dunno what this is it's like a fanfic or something

[lettered]

This is that Guy of Gisborne fic I mentioned. People say a good story needs no excuse, but this isn't a good story so here are a couple of excuses.

The main one is I'm not sure why I wrote this. I think it's something to do with thinking this show and this character is icky, which caused me odd shame in finding RA attractive? But it might also have to do with wanting to experiment with PoV: what happens when you're locked in an icky brain with icky things going on in an icky time period? However, if that were the case, I should've tried harder to write something really good--perhaps something more dense and complex, which asks the reader to contemplate these things more thoroughly--I don't know, something like Lolita, which explores something icky rather effectively, thank you.

But I wasn't thinking when I wrote it. I just wrote it, and it came out like crack. And while I may write porn or any number of enjoyable cracky things in that manner: what follows are not my kinks. Maybe I find it so morbid that it's fascinating?

At any rate, I probably shouldn't post it--for one thing, it's unfinished (though I think it works as a character story), and for another, it's something I dashed off. At 14,000 words, that sounds a little unbelievable, but, er, it's true. But I promised myself I could post something, and I don't have any other posts ready-made to hand--the WIPs all being in various states of disarray--so I shrug. Here it is.

Title: What You Don't Know
Fandom: BBC's Robin Hood
Rating: R/NC-17
Warnings: not super graphic but still violent and icky non-con and sadism, homophobia, misogyny, classism, all kinds of -ism
Length: 14,000
Summary: Takes place directly after S1, does not use S3 canon. Guy of Gisborne lets the Sheriff pick on him. Vaisey knows why. Even Robin knows why. Guy doesn't know why.

What You Don't Know

Vaisey got worse when Marian didn’t marry Guy of Gisborne.

After Hood’s interference with the false King Richard’s return, Vaisey had been in high dudgeon for three days, and then forgot about it, as he always seemed to. Before the furniture had even been all repaired, Vaisey was back in high spirits, back to gleefully maniacal plotting, and back to tormenting Guy.

It didn’t start out that way. On the fourth morning after Hood’s interference, Guy woke up expecting more tantrums from the sheriff. These fits were more something to be endured than something to fear. Even though they were almost always directed at him, for something that Guy was sure was never his fault—how could he be blamed for Hood smelling out the truth?—Vaisey never actually punished him. He stormed and he raged; he said Guy was worthless, that his head should be on a pike for all his failures—but he never actually did anything about it.

That said, the rages were virulent enough that Guy was unable to conclude they were all just bluster. One day, Vaisey might very well decide he had had done with him. In the heat of the moment, the only thing that was important to Vaisey was Vaisey. He was not a man of patience. Nevertheless, Guy regarded Vaisey’s fits of pique with considerably less terror than he had at first, having learned that at least when it came to himself, Vaisey was a lot more bark than bite.

Now rather than give him shaking fits of shame, Vaisey’s tantrums were much more likely to give Guy an excuse for tantrums of his own. These were not directed at Vaisey, of course, but everyone beneath him was fair game, and Guy found the ability to thrust Vaisey’s rage and thus his blame onto everyone else a relief. In this instance in particular, Vaisey’s fits were almost a pleasant distraction from Guy’s own failure with Marian.

But this morning, Guy came into the great hall to see that the storm clouds had all cleared, leaving Vaisey smiling wickedly, a spring in his step and a mad twinkle in his eye. Vaisey never seemed to remember from one episode to the next that he was a man constantly thwarted, and Guy never wanted to remind him. This was what he liked most about Vaisey, and it was something Guy’s mother had taught him: he never gave up going after what he wanted.

Still, this morning Guy was disturbed to see the smile on the sheriff’s face. Vaisey could easily forget his defeats, but Guy could not so easily forget his own, and Vaisey became malicious when Guy was not in similar spirits.

Guy could never match Vaisey’s mood. His mother had called him "dark and sulking," once, and she was more than likely right, whereas Vaisey was light-hearted and gay. This, in fact, was another thing Guy liked about Vaisey, and he liked it about Marian, too. Guy liked people who were vivacious and smiling, who were, in short, everything he was not.

Vaisey and Marian were both very changeable. The world could crumble around them, and they would despair, but in the next moment they would turn and smile. Of course, they could turn again and insult him in the next moment. Their capriciousness was the root of their cruelty: Vaisey would be cosseting in one moment and condemn him the next; Marian could be coquettish for a day and punch him in the face on the morrow.

But Guy couldn’t help but be drawn to their quickness, their light-footed, spirited natures, even as he felt himself dully plodding along. Their smiles seemed worth their stings, and to Guy they both seemed full of light—not necessarily set to shine on him, but light nevertheless, and he was but a moth.

Despite Guy’s serious disposition, he often found the sheriff amusing, and one couldn’t help but admire his more punitive schemes. Vaisey knew all this and often played to Guy. He expected Guy to laugh at his jokes and shower praises at key moments. When Guy did not, Vaisey’s wit became sharper and more pointed. His glee in inflicting pain did not necessarily decrease—on the whole, he seemed the more delighted to pick at all of Guy’s scabs and scars, as though to punish him for not being delighted also.

That was why this morning Guy faced Vaisey with some trepidation. Vaisey in a rage, even when all his anger was directed at Guy, never seemed to notice Guy himself. He only noticed Vaisey. When Vaisey was in high spirits, however, his focus sharpened, and if it happened to land upon you, he saw very well.

This was the biggest way in which Vaisey differed from Marian. Sometimes, Guy thought Marian could not see him at all. Vaisey saw all of him, under every defense and piece of armor; he saw to every scar; he saw everything laid bare, as though Guy were a newborn babe completely at his mercy. It was thrilling and terrifying. Guy had no secrets; he had nothing to call his own. And yet, Vaisey saw him all, and kept him.

Vaisey never left him.

This morning, Guy wished Vaisey could not see so well. He would have liked some more time to recover from the pain and humiliation Marian had inflicted upon him, but he could never hide his mood from Vaisey.

He answered the sheriff’s bright hello with an attempt to sound careless. The result was a greeting even more gruff than usual. Guy wished he’d stayed at Locksley.

“Someone is a sourpuss,” Vaisey said, popping a grape into his mouth.

“I’m tired.”

“What, from not catching Hood all week?” There seemed to be no malice in the comment that Guy could detect. “From allowing peasants to run amok not paying my taxes? From allowing the Church to siphon my money? No wonder you’re exhausted.”

“The Church?”

“Pastey fellows, stink of incense, speak a lot of Latin.”

“What is the Church doing with Nottingham money?”

“Never worry your pretty head about politics, Gisborne.” Vaisey popped another grape into his mouth. “You’ll only confuse yourself.”

Guy grunted and pulled some ham from the platter on the table over to his plate. He began to eat, trying not to give Vaisey anything more to prattle on about.

“You really are in a dismal mood,” Vaisey observed after a while. He had stopped eating.

Guy reached for more salt.

“Is it the leper?”

Guy paused.

Vaisey examined his nails. “When I ask a question, you know, I expect to be answered.”

Though he’d stopped eating, Guy still didn’t look at him. “I don’t care about her.”

“Of course you don’t care about her. She betrayed you. She said she would marry you and she didn’t.”

Guy stared at his plate.

“I was speaking of the humiliation.” Vaisey’s voice was softer, but Guy recognized that tone. Vaisey was speculating, which could make him seem thoughtful—almost gentle. But it was when Vaisey was gentle that he was at his coldest and most calculating.

As was often the case when Vaisey was in the midst of planning something intricate, Guy didn’t know what to say.

“It must be hard,” Vaisey went on, in that same steady tone. “Having someone stab you in the back that way. Having someone leave you in such a faithless, disgraceful way. Having someone leave you.”

Guy couldn’t move. He couldn’t look up from his plate. He couldn’t help but wait for the ax to fall, for the cruel jest. Guy would take it, even though it would hurt more this time than it ever had those other times when Vaisey teased about things that meant so much less than Marian. Guy would take it this time because he took it every time.

“I know what it’s like,” Vaisey said.

It was the last thing Guy expected.

Vaisey stood and came around to him. His hand came to rest on Guy’s shoulder. “It’s happened to me before,” he said.

Guy still couldn’t move, holding himself as tight as any of Hood’s bowstrings. Vaisey had touched him before, talked to him like this before. It was a part of the joke, some part of the hideous teasing that Guy did not understand. And yet—

Had it happened before? Vaisey talked so little of himself. Guy knew he had a sister, knew that Vaisey cared for her in ways that—in ways families were supposed to care for each other, ways he should have cared . . . Ways that brothers cared for sisters, brothers cared for brothers, husbands cared for wives and lovers cared for lovers, the way fathers cared for sons . . .

Guy knew that, like himself, there was little in the world Vaisey could bring himself to care a damn for. So few people loved him; there was no reason he should love anyone in return. He was like Guy that way: friendless, an outcast, hated for things he could not help, that were not his fault. It was just another reason Guy needed the sheriff: he was the only one who would understand what loneliness was really like, and Guy knew that Vaisey was capable of love.

Guy knew that he himself was capable of love—despite the whole world hating him and thinking him wicked, he could love another. He would do anything for her. He knew that Vaisey could be the same way.

He had hoped that Vaisey would be the same way.

“You find yourself so alone,” Vaisey was saying. “You wonder if you can trust anyone at all any more. You wonder to whom you can turn. You wonder if you can even love.”

Guy repressed a shudder, hearing the sheriff speak his own thoughts. Vaisey’s face was beside Guy’s now, whispering in his ear. Vaisey’s hand was at Guy’s nape, caressing the hair there. The hand was gentle. Soothing.

“When it comes to that,” Vaisey said, “you should remember that there are bonds that bind human beings other than that of husband and wife. You don’t have to be alone. Some things bind even more strongly. There is partnership.” Vaisey stroked Guy’s hair. “There is family, Gisborne.”

Though Guy sat rigidly still, a small sound escaped him.

“What was that?”

“I have none,” whispered Guy.

There had been no one to comfort him. No one to care. He had not only suffered the humiliation; nor had he only lost the woman he loved. He had also lost the only person who could have held him as he suffered, the only person who would touch him, the only person to speak kind words and soothe him, as though she understood, as though she loved him. These last three days, his whole world had come crashing down, and no one had even noticed.

Until now.

“You think you don’t have a family?” whispered Vaisey. His fingers were touching Guy’s scalp; his breath was warm and soft down Guy’s neck. Guy was warm everywhere. “You really think that?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

Guy took a ragged breath. “No.”

“You should be sure,” Vaisey whispered, that same caressing tone, “because they’re all dead. And the leper will not have you. I don’t even like you, so why are you still here?”

Guy leapt out of his chair, sending Vaisey reeling back.

Vaisey was laughing too hard to mind much.

Guy, just like always, couldn’t think of anything to say. Rage made him inarticulate; it always had. He glared down at Vaisey, eyes ablaze, chest heaving. There were two points of color high on his sallow cheeks. Vaisey laughed and laughed.

“You really are feeling sorry for yourself,” he cackled. “So broken up about it! Just because she wouldn’t have you. This is the problem with lepers, Gisborne! They make everyone so grouchy. Trust me, you’re better off without them!”

Guy thought he could kill him. He thought he would kill him. He took a step toward him.

Vaisey put up his hands. “Oh, don’t hurt me!” he wheezed with laughter.

Guy took another step toward him.

Vaisey whirled around, plunked himself back in his chair, and returned to the detritus of his breakfast. “I wonder if we can use Hood and his merry band to steal from the rich and give to the poor sheriff. The Church can’t blame us if we’re dressed like a band of hoboes, now, can they?” And Vaisey ate another gape.

They said the coward’s way was to run away, but it was the only way out Guy could ever think of to make it all stop.

*

Vaisey would not stop teasing Guy about Marian.

Vaisey had always teased Guy. And though Guy was the butt of many of his jokes, Vaisey employed that cruel humor with everyone. Viciousness amused him, and so his amusements were vicious. Yet there had always been a particular undercurrent in Vaisey’s ridicule of Guy, something dark and pointed Guy didn’t understand but knew he didn’t like. Vaisey seemed all the more delighted by Guy’s lack of understanding, taunting him with it as though he was very aware of something that Guy was not.

Somehow though, now it was worse. Perhaps it was just that Marian had hurt Guy so badly that now the sheriff had a sharper stick than ever with which to poke him—and yet, Vaisey’s glee in vexing him seemed more acute than just the delight of having found a new weapon. Perhaps it was the fact that Vaisey had warned him against getting close to Marian, and Guy had done so anyway. Perhaps it was anger over Guy not taking his advice, over Guy’s disobedience. Perhaps Vaisey wanted to teach him a lesson.

Guy decided it must be that. There was something very personal in the way Vaisey teased him, something almost bitter. As though Vaisey himself had been affronted. Vaisey’s glee at having been proven right in the end was sharp and pointed.

But Vaisey’s moods never lasted long. Guy already hated Marian, and he already knew he had to harden his heart against the pain she had caused. It should not have been so very much trouble to harden himself against the sheriff’s taunts. He had withstood them so long, he should be tolerant by now.

A few days later, Guy carried out Vaisey’s next big plan. They dressed like Hood’s bandits and stole from the Church, and all seemed to go well. It was alright because the Church was stealing from Nottingham; the money really belonged to the shire and that meant the sheriff. Guy resented having to dress like Hood to carry out justice, but it was appropriate because Hood was a thief and just the sort of villain who would steal from the Church anyway. When they brought back the money, the sheriff was understandably delighted.

Vaisey was too absorbed with the money to pay much attention to Guy, but Guy was used to this. He went back to Locksley to celebrate, ate too much mutton, then sat by the fire and made the serving girl rub his feet.

After half a candlemark of this, he was considerably hard, and so ordered the girl upstairs. He made her hold on to the headboard while he fucked her from behind. It was the best coitus he’d had in ages. While he’d been waiting to marry Marian, no one else could satisfy him, to the point where he’d had to leave off completely. After she’d left him . . . he couldn’t stop seeing her behind his eyes. Sex had been . . . awful, he hadn’t been able to . . . he’d made them promise not to tell . . . .

But this time he thought of money and power and Locksley and stupid Hood and Vaisey’s delighted clapping when Guy brought him the money; he’d smiled like a child, and most of all, Guy thought of pride.

Feeling warm and satisfied and so good, Guy asked the girl after whether she had liked it. She put her head down and asked if she could go now.

“No,” he said, wondering why they all did that. He supposed they were all serving girls, so maybe fucking was just another duty for them. He didn’t think Marian would have been like that. Of course like any pious girl, she would not enjoy it, but afterwards she would have stayed. She would have welcomed time with him, to touch him in his bed.

For so long Guy had been unable to bear the thought of anyone but her doing so, but now Guy guessed the feeling had gone away, because he still wanted to be touched. He’d succeeded today. He accomplished a task he had set out to do, and Vaisey had been pleased. And he had fucked the girl long, and hard, with what he prided himself was considerable skill and endurance. He deserved to be petted, he thought.

“Stay,” he told the girl.

She lay down on the bed.

“Touch me,” he encouraged.

“Where?” she asked stupidly. She was a dull sort of girl, with dull sort of eyes, a sullen mouth, but she did anything you wanted. She was not at all beautiful.

“I don’t want to fuck you again,” he told her. “Just touch me. Anywhere you want.”

She moved over on the bed and touched his face—sweaty, trembling hands easing down the side of his face, his jaw, then his neck. Guy’s eyes fluttered closed so he wouldn’t have to see her slack-jawed face.

He opened himself to the sensation, to being touched, to where she wanted to touch him. Marian would have done this, but Marian was gone now. He could survive without her. He could still do great things. He could still be a man without her . . . .

He was still worth loving.

The hand at his throat felt intoxicating, warm, incredible. The hand stroked down and touched his chest, petting him there until at last, as though drawn to movement, the palm drifted a little to the left.

A swift breath escaped him. He’d told her, “touch me anywhere you want;” apparently where she wanted was his heart. He felt her hand spread warm and solid, with a certain weight, over that organ. His heart beat strong and sure beneath it.

She was so warm, and she kept touching him there, again and again, and he thought again, in time with her hand, in time with his heart: He could survive. He could do great things. He could be a man. He was worth loving.

Did she know it was his heart? Did she care, and did she want him—God, he was hard again, his breath coming short.

Her hand trembled and started away when his chest began to rise and fall with more vigor. He gripped the hand and pulled it back, splaying it against his heart again, holding it there with firm pressure. She was just a serving girl; she didn’t want or care for anything, but he wanted—how he wanted. “I want to fuck you again,” he told her gruffly.

She looked sullen at this. At last she asked reluctantly, “Do you want me to hold to the headboard?”

“On your hands and knees,” he told her, and though she was obviously an impertinent little bitch she complied. As he fucked her again, he told her, “Say my name.”

“Wh-what?” she shuddered.

“Say my name,” he demanded, wrapping her hair around her fist and pulling her head back, not too hard.

“G-Guy!” she stuttered anyway. “Guy!”

“All of it,” he growled.

“Guy—Guy of Gisborne!”

“No,” he spat.

“of—of—of Locksley! Guy of Locksley!”

He hadn’t thought he’d lose it. She wasn’t beautiful; she wasn’t bright and she wasn’t Marian. She wasn’t anything and all she had done was touch his heart and say his name and his home—he hadn’t thought it would be too much, but it was—hearing her say his name, say his home, where he belonged, where she belonged, straining, desperate; she needed it; she needed him; she needed him here and he needed—they lived together, here, like man and wife, he a lord, and she a lady, and they were happy, they had titles, lands, love, she loved him, she loved him; he came.

“Now can I go?” she asked, after he had pulled out of her.

He looked at her, her bruised neck, her raw thighs. It had all been a sham, of course. She didn’t want him, she didn’t need him. She just played a part, the wanton slut. Guy wondered if the hussy did want anyone, whether she could, whether she was capable of that. But even if she could, she was a just a serving girl. Her affections had no value; they didn’t mean anything. Guy was positive of that.

“Get out,” he told her, and she went.

*

The next day Guy came into Nottingham Castle cocky. Fucking the wench had satisfied him; he felt significantly more relaxed than he had in some time. His personal guard, as well as the sheriff’s men, were still feeling the effects of victory. Guy thought that they looked up to him; even if they were nameless faceless grunts, it meant something. And Vaisey had his money. He would be cheery and delighted and not at all vindictive. Yesterday he hadn’t mentioned Marian at all.

When Guy came in that morning, Vaisey was still delighted by it. “Gisborne!” he said gleefully, as Guy came into his planning room. “I’m rich. I’m rich I’m rich I’m rich!”

Guy wished he could think of something clever to say, to show the sheriff he was being ridiculous, something like “Buy yourself a pony,” or “Tell it to Prince John,” but he was feeling too proud and happy to care. Vaisey’s joy was often contagious when it wasn’t at his expense. Besides, the first was something Vaisey had told him when he had come into a little money himself, and as for the second, by the time Guy thought to say it, Vaisey was already saying:

“I’ll write to Prince John. Let him know of our little windfall. Not all of it, mind. But enough to suss out whether he knows any more good candidates for our little plans . . . people not averse to little windfalls of their own.”

Eventually Guy worked out that Vaisey meant he wanted Prince John to tell him who he might bribe into the circle of Black Knights. Vaisey spoke in riddles anyway, but Guy got distracted when the sheriff said things like “our plans” and “our windfall”.

“Whom do you think?” Vaisey went on. “We’ve already got all the sure bets on our side. We don’t need to pay those to join us.”

Vaisey almost never asked for Guy’s opinions. The fact that he was doing so made Guy feel eager and a little off his guard.

Also, Vaisey had said “join us”.

“Huntingdon?” Vaisey suggested, frowning. “That weasel. He’s already eating out of my hand. Wincester?”

“Maybe,” Guy answered, and smirked. There, that was enigmatic, and made him sound as though he remembered who Wincester was and all the complicated politics surrounding him. Pride was welling in his heart.

“Maybe,” Vaisey laughed. “I’m rich!”

“Yes.” Agreeing always worked. Guy felt lighter than air.

As if sensing said pride, though Guy had but muttered the word, Vaisey looked over at him. His gaze sharpened, went into focus, the way it did after Vaisey threw a fit, then looked around and decided who to blame. But this was the opposite. They had succeeded, for the first time in so long after Hood’s return, and Vaisey seemed to be looking around to decide who to thank.

And he looked at Guy.

“You know,” said Vaisey, in his coldest, most calculating voice. Guy felt a shudder of doubt creep through him. “Some people, when they come into power, forget their friends. They forget who helped get them to the top. Do you think I am one of those people? Do you think I will forget my friends?”

As always with Vaisey, Guy didn’t know the correct answer. It seemed on the one hand Vaisey could fly at him for thinking he would be unfaithful; on the other hand, Vaisey could fly at him for thinking he could be so stupid as to be faithful. Guy at last took a gamble and shook his head a fraction.

“Nooo,” Vaisey agreed, shaking his head in a very obvious way. “I’m not one to forget my friends. And are you one of my friends?”

Guy stood there paralyzed. All the confidence and happiness of that morning suddenly leaked out of him.

“Come, these are not hard questions,” the sheriff cooed. He came closer to where Guy stood unmoving. Only Guy’s eyes flicked down to the shorter figure, wary and suspicious, waiting for the quick movement, the flash before the bite of the snake. But of course the way Vaisey would bite would not be visible at all, because it would not be physical. “Are we friends?” Vaisey whispered, standing on tip-toes and tugging at his arm to pull himself up and put his lips close to Guy’s ear.

When Guy didn’t answer, Vaisey let go. “Perhaps you’re right,” he said in a brighter voice, moving away. “Power isn’t about friendship, is it? A very great man said that once. A very great man who was me. But power is about recognizing power in others. Using them and keeping them by you, and when the time comes, showing your gratitude so that power will not be used against you. Is that what you are?”

Head tilted, Guy began slowly, “I don’t know what you—”

“Let me put it in simple terms for you. Are you powerful, Gisborne?”

All the cockiness and pride and contentedness of that morning rushed up and caught in Guy’s throat. Yes, yes, yes, he thought, but when he spoke, his voice was uncertain, weak: “Yes.”

“Yes.” Vaisey nodded, encouraging.

Guy’s heart began to pound. He wasn’t thinking about what Vaisey had said about granting power to others. He hadn’t even deciphered that part of Vaisey’s speech yet. All he was thinking of was that Vaisey had agreed. Guy had said he was powerful, and Vaisey had agreed. Guy’s heart beat so hard it hurt.

Vaisey came toward him. He stopped very close again and looked up, and his expression was so free of malice that he looked different, like someone young. Someone impossibly impudent, with bright black eyes and twitching lips, any moment about to break into a smile. “You are powerful,” Vaisey repeated. “You’ve won a victory and made me a rich man in the process. I’ve got to give something back to you. It’s called gratitude.”

Guy still wasn’t thinking about gratitude. He hadn’t even heard the second part. All he was thinking was that Vaisey would touch him, now, the way he had in the past when he said tender things, only this time he would mean it.

Vaisey did not touch him, only began to grin—his twisted, absent toothed old grin.

Guy visibly flinched.

“Shh,” soothed Vaisey, as if knowing Guy expected him to turn on him at any moment, and was reassuring him. “Kings, when they rise to power, give their vassals titles. When fathers earn more riches, so do their sons. When I benefit, you gain. Just like partners. Shh, Gisborne. Is there any other reason you’d be here?”

Then Vaisey touched him, brushing his hair back from his temple. Guy closed his eyes, and tried to think about what Vaisey had said: that he was honorable, and deserved to be rewarded. Even if it was another ploy, he wanted it. He felt guilty for wanting it; he knew it must be a ploy, and yet it didn't even matter—he still wanted it. He didn’t even know what he wanted—he wanted this.

“Come with me,” Vaisey murmured, that low, teasing devious voice.

You should never trust that voice. It always promised things and never gave them, and Gisborne always followed anyway.

He followed like a dog.

As they walked through the castle corridors, all the lowness and gentleness from Vaisey’s voice was gone. The sheriff was burbling on about the reward he was giving Gisborne. He was in light spirits, because of the money, wittering on as Guy trod along behind.

Guy wasn’t really paying attention. He didn’t know what the reward was. Maybe it was some of the money, land—another title would be nice. He just wanted his efforts to be recognized. Knowing the sheriff, a big prize would be the opportunity to kneel down and swear fealty, which he had already done before. Just another opportunity for Vaisey to laugh at him.

It was almost worth it, if it meant that the sheriff really did recognize him. That meant what he’d said was true: he would remember Guy, when he came into power. And that meant that Vaisey wouldn’t leave him.

Guy hated himself so viscerally it hurt, that he could be made so happy that way, and yet for all the hate he bestowed upon himself, it didn’t matter. He was still happy anyway.

Then they were standing outside the room where Guy stayed when he spent the night in Nottingham, and Vaisey was opening the door. “Your reward for serving me so well.” Vaisey grinned and gestured him inside.

Guy went in eager, knowing he shouldn’t be, unable to help it.

And there on the bed lay Marian.

Her back was to him, but he thought he would know that shape anywhere, that cascade of dark hair, that green tunic and cincture she so often wore. Beloved Christ, it was Marian.

Guy was so sure he hated her, so sure even the pain had faded, but seeing her there, he knew what he’d felt only two weeks ago: that he would follow her anywhere, if only he could be by her side, eat from her plate, be remembered by her from time to time—if only she would never leave him.

And Guy didn’t hate himself for that.

Feeling that way about Marian was right and made sense. It was the way nature meant for things to happen; Marian was supposed to be his. He could make Marian his, and tell her what to do, which made it okay that he needed her this much. Men needed women to bear their children and keep their homes, to be the steady presence by their side, to honor and obey. It was okay that he never wanted her to leave him. She was supposed to stay with him; he could bind her to him—legally, and in the eyes of God. He had meant to; it was good and right and pure, and here he had that chance again, and Vaisey had given him that.

Vaisey must have seen how much Guy needed things to be right. He needed things to be pure this way, the way that nature intended. Maybe Vaisey had always seen; maybe that was the object of all those horrible, cruel jokes that seemed to insinuate something Guy could not understand. But Vaisey had seen it all and now was telling him that it was alright. It was okay. All was forgiven; all was always forgiven with Marian.

Looking at her there on the bed and thinking these things, Guy was already hard for her, but he had to turn back to the sheriff. He had to thank him; he had to—

He didn’t know what he had to do, but Vaisey already understood. He stepped forward, so close to Guy now, but for once Guy didn’t freeze in shame.

“I’m so glad you like my gift.” Vaisey spoke in his cruelly teasing voice, but his hand brushed Guy’s cheek, his thumb over Guy’s lips. “You’ve earned it.”

Guy’s lips fell open at the touch. He was panting; he was so hard for her.

“Ah ah ah,” Vaisey said in admonition, and snatched his hand away. “Save it for your prize!” and then he swept aside so Guy could step toward the bed.

Guy did, knowing that the sight of her face would wash him clean, the sound of her voice would feed his soul, and once he at last joined with her, he could enter into heaven once he died.

“Marian,” he croaked, and stepped toward her.

She was, of course, not Marian. The figure on the bed rolled over; the wig rolled off.

Guy had not even been suspicious. His gullibility made obvious so many of his flaws: he was too trusting, for one, but he was so willing to believe that this time, it would be different, and so unable to pick up any kind of clue. This happened all the time with Hood, Guy assuming there could be no danger in transporting money or prototyping black powder or hanging innocent villagers, because surely Hood would not thwart him this time. It never even occurred to Guy to stop and think. He just blundered along.

Yet even had Guy been suspicious, he could not have thought of this, and that was of course why the sheriff did it. No one went near any real lepers. No one, certainly, had the gall to bring one into his own castle merely for a joke. The danger was too great, the fear of contagion; such things were rumored to be airborne . . . . No one would risk it.

Except, of course, the sheriff.

For there in Guy’s bed was a leper, a leper who had never been Marian and whose skin had the tell-tale lesions and signs of rot, and meanwhile Vaisey was laughing hysterically.

Guy got out of there. He got out as quick as he could, with the leper struggling to rise from the bed and Vaisey quickly placing himself as far away from her as possible, all the while still wheezing.

Guy got out, but he couldn’t stop seeing Marian behind his eyes, Marian and the leper, Marian becoming the leper, and Vaisey—Vaisey—Vaisey—

Guy got out of there and ran to the stables, to the dirty, disgusting animals with their filthy, stinking hay, the big, stupid, shit-smelling horses who were warm and soft and strong beneath and gentle, who were never cruel and rarely hurt him.

When he was a boy he spent a lot of time with horses, for the company, for the touches of their filthy noses in his hand seeking apples or oats, for the way they were needful and gentle and selfish. Horses were big dumb animals, just like serving girls and soldiers. None of them knew what love was or how to touch him, and yet it was to all these species of animals he turned—fucking wenches slaked him; a guard looking up to him satisfied him; being among the horses comforted him.

Guy went into the stables now and vomited in the corner in the hay. He threw up until he couldn’t any more. Then he stood with his face against the stinking door of the shed, trying not to think or feel or smell or see. When the horse came up behind to nudge his shoulder, to whuffle near his ear, disturbing his hair, he hated that it still felt like comfort. That it felt like a horse was saying, “What’s wrong?” and “I’m here,” that he needed that at all.

Guy wanted to kill it. Kill the animal, kill everything innocent and stupid and kind. He wanted to turn the world to fire and watch it burn.

*

That night, Guy was angry and frustrated. He wished to forget everything that had happened during the day, and go back to the day before. Guy had imagined he had seen respect and deference in all who saw him. Now he was sure they were all secretly laughing at him.

Back at Locksley, he remembered how he had fucked the serving wench the night before. He had felt triumphant in taking her. Ever since Marian had left him at the altar, he had felt unmanned, but last night he had been strong, virile. He had been whole.

Guy didn’t feel particularly like fucking anyone that night. The girl from the night before brought him his plate of mutton. Her hair shone in the firelight, her soft skin a golden glow that flashed as her wrist flexed to lay down the plate. Seeing this, Guy knew that he should feel some stirring of lust. Were things as they should be, the glimpse of light glancing off her décolletage would have shot straight down to his cock.

Instead, he thought of Marian, and the serving girl disgusted him.

Guy decided to bed her that night anyway, proving his manhood to the sheriff who couldn’t see, to everyone else who definitely didn’t care, and to himself, who cared desperately. He was hard at first with thoughts of his pride and his power and his prowess, but as he eased into the tight warmth of the girl, he closed his eyes.

Behind the lids he saw the vision from earlier that day, the woman on the bed who was not Marian. He opened his eyes, but the girl beneath him was not Marian either. It was a shock—just like the leper. Lesions and infected flesh appeared before his eyes, the face that was Marian’s rotting into something else, and through it all Guy could hear the sheriff laughing, laughing, laughing.

Failure, defeat, shame coursed through Guy, straight down to his oh so proud manhood, and his cock began to flag. All thoughts of prowess fled, and even Guy’s desperate longing for completion, for some modicum of victory, could not sustain his erection.

Guy pulled out of the girl and pushed her away in disgust. She toppled off the bed.

For a moment, she just lay there. Guy lay much the same way on the bed, as though he had fallen, or been pushed there. At last she struggled to stand, and asked, “Shall I . . .” She was shivering; her crooked teeth were clattering.

Seeing her tremble in fear, like one of his own men, Guy felt a little better. At least he had the power here. Feeling warmer, Guy spread his legs. “Suck it,” he told her, gesturing to his flaccid cock.

Dull, scared eyes darted from his cock to his eyes and back again. “But—”

Guy raised a slow brow, the way he did when someone dared defy him. “What?” he demanded, short and sharp.

Her eyes cast down.

“You’ll do as I tell you,” Guy told her, feeling more settled every moment.

The girl got on the bed, kneeling between Guy’s legs. Taking his cock in her hand, she positioned herself so that she could work his soft length with her tongue.

Guy closed his eyes. It was easier to imagine things when there was someone sucking him, easier to imagine than when he was sinking into the soft heat of cunt. This way he did not have to know the girl so well; he did not have to know her body, her intimate places, her breasts, her womanhood. He could imagine this was anyone’s mouth; he could imagine anyone, anything.

Of course, he imagined Marian. He did not like to bring her into this sordidness. For one thing, he did not love her any more. Every tender feeling for her had fled. Thoughts of her only echoed in an emptiness inside of him. He was hollow.

For another thing, Marian was pure and beautiful and chaste, and though he’d always planned on fucking her he didn’t like to soil the holiness of that moment by thinking of her when he fucked serving girls.

Nevertheless, Guy thought of her as the serving girl sucked. He was sure it was the only way he could come with the girl’s mouth on his prick, and he must come tonight, if only to prove a point. Sure enough, he was hard again, the girl’s warm mouth, her sloppy spit and tongue doing their work, that and thoughts of Marian.

He struggled to see her behind his eyes, that luxurious dark hair, those bright, teasing eyes, that full, red, ripe mouth. He imagined that mouth stretched wide around his cock, Marian so hungry and obedient, kneeling at his feet, her two big eyes cast up to him in acceptance, appeal, adoration. He imagined all that fiery spirit bent to his will, struck helpless in the face of his overwhelming manhood, shaky and begging at the sight of his enormous cock. She would think it was an enormous cock. It was an enormous cock.

Of course, she was a lady. The thought of this thrilled Guy. She would not want his enormous cock, or at least she did not know she wanted it. Ladies never knew, or so men said. They were pure and chaste, not loose and begging for it, like common wenches and whores and serfs and other people who weren’t her. She would submit out of duty and loyalty and love. Love—

Christ, Guy wanted it, wanted her to want him not because her body demanded it, but her heart did. She would accept him despite all her natural maidenly resistance to it because she loved him. In time, he could even make her body betray her purity. She would begin to beg him for it, for his embrace, for his enormous cock, Marian with her laughing eyes and grinning mouth, because she loved him, and he—he—

He deserved it, didn’t he? He deserved titles, land, a noblewoman, the fittings of a knight. He deserved Locksley and a lady. He deserved love. He deserved a home.

He had worked for it, fought for it, lived his life for it. He had been loyal and obedient and done everything anyone had told him to. He had done everything he was supposed to. Shouldn’t he get some sort of reward? Some prize at the end of the weary march? He had sown his field; he should reap the benefits. He’d earned some comfort, hadn’t he, some warmth, some gentle kind warm loving touching needing—he deserved—he had earned—

Vaisey was by him, so close, whispering into his ear, “You’ve earned it.”

It always came back to Vaisey.

Guy did not want to think of Vaisey. He wanted to feed on those visions of sanctuary, home . . . domesticity. Even the wench at his cock, he wanted her warmth, her wetness, her womanhood—but he was not thinking of hearth or home fires now. He was not thinking of cunt at all.

He was only thinking of coldness, that whisper in his mind, and he was harder than ever.

Wrapping his fist with the girl’s hair, he pulled her off.

“My lord,” she began, as he yanked her farther back.

“Don’t talk,” he told her. He hated her voice, the sweet low catch of it. He closed his eyes against her coarse features, and couldn’t help but think what Vaisey would do, how to humiliate anyone as much as Vaisey could. “Go and stand against the wall,” he told her at last.

She blinked at him.

Guy got up and dragged her. She tumbled off, a tangle of limbs, and he pulled her across the floor. Then he jerked her up. “Against the wall,” he told her, ugly as possible.

Terrified and trembling, she stood.

He grabbed her by her skinny neck. “Face to it,” he clarified, turning her around. He was relieved then, breathing hard, not having to look at her and having at last managed to distract himself from—from whatever had distracted him from thoughts of Marian.

Backing up, he looked at the naked woman plastered to his wall and shuddered. It was supposed to be a simple, quick thing, coitus. The fact that for him it often wasn’t was something he induced no woman to reveal, on threat of pain or torture. There was the trouble he had had earlier that night of—of sustainment, but more often it was . . . fairly more complex.

He was so hard, he could have gotten off with her mouth. He was still so hard, he should have been able to come merely with a few strokes of his hand. The fact was that he didn’t want to come while—he didn’t want to be thinking these things while he—if he distracted himself, he could come while he wasn’t thinking of anything else and that would be so much better. He would be that much closer to being a man and he would just have to warn her she could never tell . . . .

That night he whipped the girl whose name he still did not know and would never bother to learn. He only whipped her three times, but he did it hard, hard enough the third time to split the skin, which pleased him. Some men enjoyed this sort of thing during sex because they believed the women they were with deserved it, that someone should be punished for their own humiliation.

Guy was aware that there was punishment and humiliation involved, as well as pain, but he did not think of them as hers in particular. What she deserved did not occur to him. He did not think of her at all.

Instead he whipped her, and felt that at least he was in control of something. He rubbed his cock against the round, giving flesh of her buttocks, sliding the length of it along the crease between them. He pressed his chest against her bleeding back, pressed her face against the wall, and thought that this was more dirty and shameful and easy than anything else. He wasn’t even entering her, just whipping her and humping against her soft, waiting bottom. The thought of his come on her ass and in her crack, the thought of how filthy and humiliating it was, the thought of how he couldn’t ejaculate any other way was what finally made him come.

He stood there leaning into her, breathing heavily as she stood very, very still. He was a large man; his frame covered hers completely, enveloping her against the wall, crushing her there.

He pulled back, only a little, so there could be room for her to breathe against the wall, feeling gentle now, and calm. He pulled a lock of her sweat-drenched hair back from her ear, almost tenderly. He leaned in to her ear.

“Don’t tell,” he said, in a low seductive whisper. His hand went around her throat and squeezed. “Do you hear me?” he went on.

“Yes,” she breathed.

“Don’t ever tell,” he whispered again. “If you do, I’ll kill you.”

*

Guy had not always been so lucky with women as he was with that one.

As a teenager, he had been thin and gangly, pimples on his face and neck. His narrow features had not resolved into hard lines and instead of the hawkishness they gave him now, he had been in no way attractive.

No woman would have volunteered to bed him on the basis of his looks in those days. Having no land or title to call his own, he hadn’t had any serfs either—no serving girls he could force into bed with him by reason of ownership. Still being scrawny at the time, despite his height, he could not as easily force the girls as other men could force them. He might have tried, possessed as he was of a wiry sort of strength, but Guy had always feared reprisals of the men the girls did belong to.

He was, despite all appearances, aware that women could be won sometimes with kind words and gentle touches. But Guy had never been clever. He could never find the right words to make someone see him in the proper light. Since his mother had died he did not know much of gentleness, either, and did not know how to show it to others.

He did not know how to make someone believe that he could be kind.

Apart from a few fumbles with drunk or addle-pated women who laughed in his face at how quickly he came, Guy had had little experience with women by the time he left the teenage years behind.

Somewhere between early and late twenties, however, Guy had grown into himself. His shoulders and chest filled out, his features still thin, but harshly defined. His skin cleared. His face was still sullen, his hair still greasy, but suddenly Guy became aware that women found him attractive. For some reason they no longer seemed to mind his tongue-tied speeches, his awkward advances. They looked at him like they were flies and he was covered in honey; they flocked to him that way too. In fact, they came in droves.

Guy never quite perceived what caused the change. When it started to happen, he’d been terrified that it was some joke, that they were using him for their pleasure and laughing at him. The couldn’t possibly want him. They’d go back to hating him as quickly as they began to come to him.

In all his initial encounters with beautiful willing women who flocked to him, even taking the trouble to seduce him sometimes, he came in his pants almost as soon as they touched him. He shook with fear and shame afterwards, color bright in the high points of his cheeks, waiting for them to laugh in his face, waiting for them to leave him all alone again.

They laughed, but they did not leave him alone. One girl with big soft breasts and big round eyes leaned into his ear and said in a small sweet voice, “Happens to the very best of them, sirrah,” and played with various parts of him for twenty minutes to get him hard again. He had never heard that before and did not quite believe her.

The women didn’t leave. The same ones rarely stayed, but he did not think they were supposed to. They were all kitchen girls, sluts, the lot of them. Noblewomen seemed to take some interest too, but they seemed to lose interest once he tried talking to them. He never did learn how to talk to them, but the women he was interested in you didn’t have to talk to. He had no plans regarding noblewomen at that time anyway. He was just grateful for any kind of attention, after the humiliation of his teenage years.

Vaisey had noticed him some time before, when Guy was but nineteen, very alone and friendless. In those days they had all lived in Derby—closer to Gisborne—and Vaisey had been nothing but the reeve of a small tithing. After Gisborne had been confiscated, Guy had been apprenticed as a squire to one of the earl’s sons. By the age of twenty, he was far too old to continue in the position, but there was no one with the money or inclination to dub him knight, as was his proper due.

Guy had worked as marshal of the stables for the earl of Derby. He had hated the humiliation, but the position was not so bad. Horses were stupid creatures who did what he told them. They never knew his shame.

He had been trying to do small favors for the earl—his mother said people always appreciated effort—when Vaisey noticed him. Vaisey may only have been a minor reeve, but he was always accruing more wealth and power, because he was Vaisey. He had seen Guy’s mettle a little before the women around him seemed to notice his desirability. After several years of working and plotting with Vaisey, Vaisey had bought his knighthood.

As Vaisey continued to acquire lands and money, he took Guy into his household. By the time Guy was thirty, it would not have mattered whether he was attractive. He could have almost any kitchen girl he liked with the power he had now, but it helped that many still came straight to him.

Then Vaisey had bought his position as Sheriff of Nottingham, and they had moved camp to Nottinghamshire. With Robin of Locksley gone, Vaisey could finally make good his promise to grant Guy land, and did.

Guy never had to want for company again.

*

Guy did not return to Nottingham town for a week. For him, this was an excruciating amount of time. The problem was that Locksley was horrible.

For one, there was no one to talk to. There were plenty of peasants, villagers, serfs, but they were not potential company. Those without power were dull and uninteresting to Guy because they could have no impact on him. They did not count; they weren’t even really people. Meanwhile those who had more power than he did could control him, and were therefore of the utmost interest.

He had never once considered a life in which someone did not control him.

Defiance in general didn’t interest him. The serfs at Locksley who persisted in disobedience he could silence with a word, a gesture to his guards. In some respects, Hood was like the serfs. Guy may not have been able to squash Hood yet, but squash him he would. Hood was merely a bug, an irritant, a pebble in his shoe. The fact that he hadn’t conquered Hood yet was much more of an irritant than a defeat.

Marian’s defiance was different. She was the daughter of a reeve who was also a knight, which meant she was of high standing. But she was also a woman, which should have taken her off even footing with him. Guy should have been able to exert his power over her. He had tried to do so, though without once considering whether he would still have been interested had he succeeded. But as it was, Marian had a weapon: she could say no.

Farm girls and kitchen wenches could not say no, or if they did, no heed need be paid them. But Marian was not a kitchen wench or farm girl. Of course, had her father been amenable, Guy could have married her without her consent. But Sir Edward was a weak man who seemed led by whatever his daughter would have him do, and she would not have Guy. Therefore despite Guy’s superiority in gender, Marian had power over him.

He hated it. He wanted to squash her like a bug far more than he had ever wanted to do so to Hood. He wanted to subdue and conquer her. He wanted to tie her down and fuck her brains out. The fact that he could not, because she was a lady and said no, excited him terribly.

Without her to visit, and without the sheriff keeping him busy, the days were dull, and the nights were—frustrating. If he had had work to do—outlaws to hunt, money to make, he could have gone to sleep easily in the evenings. Perhaps the action during the day would even have built up the necessary energy for a quick fuck and an easy release, coming readily after a day of hard riding, fighting, and justice.

As it was, Guy still wanted to fuck the thoughts of Marian and the leper out of his head, but the sex felt more like hard work than relief. He did not use the whip again, but his erection could flag more than once in a night, and when at last he could maintain one, achieving release was difficult.

He tried once with two of the girls at the same time. He had enjoyed this in younger days, when women were just beginning to find him appealing. Those times it hadn’t mattered if he came too quickly, because they could entertain each other while he got ready to go again.

But this night it was a horrible idea. There were two of them to perform for, two for whom he had to sustain this image of strength and virility . . . two of them for whom he must maintain an erection. Two of them to punish, when no other way would bring him to release, and he knew he couldn’t do it. He wasn’t strong enough to master them both, not that they were at all resistant.

Perhaps that was the problem: they oppressed him with their willingness to please him. He could be cruel to them, but he could never be cruel enough. They would only grow more soft and warm and subdued; he could never destroy that pleading look in their eyes. It was just too exhausting to be that commanding, powerful figure when they were so weak and—and docile and he wanted—he wanted—

Eventually he made one sit in the corner and face the other way while he fucked the other one in the ass. He did it from behind and gagged her so he wouldn’t have to hear. It worked, but he never wanted to do it again.

He made them both promise not to tell.

Locksley Hall felt stifling and small. The rushes always seemed dirty here, and the walls were moist and moldy. He had never spent so long in his own home before without any visits to Nottingham. It would not have been like this with Marian. Guy was even willing to return to Nottingham to alleviate the boredom of it all, despite what the sheriff had done. At least Vaisey was clever, and would think of things for him to do.

Guy tried to fix it himself. Vaisey would not have stood for such a small house. He was always plotting and planning, thinking of things to do. When he could not do something himself with the resources he had to hand, he got other people to do it for him.

So Guy instated a special tax just on Locksley village to pay for some improvements to Locksley Hall. The sheriff had taught him that people did nothing without incentive, and he had also taught him just the kind of incentive that drove people, so Guy said he would cut the tongues of anyone who wouldn’t pay.

This seemed to him very reasonable. Locksley was his; the people here were his. They should work to make Locksley Hall a more suitable home for its master, because there was obviously something wrong with it. Thornton had him doing things like counting sheep and allotting funds to improve the roads; this was not at all going to satisfy Guy. It only made him bored.

When Guy announced the tax and went out among the villagers, they all looked at him as though he had grown another head. They did not seem to think that he had the right to impose another tax, and though they did not question him, he could see it in their eyes. They were all asking, “Why are you doing this?”

“Because I’m your lord!” Guy wanted to say, but he couldn’t, because they were not actually asking. This made it all the more frustrating. They never looked questioning when Vaisey ordered more taxes. They put their heads down and accepted.

Or maybe Guy just never noticed their eyes when it was Vaisey asking him to cut out tongues, for after the first tongue was cut, the heads went down, and the eyes went hard. There were no questions now. There was acceptance. But in the eyes there was hatred, fear, anger, resentment.

Guy couldn’t figure out why they resented him. He was their lord. He had the right.

He made his guards fulfill the tax collection, but for all the rest of the tongues that were cut, he felt ill inside. His chest was tight, and it felt hard to breathe. He wanted to remind them all that he had jurisdiction over their lives. He could take their breath away with a single word. He wanted to spit in all their faces and tell them he was the one with all the power, not them; they should not be making him feel this way.

The girls had made him feel this way, oppressing him with their obedience. Somehow he was not their master, even though he was the one with all the power, the one in charge. Somehow they didn’t see all that he had accomplished, all that he had become. They still laughed at him, when they never did at Vaisey. When would his time come? When would all his hard work pay off? It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Guy remembered the time Vaisey had given him a bird from one of his cages. Guy had held the tiny body, felt the fragile bones, touched the swift heartbeat, held the struggle of wings. Despite the cage of his hands, Guy could not hold on. Every impulse in him told him to let it go, every instinct strained toward complete release of this luminous, willful thing. In that instant, the bird had had power over him, too—it dazzled too much; it shone. It longed too much to fly and nothing in him could resist its desires.

Maybe it was just because Guy was so distracted by Vaisey that he didn’t really notice the peasants’ expressions on tasks like the cutting out of tongues. He had to be distracted by Vaisey; if he didn’t do something just as Vaisey wanted, Vaisey would get angry. Vaisey would make him look the fool in front of all the rest. Vaisey would humiliate him, so Guy was always paying attention to what Vaisey wanted or needed and trying to do exactly that. And being distracted by Vaisey was certainly better than being distracted by peasants.

Besides, Vaisey did get so delighted when things went right. Guy remembered those rare times he had done everything perfectly. Even when things did not go exactly according to plan, if Vaisey got what he wanted he forgot everything else. His face would light up and he would be in a good mood for days, swishing about in those ridiculous furs and smiling at everyone he saw.

He would tease Guy during those days in such a particular way, as if Guy was in on something only the two of them understood, as if he was special somehow, as if he had been instrumental in Vaisey’s success, even when he wasn’t. The sheriff would include Guy in all his plots during those times—the sheriff always included him in all his plots anyway, even when he accused Guy of the most base incompetence—but when Vaisey was in this kind of mood, this inclusion would feel exclusionary of everything else.

Sometimes it felt as though these meetings where Vaisey told him his plans were a secret just the two of them kept, the two of them plotting against the world. Guy felt he was his partner, the only one Vaisey could trust with all of his plans and secrets, the only one smart and strong enough to carry out all of Vaisey’s most complicated errands and chores. Guy felt as if he was at last on his way to earning all that he was due.

Of course, it was not really like that at all. During these meetings, even when Vaisey was in the best of moods, he frequently insulted Guy. He lamented Guy’s slowness and lack of subtlety, accused him of a brutishness that could not grasp the brilliant delicacy of his plans.

And yet, Guy did not miss the fact that it was he Vaisey came to again and again and again. Perhaps Vaisey told the truth. Perhaps he had no confidence in Guy’s abilities whatsoever. Perhaps he would dispense with Guy the second someone better came along. But no one did come along, and nor did Vaisey appear to be actively searching for someone better.

Vaisey had gotten used to Guy. He had accepted him. He told all his plans to Guy and waited for Guy to carry them out, and then was so enraged and shocked at all the ones that failed to succeed, and then he turned around and did it again. It must mean something. It must mean Guy had earned some sort of trust or faith or understanding of his true abilities from Vaisey. Guy was so sure of it, and so grateful for it.

The more Guy thought of it, the less he thought of what Vaisey had actually done after Guy stole that church money, and the more he thought of the things Vaisey had said.

“You are powerful. You’ve won a victory and made me a rich man. I’ve got to give something back to you. It’s called gratitude.”

Of course it had all been a joke. Vaisey had been playing him for a fool so that he could trick him with the leper. But it really had been just a joke. Vaisey liked to trick people; he did it all the time. He hadn’t really been singling Guy out that way. He just had a cruel sense of humor.

And it didn’t mean Vaisey hadn’t meant the things he’d said—the kind, good things he said. Maybe Vaisey really had meant them, and actually wanted to praise Guy. Sure, the leper had been a joke afterwards, but it didn’t mean that nothing that came before it was true. Vaisey just couldn’t take anything seriously; that was why he’d wanted him to think the leper was Marian, but it didn’t mean he hadn’t been sincere. After all, Guy had won a victory. He had made Vaisey a rich man. So that must mean Vaisey meant it.

And Vaisey had promised so often that if he was to come into more power, Guy would too. Their relationship had always operated on this principle. Just like Vaisey had said, there was no other reason Guy would be there with him, so Vaisey must have been speaking the truth.

“When I benefit, you gain. Just like partners. Just like fathers . . . and sons.”

Yes, Guy kept thinking, alone there in Locksley. Surely Vaisey meant it. He meant all of it . . . .

Guy knew that Vaisey wasn’t to be trusted. The sheriff could act like that with anybody, and often did, if he wanted something out of someone. Although Guy was aware that Vaisey was extremely homely, the man could be funny and charming, and he had a brightness to the eyes surely no one could miss.

He was a small man. Guy could easily best him in a fight—fists or swords, despite Vaisey’s dexterity and higher level of energy. And yet there was a power in the sheriff’s figure that had nothing to do with strength, and everything to do with supreme confidence, a swagger which put other egos to shame. It had always impressed Guy, that someone so delicate and unbeautiful could walk like that, act like that, as though he owned the world. It made Guy want to be near him, to feel that flow of power, to walk in the footsteps of that incandescent energy.

And yet, Guy had seen all the inner workings. He’d seen the body that was not inwardly strong and wiry at all but aging, running to flab in more places than one. Guy knew so well the balding head, the missing tooth, the corns on the feet and the one bad knee. Vaisey kept none of these things secret from Guy. Guy was privy to all of them; Vaisey even seemed proud of them, in the way he did not hide them, and that made him seem so much stronger.

Guy remembered holding the bird again. Its fragile bones, its radiant glory.

“You’ve earned it,” Vaisey had said, just as if all these years of service and loyalty and utter and complete loyalty had meant something.

Vaisey had just seemed to feel he deserved so much when he had said that; he had seemed to want so much for him. His eyes had been so alight; had the warmth there been only for the cruel joke that was to come? It could not have been—the way Vaisey had touched his face, his lips . . . he had a way of making you feel as though you were the only person in the room. You didn’t see the age or the flab any more; you only saw the eyes—the slight curve of the his mouth . . . the lips . . . .

Alone in Locksley, Guy closed his eyes. He hated the sheriff.

He hated himself.

*

Guy had no where else to go, so he went to Nottingham.

“Gisborne!” Vaisey shouted, when he came into the sheriff’s morning office. “Where were you at breakfast?”

Guy blinked. “I have not been here the past week,” he said finally.

“Really?” said the sheriff, without looking up from his papers. “I hadn’t noticed.”

Guy knew he should really turn around and walk right out again, but he knew what awaited him out there. He would be bored and lonely and slow, and he felt energized even just being in Vaisey’s presence, even this presence that was apparently not aware that he existed.

“You really shouldn’t stay away so long,” Vaisey went on. “I might forget that you exist, and then where would you be? It’s not as if you’re indispensible.”

Doubt stirred something like hope in Guy’s breast—this probably meant the sheriff had missed him after all. “I couldn’t very well stay here,” he said in a snide tone.

“Hm.” Vaisey still hadn’t looked up. Scratching something with his quill, he sprinkled sand to dry it. Then he let the paper roll and threw it aside. “Well!” he said suddenly, at last meeting Guy’s eyes. “What is it? You’re in a huff about something, so you might as well whine to me while I’m in a good mood. Have your servants forgot to tend your laundry? I know you only have the one pair of pants.”

Guy did turn to leave then. He did it because he half hoped the sheriff would try to stop him. He was relieved when Vaisey did. The sheriff came to him and touched his arm, and no one with the power to make Guy stay had touched him in a week. Guy jerked away, but stayed.

“Oh, I see,” Vaisey said softly, dropping his hand. He was grinning that slow, wicked grin, all crooked teeth and sparkling eyes, smile lines deep on his cheeks. “You’re still in a snit about your reward.”

Guy jerked away. “I couldn’t stay here after that. You put a leper in my room!”

Vaisey made a pitying moue. “You ran away because your little feelings got hurt?”

“No!” Guy shouted. “She was in my bed! How am I to sleep there?”

“Worried about nightmares?” Vaisey taunted still.

“No,” Guy repeated, more subdued. “They’re contagious. That thing could have infected my whole room.”

“Hm.” Vaisey did not look concerned, though he did look thoughtful. Then, slowly, his warm black eyes met Guy’s. He came close, the way he always did, and touched his arm. One sneaky hand slid through Guy’s own even as Vaisey whispered pleasantly in his ear, “Well, Gisborne, if it’s that you’re worried about, you can always share my bed.”

Guy pushed him away, and as always, Vaisey just kept laughing. The most humiliating part was Guy didn’t get the joke.

He knew that Vaisey was trying to be disgusting. Vaisey was always disgusting. He talked about piss and shit as though they were normal bodily functions; he farted loudly; he did not mind blood. Guy should have known that he was even at least partially indifferent to disease; he had to be, to knowingly go into the same room as a leper.

Guy also knew that all this perversion amused the sheriff. What Guy did not get was why this was in particular so funny to the sheriff, why it seemed particularly directed at him. Vaisey acted as though he had just hit an arrow home with an accuracy to rival Hood’s, when all it was was just another of his crude jokes.

Guy hated it, this sense that he was being laughed at for more than he could see, and so often that was just how the sheriff laughed. Tongue-tied again with anger, hurt, and humiliation, Guy blindly spun to get away.

“Oh, don’t leave, Gisborne!” Vaisey shouted. “You can sleep with Daddy any time you get a nightmare!”

Guy flinched at that word even as he stomped off.

*

Of course, this had to be the day Hood robbed Vaisey of all the Church money.

Vaisey was sending the money to the Earl of Derby, in attempts to buy him into the Black Knight’s circle. He’d found Guy again later in the day and explained this to him. By then Guy’s temper had cooled, and he’d still rather be here than back at Locksley. Besides, here was a task to distract him, just as he had wanted. And the sheriff was entrusting him with a great responsibility—that showed that for all his pranks, he thought Guy had earned something after all.

In short, Guy was glad to be working. He was glad to get on a horse for a purpose again, glad to feel a stallion between his thighs, its strong body attuned to his every command. The guard for the money was attuned to his command too, and Vaisey had even entrusted Guy to sway the Earl of Derby into joining them.

This had been a big surprise. Vaisey trusted Guy to fight, to lead convoys, chase down outlaws, but usually he did not include him in the political side of things. Guy supposed it was just as well. He knew that he was not clever or well-spoken. Vaisey called him the least subtle person he had ever met, and he was more than likely right. Guy did not mind too much; he knew that his strengths lay elsewhere.

But now Vaisey was trusting him to buy them a partner, to bribe an earl into joining them. Even with the money this was a situation which would require finesse, not just brute strength. Guy knew Vaisey had his reasons for sending Guy instead of going himself or bringing the earl here; Vaisey always had his reasons. For one thing, there was Guy’s own previous connection with the Earl of Derby. He had been a good squire to the current earl’s brother, and he had been a good horse marshal to his father. He had been loyal and paid them favors. They owed him something.

Still, Guy couldn’t help but feel pride that Vaisey had given him this task. Perhaps the sheriff was trying to make up for the incident with the leper, and what he had said this morning. Guy felt sure he could convince the earl. He was not just brawn and brute strength. He had some brains; he just never got a chance to use them. He could use them now; he could show the sheriff, and then Vaisey would have to mean it when he said Guy had earned a reward, when he said Guy deserved more . . . .

“We both benefit. Just like fathers and sons . . . .”

This was precisely where Guy’s thoughts were when the outlaws attacked. As always the vagabonds took the party completely by surprise, because Guy was thinking of fathers instead of paying attention to the path or the forest or his precious cargo. This was why Vaisey called him stupid. This was why Vaisey laughed at him. Maybe Vaisey even knew these thoughts Guy could not keep out, and that was the raw point of his joke this morning . . . .

Want Daddy to keep the nightmares away?

Of course, Guy hadn’t had a father since he was nine years old, and the nightmares always came. He was thinking this as he fell off his horse and to the ground with Hood.

The outlaws had distracted them with arrows, causing Guy’s men to fan out. Then the outlaws had fallen back, and Guy had been so upset and distracted by the thought of them attacking again and getting the money, that Guy had order his men to give chase. It wasn’t until he was alone with the cart that he realized his mistake. It was, of course, a simple and an obvious one, one a smarter man would never make. But as Vaisey had pointed out, more than half Hood’s victories had been won by virtue of Guy’s tactical stupidity.

Guy tried to recall his men, but on horseback they had already gone too far, and the outlaws were already circling back. Hood was keeping him under fire while the big one and the girl one climbed into the cart. Ignoring the arrows, Guy went for the others, swinging his sword at them to stop them before they could get away. Then Hood, realizing he couldn’t get a straight shot, was there and waving around his sword, and the big one on the carriage was pushing him off his horse.

So then it was Guy and Hood scrambling on the ground through the dead leaves. Things always seemed to end that way. Guy was almost glad, because if he had to lose the cart he wanted to at least beat the living shit out of something, and Hood was far better than any random guard.

They fenced a bit—or rather, Hood fenced, all his light dancing steps and round-about leaps and turns, while Guy could only lumber about trying to keep up. All of his moves were too big, his lunges too wide, his swashes too revealing. He had never learned delicate swordplay. Not everyone was the king’s very favorite knight. Not everyone was raised as a lord, even when they should have been.

Guy never admitted this. He was big and strong. He didn’t really see what else sword fights should require, which was why he didn’t understand how Hood always bested him. He was pretty sure Hood was just getting lucky, since Guy was aware that Hood had gotten everything Guy was supposed to have, and had thrown it all away. Hood was blessed, a golden child. He had never worked for anything.

But Guy knew how the world was supposed to work: you worked hard enough, and you eventually got what you wanted. You faffed about like Hood and threw it all away, then you had nothing. It was only just, and Guy believed in justice. He believed in it with truer faith than he believed in anything. The tide had to turn some day.

As if to prove the point, Guy’s men were turning back, having realized the error. Guy grinned ferociously and gained ground on Hood, who was trying to do fifty more things at once—checking that his friends were alright, that the cart got away, counting how many of Guy’s guard were coming, and judging whether he could get far enough away from Guy to draw his bow. Meanwhile, Guy was focused doggedly on Hood and only Hood.

The tall, gangly outlaw came to back up Hood, and the one who was always with the gangly one, that blond one, came too, but Guy’s soldiers had engaged them. “Idiots!” Guy yelled at them, even though it was too late. “The cart!”

There was a roiling mess of confusion while the men tried to decide what to do, while Guy was still fighting Hood. At last, they formed up and set after the cart. The clever one and his boy went that way too to protect their friends.

“Alone again,” Hood laughed, and waggled his eyebrows.

Guy lunged.

“Do you ever get tired of this?” Hood went on, dancing away.

“No,” Guy said stolidly, and cut a broad swath where Hood’s knees had been.

“I do,” said Hood. “Sometimes I still think about killing you. I think I should have done it while I had the chance.”

The smile was gone, but Hood was obviously not concentrating on the fight very much. He didn’t have to; Guy’s movements were so exaggerated that he tired quickly, and Hood only had to gracefully wait. Hood’s look was boyish and thoughtful, his soft, honey hair falling across his brow. Guy wanted to cut his face off.

“And then I decided—you know what?” Hood leapt like a cat as Guy thrust.

“No,” Guy grunted in frustration. “What?”

Hood smiled again, a light, ironic smile, not the sort of smile he gave his friends. “You’re not worth it.”

Guy wanted to put severed limbs in that smile; he hacked and slashed and could not. Hood skittered about, just as if he was dancing, one of the leaves caught in the slight breeze. He was dressed that way, just as if he was a piece of debris on the forest floor. Guy knew he was dressed like that to blend in, just as Guy and Vaisey wore black to stand out. It worked for all of Hood’s outlaw friends—except for maybe the girl, with her bright eyes—but it never worked for Hood. He stood out more than anything, like a sunbeam filtering through to a waiting, upturned face.

“I thought you were worth it,” Hood went on, with that same pleasant, ironic smile. “You tried to kill the king. You’re the sheriff’s right arm. You’re everything that’s wrong with this country, everything I fight against. But you’re not actually worth it.”

Guy could not think fast enough to come up with retorts; besides, he was working too hard. Let Hood expend his energy being snarky. Guy only grunted and trudged on.

Meanwhile, Hood danced. “You’re dull and stupid,” he was saying, still smiling faintly, hair still falling in a halo across his forehead. “Like a big dumb animal. I do think you know better—stupidity isn’t an excuse. You just don’t want to. You’re comfortable in your existence, aren’t you? You like to follow people about. You like to do what you’re told.”

Guy roared and came at him. He didn’t stop to consider that that inarticulate sound of rage might sound exactly like a big dumb animal. It would never even occur to him. Hood was a bug; the things he said didn’t mean anything. It didn’t mean anything.

“Basically what I’m saying is—” Hood swung from a tree branch, knocking Guy down mid-charge—“there’s no reason to kill you. You haven’t really done anything—not you yourself. You haven’t earned it.”

Hood was on top of Guy now, and Guy’s sword had been knocked away. Guy grabbed Hood’s hand and twisted, relieving the outlaw of his weapon as well. Then Guy punched him in the face.

Hood laughed, and they rolled around in the dirt.

“Isn’t this better, then?” Hood taunted. He’d scrambled away for the moment, and was grinning. Mud was smeared on his cheek; a dead leaf was caught in his hair. He was so young, such a boy; Guy wanted to break him in half. He didn’t even think about finding his sword.

“Oof,” Hood said, when Guy bowled him over, but soon he was talking again, even when Guy was trying to stuff his mouth full of dirt. “Fighting this way?” Hood went on, “See, in this circumstance you actually have a motive, not just someone telling you to do something. You really hate me, don’t you? And you really want to destroy me. You have to work for it, now. It won’t just be given to you. You’re earning it, Gisborne.”

Hood said this last in a solemn voice. Guy had finally pinned him down; he was straddled over him. His hands were at Hood’s throat; he was going to kill him. Hood was looking up at him without much concern, that same light, ironic look lit up in his eyes.

Guy only paused because Hood was insane.

“You’re earning it,” Hood said again. He gave him that slight smile—a smirk. “Doesn’t it make you feel like a man?” Then he thrust his hips up, just slightly, and Guy was over him so he felt it against his crotch.

Hood was too well pinned, and Guy was too big, for the maneuver to buck Guy off. It hadn’t been meant as an attempt at escape, Guy realized. Hood was just—he was taunting, making a joke. Hood had been making a joke of Guy the entire battle, and it shouldn’t surprise Guy at all that he would have a disgusting sense of humor—but it did.

It did, and after Vaisey’s disgusting joke that morning, it made Guy afraid that somehow Hood knew whatever Vaisey knew, whatever it was Guy didn’t know but Vaisey used against him, something everyone knew but Guy.

Guy’s surprised, frightened eyes locked with Hood’s, and Hood’s own eyes registered such true, unfeigned shock that Guy scrambled off of him, because if Hood didn’t know, he could find out.

Hood scrambled to stand, but he did not take his eyes off Guy. He had never looked at Guy this way before, staring at him with just this sheer, blank surprise without any of the hate or fire to fight in his eyes.

Then Guy realized what had happened, that he had let Hood get away again, and for what? He didn’t know what was going on, what Hood had found out or could find out; there was nothing to find out, and here he was with Hood for some reason in shock, and Guy was doing nothing but standing there stupidly.

So Guy lunged. He had gotten Hood down once and he could do it again, and this time he would choke him to death. And cut his face off.

But Hood easily dodged everything, as though everything previous had merely been a game, and he did it all without lashing back. He didn’t say anything—for once; Guy hadn’t even known the prat could be silent for this long—but he didn’t fight back. He just defended himself until at last, Guy let a blow swing far too wide, and Hood had time to escape.

He did, dancing back, but at the edge of the forest path he paused, looking at Gisborne thoughtfully. Then he grinned—he really was insane—and was gone.

Wearily, Guy shook his head. He still did not know what had happened, but his men were scattered, the cart was gone, and there was going to be hell to pay when Vaisey found out.

*