Fallout - Chapter Eighteen
Much speaks first.
“Thought we wouldn’t find you, didn’t you?” he says, raising his eyebrows so high that they disappear beneath the brim of his skullcap. His taunt falters when no one responds. “Well…we did.”
“Be quiet, Much,” Robin says and pushes Allan inside with a firm shove, giving Marian a clear view of the group huddled in the doorway. Little John towers over everyone, the top of his staff barely clearing Much’s head. Will and Djaq guard Robin’s left side, watching the proceedings with solemn, worried expressions. And Robin himself-no, Marian does not want to see. She makes it to the vee of his tanned neck before averting her gaze to Guy.
His back is rigid, his pale eyes trained on Robin and no one else. “Hood,” he growls, and then steps in front of her, corralling her behind him with one sharp movement.
“Wait,” Marian says and places a hand on his bicep. When she tries to step around him, he blocks her roughly, the ridges of his jacket digging into her stomach. Trapped, she peers around Guy’s shoulder to find Robin watching her with a brittle smile.
“I’d listen to her if I were you, Gisborne,” Robin says. “After all, we just stopped by to chat.”
“Then put down your sword!” Marian snaps, still trying to fathom why he has followed her here. This is the Robin that she hates, the one who hides his anger with sharp-edged pleasantries, the one who is so caught in his own head that he listens to no one. And yet, at the moment, she is thankful; she would rather deal with pantomime than a Robin who wears evidence of her betrayal on his sleeve for all the world to see.
“Tell Gisborne to put down his,” Robin says.
“Never!” Guy yells, and Marian digs her fingers into his arm as a warning, praying that he will stay calm until she can find some way to defuse the situation. He doesn’t shake her off-that’s one raft in a sea of trouble, at least-but she can feel his muscles coiling like a snake ready to strike.
“You are the intruder,” she tells Robin coolly. “You are the one whose intentions are in question. Put away your sword.”
For a second, Robin looks wounded, but that soon gives way to an expression of mock-offense. “An intruder?” he says. “I came to offer help. Your letter made it sound important.”
At the mention of the letter she left for Robin in Tyre, Guy’s muscles wind tighter. Marian wants to kick herself. She had been desperate to make Robin understand the reasons for her betrayal, so the letter had dripped with reasons and apology. Now she wonders if it would have been better to have made it cold and cutting. Her selfishness has only managed to bring five people to a foreign doorstep.
Marian blinks, and then studies the group standing before her. They are dusty from the road, and wear the strain of swift travel, but their determination shines in the set of their bodies. Much’s scowl, Little John’s proud stance, Will’s unflinching gaze. . . Her mind races. Guy’s objection--his excuse--against her plan was that they were only three, but now there are five more people standing here in a wonderful, overflowing gift of fate.
On a wave of righteous triumph, she turns toward Guy, a dare on her lips. Ignore this now, she intends to say, fight me now. But she starts when she finds that Guy is already looking at her. He has torn his gaze away from his enemy and is staring at her with an expression that is half pained disbelief and half festering suspicion. Her heart skips a beat; he thinks that she told them to come. Despite everything, he thinks that she has betrayed him again. It rattles her from her course.
“I did not know that he would come,” she insists softly, “I did not. You must believe me.”
Guy says nothing, just continues to watch her with eyes that are growing colder by the second. In a panic, she turns to Robin.
“The letter said for you to return to Nottingham,” she says, attempting to inject some of the ice that letter lacked. “It did not ask for your help.”
“And leave out the pilgrimage to Jerusalem?” Robin says. “Where would be the fun in that? Besides, you didn’t say goodbye.”
“Do not speak to her,” Guy snaps, whirling on the outlaw, “or I will-”
“You will what?” Robin asks, finally deigning to look at Guy. “Kill me? You couldn’t manage that in Nottingham, so pardon me if I refuse to cower.”
“You don’t have a forest to hide in now.”
“And you don’t have a wall of guards to hide behind,” Robin counters and then steps forward as though daring Guy to react. Guy rips his arm from Marian’s grasp just as Little John puts a heavy hand on Robin’s shoulder.
“You said we come to talk,” Little John says, and it gives Marian time to restore her grip on Guy’s elbow.
“Yes,” Will says. “We did not come to fight.”
Djaq nods at this, and then her brown eyes search out Marian’s. “Let’s put down our swords,” she says. “Perhaps Gisborne will agree.”
“We are outnumbered,” Marian says to Guy’s ear, knowing that she’ll have better luck appealing to his practical side. When he makes no move to lower his sword, she repeats it.
“I heard you,” he says darkly, and his tone makes her stiffen. She has done everything possible to prove her loyalty to him. She would have gone with him; she would have abandoned people in need.
“I am asking you,” she whispers furiously. “I am asking you to put it down.”
Her words hang in the air, limp and dead, and the anger in Marian’s heart trips into fear.
Finally, Guy jerks head toward Robin’s sword.
“His first,” he growls.
Immediately, the gang murmurs their encouragement, and they keep murmuring until Robin throws his sword down with a sound of disgust. Djaq retrieves it and hands it to Little John. After a pause that’s too long for Marian’s comfort, Guy starts to put his sword back in its scabbard.
“No,” Robin says, “to the side.”
Guy snorts. “Not likely!”
“John, give me my sword back,” Robin insists.
“He no longer has his," Marian orders Guy, "put it down."
After another nerve-shattering pause, Guy places his sword on the table behind them. Quickly, Marian leans over and knocks it away, not relaxing until she hears it clatter off the other side. The lull in the tension comes swift as a summer breeze, and leaves just as quickly. Now that everyone is unarmed, Marian has no idea what to say or do.
Allan is the first to move, approaching Guy as though everything had been smoothed over. “Good,” he says. “That’s settled then. I’m glad that-”
Guy grabs him by the shirtfront before he can finish.
“You brought them here,” Guy accuses. “Why?”
Allan’s eyes widen in surprise, but his voice is steady. “I’m tired of being in the middle; I’m tired of being the one who gets punched and kicked and threatened by Marian.” He holds up his hands. “After all, we’re all on the same side now, aren’t we? No more Sheriff; no more outlaws.”
“I will never be on his side!” Guy yells, pushing Allan away with enough force that he knocks against the nearest chair. Marian throws him an apologetic look as a chuckle comes from the direction of the doorway.
“I can see why you wanted to work for him, Allan,” Robin says, stepping forward to survey the room with the air of a curious traveler. He runs a finger over the sill of the window and then tests the swing of a shutter.
“Don’t get comfortable, Hood. You are not staying.” Guy swings his gaze to where the rest of the gang stands watching him, wary and alert. “Same goes for the rest of you.”
Amused, Robin looks toward Guy before finding the nearest chair. When he sits, defiance is etched in every movement. “So tell me about this important mission for the King?” he says, propping his feet up on the table before shifting his gaze to Marian. “I hope that it is worth it.”
“I told you not to speak to her!” Guy yells.
“What? Afraid she’ll run away? I don’t blame you.”
Marian goes rigid. That slight could be meant for either of them, but Guy chooses to take it as his own. Marian barely has time to step in front of him before he lunges forward. He is so tense, a thread about to snap. A flicker of exasperated sympathy overtakes her, of all things. If Robin is a closed book under stress, Guy is an open sore.
She holds up her hands, palms surrendered to his chest. “You should not let him needle you so,” she says softly, and she thinks that he grows calmer. “I think everyone would feel more comfortable if you sat down as well.”
“I do not want to sit down,” Guy says, biting out the last two words as though they were a curse.
“Please,” she says, and then turns to the rest of the gang and Allan, who is rubbing his hip as though it pains him. “I think we should all sit down and try to sort out this misunderstanding.”
After sharing a few nervous glances, the rest of the outlaws move to obey. Much takes the seat to Robin’s right, while Little John, Djaq, and Will take the three to his left. Allan perches at the end, not choosing either side. It strikes Marian as an odd sight, to suddenly see these people clustered around a table instead of a campfire.
“This is pointless, Marian,” Guy says from behind her.
“Do you have a better idea?” she asks, frustrated. “They are not going to leave just because you tell them to leave.” When he makes no move toward the chairs, she pulls one out and sits. “You are the only one left standing.”
Guy levels her with a look that makes Marian glad that there are six other people in the room. She holds his gaze, refusing to be cowed. Finally, he moves, walking behind her and taking the seat that is directly across from Robin. Perhaps she should have been more specific about what chair to sit in, she thinks. The heavy wood table separating them no longer seems so heavy or so wide.
“Trouble in paradise?” Robin says, stretching his arms behind his head as he watches Guy with icy glee.
“Be serious, Robin,” Marian says, frustrated. “You did not come here to act the fool.”
“Debatable,” Guy says, before Marian levels him with her own look.
“You’re right. I did not,” Robin says, dropping his arms and legs in order to lean forward. “I came here to expose him for a traitor.”
“He is here on Richard’s orders!”
“Right. And do we know what those orders are?”
“I would not want to betray his confidence,” Guy says tersely, and Marian looks at him in surprise. If she had been asked to place bets, she would have counted on Guy tripping over himself to inform Robin of Richard’s duplicity. As if sensing her confusion, Guy’s eyes cut to her in warning. The meaning is clear: Say nothing.
“Confidence?” Robin scoffs, but there’s an unbalance there that worries her.
Guy allows himself a mean smile. “Yes. Confidence that he gave to me.”
Marian wants to smack him. This is not helping. Robin needs to know the truth--they all need to know--and it will be best if it comes from her. But Guy will take it as another betrayal. She tries to tell herself that it’s not important, that there are bigger concerns at play, but the words do not come.
Robin leans forward and matches Guy’s smile with one of his own. “Not enough confidence, obviously. Not enough to give you Nottingham.”
Guy’s face darkens and his lip curls, but Marian interrupts before he can say anything more.
“And perhaps his confidence is misplaced there as well, if you are ignoring it in favor of chasing us to Jerusalem. What about the people?” she asks, ignoring Guy’s hiss of disgust and keeping her eyes trained on Robin. He has fought so hard for them, and yet now it is as if they are an afterthought.
Robin has the good sense to look guilty, at least for a moment. But then he shrugs and says, “Convince me that he is not a traitor, and I will go. Simple as that.” He looks at Guy. “Or not.”
Marian has to grab the edge of the table to keep from hurling things across it. They are talking in circles, just like they have always done. She looks to Guy again, but his eyes still carry the same warning.
“There are bags by the wall. And a chest,” Much says suddenly, and Marian turns back to find that Much has twisted around in his seat. “They are leaving! Robin, they are running away!”
Guy curses just as Robin’s face breaks into a knowing smile.
“So what is it, Gisborne? Can’t do the work if the work isn’t dirty?” Robin asks, but Marian doesn’t give him time for his taunt to sink in.
“This is not what you think,” she begins, but she is interrupted by the scrape of Guy’s chair as he stands, swiftly enough that it wobbles before coming to a rest. Placing his hands on the table, he leans toward Robin.
“You are a fool. Too close to the King to see what is in front of your nose. Go back to Nottingham. It deserves you,” he sneers before turning to hover over Marian. “As predicted, this is pointless. We are leaving.”
Instinctively, Marian clutches the edge of the table as though it were a safeguard against going. "I am not done here," she says. She is so tired--tired of lying, tired of the subterfuge, tired of running away, tired of hiding everything from everyone. In the end, it only succeeds in summoning misery down upon her own head.
“We should tell them,” she says
Guy tilts his head to the side as though he does not believe what he is hearing. “No. We do not need him informing Richard of--”
“They need to know!”
“Know what?” Robin asks, his eyes narrowing as he leans forward.
Guy ignores him. “Marian, say nothing,” he warns again.
“Why? Because then they might want to help?” she asks, her previous anger with him coming back with a vengeance. Just once, she thinks. Just once she would like to see him think of something beyond his own neck.
Guy looks away, obviously uncomfortable, and Marian knows that her guess is at least somewhat correct. But then he turns back, his eyes flat.
“I do not see what help one fanatic and his gang of idiots will afford,” he says, which earns an indignant protest from Much.
“Excuses,” she says, “always excuses! Do you honestly believe half the things that you say?”
Guy’s expression darkens. “I am trying to get us out of this alive.”
“And I am trying to lay everything on the table, once and for all. There is no more need for deception. Allan is right,” she says, and then looks to Allan for support, but he is pretending to study an orange.
“No,” Guy shakes his head. “You agreed. You already agreed, Marian.”
Marian says nothing, only holds his gaze as he waits for her to make a move to follow. Even in the dim light, she can see the signs of exhaustion on his face. He is pale, and the small lines of worry clustered at the corner of his eyes seem to have deepened overnight. She wonders how long it’s been since he slept. She is tired of fighting.
"Well?" he says.
“Do not put me in this position,” she says. Everything is slipping out of her control; everything is happening too fast. She had agreed, this is true, but it was because she had wanted him to stop throwing failure in her face. But now there is a possibility again to turn it around, to fix it all, and if he could just see . . .
“Who is that?” Djaq says all of a sudden.
A small boy stands in the doorway. His shirt must have been white once, but now it is a dull beige, and the ragged hems of his pants barely clear his knees. As she watches, he raises a bony arm and points to the mound of bags in the corner, before releasing a stream of language that she doesn’t understand. Every so often he looks to Guy and his voice rises in agitation.
“Who is he?” Marian asks.
“Ahmad. Baldrick’s servant,” Guy says tersely and then yells at the boy to go away.
“Guy!” Marian chastises. “He is a child!”
“He has no business here!”
Marian looks to Ahmad. He is still speaking, babbling, but now he is close to tears. “What is wrong?”
“He is saying that the money is for the men,” Djaq says, and then turns to accuse Guy. “He says that it is not for you. He says that he will be punished and begs for you not to take it.”
“What money?” Robin says.
“In the chest,” Djaq reports, before standing up and crossing to Ahmad. He flinches away from her at first, but she crouches down and holds out her hands, talking to him in a tone that is low and soothing.
Marian hears the scrape of a chair, and then Robin is walking across the room to pick up the chest at the base of the bags. Guy growls for him to stay away and then charges around the table but Little John blocks his way, sword in one hand, staff in the other. He can only watch as Robin digs his fingers beneath the lid and pulls it off.
“Well, this is interesting,” Robin says and then tips the chest forward to show its contents. The movement dislodges a few gold coins. They clink when they hit the ground, and one rolls to a stop at the toe of Marian’s shoe. A crudely minted head stares up at her.
“It was Baldrick’s,”Guy says, and even though he dodges her attempts to catch his eye, she knows that it is for her benefit. “We needed resources.”
“Save your explanations for the King,” Robin says before walking forward and dropping the chest on the table in front of Marian. The deliberateness of the gesture does not escape her notice. She raises her eyes to find Robin staring down at her with an empty triumph that soon changes to concern when he adds, “He is not to be trusted. The sooner you learn that the better. Before it is too late.”
As she looks up at Robin, her heart twists. He has always been so sure of himself, even as a teenager, and his return from the Holy Land made her believe in a world that she had thought would never be possible. And they had made that world happen; Nottingham would be a better place now with Robin at the helm. But not if he persists in thinking that the King is a man to be trusted.
“This is not what you think, Robin,” she begins again. This time she does not dare look at Guy.
“Really?” Robin says. “I think that Gisborne decided to run off with the money instead of fulfilling his obligation.”
Marian can only stare at him in disbelief. “Two minutes ago you were accusing him of coming here with a grand plan, and now you have decided he is a thief! Do you hear yourself?”
“Do you?” Robin yells. “You always believe him! Every time!”
The accusation makes her uncomfortable. “That is not true,” she says tightly.
"Guy would not try to kill the King," he mimics, "Guy would not lie to me. Wake up, Marian. He has done that and more. What does he have to do before you understand that he is never to be trusted?”
Marian looks around to find that everyone is watching her. Allan even raises his eyebrows and lets out a soft whistle. She risks a glance at Guy--if ever there were a time for him to pull everyone’s attention away with some ridiculous comment, now is it. But whatever his expression was a few seconds ago, it is now a picture of reluctant curiosity. He is waiting for an answer along with everyone else.
“He is not lying,” she says lamely, for she has no real defense for questions that she has never been able to properly answer herself.
Robin makes a sound of disbelief. “I am beginning to doubt your judge of character,” he says, and his derision is thick and palpable. How dare he judge her, how dare he, after everything that she did to keep his king safe.
“Do not speak to me of character!” she says, standing up so that there is only a few lengths between them.
“What does that mean?”
“You made me believe that Richard would help!” Marian yells, and while this is not how she wanted to broach this subject, her composure is too frayed to stop. “You told me--you told us--that all we needed to do was alert Richard of Vasey’s perfidy and then all would be saved. England would be saved. But my father--”
Robin looks to the ceiling, exasperated. “I told you, Richard did not know!”
“He did not care!” Marian says. “He does not care. And now he is at the root of something even worse.”
Suddenly, Much laughs. “She’s gone mad!” he says, coming up to put his hand on Robin’s shoulder. “I told you that the desert heat would get to one of us. Didn’t think it would be Marian, to be honest. My money was on John.”
“I am not mad!” Marian yells, loudly enough that Much drops his hand and moves away, disconcerted. “Richard is planning to assassinate pilgrims in order to overturn the treaty with Saladin. If it is broken then he has a greater cause to stay.”
Her words are met with a circle of skeptical eyes. Against her better judgment, she looks to Guy for help, but, strangely enough, he is not even looking at her. He is watching Robin with . . . well, she can only call it trepidation.
Robin crosses his arms and leaning against the edge of the table as though preparing to hear a campfire tale. “I see,” he says. “And where are these assassins?”
Marian points to Guy. “Here, Robin, they are here! Or they would have been. That is why we were leaving.”
“Are leaving,” Guy corrects, breaking his silence and trying to catch Marian’s eye. This time she avoids it.
“That is why we were leaving,” she repeats and then takes a deep breath. “But there are more than just Guy. There are others, and I know their targets. We have letters,” she says, “letters that Allan helped steal off of Richard’s man.”
Robin’s expression grows colder and more incredulous with every word she speaks, and by the end Marian does not even know if he is still listening. He stands up and looks around at the rest of his gang as though to collect further disbelief, but apart from Little John, whose eyes remain fixed on Guy like a watchdog, they all look unnerved.
“Letters?” Will says, his voice quiet but firm.
“I nabbed some, yeah,” Allan says, but then shifts uneasily beneath the communal gaze. “Don’t really know what they say.”
“Will!” Robin says. “Don’t tell me that you believe this!”
Marian is buoyed by these small flickers of support. She speaks directly to Will. “The letters say that the pilgrims have been delayed," she says, "but that the assassins are holding their positions."
“No,” Robin shakes his head. “None of this is possible.”
During all of this, Djaq has been consoling Ahmad, keeping his attention diverted from the drama at hand by speaking to him in a low voice, her hands perched on his shoulders. But now she adds her voice to the chorus.
“Perhaps we should see these letters, Robin. So that we know for sure. If it is a lie we will be able to tell," she reassures him. "But if it is true that Richard does not want peace, then we must warn Saladin.”
But Robin is not listening. Instead, he is moving in Guy’s direction, grabbing the sword from Little John’s startled hand with one deft movement as he passes. He pins him to the wall with one sharp push and holds the edge of the blade against Guy’s throat.
“Tell them that you are lying,” he seethes. “Tell her that you have lied.”
“Robin, this is insane,” Marian says, frozen in place. The rest of the outlaws are struck by the same paralysis. They stand still, too afraid to move even as they join her in entreating Robin to lay down the sword.
Guy’s eyes slide downward, looking at the weapon pressed beneath his chin before his face contorts with the usual haughty anger.
“What’s the matter, Hood?” he sneers. “The world turn out to not be as shiny as you’d hoped?”
“Not good enough,” Robin says and presses the sword closer, hard enough that Guy is unable to hide a wince.
“I have proof!” Marian yells, unable to tear her eyes away from the thin slice of blood gathering above the blade, bright and red. “Can you not just trust me?” she blurts out in panic. As soon as she hears the question, she regrets it immediately.
Robin twists to face her, and his expression causes her to take a step back. “Trust you?" he says. "Trust you? You lied to me, Marian. You used me to escape the camp and come here, come to him!”
“I had to!”
“You did not have to. You never have to.”
Marian is taken aback. “There was no problem with deception when it served your purposes in the castle!”
“I never wanted you there! You could have come to the forest with me.”
“I didn’t want to!” Marian yells and then sucks in a quick breath. Her throat feels raw, and although it is most likely from all the shouting, she can’t help but feel that the pain is because the words have torn their way out of her. There is no longer a veil of disinterest shielding Robin’s emotions, and the pain on his face cuts her to the quick. Everything is coming out wrong. It doesn’t mean that I didn’t love you, she wants to say.
But before she can even find the end of that sentence, Robin is lurching forward. Guy has used his opponent’s distraction to gain the upper hand, delivering a sharp kick to Robin’s stomach. He grabs the sword at both ends, one hand on the hilt, the other on the blade and drives the outlaw backwards. Allan barely has time to dart out of the way before they crash onto the table, knocking the oranges and pewter plates to the floor as they scramble for dominance.
“I should kill you now,” Guy spits into Robin’s face as he tries to force the sword down against Robin’s throat, but Robin’s leg is trapped between them.
“Try,” Robin says just before his leg kicks forward, catching Guy on the thigh hard enough that Guy cries out and stiffens in pain, giving Robin the opportunity to roll out from under the sword. He falls to the ground and scrambles beneath the table. When he comes out the other side, it is with the sword that Marian had persuaded Guy to relinquish earlier.
Guy has recovered enough to be on the defensive, but he is limping. When Robin notices he smiles and holds the sword out in front of him, tilting it back and forth so that it catches the light.
Even though he is weakened, Guy lunges first and is easily blocked. The sound of the swords clanging is a scratch down her spine. They are going to kill one another, Marian realizes. After all the threats and posturing and close calls, they are going to destroy one another now, here, in front of her, unless she does something.
Robin shoves Guy backward and then darts forward. Guy barely has time to sidestep it and retreat; he is still favoring his left side. There is only the space of one man between them and it is about to close again.
“Stop!” she yells, stepping in between their swords before Robin has a chance to rush forward again. “This will solve nothing.”
“Possibly,” Robin says, breathing heavily. “But it will make me feel better.”
“Likewise,” Guy says before his eyes flicker away from Robin’s to meet hers. “Marian, get out of the way.”
“No! I am not moving,” she says, and when Guy darts to the side, she follows, holding his gaze and daring him to make another parry forward. Just as Marian is preparing herself for his next movement, a hollow thunk rings. Guy staggers forward, his expression changing from anger to confusion. He falls to his knees and then crumples at her feet.
Marian looks up to find Little John standing over Guy’s black form, his staff clutched in both hands, his face indecipherable. Crouching over his body, she rolls Guy from his side to his back. His skin is warm, and while scrape at his neck is still red and raw, he is at least breathing. She should condemn that bit of violence, and so she scowls at Little John, even though the thing she feels the most right now is relief. After all, unconscious is better than dead, and this takes out the most complicated variable. It gives her time to think about what comes next without feeling as though her every word was a tinderbox.
Resting a hand on Guy’s chest, she turns Robin, the second most complicated variable, who has been wise enough to keep his distance even though he watches her with a dark expression.
“Are you happy?” she asks, unable to keep the anger out of her voice.
Robin doesn’t answer, just runs a hand through his hair and looks at the group of uneasy people surrounding him. After a small shake of his head, he starts to saunter forward.
“Good thinking, John. We can sort out his lies without his interference,” he says, stooping down next to her as though he were preparing to check Guy himself, as though this were his plan all along.
She is about to ask him what he thinks he is doing, when John raises his staff again and brings it down on a head for the second time today. Robin slumps forward over Guy’s ankles.
Marian looks up in surprise. Little John hovers over her like a cliff of granite.
“Now,” he says gruffly. “Now we talk.”
“Thought we wouldn’t find you, didn’t you?” he says, raising his eyebrows so high that they disappear beneath the brim of his skullcap. His taunt falters when no one responds. “Well…we did.”
“Be quiet, Much,” Robin says and pushes Allan inside with a firm shove, giving Marian a clear view of the group huddled in the doorway. Little John towers over everyone, the top of his staff barely clearing Much’s head. Will and Djaq guard Robin’s left side, watching the proceedings with solemn, worried expressions. And Robin himself-no, Marian does not want to see. She makes it to the vee of his tanned neck before averting her gaze to Guy.
His back is rigid, his pale eyes trained on Robin and no one else. “Hood,” he growls, and then steps in front of her, corralling her behind him with one sharp movement.
“Wait,” Marian says and places a hand on his bicep. When she tries to step around him, he blocks her roughly, the ridges of his jacket digging into her stomach. Trapped, she peers around Guy’s shoulder to find Robin watching her with a brittle smile.
“I’d listen to her if I were you, Gisborne,” Robin says. “After all, we just stopped by to chat.”
“Then put down your sword!” Marian snaps, still trying to fathom why he has followed her here. This is the Robin that she hates, the one who hides his anger with sharp-edged pleasantries, the one who is so caught in his own head that he listens to no one. And yet, at the moment, she is thankful; she would rather deal with pantomime than a Robin who wears evidence of her betrayal on his sleeve for all the world to see.
“Tell Gisborne to put down his,” Robin says.
“Never!” Guy yells, and Marian digs her fingers into his arm as a warning, praying that he will stay calm until she can find some way to defuse the situation. He doesn’t shake her off-that’s one raft in a sea of trouble, at least-but she can feel his muscles coiling like a snake ready to strike.
“You are the intruder,” she tells Robin coolly. “You are the one whose intentions are in question. Put away your sword.”
For a second, Robin looks wounded, but that soon gives way to an expression of mock-offense. “An intruder?” he says. “I came to offer help. Your letter made it sound important.”
At the mention of the letter she left for Robin in Tyre, Guy’s muscles wind tighter. Marian wants to kick herself. She had been desperate to make Robin understand the reasons for her betrayal, so the letter had dripped with reasons and apology. Now she wonders if it would have been better to have made it cold and cutting. Her selfishness has only managed to bring five people to a foreign doorstep.
Marian blinks, and then studies the group standing before her. They are dusty from the road, and wear the strain of swift travel, but their determination shines in the set of their bodies. Much’s scowl, Little John’s proud stance, Will’s unflinching gaze. . . Her mind races. Guy’s objection--his excuse--against her plan was that they were only three, but now there are five more people standing here in a wonderful, overflowing gift of fate.
On a wave of righteous triumph, she turns toward Guy, a dare on her lips. Ignore this now, she intends to say, fight me now. But she starts when she finds that Guy is already looking at her. He has torn his gaze away from his enemy and is staring at her with an expression that is half pained disbelief and half festering suspicion. Her heart skips a beat; he thinks that she told them to come. Despite everything, he thinks that she has betrayed him again. It rattles her from her course.
“I did not know that he would come,” she insists softly, “I did not. You must believe me.”
Guy says nothing, just continues to watch her with eyes that are growing colder by the second. In a panic, she turns to Robin.
“The letter said for you to return to Nottingham,” she says, attempting to inject some of the ice that letter lacked. “It did not ask for your help.”
“And leave out the pilgrimage to Jerusalem?” Robin says. “Where would be the fun in that? Besides, you didn’t say goodbye.”
“Do not speak to her,” Guy snaps, whirling on the outlaw, “or I will-”
“You will what?” Robin asks, finally deigning to look at Guy. “Kill me? You couldn’t manage that in Nottingham, so pardon me if I refuse to cower.”
“You don’t have a forest to hide in now.”
“And you don’t have a wall of guards to hide behind,” Robin counters and then steps forward as though daring Guy to react. Guy rips his arm from Marian’s grasp just as Little John puts a heavy hand on Robin’s shoulder.
“You said we come to talk,” Little John says, and it gives Marian time to restore her grip on Guy’s elbow.
“Yes,” Will says. “We did not come to fight.”
Djaq nods at this, and then her brown eyes search out Marian’s. “Let’s put down our swords,” she says. “Perhaps Gisborne will agree.”
“We are outnumbered,” Marian says to Guy’s ear, knowing that she’ll have better luck appealing to his practical side. When he makes no move to lower his sword, she repeats it.
“I heard you,” he says darkly, and his tone makes her stiffen. She has done everything possible to prove her loyalty to him. She would have gone with him; she would have abandoned people in need.
“I am asking you,” she whispers furiously. “I am asking you to put it down.”
Her words hang in the air, limp and dead, and the anger in Marian’s heart trips into fear.
Finally, Guy jerks head toward Robin’s sword.
“His first,” he growls.
Immediately, the gang murmurs their encouragement, and they keep murmuring until Robin throws his sword down with a sound of disgust. Djaq retrieves it and hands it to Little John. After a pause that’s too long for Marian’s comfort, Guy starts to put his sword back in its scabbard.
“No,” Robin says, “to the side.”
Guy snorts. “Not likely!”
“John, give me my sword back,” Robin insists.
“He no longer has his," Marian orders Guy, "put it down."
After another nerve-shattering pause, Guy places his sword on the table behind them. Quickly, Marian leans over and knocks it away, not relaxing until she hears it clatter off the other side. The lull in the tension comes swift as a summer breeze, and leaves just as quickly. Now that everyone is unarmed, Marian has no idea what to say or do.
Allan is the first to move, approaching Guy as though everything had been smoothed over. “Good,” he says. “That’s settled then. I’m glad that-”
Guy grabs him by the shirtfront before he can finish.
“You brought them here,” Guy accuses. “Why?”
Allan’s eyes widen in surprise, but his voice is steady. “I’m tired of being in the middle; I’m tired of being the one who gets punched and kicked and threatened by Marian.” He holds up his hands. “After all, we’re all on the same side now, aren’t we? No more Sheriff; no more outlaws.”
“I will never be on his side!” Guy yells, pushing Allan away with enough force that he knocks against the nearest chair. Marian throws him an apologetic look as a chuckle comes from the direction of the doorway.
“I can see why you wanted to work for him, Allan,” Robin says, stepping forward to survey the room with the air of a curious traveler. He runs a finger over the sill of the window and then tests the swing of a shutter.
“Don’t get comfortable, Hood. You are not staying.” Guy swings his gaze to where the rest of the gang stands watching him, wary and alert. “Same goes for the rest of you.”
Amused, Robin looks toward Guy before finding the nearest chair. When he sits, defiance is etched in every movement. “So tell me about this important mission for the King?” he says, propping his feet up on the table before shifting his gaze to Marian. “I hope that it is worth it.”
“I told you not to speak to her!” Guy yells.
“What? Afraid she’ll run away? I don’t blame you.”
Marian goes rigid. That slight could be meant for either of them, but Guy chooses to take it as his own. Marian barely has time to step in front of him before he lunges forward. He is so tense, a thread about to snap. A flicker of exasperated sympathy overtakes her, of all things. If Robin is a closed book under stress, Guy is an open sore.
She holds up her hands, palms surrendered to his chest. “You should not let him needle you so,” she says softly, and she thinks that he grows calmer. “I think everyone would feel more comfortable if you sat down as well.”
“I do not want to sit down,” Guy says, biting out the last two words as though they were a curse.
“Please,” she says, and then turns to the rest of the gang and Allan, who is rubbing his hip as though it pains him. “I think we should all sit down and try to sort out this misunderstanding.”
After sharing a few nervous glances, the rest of the outlaws move to obey. Much takes the seat to Robin’s right, while Little John, Djaq, and Will take the three to his left. Allan perches at the end, not choosing either side. It strikes Marian as an odd sight, to suddenly see these people clustered around a table instead of a campfire.
“This is pointless, Marian,” Guy says from behind her.
“Do you have a better idea?” she asks, frustrated. “They are not going to leave just because you tell them to leave.” When he makes no move toward the chairs, she pulls one out and sits. “You are the only one left standing.”
Guy levels her with a look that makes Marian glad that there are six other people in the room. She holds his gaze, refusing to be cowed. Finally, he moves, walking behind her and taking the seat that is directly across from Robin. Perhaps she should have been more specific about what chair to sit in, she thinks. The heavy wood table separating them no longer seems so heavy or so wide.
“Trouble in paradise?” Robin says, stretching his arms behind his head as he watches Guy with icy glee.
“Be serious, Robin,” Marian says, frustrated. “You did not come here to act the fool.”
“Debatable,” Guy says, before Marian levels him with her own look.
“You’re right. I did not,” Robin says, dropping his arms and legs in order to lean forward. “I came here to expose him for a traitor.”
“He is here on Richard’s orders!”
“Right. And do we know what those orders are?”
“I would not want to betray his confidence,” Guy says tersely, and Marian looks at him in surprise. If she had been asked to place bets, she would have counted on Guy tripping over himself to inform Robin of Richard’s duplicity. As if sensing her confusion, Guy’s eyes cut to her in warning. The meaning is clear: Say nothing.
“Confidence?” Robin scoffs, but there’s an unbalance there that worries her.
Guy allows himself a mean smile. “Yes. Confidence that he gave to me.”
Marian wants to smack him. This is not helping. Robin needs to know the truth--they all need to know--and it will be best if it comes from her. But Guy will take it as another betrayal. She tries to tell herself that it’s not important, that there are bigger concerns at play, but the words do not come.
Robin leans forward and matches Guy’s smile with one of his own. “Not enough confidence, obviously. Not enough to give you Nottingham.”
Guy’s face darkens and his lip curls, but Marian interrupts before he can say anything more.
“And perhaps his confidence is misplaced there as well, if you are ignoring it in favor of chasing us to Jerusalem. What about the people?” she asks, ignoring Guy’s hiss of disgust and keeping her eyes trained on Robin. He has fought so hard for them, and yet now it is as if they are an afterthought.
Robin has the good sense to look guilty, at least for a moment. But then he shrugs and says, “Convince me that he is not a traitor, and I will go. Simple as that.” He looks at Guy. “Or not.”
Marian has to grab the edge of the table to keep from hurling things across it. They are talking in circles, just like they have always done. She looks to Guy again, but his eyes still carry the same warning.
“There are bags by the wall. And a chest,” Much says suddenly, and Marian turns back to find that Much has twisted around in his seat. “They are leaving! Robin, they are running away!”
Guy curses just as Robin’s face breaks into a knowing smile.
“So what is it, Gisborne? Can’t do the work if the work isn’t dirty?” Robin asks, but Marian doesn’t give him time for his taunt to sink in.
“This is not what you think,” she begins, but she is interrupted by the scrape of Guy’s chair as he stands, swiftly enough that it wobbles before coming to a rest. Placing his hands on the table, he leans toward Robin.
“You are a fool. Too close to the King to see what is in front of your nose. Go back to Nottingham. It deserves you,” he sneers before turning to hover over Marian. “As predicted, this is pointless. We are leaving.”
Instinctively, Marian clutches the edge of the table as though it were a safeguard against going. "I am not done here," she says. She is so tired--tired of lying, tired of the subterfuge, tired of running away, tired of hiding everything from everyone. In the end, it only succeeds in summoning misery down upon her own head.
“We should tell them,” she says
Guy tilts his head to the side as though he does not believe what he is hearing. “No. We do not need him informing Richard of--”
“They need to know!”
“Know what?” Robin asks, his eyes narrowing as he leans forward.
Guy ignores him. “Marian, say nothing,” he warns again.
“Why? Because then they might want to help?” she asks, her previous anger with him coming back with a vengeance. Just once, she thinks. Just once she would like to see him think of something beyond his own neck.
Guy looks away, obviously uncomfortable, and Marian knows that her guess is at least somewhat correct. But then he turns back, his eyes flat.
“I do not see what help one fanatic and his gang of idiots will afford,” he says, which earns an indignant protest from Much.
“Excuses,” she says, “always excuses! Do you honestly believe half the things that you say?”
Guy’s expression darkens. “I am trying to get us out of this alive.”
“And I am trying to lay everything on the table, once and for all. There is no more need for deception. Allan is right,” she says, and then looks to Allan for support, but he is pretending to study an orange.
“No,” Guy shakes his head. “You agreed. You already agreed, Marian.”
Marian says nothing, only holds his gaze as he waits for her to make a move to follow. Even in the dim light, she can see the signs of exhaustion on his face. He is pale, and the small lines of worry clustered at the corner of his eyes seem to have deepened overnight. She wonders how long it’s been since he slept. She is tired of fighting.
"Well?" he says.
“Do not put me in this position,” she says. Everything is slipping out of her control; everything is happening too fast. She had agreed, this is true, but it was because she had wanted him to stop throwing failure in her face. But now there is a possibility again to turn it around, to fix it all, and if he could just see . . .
“Who is that?” Djaq says all of a sudden.
A small boy stands in the doorway. His shirt must have been white once, but now it is a dull beige, and the ragged hems of his pants barely clear his knees. As she watches, he raises a bony arm and points to the mound of bags in the corner, before releasing a stream of language that she doesn’t understand. Every so often he looks to Guy and his voice rises in agitation.
“Who is he?” Marian asks.
“Ahmad. Baldrick’s servant,” Guy says tersely and then yells at the boy to go away.
“Guy!” Marian chastises. “He is a child!”
“He has no business here!”
Marian looks to Ahmad. He is still speaking, babbling, but now he is close to tears. “What is wrong?”
“He is saying that the money is for the men,” Djaq says, and then turns to accuse Guy. “He says that it is not for you. He says that he will be punished and begs for you not to take it.”
“What money?” Robin says.
“In the chest,” Djaq reports, before standing up and crossing to Ahmad. He flinches away from her at first, but she crouches down and holds out her hands, talking to him in a tone that is low and soothing.
Marian hears the scrape of a chair, and then Robin is walking across the room to pick up the chest at the base of the bags. Guy growls for him to stay away and then charges around the table but Little John blocks his way, sword in one hand, staff in the other. He can only watch as Robin digs his fingers beneath the lid and pulls it off.
“Well, this is interesting,” Robin says and then tips the chest forward to show its contents. The movement dislodges a few gold coins. They clink when they hit the ground, and one rolls to a stop at the toe of Marian’s shoe. A crudely minted head stares up at her.
“It was Baldrick’s,”Guy says, and even though he dodges her attempts to catch his eye, she knows that it is for her benefit. “We needed resources.”
“Save your explanations for the King,” Robin says before walking forward and dropping the chest on the table in front of Marian. The deliberateness of the gesture does not escape her notice. She raises her eyes to find Robin staring down at her with an empty triumph that soon changes to concern when he adds, “He is not to be trusted. The sooner you learn that the better. Before it is too late.”
As she looks up at Robin, her heart twists. He has always been so sure of himself, even as a teenager, and his return from the Holy Land made her believe in a world that she had thought would never be possible. And they had made that world happen; Nottingham would be a better place now with Robin at the helm. But not if he persists in thinking that the King is a man to be trusted.
“This is not what you think, Robin,” she begins again. This time she does not dare look at Guy.
“Really?” Robin says. “I think that Gisborne decided to run off with the money instead of fulfilling his obligation.”
Marian can only stare at him in disbelief. “Two minutes ago you were accusing him of coming here with a grand plan, and now you have decided he is a thief! Do you hear yourself?”
“Do you?” Robin yells. “You always believe him! Every time!”
The accusation makes her uncomfortable. “That is not true,” she says tightly.
"Guy would not try to kill the King," he mimics, "Guy would not lie to me. Wake up, Marian. He has done that and more. What does he have to do before you understand that he is never to be trusted?”
Marian looks around to find that everyone is watching her. Allan even raises his eyebrows and lets out a soft whistle. She risks a glance at Guy--if ever there were a time for him to pull everyone’s attention away with some ridiculous comment, now is it. But whatever his expression was a few seconds ago, it is now a picture of reluctant curiosity. He is waiting for an answer along with everyone else.
“He is not lying,” she says lamely, for she has no real defense for questions that she has never been able to properly answer herself.
Robin makes a sound of disbelief. “I am beginning to doubt your judge of character,” he says, and his derision is thick and palpable. How dare he judge her, how dare he, after everything that she did to keep his king safe.
“Do not speak to me of character!” she says, standing up so that there is only a few lengths between them.
“What does that mean?”
“You made me believe that Richard would help!” Marian yells, and while this is not how she wanted to broach this subject, her composure is too frayed to stop. “You told me--you told us--that all we needed to do was alert Richard of Vasey’s perfidy and then all would be saved. England would be saved. But my father--”
Robin looks to the ceiling, exasperated. “I told you, Richard did not know!”
“He did not care!” Marian says. “He does not care. And now he is at the root of something even worse.”
Suddenly, Much laughs. “She’s gone mad!” he says, coming up to put his hand on Robin’s shoulder. “I told you that the desert heat would get to one of us. Didn’t think it would be Marian, to be honest. My money was on John.”
“I am not mad!” Marian yells, loudly enough that Much drops his hand and moves away, disconcerted. “Richard is planning to assassinate pilgrims in order to overturn the treaty with Saladin. If it is broken then he has a greater cause to stay.”
Her words are met with a circle of skeptical eyes. Against her better judgment, she looks to Guy for help, but, strangely enough, he is not even looking at her. He is watching Robin with . . . well, she can only call it trepidation.
Robin crosses his arms and leaning against the edge of the table as though preparing to hear a campfire tale. “I see,” he says. “And where are these assassins?”
Marian points to Guy. “Here, Robin, they are here! Or they would have been. That is why we were leaving.”
“Are leaving,” Guy corrects, breaking his silence and trying to catch Marian’s eye. This time she avoids it.
“That is why we were leaving,” she repeats and then takes a deep breath. “But there are more than just Guy. There are others, and I know their targets. We have letters,” she says, “letters that Allan helped steal off of Richard’s man.”
Robin’s expression grows colder and more incredulous with every word she speaks, and by the end Marian does not even know if he is still listening. He stands up and looks around at the rest of his gang as though to collect further disbelief, but apart from Little John, whose eyes remain fixed on Guy like a watchdog, they all look unnerved.
“Letters?” Will says, his voice quiet but firm.
“I nabbed some, yeah,” Allan says, but then shifts uneasily beneath the communal gaze. “Don’t really know what they say.”
“Will!” Robin says. “Don’t tell me that you believe this!”
Marian is buoyed by these small flickers of support. She speaks directly to Will. “The letters say that the pilgrims have been delayed," she says, "but that the assassins are holding their positions."
“No,” Robin shakes his head. “None of this is possible.”
During all of this, Djaq has been consoling Ahmad, keeping his attention diverted from the drama at hand by speaking to him in a low voice, her hands perched on his shoulders. But now she adds her voice to the chorus.
“Perhaps we should see these letters, Robin. So that we know for sure. If it is a lie we will be able to tell," she reassures him. "But if it is true that Richard does not want peace, then we must warn Saladin.”
But Robin is not listening. Instead, he is moving in Guy’s direction, grabbing the sword from Little John’s startled hand with one deft movement as he passes. He pins him to the wall with one sharp push and holds the edge of the blade against Guy’s throat.
“Tell them that you are lying,” he seethes. “Tell her that you have lied.”
“Robin, this is insane,” Marian says, frozen in place. The rest of the outlaws are struck by the same paralysis. They stand still, too afraid to move even as they join her in entreating Robin to lay down the sword.
Guy’s eyes slide downward, looking at the weapon pressed beneath his chin before his face contorts with the usual haughty anger.
“What’s the matter, Hood?” he sneers. “The world turn out to not be as shiny as you’d hoped?”
“Not good enough,” Robin says and presses the sword closer, hard enough that Guy is unable to hide a wince.
“I have proof!” Marian yells, unable to tear her eyes away from the thin slice of blood gathering above the blade, bright and red. “Can you not just trust me?” she blurts out in panic. As soon as she hears the question, she regrets it immediately.
Robin twists to face her, and his expression causes her to take a step back. “Trust you?" he says. "Trust you? You lied to me, Marian. You used me to escape the camp and come here, come to him!”
“I had to!”
“You did not have to. You never have to.”
Marian is taken aback. “There was no problem with deception when it served your purposes in the castle!”
“I never wanted you there! You could have come to the forest with me.”
“I didn’t want to!” Marian yells and then sucks in a quick breath. Her throat feels raw, and although it is most likely from all the shouting, she can’t help but feel that the pain is because the words have torn their way out of her. There is no longer a veil of disinterest shielding Robin’s emotions, and the pain on his face cuts her to the quick. Everything is coming out wrong. It doesn’t mean that I didn’t love you, she wants to say.
But before she can even find the end of that sentence, Robin is lurching forward. Guy has used his opponent’s distraction to gain the upper hand, delivering a sharp kick to Robin’s stomach. He grabs the sword at both ends, one hand on the hilt, the other on the blade and drives the outlaw backwards. Allan barely has time to dart out of the way before they crash onto the table, knocking the oranges and pewter plates to the floor as they scramble for dominance.
“I should kill you now,” Guy spits into Robin’s face as he tries to force the sword down against Robin’s throat, but Robin’s leg is trapped between them.
“Try,” Robin says just before his leg kicks forward, catching Guy on the thigh hard enough that Guy cries out and stiffens in pain, giving Robin the opportunity to roll out from under the sword. He falls to the ground and scrambles beneath the table. When he comes out the other side, it is with the sword that Marian had persuaded Guy to relinquish earlier.
Guy has recovered enough to be on the defensive, but he is limping. When Robin notices he smiles and holds the sword out in front of him, tilting it back and forth so that it catches the light.
Even though he is weakened, Guy lunges first and is easily blocked. The sound of the swords clanging is a scratch down her spine. They are going to kill one another, Marian realizes. After all the threats and posturing and close calls, they are going to destroy one another now, here, in front of her, unless she does something.
Robin shoves Guy backward and then darts forward. Guy barely has time to sidestep it and retreat; he is still favoring his left side. There is only the space of one man between them and it is about to close again.
“Stop!” she yells, stepping in between their swords before Robin has a chance to rush forward again. “This will solve nothing.”
“Possibly,” Robin says, breathing heavily. “But it will make me feel better.”
“Likewise,” Guy says before his eyes flicker away from Robin’s to meet hers. “Marian, get out of the way.”
“No! I am not moving,” she says, and when Guy darts to the side, she follows, holding his gaze and daring him to make another parry forward. Just as Marian is preparing herself for his next movement, a hollow thunk rings. Guy staggers forward, his expression changing from anger to confusion. He falls to his knees and then crumples at her feet.
Marian looks up to find Little John standing over Guy’s black form, his staff clutched in both hands, his face indecipherable. Crouching over his body, she rolls Guy from his side to his back. His skin is warm, and while scrape at his neck is still red and raw, he is at least breathing. She should condemn that bit of violence, and so she scowls at Little John, even though the thing she feels the most right now is relief. After all, unconscious is better than dead, and this takes out the most complicated variable. It gives her time to think about what comes next without feeling as though her every word was a tinderbox.
Resting a hand on Guy’s chest, she turns Robin, the second most complicated variable, who has been wise enough to keep his distance even though he watches her with a dark expression.
“Are you happy?” she asks, unable to keep the anger out of her voice.
Robin doesn’t answer, just runs a hand through his hair and looks at the group of uneasy people surrounding him. After a small shake of his head, he starts to saunter forward.
“Good thinking, John. We can sort out his lies without his interference,” he says, stooping down next to her as though he were preparing to check Guy himself, as though this were his plan all along.
She is about to ask him what he thinks he is doing, when John raises his staff again and brings it down on a head for the second time today. Robin slumps forward over Guy’s ankles.
Marian looks up in surprise. Little John hovers over her like a cliff of granite.
“Now,” he says gruffly. “Now we talk.”