The Secret of Gisborne: A BBW Shifter Paranormal Romance (House of Gisborne Book 1)

by Alanis Knight

  The Secret of Gisborne

  House of Gisborne: Book 1

  A BBW Shifter/Vampire Paranormal Romance Novel

  Alanis Knight

  http://www.AlanisKnight.com

  As a servant in the House of Blackstock, the beautiful and curvaceous Marian, once Lady Marian of Locksley, is subjected to all manner of cruel treatment and torment from her master, Lord Blackstock, but she has little choice, needing to support her ailing father who has been stripped of his title as Lord and lost his income.

  Blackstock’s second-in-command and personal bodyguard, Guy of Gisborne, has developed an odd fascination with Marian, but she keeps her distance, knowing he’s a dangerous and evil man.

  Upon discovering a terrifying secret that Blackstock and Gisborne have been hiding, she’d convinced that she must team up with her oldest childhood friend, Robin of Locksley, who’s come to be known by the name of Robin Hood, in order to defeat their foul plans, but her world is turned upside down as she discovers something about Gisborne that leaves her reeling.

  Could it be that there’s more to the dark, brooding Gisborne than she realizes?

  © Copyright 2016, Alanis Knight, All Rights Reserved

  INTRODUCTION

  The tale of Robin Hood has been told and retold countless times through the ages, evolving and morphing over time from a simple ballad to a rich, complex tale of adventure and romance. The variety of ways this tale is presented is as diverse as the characters themselves.

  I chose to create a non-canonical work, because I wanted something a bit different, yet still in keeping with the original spirit of the story. I’ve chosen to flesh out some of the characters, and to change the stories of others. I’ve also taken some liberties with the language, though I’ve tried to remain as true as possible to history and to the time period. Ultimately, it’s not about remaining historically accurate, but telling the story of the characters as they’ve presented themselves to me.

  This version focuses more heavily on Sir Guy of Gisborne, one of Robin Hood’s rivals, rather than on Robin Hood himself. It also focuses on the difficult and complex love triangle these characters must endure, and their development as individuals along the way.

  I hope you enjoy my interpretation of this story.

  -- Alanis

  CHAPTER ONE

  Darkness crept into every corner of the study, with only a smattering of flickering candlelight illuminating the desk and the floor directly in front of it. Sir Guy of Gisborne stood before his lord and liege, the lavishly dressed Lord Blackstock, who glared at him ominously with his bony hands clasped and his elbows propped on his desk. Blackstock’s beady black eyes narrowed, and he tapped his fingers together irritably and puckered his contemptuous lips.

  “I don’t care to hear your excuses, Gisborne,” growled Lord Blackstock, his voice low and deliberate. Then, in a tone laced with considerable irritation and altogether less controlled, he snarled, “Get it done, you incompetent fool!”

  “Yes, my Lord,” Gisborne deferred without so much as a twitch at Blackstock’s outburst. Gisborne bowed low.

  “And get the girl out of here!” Lord Blackstock exploded with a wild and dismissive wave of his hand.

  Gisborne’s eyes turned toward the young woman kneeling upon the floor with a scrub brush in her hand. Her eyes were wide, her pink lips faintly parted in a sea of flushed white skin. Her hair fell around her softly rounded cheeks.

  Marian jumped, her heart pounding furiously in her chest. She held the dripping brush with a trembling hand, too frightened to move.

  “Let’s go... up!” Gisborne ordered.

  She dropped the brush into the wooden bucket with a splash and grabbed the bucket’s handle as Gisborne grabbed her elbow and ushered her rapidly from Lord Blackstock’s study, pushing the heavy wooden door shut behind them.

  “I’m sorry, my Lord,” she murmured weakly, though she knew not what act she might have committed that would have brought about such hostility.

  “Do not apologize,” Gisborne said firmly. “Just go clean elsewhere.”

  “Yes, my Lord,” she said, bowing respectfully.

  With her heart still thudding, she scampered away from him, making her way toward the nearby tower. She hurried up the stairs to the chambers to make the beds, eager to get away from Lord Blackstock and Gisborne and all the things she had heard but wished she hadn’t. She often saw and heard things in the castle that she wished she could forget. But she could never forget.

  Her knuckles rapped gingerly on the door of Gisborne’s chamber, though she’d seen him only moments earlier, as she had been instructed to do so at every door without exception. When no response was forthcoming, she pushed the heavy wooden door open with a creak and stepped inside.

  The chamber was sparse, but tasteful. His bed, as usual, was not slept in. The fire in the hearth had dwindled to faintly glowing coals. The curtains were drawn, with only a tiny shaft of sunlight peeking through. She threw the curtains open, revealing the parchment windows, allowing in enough sunlight by which to clean. She dropped to her knees to scrub the floor, which she did almost daily, despite his chamber being so rarely used.

  “That is hardly necessary.”

  She gasped, nearly overturning her bucket as her body twitched involuntarily. She turned her eyes upward, and Gisborne was standing in the shadows just outside the doorway with his arms folded. He was clad head to toe in rich, black leather from his rugged boots to his horsehide tunic. His hair, dark and wavy, fell past his shoulders. His icy, gray-blue eyes pierced through her, sending chills across her body.

  “I’m sorry, my Lord. I only do as I am told,” she said quickly.

  He pushed off the doorway and strode toward her, standing over her, but casting his eyes toward the window briefly as he his behind the shadow of his bed.

  “It seems such a waste,” he pointed out, his gruff voice a thick, heady baritone. He fingered the gold-colored tassels that hung from the drapery that adorned his bed. “I don’t see how the floor could become dirty enough to need scrubbing when I am so seldom here.”

  She was motionless, her lips parted as though she wished to speak, but the words would not come. None in the house, save the other servants of her stature, had ever spoken to her other than to bark orders. She wasn’t sure how to respond.

  “Yes, my Lord,” she finally said.

  “Close the curtains,” he instructed, and she quickly scrambled to her feed and complied.

  “Do not let me keep you from your work,” he said, crossing the floor and stepping over the wet spot in the floor with a wide stride. “I just need to get something.”

  She blinked at him for a moment, and then cautiously lowered herself to her knees and resumed her scrubbing as he fumbled around in his wardrobe, fishing a small item from the bottom and pocketing it. His heavy boots clomped across the floor as he strode toward the door. In the doorway, he paused for a moment, and then he turned his head and looked over his shoulder.

  “What is your name?” he asked.

  “My... name?” she stammered.

  “Yes, your name. You do have one, I assume.”

  “Oh, yes, my Lord. It’s… it’s Marian.”

  “Hmm,” he muttered, raising one eyebrow, and then he turned and left the room, closing the door behind him.

  Marian blinked at the door for a moment. Then she shook her head to clear her confusion and returned to her scrubbing.

  The other chambers were more of the same. Some were more lavishly
decorated than Gisborne’s. Others less so. Some were full of life’s mementos, and others nearly bare. These rooms all belonged to various lieutenants and knights in Blackstock’s guard.

  Blackstock rather fancied himself a king, but he was nothing more than the Lord of a very small parish in Nottingham called Locksley. Locksley had once been a great village, but its master had gone away to fight in the Crusades, and when he returned, he discovered his manor had been seized and the villagers were being taxed far beyond what was reasonable and just. With the king still away in the Holy Lands, there had been no recourse, and Locksley Village was doomed to poverty while its former keeper became an outlaw.

  Sir Guy of Gisborne was Blackstock’s closest confidant, his personal bodyguard and Master at Arms. He was known for being a ruthless and brutal subjugator, Lord Blackstock’s lackey and the bringer of Blackstock’s own personal brand of justice.

  Gisborne’s was the largest of the guards’ rooms, but she assumed he was so busy with Lord Blackstock’s business that he rarely spent time in it. Perhaps he had no time to collect mementos, and maybe he stole naps here and there whenever he could. Maybe he had a young woman, one of the maids, perhaps, that he snuck away to spend his evenings with. Marian flushed crimson at such a devilishly wicked thought. Whatever the case, it was no concern of hers.

  Once the chambers were all cleaned, she rushed downstairs to find Mirabelle. Mirabelle was a loud woman with a looming presence and a voice that boomed with thunderous authority. She presided over the other servants in the castle, most specifically the kitchen staff, but also the maids and other house servants. She located Mirabelle in the kitchen, standing over a large pot of stew and complaining to the cook.

  “You put garlic in the stew again, you stupid girl! Lord Blackstock will have your head for this!” Mirabelle shouted at the cowering cook. “You know he hates garlic! How many times do I have to tell you?”

  “I’m sorry, Miss,” the cook said meekly.

  “Take ‘em out, then! Every piece!” Mirabelle ordered. “No time to start another stew. You’ll have to pick ‘em out, every last one. And Lord help you if he finds a bit o’ one in there. Let’s just hope he doesn’t taste it in there, or he’ll have your head!”

  “Excuse me, Miss,” Marian said quietly.

  Mirabelle turned her broad body toward Marian and eyed her bucket. Her eyes slowly made their way up to Marian’s face.

  “All done, then?” Mirabelle asked.

  “Yes, Miss,” Marian answered.

  “All right, then, hurry home. It’s getting dark, and you shouldn’t be on the roads after the sun goes down,” Mirabelle said, her dark eyes flitting nervously about the room as though she was afraid of being heard.

  “Thank you, Miss,” Marian said, scurrying away to put her bucket away and head home.

  Most of the servants lived in the castle in the servants’ quarters on the lower floor. Marian was one of the few who lived in her own home. She lived with her aging father in a tiny cottage far outside the castle wall on the outskirts of Locksley Village.

  Mirabelle had taken pity on her and given her a job within the castle when she learned Marian’s father was ailing and could not provide for his family, and Marian needed to work to feed the two of them. She was allowed to stay at the cottage to care for her father on the condition that if she were ever late to work, she would have to move into the castle immediately or be fired.

  The crisp autumn air was chilly, and Marian wrapped her shawl tightly around her shivering shoulders. Her thin shoes were barely any protection from the frigid temperatures, and her toes were numb as she padded her way home. Merry old England was a beautiful land, but the fall and winter could be quite surly at times.

  The sun was sinking beyond the trees, turning the sky a brilliant blood red with streaks of orange and purple. She could see a few stars already winking from the darkest points in the sky above the trees, which were painted in brilliant shades of amber and gold.

  Without consciously realizing it, she quickened her pace. The air grew colder, and a harsh breeze began to whip her hair about, lashing her face and eyes. A thick fog boiled and undulated over Lake Heron in distance. She could almost hear the rapid thump-thump of her heart as she raced home.

  There was an unspoken rule in the land that one did not venture out onto the streets after dusk. People had often gone missing in the lonesome time between the twilight hours and dawn, never to be seen or heard from again. Some said it was the outlaws who skulked about in Sherwood Forest. Others believed it was starving wolves. A few even believed it was the work of the Devil.

  Marian was certain she heard something behind her, but she dared not look over her shoulder for the source. With her wildly pounding heart leaping into her throat, she broke into a run. Was that footsteps? The pace matched her own, but perhaps it was only the pounding of her own heart.

  Her tiny cottage was visible in the distance. Smoke wafted lazily through the chimney. As she burst through the gate, the chickens scattered, clucking furiously. She crashed against the door and pushed her way inside, slamming it behind her with a bang. She leaned against the door, bracing it shut and panting heavily for several long moments. Then she sighed with relief, shaking her head at her own irrational fears, and turned around.

  Her father was resting by the hearth, though the fire had long since dwindled to mere embers. Thick, moth-eaten patchwork quilts covered him as he lay with his feet propped up, his head hanging weakly to the side. His back ached constantly, so he’d taken to sleeping upright in his chair, but if pressed for the truth, he’d have said he’d only done it to give his beloved daughter use of the lone bed. Marian would never have taken it otherwise, so he’d had to make an excuse to appease her.

  “How are you feeling, Father?” Marian asked, touching his forehead gently.

  “Quite well, thank you, darling,” he answered feebly.

  She peered down at him, examining his ochre-tinged pallor and his sunken eyes ringed with purple. His breathing was slow and shallow, but even, and his fever had mostly waned. She sighed with relief. His hair was gray beyond his years and a bit too long, but he stubbornly refused to allow Marian to cut it.

  “I’ll make you some dinner,” she said, ignoring his obvious lie and adding another log to the fire.

  Hanging her shawl on the hook beside the door, she flitted about the single room, gathering the things she would need to make a meager dinner for her family. There was no meat. They simply couldn’t afford it, and Lord Blackstock did not allow poaching on his land, so hunting was out of the question. She could not even travel to Nottingham to hunt, for the Sheriff there was said to be even stricter and more heartless than Lord Blackstock.

  Bread was a luxury they could ill afford. Grain was expensive, and working long hours at the castle, Marian barely had time to tend their tiny garden behind the cottage. Most of their food consisted of eggs, which came from the few chickens Marian has saved for months to buy, and vegetables she grew in her garden, tending it carefully in the early morning hours before work. Still, with so little time, much of the garden was choked by weeds and eaten by insects and birds. She feared the coming winter, as they had little stored to eat and no money with which to buy supplies.

  She checked the water bucket. It was still nearly full from the morning. Her muscles relaxed with the knowledge that she wouldn’t have to venture out to the well in the darkness. She dipped some water into the pot and placed it on the hook above the hearth. She peeled potatoes, carrots, and one lone onion and chopped them coarsely, sliding them into the now boiling water. Finally, she placed four eggs into the water along with a handful of fresh herbs, the only flavoring available to her.

  Her feet ached from hours of work at the castle. Marian rarely got more than a few moments of rest during the day. She worked at the castle from dawn until dusk nearly every day, and her chores at home consumed most of the few waking hours she had left. She slouched heavily into the chair opposite the heart
h from her father and leaned back, waiting for the stew to cook. Her eyelids were heavy, and they began to sag as she relaxed by the fire.

  KNOCK-KNOCK!

  The sound jerked her awake, her heart skipping a beat. Her father was sleeping soundly. Perhaps she’d only dreamed the...

  KNOCK-KNOCK!

  “Marian!” shouted a familiar voice from the other side of the door.

  She jumped to her feet and rushed to the door, pulling it open and stepping aside. A hooded figure ambled through the door with another hanging limply from his shoulder. He eased the injured man, who grunted heavily and clutched his side, onto the bed.

  “Robin, what happened?” Marian gasped.

  Robin pulled the hood from his head and let it drop behind him. His green eyes winked merrily in the flickering light from the fire, despite the deep anxiety that wrinkled their edges.