Carried News

The imposing foliage of Sherwood Forest protected him from some of the rain\'s intensity, but not enough to protect the roads from becoming slippery and hazardous. As he rode on, rain streamed down his face and into his eyes, making it all the more difficult to navigate in the dark of night.

Rain poured down in sheets, the noise of it rustling the underbrush and the leaves overhead as the sky sent down a torrent. Blondel was leading Blanche on a path of his own creation, avoiding the muddy main road. He doubted that the garrison of Nottingham would be sent after him now in this weather, and supposed he would have whatever lead the rain afforded. But it was prudent to remain out of sight, and thus he kept his white horse off of the main clearing of the road.

It was slow going, and to add to Blondel\'s misery soon he began to feel uneasy. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, and the minstrel realized his instincts were telling him he was being watched. He walked on, feigning nonchalance, while beneath his hood his eyes quested the underbrush.

There, a man crouched in Lincoln green, beneath the shadings of a tree. He knew there were more, but he could not see them. They were hidden well, for this was their home. Blondel realized immediately that this must be the infamous band of outlaws he\'d heard tell of. Commonplace brigands would have leapt out in a gang of a dozen or so, and tried to slit his throat and rob him of possessions. But he was being watched with interest, seen as more than a goal to loot.

Blondel\'s walk eventually slowed, and he pretended to be adjusting the weatherproof casings his lute was wrapped in, while he thought of what to do. Robin Hood\'s band had a vague reputation, and no one was quite sure if it was a malicious or relatively benign pack. But the minstrel knew that, either or, if he continued on his way soon he would be confronted by them. Rather than be caught unawares, he robbed them of the upper hand.

Beneath his outer cloak, his hand went to the throwing knife tucked aside his belt. He cleared his throat, and began to sing.

A lilting introduction surely caught the attention of all the renegades observing him. His tenor voice carried clear, a chime above the gushing rain. \"Listen well, all he who watch me. I have come on behalf of the King, captured at ransom! Do not notch your arrows. Hear my purpose for travel, his song..\"

He sang the marching words of King Richard\'s Imprisonment, regaling them with the English version. Not as pretty, but just as purposeful and bold enough to kindle the flame of patriarchal allegiance in an Englishman\'s breast. Or at least, Blondel hoped, enough to kindle the flame of compassion.

The heavy sound of the rain was Blondel\'s only applause. Time stretched on and he blinked as droplets fell from the soaked brim of his hood, onto his eyelashes. Such a stretch passed that he began to worry. Were the men of Robin Hood readying their arrows to do away with him? Was their silence to be interpreted as a granting of safe passage? Perhaps he had been entirely incorrect, and these were not Robin\'s so-called merry men.

Blondel knew an English bow could pierce mail. At such range, one of the long, white-fletched arrows was likely to pierce and pass right through him. His mind imagined feeling that forceful strike, to be left bleeding with the goosefeathers tickling in the chambers of his heart while the long bloodied shaft of it would quiver out from his back like a porcupine\'s quill. The minstrel swallowed, furrowing his brow at his imagination\'s powers. He grimly hoped that the rain would pour on their strings and make their bows difficult to draw.

Silence went on a moment more, and Blondel finally risked movement. They were waiting for him, he realized. He lifted his hand to his horse\'s nose, hoping it would not be the last time his fingers felt that velvet softness. He closed his eyes and thought of Richard. He prayed, \'Saint Sebastian, stay the hands of these archers, for the sake of England\'s king.\'

Eyes on the damp ground, he began to slowly walk forward on his path. He didn\'t dare show fear, lest it be seen as a sign of cowardice, and thus a sign of false integrity.

\"Halt, minstrel.\"

The English voice came from directly in front of him, and Blondel looked up with surprise. Here stood a tall man, noble of face and sable of lock, beard trimmed but for a goatee around his mouth. His Lincoln green outfit was dirty, dampened by the rain. He held his bow close to his body, partially shielding the string from the downpour. Blondel lifted his chin, but said nothing to him.

\"Is that story you told true?\"

\"Yes. Every word, by God.\"

\"How do you know the King?\"

\"I was his minstrel.\"

There was silence, and the dark-haired man looked over his shoulder. A broad-shouldered man with stringy reddish hair strode forward, and Blondel marveled at how he could have not seen such a figure in the underbrush. He was quite huge.

\"Little John,\" the first man said, glancing at his companion with a note of question.

The big man looked Blondel over. Feeling his scrutinizing gaze, Blondel wished that the token the king had awarded him had not been stolen from him, to melt down the gold it was composed of. That adventure brought shame upon recollection, and resentment. The minstrel had barely escaped that encounter with his life, and had lost much coin and dignity for it.

Mistaking Blondel\'s sudden flush of anger for embarrassment, Little John stifled a laugh. But all he said was, \"the king\'s minstrel is said to have hair like a waterfall of flax.\"

With one elegant gesture of his hand, Blondel swept his hood back, caught the tying ribbon\'s end between forefinger and thumb, and loosed it with a shake of his head. For a moment, the clean locks fluttered beautifully, making men\'s eyes go wide. It was like the hair of a royal woman, and none had ever seen such a thing, let alone on a man.

Little John stared at him in stupefaction, but the black-haired man only nodded.

\"So be it. That hair has saved your life and won you succor with us tonight. I am Robin Hood.\"

Blondel smiled in satisfaction, his heart rate returning to normal and his flush subsiding. He may have been robbed of the king\'s token of safe passage, but a parcel of his reputation preceded him and saved his own life. \"Blondel de Nesle, good sir.\"

\"Men, this rainy night, we shall have music!\"


Blondel allowed himself to be blindfolded, led to the secret hideout of Robin\'s men. At one point, the scent of wood and dirt heavily filled his nostrils, and he realized he must have passed through some kind of wooden enclosure, into the underground. In truth, he had been led through the Major Oak, a secret doorway leading to a tunnel which wound into a part of Sherwood protected by thick brambles, trees, and a ring of traps set by the men themselves.

When he smelled fresh air again, the patter of rain seemed distant, the drops fewer. The foliage was thick overhead, making a natural partial shelter. Someone undid his blindfold then, and he was allowed to see.

There was truly not much. Some simple huts, sheltered by a camouflage of foliage, and a few men walking about, tending a fire within the one visible building; a peaked roof supported by four sturdy wooden posts. A small hole in the top was allowing the smoke to escape upwards, the wood around the hole darkened. The faint smell of roasting meat lifted Blondel\'s brow.

\"You\'re lucky, friend. We had a successful hunt not long ago,\" Robin told him, leading him towards the firepit.

So tonight he would dine on the King\'s deer. He smiled, for of course Richard would not mind. His colic little imp of a brother would, though, and his smile turned to a frown at the thought of Prince John.

\"Where is Blanche?\" The minstrel asked, looking to his host.

Robin Hood smiled and waved away Blondel\'s concern. \"She is being led to our stables nearby, and taken care of.\"

\"I would prefer to see to her myself.\"

\"I understand your affections. She\'s a magnificent horse. A gift from the King?\"

This prince of thieves had a shrewd air about him, and Blondel pursed his lips at him to show his displeasure.

\"Yes,\" he answered curtly.

\"Ah. Well, I ordered my men to take fine care of her. Unfortunately, you cannot see her until tomorrow when you depart, unless you were to be led back through the woods and around our barriers, to another hidden location. It\'s much harder to hide horses than men,\" Robin pointed out wryly.

\"I imagine so. I must confess I am impressed the Prince has not found you already.\"

\"Oh, he has before,\" Robin smirked, gesturing at a dry log for the minstrel to sit upon. \"But we move, disband, and shift.\"

\"Why are you all here?\" Blondel was wet, Blanche was off being manhandled by brigands, and that did not put him in a very eloquent mood. The only thing which kept his temper in check was the fact that his lute was dry and on his back, and he still had his knife tucked safely into his boot, should the need arise.

\"You act as though we\'re the only band of brigands in England,\" Robin remarked bemusedly. Blondel would not be fooled - this band was better organized than any other he had ever heard of, and his perceptions told him his leader was not a simple cutthroat.

\"The only band which has plagued Prince John for such a time, constantly hounding those who pass through this forest, evading capture.\" The minstrel\'s celestial grey eyes shone brilliantly with the proximity of the fire.

\"We are all sinners, de Nesle.\"

\"Murderers, rapists, thieves, deserters, of course you are,\" Blondel replied lightly, keeping his courage in the
face of Robin Hood\'s confidence. He had the stature of a nobleman, the minstrel realized at last; posture and pronunciation that spoke of an upper class gentleman.

\"A further sin, de Nesle. One which I daresay you might have known in the company of our heirless King Richard.\"

A shiver ran up Blondel\'s spine as Robin Hood\'s dark eyes pointedly cast over his features, to his dampened but nevertheless luxurious hair, and even across his torso. Blondel steeled himself as Robin Hood leaned a little closer to share the secret of his \'merry men\', whispering beneath the fire\'s crackle.

\"All of us are men of Sodom.\"


Blondel could not say he was entirely surprised. Creatures of a kind can recognize one another, and this inherit sense had given him a suspicious feeling in the pit of his stomach when he set eyes on Robin Hood and the men surrounding him. Casting his gaze out from the seclusion of the peak-roofed enclosure which held the fire and their grilling meal, he watched a few men scamper here and there in the rain.

He saw one pair standing outside of a hut, slipping inside with their tongues warring. Blondel\'s last glimpse of them before a flap swung closed was of a hand roughly grabbing one cheek of a buttocks, squeezing it through breeches.

Blondel leveled his gaze on this Robin Hood, measuring him. He was a nobleman, flung from his household and church due to his preference for men. And it seemed he had gathered to him ruffians of a like sort, all of them taking refuge in one another whilst harrying those who passed through these woods.

\"What do you think of my song?\" Blondel asked, cutting to the quick. He could see Robin was an intelligent man who was measuring him as keenly as the minstrel was measuring him in return.

\"So the king has been captured, and found by you. His faithful minstrel.\" Robin\'s tone implied he had no illusions about the depth of their past relationship. \"You plan to spread his word? For what hope?\"

\"That a ransom will be raised.\"

\"Have you succeeded so far?\"

\"The Prince knows. But I suspect any lifted taxes will be put into his own pocket.\"

This caused Robin to pause, and lean back thoughtfully. \"We might be of aid to you, de Nesle.\"

In their ensuing discussion, Blondel came to realize that while a guarded man guilty of many sins, Robin Hood had still a noble heart, and wished to do good to rectify any wrongs put on his soul. Some part of him held hope for his retribution, and the retribution of his men, and that is why they had clung to the city of Nottingham rather than scatter like dandelion seeds to the winds.

Their banditry had thus far been used to keep mouths fed, and en masse a small amount of coin for each man, should a time come when separation and re-integration into a different country was needed. Gold could be melted down, and few merchants were pious enough to inquire about its origins.

But Robin and Blondel quickly realized that their circumstance was special. They had been brought together by fate, perhaps by God. Blondel\'s news gave Robin and his men a purpose. Robin and his men could lend hope to Blondel\'s mission.

Before the night was through, once all the men had dined on the roast deer and had listened to Blondel make song, Robin hood addressed them and told them of their new objective. They would seek to elevate themselves from the level of nuisance, to a plague. The more Prince John taxed the peasants, the more they would rob back the tax money to put it to its proper use; raising a ransom for the freedom of the King, a lover of men like them. Blondel watched the faces of the men as their new goal was told to them, and he saw their countenances enliven with the joy of purpose. A casket of ale in storage was broken open, and the drink flowed freely. Blondel even
allowed himself to partake lightly, warmed that these men would align themselves to their King\'s cause.

He had come into the woods fearing for his life, but he went to sleep with a faint smile, thanking God for these outcasts.


Hands grabbed his tunic, roughly pushing it up to his chest. Blondel struggled, but found his movements inarticulate and clumsy, rendered so by alcohol, and the substance which had been slipped deviously into his drink. His mouth sought to cry out a protest, but found itself pressed closed by urgent lips, which mashed against his until they were pulled away.

Flexing his wrists, he discovered they were bound by soft rope. His feet were not, but even though his mind told him to lash out with kicks, his legs would not obey.

When he managed to open his eyes, he saw that he was bare. He was entirely nude, the shreds of his tunic laying beside him. He barely recalled the slip of cool steel as someone had cut off the garment, and anger rose in him for it had been a gift of Richard\'s. But the drug diluted his anger, and made his head swim. Warmth clouded his vision and suffused his limbs, and he realized suddenly that he was hard.

Inside the hut, half a dozen men stood looking down at him ravenously. Some fondled themselves through their clothes, while others already had breeches around their ankles, hands moving rapidly to pleasure themselves. Blondel squirmed, clinging to a hope of escape.

He was on his back now, and the sight of his glistening erection made some of the watching men moan and stroke themselves faster. The noise caused Blondel to writhe quietly, unable to deny the peculiar, gripping arousal that had a hold of him. Normally this captivity and exposure would disgust him to a sufficiently flaccid state. But he found himself only enticed, arching with the desperate desire for someone to reach out and touch him, grant him release. Yes, even one of these sweating, unwashed men, with hands made calloused by their time in the woods.

He closed his eyes, listening to the pleasured noises of the men looking down upon him, watching him writhe helplessly, blonde hair sticking to his sweat-dampened chest. He yearned for a mouth, a hand, any touch - his taut member was crossing the threshold of pleasurable, to painful need.

Suddenly, fingers encircled his cock. A smooth palm, but with roughness on the skin where the fingers joined the hand. A swordsman\'s hand, strong and confident in its hold. Blondel arched, and with a gasp his eyes opened, for he knew that hand well.

The King sat beside him, red hair hanging and framing his face. The other men in the hut blurred beyond Blondel\'s scope of attention, every facet of him focused suddenly on the impossible miracle of his lost lover being in this hut with him.

His lips opened to gasp out an incoherent query, but the familiar press of his lord\'s mouth on his silenced him. Silenced him, but for the stifled moan that came unbidden to his throat as he felt the King\'s sword-calloused hand working furiously on his erection. True to the king\'s nature, just as release approached, the hand was taken away. Blondel whimpered with defeat, peering up into the shadowy face of his lover.

The interior of the hut had become dark, and the drug\'s grip still held heated possession of him, making the world an obscure land of muffled sounds, and shadows. His king\'s breath smelled faintly of ale, and Blondel arched wantonly at this realization; drink after supper always made the already lionish King more passionate than usual.

He heard the sound of a belt unbuckling, and his body writhed on the padded flooring. \"Yes, my lord, yes,\" he gasped, encouraging Richard to hasten the removal of his pants. He felt a hand on his bare hip push him to his side, but his vision was hazy with potion-induced lust in combination with his own natural desire for his king.

To make it more pleasurable for them both and less uncomfortable for the minstrel, King Richard always kept olive oil on hand to slather his member with, before slipping into the blonde\'s willing body. He felt probing fingers and lifted his leg, offering the king access.

It seemed that a heartbeat passed incoherently, and suddenly the King\'s throbbing shaft was within him. Their coupling was not the tender one of two reuniting lovers, and Blondel\'s brows pursed with confusion as much as pleasure. The King had said nothing to him, no reassuring or saucy murmurs as he was wont - but had merely taken him. He continued to take him, a sharp thrust of his hips burying his erection in deeply. The minstrel gasped, seeing white as his own member was gripped again.

The smell of sex rose with the aroma of olive oil, sounds of skin meeting slick skin enhanced by the
occasional gasp or quiet moan Blondel offered, or a more baritone noise of enjoyment from the King. His thrusts became more powerful as his enjoyment increased, and their posture inevitably changed slightly so that the minstrel was no longer on his side, but was being driven into the tangled sheets and the crude pallet of straw that made his bed.

The sudden sound of rain entered, thick droplets drumming on the thin wooden walls of the hut. Blondel felt fingers delve into his hair, and his body arched. \"Richard-\"

Blondel woke with a shuddering gasp as he pushed his hips against the straw mattress. He squeezed his eyes shut and struggled to press his open mouth against the pillow to stifle the cry of his King\'s name. Still a whimpered moan escaped him as his member throbbed its release within his bed, and his hips rocked.

Left panting after the wave of pleasure, his body relaxed and his mind collected itself with the aid of the rain\'s gentle drum outside.

It had been only an erotic dream. He was not drunk, and there had been nothing slipped into his beverage the night before. He sighed with relief, for even though the proof of his enjoyment was making his stomach damp, he did not relish the actual idea of being seen in such a manner by the men of Sherwood.

And the memory of Richard in his dream both pleased and unsettled him. He adored his King, and their lovemaking, but to have it in such a situation was discomfiting. He supposed the dream simply represented his desire to be with his King, and his futile feelings and his frustration at being unable to communicate with him. Certainly, he had been bound and helpless. It was something that would make him extremely uncomfortable in reality, but caused him to shiver when contemplated as pure fantasy.

He rolled onto his back, and closed his eyes again.

The sun would soon be rising, and with it, Blondel would venture forth and continue spreading the song which so far had won him a free meal, saved his life and his purse, and would hopefully muster English hearts to save their king with gold.