Previously...
“There’s so much I don’t know about you, isn’t there, Locksley.”
“Gisborne?”
“It’s Guy.”
“And I’m Robin, or Brat Face, or Lick Bottom, or whatever you want to call me.”
“Ha! I’d forgotten about that.”
“Go to sleep,” I say.
“You too, Brat Bottom Lick Face.”
I take a swipe at his outstretched arm, miss. I push up on my elbows. There’s a sliver of moonlight coming through a broken board in the barn wall. It traces a pale line on his face. Amazingly, he's already asleep.
“Goodnight, Guy,” I whisper.
I awake the following morning with a pounding head, but, strangely, a lighter heart.
However, it’s not until we are saddling the horses that I realise Gisborne’s dark brown mare is not among them.
He has gone.
Chapter 16
“Much, if you’re going to sing that song, at least get the words right. It’s bonny blue eyes, not mouth.”
“Who asked you?”
“If it was blue mouth, she’d be dead.”
Allan and Much are bickering, as usual. They certainly don’t miss Gisborne.
Much can sing – if you can call his tuneless ditties singing – without fear of Guy shouting at him, threatening to stuff a gag in his mouth, or worse. Allan can tell his daft jokes without Guy giving him withering looks, and John is at liberty to complain about riding a horse mile upon mile without Guy’s hand twitching towards his sword hilt every time John opens his mouth.
As for me, I am free of the constant reminder that Marian is dead and of the man who killed her. Not that I am ever likely to forget, but without Gisborne’s dark shadow, there are times when I can push the sad thought to the back of my mind; when I can smile because Allan has said something funny, or laugh when Much has one of his ridiculous rants about the lack of killable wildlife for our evening meal. Yet, unbelievably, I find myself actively missing him.
It’s ridiculous. I should have killed him ten times over for what he did. But the nagging hollow in my chest won’t go away and, on a particularly long day’s ride along the edge of a forest that could easily have passed for Sherwood, it occurs to me why this is so.
By killing my darling Marian, he’d taken away my reason for living. Paradoxically, his appearance on the boat had also given it back. Granted, my days are calmer now he’s not around, but, without him, I have started to feel her less and less. While Gisborne rode, ate and slept nearby, Marian’s spirit seemed to ebb and flow between the two of us, as if Guy’s presence kept the essence of her alive. Now, I can feel that ethereal thread starting to fray. It is inevitable, I suppose, with the passage of time, and they do say that time is a great healer. But I don’t want to heal. It feels like a betrayal.
~
We arrive at Le Havre at evenfall. It is too late in the day to make enquiries about a boat to England. We stable our horses and eat a hurried meal at an inn, after which I order Much, John and Allan to visit every other hostelry and lodging house in Le Havre to check whether Guy is here. I get a few dirty looks for that, but I have to know. When we left the Holy Land, we found ourselves on the same boat as Gisborne and, although meeting him again in similar circumstances would feel like taking a step back in time, I can’t help but hope that history might repeat itself. This time, however, I will offer him a handshake rather than trying to tip him over the side of the boat.
My friends fail to find him and I guess that Guy made for a different port, has already sailed, or is simply keeping his head down. Of course, it’s possible he never made it as far as Le Havre, but stopped at some other town or village along the way, having decided to stay in France; it is his birth home after all. He could make a new start for himself. His journey is over; it had ended in Étienne, staring at the girl, Marianne, and sharing the night, so to speak, with me, whereas my journey feels as though it’s just beginning. I still have ghosts to bury, and I can’t do that until I am back in Nottingham.
We are lucky to get rooms; Le Havre is full to over-flowing, four great trading galleys having recently come into her harbour. Certainly, it’s as different as it can be from our three-day stay beside the Acre harbour-front. For starters, I am sharing a room with Much, unlike my self-imposed solitary confinement in Acre. Also, unlike Acre, I’m neither drunk nor wretched with grief. I still hurt, though.
~
After breaking our fast, John sets out to sell our horses in order to pay for our passage home, while Allan sets off for the wharf to find a boat willing to take paying passengers. Both John and Allan invite me to accompany them, but I tell them they are more than capable of their task and that I will stay at the inn and look after our few possessions. Much also declines tagging along. I think he is worried about leaving me alone.
At first, I’m annoyed because, in truth, I have this crazy notion about wandering around Le Havre hoping to bump into Guy, but I decide otherwise once Much and I are alone, thinking this is as good a time as ever to repair our damaged friendship.
After a period of awkward silence, I say, “You got yourself some new boots.” I could have said anything at all. Much doesn’t want profound, or political, or psychological. He just wants me to talk to him.
“Yes, I got them back in Orléans. They’re still not as comfortable as the old ones, but at least they don’t leak.”
“Perhaps I should get myself some new ones,” I say. “My stockings were soaked through the last time it rained.”
“If Allan finds a boat quickly you may not have time. Perhaps when we get to Portsmouth you—” Much clamps his mouth shut, fearful, I think, of talking about England, mindful of my loss.
I give what I hope is a reassuring smile. “Yes, I’ll get some then, and I think a haircut wouldn’t go amiss either.”
“What’s wrong with my hair?” Much fingers the brittle ends of brown-blond hair sticking out from under his skullcap.
“Not you, you dingbat.” I smile and ruffle my own shaggy locks. “Me.”
“Oh, right, yes. People won’t recognise you back home.”
“I’m not sure I want to be recognised.” It’s true. Despite my assurances that we will continue where we left off, I’m still not convinced I’m up to the job.
Without realising he’s doing it, Much touches the small dent in his temple, made by my bow when I whacked him. Whenever he’s worried or nervous about something, which is often, Much sticks a fingernail in it. I still felt guilty about it.
“You could cut it for me,” I say, thinking this might cheer him up.
Smiling, Much leaps off the bed and disappears out the door. By the time I’ve washed my face and raked wet fingers through my unruly hair, he is back, brandishing a pair of cutters.
“There,” he says, some short while later. “The master I know and love.”
I run a hand through my shortened hair. There’s nothing in the room I can use to see my reflection, but it feels as though he’s made a good job of it.
“You just need this.” Much crouches in front of my chair and presses my outlaw tag into my hand. Poor Much. He means well. He always means well. And it’s just a piece of wood, after all. A rectangle of wood carefully smoothed and carved by Will Scarlett. A piece of wood on a thin leather strap. We are Robin Hood.
I run my thumb over the carved design on the front and then flip it over and watch as the letter R that Will carved on the other side blurs into another letter and then into nothing at all.
“I’m sorry,” Much says. “I didn’t mean…I just thought.”
“It’s fine, Much. Really. Thank you.” But it isn’t fine and it never will be, because everything that’s happened – the boat, Gisborne, the pirates, the sinking, everything – all count for nothing. Because here I am, at another harbour, about to board another boat and Marian is still dead.
“I’ve still got mine.” Smiling, Much proudly produces his tag from inside his tunic and holds it up. “And John and Allan still—”
I don’t hear any more as, shutting the door on him, I make my way down the stairs in a pair of boots that have seen better days.
~
John, not normally given to overt displays of emotion, lets out a great whoop at seeing the dark shape of the boat that will take us to England. Allan is grinning from ear to ear, and Much is hopping up and down as though his breeches are on fire, deliriously happy that only a narrow strip of sea separates him from home.
It is just past dawn, a fine mist still lingering after a damp and drizzly night. It will be some time before the boat sails, but I was keen to leave the inn and to make sure we didn’t miss getting on board. Now, I wish we had stayed in town; I am not good at waiting.
“What do you think?” Much asks, eyeing the boat.
“Well, it can’t be any worse than the last one,” Allan says.
I am sitting on the edge of the wharf, my legs dangling over the grey-green water, listening to the gang pointing out the merits of our latest vessel. And I’m not drunk, and it isn’t hot, and I don’t hate them. But I still feel as if I’ve left a piece of me behind.
“What do you think, Robin?” John asks.
I cast my eyes over the boat in question. “Looks good to me.”
“Bit funny we haven’t seen any crew yet,” Allan says.
“It’s early yet,” I say. “The crew will have gone into town for the night and are probably sleeping it off.” I indicate a tavern a few yards behind us.
“Well let’s hope they haven’t had too much to drink,” Allan says, “otherwise we might end up sailing off the edge of the world.”
If I could be bothered, I’d point out the illogic of that remark.
I return my gaze to the sea. Unlike Much, staring at the deep seawater calms me; strange, considering my vivid memory of treading water in Locksley pond, of Little Robert choking and spluttering and of my fraught rescue of Guy and our desperate jump off the side of the sinking boat.
After shutting the door on Much last night, the quayside was where I found myself, staring across the dark waters, thinking equally dark thoughts, my tag dangling from my outstretched arm, ready to be dropped into the sea.
Where are you, Marian?
“Here. I’m here, with you.”
I snatched the tag as it fell and guiltily slung it back around my neck.
A sudden burst of uproarious hoots and shouts had me hurriedly pulling my dagger, but there was nothing to fear. It turned out the noise was coming from a nearby tavern, a favourite watering hole it seemed for a goodly proportion of Le Havre’s populace. The place was heaving, many of the drinkers spilling outside its wood-beamed and cob walls. For a moment, I contemplated joining the throng, if only to forget what a mess I was making of everything, but then I changed my mind, determined not to start the next leg of this journey as I had upon leaving Acre.
The raucous crowd that poured out from the tavern when the innkeep called time had all been too drunk to notice me. Regardless, I quickly vacated my open spot and found a shadowy alley to hide in until they passed me by. I didn’t want to talk to anyone.
When it became quiet, I slipped out from the alley and made my way back to the inn, determined to make things right with Much; but by the time I reached our room, I found him already asleep. I tucked the dislodged blanket back around his knees. Then, pulling off my boots and tunic I slipped into bed, clutching both Marian’s ring and my tag to my chest; the two went together and I despised myself for almost casting the latter into the sea.
I promised Marian I would keep on fighting, and no matter how much it hurts, or how much I don’t feel I have it in me, I am going to do just that – for her, for my friends, but most of all for myself. I am sorry that Guy decided to leave us. I had depended upon having a spy in the Black Knights’ camp, someone to kowtow to Prince John. He had told me that he needed me, that I was the one who could give him his pride back, but I guess that, when the reality of what he was about to do hit him, he decided there were easier ways to regain that pride. I just hope for his sake that he doesn’t find another Vaisey to be his benefactor.
“I hate this,” Much says, morosely throwing stones into the sea, jerking me back to the present.
Catching his eye, I try to indicate that I am sorry about walking out on him last night by running a hand through my shortened locks and smiling to show my appreciation.
Much nods in understanding.
“It can’t be long now,” Allan says, trying to lift everyone’s spirits.
I know I should say something, too. Something to cheer up my friends until the boat is ready to sail, but I don’t seem to have the energy. All I seem able to do these days is to simply keep putting one foot in front of the other, until we make it home, until that day when both my feet stand upon the leafy forest floor where there will be no Gisborne to kill and no Marian to love; just trees, dappled sunlight, soft autumn rains, the chill of coming winter, and my empty heart.
“Tell you what,” Allan says. “How about a game?”
“What sort of game?” Much asks.
John snorts. He doesn’t think much of Allan’s games, which generally involve all manner of rules and which usually result in Allan winning, John quietly fuming, and Much complaining how no one had explained it properly.
“Please, Robin,” Allan says.
I shake my head in apology.
“Suit yourself, then,” he says, stomping towards the tavern.
“He’ll miss the boat,” Much says.
“There’s no crew yet,” John says. “And the tavern’s only a stone’s throw away.”
“I expect he’s gone to play those silly cup games of his.” Much scowls. “I swear there’s never a pea at all.”
Smiling, I decide to take a closer look at a large scroll tacked on the wall fronting the tavern. There’s a picture on it that reminds me of something that used to happen every year in Nottingham.
The piece of parchment is detailing an archery contest, and the contest is today.
Much comes and stands beside me, squinting at the scroll, as if that will suddenly give him the ability to read and to read in another language at that.
Before I can begin to translate, Allan comes bounding out the tavern door.
“Robin there’s a—”
“I know,” I interrupt, pointing at the scroll. The prize is not a silver arrow but a bag of coin, more than enough to buy fresh horses once we reach Portsmouth.
“What? What?” Much is hopping from foot to foot, while John stands patiently, waiting for me to explain.
I flex my right hand. It has been so long, and it seems wrong, a selfish act. Yet I can’t deny it’s still there: the thrill of competition, the heady anticipation of the nocked arrow flying straight and true, and, underneath it all, a fierce desire to win.
Would you mind, Marian?
“Of course not. You’re still you.”
“Tell them.” Allan grins, doing a good imitation of nocking and loosing an arrow.
“Tell us what?” John asks.
“Yes, come on, Master.” Much points at the scroll. “What does it say?”
He glances at Allan, the latter still fixed in a firing stance, and then back at the scroll. Much may not be able to read, but between Allan’s mime and the illustration on the parchment, comprehension dawns. “No, Master, surely not?”
I run a hand over the curves of my Saracen bow and grin.