Everything is a Choice

Chapter 32

"A little help," Much calls.

I jerk backwards, dismay and guilt slicing through me.

Much is dragging a huge branch towards the camp and has his back to us. The fact that he is continuing to advance, albeit slowly and awkwardly, tells me that he didn't see us kissing. More than ever, I know Guy and I have to leave the camp, if not tonight, then first thing in the morning. If I have to wait much longer to get into his breeches, and indeed have him in mine, I think I might tie rocks around my waist and jump into the River Trent.

Guy nods at Much. "Go on. Go help the half-wit. I will make myself scarce."

"No," I say, more angrily than I intend. "You are part of this gang now. You stay."

"In case you hadn't noticed," Guy says, "this gang presently only has one member, other than yourself."

Much slips on the wet leaves underfoot and plonks onto his backside, dropping the branch onto his foot with an exaggerated yell of pain.

Guy shakes his head, smiles wryly. "How that man didn't end up in the castle dungeons, I'll never know."

"We spent nearly five years fighting in the Holy Land," I tell him. "Much never left my side. I broke the bones in my left foot, suffered numerous cuts and bruises and an arrow in my leg, and yet he came through unscathed. What does that tell you about him?"

"You forgot to mention the dagger in your side; the injury that could have been the death of you." Guy walks away, clearly angered by the turn in the conversation. He doesn't want to know about Much's constant companionship. He wants to be the one by my side now. He wants to tend my hurts, help fight my fights and share my hopes and dreams, whatever they might be.

I glance between Much and Guy, torn.

Moments later, Guy reappears from our curtained-off sleeping area. He is holding my bow.

"I'm not much of an archer," he says, as though nothing more than a conversation about the weather had just passed between us, "but I reckon I might be able to hunt down something with Robin Hood's bow."

I frown in puzzlement.

"Supper," Guy explains. "From the expression on your face earlier, I'd say whatever you and he were eating it wasn't anything close to edible."

"Oi," Much says, stomping towards us, wiping his muddy hands on his breeches. "I'll have you know I'm a very good cook. Can I help it that-"

Guy waves him away. "I'll be back soon."

I glance at the sky. "It's coming on evening. This is a big forest. Are you sure you'll be able to find your way back to the camp?"

"Don't worry. I'll mark the way." Guy pats the dagger in his belt. With that, he strides towards the trees.

"What's going on?" Much asks, staring after him. "Is he going to hunt for our meals now? Maybe cook them too? Is he replacing me?"

"No one is replacing anyone," I say. I can't help smiling as an image of Guy standing at Much's cooking pit, ladle in one hand, frying pan in the other, comes to mind. "Guy is part of our gang now. He's just trying to help. To make things right."

Much scowls. "That doesn't sound like the Guy of Gisborne I know."

"That's because you don't know him."

"Oh, and you do?"

"I'm beginning to."

Pulling a face, Much says, "I would rather not know about that, thank you very much."