Welcome

[Adam Thatcher]

They were dancing around each other now with every word and question, pretending they were avoiding a danger where none existed. True, in Nottinghamshire most conversations with strangers held life and death for a moment or two, particularly if they were with drunken knights in taverns, but now the whole exercise was just a bit of fun, a mockery of the situation both of them endured day after day and endearingly so. Adam was sure now that the woman in front of him posed no danger to him at all, her vague warnings and smiling eyes confirming his instinctive warmth towards her and fostering a tentative trust that every joke and smile strengthened. Adam was sure too that she knew exactly who he was now, if she hadn’t before – he hadn’t exactly been too subtle with the tags that were supposed to protect him, and anyway walking alone in the forest frequented by outlaws, asking too many questions and giving too few answers were all rather large giveaways. Still, the game was nothing if not entertaining, and Adam would have been loath to let it end without the promise of another highly amusing if mind-bendingly tricky conversation with Marian.

Adam could see from the concentrated but amused look on her face and the pauses before she answered him that she was considering her words just as carefully as he was in order to keep up the illusion that either of them could slip up and reveal anything fatal, despite their allegiances hanging around their necks in plain sight, quite literally in Adam’s case. But knowing that they were playing the same game did nothing to stop Marian shocking the young outlaw and clearly visa versa, as the mention of fire and the destruction of Nottinghamshire’s houses, instead of being passed off as an ‘ignorant stranger’s’ stray remark, clearly struck a deeper chord than intended. Adam almost thought he saw a fleeting glimmer of loss, or some sadness as the tone of the conversation turned bitter, and he couldn’t help wondering what had burned for this bright young noblewoman alone in the forest. He didn’t know how to reply, because in the light of her words, he could hardly make light of it or feign ignorance or remorse – Marian was preaching to the choir, and even though she probably knew that, Adam didn’t want to break the fragile good mood that engulfed the scene with a rant against the home-wrecking forces of the sheriff. When roused he could probably go further than any of his comrades on that particular topic, despite being relatively fresh-faced and a new enemy of the bald tyrant. The destruction of a home in fire was the worst thing dam could imagine, for rather obvious reasons – if the acrid smell of smoke did not bring back the memories of the York fire and all that event had held for him, death and murder, then the sight of a roof so like hundreds he had thatched, walls like scores he had laid, come tumbling down to nothing was enough to raise bile in his throat and bring out violence in the usually peaceful man.

In the end, he let her words pass, caring more about the truth behind them then the words themselves and hoping his silence would count as agreement enough to satisfy her without destroying their fun. Such moments were rare in Nottingham he knew, and he suspected were even rarer for the woman standing opposite him. Whether it was something he had heard about her and had forgotten, or something in her air in the moments between words and smiles, the pauses and silences he didn’t know, but Adam knew somehow there was a sadness to Marian as instinctively as one recognises an animal in pain, even if it is silent, or a girl heartbroken for the first time as she smiles. Consequently, he would damn himself to the devil before he ruined the moment by getting up on his high horse and preaching about an evil that, for the time being at least, could be forgotten.

Adam shivered involuntarily and rather belatedly realising he was still cold, settled himself on a newly made stump, where the new gap in the canopy had yet to be monopolised by neighbouring oaks and allowed a little sunshine to bathe the broken base. It was a bit more viable than the other patch of sunlight in the middle of the lake, though the stump was still sticky from the tar used to burn through the trunk, and though Adam knew exactly where the wood cut down was going – he had seen the cart horses dragging it to Nottingham that very morning and it was not to create fine furniture for the castle, or anything elegantly efficient as Will might have done with such wood. No, less than a week before the outlaws, in a fit of pique, had burnt the sheriff’s gallows (unfortunately without the man himself standing on them) and now a bigger, better contraption was being assembled with a special hanging to baptise it featuring the usual treat - one of Robin Hood’s men, provided one could be caught in time. Adam had a nasty feeling it would probably be him if any.

Still, now he was hiding it from his own view at least, and full of that slight but natural joy that simply being in sunlight brings, Adam devoted himself to answering the Lady Marian (for Lady Marian she would always be in his mind, though his storyteller’s instinct tried to present him with an alliterative alternative.) “Nobility be damned!” Realising his mistake he lifted up a hand and nearly overbalanced in the process, adding hastily “not literally, of course. I mean to say, my Lady, if travelling taught me one thing only, which given my thick peasant’s head is quite likely, it was that wherever you are a pretty face will be talked of, and not always in the most flattering terms depending on who does the talking. The tales of a certain wife in Bath, for example...” Adam stopped himself with a smile. “Nobility and disappearance are mere additions to a tale – beauty is all. But you are right, Nottingham is different. What is commonplace here is extraordinary elsewhere, and visa versa, so your theory is probably right. Few people here tell stories of anyone except their heroes.” Not that that discounts you, he added silently. After all, he knew her name from somewhere – perhaps she too was some kind of local hero. The feeling of lost knowledge swam up again and Adam dismissed it petulantly, beginning to grow annoyed with his memory.

“Ah, that explains all. You have many names- no, wait, you have to let me guess. Guinevere? No, you don’t look the betraying type, though every inch a queen I’m sure. Freja? No, there’s no Viking in you. But I am right in part, for you are no mortal woman. Your other name must be your real one – Venus? Minerva? Or Saint Hilda? Saint Winifred? Or – I have it! – Mary, Queen of Heaven herself come down to strike the sinner where he sits!” By now Adam’s tone had degenerated from open teasing to near-laughter as his suggestions grew more ridiculous and heretical by the second. He coughed to regain his composure, though he could not hide his grin as he spoke. “You would have me tell a tale with none promised in return? What of then? Not of Robin Hood, surely, it must be told a dozen times a day. For a stranger to tell a local tale is the quickest route to ruin I ever knew, other than waving a coin under the Sheriff’s overlarge nose.”

[Marian Fitzwalter]

She was glad when he slid over her comment, and the break in the mood it brought. She hadn’t meant it to hit so hard, but she could still remember the night her childhood home burnt, with Guy’s hand holding the torch as he commanded her to beg for all she held dear. He had still let it burn, forcing her out, a sword at her father’s neck. She had never ever forgiven him for that and wouldn’t so long as she could remember the blazing blood red sky above the hall and the acrid smell of the flames licking at her memories. She couldn’t stand to see the dismal remains of houses so much smaller and barer than her own now. She understood the pain of those who gathered outside them, a few precious belongings clutched in their hands while they cried. At least they had those. All she’d had was the clothes she was wearing, and she had been forced to depend wholly on Guy and the Sheriff. While the story of the fire was wide spread knowledge, what happened in the house was not. Her father had never mentioned it again, and Robin never said a word to indicate he had heard what had gone on inside the house, though she though she may have caught a look from him that said he had. Marian had never mentioned it since, it had hurt not only her pride but what ever regard she my once have had for the man. She hated the memory of being forced to beg and then ignored.

Silence was odd in light of such a comment. True strangers would have asked more, and most of Robin’s gang would have started discussing ways to react to the sheriff’s actions, though they hardly needed spurring on for that. No, Marian could see that Adam was different to the rest of the gang, and she couldn’t see that being a bad thing. She enjoyed his gentle teasing and easy manner, the fact he didn’t seem to be as stressed or over-driven as the rest. He reminded her in small ways of Robin when he was younger, before he went off to fight a battle that was not England’s own and return to fight one he started himself. She didn’t know much about the man before her, but while he didn’t appear as driven as the rest of Robin’s gang he certainly must care as much. No one would give up a life of freedom to live in a damp forest saving people who had come to expect it and fighting a sheriff who refused to lose if they didn’t truly care or could avoid it. Part of Marian wanted to know why thing man had been driven to the life, there would be a reason she was sure. But like many of those living there, it would only be drawn out with patience and listening.

Marian had heard about the burning of the gallows, it was the talk of the town. Every one was whispering Robin’s name, amazed and praising. Marian on the other hand was furious, she would have marched right over to Robin’s camp and knocked some sense into him. However, her own gang had been able to restrain her. She had spent so much time in people’s company in the last week she had needed this escape. She still wanted to tell Robin what a fool he was, but as had been pointed out before she wanted to do that anyway. As far as she could see burning the gallows was a stupid move as it had only angered the sheriff and he was sure to retaliate. He would punish many for the single deed, and that would be entirely on Robin’s shoulders.

Marian allowed her self a slight smile at the man’s predicament and words. The fact that this man had no idea how much she had fought and how fast she had run once she was totally free. The only tie to the castle was Guy, who had tried to take her hand countless times and every encounter had always left her feeling confused and lost, so Marian found it hard to miss him the majority of the time. She was enjoying the way he spoke so freely, but perhaps that was the feeling of the forest. It inspired and secluded feeling, protection oozing out of it where the main roads didn’t cut like burning stripes across the sanctuary. Like most living in the forest Marian did her best to keep off such roads, they were frequented by travellers and, more importantly, the sheriff’s men.

She couldn’t prevent a full out grin breaking out across her face as his suggestions got more and more ridiculous. “You flatter me sir, but no I am none such. I’m sorry to spoil your great imaginings. You will have to else where to find such great women, perhaps try the deepest Cornish coast for such? Because that is where such legends are born.” She controlled her smile, fighting the odd feelings that came from being so relaxed. And the heart ache that came from missing such times with Robin.

Shaking her head she looked over at the bushes as she replied “I’m sure a suitable tale can be found in return. I need time to find the right tale. After all once a tale is told it cannot be withdrawn. More than likely it will focus on another, as I said you would waste your talent on me when there are those who would appreciate a tale of themselves so much more.” She smiled apologetically “To tell a tale of Robin in Nottingham would be waving a coin under our sheriff’s nose, a thing easily done. As our hero proves all too often.” The word ‘hero’ was stressed more than she had intended. “Among the people living in the city it is whispered a thousand times, though only in the barest of words. Here in the outlands, we hear only the whispers in snatches. No tale is ever told for us. Just the events.” She turned back to face him properly “Tell me please how other’s hear of our hero. Living here it is the one thing we never hear. Just as I’m sure those in Camelot never truly heard of Arthur’s deeds. Surely there is no danger in telling just one person?” She didn’t notice how she stressed ‘hero’ again; otherwise her voice was light and teasing and she smiled brightly at Adam as she spoke.

[Adam Thatcher]

“Cornwall may indeed have such legends, but as long as it has cold winters, unwelcoming people and such inhospitable shelters as sea caves that flood each night and scrubby bushes across its moors, storytellers shall always favour the more moderate climes and more beautiful women of the North,” the outlaw replied smoothly, smiling Marian as he remembered his own travels to that inhospitable county. Adam had been to Cornwall in his travels, for where could be further south of York and his crimes than the pinnacle of Cornwall, where land ended and sea and sky stretched on without apparent end, and true, it was a land of legend. The mere sight of sea and sky fading together seemed conducive to stories of gods and men mingling, or saints walking the shore and women of both the land and sea, mermaids and shape changers. Ancient powers too seemed to be at force in the terrific storms that rocked the coast when Adam had seen it, in the height of summer, when blistering heat had been followed by violent rain. It had been an awesome landscape, but the people there had feared strangers, so insular and different in their dialects and customs that Adam had not stayed long. The having to sleep out in the rough during the discordant weather might also have had something to do with the brevity of his stay – Adam, even then, had been no stranger to nights out in the open, but spending every night getting drenched to the skin without even the prospect of s warm meal for his storytelling was not a pleasing one. Still, he had learnt much there, whenever he could understand the strange words they spoke to one another, as foreign to him as French or Welsh, and the tales had proved valuable – a new story was often well rewarded in towns where the traditional tales had been worn thin with over-telling.

“Besides, are not all women great? We men have failings, certainly, and not one in a thousand is a great man, though these few cluster together often, but I have yet to meet a woman not equal to any of them in perseverance and character, in what they sacrifice in comfort and honour. You must forgive me therefore for disagreeing with you, but I have found women to be great within themselves far from Cornwall, within even this very forest.” it sounded too sincere a compliment for a jesting conversation, but Adam was not thinking of just Marian, but of all the brave, unflinching women he had met and heard of in the past few weeks. The Forestwife, Eva, Myer, her sister... these were just a few names at the pinnacle of an iceberg that stretched into the heart of Nottingham Castle itself. It was awe-inspiring that women could do such remarkable things as flee into the forest when normally honour and family life were the only options open to them. To leave all this behind and throw themselves into the danger of the woods that they were, nominally at least, far less well equipped to deal with than men who had been prepared since birth for danger and defence was mind blowing. Far more exciting though was the prospect of so many daughters and sisters reaching their true potential and men’s equals – it had taken time for Adam, as with many men, to recognise the truth and cast off the convention that women were in some way inferior to men in anything but strength, but having done so with Hana Adam recognised the force and potential that woman had. It was a relief to see some using it against the Sherriff and his henchman, Guy of Gisbourne.

Adam could not help his eyebrows quirking up as, for the second time, the word hero he had so innocently used came back to him strained and highlighted. For a moment he wondered what it meant, but then that was made abundantly clear – dislike of Robin Hood was rare among those who did not favour the Sherriff, and Adam himself may have found the man an inspiring leader, but that did not mean it could not happen that a young woman might find the subject of Sherwood’s best known inhabitant so distasteful she could not even say the name. And then came what Adam had been waiting for ever since he had learnt the woman’s name – the realisation of who she was, and why it all felt so familiar. Well, he had enough dots by now that they practically joined up without his putting any effort into it. Marian. Of course, Marian, the Marian, the girl, the woman, no one talked about, no-one mentioned, except when Robin was out of earshot and in a particularly bad mood. It felt, to be honest, a little like a thunderbolt to realise that here in front of him was the woman everything and nothing depended upon. Now, Adam didn’t know the particulars, since talking about her was definitely on that unwritten list of rules that governed the camp, and because the other gang members still enjoyed holding information back from him, to tease him. Still, he knew enough of the tale and enough of all love stories to recognise it for what it was. So this was she. Adam could see the attraction. Childhood friends, even sweethearts, no doubt. The ideas wheeled round his head in circles.

Adam struggled to keep his realisation off his face, and he was so caught up in it for a moment that he didn’t answer her words, his mouth gaping and his eyes wide in surprise. He recovered himself though, trying not to give the game away, though his words still cloyed in his throat as he thought through his sentences carefully. However much he might have wanted otherwise, there was no denying that this changed the dynamic of the conversation hugely. No tale of that hero could possibly go down well if the hints of the division were anything to go by. He hmmed and hawed for a few moments before returning her smile, a little forcedly, and decided to tell the truth. “Robin Hood is a tale of hope for many distant from Nottingham. Even those ruled benevolently feel the pinch of Richard’s war, John’s taxes. They recognise good and evil, however strangely the two are changed into law and outlaws. His story makes children practice archery and men walk the length of the land to glimpse the legend at work. As a man he is called brave, noble, the best with a bow in all England and of course handsome, for no hero can be a plain old soul like myself. As a leader he is told as fearless for himself, loyal to his men to a fault, the hope of Nottingham, saviour of many. They call him a good man, a king’s man, a fighter for the people. But I am sure you have your own story of Robin Hood, no matter how little the outlanders hear, and I am sure it differs in a great many respects, though perhaps not in the core tenets. Across England he is well liked, in a general sort of way, but it Nottinghamshire it is different for each person. Some hate him, others find him a nuisance. Still I find, as a teller and listener, overall he is loved. What then is your story of him, Marian?”

[Marian Fitzwalter]

Having never been to the area Marian could only trust Adam's judgement of place, trusting that as a storyteller he had seen far more of the true nature of the place then she would have done travelling as a Sheriff's daughter. For such inhospitalities were kept hidden from the eyes of th rich. Just as the Sheriff brushed over the outlaw threat in Nottingham. There was a code for the rich that said you couldn't be seen as weak in anyway among your peers. It was simply a method of keeping them on your side. But once Marian had realised how fake this vision was it had been one of the reasons for getting out among the people, finding out what life was like. Now she was sure she would have an even worse view of Cornwall than Adam did, as she would merely an outsider with not even the promise of entertainment.So Marian had to trust him to be honest, and he had no reason not to be. If he truly loved the place he would have praised them outright.

His reply brought a smile to her lips. No matter how it sounded too sincere it was certainly true. She knew every woman from across the sire fought hand tooth and claw for what little they could dream of owning, and her own gang and allies in the forest fought along side them, with out the thanks and praise of Robin's gang. This was one of Marian's sources of vanity, that her own would do what Robin did for praise and love for nothing but she didn't say a word as he praised her kind. However, she knew one thing he didn't, that every woman who lived within the forest had their own weaknesses and failings that made them nothing like the characters in the tales and legends. While such women where infallible, those in the forest were not though they kept their weakness as close to their chest as was possible. And often they fell for the weakest of things, in more than one case the men who helped and hurt them.

"But perhaps the difference between the women in your tales and the women you find here is their wish to go unnamed. For a name is a dangerous thing, as I'm sure you know full well. And having a name and a face makes you all to real to those who would chose to hunt you down." In many ways it was a thinly concealed threat, and far too heavy for the conversations previously light tones. She sighed but knew all the wishing in the world wouldn't bring those back. An outlaws curse that one couldn't speak of danger and secrets without it sounding all too real. So she smiled once more at him and continued to ruin things.

His unexpected reaction spoke realisation and Marian jumped to the conclusion that he had, finally, joined the dots. And she wanted to kick herself for letting him do so. Now she would have to try and pretend she didn't know he knew who she was. His forced smile told her how she had been right, it was better if he didn't know. She hated names, she hated the fact she hated Robin. She hated what he did and what she had done, but that didn't mean those things could be taken away and it didn't mean she was going to take the necessary steps to fix it. That would need more humility than she had and it would mean forcing her roughly healed heart to bleed again. It meant admitting to the world what she was scared to ay to her self and it meant submission and control. It meant him having a piece of her and knowing it. In truth it terrified her though she would never say. So she would have to continue hating even though it would do nothing but grow more bitterness in her heart.
Something in the way he praised Robin, or spoke of how others praised him, stirred an unwanted feeling of pride in her breast. It was the same when ever she saw the gratitude he got and it reminded her she cared for him, to see him happy and well liked. It made her proud to hear how others saw him as an inspiration. But it hurt to think he got so much when she was forced to hide in the shadows, not only because of her fears of discovery but also because she felt it right. Surely it was better not to endanger the people she worked for, rather than have them as open to attack her self. These mixed feelings played across her face as shadows and light, but with out one ever being clear or winning over the other.

She managed a weak smile at Adam before she answered slowly, taking her time. “My story of him?” She paused thinking “It is not one I will give lightly, for it could earn me as much trouble as it could give entertainment, if truly he is as loved as you say.” She looked him in the eyes and continued “So therefore I cannot tell it lightly, to any passing stranger. So come now, we must have it fair. What is your story and why you travel as both a thatcher, though you cannot climb, and a story-teller, though you do not like the land of stories?” Again a slight pause before she continued “Though you may not know it, here secrets are traded as a higher commodity then gold. If you have the right secrets you have the sheriff’s ear or his dungeons, so we guard ours and only trade like for like. The stories you ask for will come at a higher price than most, but now I have said too much…” And she trailed off, her awkwardness rising with the amount she gave away. In a sudden urge to be gone she glance around, allowing her eyes to rest for longer on the various hidden paths, though she didn’t move from either.