Chapter Text
“Much, Allan, keep the noise down! We don’t want wind of this getting back to Isabella or Prince John.”
Much huffs, the saddlebags slung over his shoulder chinking softly. “That’s all very well, Robin, but these bags of coins are really heavy.”
“I know, I know, but just keep it down, lads, yeah?”
They creep as quietly as possible through the dark, labyrinthine tunnels below the castle, starting every so often at the hiss or spit of a torch in its bracket, and stilling completely whenever they hear the slightest hint of a footfall or a voice.
Robin whispers to the two men following him. “It’ll be quickest if we cut through the dungeons and take the lower tunnel out to the river. John and Kate'll be ready by the stone bridge, and Tuck's keeping a lookout on the Locksley road.”
“But we’re more likely to meet guards in the dungeons, Robin. The other tunnel’s longer, but it’ll be safer.”
“Much, it’s the middle of the night. No-one’s going to be around in the dungeons, except a few prisoners and some rats. Come on, it’ll be quicker and these bags are getting bloody heavy.”
The air feels colder and danker as they venture deeper beneath the castle, heading for the secret tunnel leading out to the river. As they emerge from one of the stone passageways into the heart of the dungeon area, Much and Allan virtually collide with Robin as he pulls up sharply, lifting his hand to signal them to stop.
The room is dark, lit only by a couple of stuttering torches on the verge of burning out, but the pale figure slumped over on the platform is visible enough. Inching nearer, Robin can see that it is a man, and that he is chained down over a block of some sort and appears to be unconscious. His face is obscured by a mane of black hair, but his body is covered with livid welts, cuts and bruises.
Smoothing back the hair, Robin lets out a low whistle of surprise. “It’s Gisborne. But what the hell’s happened to him?”
The face which they’ve seen so often twisted into a mocking sneer or a superior smirk is as bruised as the body, covered in cuts, one eye swollen shut. But what most horrifies them is Gisborne’s mouth, surrounded by and covered in dark, dried blood, which has also run down over his chin to form a drying, viscous, pool on the platform beneath him.
Much swallows, his voice low and thick. “Robin, come and look at this.”
Circling round to the back of the platform, Allan gasps aloud and Robin grits his teeth and whistles low again. The blood on Gisborne’s thighs and in a pool on the platform below him tells its own story.
“Christ, someone really has done a number on him. Much – is he breathing? He’s lost one hell of a lot of blood.”
“Yes, Robin, but barely. He needs treatment fast. If we could get him to Tuck – “
“Not bein’ funny, Much, but what are you on about? Why should we help Gisborne? He deserves everything he gets.”
Robin shakes his head. “Normally, Allan, I’d agree with you, but not even Gisborne deserves this. He’s been beaten and tortured and God knows what else, and I’m not just going to leave him here. The Sheriff’s dead and Gisborne’s on his own now – he’s not the threat to us he was. God knows I don’t like it, but I’m not going to just leave him here to die.”
Allan shrugs. “Yeah, OK, but how’re we goin’ to get him out of here?”
“Get those shackles off and see if you can rouse him. Much – get some water and see if there’s anything we can cover him up with.”
The manacles prove surprisingly easy to deal with, a ring of keys hanging rather prominently on the wall opposite the platform.
"It's as if they left the keys there to taunt him, in full view but just out of reach."
Robin grimaces. "I think you're right, Much. Just one more thing to torture him with. Gisborne's been a right bastard - no-one can argue with that - but we'd be as bad as he is to leave him here to this."
"Oi, Much, 'ere's some water, and some wine."
"Thanks, Allan. That's a turn up for the books. I'll see if a draught of the wine'll revive him."
Much begins carefully to clean away the blood surrounding Gisborne's mouth. "His lips and tongue are in a bad way, Robin, split and swollen, and the edges of his mouth have been rubbed raw."
Robin frowns, leaning forward to get a better view. "Jesus. Just do what you can do, Much, then give him the wine."
Much holds a goblet to Gisborne's mouth, tipping a mouthful of the dark red wine into his mouth. Gisborne swallows, then retches, his eyes fluttering open, unfocussed, limbs flailing.
"Noooooooo!" Thankfully Gisborne's howl of anguish is muted, his voice hoarse and cracked. He continues to struggle, trying to shout.
"No more, please, no more. Please, dear God, no more."
Robin grasps Gisborne's face in his hands. "Gisborne. Guy. It's me, Robin. We're going to help you. Stop struggling - can you stand?"
Gisborne stares blankly at Robin, his face taut with fear and panic until, suddenly, there is a flicker of recognition in his eyes.
"L-Locksley? What are - Why? Why are you helping me?"
"Because, Gisborne, we are not going to leave even you here to be tortured to death. So, come on, man. We have to get going."