Previously...
“His father was wronged,” I blurt out. I don’t mean to shout, to be angry with Much, especially when he doesn’t have all the facts. “He was wronged,” I repeat, trying to keep my voice steady. “By my father.”
“Gisborne told you this?”
“Yes.”
“And you believe him?”
“Trust me, Much. You wouldn’t lie about this kind of thing.”
Much balls his fists and smacks them onto the bed. “But Marian!”
“We both loved her,” I say.
Much makes to take another bite of bread, changes his mind and throws the remainder of the loaf into the pail with a stomach-roiling splash. “I still don’t understand why you even want to talk to him.”
“Because before I started talking to him, all I had was hate.”
“And now?”
“And now I just hurt,” I say, turning my face to the wall. I lie on my bunk, my tears sliding onto the thin sheet beneath me, and even though my injured arm throbs and burns, pinned under my body as it is, it is not reason enough to turn over.
Chapter 7
I am in trouble. I had foolishly thought the prickling, burning sensations in my arm were all part of the natural healing process, but as I unwind the bandages, stare at the angry red flesh and at the yellowish ooze seeping from the edges of the blackened stitches, I see I am mistaken. I know what this means, and somehow I don’t think the cook-come-doctor’s medical store runs to much more than a needle, thread and a few dirty bandages.
Not knowing what else to do, I wash out and rewind the stained bandage around my upper arm.
“Blimey!” Allan exclaims, cracking his head on the doorframe. “I’m never going to complain about living in a forest again. At least the ground doesn’t keep moving under your feet.”
I give him a wan smile.
“You all right, Robin?”
“Fine,” I lie, fastening my leather jerkin over the new shirt Much had found me, one of Jehal’s, I think.
Allan sits opposite me, on Much’s bunk. “What’s going on?”
I’m not sure whether Allan’s referring to my arm, the fact that Much and I have barely spoken to each other these past couple of days, or my visits to Gisborne in the hold.
“With what?” I ask.
“You and Much. Have you two had a falling out, or what?”
“Why? What’s he been saying?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Yeah, that’s just it, Robin – nothing. Much never says nothing. Well, I mean he does. He usually says a whole load of nothing, but at least he’s making a noise like.”
“He’s sulking,” I say.
“Sulking. Why?”
“Because of Gisborne.”
“What? Gisborne’s not offered to do all the cooking in future has he?”
I shake my head.
“Actually,” Allan continues. “Perhaps things aren’t so bad. I mean, the sheriff’s dead, Gisborne’s locked in a cage, and Much is being quiet for once.” Allan sprawls on Much’s bunk, if it is possible to sprawl on something so narrow. “Yep,” he says. “If it weren’t for all this damn up and down business, I’d say life was pretty good.” He cocks an eye at me. “Sorry, Robin, I didn’t mean—”
“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.
“John?”
“Why didn’t you tell us you were ailing?” John asks.
I wince as Salim presses something cold and rancid-smelling to my arm, and I see that while I’ve been dead to the world someone has taken off my jerkin and shirt.
“Urgh.” Much screws up his nose, but I’m not sure if it’s at the foul-smelling poultice Salim is slapping on me or at me personally. I truly don’t smell good.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t want to worry you.”
“Honestly.” Allan shakes his head. “Have you got some kind of death wish or something?”
John gives him a withering look, but Allan ignores him and stares boldly at me, hands on hips. A small smile tugs at my jaw as I notice Much mirroring his stance.
“Just not thinking straight,” I say.
“You can say that again,” Much mumbles.
John is edging towards the door. I’m surprised at his squeamishness, but then Salim is squeezing my arm and what’s coming out of it looks a whole lot worse than the most awful of Much’s cooking disasters. Even I turn away.
“I’m just going to...er…I’m just going to…” Much is also edging towards the door.
“What?” Allan barks. “Eat?”
Much puts a hand over his mouth and stumbles after a fleeing Little John.
“Allan,” I scold.
“What?”
“That was cruel.”
Allan grins. “Small pleasures, you know.”
He sits on Much’s bunk as Salim smiles and begins binding my arm again.
“What did you put on there?” I ask him.
Salim gives me a blank look and I repeat the question in his own tongue.
He grins and reels off a few dubious-sounding items. The only word I recognise is egg.
“Egg?”
With a nod and a quick bow, Salim shuffles backwards out of the cabin.
“Egg?” Allan says. “Hell, Robin, the cook’s using eggs to try and cure you. I think you’re well and truly scrambled, mate.”
“Yep,” I reply, smiling at Allan’s quirky humour despite my present predicament. “I may well have been fried.”
Allan shakes his head, tuts. “Not being funny, Robin, but leave the jokes to me, eh.” He flicks his eyes around the tiny cabin, crosses and uncrosses his legs.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Look,” he says, “I’ll say it because no one else will. This business with Gisborne. Surely Marian would turn in her grave. I mean, one moment you want to hack the man down and the next you’re virtually best of mates. What’s that all about? Anyone would think you’ve developed feelings for the guy.”
“Come on, Allan, say what you really think.” I shrug on my shirt, despite the fact I’m hotter than a bread oven. “Gisborne’s sorry.”
“Yeah, right. Sorry he’s locked up in a cage more like.”
“No. He’s sorry he killed Marian, and he’s sorry I won’t kill him.”
“That can be arranged,” Allan says.
“Allan,” I sigh. “I don’t get it. One moment you’re all trying to stop me killing him and the next you’re outraged because I’m trying to understand him. So you tell me exactly what that’s all about.”
“It’s about right and wrong, Robin.” John looms large in the doorway. He ducks his head to enter the cabin. “It’s about justice. It’s about all the terrible things the sheriff and Gisborne did in Nottingham. Their plot to kill the king. Gisborne killing...”
I notice Allan surreptitiously tugging on John’s sleeve.
“Gisborne killed the sheriff,” I tell them.
“What?” both Allan and John exclaim in unison.
“Gisborne killed the sheriff,” I repeat.
John and Allan exchange looks and then John turns back to me. “Maybe so, but that still doesn’t excuse—”
“It’s a start!” I spit.
“You’re defending him?” John says, incredulous.
“No, I’m just saying.”
I can feel myself becoming inexplicably angry. I don’t know why. These are my friends, friends who have only my best interests at heart. But they don’t understand. Hell, I don’t understand. And I want to. I want to make some sense of it all – some sense of what’s happening to me.
“Robin, you cannot—”
“I’m tired, John, all right.” It’s not entirely a lie. However, the moment both Allan and John leave the cabin, I’m on my feet. My arm is still throbbing painfully and my head feels as though it’s going to split down the middle, but, apart from that, I don’t think I’m faring too badly. Just two small steps and I will be out of this stifling cabin.
One step, and I know I’m not going to make it.