Ups and downs 2

Robin Hood of course. I declare a certain amount of partiality, in that I still believe Robin of Sherwood to be the best thing ever made for television, but I shall nevertheless try to be objective.

First objective thought; Guy in leather.

Second objective thought (since the first one wasn't very successful at being objective); That was all a bit fluffy really. For example;
First ep Robin Hood; Robin returns from the Crusades, rescues a poacher, annoys a father, hugs his peasants, discovers Sheriff is evil, taunts him a bit, flirts with Marion, launches last minute rescue of peasants and rides off into forest to meet the rest of the gang.

First ep Robin of Sherwood (OK this isn't objective either but bear with me); Robin's father is Herne's chosen one, gets killed defending sacred arrow, Robin's foster family slaughtered brutally, Robin launches daring escape from Nottingham Castle dungeons, falls in love with Marion, who is then sent by evil Sheriff to marry even eviller Baron who actually wants to sacrifice her to astoundingly evil gods. Robin is chosen by Herne to save his people and makes a start by rescuing Marion in the nick of time.

One of these was original, daring and quite exciting. The other one was rather fun and I will be making a point of watching the rest of them. But.

Third objective thought; There was one conversation in the first episode that was worth watching the whole thing for. Not the political satires, although I was fairly amused by the on-the-spot poaching punishment. and more amused than I should have been about standing shoulder to shoulder with Rome. Not the witty exchanges, which weren't bad although there should have been more of them and less peasant hugging. But the hint of a back story between Robin and Guy.

I decided to encourage the Universe in this trend by writing Guy's back story (obviously rather rapidly) as it plainly appeared to me it must have happened. Really I wanted to append it as a file to this blog but I don't appear to be able to do that. So I shall add it below but assure my less enthusiastic readers that nothing of any import will appear below it so they can just ignore the stuff below the asterisks and move straight on to whatever it was they were going to read next.

No sex or violence (well, no real violence). No-one dies. Positively PG rated. And very sad, (at least I though it was sad). And yes, it's slash. Have you ever known me write anything else?

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"I've Seen You Fight"

Guy had told his servant not to bother unpacking. He had no intention of staying in a rather inferior guest room in Nottingham Castle for long. But then the Sheriff had made a point of telling him to dress for dinner, so he’d had to search through the badly packed chests himself.

That was how, long after the call for dinner, he was still sitting on the side of his bed turning the trophy over and over in his hands. Remembering.

The tournament had been held in Lichfield, and was a full three day affair. Nobles had come from as far away as London and Bristol and Guy had been looking forward to it for months. His swordsmaster had been training him intensively for the junior tournament, and even his father had grudgingly agreed that he was one of the best young swordsmen around. Another year and he could have entered the full tournament, but that would have to wait.

By the start of day three he was the clear favourite out of the juniors. He’d not had much chance to watch the full tournament; he’d seen little of the archery or the mounted competition, but he’d watched every bout of the swordfighting that he could get to.

The final day was perfect. He’d won one straightforward bout to get to the final, and filled in the hour or so before that was due to take place watching the semi finals of the men’s sword fighting. The first pair was unevenly matched; Sir Trias was a huge yet nimble man with a scything stroke that had put many of his opponents in the infirmary despite the blunted blades. The other was fast but not fast enough; he was carried off with a broken leg after a few minutes.

The second pair looked poorly matched as well. Sir Henri of Bolsover was well muscled, quick and technically brilliant. Guy had loved watching him fight, appreciating the technique and style. He’d seen him in two bouts and like most of the spectators had decided that Sir Henri was certain to win the tournament.

Guy hadn’t yet seen his opponent, Sir Robin of Locksley, fight. He was unimpressed by the young man he saw warming up; Robin was barely a year or so older than he was, and slightly built. When the fight started it soon became apparent that Robin was slower and less skilled than his opponent. But for some reason Henri just seemed unable to land that decisive blow.

After half an hour the bout was still going and the organisers of the junior competition were getting restless. The final should have started by now. Guy, though, had forgotten about his final. In the last few minutes he had noticed something very surprising.

Henri was on the back foot. He was tired, he was frustrated, his concentration was going. Guy caught him glancing around the ring, as if looking for someone to stop the fight.

His opponent was bleeding from a blow across his nose. His left arm was held at an uncomfortable angle; Guy thought that it might be broken. Yet those strangely intense eyes were focussed on Henri and his head was forward. He looked as if there was nothing he wanted more than to hit this man with a blunted sword forever.

It ended suddenly. Robin turned and flung himself, shoulder first, past Henri’s guard and into his chest. Henri was down, Robin had recovered his balance, and the fight was over.

Guy was first to his feet, cheering. During that half hour he’d decided that he now knew what fighting was about. Not technique, not speed, but keeping going regardless and above all winning.

His revelation took him through the preparation for his final. As he walked out into the arena a final time doubts hit him. He looked up into the audience, seeking out his swordsmaster. Instead his eyes met the pair he’d grown used to watching; Robin, roughly bandaged and still in the bloodstained clothes he’s fought in, was seated up near the back. As Guy paused, staring, Robin grinned at him and raised a hand in greeting.

The trumpets recalled Guy to himself. After that it was as if he could do nothing wrong. Quarter of an hour later he was bowing before the Earl of Lichfield, with the applause of the crowd a wonderful sound. He sneaked a look up into the audience when he could but Robin had gone; his final started immediately after the ceremony.

His prize was a trophy; two crossed metal swords on a carved wooden base, and a purse of 5 silver pieces. As soon as he could get away he raced over to the area where one of the Earl’s clerks was taking illegal but officially overlooked bets on the tournament outcome and gave him four of the five silver pieces. “On Robin of Locksley” he stated firmly. The clerk frowned, both at the amount and the reckless nature of the bet. He didn’t want to be accused of cheating this young noble.

Congratulating Guy on his own win, the clerk suggested gently that while Robin had undeniably fought well, he must be exhausted after the long bout while his stronger opponent had had hours to recover. Guy glared at him. Would he take the bet or not? Sighing, the clerk agreed.

Guy raced back to the arena and pushed his way to the front. Like Robin, he hadn’t changed out of his fighting gear, or had his small bruises seen to. He wore both as a badge of pride.

Trias strode heavily into the arena swinging his sword over his head theatrically to rapturous applause. Robin followed him, bouncing lightly on his toes. He looked across the crowd and his eyes met Guy’s again. This time it was the boy who raised a hand. Robin smiled and called out something to him that was lost in the crowd noise. Then the trumpets started.

This final was shorter than Robin’s semi, but no less difficult. Trias had the strength and the speed, but this time Robin’s skill seemed the better. Guy barely saw the swords move; he watched the total focus in Robin’s eyes and never doubted his bet.

When Robin won he was surrounded by the crowd. Guy, now feeling stiff and sore, couldn’t push his way through. He saw the ceremony though, and collected his twelve silver pieces from the clerk. Despite searching and asking, he didn’t find Robin again that day; he must have left immediately after the tournament.

Guy’s father held a feast in his honour when he got home, his silver pieces were soon, but pleasurably spent, and his trophy lived in a place of honour until he left home next year. Since then it had been lying in his clothes chest, half forgotten.

Looking back now, it seemed that day had determined the rest of his life. He’d hoped to meet up with Robin again, but Locksley was half the country away. A year later, around the time of his own knighthood, he heard that Robin had sailed for Palestine.

Guy’s father had flatly refused to allow his only son to join the King’s crusade. Guy had almost defied him but he had no resources of his own. Instead he gained his father’s rather surprised approval by taking up a post with the new Sheriff of Nottingham. For a while this had worked well; the Sheriff had given him responsibility for Robin’s own lands when he expressed an interest in Locksley. He still felt a bond of kinship with Robin, he told himself; the kinship of the warrior. He could not fight by his side, yet, but he could perform that sacred duty of friendship, the care of his possessions.

But his chosen task soon became more difficult. Taxes continually rose, the Sheriff stopped praising him and started sneering, the peasants were unruly. What good were his honed fighting skills when what he needed to do was to stop poaching and petty theft?

Guy started off with the intention of treating the peasants well, as his father always had, but his temper was getting shorter as estate management became more difficult. The first time he lost his temper completely and ordered that a criminal be hung over what, looking back, might have been a fairly minor infraction he felt guilty afterwards. But, as the Sheriff pointed out when he drunkenly tried to explain this one night, theft in the village had gone down dramatically afterwards. And he told himself it was Robin’s property he was protecting here. Who would look out for Robin’s interests if not him? Even collecting taxes had to be done after all; the King’s knights in Palestine (and one knight in particular) needed support.

Nevertheless it was hard to satisfy the Sheriff and keep the lands productive. He had always found making friends difficult and he became cold and withdrawn, saying nothing when the Sheriff taunted him or the peasants hissed. He found that black suited his increasingly dark moods and being feared brought its own satisfaction. He pushed himself in the training barracks, his swordsmanship, always good, became excellent.

Guy had a little fantasy, barely admitted even to himself, about what would happen when Robin came home. Robin would astonished to see him here; he’d recognise him immediately of course. Robin would thank him for the care he’d taken of his property, invite him to stay on at Locksley to continue to manage the estates. They’d be inseparable friends and knights, sparring together, seeking adventure. Together they’d put the Sheriff in his place, the peasants would start behaving, they’d chase down outlaws; all the petty trouble in Guy’s life would be gone.

In his saner moments Guy suspected it might not be as simple as this. But even at his mos sober he never doubted the bond between him and Robin; that would last.

Then Robin had returned and for a moment when he recognised him in Locksley everything was unbelievably wonderful. A few minute later his life had fallen apart. Robin didn’t recognise him at all, clearly thought he was in league with the Sheriff to rob him of his lands. This cold-eyed stranger had humiliated him in front of the peasants and thrown him out of his manor house. Guy had been so furious that he couldn’t even try to explain.

Then the arrogant lordling had ridden into Nottingham and said all the things that he, Guy, had been planning to say to the Sheriff for years, only the idea was that they would say them together. Instead he was standing on one side, like some flunkey. After sleepless night he had decided there was still a chance, if he could get Robin on one side, explain, but then the idiot had raised rebellion in the middle of Nottingham and ridden into Sherwood. Where Guy would now be expected to hunt him down and kill him.

For one wild moment he thought of riding out there himself, tonight, to try to find him. Surely there must be some way of putting things right? But he knew that for Robin and anyone connected with him there was no coming back from this; nothing but execution would do for the Sheriff. He visualised his neck in the noose, the Sheriff laughing…. And it was after all Robin’s fault; Guy had done nothing but act in truest friendship. He had been rejected, insulted; how much more could he be expected to suffer on Robin’s account?

Guy slammed the trophy onto the floor, swearing. Enough was enough. It was time to change his life. Tonight he would go down and get very drunk, and then tomorrow, if ordered, he would go hunting in Sherwood. He was no longer the boy that had won some child's competition. He was the knight in black, a sworn knight of Nottingham and this time his sword would not be blunt.

The guard in the corridor of one of the damper bits of Nottingham Castle was surprised to hear shouting from Sir Guy’s room. He was pretty sure that no-one except Sir Guy was in there. He was more surprised to hear the thumping and splintering noises. Tentatively, he knocked. “Go away” was the only polite bit of the response, so he did. Not a good man to cross, Sir Guy.

Ten minutes later Guy threw the door open and strode down towards the common room, immaculately garbed in his usual black, without acknowledging the guard. He had left his door open; curious, the guard took a look inside. There was no obvious sign of destruction. The fire spat and he glanced into the flames; glowing dully were two miniature crossed swords.