Everything is a Choice

Chapter 7

“It’s fine,” I say.

Allan sits, fumbles in a shirt pocket. “Do you want a game of kings and queens?”

“Really?” I laugh.

“Why not.”  Allan digs out a fistful of tatty scraps of stiffened parchment.

“Because you’ll cheat for starters.”

To be honest, I’m not in the mood for games of any sort.  I know I ought to go and do something about my arm, although I can’t think what, but Allan has already started dealing, and it seems churlish not humour him.

We start to play and, surprisingly, I begin to relax.  Simple pleasures.  I’ve all but forgotten about them in the enormity of my loss.  But they are still there, and they help.

“So, what’s the plan?” Allan asks, having won for the umpteenth time.

“I try and get myself a better hand next time,” I respond, throwing my stack down in mock disgust.

“No, I mean when we get back to England.”

I sigh and reel off my well-rehearsed line, the one I am using to convince myself of my future intentions:  “Make sure the Black Knights are well and truly out of action and Prince John is put firmly in his place.”

“And will we be planning all this from the relative luxury of Locksley?” Allan asks, tidying up the pieces of parchment strewn across the lid of the barrel serving as a table.

I shrug.

“You’re not seriously thinking of going back to the camp?”

“Locksley has memories,” I say.  It’s the first thing that comes to mind. Truthfully, I haven’t given it much thought.  When I boarded the boat, it had been with no more than the intention to return to England and kill Gisborne and I hadn’t thought much beyond that.  Now, everything has changed; the choice I had made wrenched out my hands by the hands of fate. 

“Memories,” Allan echoes. 

I guess he thinks I’m talking about Marian.  He doesn’t know that she only visited Locksley a handful of times before and during our childhood betrothment; that we preferred to spend our time exploring Sherwood Forest, away from the watchful eyes of my father and the house servants.

Allan scoops up the pieces of parchment.  “Your deal.”  

I shuffle, split the small rectangles of parchment and hand one half to Allan.  He turns over a queen.

“Snap,” I smile, turning over another queen.

“What do you mean, snap?”

“It’s the only game I stand a chance of winning.”

“Not if you’re using your bad arm, you don’t.”

I swap my sheaf into my right hand. “Just play.”

Allan starts laying down his bits of parchment, but by the time we reach the end of the pile, it is clear I’m not winning, at either the game, or the battle with my arm. 

“Robin? You all right, mate?”

I look down at the illustrated bits of parchment in my hand, their worth lost to me as I struggle to stay upright. 

“Allan, I’m really sorry, but...”  I hope he catches me.  I’m tired of cracking my head.

~

“You chump,” Allan chides.  

I don’t know how long I’ve been unconscious, but Much and John are bunched up in the cabin, staring at me, and Salim is crouching by my bunk.