Previously...
Carefully, Salim sets the jug on the deck and comes to his feet. He walks over to the mast and picks up the one arrow that did not fall into the sea. He lumbers back to me and places the arrow in my lap.
I curl my fingers around the smooth ash shaft, the sleek line of it blurring as I stare at its deadly beauty.
Salim touches my shoulder. “There is an answer, Robin Hood. Always, there is an answer.” He gives me a sad little smile. Then, along with his jug, he waddles away.
An answer. I stand up, nock the arrow and take aim.
Chapter 9
The grey and white goose feather-fletched arrow arcs out over the water, in the direction of the Holy Land, towards Marian’s resting place because, suddenly, it all makes sense. I have my answer.
Since leaving Acre, I’ve been trying to find a way forward. Now, I am convinced the answer does not lie in front of me, but behind, in the place I’ve just come from. Now I understand what my conversations with Gisborne have been all about. I wanted to make sense of her death, so that when I get back to England I will be able to finish what we started: to put England back to rights. But it hadn’t worked, to the point where I can’t even shoot straight. And the reason it hadn’t worked is that there is no sense to be made of it. Because death in such a manner is senseless, – Marian’s death had been senseless – and I know I don’t have it in me to carry on, no matter how much she would have wanted me to, not without her.
When the ship docks in France, I will bid farewell to my friends, and I will return to the Holy Land, on the pretext of helping King Richard make peace, but really in the knowledge that I have returned to be with Marian. For I am certain my death will come swiftly, and then I can be buried alongside her, and, right now, that is the only notion that makes any sense at all.
Feeling calmer, I pick up my bow and empty quiver and make my way below decks. As I walk, I ponder on why Salim had hidden his ability to speak English and guess that he has his reasons.
I still need to apologise to Much, see if I can make up for the way I’ve treated him these past few days; but before that, I decide I could do with a bit of light relief and, certain I can rely on Allan on that score, I resolve to seek him out.
~
My hunch about where I might find Allan proves correct. When I enter the crew’s galley, I find him sitting in the midst of a group of less than sober men, bandying about the odd word of badly pronounced Arabic, juggling both coins and his tatty rectangles of parchment in rapid succession.
I watch him for a moment, envying his simplistic life, and then smile when I see his frustration beginning to show as he fails to make them understand how the game works.
“Can I help?” I ask, squatting next to him.
Allan turns to me, eyes my empty quiver. “Bad day?”
“Something like that.”
He turns back to the game. Salim is among the group of players. Face screwed up in puzzlement, he is busily studying his bits of parchment and, for the moment, doesn’t notice me.
“Salim speaks English,” I whisper in Allan’s ear.
“You what?”
“He speaks English, and I’m guessing some of the others do, too.”
“But they’ve been gibbering away to me in Arabic.”
“Of course,” I smile. “They want to win.”
“But how—”
“They’re cheating,” I quickly tell him.
“How do you know?”
“Because I played many a game with their kind during my time in the Holy Land and got caught out more than once. That is until I learned their language and turned the tables on them, so to speak.”
“You cheated?”
“Bent the rules.”
One of the men tugs on Allan’s sleeve. “You play!” I don’t need to translate for Allan to get the message.
“All right, all right, keep your turban on. I was just thinking.”
Gradually, Allan’s dwindling pile of coins begins to replenish itself. I catch one of the crew giving Allan a dirty look, and, after a short while, he sidles off on the pretext of getting a drink. As he does so, I catch him whispering to one of the men in the circle of players and I smile as one by one they each lean in towards their neighbour’s ear. Almost as one, the group lays down its parchment and coin and stares pointedly at Allan.
“What? What did I do?” Allan scoops his pile of coins towards him, doubtless sensing the men’s antagonism.
There is some general growling, swear words from what I can make out.
“It wasn’t me,” Allan protests, inclining his head in my direction.
“Thanks a lot,” I say, giving Allan a poke and uncrossing my legs.
One or two of the disgruntled players rise to their feet.
“Time to fold?” Allan suggests.
I nod and we both leap up and sprint for the door.
~
“Just like old times, eh, Robin.” Allan laughs.
I give him a sideways grin and then pull him under an upturned rowboat.
“Robin, we can’t just—”
“Shush.”
We wait.
“I think they’re gone,” Allan whispers, when we can hear nothing but the creaking of the boat.
“Wait.” I peer out from under the rowboat. I still can’t forget about the last man, even though these are just ordinary crew and not castle soldiers or part of Saladin’s army.
“They’re gone, Robin.”
I nod in agreement and we creep from our hiding place.
“We don’t seem to be able to go anywhere without trouble finding us, do we?” Allan says.
“I think that’s probably my fault,” I reply.
Allan turns to look at me and stands a moment, hands on hips, as though considering.
“Allan?”
Grinning, he beckons me to follow him. We make our way below decks, past the crew’s quarters and past our own cabins. I recall my vow to make friends with Much.
“Allan, I need to—”
Without letting me finish, he grabs my arm – my good one – and drags me down the corridor. “Here.” He pushes open a cabin door.
“Whose is—”
“It’s Vaisey’s. And seeing as he doesn’t need it anymore.”
Allan kneels in front of one of the two bunks in the room, reaches underneath and drags out a wooden box. Inside, is a small wooden keg, a clay jug and some wooden mugs. “I reckon we could both do with a drink, eh, Robin. Celebrate our—”
“Our what?” I don’t mean to sound harsh, but drink and a reminder of the dead sheriff is the last thing I want right now.
“Survival?” Allan says, ignoring my abruptness.
Unplugging the keg, he pours a blood red wine into the jug and from there into two of the cups.
“No thanks,” I tell him.
“Oh, come on, Robin. You look like you could do with a drink, and I know I could. It’s good stuff. I’ll give Vaisey this: he sure knew how to pick his beverages.”
Allan hands me a cup. I recall Salim’s fiery liquid, but even before the wine touches my lips, I can tell this is going to taste heaps better. I catch Allan watching me and wonder if he is recalling my drunken state back in Acre.
“Give yourself a break,” he says. He drinks, smacks his lips and sighs contentedly.
I take a tentative sip and then a larger gulp. Allan is right; it’s good stuff. I sit on the opposite bunk.
“Good, eh?”
Allan refills his cup. I’ve forgotten what a practised drinker he is.
“I know it’s hard.” He regards me solemnly. “But you could at least make an effort. For Much, if not for yourself.”
I look at Allan in surprise, if for no other reason than the fact he is thinking about someone other than himself for a change, and Much of all people.
“Because,” he continues, “when we get back to England, there’s work to be done. You said so yourself.”
At the mention of England, I tip the remainder of my wine down my throat.
“What’s up?” Allan asks. “Did I say something wrong?”
“I’m not going back,” I blurt.
“Come again?” Allan says, cup halfway to his mouth.
“I’m not going back to England.”
It’s actually a relief to tell someone. I’d decided to keep quiet about my plans until the last moment, in the mistaken belief that I would be sparing them, but, in all honesty, I realise I am just trying to protect my own feelings. Because returning to the Holy Land, giving up the fight, is wrong and I know it.
“Not...going...back,” Allan says. “Then where are you—”
“I’m going back to Acre.”
“Not being funny, but we’ve just come from there.”
“I can’t be in England without her. I can’t.”
Allan stares into his cup, licks his lips. “What gives you the right to the luxury of self-pity when the rest of us just have to get on with it. We’ve all lost loved ones, Robin, not just you.” He downs the last of his wine, tosses the cup on the bunk. “You think because he was a no good cutpurse and a liar to boot and drove me crazy most of the time, that I didn’t love him. Tom was my brother, my own flesh and blood, and I knew him more years than you did Marian. I—” He clamps his lips shut as though regretting the outburst. But it’s too late. The words are out. His blue eyes glitter with unshed tears.
I should feel guilty. I should show some understanding. Instead, all I can feel is an overwhelming anger that he could compare my love for Marian with that of his selfish, stupid brother, Tom. Tom the traitor. Allan the traitor. Standing, I carefully put down my drink, ball my right hand and smash it into his face.
~
Perhaps it’s just a culmination of all the weeks cooped up on this creaking, rat-ridden boat, or perhaps it’s to do with reawakening the guilt he still harbours over the untimely death of his brother. Either way, Allan’s return punch is so hard it has me staggering back against the cabin wall. “You bastard,” he rages, coming at me again.
I hurriedly sidestep and his oncoming fist crunches into the wooden panels behind me. “Allan.”
“No way, Robin. No way. You think you’ve got some exclusive rights on suffering. You think you can just start something and then leave because it suits you. You think you can just give up on us—”
“Damn right,” I yell. “I don’t need you lot and I don’t want you, and the sooner we part company the better.”
Allan grabs the jug and makes to hurl it in my direction, then thinks better of it and places it on the floor, lunging for me instead. We fall back as one and my head cracks on the edge of the bunk. Incensed, I slap Allan’s cheek, once, twice, leaving bright red marks.
“You don’t mean that,” Allan retorts, crawling away from me and fingering his jaw. “This isn’t you.”
“The hell it isn’t. I’ve had it up to here. I’ve had it up to here with all this we are Robin Hood crap. We are not Robin Hood. I am, was. But not anymore. Robin Hood is finished. He died in the Holy Land, along with Marian, so get used to it. Now get the hell away from me.”
“Oh no.” Allan shakes his head at me, wipes a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth. “You’re not getting off that easy, no way.” He lurches to his feet and hurls himself on top of me.
A white-hot lick of pain shoots through my injured arm. Cursing, I lash out with my free arm, catching Allan in the neck. Without pausing for breath, I regain my feet.
On his back and choking, Allan swings a leg at me, trying to knock me down. I step back a pace and watch as he heaves himself to his feet.
“You finished?” He spits blood. Without waiting for my reply, he punches me in the stomach.
Winded, I double over.
“Let’s just talk about this, eh, Robin.”
“Let’s do that,” I say, clutching his shoulders and crunching my knee into his groin.
Gasping, Allan crumples to the floor. Without hesitating, I dive on top of him. The jug crunches under our combined weight and, as we roll over one another, I catch the heady waft of wine as it floods the floorboards and soaks into our clothing.
Something sharp slides down my side and I cry out. I drag myself away from Allan. He is leaning against the sheriff’s bunk, a shard of broken jug in his hand. He’s out of control, and so am I.
“Damn you, a-Dale.” I crawl back to him, cuff him about the face, turn around and start crawling back to the other bunk. My empty sword belt digs into my stomach as Allan, his hand wrapped around the strip of leather, yanks me backwards. Instead of trying to break free, I throw my weight back against him. We fall back as one and I all but end up sitting in his lap. Immediately, he whacks his hands into my back and sends me toppling forwards. Trying to protect my injured arm, as well as my head, I thrust out my left arm and a spike of pain flickers through my wrist as my splayed fingers hit the deck. I turn sharply in the expectation that Allan will try to grab me from behind before I’ve had time to regain my breath.
Instead, I find him standing, his arms held out in a fighting stance. “You want some more then?” He fingers the blood coating his chin and grins.
“Damn right,” I reply, staggering to my feet.
I swing for him, my fist connecting with nothing but air. I’m grinning, too. Because this is what I want, and so does he. We’ve been spoiling for a fight for some time now. In fact, ever since Allan turned traitor and hooked up with Gisborne, became ‘Guy’s man’. And it’s intoxicating, this exchange of blows. It’s the first time I’ve felt properly alive since that blast of fear and the burning need to run to try to save my Marian after Gisborne ran her through.
At the thought of Gisborne, I slam headfirst into Allan’s chest. He crashes to the floor. Gisborne is the one I should be trading blows with. But he has denied me that right by showing me his suffering, by confessing his guilt and by saving my life. I want to beat him to a pulp, but I’m doing it with Allan instead.
“You done?” I flick sweat-soaked hair out my eyes.
He shakes his head no. “You?” he asks.
“Hell no.”
“Good.” Allan pushes himself off the floor.
And so it goes on, the two of us trading punches, kicks and insults. Allan’s a mean fighter, but I’m better. Even so, my injured arm means Allan should have the advantage.
“Come on, Robin Hood. You’re not even trying.”
I clout him round the ear for that and he staggers backwards and falls.
I am not Robin Hood, I silently scream. I am just Robin of Locksley, Brat Face, Lick Bottom, nobody. I left Robin Hood behind, on the bleached sands of Acre, with my dead wife. There is nothing left to tie me to that name, not even my tag that lies forlorn and forgotten under my bunk.
Fists ready, I watch as Allan lurches to his feet, all grins and blood and wine-splotched clothing.
He laughs. “Damn if this doesn’t beat deck skittles.”
Diving at my legs, he pulls me over. I land on my injured arm and cry out in agony.
“Sorry,” Allan mumbles.
Clutching my arm, I make to stand.
“Not,” he says. His fist smashes into my nose.
The shock of it sends me crashing back to the floor. Instantly, a gush of bright red blood cascades down my shirtfront. I’m aware of Allan standing over me, breathing heavily. I try to push myself up, while futilely cupping my nose, and give up as another great dollop of blood spills into the palm of my hand.
“Crikey,” Allan mutters.
As I stare numbly at my blood-filled hand, I picture the sword sticking out of her. So clean she was, so white and composed, as if the blade were no more than a grotesque adornment complimenting her dress. And then she had pulled it out, and when she was gone, I noticed a ring of crimson on the snowy white linen, small at first, almost a perfect circle. Then slowly the circle had fanned out, turning a paler pink as it spread through the fibres of her dress.
“Marian.”
I let my hand fall away and watch as the blood drips freely down my shirtfront. And just as her blood had bloomed and fanned out on her dress, so does my grief balloon and fill my chest, still as overwhelming, still as destructive; the grief that caused me to forget my friends, forget myself and forget my promise to her.
You promise me you’ll keep fighting.
I will.
I should not have forgotten, but I loved her, and I will never have the chance to love her again.
“Here.” Allan is thrusting a cloth into my hands. I should take it. It is a gesture of kindness and apology. Instead, I wave him away.
The cabin door flies open.
“Master!”
Allan again pushes the cloth into my hands and this time I take it.
“It’s Robin,” I say. “When will you ever learn?”
I raise my head. Much is leaning over me, his skullcap askew, his face full of concern. How can I turn my back on him, on any of them? I glance at Allan and then John, who is standing in the doorway. “It’s Robin Hood,” I tell them.
Much pushes at my shoulders, urging me to lie on the floor in the misconception that it will stop the bleeding, and I swear I hear Allan laughing, but perhaps it’s me.