Everything is a Choice

Chapter 2

After scoffing half the loaf, Much puts the bread down and takes hold of my hand, curling his breadcrumbed fingers around my fingers. This is what finally breaks me: not King Richard’s words over her grave, not Will and Djaq’s poignant goodbye; but the hand of my faithful friend holding mine, trying to keep me from going under, reminding me I’m not alone. I start to cry – not quietly and not with restraint. 

Gingerly, Much pulls me into his chest. “It’s all right,” he soothes, stroking my hair.  “Let it go, Robin.  Just let it go.”

I bury my face in his shirt, trying to stifle the sound of my sobbing, lest the men next door hear me. I wonder if they understand love at all.

~

“I’m sorry,” I say, some while later, easing away from Much’s tear-soaked, snot-smeared shirt.

“Don’t be,” he says, and then, “Are you sure you won’t eat?”

“No, I’m too tired.”

“Then we should sleep.”

“Is it night?” I ask.

“Yes.”

I yank off my boots, strip off my dust and dirt encrusted leather jerkin and linen shirt, my sword belt and my soiled breeches and smallclothes. Then, donning clean undergarments, I lie on the narrow wooden bunk. Much strips down to his own smallclothes and does likewise, grimacing as his head hits the greasy leather headrest.  I wait for a flurry of complaints but Much remains silent on the cabin’s lack of comfort.

“Goodnight, Robin.”

“Goodnight, Much.”

I shuffle about for a bit, trying to get comfortable. I throw the smelly leather headrest on the floor and smile when I hear Much doing the same.

I do not expect to sleep; however, rather than making me uneasy, the boat’s rocking motion soon has me drifting off. I’m close to much longed for oblivion when something dragging at my neck jerks me fully awake: my outlaw tag has caught on the bunk’s wooden slats where the thin sheet has bunched up beneath me. I ease it free and clutch the carved piece of wood in my right hand.  Holding it when I sleep has become something of a habit, as a child might clutch a blanket or a rag doll to chase away bad dreams.  Feeling the wooden tag in my palm reminds me who I am, or at least who I used to be. 

As I run my thumb along its perfectly smooth edges and over the delicate carving, I think of its maker, Will Scarlett.  Tonight, Will Scarlett is closer to Marian than I am. Tonight, Will Scarlett lies next to a woman he loves; maybe she is moaning a soft feminine moan, not like those coarse, unholy men next door. 

I recall Marian’s surprised exclamation the first time we coupled, shortly after I’d asked her to marry me. She insisted we should wait, that it was not decent or moral to marry our flesh before being wed; but I’d begged and pleaded with her, using every excuse I could, except the truth: I wanted to be inside her.  And then, one night, when I’d finally decided to concede defeat and had quietly made myself scarce of the camp to deal with my desires, she had soundlessly crept up on me, taken my hand and pulled me to the forest floor.

There had been a few more times after that, but none that I would remember or cherish as much as that first time; the time when I taught her what her womanhood was all about; when I made her whimper in delight and how, when it was over, she cried and clung to me, even as she let me have my turn. 

The wooden tag digs into my palm. I’m surprised I have any tears left. 

I don’t know if Much senses rather than hears my distress, and I don’t know what his thinking is either, because the beds are narrow enough for one person, let alone two.