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Chapter Text

“Giz, relax,” Allan said.  He felt as though he had been saying it continually since the boat had dropped anchor in Dover, but it did not seem to be doing any good.  His companion was still starting at every passing rider, and it was making him nervous as well.

He could still hardly believe it was four years since he had seen England, he who had never been more than two hundred miles from home until he was 26 years old.  Though Guy had travelled much more, two trips to the Holy Land to Allan’s one, he was no more seasoned.  Allan often wondered how he had made the journey back to Nottingham after he failed to kill the king.  And why.  What had he wanted to get back to?

King Richard was dead now, but it had been Allan’s idea to return to England.  He had never considered himself sentimental before, but nowhere in Italy or France had ever felt like home. There was no point in asking Guy to make the journey while Richard was still alive, though they had heard from some Englishmen they encountered that he was as reluctant to remain in England as ever.  So it came as no surprise when they learned that he had been killed by enemies in France.

“He probably spent almost as much time in France as we did,” Allan had joked in an effort to lighten Guy’s mood just that morning.

“Perhaps, but no one with him was going to identify me there,” was Guy’s humorless reply.

It was then that he realized how mistaken he had been about Guy’s anxieties. Richard wasn’t the problem; Robin was.

Try as he might to convince Guy that Robin would have no interest in settling old scores—he had no king to protect and, he brought up more reluctantly, he had married the woman they both loved—but it was no use.  Finally, he let go of the topic entirely.  Instead, as they walked along, Allan pointed out places that he remembered: the site of the second outlaw camp (where he laughed at the irony of showing it to Guy), the clearing where he had been caught poaching by the sheriff’s guards, and the place where he had saved Guy’s life for the first time, letting him climb up behind him after he had fallen from his horse during the gang’s attack.

Somehow, that did get both of their minds off of the meeting he was anticipating.  He began to ask Allan questions about the life he had led there. Telling stories about his time with the gang only made Allan feel more at home.  It still surprised him sometimes how little Guy remembered of stories in which he himself had played a role, even he knew there was much he wanted to forget of his life before he was imprisoned in Acre.  Apparently, the forgetting had been indiscriminate, but he suspected that his memories of these occasions would be happier than Guy’s anyway.  After all, the gang had come out as the winners in almost all of their conflicts.

It was just beginning to get dark when Guy suddenly stopped.  Allan was so involved in telling his story about the time his brother Tom had wanted to join the gang that he took several steps more before realizing he was alone.

As he turned around he asked, “Giz? What’s the matter?”

“We’re almost . . . there,” Guy said softly.

“Well, yeah.  We said we’d visit Robin and Marian first.  That was the plan.”

Guy remained frozen in place, dropping his gaze.

Sighing, Allan walked back to stand next to him, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“Come on, Giz.  Let’s get it over with, yeah? If we’re not welcome in Nottinghamshire, it’s best we find out soon.”

“I know what we said,” Guy replied.  “It’s just . . . it’s late, Allan.  What if we interrupt their supper? What if their children are asleep, and we wake them up?”

Allan studied his face for a moment.   His words weren’t unreasonable, but Allan had seen him like this many times before.  Guy’s old habit of fidgeting with his gloves had never left him, even though the gloves themselves had years ago, before they even left the Holy Land.  He was rubbing his thumb against the callous along the side of his index finger, still not meeting Allan’s gaze.  He was afraid, but Allan knew that with enough coaxing he could convince him.

“Come on, then,” he said, relenting instead.  “Let’s see if there’s a room left at the inn, maybe with a decent sized bed.

Guy lifted his head in an instant, the corners of his mouth lifting in a grateful smile

* * *

It was the last room left, and the proprietor had eyed them with suspicion for several minutes before leading them to it.  Allan had been afraid that he might recognize Guy, but the man’s surprise when they produced payment relived him.  He supposed they did look like vagrants, and the thought made him grin.  If they were lucky, maybe not even Robin would recognize Guy.

Guy had started to relax from the moment they diverged from their path, and now he was stretched out on his back in the center of the mattress, arms folded behind his head.

“It feels great to be in a real bed,” he observed with a smile.

Allan returned it.  “Do I need to take your word for it, or can I feel it for myself? No, stay where you are,” he added as Guy began to sit up.  “I’ll lie down in a minute.”

Looking out of the small window, he could just barely make out the gently sloping hills of Nottinghamshire in the darkness.  He heard the bed creek as Guy got up, and the soft falls of his bare feet on the floor behind him.  Then Guy’s hands were on his shoulders, gently kneading the tension from them.

“You missed this place, didn’t you?”

Allan nodded, relaxing.

“I’m . . . sorry I kept you away for so long.  I know you would have come back sooner if it weren’t for . . .”

“Shhh, Guy,” Allan murmured as he leaned back against him.  “I understand why.  It’s not as though I had any reason to want to see King Richard again either.  I’m just glad you were willing to come.”

Guy wrapped his arms around him, pulling him against his chest.  “Of course,” he whispered, before releasing Allan and taking his hand, leading him to the bed.  “You know you can talk me into anything.”

Allan nodded in agreement.  “Yeah, and you know I’d never leave you behind.”

Guy smiled as he sat down on the edge of the bed, reaching for the hem of Allan’s shirt and pulling it up until Allan took hold of it, drawing it over his head.  Allan watched with contentment as he continued undressing him.  Guy believed him when he said that now.  But lord, how long it had taken.

* * *

Guy seemed confident enough when they first set out the next morning, but the closer they got to Locksley, the more tense and quiet he became.  This time, Allan did not even try to keep him talking.  It would be difficult no matter what he said; he only hoped he and Marian could keep the two men from lunging at each other’s throats.

When the manor finally came into view, it was Allan who stopped dead in his tracks.

“Are . . . are you sure this Locksley?”

Guy remained silent, considering before he said cautiously, “Yes, that’s the house, but . . . where is everyone?”

They had seen peasants on the road, going about their daily work, and the cottages nearby seemed well-tended, but the yard surrounding the house empty save one stooped, white haired man who seemed to be weeding a tiny patch of flowers with his hoe.

He seemed harmless enough, and Allan steeped forward, clearing his throat.

“Excuse me,” he said.  “We’ve . . .”

Before he could finish the sentence, the man stood up with surprising speed, tightening his grip on the hoe he was carrying.  He brandished it towards Allan like a weapon.

“Whoa! Hey, careful with that!”

“Who are you?” he demanded in a sharp, reedy voice.  “What is your business here?”

“I . . .” Allan stammered in shock.  “We’re friends of Sir Robin.”

He looked back at Guy to see if he would contradict him, but Guy’s face was as drained of color as he was sure his own was, and he said nothing.

When his eyes met those of the old man, he was meet a silence no less suspicious than the questions had been.

“I was a member of his gang,” Allan explained, wondering if it would be wise to be more specific. The last Robin’s peasants would have heard of Allan a Dale was that he had betrayed their beloved master and his gang.  It might make this one inclined to put that hoe to use.

The man’s expression remained unchanged, the hoe still stretched out towards them.  “Prove it.”

“Oh for God’s sake,” Allan grumbled, taking the pack from his back and kneeling on the ground the rummage through it.

“Don’t tell me I’ve lost the blasted thing,” he murmured to himself.  Finally, with a gasp of triumph, he stood and gingerly walked towards the man, one hand in the air and the other holding the string attached to his outlaw tag. He looped it over the blade of the hoe.

Without taking his eyes off of Allan, the man brought it close to his face.

“You don’t wear it anymore?”

Allan rolled his eyes.  “What, is it only valid if I’m wearing it?” he cried with indignation.

Apparently satisfied, the man finally lowered the hoe to the ground.  “I would think any one of Master Robin’s men would be proud to wear it,” he grumbled just loud enough for Allan to hear him as he reluctantly handed the tag back, still eyeing it.

Suddenly, he glanced up at Allan and then beyond him.  “Are you one who married the Saracen? Is this your wife with you?”

Allan grinned back at Guy, who looked utterly bemused.  How stupid, Allan thought to himself, being scared of a nearsighted old man.

“No,” he answered. “I’m a different one.”

Before the man could pose further questions, Allan asked, “Where is Master Robin now?”

His face fell, and the wizened features seemed to droop even further.  He pointed the hoe towards a small copse of trees: the Locksley graveyard.

“Master Robin has been . . . gone for a year now.”

Allan could hear the heartbreak in the man’s voice, and he felt for him.  What a sad certainty it must be, he thought: knowing that Robin was truly never coming back this time.

To his surprise, it was Guy who broke the silence this time.

“And Lady Marian . . . is she still living?”

Allan stared at him, and the old man seemed to share his bewilderment at the wording of Guy’s question.  “Of course she’s alive,” came his incredulous reply.  “She’s at Bonchurch with Master Much and his wife.  And Master Malcolm.”

He said this as though it were as universally known as the color of the sky or the direction towards the castle.  Allan’s mouth fell open in shock; he didn’t know which part of the sentence astounded him most.  Master Much?

“What’s Bonchurch?” he asked, only partially recovered from the news.

“It’s a manor,” Guy answered, surprising him again.

“Do you know where it is?”

Guy only shrugged in response.

“Come on,” said the old man.  “I’ll show you.  Any friends of Master Robin will be welcome there.”

Chapter Text

Allan and Guy exchanged a worried glance before following the old man.  He introduced himself as Duncan and informed them that he had been a gardener at Locksley many years earlier, when the first Master Malcolm was still living.  After he was killed in a fire by “that wicked Gisborne boy,” Duncan had been devastated.  He had left to seek employment elsewhere.  Finally, he had ended up working for the newly arrived Sir Edward of Knighton and his feisty little daughter.  He enjoyed many years of happiness there, until it too was burned down by a Guy of Gisborne who had grown as much in wickedness as in stature.

Allan continued to look back at Guy over his shoulder, concerned.  But Guy just plodded along behind them, eyes forward and his lips pressed into a hard, serious line.

This is just the homecoming he imagined, Allan thought to himself with a growing sense of shame.  This is what he wanted to avoid.

Eventually, Allan slowed until Guy was walking by his side.

“Are you alright, Giz,” he asked softly, hoping Duncan’s hearing was as feeble as his eyesight.

Guy shrugged.  “I’m fine.  I just . . . I don’t know what we’re going to find there.”

“Nor do I,” Allan replied.  “Master Much . . . that will be a sight!”

He grinned at Guy, who did not so much as look at him.

“He hates me,” he muttered.

“Oh, come on, Giz,” Allan entreated.  “You don’t know that.  Do you even remember who Much is?”

Guy shook his head.  “Not particularly.  But it doesn’t matter.  They all hated me . . . all the ones that stayed with him.”

Allan tried to dismiss the sense of foreboding he felt at Guy’s words, but he could not.  It was true.  He had abandoned the gang twice to be with Guy, the second time deliberately.  Much probably wouldn’t be happy to see him either.

“Well . . . Marian doesn’t hate you,” Allan offered feebly.

At least that succeeded in making Guy look at him, though Allan immediately regretted it.  He swung his head in Allan’s direction with a look that silenced him: a wide-eyed mixture of fear and anger.

“I wouldn’t dare try to guess how Marian feels about me!” he hissed.

Allan made no reply to that; he had already said enough.

Thankfully, it was not long before Duncan stopped and pointed out the house, nestled between a stream and an orchard full of apple trees, heavy with fruit.  Duncan offered to introduce them, but Allan insisted that he must be far too busy, and they had already taken up so much of his time.  Reluctantly, he accepted Allan’s thanks and turned back in the direction of Locksley.

Allan glanced at Guy, trying to put on a reassuring smile, and had just started towards the front door when a small voice made them both turn around.

“Who are you? What are you doing here?”

It was a little girl about five years old, Allan thought, with long strawberry blonde hair.  He decided that her question sounded more curious than accusing, so he knelt down to be closer to her.

“We’ve come to see the lady of the house, love,” he said, assuming she must be a servant’s child.  “Can you introduce us to her?”

Before the little girl could answer, Allan heard heavy footsteps coming towards them fast.

“There you are, Rosie!” cried a man with sandy hair.  His clothing was clean and neat, but simple.  Allan took him for a steward, or some other high-ranking servant.

He sat down the bucket of apples he was carrying and Rosie jumped into his arms,

“Who have you found now?” he asked as he put her on his hip and turned to face Allan.  “This child has never met a stranger.”

“Oh my God,” Allan exclaimed with a grin.  “Much? . . . is that really you?”

The man’s blue eyes widened in shocked recognition.  “Allan? Allan a Dale? What are you doing here?”

“Papa, he wants to see Aunt Marian,” Rosie explained.

“Where did you come from?” Much asked, ignoring her.

“We came . . .” Allan trailed off as he looked to his left, where he expected to see Guy, only to find him vanished.  He turned around and found him looking up at the sky as though he was wishing he was anywhere else.

“From a lot of places,” Allan answered as he looked back at Much.  “From Acre we sailed to Italy and traveled north from the coast.  We stayed there for a few years, and then we were in France.  When we heard of King Richard’s death, we decided to come back home.”

“But why did you need to wait for King Richard to . . .” Much’s eyes lingered on Guy and Allan froze.

“Who is that?” he asked, his voice cold. He sat Rosie down and pushed her behind him.

 A part of Allan wanted to make the most of Much’s uncertainty.  The Guy he had brought back to England looked different from the man who had left it with Vaisey and Marian in ways that went beyond a change of clothing.  He could possibly pass him off as an acquaintance he met on the continent.

“Well?” Much went on impatiently, snapping Allan back to the present.

“You know who he is, Much,” Allan answered with a sigh, dismissing the idea of deceit. “Guy has been with me since Acre.”

“Since you helped him escape justice!” Much snapped.  “And now you bring him here.  Gisborne! Just as bold as you please, because the king and Robin are . . .”

“Much, who are you shouting at?” came a voice from the house.  A blonde woman, heavily pregnant, came through the front door and made her way towards him.  “You’re going to wake Lily if you keep up this bellowing, and I’ve only just gotten her to sleep.”

Much pointed at Guy, stammering with fury.  “Why am I? . . . It’s . . . Look at who’s come to our house . . . and you say I’m . . .??

Undaunted, the woman took hold of his hand.  “Much,” she said evenly. “Relax.  Now,” she turned to Guy and Allan.  “Who are these men?”

When Much spoke again, his voice was still full of anger, but it was calm.  Allan watched in awe, wondering if she was a witch.

“Allan a Dale . . . and Guy of Gisborne.”

Allan was surprised that the woman looked right past him, focusing on Guy.  She let go of Much’s hand and walked towards him.

“Sir Guy? . . .” she began tentatively.

Guy looked at her, his face lining with confusion.

“You don’t know me, do you? I don’t think I’d know you if it weren’t for my husband.”

Allan looked from Eve to Much, who was watching in silence like himself, though his fists were clinched at his sides.  So, that was why she had such an effect on him, he thought.

Glancing back at Guy, his saw that his eyes had narrowed  thoughtfully.

“Your voice is familiar,” he admitted.  “Did . . . did you work at the castle?”

The woman nodded.  “In a way.  I used to see you when I came to report to the sheriff.  I never lived at the castle, but I did live here for a little while.  My name is Eve.”

Guy’s confusion seemed to clear slightly.  “Eve? I think I remember you now.  You . . . disappeared before we left for the Holy Land.”

Eve nodded.  “Yes, about a year before.  I . . . got into some trouble and had to leave.”

Allan wished he could see her face from where he was, but her tone sounded friendly enough.  She even drew a little smile from Guy.  “Yes, nothing but trouble could come of working for the sheriff. I should know.”

“I see you got away too,” she observed, and Guy dropped his eyes, shyly.

“Well . . . only because of Allan.  You’ve gotten married,” he added hastily, changing the subject.

“Yes.  I was lucky enough to meet up with Much again after he returned from the Holy Land, and he brought me and my daughter Rose to live here.  Have you met her?”

She looked back at her husband and immediately began to laugh.

“Oh no, baby.  She’s given you the slip again!”

Much looked down at his side with a cry of frustration.  “Ah! Where can that girl be?”

No sooner were the words out that Rosie appeared rushing through the front door, pulling a woman with long dark hair behind her.

“Who is it, Rosie? Who did you want me to . . .”

She went silent as soon as she saw Allan.

“He wanted to see you, Aunt Marian,” the girl replied matter of factly.

“It can’t be . . . Allan!”

“Hello, Marian,” he said, speaking quickly as she advanced towards him.  “We looked for you at Locksley, but then we were told you were here and so we . . .”

His mouth fell open in shock as Marian wrapped her arms around him, pulling him into a tight hug.

“It’s so good to see you, Allan,” she murmured.  “I hope you’re well.”

“Marian,” he began, “I . . . I didn’t come here alone.”

She released him, knitting her brow in confusion.  Then she looked past him, and gasped.

“Guy,” she said, little more than a whisper.

Guy was fidgeting with his fingers again, refusing to look at her.  He stood his ground as she walked towards him, but when she reached up to embrace him as she had Allan, he backed away.  Marian lowered her arms to her sides with a sigh.

“You . . . look so different, Guy.  Good,” she added, “but I didn’t recognize you at first.”

Allan cursed inwardly at the lost opportunity.  If Marian didn’t recognize him, it was possible no one would have . . . if he had come up with a lie instead of letting the truth fall out of his big mouth.

“I’m sorry, Marian,” Guy said, finally meeting here eyes anxiously.  “For your loss.”

She reached for his hand, and he let her take it. “Thank you for that,” she said.  “It’s been over a year now, but it still feels fresh.”

Much’s words only seemed to confirm that point.  “Marian, you’re not going to invite them . . . Allan maybe . . . but Robin would never . . .”

“It’s alright, Much,” Marian said, turning to give him a reassuring nod before she faced Guy again.  “You’ve come in peace, haven’t you?” she asked so softly that Allan could barely hear her.

Guy nodded.

* * *

Dinner was perhaps the strangest part of an already remarkably strange day.  Moving from farm to farm seeking work, Allan and Guy had encountered a number of children, but they had never felt so surrounded by them. 

Marian’s son was sitting on her lap, eating messily from his own little bowl of the stew the cook had served them.  Marian had mashed up the bigger pieces of potato and carrot for him, but he seemed to prefer feeding himself.  Meanwhile, Rose was sitting with Much, helping herself to chunks of meat from his bowl.

“She’ll take every last piece if you let her,” her mother warned, but Much only shrugged.

“We picked a lot of apples today, Eve.  She worked up an appetite.”

“She’s a little wolf,” Eve said affectionately. “No doubt she’s hungry from having run from you all day.”

Eve and Much’s daughter was sitting in the chair next to her mother and was barely visible.  “Mam!” she would cry when she felt her mother was ignoring her, earning a spoonful of porridge.

Marian and Eve asked Allan a few questions about their journey from France, but he was pleased that they kept the conversation going mostly between themselves.  He had not realized how tired he was until they all sat down together.

Guy remained almost dead silent throughout the meal.  Much kept glancing sourly at him, but Guy did not seem to even notice.  From what Allan could see, he was mostly looking in Marian’s direction, but not at her so much as the little boy on her lap.  Every time Malcolm caught him, he would grin broadly and babble, and Guy would drop his eyes again.  It was a struggle to keep from laughing at his shyness, but Allan did not want to make him feel any tenser than he already was.

Much made no further objection to their staying, and Marian had already given directions for one of the servants to prepare a bed in an empty cottage.  Allan felt he would be hard pressed to name who was the lady of the house.  It seemed to be Marian who usually gave orders, but she discussed everything from the next day’s breakfast to plans for winter crops with both Much and Eve.  It was an extraordinary arrangement, and he was looking forward to getting Guy’s impressions of it as soon as they were alone.

But as soon as they were finished eating and each parent began preparing their respective child for bed, Guy gingerly made his way to Marian and thanked her for the meal, but announced that he was going to go to bed if it was ready.

“Of course,” she replied.  “You must have a had a long day.”

It was the truth, but Allan doubted that was the whole reason Guy wanted to leave.  He almost certainly would not sleep; it had always taken him longer than Allan to get used to new places.  He was just on the point of saying that he would go with him when Marian turned in his direction.

“I’m not going to lose your company too, am I? I was hoping we might talk once I’ve put Malcolm to bed.”

“Of course,” Allan replied.  What else could he say?  Besides, he was curious about a thing or two himself.