Chapter Text
The summer sun beat down remorselessly on his black jerkin and mail sleeves. Another rivulet of sweat trickled down his backbone to pool under his arse. At this rate, he'd be able wring out his saddle when he arrived at Mott's farmstead. But his chin never drooped and his shoulders remained straight as his horse plodded along the dirt trace. He could, of course, have worn something more suitable to the weather. The world regarded him as a cross between monstrous and heartless, and Guy of Gisborne made it a point to live up to that reputation. So even here he was, in the dog days of summer, riding out on his master's business clad collar to boots in black leather.
At least the day’s task was simple enough. Sheriff Vaisey had assigned him the humiliating chore of collecting taxes from a recalcitrant farmer -- a punishment for Guy's most recent failure to root out the outlaw Hood. Guy had swallowed his pride and left Nottingham this morning. He swallowed a lot from Vaisey. Insults, slights, contempt.
Guy accepted what his master dealt out, because without the Sheriff of Nottingham, he was nothing but a landless knight little better than the farmer at the end of this path. Sometimes he dreamed of freeing himself from Vaisey, of riding off and offering his services to another powerful lord. But he’d spent too many years doing Vaisey’s bidding. When he cautiously sounded out some of the great nobles who came through Nottingham, one and all drew back at the suggestion that he might join their retinues.
And at least with Vaisey, he had an estate. Granted, Locksley was small, and technically belonged to the outlawed Earl of Huntingdon, but Guy would do anything to keep it. Anything to avoid slipping into the ranks of knights whose only worth was the Sir in front of their names.
The trace widened into a clearing that encompassed a single story house, a barn and some outbuildings. He stopped his horse. One hand on his hip, he surveyed the place. A single cow grazed in pasture beyond the barn. No fields were in sight, but he guessed they lay beyond the trees on the far side of clearing.
Not a human soul could be seen, and only birdsong and contented pig grunts reached his ears. Catching sight of a rain barrel at the side of the barn, he led his horse over for a drink. Still no one came out from any of the buildings to acknowledge his presence.
Then low male laughter came from inside the barn, along with a few thumps. Guy loosened his sword in his scabbard. Dropping the reins, a signal to the horse to stay put, he made a guess as to which end of the building held the door and moved stealthily in that direction, one hand on his hilt and the other hovering near the dagger tucked into his belt.
Rounding the corner, he found he'd guessed right. Then he looked inside.
Before him stood three men with their backs to him. Their victim lay face down over a trestle, hands tied to a post before her, ankles tied to the trestle’s legs, skirt raised. She didn't speak as one of the men loosened his trousers, but her matted braid swung frantically as she shook her head back and forth. A muffled cry told Guy she was gagged.
God's tears, even he'd never sunk this low. He unsheathed his sword.
A small brazier, the kind used to heat bits of metal for repair, stood next to a workbench. The lout in front of the female grabbed the braid, forcing her head back. He brandished a red-hot awl before her eyes. "You better be a little friendlier. Or maybe we need to punch a hole for a nose ring."
The woman's dry sobbing barely registered as Guy rushed the trio. The first stroke bit into the ribcage of the first man. Before he hit the floor, the sword sliced deep into the arm of the second man, who screamed and fell to his knees, his free hand trying to staunch the bleeding.
Awl Boy held out his makeshift weapon in a vain attempt at self-defense as Guy advanced on him. The girl one side and the brazier on the other made swordwork impractical, so Guy tossed his blade ahead of him.
It clanged on the wood floor behind Awl Boy, who hooted, "Whoever you are, you don't know shit about fighting."
"Don't I?" Guy smiled.
Predictably, Awl Boy dove for the superior weapon -- turning his back. That was all Guy needed to reach him, deck him, and kick him in the ribs. As his opponent writhed in pain, Guy snagged his sword, then planted one booted foot on the palm that had just held the awl. Gripping the hilt with both hands, he drove it point first through the wrist into the floor, nearly severing the hand. As blood sprayed from the open artery, Guy dropped his sword. He dragged the man to the brazier. "You'll bleed to death if we don't cauterize that."
The scream as the wrist hit the crimson coals was most gratifying, until the man fainted. Guy let him drop. A hatchet near the brazier caught his eye. Better than his sword for cutting through rope. He hacked the woman free, then helped her with the knots that imprisoned her wrists and each ankle. As the stench of her unwashed body hit his nose, he opened his mouth to breathe. Her knees buckled, and he turned his head away as he slid an arm around her waist.
Standing, she was tall for a woman: only a few inches shorter than Guy himself. Yet she lacked the weight that should match her height. When he grasped her hand to examine her rope-burned wrists, he could see every bone. "You'll need to bandage this."
"I have some salve." She didn’t meet his eyes, but now that the rescue was over he could take in more details of her appearance. Most were unsavory. The beginnings of a black eye puffed out one cheek. Besides the stench of body odor, her hair hadn't been washed or combed in some time and added its reek to the unholy bouquet that assaulted his nostrils. Or maybe the smell came from the collection of ancient rags she wore. Guy stepped away.
She stomped her feet as if trying to get blood circulating in them. Gaze on the floor, she asked, "Who are you?"
"Who the hell are you?" The second, louder question was shouted by a gray-haired man who now stood in the doorway, holding a pitchfork.
"Arnulf Mott?"
The man ran toward Guy, pitchfork lowered. "What'd you do to my boys?"
Guy twisted aside at the last minute, one fist connecting with the man's nose. "Sir Guy of Gisborne at your service." Disarming the fellow, he added, "I interrupted your boys mid-rape, and they have recieved the Sheriff's justice."
Not quite true. If Vaisey were here, he'd have very likely joined in, or at least watched. But he wasn’t here, meaning Guy could deal with the matter as he saw fit.
Hands at his bleeding nose, Mott gaped at the carnage in his barn. Guy cleared his throat. "Fetch a cloth. I need to clean my sword. After that, we're going to discuss the matter of your outstanding taxes."
The girl rummaged on the bench by the brazier and held out the requested cloth. Amazingly, it was fairly clean. Guy wiped the blood off his blade.
"Thank you," she whispered to the floor. In spite of the day's warmth, her teeth chattered. Probably delayed shock.
"Ox! Get bandages." Mott jerked a thumb over his shoulder.
Ox? What kind of name was that? Guy shrugged. He'd done his knightly duty. Now he needed to get the missing tax money.
But what will happen to her if she stays? From the looks of things, Mott will only beat the daylights out of her.
He turned her to face him. The first sight of her eyes startled him. Blue, bright as the sky outside. "Are you serf or free?"
She stared at him blankly.
"Serf or free," he repeated. A freewoman could leave; if she was a serf, she was doomed to stay on the land.
She shrugged.
"Ox! Move!"
At the farmer's words, the girl -- Ox -- sidled out of the barn, then ran. Hopefully someplace far away. Or upwind.
Mott stripped off his tunic and bunched it over the first miscreant’s wounded side.
The lout came to with a groan. Clutching his wounded side, he struggled to a half-sit. "Jesus, I'm going to die."
"That's up to Him." Guy kicked him back down as he yanked the farmer up by one arm, marching him outside. "Vaisey says you owe ten more shillings in taxes."
The man replied by putting two fingers to his lips and giving a shrill whistle.
Guy rolled his eyes. "I don't think your sons are going to be much use to you." He jerked Mott toward the house. "Let's talk about your cash on hand."
"I ain't got any. And my boys are going to die if they don’t get help." The older man attempted a swing, but Guy blocked the blow, then twisted Mott's arm behind his back.
The man whimpered. "Ow! I can't farm if you rip my arm off, Gisborne. How'm I supposed to pay my taxes then?"
"One fiscal year at time." Guy forced the man past the barn and the water barrel, where the girl now cowered next to his horse. "You," he shouted to her. "Get up, I need you to answer some questions."
Clutching the barrel, she got to her feet.
Guy tightened his hold on Mott. "Where does your master keep his money?"
She pointed a shaking finger at the house. "Everything he owns is in the box to the left."
“Hand me my dagger,” Guy ordered her.
Inching to his side, she unsheathed the blade with shaky hands, then gave it to him.
Guy changed his grip to take the hilt and wrap his other arm around Mott’s throat. In the old man’s ear, he murmured, "Let’s find the key."
Inside the house, a fireplace stood to the left. Pots and pans hung on the wall between it and a cupboard. Prompted by the dagger, Mott moved a stone in the hearth to pull out a metal key. Then he opened the cupboard and lifted a wooden spice box from a sack of dried peas. Unlocking it, he lifted the lid. The box contained a little salt, an assortment of dried herbs, and no coins.
Guy kicked it across the room in frustration. Vaisey would make his life more of a hell than usual if he didn't return with the missing tax money.
"Ware!" Footsteps outside followed Ox's panicked cry.
Again holding his dagger at Mott's throat, Guy exited the house.
It turned out Mott had three more sons. Who now stood between Guy and his horse, holding a display of dangerous farm implements: scythe, flail and that sodding pitchfork.
Damn. Guy should have brought a few of his men. All he could do now was brazen it out. He pressed the point into Mott's throat. "Your father is behind on his taxes. I'll accept livestock instead."
The biggest lad lunged toward Ox. She cringed back and tried to run, but he was faster. Flinging her at Guy's feet, he snarled, "This is all the livestock you're getting off this place. If you make it off alive."
Guy measured the odds. They didn’t add up in his favor. He regarded the odorous pile of humanity on the ground before him. "Get my horse," he said quietly. Thankfully, she had the wit to scramble to her feet and hurry toward the beast.
He'd have to go back to Nottingham empty-handed, but he would not, would not be cut down in the middle of a piddling farmstead by a bunch of commoners. He'd be remembered as nothing but a pathetic laughingstock.
He fixed his most threatening stare on the threesome in front of him. "Vaisey knows I'm here, and he expects me back tomorrow morning. If I don't arrive on schedule, this is the first place he'd going to search." He wouldn’t hunt for Guy, of course. Vaisey's concern was solely for his missing shillings. "I've watched him burn a farm to the ground because the owner insulted him. For ten shillings, he'll probably lock you inside the buildings before he sets fire to them."
Their weapons wavered. The girl came back, leading his horse.
Guy waited until the animal was in easy reach. "What's going to happen now," he said, "is that I'm going to let your father go, get on my horse and leave. With the girl. If she's a serf, you just gave her away. And you're going to let me ride away." Now he smiled. "Unless you look forward to a visit from Vaisey and a small army."
He freed Mott on the last word and mounted his horse in one motion. With his foot, he extended a stirrup to the girl. "Behind me."
She scrambled up and wrapped her bruised, dirty arms around him. He nearly gagged, but managed to nudge the horse into a walk. Brutus took them back onto the trace.
Empty-handed, save for the filthy female at his back.
He sighed. "Please tell me you don't have lice."
"Not many."
"Wonderful."
"Um . . . shouldn't we be going faster?"
"If we run, we show fear."
"I'm afraid." Brutus clopped on for a few more paces. "You are too. I can feel your heart pound."
He ignored her correct observation and focused on breathing through his mouth. Vaisey would have his possibly lice-ridden hide for this day's work.