Everything is a Choice

Chapter 20

The house is full of empty rooms – rooms that Marian and I would have filled with our laughter, our footfalls, our countless arguments and our muttered apologies. Rooms we would have filled with our love.

My bedchamber has not changed. The large wooden bed still dominates the centre of the room. The washstand remains in the corner, near to the window. The ladder-back chair I used to toss my clothes onto, when I didn’t drop them carelessly on the floor that is, is still sitting by the bed-head. The only thing I don’t recognise is the small table on the other side of the bed and a further one sitting just inside the door.

The bed is neatly made up with blankets I don’t recognise and I realise this is where Rowena has been sleeping. I picture her long limbs stretched out upon the sheets and her boyish crop of coppery-brown hair peeking out from beneath the thick covers as she snuggles down for the night.

Now it does hit me. Everything I could have had, everything that is lost to me, is symbolised by that bed. I dig my nails into the palms of my hands in an effort not to weep lest Rowena or the gang decide to seek me out. To be honest, I don’t know whether my distress has more to do with the fact that Marian will never grace the bed’s sheets or that Guy won’t.

I’m sick of doing the right thing. I’d said that to Edward, Marian’s father, when he’d insisted I must allow Marian to marry Gisborne so I would be free to help prevent the assassination of King Richard, the King Richard who turned out to be an imposter. So, I think. Am I still sick of doing the right thing? Do these shameful desires mean I want to do the wrong thing? Because there is no denying this shadow side of me is agonisingly seductive.

I start at a distant whoop from Much. I guess someone has just offered to feed him. I hope he gets his pork, or beef, or whatever it is he wants. I wish the only things I desired were food in my belly, a wine or ale in my hand and a pillow to lay my head upon.

Choked by my despicable thoughts of bedding Guy, I grab a clay jug from the small table sitting just inside the door and hurl it at the wall next to the bed.  Shards of thick pottery smack onto the bed and floorboards while water runs down the wall. It reminds me of my fight with Allan on the boat.

“I hope that helped.”

I swivel round. Rowena is standing in the doorway, right behind me.

“Not really,” I say. “It was a stupid thing to do.”

“It’s your house, Robin. You can do what you like.” She touches my arm. “I’ve never lost anyone I’ve loved, mostly because I’ve never known such love, but I do understand. I came back too soon. I’m sorry.  I’ll leave you alone.”

“I think I’d prefer not to be alone,” I say. I walk to the bedside with the intention of picking up the pieces of broken jug, change my mind, and sit on the edge of the bed. After a moment, Rowena comes and sits next to me.

“Tell me about yourself,” I say. In truth, I just want her to talk, to take my mind off my empty house and my empty heart and the images of Guy that keep flitting through my mind. She could talk about the weather for all I care.

 “There’s not much to tell,” she says. “My mother died before I was old enough to remember her and I lived with my father, if you can call spending most of one’s life trudging along cart tracks, or sitting in the back of a wagon, living.”

“At least he fed and clothed you,” I say.

Rowena studies her chewed fingernails and I realise her father is a sensitive subject.

“So,” I say. “What made you decide to come to Locksley, other than the fact there was a fine house standing empty?”

“I was being silly, wasn’t I, pretending to be your sister. Everyone knows everyone in Locksley and everyone knows you and your family before you. They know you’re an only child. I don’t even look anything like you.”