The Robin Hood fandom has brought me much joy over the years. I've had to become more of a lurker over the years, not taking part in any fandom much really. But RH has always been close to my heart. For "Robin Hood day 2026" I have published a story over on AO3 I have written ages ago. I've never put it out there, it was just for the joy of writing it and putting my thoughts and feelings about Allan and Guy on paper. But here it is. Either on Ao3 or just under the cut.
https://archiveofourown.org/works/83727781
Happy Robin Hood day, @mygangtome
Synosis: Allan runs away from work and Guy finds him.
It’s the evening of midsummers’ day and the castle and town of Nottingham are bustling with the people who have come here for the festivities. The small chamber Allan is usually sharing with three of Gisbourne’s men has contained four extra pallets and people lying on them for almost two weeks now and has been crowded all day today due to the temperatures outside. The heat has kept most people in the city inside and noises subdued during the day but now in the early evening they are emerging and going about the business that they haven’t been able to do. The streets are busy and the sound of people laughing, shouting, singing and arguing in the alleys of the city easily carries over to the castle.
By rights Allan should be down in the great hall, serving Guy, serving the sheriff’s illustrious guests who are celebrating and feasting today but there are so many servants about that the former outlaw has decided his absence won’t be noticed. So Allan has fled the crowds and somehow the warm air outside seems easier to breathe than the relatively cool air in the castle. The sun is still high enough in the sky to cast bright, golden light over the battlements, but it is shady in Allan’s secret spot.
Allan has brought a cup of wine, watered down of course, he could never get used to drinking it neat and a lute with him, neither of which actually belongs to him. While the owner of the wine, the sheriff of Nottingham, certainly doesn’t know that Allan has taken a large cup of his finest red and watered it down to be less strong, the owner of the lute has actually knowingly lent his instrument to Allan. One of the men now sharing his room is a wandering minstrel and out of thanks for Allan’s helpfulness in finding him new strings when three of his old set broke, he has lent the lute to Allan.
Why he told the minstrel that he used to play himself is a mystery to Allan, but he did and now he is sitting alone on the battlements, trying to remember how to play. Because it has been ages since Allan played. In one of his former lives he used to be a strolling minstrel himself, but that was a long time ago. He used to be good. Reasonably good and playing, but very good at making the most of his talent. He had the face and the voice of an angel when he was a child, that’s what the man who taught him how to play and sing used to say. But then Allan’s voice broke and his skin erupted in pimples and while he could still play the lute, he couldn’t sing and he certainly didn’t look like a little angel anymore, so the man made Allan leave his band of angel singers.
He wasn’t unkind about it. At least not very unkind. He let Allan keep his clothes and a blanket and food for a few days. Allan was not unkind in turn, only stealing the lute he had been playing on for five years and not the bag with money that the man kept on his belt.
The lute and Allan parted ways not long afterwards, he couldn’t sing because his breaking voice sounded horrible and he couldn’t make money playing the lute without singing, so he finally sold the instrument. When the money was gone, Allan started stealing again. Nimble fingers are an asset for a musician as well as a thief.
And now he sits on the battlements, the stones radiating the heat of the day and he tries to remember the songs he used to play. The strings feel familiar, but his fingers are clumsy after so many years, the melody sounds choppy. Allan tries to sing one of the songs he really used to like but it has also been a while since he last sang and he can’t hit the high notes like he used to do. It’s rather hard singing in a falsetto voice and like his teacher used to tell him before hitting him for not being diligent enough with his lessons, the voice is like an instrument, you have to practice it.
He mucks about for a while with voice and instrument, his fingers starting to remember the old movements and then he figures out how to sing the melody he could sing so easily in a high falsetto as a boy in the deeper tenor he is now. His voice is still a bit rusty and uncertain, but at least the melody comes out right and it fits the accompanying music of the lute. The others used to sing in the camp sometimes, but Allan never sang with them. Singing was part of another life.
Now Allan sings for himself and it isn’t as bad as he had feared. The music does bring up some memories from his time as a minstrel, memories he thought he had buried, but they don’t hurt or frighten him like they used to. What is past is past and the music isn’t stained by it. It probably never was. Allan plays and sings quietly while the sun starts to set and the sky turns pink and he doesn’t notice how the time passes. He loses himself in the sound of old songs he used to play, tries some new ones he has heard in his years as a thief, even one little song in Arabic that Djaq always sings when she is happy, though he doesn’t know what the words mean and probably is singing some heathen blasphemy or even more likely complete gibberish.
Then he remembers a song in French. The words mean as much to him as the Arabic but he has learned them by heart and they come back to him fluently, even after so many years. He liked this song specifically for the way the strange sounds rolled off his tongue, making him dream of going to foreign places, seeing strange people, living a life of adventure. He must have been very naive then. That’s a word Guy taught him. In a conversation with the sheriff he had called Robin naive one day and Allan, having been present, had asked him what that meant afterwards.
“It means simple.” Guy had said, a look of amusement on his face as he explained. “It’s French, so don’t even try and use it, you’ll only make a fool of yourself, saying things like ‘naive’, you little peasant.”
Allan isn’t foolish, so he only uses the word in his own head. But the French words of the song he sings now, even though he doesn’t know their meaning. By now he is so much absorbed by his play that he doesn’t pay any attention to his surroundings. So he doesn’t notice the man coming up the stairs and walking over to his hiding place until he uses a pause in the lyrics to talk. “Well, look at that. Allan a-Dale, minstrel and leal servant to the Lady Love.”
Starting violently, Allan almost drops the lute and his clenching fingers produce a horrible sound on the strings. He looks up to see Guy standing next to him, smiling down in apparent derision.
“Wha...I...” Allan only manages, surprised and embarrassed to be caught by Guy in his hiding spot, playing the lute and singing of all things. It would have been less mortifying to be caught rolling in the hay with one of the kitchen maids. That, Allan could have shrugged off, even made jokes about but this is private and he feels his cheeks starting to redden.
“But don’t stop playing on my account.” Guy says and practically grins at him, which is an unusual sight. “Whoever taught you that song has done a good job. Not one wrong word, though your accent is quite horrible.”
While Allan tries to find the right words to explain, explain why he is not at the feast, why he is hiding on the battlements and why he is playing the lute, Guy leans nonchalantly against the stone parapet. He has shed his heavy coat and is only wearing a simple, but elegant tunic and belt over his breeches and boots. Even like this he looks very much a knight, with his long legs and broad shoulders and elegant movements and Allan feels even more stupid and inferior than he usually does next to him. It doesn’t bother him that much most of the time but now it does.
“Tell me Allan, why are you not down at the feast serving? Like you were ordered to?” Guy asks and finally Allan comes out of his surprise. He’s not quite sure what mood Guy is in now. He sounds amused and looks it too, so maybe Allan can get away with his usual cheekiness. “I was jostling with the servants for the plates and pitchers, there’s too many down there as it is and me only adding to the confusion. Thought I’d better get out of the way before an accident happened.” he answers the question kind of honestly and looks up at Guy with a forced grin.
Guy huffs in agreement. “Wise decision. I’ve seen you wait on Lord Arring before you sneaked away and you were terrible. Almost dropped the chicken, had your thumb in the soup and constantly forgot to fill his mug. By the end of the night he would probably have had you whipped.”
This is not a reaction Allan has anticipated. The least he had expected was to be scolded and send down to the feast again, with a few kicks and blows if Guy had been in a more violent mood. But instead the man still has his eyebrows raised in a kind of exasperated amusement and doesn’t seem to be impatient to get back to the feast himself. Instead of chasing his man down to work again, he taps the cup of wine next to Allan with his boot and then leans down to pick it up. Allan bites the inside of his lip as Guy sniffs the wine, gives him a look under raised eyebrows and then takes a sip.
“I see our taste in wine is the same. Although I like mine with a little less water.” Guy says after swallowing and then swirls the liquid in the cup.
“Well, I’m modest like that. And hard work makes a man thirsty, Giz.” Allan says, hoping that his act of naughty but harmless fool will get him out of this again. With a wry smile Guy takes another much bigger swallow and then reaches the cup out to Allan, who takes it hesitantly and when Guy nods encouragingly also takes a sip before putting it on the ground again. Guy leans against the stones and looks out over the battlements and for a moment both men are silent. This is strangely companionable and Allan lets his fingers unconsciously wander silently over the strings, gripping chords that don’t ring out.
“Allan, who taught you that song?” Guy asks, breaking the silence and Allan is brought back to reality with a start.
“No one. Picked it up somewhere.” He answers curtly. He really doesn’t want to talk with Guy about his past but he also doesn’t want to get in trouble so he has to try to humour his master.
Guy snorts. “And where might that be? At court? That was no simple folk song to be picked up in passing. And as for that lute playing, did you also pick that up?”
“I did, after a fashion.” Allan answers enigmatically and the other man chuckles softly. “You see, you really surprise me, Allan. There I was, thinking you are just some grubby, little, uneducated bumpkin and now I hear you play the lute and sing love songs from the French court.”
Well, Allan has been called worse things than uneducated in his life, actually been called worse things by Guy when the man has been in a temper. Grubby though, that he takes some offence to. He has always been pretty well groomed, allowing for the circumstances. He ignores the insult though. “And what would you know about love songs, Guy?” he asks instead which wipes the smile of Guys face.
“Careful, Allan.” He warns and Allan lifts his hands in supplication. “You still haven’t told me how you learned to play.” Gisbourne says, his tone light again. And Allan hates this. He hates having to answer questions he doesn’t want to answer, hates having to play games.
“Somebody taught me. It was long ago.” he says and then presses his lips together tightly.
Guy snorts again. “Allan, I’m bored and since I’m not in the mood for a large crowd I’ll be staying here for a while. Which in turn means you better start being a bit more entertaining. And seeing that you don’t want to talk, how about you play another song?”
Allan takes the cup up again and takes another sip, pointedly putting it down and not holding the neck of the lute. The silence stretches on for a while until Guy taps his boot lightly against Allan’s arm. “I’m waiting. Play a song, minstrel.”
Now Allan starts to wonders if the man is drunk. He’s never seen Guy drunk before, so he doesn’t know what to look for. His speech isn’t slurred and he seems coordinated. He isn’t more aggressive than usual or more emotional. But he never picked at Allan’s past like this before. He never asked any questions about the life he lead before he joined Robin Hood and he only asks about Allan’s life with the outlaws because he needs the information.
This is the kind of conversation Allan really hates and he can’t get away from it because he is dependent on Guy and his protection.
“Come on, Allan. Play already. You might get a coin if I like the song.” Guy says in a light tone, almost teasing. “And you’ve done worse things for a coin.”
Pretending to search for his place on the strings Allan bows his head over the lute and then plucks a garishly discordant chord. “Sorry, Giz. Seem to have forgotten how to play.” He looks up to see Guy glowering at him darkly.
“Allan, you are my servant and when I give you an order you better obey.” Guy has pushed himself away from the wall now and is standing over Allan.
“I’m really sorry Giz, but now you’ve got me so scared, my fingers are all cramped. Can’t nobody play with cramped fingers.” Allan retorts.
“You seem to have forgotten your place.” Guy warns.
“No, I haven’t Giz. My place is at your feet. And that’s where I am, right?” Allan returns the dark gaze with a dark one of his own. He is tired of all this and if Guy gives him a thrashing now he wants to at least have earned it.
“Are you really this daft or do you just like to get kicked in the head?” the other man asks in an annoyed voice.
“Don’t see how that would help with my memory, Giz.” Allan answers and then pulls in his head and tenses the muscles in his neck to ready himself for a blow. He’s had his good share of beatings from Guy and he’s sure he crossed the line now. But the blow never comes. Instead Guy exhales loudly, it almost sounds like a sigh and quietly says “Must you always be so petulant, Allan?”
His voice sounds strange, so low and weary and Allan turns his head to see Guy letting his hand fall down from where he has pinched the bridge of his nose, then turns to walk away. The man’s face suddenly looks as tired as his voice sounds, and Allan only notices now that there are deep lines around his mouth and dark shadows under his eyes.
“Wait. My lord, wait!” Allan says without thinking and Guy stands still, his back turned to Allan. “I’ll ... I’ll play for you, Sire.” he says to the man’s back. Why he does he doesn’t know. The man just mocked and threatened him and then called him petulant, which Allan knows must mean something bad, but the way Guy just looked and sounded has touched something in Allan. Even through the fabric of the tunic Allan can see that the muscles in Guy’s back are tense. Like he’s always on watch, always waiting for something bad to happen. Allan knows the feeling. A few seconds pass and then Gisbourne’s shoulders relax a bit and he begins to turn back, so Allan quickly looks down to the neck of the lute, making it look like he is searching for the right place for his fingers.
Allan doesn’t know why Guy decides to stay. Maybe he is really bored by the company downstairs. Maybe he is too tired to climb all the way back down now. Or maybe because just for once Allan didn’t mock him by calling him ‘Giz’ but addressed him like he should as his servant and dependant. And Allan can’t deny that he is indeed Guy’s servant and on the whole Guy has not been a bad master. The man has taken him into his service, he has taken care that Allan is clothed and fed and also that he hasn’t been hanged by the sheriff, who has threatened to do so on more than one occasion and Allan knows that those are usually not empty threats.
He lets his fingers wander over the strings uncertainly for a while without plucking and then decides on a song. One without French words though. While he’s doing so, he can hear Guy sitting down on the stones somewhere behind him, a bit further than he sat before but still in reach. It’s been a while since Allan has sung for an audience and he is suddenly nervous. He’s sure about the lute now but the first few notes out of his mouth sound hoarse and uncertain again. Guy doesn’t say one word, he doesn’t laugh, doesn’t even seem to move and Allan begins to relax and then the songs just flow out of him and into the slowly darkening sky. At one point a nightingale flies up from the tree down in the courtyard, landing on the stones in front of Allan and after a while the bird starts to sing as well, it seems like she is answering to his voice. It is strangely peaceful on the battlements, the sound of the city dying down as the sky darkens more and more. Allan almost forgets that Guy is there as well and is therefore startled when the man behind him suddenly gets up and says in a low voice “Good night, Allan.” before walking away very quietly.
“That man has a strange temper.” Allan tells the nightingale as he watches Guy’s retreating form. “A very strange temper.”
