#bbcrh

that it is 2024

Let’s stop and appreciate Robin Hood. Mostly because it is so very rare that I get a chance to stop and appreciate Robin Hood with other people. Being a self-professed amateur Robin Hood scholar is a pretty lonesome business most days.  The BBC Robin Hood fandom has this beautiful and wonderful fandom tradition of dedicating April 26th to posting Robin Hood content. And every year, I get to enjoy an influx of Robin Hood content as people I follow year round join together post about this old, nostalgic, and pretty cheesy version of my favorite myth. 

I don’t have any particularly special skill in making fandom content. But I thought I’d share a little bit about what makes Robin Hood as a story special to me, by sharing some truly fun and wonderful memories that I have had interacting with it and consuming Robin Hood media. 

-When I was 5, I religiously checked out the Disney Robin Hood VHS from the library every other week. I was allowed to choose one VHS, so I would check out Robin Hood one week, return it the next and get a different movie, and then back to Robin Hood. On one of the weeks I was going to bring Robin Hood home again, my friend checked it out before I could. I was very upset, and cried. 

-Around that same time, I wrote my name in a Robin Hood book I had from the library. “Because it was mine anyway.” Afterwards, my mother had to purchase the book, and then it really was mine. 

-When I was 8, my friend and I had a little campfire in the woods behind her house, and we stayed out there for hours while she read “Children’s Classic” version of Pyle’s The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood. 

Lovely to see this happen each year! Here’s my contribution, a short pre-series fic.

The Maid and the Falcon

Relentless drizzle, seeping beneath his cape, soured Guy’s mood a notch further with each mile that passed. It was, he supposed, an improvement on the week before, when snow and black ice had caused the falconer’s horse to slip. The man had been laid up, his leg broken, waiting to send for help. He was fortunate, Guy knew, to have a relative within a day’s ride; Vaisey would have refused his expenses. Guy had continued, transporting the sheriff’s valued cargo back to Nottingham.

The bamboo cage bumped awkwardly against the horse’s flank, in time with its slow gait. Guy glanced down, could see only sodden tail feathers peeking out from beneath the cage’s cover. He quelled a flash of pity, reckoning the bird probably fared better than he did at that precise moment. But then he recalled the falcon’s stitched eyelids, and resolutely turned his thoughts away.

As drizzle became downpour, the rising wind clutched indiscriminately at hair, mane, cape, branches; head bowed, Guy hunkered down against it as they plodded forward, only his bitter thoughts and the temporarily blind falcon for company. Nursemaid to a bird. How far I’ve come. Chained, as always, by his lord’s whims.

This latest had been brought about by the debacle a year earlier. Not content with his goshawk – perfect for forest terrain – the sheriff had craved a long-winged falcon. A gift for the prince of course, dear boy. I’ll just borrow it for a while. He’d sent his falconer to Valkenswaard, there to haggle at the autumn market, amongst other lords’ representatives, for one of those prized birds. The project had ended in disaster; the bird hadn’t survived the return from the continent. The falconer had been foolish enough to try and pass off an inferior specimen; Vaisey had thought it fitting punishment to cage the man on the castle battlements and paste his eyes with honey.

This time, Vaisey had tried something different. He’d sent a man to Ramsey Island, off the coast of Wales, there to trap a young falcon. But, being late in the season, it had taken weeks; since then, the bird had been manned, but it’s training to fly and hunt postponed. Vaisey had wanted the bird’s eyes sealed until he took possession; he liked to tweak the silken thread attached to the stitches.

Guy had been sent to meet the pair, and to escort them safely home. With the Christmas hunt little more than a fortnight away, to which many local nobles had been invited, there could be no more delays.

And yet. The road had become a quagmire. Guy halted his mount, casting about for a landmark. He realised that with such poor visibility he must have taken a wrong turn. It couldn’t be too far to Nottingham, but this cursed road seemed wholly unfamiliar.

Everywhere branches flailed; wind funnelled debris through gaps in the trees, pelting him and his mount with twigs. As he looked around, Guy heard a loud crack. A branch, splitting from the trunk; it crashed down mere paces away. It spooked his horse, and Guy barely had the animal calmed when he saw that the cover had been knocked from the cage. The bird was threshing about, drenched and distressed. Cursing, his own cape dislodged by now, Guy was struggling to re-cover the cage when a figure appeared, speaking quietly and calmly to the falcon, securing the other end of the cover which was flapping violently, its edges tugged by the wind.

When it was done, the young woman leaned in and spoke, placing a hand on his arm.

“This way,” she said loudly, pointing. “Follow me.”

​​​---------------------------------------------------------------------

“My lord Gisborne. Come in.” The maid’s father, his mouth set in a terse line.

“No, I think not.” Guy stood on the threshold beneath the drip-line from the thatch and saw that preparations were underway for a modest feast. “This bird needs quiet. But I’ll need a change of clothes, and a blanket for my horse.”

He had the girl show him to the village barn. It was draughty and cold but preferable to the stilted welcome in the cottage. He’d rubbed down and covered his horse, changed his clothes and made a small fire. Guy sat staring into it now, chewing on pieces of dried apple and listening to the wind thrash outside. It made him slow to register the sound of a knock. He rose and lifted the bar, admitting the maid who now bore a tray with two covered bowls and assorted nuts and fruit. She placed it near the fire, then went to collect firewood from outside the door.

“Fancy fare for common folk,” he remarked round a mouthful of beef and bacon stew, as she knelt by the fire.

He felt it poor return to ask outright how the household came by its meat, but she was no fool.

“Sir William gives us our Christmas fare early. He knows I work at the castle, and that I won’t be here for Christmas.”

“You work at the castle?” Guy quirked an eyebrow, vaguely interested. “Where?”

“In the kitchens.”

He was about to ask her name when he was diverted by the attention she now fixed on the bird.

“You should have him out, you know,” she said. “Have him on your wrist, or your shoulder. They need to become accustomed to people.”

“What would you know about it?” he sneered.

“Quite a lot, actually. My uncle is a trained falconer, I grew up with tales of birds and hearing about his techniques.”

Guy watched as she rose and walked to the cage, his mouth too full to protest as she undid the latch and lifted out the bird.

“Barbaric,” he heard her mutter. Then, to him:

“Why are his eyes still sealed? Surely, he’s ready to be trained.”

“Yes,” Guy muttered. Truth be told, he was as discomfited as she was by the cruel practice. “Vaisey insisted.”

“He is…..” the maid paused, tilting her head, a thoughtful look on her face. “Your master is….not a kind man.”

Guy spluttered on the home-brewed ale. When he recovered, he saw the girl smiling slightly; he smirked a little in return.

“No. That’s not how I would describe him either.”

Wearing a conspiratorial expression, she perched near him, bearing the raptor on her wrist with an air of calm assurance.

“There is another way, you know. If you were to help me, we could….”

“No.” Blunt, uncompromising. “Vaisey wants them sealed.”

The girl’s expression remained soft, undaunted by his dismissal. He assumed she was waiting so she could take the tray away. He ate the last mouthfuls of stew, mopping up the juices with a hunk of rye bread. The maid, her fine-spun hair gathered in a loose plait, and a gentle innocence about her features, was silent and pensive.

But when she looked over at him, he saw there was a hint of determination beneath her softness.

“You are not naturally a cruel man, Sir Guy. I see that. I know what you do for the sheriff but you do it for his sake, not for having any pleasure of it.” He began to snap a retort, affronted at her plain speaking, but the girl so surprised him by again laying a hand on his arm that he let her finish. “I see that this troubles you, so let me fix it. With your permission, my father and I can open the bird’s eyes and yet give Lord Vaisey a sop, let him think that he’s discovered something no one else has.”

Guy frowned.

“Go on,” he allowed, against his better judgement.

The maid glanced away, suddenly appearing uncertain. Instead of offering an explanation, she turned back to him with a question.

“Why are you travelling with this bird? Has the sheriff lost another falconer?”

“Temporarily. He broke a leg falling from his horse.”

“Ahh,” she sighed. “Well, I may tell you. I didn’t want the risk of any more of my kin being asked to work for Lord Vaisey.”

Guy growled a caution. “You speak too freely.”

“Perhaps. But listen….there’s another way to keep a bird of prey calm. Word reached my uncle when his lord’s son returned from Crusade. It’s a method the Saracens use.” The girl rose. “I’ll show you, I have one in the cottage. We were discussing it last time we saw my uncle and have been experimenting since.”

“What is it?”

“I’ll show you,” she repeated, slipping out of the barn.

When the maid returned, it was with her father in tow. She showed Guy a small hood which she explained was designed to fit over the bird’s head.

He watched, then, as she placed drops of something which discoloured the water into the bird’s shallow bowl.

“By this evening he should be calm enough. My father will remove the stitches, he has a steady hand.”

The pair returned at nightfall, bearing additional lanterns.

“You stay out of sight; you don’t want the bird to associate you with this,” instructed the father, so focussed on the task at hand that he temporarily forgot whom he was addressing.

Bemused, Guy moved to the back of the barn, allowing them to tend the falcon. He couldn’t see what they were doing, but more than once he heard a high, thin screech of protest. Finally, he was called forward, and saw that the hooded raptor was now sitting calmly on a makeshift perch.

“Right, if Sir Guy has no more need of our help…..”

“I’ll stay awhile,” the young woman said, glancing back at Guy.

“No, go. Have your celebration,” he said gruffly, weary now of company and wishing only for sleep.

But there was none to be had. The falcon’s early calm wore off. The hood was loose-fitting; the bird scraped at it with its talons and tore it off. After the rigours of the day, the creature was stressed; it bated, flapping its wings as it hung tethered to the perch. Each time Guy managed to replace the hood, but after the third such episode he was ready to wring its wretched neck.

He was relieved when, a short while later, the maid returned to check on them. Once she saw the problem, she took the hood away to adjust. When she returned, together they secured it over the falcon’s head.

“Let’s get the damn thing back in the cage.” Guy’s store of patience had long since evaporated.

“Soon. Let’s feed her first.”

Guy rummaged for the remains of a hare he’d snared early that morning, and they fed these to the now-sedate falcon. Then came the process of settling the bird back in its cage. By the time this was done, the fire needed tending; his companion helped with this too. Her presence was quiet, undemanding; her smile sweet.

Her father came eventually to the door.

“Annie, time to come inside lass,” he said, still stubbornly protective, although his tone had mellowed somewhat towards Guy.

Once they’d gone Guy bedded down in the straw. He found himself thinking, amongst other things, of the scent of rain in the girl’s hair, and of the way her lashes, wet from that same rain, had slanted down upon her cheek.

Annie. Perhaps she could be of help in the weeks to come. Guy had no doubt that, in the falconer’s absence, the onerous task of readying the bird to hunt would fall to him.

​​​----------------------------------------------------------------------

Guy waved the flagon-bearer away and gazed with jaded eye around the hall. Trenchers were full of half-eaten fare. Servants were beginning to clear space for presentation of the boar’s head, bearing away the various pies, pastries, stews and sauced meats which had cluttered the long tables. He would stay until then, Guy decided, before returning to all the tasks which had been set aside for the day’s festivities.

Mopping up the last of a dark, wine-currant sauce, Guy watched as the showpiece was paraded in. Accompanied by musicians and a capering jester it was borne about the hall on its bed of apples and cherry sprigs, with cherries for eyes and a fanciful forelock of grapes. Applause rippled around the tables; from snout to ear-tip, the flesh was crisped and brown and gave off an aroma that made mouths water. Guy hid a sneer; gluttony was never his vice. As the master cook preened beneath Vaisey’s rare praise, and as servants bore in fresh accompanying dishes and his neighbour exclaimed over the fine tastes awaiting them, Guy muttered some unintelligible reply, pushed back his chair, and left the feast.

The day thus far had been tolerable. Although Christmas was never anything special, Vaisey in a benign mood was always preferable to whining or the mercurial malice which a day that hadn’t gone according to plan could produce.

The morning’s hunt, for one thing, had been successful; the new falcon had performed well. Guy knew Annie was largely to thank. The falconer had returned only three days earlier. As he’d suspected, this had left Guy with the bulk of the bird’s training. In doing so, he’d more than once sought out Annie; drawing on snippets of her uncle’s wisdom, she’d always been willing to help.

There were more important things to be done - he was on his way to check how much the quarter tax had brought in (Vaisey had to pay, somehow, for his entertainments) – but Guy found himself thinking of the mews. Perhaps he would check on the bird later. Then he remembered that he had to pay an evening visit to….

….what was that?

A small sound; a clatter, something dislodged.

Guy paused. He was near the sheriff’s chambers, and it occurred to him that for anyone with ill intent this was the perfect time to gain entry. Whoever it was would have heard him pass; stealth hadn’t been on his mind. It was now; he unbuckled his spurs, set them aside and walked back, silently pushing the door open.

Vaisey would have spotted the culprit in an instant; after, that is, he’d registered the open door of one of the bird cages, its inhabitants fluttering past to escape into the corridor. He’d interrupted a similar operation on another cage; Guy strode forward and flung aside the dressing screen.

“You!” he exclaimed, grabbing the culprit’s wrist and hauling her to her feet.

Annie lost her balance, clutching at him for support. He glanced down, noting with a smirk where her grip had landed. Annie snatched her hand away from his thigh, her cheeks blooming with colour.

“What are you doing?” he snapped, steadying the maid on her feet. “Have you lost your mind?”

“They were talking about these poor birds a few days ago, in the kitchens. I decided then, it being Christmas, that it would be the perfect time to do something about it.” She spoke boldly; Guy admired her lack of repentance.

“Annie,” he said harshly, “there is never a perfect time to defy the sheriff….”

“…I don’t see why….”

Guy cut her off.

“What did you think would happen, when he finds them missing?” he asked, shaking his head, touching her chin with a gloved fingertip. “He will hunt for the culprit. And if he can’t discover who it was, he won’t care, he’ll punish someone anyway…probably his squire. Did you think of that? Would you want that?”

Annie dropped her gaze. He had to bend down slightly to catch her next words.

“I hate it. I hate what he does to them. What he does to all of us.”

Guy let the last comment pass. For the first part, he had some answer.

“You realise he will just go out and replace them? That he’ll find some other creatures to make miserable?”

“Yes.” Annie lifted her head, some of her defiance returning. “But at least I will have done – have done – something.”

Guy gazed at her a moment, pitying the futility behind her brave words. He knew that futility right down to his bones; had supped on its bitterness, in moments of quiet despair. There were times – oh yes, there were times – when he wanted to do the same. But always, he must hold. Always there were shackles, his own ambition and his desire for revenge the clasps with which Vaisey had snapped them shut.

There was no escape; Annie was right about that. And yet…they had unsealed the falcon’s eyes and got away with it. Could they do it again?

They were both silent, the frantic noise of the birds who’d seen their fellows fly free chattering in the background. Guy thought hard; he came to a decision.

“I’ll take care of it. But you must leave, now.”

“No! You’re not to take the blame for this,” she protested, as he walked across to the empty cage.

“Be quiet, woman.”

Guy knocked the stand down on which it stood and kicked at the clasp with his heel.

“What are you doing?” Annie demanded, grasping his arm.

He glanced down, wondering the same thing. But he had a plan; he (mostly) had it all worked out.

“I’ll tell the sheriff that cook planned a surprise, a version of lark pie using Vaisey’s own birds. That I surprised the lad he sent in the act, and in the scuffle his birds escaped.”

Would such a ruse succeed? Guy thought so. A bribe to the cook to go along with it, if questioned, though he doubted Vaisey would punish attempted flattery - no matter how misguided. I’ve punished the lad, my Lord; you’ve no need to worry. Would he get away with it? Without doubt, it was a risk.

Annie still held both his arm and his gaze. The gratitude in her eyes warmed him, as did her smile. Oddly, it reminded him a little of how Christmas had once made him feel, a very long time ago.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Guy raised a hand and stroked her cheek.

“We’d better not make a habit of this,” he chided. “There’s only so much we can get away with.”

A pause, then; a thought. Another decision.

“But there may be other ways in which he doesn’t need to own us.”

He lowered his face to hers; his lips grazed her forehead, and her cheek. Her lips. Then, abruptly, he withdrew.

“It’s time to leave,” he repeated.

Guy stalked out of Vaisey’s room and reattached his spurs; Annie watched, her gaze perplexed. She watched him rise and walk away.

At the end of the corridor, however, Guy turned back.

“Well?” he challenged, his voice a deep lure. “Are you coming?”

​​​-------------------------------------------------------------------------

Annie watched him walk away, leaving her in a welter of confusion.

“Well? Are you coming?”

She had seconds to decide, she knew. An offer that wouldn’t be repeated. Annie thought of that moment when she’d lost her balance and knew very well what thought had been on both their minds.

He turned, disappearing around the corner.

He’s the sheriff’s lieutenant, and what am I? A mere kitchen maid.

But Annie knew she had a penchant for wild things; she knew this about herself. Creatures proud and fierce, untameable, ones that came into your life for a time and didn’t necessarily stay there.

And yet, while they were there……ah yes, while they were there…..

Annie also knew how precious their trust, once it was gained.

“Miss me much?”

…or should we say, “Miss me, Much?”

C'mon...20 Years since Gisborne's first sneer. Now doesn't that call for celebration?

My Gang to Me Day Call for Participation 2026

26 April marks Robin’s rescue of the Locksley Four as depicted in the BBC series’ first episode.

2026 will mark TWENTY YEARS since BBC Robin Hood debuted.

[As we do] We shall celebrate like it’s 1192!

We will again be activating our ONE-DAY-ONLY posting blog at mygangtome.tumblr.com, where we will REBLOG anything you post to the tumblr tag #my gang to me 2026 on your own blog, and you can SUBMIT your content to us in advance to be posted on the day (if you’d rather).

This blog will post and reblog posts submitted, or in the tag, ONLY on Sunday, 26 April, 2026.

Since tracking tags has long ago been de-simplified by tumblr, you can FOLLOW the blog at mygangtome.tumblr.com to get all the day’s celebration posts on your dash.

Wondering what to do/post? Check out the blog’s archive, which spans multiple years of celebration.

It is our preference that, if possible, you post to your own blog first under the tag #my gang to me 2026, as your posts will reach more and varied people (and perhaps birth new viewers), and we will reblog from there. But we are also happy to accept your submissions and schedule them to post from the event’s official blog if you’d rather.

The official My Gang to Me blog will remain viewable and able to be re-blogged from following 26 April into whatever amounts to tumblr perpetuity.

POST to #my gang to me 2026 SUBMIT to mygangtome.tumblr.com/submit FOLLOW mygangtome.tumblr.com