robin at some point, and said sorry for being difficult. But she wasn’t and he could cope with that she was sure.

Reaching the thinning trees that lead to the lake Marian slowed a little. She wanted to check there was no one about first. She wasn’t in the mood for people, even ones as friendly and easy going as the Maitlands. Watching from the bushes she spotted some movement in a tree that overhung the lake. A sort of panicked shaking, and there was little enough breeze so it couldn’t be that. Amused, and expecting it to be a group of birds or other wild animal, she stood quietly to watch. At the same time she was wondering what had disturbed them when she had heard nothing.

Having been expecting them to fly upwards, or fall down, she wasn’t looking for the figure that finally emerged sideways from the canopy. She would have missed it were it not for the blue shape that appeared where there had been brown branch, and a far stiller tree. Faintly amused to see it was a person, not an animal, stuck halfway up the tree she moved closer, trying to work out who it was. The distance was too great for her to see anything other than a very long figure with black hair and pale skin, that only fitted the descriptions of half the people in the forest of course. He was male she suspected although what he was doing clinging to a branch part way up a tree that over hung the lake she couldn’t quite fathom. But that was life around her. She knew it was useful skill to have, until whoever was chasing you got wise and surrounded the tree before cutting it down or burning it or something. She didn’t like how close she had come to discovery on such occasions.

Then it got a little more entertaining. No longer was the figure sitting on the branch, but he was hanging from it, now that defiantly wasn’t part of outlaw practise. An amused look in her eye she was wondering what possessed the man that he didn’t edge back into the folds of the tree and find a dryer route down, for she could only assume he would drop into the water below. Deciding he would need help at some point she went to push past the bush, only to be rewarded with a snap of dry branches and the sight of the man reach for his belt and let go of the branch. A surprised look must have flashed on his face for a second, not that she could see, before he was immersed in the cold water.

For someone on the bank he was under the water for a scarily long time, counting the seconds until he emerged Marian could only hope he wasn’t one of the majority of the populace, that is to say he couldn’t swim. Because truth be told she didn’t feel particularly like rushing in after the fool. Luckily for her he could swim, at least a little, and was able to stand in the relative shallows of the lake. Containing her laughter she watched the sodden man stood dripping in the water. His apparent in ability to see through the water in his eyes was amusing, if painful, to watch. The poor man managed to do himself yet another injury before Marian felt it was time to reveal her self. It was she had to admit the most entertaining thing she had seen in a while, though she was not in the habit of taking pleasure from other’s misfortune.

Stepping out of the bushes the same time as he made it out of the water, she fought a grin off her face. Clearly this man had not spent long in the forest. “Afternoon, it’s a little chilly for a swim isn’t it?” Seeing him shiver reminded her that she was not the wet one here and so could spare a cloak, because who ever he was she didn’t need him getting terribly ill and using up the Maitland’s precious supply of herbs. “Would you like to borrow this?” She offered as she reached to undo the dull green cloak that made for far better camouflage than his blue.

[Adam Thatcher]

Adam’s soaked hair was plastered over his forehead, sending drips steadily into his eyes and down his nose, making him look a rather pathetic creature. When the stranger hailed him from the north east (though it could have been the south east, it was hard to tell in the forest, since he had no idea where anything was and the sun was practically invisible) however he pushed it away from his face, leaving it standing in wet tufts that looked even more ridiculous than the drowned rat look he’d been sporting a few moments ago. Adam though was hardly the type to be worried about his looks, even when confronted with a beautiful woman. He was rarely, if ever concerned about how he looked, his natural modesty seeming to rule out any vanity, whether inherent or conjured for a special occasion, and as for the woman part, well, where most men would at least think, however fleetingly, of romance, Adam in general would treat a woman exactly as he would an equal, barring of course the traditional and polite customs. Hana still dogged his memories, albeit subconsciously, and Adam could rarely look at a woman and feel anything, at least not on first sight, and though he could appreciate beauty when he saw it, it did not alter his thoughts or actions one iota, most of the time.

The woman – and he was more than a little relieved it was a woman, since he imagined the sheriff was not in the habit of sending women out to find and destroy outlaws – was certainly beautiful, though this was no doubt helped by the smile that was threatening to break out at the corners of her mouth and which Adam could not help allowing to emerge on his own face, able to see, for once, the funny side to one of his more embarrassing incidents. Being so naturally shy meant he usually found such moments excruciating and would agonise about them later, until he himself began to see the funny side, usually when they were retold – he would never cease to marvel at the power stories had to remove pain and influence emotions. Now however, watching the strangely confident woman barely suppress laughter at the sight of him as he tried to walk up the bank against the weight of his clothing, the humour became immediately apparent, and Adam let out a low chuckle, his own smile going a long way to removing the ridiculous nature of his appearance, replacing it with a genuine look, as such smiles often do.

Having finally made it u the soft mud, Adam leant against the offending tree and began to wring the water out of what parts of his shirt he could reach, fiercely aware of the company he was keeping and thus opting to keep all his wet clothing on, rather than wring it out properly as he might – but only might – have done were he alone. He raised a hand in refusal of the cloak, chivalrous to a fault as he replied, “I cannot accept a lady’s cloak, I’m afraid – my mother taught me far too well on such matters, and I find I cannot change. My own is around here somewhere...” Adam cast about randomly, until he spotted his rough workman’s coat lying by his own feet neatly folded, the brown beaten leather well disguised against the dark bark. “As for the unseasonable swim, I cannot say it was intended, for all that it might save my reputation.” Adam paused for a moment then shook his head and laughed, realising just how few people knew him – hell, he could walk past nearly any castle guard without fear of punishment, if he was the sort of man to take such risks. “Well, if I had a reputation of any kind. You must forgive me, my lady, I am a new resident of these parts. I was not told a goddess walked among us.”

And there was the small problem with Adam’s mode of speech. After telling far too many stories, he had acquired a romantic flair for language – not lovey-dovey romance, but the picturesque, aesthetic romantic. His language, particularly when talking to beautiful women he’d never met before and when he was on his best behaviour, was that of Gawain and Arthur, chivalrous to the extreme and courtly in tone. Unfortunately, given the general lapse in manners that generally accompanied being one of the peasants, forced to live a hard life with no time for flowery language or ‘poncy talk’ as it was more commonly told, instead of being innocently charming it often came across, if you weren’t watching his earnest and guileless face carefully, like he was being a rather crude and unpleasant flirt, indeed, his own antithesis. The fact that the poor boy had no idea who he was addressing merely complicated the matter – if, as he suspected from her fine looks and easy manner with him, she was born far higher than he ever could have dreamed of, he would merely seem the obsequious peasant, or at worst, a man aiming far above himself. If she was an equal (though Adam’s poor opinion of himself hardly ever allowed that term to be applied to women – they were always superior) it could be much worse, as Adam was hardly the time to extricate himself well from unwanted and ultimately unsolicited advances. Not that that was going to happen here though.

His tags were half throttling him on their leather tie and hung down his back, so as he adjusted them with one hand, tucking them under his shirt securely and feeling that thrill that still affected him when he remembered just what they meant, he held out his other hand to the stranger with an apologetic smile for the dampness. “Adam Thatcher, m’lady. Pleased to meet you, whatever the circumstances.”

[Marian Fitzwalter]

Once the man before her had his open smile on his face Marian couldn’t fight it any more. Her face split into a smile that twinkled in her eye for a moment. She hadn’t laughed in a while, life was too serious a matter when opposing the sheriff and prince. There was something about him that Marian immediately liked. He had a look about him that made him so different from Robin. And that made him easy to be around. Of course had anyone told her that sizing every man up according to Robin was a sign of, perhaps, still having feeling for him they would have been walking around with a bruised jaw for several days. This assessment was made subconsciously and she wasn’t even aware it affected her. The smile did of course make him look less lost and more like a boy who’d been caught getting into some mischief or other. Now that was something she recognised from Robin.

Partially glad for the young man’s modesty, although she knew plenty of men who would have happily stood bare to the waist in almost any company, she wished he would hurry up and get dry. She was so used to looking after people and helping that it felt a little odd to be doing nothing. Sometimes she wondered whether she fussed too much. But then there were others in the gang would do it more and better than her, she wasn’t exactly mother material. Shaking her head as he denied her offer to help she would have pressed had he not mentioned his own, at least he had something dry to put on. The coat to him she noticed it was probably the only well camouflaged thing about him, she could only assume he didn’t spend much time in the forest if he wore the blue regularly. Picking it up she held it out for him, the once stiff leather was softer now, clearly showing the wear it had been through.

She raised an eyebrow at him on the part about his reputation, before realising it was a joke. “Well I have to thank you, I haven’t seen anything so amusing in a long while.” She smiled at him, she liked the fact that he didn’t know who she was and that he didn’t need total help and support. That last compliment drew a sparkling smile on to her face, aside from the odd word from drunken men she hadn’t had anyone compliment her looks in a long time. Not since things were alright with Robin to be honest, that made it a couple of years. Then again she didn’t tend to mix much with men she didn’t know. Or at least they were too busy being grateful to think about how their benefactors looked. Not that it mattered because Marian was not the sort of woman who put grate store in her looks, still it was nice to be complimented every so often. Although it did sound a little like Robin trying to woo her all over again.

She found is eccentric language amusing, she didn’t have time to listen to stories anymore and it was so reminiscent of some of the tales she had heard told around the tables of the great hall. She couldn’t have been offended by it; she had dealt with worse since she was little more than twelve. It was surprising how vulgar the ‘nobles’ could be. No, a little romantically phrased speech didn’t come anywhere near unpleasant in her books. Especially since she could see enough in his face to tell her he wasn’t interested. She was impressed to hear it coming from someone who appeared to be a commoner. She was used to it being used by pompous nobles or bards in the castle. But she supposed all that started somewhere.

She saw enough of the tags as he adjusted them to be able to guess what their significance was. But she didn’t want to reveal it just yet. She liked the fact he didn’t know. Besides if he was with Robin it only made things more difficult. But that would also explain why she didn’t know his face, she had little contact with his gang so many new members must have slipped in without her knowledge.

Shaking his hand firmly she smiled back, unconcerned with the dampness of it, “Marian, nice to meet you too.” Thoughts of throwing practice had left her head as she relaxed in a way she hadn’t done in a long time. She hoped giving her real name wouldn’t ruin all that.

[Adam Thatcher]

Taking his coat from the lady with a smile and swinging the worn leather on to his still damp shoulders, Adam couldn’t help but wonder what on earth a lady – because her bearing , if nothing else, marked her out as one of those few born to privilege in the harsh wilds of Nottingham – was doing strolling around a dangerous and bandit-ridden forest with no protection. Had he met her even a month previously he would have been shocked, instead of simply curious, but working with Robin’s gang had introduced him to a stream of strong, capable women who, though no different in stubbornness and strong wills from their more domestic counterparts, put such qualities to good use with their hands, feet and occasionally their feet. Adam might have been one for proper, even excessive chivalry, but he wasn’t about to underestimate the power of the women he met in the forest, having seen for himself just how lethal a mistake that could be. Still, to see a fairly noble woman strolling alone through the heart of the forest without, it seemed, a care for her own safety, was an odd occurrence. Adam had travelled long and far enough to recognise the traits of nobility when he saw them, even when the finery was stripped away. It ran deeper than clothing, deeper than skin – after all, it was hardly hard work to get dirty and hide the pale flawless skin that normally marker noble women out so distinctly – and it most often showed itself in politeness, posture and a general ease with people of all ranks only those who had been born superior or simply indifferent could ever achieve. However, the deciding factor in this case was undoubtedly teeth. Most people managed t take care of their teeth in some way or another, but when the bread you ate was half dough half grit and the water you drank was as precious as myrrh in the summer months, it was unusual for anyone but the rich to have good teeth – the poor worked to hard to care about such matters. With the smiles he was being given and received gratefully, it was hard to miss the flash of whit near-perfect teeth that reaffirmed is suspicions – this was no ordinary woman.

No amount of suspicion though could stop him laughing at his own folly when she pointed it out to him. “I’m glad to have amused you so heartily, m’lady. Nottingham does not seem like a place of much laughter.” The rather depressing sentiment that expressed, which Adam had more than enough to suspect true at times, was softened by the slight Yorkshire accent that, though hidden through years of travel and attempts to stay hidden, still rolled through his speech like a comforting reminder of Middle England that seemed irrepressible beyond all tyranny and hardship. Despite all the associations the accent had though, it could not fully hide the unpleasant truth that lay behind the words like an appalling smell, and Adam felt the familiar awkwardness of a man too shy to fully rectify the situation with something surprising as other men might have done – Allan seemed never to stop, and Robin too, in his lighter moods. Still, Adam tried his best, taking a deep breath before he began to steady himself, “It just seems a shame no one else was here to see my idiocy. You have no friends with you to join the laughter? No admirer following your every step?” Ok, so perhaps his reply was a little self serving, but Adam was by nature curious, and common sense dictated that he find out as much about the people who lived in and around Nottingham as possible, as well as befriend them, in case the time ever came when he got himself into more than a little difficulty and Robin was not there to help. Knowing his friends (and his enemies) could one day prove invaluable to the new outlaw.

The fear that Robin one day would not be there to help him – not that Adam had managed to get himself into serious trouble at all yet – was one that Adam felt keenly, and often in his nightmares could bring him out in a cold sweat. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust the man, far from it, since he practically worshiped him, hanging on his every word and meeting his orders with an enthusiasm that seemed to know o bounds so grateful was he to be part of the burgeoning legend that was Robin Hood and his Merry Men. No, it was more that Adam could see, from all the time he spent watching and listening to the great man, that the leader was often torn between loyalties – those to the people of Locksley, the people of Nottingham, to King Richard (though Adam couldn’t fully get on board with this particular allegiance, his reasons why being long and deep rooted, even more so than his loyalty to Robin) and to a mysterious other rarely mentioned in the camp that Adam understood to be female and otherwise not spoken of. This latter was a subject that piqued his interest, but occasionally Adam knew not to pry and at present the idea was far from his mind, and thus when the lady introduced herself as Marian he did not connect it to the whispers he barely caught around the campfire, suffering from a very slow-witted moment. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Marian. I make no error in judging you to be of noble birth, do I? If I am, you have the most natural grace imaginable.”

[Marian Fitzwalter]

“I have many friends, I hope, and all could do with cheering up. But they’ve all their own business to attend to today. And a quite walk is good for the soul they say.” Pausing a moment, trying to decide how to answer his next question, she continued. “Following my every step? Not him.” She didn’t want to criticise Robin, not when so many people doted on his every word and action. It would do the cause a mighty blow if the people lots faith in him. So she bit her tongue as her eyes widened for second, looking into the distance beyond. His curiosity she didn’t mind, most people had little time to take interest in her. And she’d become skilled enough at deflecting unwanted attention. Besides if he was one of Robin’s men then he was unlikely to take advantage of her. Or at least he would know to let well alone with the women he met. In the forest there were some, well Isolde specifically, who would happily take a swing at any man who came too close or said the wrong thing. But luckily for Adam she was not Isolde and it would take a lot of men to drive her that far, she had been fortunate enough to have a more positive experience with men from the start.

“But haven’t you a friend to save you from such idiocy?” In her own opinion anyone liable to fall out of a tree should never be allowed to climb one alone. But then again she was short of new recruits. Joining Robin’s gang meant a fame she could not offer. After all who didn’t want to be part of the legend? Her gang it seemed was made up of those who couldn’t fit with the stars. Not that she was complaining, she loved her gang dearly. But something about the fact that Robin got more support for his death-defying life style that got so many killed than she did for her more cautious approach felt unfair. But then again she was the one who had chosen to split. Everyday it was a decision she regretted but would never undo, until he said sorry for all he had done. But these thoughts didn’t register on her face even as she smiled again.

Perhaps Marian had once looked at Robin the way Adam did. Certainly she had been scared to be without him. But times had moved on and she couldn’t help but feel bitter. She’d grown up so quickly after that. With out him by her side attention had changed. Men suddenly became interested, she was expected to marry soon and not wait. Fending off the various attempts to win her hand, if not her heart, and nursing her own broken one had lend to a grown woman in place of the girl Robin had left.

He too had changed, becoming hardened and world wise. Not mature though, he still thought he could play this like a game and win too. He played a valiant leader and let many die for his cause. Of course there was nothing he could do that would prevent some deaths, but he did have a habit of going for the most outlandish schemes. She didn’t have patience for those who trusted him as she had done. But she never had the courage to tell them to stop; the only hearts that she seemed to enjoy breaking were those of Guy and Robin.

But she didn’t know of Adam’s opinions so not one of these thoughts crossed her mind. She was glad when he showed no reaction to her name. This would be far more relaxed now, if she watched her words… “I am, but I gave it up years ago. It seems I follow my heart not my head. And many say that’s a fool’s way.” She looked away, casting an eye around and noticing the darkening skies. The clouds were some way off yet and the wind was picking up just a little. She shifted her cloak properly onto her shoulders again, settling the folds neatly around the few weapons that were not hidden on her person. “It’s a strange thing to come to the forest for a climb and a dip. Surely you must live closer than one of the villages?” She wasn’t expecting a clear answer here, not if the man was worth his salt as an outlaw.

[Adam Thatcher]

Listening to Marian , Adam could not help but not how well that name suited her, quiet and unassuming when first spoken and yet rooted in the ancient traditions of England and carrying a hidden force, with all its connotations of virtue and purity. It was just like him to notice names, being a man of words, a storyteller at the very heart of him, but it was rare that he found someone with a name that actually suited them. Most village girls were named after their mothers or aunts, and when they gave their names they sounded oddly detached, as though the resented in part the way one relative or another impinged on their identity. Others were named above their station – it was hard to pull off the name Guinevere if you were a milk maid and of the lowest orders of society, or Angelique if the closest you’d ever been to France was Bristol. Marian though... it was a name that suited, that sat well in his mind, not only in meaning but in sound – because sound, after all, was half the meaning – and it made him feel a little more secure in liking her, as ridiculous as that sounded.

Because he did like her. Her smile had already shown her beauty, and rather like his own did to others now and again, affirmed to Adam that in front of him stood a good person who was not afraid to be honest with her happiness, when she felt it. Adam could tell that he was already beginning to appreciate her company and her character by the way his sympathies were pulled when she spoke of her suitor. If only even the briefest of shadows had passed across her face, the one that answered in Adam’s was long enough to matter, though it was accompanied by a brief dose of confusion. The more he thought about the name Marian, the more he thought he had heard it before, if not spoken to him, than around him, and the reference to her lover-of-sorts only made the feeling stronger.

He was distracted from the rather illuminating line of thought by her questions and frowned a little before answering, his brow crinkling and lips pursing slightly with displeasure. It was nothing personal, of course, but Adam had never liked questions. It was rather natural to dislike curiosity in others, even if it was hypocritical, when one was on the run from the law for murder, but now that he had settled in Sherwood for as long as the gang would tolerate him the phenomena of questions had become something he feared more rather than less. He was so used to being on the move, dodging authority and any ties to his home and his crimes that it unnerved him even more to be asked questions without the opportunity to flee from the consequences of his answers. Adam was, after all, a terrible liar, and now he had no choice but to lie, day after day, to avoid the uncomfortable end of the hangman’s noose. “Friends? I am, as I said, new to these parts. I have met people who are kind to me, certainly, and who I greatly respect, but friends take time to acquire. It is the traveller’s lot to not be trusted at first, to earn it with more than smiles and pretty words, and for all that those two things have served me well, I cannot yet claim friends. But perhaps we two see friendship in a different way, for all that we both choose the fool’s way over that of our heads.”

He was surprised to hear she had sacrificed her nobility, though not due to the action itself – it seemed to be a recurring habit amongst the minor nobles of Nottinghamshire, for after all, wasn’t Robin Lord of Locksley and Earl of Huntingdon? No, it was the fact that for all that he had not heard of her in any of the tales of Robin Hood whispered in taverns over the length and breadth of England. Even if the two were wholly unconnected (though given the proximity, he doubted it – he wasn’t entirely thick) Adam would have expected some drunkard to link them and from there a tale to grow. It was almost as if she had been suppressed from all tales, as women often were to protect them, or focus on the hero. Whatever it was, it set a bell ringing in Adam’s head – he wanted to learn more about the Lady Marian, if only to know the story that he sensed instinctively was there, and to give it the telling it deserved if it was appropriate.

The second question worried Adam more than the first, because here was an opportunity to put his foot in it and reveal the gang. For once, his mind worked faster than his mouth. “For a start, the dip was entirely unintentional, but as you can tell, my climbing is rather woeful. Heights are a fear I have long held, and wish to conquer if I am to remain in this area – I am of thatching stock, but roofs here are higher than those of Devonshire.” Adam paused, rather proud of himself. Devonshire was about as far from Yorkshire as was possible. “Being new, I didn’t feel the need to embarrass myself in front of the villagers, but I cannot claim to know the forest too well. I lost my way searching for an easy tree. As for my living arrangements, I have none. I flit from good home to good home in the area, pay my board in repairs, and move on. I intend to make my own home, when I have the funds, some way outside the villages perhaps, but not too distant. I doubt the forest is a friendly place for a stranger to live.” Oh, how he hated lying. Adam could see himself, as se through as fine vellum stretched on a rack, his lies written in clear red ink across his forehead, blazing his inadequacy.

[Marian Fitzwalter]

The meaning of her name was as important in suiting her as the sound. ‘Marian’ meant bitter. And certainly she had a past full of it. A thousand regrets she just couldn’t let go of, a thousand sins she hadn’t forgiven. It was her pride that meant she couldn’t forgive and forget. And so she kept the wounds inside and they took longer to heal. Leaving a bitterness in her heart that she sometimes struggled to hide. It exposed itself most often around Robin, not that you wouldn’t expect that to be the case. But as her name said there was a bitterness inside she tried to keep from showing, because when it did it ruined the friendships around her.

Noting the shadow that crossed his face Marian wondered whether he would realise. She hoped not, nothing like a reputation to spoil a comfortable conversation. But her next question removed the look. Although he didn’t seem so impressed with it. He reasoning was perfectly sounds although she had to wonder at his final words. Perhaps it was a good thing at that moment she was not watching his face, for then she couldn’t see the lies in his words.

It would anger, amuse and please her to know that she was not spoken of in Robin’s tales. If she wasn’t spoken of, then she was a lot safer than she would have been otherwise. However, Marian refused to let it be though t Robin was any better, or more charitable, than she. So part of her would have enjoyed to hear she was in his tales. If the nightwatchman was spoke of as much as Robin she would be pleased, but she knew this wasn’t the case.

This time she was watching him, and though perhaps it wasn’t as clear as having it written across his face he did betray his nervousness. However, part of her found it more than slightly amusing to hear his stories. She had to admit it wasn’t bad. “Oh and tell me, are the roofs in Devonshire much different to those of Winchester?” She smiled slightly, perhaps that was the one thing to come out of the one trip to visit her father’s old friend. She hadn’t liked him, and hated him after the second encounter.

[Adam Thatcher]

More questions usually brought Adam to such a panic that he tried to leap out of the nearest window, but even in his slightly agitated state he could tell the difference between playful teasing and flat out interrogation. A smile allowed the tension to ebb away from his face and a ruddier colour returned to it, though he still retained his naturally pale complexion. Indeed, it was safe to say that he was amused by her words, and it showed as he scraped his sopping hair back from his face to smile at her properly, before giving his shirt another experimental wring and subsequently soaking his shoes. In his relief he hardly noticed that his toes were now swimming in cold water, though he eventually gained enough sense to move his feet and squelch to a new position.

The question was also one he could answer, and that added substantially to his relief. Adam had spent hours at his father’s knee, learning the rules and methods of the trade, distinguishing straw and reeds for thatching and methods of waterproofing, as well as his father’s anecdotal evidence of differences across the separate counties. Adam’s own travels across England and up to Scotland had confirmed some of these mysterious stories, denied others and filled in information where there had been none. Even if the local thatcher had resented his appearance or there had been none in the village, Adam could generally pick up the local technique from looking at the houses and in part from guesswork.

“I should like to say that roofs are roofs, but what kind of journeyman craftsman would ever admit that any local boy can ply his trade across the country? It would be a fool to remove his own selling point in one move. The roofs of Devonshire are less sloped, and made with finer thatch that is more tightly packed – they have less rain and more sun, and the thicker thatch would warp in the warmth, while the fine prevents the house overheating. It is susceptible to damp though, in winter, and must be replaced regularly or tarred. Tarring is expensive and dangerous in over warm areas, so it is generally not used in Devonshire. As for Winchester? It has not yet recovered from the fire fifty years ago. Locals are suspicious of thatchers and tarring, so they have shoddy work done on high steeped roofs. I did not stop there long. Nottinghamshire though – here the roofs are as high as I have seen, as though people wished to hide themselves within them. New, too. Are there many fires and such accidents here? The heat, perhaps?”

Adam asked the question to put off any suspicion that he was anything other than what he said he was, a newcomer to the area. Of course he knew why the roofs around Nottingham were new. The houses were new, or rebuilt. He had seen the same in other counties – wherever a tyrant had control over the people there was death and destruction on a large scale, and though the dead were hidden in graveyards and the burnt possessions too disappeared, and the people hid their anger and hate behind walls of indifference, it was always shown in the buildings. Burn marks never left stone, the new showed itself against the old and a new roof stuck out to Adam like a target, ingrained in him.

Something still irked him though, still hung around the edge of his mind like an insistent wasp, unpleasant but needing to be dealt with. Her name was still familiar, still something he had heard somewhere, and even though he liked her, even felt she might become a friend, anything that was familiar was potentially dangerous. It had taken him a few hours to recognise all variations of Gisbourne and associate them with the cruel looking man in black that had taken over Locksley and was the Sheriff’s right hand man, but in that first week Adam had often heard the name and for a moment been nonplussed at why the gang was running, or hiding or whooping in delight at whatever the news was. Hearing Marian’s name was like this, like there was something he knew, or should know, something important that was meant to define who this woman was to him, and he couldn’t access it. It was locked away from him, and that worried and frustrated him.

He wanted to ask her how he might know her, who they might have as a mutual acquaintance for despite all his lies Adam had a canny idea she knew exactly what he was about if not who he was. Still, he was loathe to openly admit that he had heard of her, that he was less of a stranger than he should have been, just in case there was something sinister about the beautiful young woman with the kind smile. It was sad but experience had taught Adam to be suspicious and to not trust his instincts. It was on instinct that he had killed a man, and on instinct that he had run, and his life had never been the same since. He racked his brain for an excuse to ask her something of her past, something that might tell him what he wanted, but the ruse he came up with was pitiful in his own estimation.

“My Lady, you are a kind woman. I should not wish to have my opinion of you besmirched by false rumour or foul tale. Warn me of any accusers and their tales now, and I shall do my best to disagree and dissuade them. I am, as I said, something of a story teller. I would like to make that talent of use to you, if I could. I think there will be many tales to tell of Nottingham, all wildly false and exaggerated, but yours I should like to tell true, if you would give me leave to tell it.” The words were delivered with an honest charm, since he meant them as more than a mere subterfuge, but Adam did not imagine they would get him the answer he wanted.

[Marian Fitzwalter]

Marian was glad to see some of the tension go, she would have felt bad if he had remained nervous. She returned his smile with one of her own. It had been ages since she had been able to ask questions without having anything hanging on the answers, in fact everything had meaning the way she lived now. Every action was done for a purpose, and although it was a good purpose everyone needed to relax once in a while. Of course technically there was a purpose to this, but it was easy enough to forget. And just because she and Robin were not exactly on speaking terms that didn’t mean she had to ignore all of his gang, did it?

It was only when he squelched into a new position she remembered just how wet he was. She was concerned for his safety, if he stayed cold and wet much longer he would get ill, a cold at least. However, perhaps selfishly she didn’t make a move, the game would have to stop if they had company. It wasn’t like he was in immediate danger and as a traveller and outlaw he would be used to being a little uncomfortable, she was sure. She wasn’t going to let him get ill, she would give up the game before she injured any of robin’s men. He did at least deserve a band of healthy men, well at least ones not injured because of her.

Maybe she wouldn’t admit it but talking to Adam could provide the much needed news on Robin’s movements, they hadn’t spoken in so long. Part of her was desperate to know how he was and how he was doing. But she wouldn’t admit that to her self, let alone any one else. She hated the thought that she would worry about how he was doing, it meant she cared and he could hurt her if he chose.

She nodded, knowing what he meant. No one would admit that they weren’t the rare one in their trade. But she was surprised to hear how different the thatching was. She supposed she’d never paid attention to it and the reason behind it all. Thatching was simply a way for keeping out the worst of the rain. You knew how to take care of it and when it needed replacing, but its technical features were unimportant to all but those who had to work it. Of course you noticed when the roofs were higher or lower, but not when the thatch was finer or tarred.

She nodded and her face dropped for a moment “It’s nearly fifty-five years now.” She’d heard the stories from her father, a blaze that had totally crippled the region. Such blazes were uncommon in the wet climate, but with a dry spell and the houses covered with thatch and tar fires would break out and spread. Her father had told her about the great fire of Winchester, it had happened while he was just a boy but he could remember every moment of those few days.

“Ah, you want to know what happens here? Well that’s a task for the foolish if ever I heard one. People here don’t stick their noses where they don’t belong for a reason. To tell you any more would be to endanger my own neck, but then again I suppose you deserve to be warned.” She smiled weakly “I wish I could say it was fires, normal fires at least. We have trouble and it doesn’t care who it hits, so long as someone pays.” She didn’t know how to make light of it. He would know anyway, as one of Robin’s men. Quite honestly she didn’t know why she had wasted her breath telling half truths to a man who knew it anyway.

She wondered if she may be giving more away in her vague answers than she meant. But it was too late to go back and it wouldn’t hurt for him to know who she was, it was only fair in the long run. The rest of the gang knew her name if not her face. He must be new, she speculated, if he couldn’t recognise her name. She had heard little about this new recruit, maybe it had been mentioned in passing but she hadn’t registered it.
She hadn’t realised just how entertaining he would be…

His final question brought a smile to her lips, maybe the formal language and the fact no one had called her ‘my lady’ in years was to blame, but perhaps it was the way he skirted around asking her who she was. His cleverly posed question needed a just as subtle answer. While she paused a moment in thought her eyes lit up and she shifted her weight slightly, surveying Adam from a step back. She smiled and let her eyes rest gently on his face, watching his expression carefully as she spoke. “False rumour and foul tale? What cause have you to suspect I am talked about? Could I not live a perfectly quite life hidden away here?” Her eyes danced as she paused for a moment, going on without waiting for a reply. “But then again, this is the Nottingham, and no noble can live here without some person talking about them. In any other shire the disappearance of a noble would be wide spread news, not so here it seems, I may be one of many. No, the only ones to spread false rumours are those I had offended while at the castle, and it’s not hard to guess who they were. The rumours they spread? Well that would be telling. Of course, you are assuming I have just the one name.” Her eyes danced and smiled again, meeting his eyes.

“But if you are a story teller your talent would be wasted on me. I like my secrets for they have often saved my life. To tell one tale would require a thousand others and each more revealing. Shadows and secrets suit me now. Perhaps if you cannot tell tales of me you should tell tales to me.” It amused her no end to hear the tales of Robin from the mouths of story tellers, his deeds so exaggerated by rumour. Of course it was what he lived for, the romance and glory. He needed people to love him. But what would one of his own men make of such tales? Marian had no idea.