~Lyrics by the great song No Name by Ed Sheeran aka soundtrack of "The Bastard Executioner"

Born with a heart
That could ache more than beat
The mind of a killer
The soul of the meek

Boy aimless and angry
Ran hard from the day
Left love at the crossroad
Into a man that I hate

Father, do you burn if your hand is in fire?
Does hour head spin with rage when fooled by the liars?
Should I drop to my knees?
Scream your name out in vain?
Tell me good teacher, are we all just insane?

King of the Kings, do you feel any pain?

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Bordeaux, Aquitaine, South France, 1174

He kept the reticule tight inside his jerkin, securing it with a golden strap. This was his entire fortune, therein he'd put all his faith for a future that now seemed no longer ominous but tangible, concrete, reliable, with a vague ray of light flickering from afar. The air, along with the infinite, tousled smells of the town, brought a scent he'd almost forgotten and could never expect to feel again; hope.

The market was bustling with people, since it was that particular day. Merchants, pedlars, and salesmen of every kind had been gathered from all of France. Although normally the luxury, lavishness and opulence of the French caused him but aloofness and dissension, for he preferred austerity and frugality, he took pleasure in the splendid variety the market had to offer. Sometimes, he felt confused, unable to believe that both the twins he had accounted which diverged so much from one another, we're actually ruled by the same person. He stood for a moment and gave it thought. No; Aquitaine belonged to Her Majesty, hence it deviated from the rest of the Realm. He was certain that no state in all the world could be compared with Aquitaine, neither in magnificence nor in prosperity nor in civilisation which thrived and undoubtedly impressed him.

He straightened his back just as he was tenaciously taught by his mother and moved with caution into the crowd. He didn't need a wise man's beard to acknowledge that a surge of merchants was escorted by an equally huge one of rogues and he wished to protect himself. His downy hairs of sixteen years was enough.

He walked into the masse with confidence, keeping his arms to his sides, utterly unmoving and careful not to touch a single passing person. All that throng and jam created a poetic, welcome contradiction to the dark loneliness that'd overwhelmed him the past days. He was indeed insufferably sick of solely coexisting with dead memories and ghosts. He couldn't stand sinking into self-pity and sorrow anymore, tormenting himself with guilt and compunction about irrevocable deeds. Now, he was determined to return to action, to the forefront, reinstate his name to its former glory and regain his life.

The day of the tournament was a fortnight away. Still, he wished to prepare in the best possible way, acquiring his gear correctly and with utmost care. His first stop was the smithery, where he commissioned a rigorous armour of steel, emitting mystery and authority. Next came the horse breeder where he drove a hard bargain, integrally imitating his mother's technique. Eventually, coercing the old man to the edge of his patience with the persistent gleam of his adolescent eyes, they reached a mutually reasonable price for a particularly fierce mare, prideful, seemingly untamed, brown as a ripe chestnut, that he aimed to wholly train. He ended up on the tailor, to whom he commissioned a cape made of velvet of excellent quality, strictly ebony. Not only did it bestow a sense of mystery upon him but it could also wonderfully serve as a shroud, in case of death. He adored thinking with percipicacity and preemptiveness. 

Throughout the next two weeks, in his slummy, depraved hut, he was devoted to training his mare, which her vendor named Châtaigne -chestnut- though he'd chosen a more suitable and representative name; Orage, storm.

He adored horses ever since he was a little boy; he found them more approachable and gentle than people, for he couldn't form as strong bonds with them as with those beautiful creatures. In Orage, he'd met a true challenge. The horse was extremely uppish and stubborn, accepting naught by his hand and neighing infuriated every time he tried to saddle her. She ate everything with the same appetite, therefore he couldn't detect a favourite food. Then, he thought she'd have to be approached by another one, not himself, someone with whom she'd sympathise at once. He used logic, considering his choices, searching for some being who'd cause a liking to anything, in the beginning at least.

He returned to the town once more, to visit the baker's house. From the few times he'd found himself in the bakery, he'd overheard that the smiling man with the ever-floured moustache had twelve children and struggled to make a living with his honest labour. He had decided to act in that, so that they would both be benefited.

He only needed to knock twice on the onerous, wooden door until a middle-aged woman, most probably the baker's wife.

"Qui es tu?" (Who are you?) She inquired, not recognising him as expected.

"Guy de Gisborne," the boy introduced himself, though his pride seemed foolish. "I live in the hut to the edge of town and I was wondering whether you'd spare some time to talk. I have a proposition for you."

A pair of enormous, almond eyes observed him from head to toe, full of curiosity. Ostensibly pleased, she nodded her head and let him in.

"What's your business here?" She asked him directly.

He appreciated probity as well, hence he didn't waste time, though his eyes wandered leisurely into the terse yet full of warmth and geniality house, while children's voices could be heard from the inside.

"I intend to participate in the Easter tournament and I will be needing a squire. Do you happen to have a son who could assist me?"

The mother puffed and blew, while nervously rubbing her forehead. When she answered him, her voice held effrontery and implacability.

"Young man, my children are decent, honourable as their parents and I can't just grant them to you, like a slave!"

"I have no volition to exploit you, I intend to employ him and pay for his services," he clarified what he thought evident. "I only need him to tend to my horse and nothing more. For the ten days that I shall need him, he'll receive four pieces of gold." Without hesitation, he placed the said amount on her palm and she immediately tested its authenticity with her teeth. He couldn't help but admire that woman; she wasn't ease to deceive and knew how to recognise the traps of a fraud.

"Come inside," she curtly exhorted him, after being made complete sure of the gold she held. Her hand indicated the interior of the house and he followed her hesitantly. "I've got rich sons; from three up to thirteen years old. You can choose and take whoever you want."

"I'm also obliged to ensure you that in case of wounding, which of course I don't wish for, you shall receive two more golden pieces for his care and recuperation," he rushed to appease her, hoping to allay her apparent nervousness.

"Que sera, sera," (Whatever will be, Will be) she dismissed him emphatically, never stopping her pacing. "Your gold will feed us for weeks, young man. I don't know where you found it and I don't want to. However, I have to warn you about two things; first don't lay a single hand on my child because nobody will be able to recognise your pretty face when I'm done with you. Second, don't keep him longer than we agreed. Otherwise, I'll l ask for more payment. Every night, you'll be sending him back home. D'accord?"

"D'accord," he extended his hand and they sealed their verbal contract. At the same time, a dozen of children stormed the room like a swarm of bees, encircling their mother hermetically, ignoring the unknown adolescent, much to his delight. She bent her head inside the small well they'd shaped around her and spoke softly, while he fended off discretely. Once she concluded her speech, her daughters disappeared from the room, leaving only the boys, who looked at him proudly, preening like peacocks.

"Who would you like, then?" The mother asked him straightforward.

Guy needed some time to observe them all carefully. He didn't need a muscular or acute boy but a handsome one, with a inner tranquility, a look of placation. He found it in the azure eyes of one who didn't seem more than six years old, hidden behind a stream of debonair, blond curls, which waved all around his face. Observing his visage, full of innocence, joy and lustre, he could feel the light shine even into his bruised soul.

"Comment tu t'appele?" (What's your name?) He asked the little one directly.

"Jean, sir," he replied, smiling. "I was born a few days after our last Prince and named after him."

Guy could remember that baby only dimly. Peculiar, entirely different than all the other royal children and maybe that's why his mother had decided that he was to be the final one, the eighth and ultimate child she'd bore to King Henry and the newly established Plantagenet family.

"Well, Jean," he kneeled, so that they'd be facing each other. "Would you like to help me with a stubborn horse?"

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

He wasn't proven wrong in his judgement. He was seized by conviction that if the boy would not succeed in taming the enraged mare with his serene eyes, then no one could and his sole chance would be lost forever. He hated being utterly depending on another, however he had no choice. He just silently prayed that his plan would work.

He was watching with his breath caught in his throat and at arm's length, when the boy approached Orage, who once detected the human presence, started neighing uncontrollably, mad and foaming ferociously, as usual. Then, Jean evidently hesitated, felt fear and turned to his new employer, moving his head aghast. Guy crossed his hands on the back, straightening his torso imposingly. The nod he gave him was full of urge and trust and it seemed sufficient for the seven year old -he was informed so- child.

As he walked nearer, the mare turned to his side, looking quite puzzled and impressed as far as Guy could tell, for nobody dared near her so much apart from her master, definitely not that little boy. His equanimity, his purity and untainted beauty rather enchanted her, like hers could bedazzle others. She didn't cease her feral hysteria, until Jean stood next to her, placing the saddle on her back, just like Guy had instructed.

As soon as she felt the leather of the saddle on her back, the beast froze, caught off guard and was forced to calm momentarily. That was the exact chance the sixteen year old lad needed, as he ran swiftly, shoved the boy away, in order to protect him in case he was thrown off violently by the horse, and he ascended his saddle, securing the reins ably and methodically on her skull. The mare was furious with the intrusion and fought to get rid of her equestrian.

Jean, hidden deep in the stable and completely safe, watched speechless his employer, who looked majestic upon the horse, mighty and invincible. He persisted upon the saddle, clutching the reins with his left hand and the beast's neck with the right one, while she flopped, whinnied, and flounced back and forth, trying unstoppably to throw him off her. But it was all in vain; the adolescent's absolute certainty and determination, along with his sheer willpower, were meant to surpass her tenacity. After a stride which lasted quite a long time, where both combatants struggled greatly, the animal succumbed, inflected, surrendered.

Panting, well over with delight, elation and relief of triumph, Guy struck her croup gently and rode the most docile horse he'd ever mounted.

The days came and went rapidly. Jean was taking care of Orage and she allowed him, sharing his calmness. Meanwhile, his employer prepared and trained himself ceaselessly, night and day, for the tournament where he'd wagered his entire future.

"But why is it so important?" the boy had asked him yet ha hadn't responded. If he failed in his purpose, his shame would be unbearable and perennial.

On the fateful day, he thanked the little one for his obedience and discipline, disengaging him from his duties, just like it was agreed. He put on his armour with pride, tethered his helmet firmly, so that it covered his head and face completely, then his raven cape. The only colour in his utter sombreness was the ochre panache of his helmet, a staunch homage in his glorious family, which he meant to revive on that day or die trying.

When asked by the herald, he didn't give a name but the alias "Guardian Au Crepuscule" , meaning "The Warden of Dusk", hoping to cause certain impressions of not only mystery but also awe.

As soon as the trumps and fanfares sounded, he paraded on the field, riding the prideful Orage, who wasn't recognised by anyone, for she was obedient and quiescent now. He looked like a stranger, an adventurous knight, perhaps a disgraced Crusader, who sought some crumbs of glory before the inglorious end. He'd always preferred creating false and mendacious impressions, inferior and outlandish from reality, for it granted him a sense of unpredictability and contingency, along with the privilege of surprise. His mother had taught him that.

He took his time and just stood there, basking on the spectacle, for he'd never been to a joust tournament before. Only by elaborate narrations of his parents did he know of the circumstances, the protocols and rules, which he'd memorised out of childish craving and now remembered with gratitude.

The sight itself was sui genesis; knights galloping upon excellent, brawny destriers or chargers, while their resplendent, well-polished armours were adorned with expensive cloaks or velvet capes. The vernal air justled them on their backs, making them look more like magnificent wings. The plumes flaunted on their helmets, with repousse crests.

After the draw, he found he wasn't on the first group and that relieved him; not that it calmed his tense nerves but it gave him the prerogative of observance. As the knights charged on horseback, with their lances drawn, all together and mixed in the beginning, he noted the triumphant ones and their movements, trying to ignore the fact he was prone to defeat just because his mare was young and  callow. However, he soon regained his courage. Orage was intelligent and swift and he hoped the past days of continuous training had taken root.

When the mulch awaited time finally came, he entered the fight along with twelve more knights. He contested seven, maintaining his composure, momentum and regard to his moves. Only himself and three others managed to remain on their saddles, before the trumps sounded the end of the round.

As he prepared for the next, where the duels started and the danger escalated rapidly, he dismounted on purpose, to let Orage rest from his weight and his curious eyes fell on the draped box of the officialdom, embellished with the Plantagenet and Aquitaine emblems. Betwixt more than a dozen Lords, escorted by lavishly dressed Ladies, he distinguished the known and proud face of Princess Eleanor in their middle. With the unmistakably identical gaze of her renowned mother of the same name, the thirteen year old princess was watching the event with irreducible interest, conversing nonchalantly with her chaperones momentarily seemed to glance at him. He averted his eyes under the complete cover of his helmet and stared at the gargantuan trophy, placed on a vestigial pedestal in front of her. A voluminous and massive cup of solid gold. Hell, he could buy the entire County of Nottinghamshire with that, not just his father's lands. He crossed himself reverently, asking forgiveness for the thought of the Devil, but his determination magnified. He had to win no matter what.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

~Locksley, Nottinghamshire, 1192~

Was it maybe a premonition? Perhaps the sense of a threat had been lurking inside him all day, of an abhorrent return and inevitable meeting. Maybe that was what had haunted him the previous night when he hadn't slept at all and not the deed...

He dismounted silently, joggling his head, in order to liquidate every thought and coherence. Right away, he missed his grandiose horse, his gorgeous, ebony destrier, for he was now obligated to stand face to face with Locksley. He would never even enunciate his name. He didn't deserve it.

"Come in," he nodded his head again to him and his underling that followed him like a loyal dog, to enter the Manor, where he could already locate the servants packing the hall to greet him. He had no stomach for a second disparagement of his. The newcomers went in and he stayed out, waiting for the warm welcome to finish.

Before he could even recall the bleak memories from the accurst Lord of Locksley, his adjutant came running to him, some Godfrey from the neighbourly Nettlestone.

"Sir, we found more sacks from the stolen ones," he announced short of breath.

"Where?" He questioned. "You were supposed to have looked everywhere."

"Dan Scarlett's workshop, sir, the carpenter's. You asked us to search houses so we ignored it but I just had the idea to try there too."

"I thought the term everywhere didn't include just houses," he growled through gritted teeth. He could barely restrain his rage caused by the jumble of sentiments humming inside him and his soldiers' impotence only made things worse. He took a deep breath and continued. "Anyway, Scarlett is no danger, he's been mutilated for years."

"His sons not, though," Godfrey pointed out triumphantly. "We arrested and bound them with the lad we'd caught earlier."

"Alright," he nodded approvingly, but his eyes remained darkened. "If they make it to the castle as well, I may show fondness and not report your incompetence to the Sheriff."

"Aye, sir!" His adjutant obeyed and made to transfer his command. Nonetheless, he stopped and approached him again, with hesitation and fear. His voice was heard hardly above a whisper. "Since the Earl of Huntington is back, what does that mean for us?"

He didn't think before replying, not for a single moment. His chivalrous nature emerged elusively from the deep bosom of his soul and dictated his nous.

"It's evident. We shall leave Locksley and return to the Castle, our new basis. We have no right to stay here anymore."

That was the honourable thing, what any man of rudimentary repute would do. Guy had long since forgotten the gravity, validity, and solemn importance of those two words. He opted to live with stagnated conscience, palsied feelings and a mind in winkers. Yet, just like the previous night, the cunning monster called conscience had managed to resurface itself. He was resolved now; he had no more business in Locksley. Why did he have to reside somewhere where he was apparently unwelcome, detestable, and loathsome? Even though he hated the Castle's humidity and constant cold, he was feared by all there above anything else and he insolently basked in the terror their eyes unveiled.

Holding that thought, along with his renewed willpower and nerve, he entered the Manor, hopefully for the last time. Outfacing him, with his gloved hands to the side and orotund steps on the wooden floor, the formerly jovial ensemble lapsed into sullenness, which internally filled him with incredible pleasure.

"Welcome back, Locksley," he formally stated, mostly so that the servants could hear him. He then decided to put on a performance, to prove even in the last moment that he was knighted deservedly and Honour wasn't unfamiliar to him, as they were surely convinced. He stood opposite him, displacing with a single look the head of the personnel, old Thornton, who kept looking at his master with disgusting pride. "Now, I have... kept your lands for you. I have managed your estates to the best of my ability under the guidance of the Sheriff." He approached him menacingly, keeping an even voice but a tremendous look. "And I would appreciate more respect in front of the populace."

He added the last sentence as an open accusation for his earlier provocative arrogance.

"How many years have you been here?"

If the question came from anybody else, it would only seem nosey, but from that whelp it sounded vile.

"Three years, four winters," he answered immediately. He'd been counting every passing day as a sentence.

"And you still don't have the respect of the populace?"

He barely kept his fist down, away from mercifully colliding with his face, to wipe off his unthinkably vexing, irritating and bumptious smirk. That crude dub derided him in his face, challenging him with such impudence that would make even the hateful magistrates jealous. He puffed, cleared his neck, smirked as well and continued, changing the subject.

"My men and I will leave directly for Nottingham," he stated coldly, even if he was filled with a raw, dark, flaccid delight. For what it was worth, he was inwardly proud, leaving with his head high. If young Locksley expected outbursts of anger or controversy to his unquestionable right, he wouldn't have them, he wouldn't give him a single reason to ridicule or demean him. In the end, Guy would look superior than the supposed war hero.

"My servants will help you pack."

Another provocation. He threw him out audaciously, as if he was a mendicant, a worthless, nugatory homunculus. Though he marched to the exit, he turned to him again, with even more confidence and spunk, since cruel contempt and defiance made his blood boil.

"How was the Holy Land?"

"Bloodthirsty," the veteran replied laconically, averting his gaze and putting more distance between them, moving deeper into the house.

"I understand the King is winning, thanks be to God," he pushed him, crossing his hands. As Locksley's eyes darkened with nightmarish memories which undeniably were roused, his own illuminated, he even smiled faintly.

"He's killing more people-"

"Is that not winning?" He wondered with impudence.

"Show me an argument that's solved with bloodshed and I'll call that winning."

He refrained from rolling his eyes, well overwrought. How big of a fool did he take him for, mocking him on his face? He'd been from his own home for five years, his serenity, his comforts. If he didn't adore battles and blood, he'd come back long ago.

"Do not pretend you do not lobe war. I've seen you fight," came his turn to provoke him.

"When?" Was the question that he had to answer with utmost carefulness.

"I do not recall," he shrugged indifferently and averted his own gaze purposefully, in order to render his hypocrisy utterly untraceable. Automatically, his mind traveled to the past, where he'd of course seen him fight in times engraved on his memory forever. Twice.

"I've changed," Locksley replied laconically once again and Guy responded with a click of his tongue and a snide sigh.

You've not changed, scum. You're deluding yourself. Spoiled brats, raised in feathery beds, with all their problems solved, never change, they only deteriorate.

He wasn't sure whether this simple answer of three words was meant for him or himself, as if the scapegrace desired more to persuade himself that he'd changed, no more the young sire they could both remember.

Guy took a loud breath, taking back his harsh remark before even saying it. He was resolute to be the better man and that's what he'd do. So, he changed the subject again.

"The Council of Nobles meets tomorrow at Nottingham," he went on bitterly, until his repugnance was clear on a grimace. "I've no doubt the Sheriff will call a feast to celebrate your safe return."

He spoke fast, to dispatch the end of their awkward, inane, and daft conversation.

"Goodbye," Locksley obviously agreed with him.

"Goodbye," he murmured and made to leave hastily, but was intercepted afresh.

"On thing," the younger man followed him up to his doorstep. "I shall celebrate my safe return too, by pardoning every wrongdoer of my estates awaiting trial or punishment."

"Only the Sheriff can pardon, you know that," he signalised, always a ritualist and legal specialist.

"It is custom for the Sheriff to accede to his Nobles' requests on such matters," he remained peremptory.

"Well, then, I suggest you take it up with the Sheriff," he raised his brows pejoratively, wrinkling his forehead. Completely uninterested in a possible reply, he exited the house and mounted his horse anon.

With just a sign from him, the soldiers bearing his coat of arms followed him back to Nottigham, dragging the Scarlett brothers, Will and Luke, out, along with the first lad they'd caught, some Benedict, whose surname eluded him and he didn't care. Only four men were left behind, who were charged with transportation. He had very few possessions but nothing would be left out. He wouldn't let the brat stain his irreproachable nobility and reputation, which stink of blood long ago though.

Upon reaching the Castle, he ordered half his entourage to lead their hostages to the dungeons without incident and the other half to erect the gallows in the courtyard. The Sheriff's command was unrevoked; theft of private property always meant death by hanging, along with many other offences. He unwittingly wondered whether Locksley had learned the news, if he knew that the Sheriff he remembered was now retired and another, much more sadistic, merciless and ruthless had assumed his position. He smiled at the mere thought, wishing he could watch the moment of that tragicomic realisation.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

The Sheriff's laugh resonated in his ears disorderly, endless, and trenchant, causing him irritation and constraint. Although it wasn't the first or last time he heard it, that satanic snigger, seemingly emanating from Hell itself, overwhelmed him, he found it nauseous, because it always happened in the worst occasions.

Guy's contemplation was right and accurate; the morning torture of Allan the poacher's had rejoiced him in a most vile way, nevertheless, upon hearing the news of Locksley's return, instead of wondering like his young lieutenant, he'd taken to unrelenting laughter, while an adolescent servant polished his boots, apparently terrified he'd receive a stray kick or anything else that middle aged man's morbid, inhuman, unholy appetites asked for, the appointed Sheriff of Nottingham no less.

Utterly fed up and indignant, feeling he was wasting his time, Guy crosses his arms to his chest and decided to confront him.

"My Lord, I do not think this is a laughing matter."

"Sorry, remind me, how many men do you have?" He ceased laughing a bit, filling him with relief but also trepidation for the raillery that would surely follow.

"Twenty four," he replied outright, stooping his head. He didn't dare look at his face, couldn't endure his derisory, equivocal gaze, which could as well praise as condemn to death.

"And he has?"

"One," he gathered all his willpower and looked straight at his eyes. A mere second was enough, to return to his dusty boots. "But the point is-"

"But you let him take the house," the Sheriff paused him, pointing the deed he considered noble as a shameful failure.

"Technically, it is still his property," he slightly increased his voice's volume, indicating his conviction with chivalrous will.

«La, la, la, di, da,» he hoaxed again, ignoring his view. Now, it sounded more like a cackle.

"I would appreciate more support on that matter," he remained aggressive, though lowered his voice. There was no reason to struggle with absurdity.

"Relax, relax. I'll get it back for you within a month," he assured him, with a cosmic glance, lost and paranoid.

Guy didn't wait for more humiliation. He left, turning his back ostentatiously. Walking away, he heard faint murmurs of irony and more bone-chilling laughter.

Twenty four, one...

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

The same afternoon, sometime before sunset, he was summoned to the Sheriff's quarters again and was disappointed, seeing De Fortnoy already by his side. He maintained an apathetic expression and greeted them curtly, formally.

"Excellent!" The always jocund Sheriff exclaimed. "My Master At Arms is here along with..." he didn't manage to find a title for him. "Gisborne." Afterwards, he completely ignored him and turned to De Fortnoy, analyzing with absolute accuracy and severity -paradoxically, yet his cyclothymia was widely known- everything Guy had told him about the newcomer Locksley. When finished, he announced the plan he'd conceived prancing, wanting to look taller than them, though he could barely reach their shoulders. Guy stood motionless, with a tight jaw and arms crossed militarily on his back. He preferred to watch the birds on the cages that dominated the room, always chirping and trilling, granting some odd serenity to the widely naked virulence.

"Well, De Fortnoy, you have a talent with gossip, so I want you to take care of everyone in the Castle and the County knowing that the Lord of Locksley and Earl of Huntington has returned disgraced, abased and weak. He's very meek, willess and unable to preside over his estates and not at all small fortune. How can we expect from such a fragile man to produce work and taxes?"

"Are you sure you want me to leave tomorrow to spread the rumours, my Lord?" The Master At Arms wondered, not feeling like traversing around the County for a whole day.

Guy gazed at him silently, raising his brow in disbelief. Indeed, his superior loved spreading rumours but obviously not more than his leisure. He always believed him to be languid and a truant, utterly unworthy of his rank and he strived daily to prove that to the Sheriff.

"Of course not!" His master appeared to agree, while smiling sardonically, as usual. "It'll be too late then. We have the Council of Nobles, who I'll take care of! You shall leave at once! Lies do travel faster than the truth but they need a mouth to carry them!"

"As you command!" The Master At Arms obeyed and exited the room directly, without an additional look or word. Guy almost whistled applaudingly for him. He couldn't even imagine that he'd conceded so easily, but he had no intention to spend any more thought on him. He turned back to the Sheriff, as was his duty.

"Is there anything else you wish from me, my Lotd?" He asked in all humility and obsequiousness.

In the beginning, he got no reply. His superior stood by the window and watched De Fortnoy on horseback, who galloped a while later beyond the portcullis, away from the Castle.

"You know, Gisborne, I hate incompetence, that's obvious, I believe," Never leaving him time to answer, he went on. "Today, you demonstrated incompetence to claim the lands I'd granted you with an official document."

"Temporarily," Guy ingenuously emphasized. "You granted them to me temporarily, to oversee and domineer, because someone had to take over Locksley. I don't own the village, at least not like this. I do not want to become a squatter-"

"Don't go all hypocritically ethical on me, boy," he warned him, pointing his finger out with cheek. "First, you don't have to, because I know your ambitions and second, I'm a better liar than you. You're not even entertaining."

"You don't know my ambitions," the lieutenant openly disagreed. "I don't want my life to be dependent upon injustice and lies."

"It's already drown in fine violence and skillful hypocrisy," the Sheriff argues and silenced him for good. "A little more lying and injustice won't be so catalytic after all."

"Maybe," he whispered weakly.

"Anyway, where was I?" He questioned and easily remembered. "Yes. Well, you've proven you can't keep your gifts and De Fortnoy today will prove if he's worth his position. If I find he's outlived his usefulness, I'll get rid of him through you, of course." He gently patted him on the back with atrocious friendliness. "You're a loyal dog, Gisborne but still a dog. If you want to succeed him, I suggest you start behaving like the wolf you've got in your arm."

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

It was a heavenly morrow. He'd woken up with a sore head, which desired more sleep than it'd gotten. Of course, it was the Castle's pallet's fault as well. Just three years in Locksley's sumptuously feathered mattresses had indulged him so, that he'd forgotten his former, austere, stringent life of a soldier and straw bothered him.

He hadn't had a single dream, he hadn't woken up once in the night, because he was exhausted after two days of utter insomnia. On the one hand, he was relieved. On the other hand, he felt a kind of emptiness, an endless desolation and isolation. If he lost his nightmares, the past's phantoms, there would be nothing left but meagre evocations, shadows who'd cradle on the edges of his brain and would be incarnated on young Locksley's smug grimace.

He washed with an almost crystal water and his half naked form shivered, given the icy wind that penetrated the stone walls. It was April and yet the cold didn't seem like retreating M, not from the murky, dipped in the mud and decadence Nottingham Castle.

As soon as he heard her voice, he rejoiced, feeling his heart and body truly waking and breathing. He ran to the window and saw her dismounting her horse with pride and lordly grace, like an ancient Amazon, Diana or Atalanta. It was one of the retreat moments he'd be grateful for the classic education he had coercively received. If he hadn't, no prose would gratify her superb form, no simple phrase would do her justice. She was created for poetry, an inspiration for frabjous troubadours and minstrels.

Her long, dark curls danced alluringly on her back, which was covered with quite a banal and worn cloak. He considered it his duty to fix that, mentally noting to commission a new one on the tailor.

Nonsense, logic hit him. It's April, Spring shall soon prevail.

A slim cloak, then, he settled. A majestic one, in any case, velvet and beauteous, absolutely becoming for her.

A drop of dew fell on his bare shoulder and brought him back to reality. Hesitantly and unwittingly, he drew away from shadowing her and resumed his preparation for the day. He thought that the sooner he finished, the sooner he'd meet her, hence he accelerated his rhythm.

As he reached the Great Hall, much to his disappointment, he was only met with the Sheriff, betwixt a few nobles, to whom he bid good morrow and was thankfully completely ignored by. He hated pointless chatter about the weather and any sort of insignificance. He'd learned to value the paramount worth of silence since he was an adolescent.

"Gisborne!" The Sheriff greeted him, yawning overtly. "I suppose you'll attend the Council."

"Since the Master At Arms is still absent, my Lord, I'm obliged so, for your safety," he replied, concealing the truth.

Obviously, as he was now lackland once again, he had no actual right to be at the Council. However, albeit he was irremediably bludgeoned with dire ennui, he sacrificed it all, for he had a field day to see her. She always escorted her Lord father, the respectable former Sheriff Sir Edward, standing up, behind his seated, faltering figure. So lissome was she, so svelte, like an ethereal nymph, a divine, angelic creature. In the Council, he was able to stare at her as long as he wished, to admire her solemn, pure pulchritude with his profane eyes, to absorb even a single ray of the light she emitted wherever she was.

He hadn't seen her for a whole month, since the last call for the Council. As much as he yearned to ride to Knighton, straight to her door, he dismissed the thought, feeling undeserving. His vast erebus didn't befit her, much less without land and a fortune anymore.

"Come now, Gisborne!" The Sheriff quipped him for the umpteenth time. "Don't hide from me. If you want to see Lady Marian, don't wait for the Councils. She doesn't live in London, you know!"

«Your security first, my Lord," he manifested curtly, feeling grateful he'd delayed his haircut, for his flocks covered up his brows and the view of the acrimonious crimson, which dominated his cheeks.

He was lucky enough, for in that moment some more nobles were gathered and the Sheriff was busy with essential greetings. He left his side and took his place, amidst the other guards of the room, in a still dark corner. There, he loomed, his eyes searching desperately but his legs remained stuck on the floor and he didn't abandon his supposed cache for a single moment.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

"It has been a good month. We have collected almost three hundred pounds."

The Sheriff silenced the Sire of Nettlestone imperatively, with his forefinger in the offensive. He sat on the grand table on his own, upon his throne-like coal black chair and all the other Nobles across him, their seats forming a hemicycle. One was empty though, Locksley's. Guy couldn't really say he was sad for this absence.

"Would you want to be the King in Antioch? A clue? No! Trying to feed a starving army with three hundred pounds? You'd promised five hundred pounds."

"It's more than we ever managed before," the old man tried to reason.

"Oh, yippee!" The Sheriff remained grim, with a viperous. "So, the King is starving in the Holy Land and you have failed him but it's more than we ever managed before."

His last phrase was a repeat in a higher tone, entirely humiliating and effeminate, which could bestrew laughter but the Sheriff's murderous eyes only wrought terror and menace. He threw the purse with taxes of three hundred to his silent scribe and prepared to move to Clun's report.

"Robin of Locksley!" The herald announced the newcomer's presence and Guy didn't hold back; he rolled his eyes. Detestable vanity; he'd arrived a whole hour late just to make an entrance.

"Good morning, everyone!" He shouted jauntily and unnervingly risible as ever. He threw his cloak to a guard as if his spear was but a rack. He was escorted by the same servant as the previous day. "Sheriff," he acknowledged icily but returned to laxity, as he took off he sword belt, to sit at the vacant chair. "Well, carry on."

"Locksley. Welcome back. I trust Sir Guy of Gisborne has managed your estates to your satisfaction."

Though the comment was provocative and insulting, Guy felt a hint of pride and elation, for his sire had praised him publicly, in front of Marian no less.

Spontaneously, he glanced at her again. Grey was usually considered a tedious, minor colour but on her, as a dress of wool and comfort, it seemed the most vibrant and wonderful.

"I believe he's managed them to your satisfaction."

Another crystal clear challenge from young Locksley. He gritted his teeth, muffling a wrathful roar. This constant belittlement angered him infinitely. He was used to the numerous insults of the Sherif, he accepted them, because he was his superior and the sole road to his upgrowth. Although, it didn't mean he could also swallow the sly implications of that chit.

"By the way, some of your peasants have been unruly," the Sheriff continued, before he could even open his mouth. We have two in custody, awaiting punishment."

"Three," Guy emphasised with a sonant voice, smiling sardonically, his eyes gleaming in the dim lit corner.

The Nobles glanced at him with fear apart from Marian's stony look, with a hidden plea.

Save them. You can, I know you can. Prove you're something more, better than they all believe.

"Three," the Sheriff seized the information and Guy stopped thinking but his last thought sank deep into his black heart like a rock. "Discipline will be a problem. Be warned." He turned to his right, for the next report. "Loughborough."

"Thank you, Sheriff. I report-"

"Discipline has never been a problem on my land," Locksley interupted, gaining looks of irritation from Loughborough and a few more nobles. Guy's smirk grew.

"Times have changed," the Sheriff pointed out the obvious.

"Not for the better, it seems."

His disrespect knew no boundaries. He must have been a Crusaders' sewer in the Holy Land, not a knight. Apparently, he'd never learned veneration, correct conduct or discipline.

"You, of all people, should know that the King needs funds to fight our Holy War."

"Is it really our Holy War? Or is it Pope Clementine's?"

"We stand shoulder to shoulder with Rome."

"And we fall shoulder to shoulder too. I have seen it."

There he was. The puerile boy, exactly the same, no matter how many years passed. Impertinent, venturesome, derisive, coveting for total control, as if all the other reasonable people were fools and cowards and he was unimpeachable, the just and courageous rebel, champion of a dead ideology. Pathetic.

"What do you propose, then, to raise money for the King?"

"Stop all taxes, today!"

Whispers, coughs of warning and murmurs predominated the entire Hall and Guy wanted to burst out laughing. If the boy continued like that, Locksley would have a new, definite Lord in a couple of days. The month the Sheriff had promised seemed like a hyperbole after all.

He gazed at Marian. She'd lowered her head, staring at the floor. She appeared to be overly stern, her shoulders full of tension. She was worried.

"Amusing," the Sheriff remarked, smiling widely, without caring for the former Crusader who walked near him, tall and grandiose, in all the frugality of his clothing.

"I do not joke," he clarified. "Today is market day and yet there is no market."

"And your point is?" The Sheriff wondered undeterred.

The laddie's patience started giving out. He regained his calm and explained himself. Guy watched him frigidly but he caught a glimpse of Marian's flaming eyes, hooked upon Locksley.

"If a man can make more than he needs for his family, he can take what remains to market. He can trade. And the Shire can have its share. But, until then, we must help every man, every peasant, every pieman, every pinman provide for his family. Get him trading again!"

Most attendants stared at him wide-eyed, astonished, as he sat down again, but instead of sitting at his chair, he put his legs on it and his derrière on her top gaudily. Like a snobbish cockerel, Guy thought. How could he ever expect his ravings to be taken into serious consideration?

The Sheriff stood up as well and walked briefly around his table, to dart his reply.

"A man who can provide for his family is a comfortable man. A lazy man. Doesn't want to work. What we need are hungry men. Our noble friend seems to forget that hungry men are virtuous."

Guy wondered whether the Sheriff's reference on the Holy Writ meant blasphemy. For better or for worse, he silently prayed for forgiveness on his behalf.

"There is a celebration to the Great Hall for my return," Locksley reminded.

"Indeed," the Sheriff murmured. Obviously, he'd already regretted the expenses.

"I trust none of us virtuous men will be feasting."

That was the apogee. The final hubris which sealed his doom. He'd ensured the Sheriff's enmity, for he wouldn't rest the young man was exterminated from Locksley, Nottingham and England herself. Guy could smell blood on the wind and he instinctively joyed. He could feel the day he'd sleep in Locksley Manor's feathers again wasn't far away. The morrow light brightened, enlightening his dark corner. Hope was alive.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

"Gisborne!"

The same voice that haunted his sleep echoed through the Castle walls an the black knight cursed inwardly. He longed to pass some time with Marian, to bathe her in cordialities and perhaps he'd have the chance to touch her alabaster hand, her silky hair or smell her ever intoxicating scent. In three years and four winters, after coming back to Nottingham, he collected those moments like heavenly blessings and treasured them in his memory.

De Fortnoy hadn't returned yet -much to the Sheriff's exasperation- therefore Guy had resumed his duties temporarily, having no time whatsoever to dedicate to the sublime Lady, even though the Coucil was adjourned quite a long time ago. Nonetheless, no one had left, whereas the feast for Locksley would follow. That reassured him a bit. He had a lot of time still, to meet her.

When he entered the Sheriff's office, he immediately spotted the open and empty cage in all the other locked ones. Insensibly, his heart was clenched,  suspecting the dismal deed that had taken place.

"Bury it, feed it somewhere, burn it, I don't care, just take it away from here," the Sheriff ordered him bluntly, his back turned to him, looking out the window.

He fell on his knees and picked up the asphyxiated sparrow devoutly. It was a habit of his master's; whenever he was exceedingly furious and couldn't have an outburst or an exemplary hanging, he'd strangle one of those poor, innocent winged creatures he kept imprisoned. Guy felt inconceivable pity for those birds, occasionally he even identified with them and asked himself; Where had he gotten? Where did he hope to arrive? Was that his route? Was that his life and sole path?

In his one huge gloved palm he placed the tiny carcass and covered it with the other, determined to bury it.

"My Lord, there's something else," he whispered with an unstable voice from the unexpected emotion.

"What?"

"Can I sit by the Lady Marian at tonight's dinner?"

"Of course not!" He cut him off at once, his back still facing him. "We have work to do. The incompetent De Fortnoy is still away, he found a chance to dawdle. We have to organize an offensive line, traps, plots, to catch Locksley by surprise and destroy him! If you want to return to the Manor and cease being an utter nobody, tonight you will sit by him!"

He gritted his teeth, took a deep breath, exhaled calmly from his nose and hawked.

"Of course," was his only response and he left with long strides for the small garden, where few trees were planted.

He remembered the terse croft as efflorescent and flourishing by the first days of his arrival, when Marian was the Chatelaine. There, under a humble yew tree, he buried traditionally and in secret all the birds that died by the Sheriff's hand.

In this macabre, unbearably dolorous ritual, unknown to anyone else, he let lament overwhelm him. If he didn't mourn those lost, immaculate souls, nobody would and no one deserved oblivion and heartlessness in death. Except, maybe, himself.

He dug a hole with his gloved hands, put the sparrow in, covered it completely with soil and laid a leaf atop it instead of a cross. He stayed a little longer, prayed in silence just as his mother had taught him and left, having made sure that no one was watching him.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

I fight for the hope
That blood has a face
To give me a kiss
For the faith that I've wasted

Flock with no shepherd
Is a vulnerable game
I can live without heart, without love
But I do need a name

Father, do you burn if your hand is in fire?
Does hour head spin with rage when fooled by the liars?
Should I drop to my knees?
Scream your name out in vain?
Tell me good teacher, are we all just insane?

King of the Kings, do you feel any pain?

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Huge chapter, right? More than doubly bigger than the previous one!

I know I'd promised a joust on Tumblr and we shall see it on the next flashback. I thought it'd be too long, so I cut it off.

The next chapter is also going to feature the outlawing of Robin, the spectacular rescue of Allan, Will, Luke, and Benedict, the Sheriff's feast of course and the first appearances of Annie and Lambert!

Please tell me what you thought of it in the reviews. I've never written such a big thing in English and I'm more than anxious to know your thoughts and constructive criticism!

Till next time, take care and I send you all my love from Greece!