Fallout - Chapter Nineteen
The first order of business is to move the unconscious men to the above chambers. After only a few mutterings about Little John and extreme measures, Much volunteers to take Robin. Will steps into assist, and the two disappear to the upper level. No one wants to help Marian with Guy; the remaining men do an impressive job of keeping their eyes away from where he lies. The black leather only makes him look heavier.
“Allan?” Marian says as she lifts an arm and tugs unsuccessfully. “A little help? There’s another bed upstairs.”
“He can do it himself,” Allan says, eying Guy with considerable disgruntlement before sniffing. “Not like he appreciates my help anyway.”
“He’s unconscious!” she yells.
Allan just shrugs. Marian bites the inside of her cheeks to try and contain the anger that is threatening to burn its way out of her. She is fed up with men who would rather act like children than work together to solve a very real problem. Perhaps if she asked nicely, Little John would hit Allan over the head as well. Before she can make the suggestion, however, Djaq looks up from where she’s been speaking to Ahmad in a low murmur.
“Please, Allan,” she says. “There is no time for this.”
Allan has the decency to look shamed. “Alright then. But don’t blame me if his head accidentally hits something.”
“Fine,” Marian says and then turns to Little John, who coughs uncomfortably and studies the ceiling. “You are the one who knocked him out,” she tells him.
“So?” Little John says.
“So choose an arm,” she insists, and is relieved when he relents.
It takes a good ten minutes to get Guy situated upstairs, what with the narrow staircase and Allan’s ill-judged turns. By the time Guy’s head is on the pillow, Marian’s head is aching. The daytime heat has made the room stuffy and hot, causing her skin to chafe wherever there is clothing. Her eyes fall to Guy’s heavy black jacket, and she frowns; he will concede to nothing, not even the weather.
“Can you help me get this off of him?” she asks, and then turns to find that she’s speaking to an empty room. Allan and Little John have cleared out. It’s a not-so-welcome reminder of something this confrontation has made explicitly clear: being on Guy’s side means being alone.
Cursing beneath her breath, she undoes the clasps of his jacket and manages to free one arm before the weight of his torso becomes too much. He falls backward, his head nearly hitting the wall, and she sucks in an anxious breath before placing a hand on Guy’s brow as though this will . . . as though this will what? His skin is cool, his breathing even as it tickles the underside of her wrist, but she doesn’t like the grey cast beneath his eyes. At least this will force him to sleep, she thinks.
After a few more rounds of wrangling, she manages to get both the jacket and boots all the way off. Reassured that he won’t suffocate, Marian steps into the hallway to find the group of outlaws huddled around the doorway of the other chamber with worried expressions. They stop whispering as soon as they see her.
“Is Robin well?” Marian asks.
“He sleeps,” Djaq says, “and that is good. I do not think we need to worry.”
“I am glad,” she says. “Can you check on Guy?”
Djaq’s eyes widen, and she shares a nervous glance with Will before nodding. As they disappear into the room where Guy sleeps, Marian sets to playing hostess in an unfamiliar house, starting the hunt for bedding and other amenities in order to distract herself from giving voice to what everyone is thinking, but no one says.
Ahmad is a godsend; he returns with enough food to feed the outlaws twenty times over. Every so often his dark head will raise and he will say something to Djaq, who just smiles. When the group takes uneasy seats, he hovers in the background, twisting his sleeves until Djaq bends down to whisper in his ear.
“He will let us know when they wake,” she says after he runs up the stairs.
They eat in silence, the table lit by a trio of candles that she liberated from the upstairs chamber. Across from her, the four outlaws hunch over their plates, tearing at their food until there is nothing left but peels and bones and crumbs. Marian had forgotten how lacking in table manners they were, had forgotten how she never knew quite what to say without Robin present to ease her into the inside jokes and friendly banter. And that was back when everything was simple, when no one would look away uncomfortably when they met her eye.
With a loud scraping, Much pushes his trencher away and wipes his mouth with his sleeve.
“Oh, this is ridiculous,” he says. “Can I just say what we are all thinking? I can barely concentrate thinking that he’s about to come downstairs and throw us in the dungeon.”
Allan shifts at the end of the table. He has been uncharacteristically quiet ever since they moved Guy and Robin upstairs, but now he throws Much a withering glance. “What dungeon?” he asks.
“You know what I mean,” Much says.
“I never know what you mean!”
Much rears back, offended. “Well,” he huffs, “not all of us are as comfortable with him lurking about as you are.” His eyes stray to Marian. “Not that I. . . well, you know. . . I meant-”
“Stop,” Little John says. “Now.”
“It’s all right,” Marian says with what she hopes is a weak smile, but inside she knows that it is not. “We should talk about what is to be done,” she continues, trying to will herself back to the matter at hand by slamming them all up against the subject they are avoiding.
“I don’t feel comfortable doing this without Robin,” Much says.
“Robin is not listening,” Djaq interjects, “ and if Richard does not want peace . . .,” she begins, but then trails off as though the end of the sentence is too horrible to contemplate.
Will puts a hand on her shoulder, and they hold one another’s gaze longer than necessary. Marian feels the flinch of something cold and cutting flash through her heart. It takes her a few moments to recognize it for what it is: jealousy.
“Richard does not want peace,” she confirms with a small cough, and then brings out the small bundle of letters that she retrieved from upstairs. Removing the twine, she spreads them before her and begins to recount what she knows, beginning with Richard’s breezy forgiveness of Guy’s previous treason and ending with Baldrick’s appearance in Acre. “And then when I arrived here,” Marian continues, “Guy confided that his orders were to impersonate a Saracen assassin and execute an arriving pilgrim. A nun. But there are others.”
Djaq reaches for a letter and then studies it with great solemnity. Much and Little John grab two more. They frown and squint at the contents.
“And you trust him?” Will says, the doubt heavy in his voice. “Gisborne?”
Doubt is to be expected. It would be odd for them not to have questions after all that has passed. And yet Marian can’t stop the annoyance that comes from having to vouch for Guy once again.
“He has no reason to lie,” she says wearily. “There is nothing to gain from leaving.”
“The money,” Much offers.
“It’s never been about money,” she snaps, “and even if it were, he could expect more by staying in the King’s favor.”
The uncomfortable silence falls once again, thick as a shroud. After a few seconds, Djaq leans over and plucks the parchment from Much’s hand, ignoring his protest that he wasn’t finished. Her mouth tightens as her eyes roam over the spidery script.
“I believe you,” she says, “or I believe that it is at least worth investigating. Where is this man now? This Baldrick?”
“He was headed to Jaffa when I nabbed the letters in camp,” Allan says.
“And he hasn’t returned to this house,” Marian says, trying to keep her voice steady so as not to betray her eagerness to have this weight lifted from her shoulders. “I would presume that means he is still there.”
“Then we should go to find him in Jaffa,” Djaq says with a nod that suggests the matter is already settled.
“We go tonight,” Little John says just as Much abruptly stands up, pushing his chair back with a clatter.
“Hold on just a moment,” he says, hands on his hips as he surveys them all with the look of a disbelief. “Robin is upstairs, knocked unconscious. After everything he’s seen us through, I think he deserves a say before we run off and make a muddle of things. And besides, I know the King,” he says. “And this is . . . well, there has to be some sort of explanation for this.”
“You know the King?” Allan says, voice tinged with disbelief. “He doesn’t seem to know you.”
“Well, I’ve seen the King.” Much waves a hand in front of him. “You know . . . from afar.”
“That’s what I thought,” Allan says, but Will interjects before he can continue.
“Much is right,” he says.
“I am?”
Will nods. “We have to have Robin.”
“But what if he refuses?” Marian asks, for it must be asked.
“We will cross that bridge if we need to,” Will says, before his gaze flickers to Marian. “But he may be more open to our plan if it comes from us rather than if it comes from. . .”
He trails off, but the meaning is clear. Marian knows that she has lost her right to be Robin’s first counsel, but the reminder stings nonetheless. He will never listen to her again. It’s strange how this makes her feel more bereft than the idea of never seeing him again.
Djaq clears her throat and, as though sensing Marian’s thoughts, says, “Thank you for all that you have done. For telling us and . . . well, for everything. Will you come to Jaffa?”
Yes, she wants to say. She wants to fix this somehow, to go out with one last blaze of justice before fading into whatever future is before her. But she has more than just herself to consider.
“I do not know if . . .” Marian starts before her voice abandons her. She told Guy that she would leave with him, follow him out of the mess into which she dropped him, and she can’t quite quell the part of her that insists there are more than enough people to do the job. After all, how many missions did they pull off without her help? She delivered information, yes, but she’s already done that. Her part has been fulfilled.
“Don’t know what?” Much pipes up.
“I do not know if I will be able to join you,” Marian says stiffly, with a tone that dares anyone to broach questions that she does not feel like answering.
Djaq studies Marian for a long moment, and then turns to face the outlaws. “Perhaps you should check on the horses,” she tells them.
“I checked in on them before dinner, and they’re fine,” Allan says. “Except for that one with the rolling eye and weird mane, but that’s just him. I named him Horse Much.”
“Very funny,” Much says. “Then I’ll name the one with the big snout--”
“You should do it again,” Djaq interrupts, and then she and Will share another look of great understanding. He stands and crosses to the door. Inclining his head, he waits for the others to join him.
Allan’s eyes slide from Will to Djaq to Marian before comprehension dawns. “Right,” he says. “Well, the horses aren’t going to check themselves for a second time. Come on, Much.”
Much makes a show of sighing, but complies. Little John, however, shakes his head.
“I will stay here,” he says, picking up a bone and examining it for stray bits of meat.
Will frowns. “I really think that you should come check on the horses, John.”
“I am no good with the horses.”
Allan claps him on the shoulder. “I don’t think it will matter, mate. These are imaginary horses.”
Little John looks befuddled. “Imaginary horses?”
“Just come with us,” Allan says, and after only a few more grumbles, Little John concedes to lumber out behind them, leaving Marian alone with an increasingly uncomfortable silence and a mounting anger that she can’t quite define. Cornered, she feels cornered. She is being dealt with as though she were a problem to solve, a spiral to stop from plummeting downward.
“I should check upstairs,” Marian says stiffly. “Robin and Guy will be angry when they wake, and Ahmad should not be alone.”
“Please,” Djaq says when Marian is already halfway from her seat. “It was not my intention to scare you away. It’s just that sometimes men make it difficult to speak freely--those men in particular.”
“There is nothing to say,” Marian says.
“Then I will not press,” Djaq says calmly. “But you do not have to leave. They will sleep for awhile yet. I would bet on it.”
Marian thinks of sitting alone in the stuffy room with nothing but her thoughts and the silent shape of Guy, demanding an answer even in unconsciousness. Warily, she settles back into her chair.
“We left you in Tyre. With your relatives.”
“Yes,” Djaq says. “Robin found us again. Told us Gisborne was plotting and that he needed our help.”
“And so you came,” Marian says, surprised to hear a note of bitterness in her own voice. If Djaq notices, she doesn’t acknowledge it.
“And so we came,” she says and then hesitates. “He was not . . . well, he was not himself. We would ask him for details and he would fall silent. He barely spoke. This was the most life I’ve seen from him in days.”
Marian examines the words for any sign of censure or judgment--does Djaq think that she does not feel enough guilt?--but there is none to be found.
“I am sorry that Robin is hurting,” Marian says. “No one should think that I am not. But I have to move forward. I have to stop feeling in circles. . .”
Her throat constricts, and she closes her eyes. When she opens them again, Djaq is still waiting patiently for her to finish.
“I’ve chosen my path,” Marian continues, gaining the courage to say what everyone has been tiptoeing around. “And that path is Guy.”
Djaq’s shoulders tense, and for the first time since the conversation began, the sympathetic light in her eyes fades.
“It is a difficult situation,” she says, choosing each word carefully. “But perhaps things are too complicated to truly make such a--”
Marian lets out a frustrated noise before she can stop herself. She is tired of everyone acting like she is a victim or a martyr when she is only trying to do the right thing.
Djaq’s brown eyes widen at her outburst. “I am just--”
“I believe that I am with child.”
Marian can hardly able to believe that she said it aloud. Even though the confession makes her heart give a perilous thump, she is suddenly glad--strangely, perversely glad to have this at her disposal. It is a period at the end of this discussion. It is simple and straightforward.
Djaq’s face, normally so serene, has dissolved into shock, and for a few seconds she does nothing but blink. Marian watches as she tries to recalculate her words and tactics, watches her frantically search for the fence to sit on.
“Are you certain?” Djaq says finally. “How long since--”
“Over a month,” she says. And it does make sense. If she has learned anything in her history with Guy, it’s that the situation will always spin wildly, irrevocably out of control at the slightest urging. She was a fool not to suspect a child the second after the sweat cooled.
“And it is . . .”
“Yes!”
Djaq continues to look rattled. Marian tries to imagine what she is thinking. . . possibly that Marian has lost her mind. Perhaps this is the consequence of trying so hard to keep her dealings with Guy a secret. She had never told anyone how often he came to visit her after he discovered she was the Nightwatchman, or even that he had discovered her activities at all. She had never told anyone how she’s realized that a part of her came to look forward to the conversation he brought when Robin was away, conversation that was not chirpy pleasantries. With everyone else she had tried to pretend that their interactions were simply business, but they were not, not in the day-to-day. Weeks went by without reminders of his political side, and when the reminders finally came--as they always did--she would be overcome with guilt at the ease with which you could forget the nature of cruelty when it is your only company and when it is very obviously in love with you. And now . . . now she cannot tell if Guy is truly different or if this is just another lull between reminders. As it has been pointed out to her today, she has believed in him before and been wrong. And this time her emotions are colored by an even greater intimacy.
After what feels like an eternity, Djaq clears her throat and tries a small smile. “I am sorry,” she says. “I do not know what to say.”
Marian does not know what to say either. Her initial exhilaration at finally having a reason for her loyalty is starting to crack, giving way to a vague queasiness. She looks away and studies the candle burning between them, watching the pooling wax as it slowly builds a mountain along one side. The unexpected consequences of saying it aloud means that it is real, that it demands consideration.
“I am worried,” Djaq says softly.
“It will be fine,” Marian says, wishing it sounded more sincere. “There are still months ahead and Guy does not . . . “
She trails off, not sure how to proceed when she realizes that her reassurance--Guy does not know--is not a sensical reassurance at all. What chance is there of happiness if she does not trust him enough to tell him?
“If Robin does not agree to go, we are only five,” Djaq says.
“Pardon?”
“We are only five,” Djaq repeats. “Or perhaps four. I do not know where Allan stands.”
“Of course” Marian says, realizing too late that Djaq wasn’t speaking of her dilemma at all. She needs to to regain focus. “Robin will go,” she says now, partly for her own benefit. “I know him. One second he is outraged at a suggestion, the next he embraces it.”
“Normally I would agree. But this . . . this feels different.” Djaq shakes her head. “I do not believe that Robin knows his king as well as he thinks he does. I watched when he visited us in the camp, curious to see this great leader who wants peace and yet remains and remains and remains. He is still devoted to his crusade, it is plain,” she says before her face settles into determined lines. “Saladin believes in this treaty. It needs to hold.”
“And it will,” Marian says. “Think of all that you have accomplished in Nottingham. No one would have believed it possible.”
“But we had Robin,” Djaq says heatedly. “We had the help of the people. Now our information is secondhand and our resources limited. I am the only one of us who can read the letters, and I do not even know what this Baldrick looks like . . .” She trails off, running a hand through her short hair. “I am sorry; I told you that I would not press.”
Marian wants to say that they will fix it, that she will join them and that everything will be set right. She wants to say that it doesn’t matter whose loyalty she has to betray or what it means for her own future. But every time she reaches for the conviction, the belief in her own judgment that helped her in the past, she finds only lingering unease.
A hesitant shuffling comes from her right, and Marian turns to find Ahmad haunting the foot of the stairs. Djaq asks something in Arabic. The boy nods violently.
“Gisborne is stirring,” Djaq tells Marian.
“I should go,” Marian says, standing up and trying to ignore the rippling dread that has pooled in her stomach; Guy will be livid and a part of her does not blame him. Before she leaves, however, she casts one last look at Djaq, who is staring into the candle with faraway eyes and a grave set to her lips.
“What if I were to convince Guy to join us in Jaffa?” Marian asks, trying to keep her own skepticism from coloring the question even while she chastises herself for even suggesting it. When it is obvious that the idea makes Djaq uncomfortable, she adds, “He knows more about this than anyone. He was here with Baldrick for weeks. And he hates Richard.”
Djaq studies her in the low light. “We are not to in the position to deny help from any quarter, if it is sincere,” she says judiciously. “And if so, then I might have something to help with his headache.”
“Allan?” Marian says as she lifts an arm and tugs unsuccessfully. “A little help? There’s another bed upstairs.”
“He can do it himself,” Allan says, eying Guy with considerable disgruntlement before sniffing. “Not like he appreciates my help anyway.”
“He’s unconscious!” she yells.
Allan just shrugs. Marian bites the inside of her cheeks to try and contain the anger that is threatening to burn its way out of her. She is fed up with men who would rather act like children than work together to solve a very real problem. Perhaps if she asked nicely, Little John would hit Allan over the head as well. Before she can make the suggestion, however, Djaq looks up from where she’s been speaking to Ahmad in a low murmur.
“Please, Allan,” she says. “There is no time for this.”
Allan has the decency to look shamed. “Alright then. But don’t blame me if his head accidentally hits something.”
“Fine,” Marian says and then turns to Little John, who coughs uncomfortably and studies the ceiling. “You are the one who knocked him out,” she tells him.
“So?” Little John says.
“So choose an arm,” she insists, and is relieved when he relents.
It takes a good ten minutes to get Guy situated upstairs, what with the narrow staircase and Allan’s ill-judged turns. By the time Guy’s head is on the pillow, Marian’s head is aching. The daytime heat has made the room stuffy and hot, causing her skin to chafe wherever there is clothing. Her eyes fall to Guy’s heavy black jacket, and she frowns; he will concede to nothing, not even the weather.
“Can you help me get this off of him?” she asks, and then turns to find that she’s speaking to an empty room. Allan and Little John have cleared out. It’s a not-so-welcome reminder of something this confrontation has made explicitly clear: being on Guy’s side means being alone.
Cursing beneath her breath, she undoes the clasps of his jacket and manages to free one arm before the weight of his torso becomes too much. He falls backward, his head nearly hitting the wall, and she sucks in an anxious breath before placing a hand on Guy’s brow as though this will . . . as though this will what? His skin is cool, his breathing even as it tickles the underside of her wrist, but she doesn’t like the grey cast beneath his eyes. At least this will force him to sleep, she thinks.
After a few more rounds of wrangling, she manages to get both the jacket and boots all the way off. Reassured that he won’t suffocate, Marian steps into the hallway to find the group of outlaws huddled around the doorway of the other chamber with worried expressions. They stop whispering as soon as they see her.
“Is Robin well?” Marian asks.
“He sleeps,” Djaq says, “and that is good. I do not think we need to worry.”
“I am glad,” she says. “Can you check on Guy?”
Djaq’s eyes widen, and she shares a nervous glance with Will before nodding. As they disappear into the room where Guy sleeps, Marian sets to playing hostess in an unfamiliar house, starting the hunt for bedding and other amenities in order to distract herself from giving voice to what everyone is thinking, but no one says.
Ahmad is a godsend; he returns with enough food to feed the outlaws twenty times over. Every so often his dark head will raise and he will say something to Djaq, who just smiles. When the group takes uneasy seats, he hovers in the background, twisting his sleeves until Djaq bends down to whisper in his ear.
“He will let us know when they wake,” she says after he runs up the stairs.
They eat in silence, the table lit by a trio of candles that she liberated from the upstairs chamber. Across from her, the four outlaws hunch over their plates, tearing at their food until there is nothing left but peels and bones and crumbs. Marian had forgotten how lacking in table manners they were, had forgotten how she never knew quite what to say without Robin present to ease her into the inside jokes and friendly banter. And that was back when everything was simple, when no one would look away uncomfortably when they met her eye.
With a loud scraping, Much pushes his trencher away and wipes his mouth with his sleeve.
“Oh, this is ridiculous,” he says. “Can I just say what we are all thinking? I can barely concentrate thinking that he’s about to come downstairs and throw us in the dungeon.”
Allan shifts at the end of the table. He has been uncharacteristically quiet ever since they moved Guy and Robin upstairs, but now he throws Much a withering glance. “What dungeon?” he asks.
“You know what I mean,” Much says.
“I never know what you mean!”
Much rears back, offended. “Well,” he huffs, “not all of us are as comfortable with him lurking about as you are.” His eyes stray to Marian. “Not that I. . . well, you know. . . I meant-”
“Stop,” Little John says. “Now.”
“It’s all right,” Marian says with what she hopes is a weak smile, but inside she knows that it is not. “We should talk about what is to be done,” she continues, trying to will herself back to the matter at hand by slamming them all up against the subject they are avoiding.
“I don’t feel comfortable doing this without Robin,” Much says.
“Robin is not listening,” Djaq interjects, “ and if Richard does not want peace . . .,” she begins, but then trails off as though the end of the sentence is too horrible to contemplate.
Will puts a hand on her shoulder, and they hold one another’s gaze longer than necessary. Marian feels the flinch of something cold and cutting flash through her heart. It takes her a few moments to recognize it for what it is: jealousy.
“Richard does not want peace,” she confirms with a small cough, and then brings out the small bundle of letters that she retrieved from upstairs. Removing the twine, she spreads them before her and begins to recount what she knows, beginning with Richard’s breezy forgiveness of Guy’s previous treason and ending with Baldrick’s appearance in Acre. “And then when I arrived here,” Marian continues, “Guy confided that his orders were to impersonate a Saracen assassin and execute an arriving pilgrim. A nun. But there are others.”
Djaq reaches for a letter and then studies it with great solemnity. Much and Little John grab two more. They frown and squint at the contents.
“And you trust him?” Will says, the doubt heavy in his voice. “Gisborne?”
Doubt is to be expected. It would be odd for them not to have questions after all that has passed. And yet Marian can’t stop the annoyance that comes from having to vouch for Guy once again.
“He has no reason to lie,” she says wearily. “There is nothing to gain from leaving.”
“The money,” Much offers.
“It’s never been about money,” she snaps, “and even if it were, he could expect more by staying in the King’s favor.”
The uncomfortable silence falls once again, thick as a shroud. After a few seconds, Djaq leans over and plucks the parchment from Much’s hand, ignoring his protest that he wasn’t finished. Her mouth tightens as her eyes roam over the spidery script.
“I believe you,” she says, “or I believe that it is at least worth investigating. Where is this man now? This Baldrick?”
“He was headed to Jaffa when I nabbed the letters in camp,” Allan says.
“And he hasn’t returned to this house,” Marian says, trying to keep her voice steady so as not to betray her eagerness to have this weight lifted from her shoulders. “I would presume that means he is still there.”
“Then we should go to find him in Jaffa,” Djaq says with a nod that suggests the matter is already settled.
“We go tonight,” Little John says just as Much abruptly stands up, pushing his chair back with a clatter.
“Hold on just a moment,” he says, hands on his hips as he surveys them all with the look of a disbelief. “Robin is upstairs, knocked unconscious. After everything he’s seen us through, I think he deserves a say before we run off and make a muddle of things. And besides, I know the King,” he says. “And this is . . . well, there has to be some sort of explanation for this.”
“You know the King?” Allan says, voice tinged with disbelief. “He doesn’t seem to know you.”
“Well, I’ve seen the King.” Much waves a hand in front of him. “You know . . . from afar.”
“That’s what I thought,” Allan says, but Will interjects before he can continue.
“Much is right,” he says.
“I am?”
Will nods. “We have to have Robin.”
“But what if he refuses?” Marian asks, for it must be asked.
“We will cross that bridge if we need to,” Will says, before his gaze flickers to Marian. “But he may be more open to our plan if it comes from us rather than if it comes from. . .”
He trails off, but the meaning is clear. Marian knows that she has lost her right to be Robin’s first counsel, but the reminder stings nonetheless. He will never listen to her again. It’s strange how this makes her feel more bereft than the idea of never seeing him again.
Djaq clears her throat and, as though sensing Marian’s thoughts, says, “Thank you for all that you have done. For telling us and . . . well, for everything. Will you come to Jaffa?”
Yes, she wants to say. She wants to fix this somehow, to go out with one last blaze of justice before fading into whatever future is before her. But she has more than just herself to consider.
“I do not know if . . .” Marian starts before her voice abandons her. She told Guy that she would leave with him, follow him out of the mess into which she dropped him, and she can’t quite quell the part of her that insists there are more than enough people to do the job. After all, how many missions did they pull off without her help? She delivered information, yes, but she’s already done that. Her part has been fulfilled.
“Don’t know what?” Much pipes up.
“I do not know if I will be able to join you,” Marian says stiffly, with a tone that dares anyone to broach questions that she does not feel like answering.
Djaq studies Marian for a long moment, and then turns to face the outlaws. “Perhaps you should check on the horses,” she tells them.
“I checked in on them before dinner, and they’re fine,” Allan says. “Except for that one with the rolling eye and weird mane, but that’s just him. I named him Horse Much.”
“Very funny,” Much says. “Then I’ll name the one with the big snout--”
“You should do it again,” Djaq interrupts, and then she and Will share another look of great understanding. He stands and crosses to the door. Inclining his head, he waits for the others to join him.
Allan’s eyes slide from Will to Djaq to Marian before comprehension dawns. “Right,” he says. “Well, the horses aren’t going to check themselves for a second time. Come on, Much.”
Much makes a show of sighing, but complies. Little John, however, shakes his head.
“I will stay here,” he says, picking up a bone and examining it for stray bits of meat.
Will frowns. “I really think that you should come check on the horses, John.”
“I am no good with the horses.”
Allan claps him on the shoulder. “I don’t think it will matter, mate. These are imaginary horses.”
Little John looks befuddled. “Imaginary horses?”
“Just come with us,” Allan says, and after only a few more grumbles, Little John concedes to lumber out behind them, leaving Marian alone with an increasingly uncomfortable silence and a mounting anger that she can’t quite define. Cornered, she feels cornered. She is being dealt with as though she were a problem to solve, a spiral to stop from plummeting downward.
“I should check upstairs,” Marian says stiffly. “Robin and Guy will be angry when they wake, and Ahmad should not be alone.”
“Please,” Djaq says when Marian is already halfway from her seat. “It was not my intention to scare you away. It’s just that sometimes men make it difficult to speak freely--those men in particular.”
“There is nothing to say,” Marian says.
“Then I will not press,” Djaq says calmly. “But you do not have to leave. They will sleep for awhile yet. I would bet on it.”
Marian thinks of sitting alone in the stuffy room with nothing but her thoughts and the silent shape of Guy, demanding an answer even in unconsciousness. Warily, she settles back into her chair.
“We left you in Tyre. With your relatives.”
“Yes,” Djaq says. “Robin found us again. Told us Gisborne was plotting and that he needed our help.”
“And so you came,” Marian says, surprised to hear a note of bitterness in her own voice. If Djaq notices, she doesn’t acknowledge it.
“And so we came,” she says and then hesitates. “He was not . . . well, he was not himself. We would ask him for details and he would fall silent. He barely spoke. This was the most life I’ve seen from him in days.”
Marian examines the words for any sign of censure or judgment--does Djaq think that she does not feel enough guilt?--but there is none to be found.
“I am sorry that Robin is hurting,” Marian says. “No one should think that I am not. But I have to move forward. I have to stop feeling in circles. . .”
Her throat constricts, and she closes her eyes. When she opens them again, Djaq is still waiting patiently for her to finish.
“I’ve chosen my path,” Marian continues, gaining the courage to say what everyone has been tiptoeing around. “And that path is Guy.”
Djaq’s shoulders tense, and for the first time since the conversation began, the sympathetic light in her eyes fades.
“It is a difficult situation,” she says, choosing each word carefully. “But perhaps things are too complicated to truly make such a--”
Marian lets out a frustrated noise before she can stop herself. She is tired of everyone acting like she is a victim or a martyr when she is only trying to do the right thing.
Djaq’s brown eyes widen at her outburst. “I am just--”
“I believe that I am with child.”
Marian can hardly able to believe that she said it aloud. Even though the confession makes her heart give a perilous thump, she is suddenly glad--strangely, perversely glad to have this at her disposal. It is a period at the end of this discussion. It is simple and straightforward.
Djaq’s face, normally so serene, has dissolved into shock, and for a few seconds she does nothing but blink. Marian watches as she tries to recalculate her words and tactics, watches her frantically search for the fence to sit on.
“Are you certain?” Djaq says finally. “How long since--”
“Over a month,” she says. And it does make sense. If she has learned anything in her history with Guy, it’s that the situation will always spin wildly, irrevocably out of control at the slightest urging. She was a fool not to suspect a child the second after the sweat cooled.
“And it is . . .”
“Yes!”
Djaq continues to look rattled. Marian tries to imagine what she is thinking. . . possibly that Marian has lost her mind. Perhaps this is the consequence of trying so hard to keep her dealings with Guy a secret. She had never told anyone how often he came to visit her after he discovered she was the Nightwatchman, or even that he had discovered her activities at all. She had never told anyone how she’s realized that a part of her came to look forward to the conversation he brought when Robin was away, conversation that was not chirpy pleasantries. With everyone else she had tried to pretend that their interactions were simply business, but they were not, not in the day-to-day. Weeks went by without reminders of his political side, and when the reminders finally came--as they always did--she would be overcome with guilt at the ease with which you could forget the nature of cruelty when it is your only company and when it is very obviously in love with you. And now . . . now she cannot tell if Guy is truly different or if this is just another lull between reminders. As it has been pointed out to her today, she has believed in him before and been wrong. And this time her emotions are colored by an even greater intimacy.
After what feels like an eternity, Djaq clears her throat and tries a small smile. “I am sorry,” she says. “I do not know what to say.”
Marian does not know what to say either. Her initial exhilaration at finally having a reason for her loyalty is starting to crack, giving way to a vague queasiness. She looks away and studies the candle burning between them, watching the pooling wax as it slowly builds a mountain along one side. The unexpected consequences of saying it aloud means that it is real, that it demands consideration.
“I am worried,” Djaq says softly.
“It will be fine,” Marian says, wishing it sounded more sincere. “There are still months ahead and Guy does not . . . “
She trails off, not sure how to proceed when she realizes that her reassurance--Guy does not know--is not a sensical reassurance at all. What chance is there of happiness if she does not trust him enough to tell him?
“If Robin does not agree to go, we are only five,” Djaq says.
“Pardon?”
“We are only five,” Djaq repeats. “Or perhaps four. I do not know where Allan stands.”
“Of course” Marian says, realizing too late that Djaq wasn’t speaking of her dilemma at all. She needs to to regain focus. “Robin will go,” she says now, partly for her own benefit. “I know him. One second he is outraged at a suggestion, the next he embraces it.”
“Normally I would agree. But this . . . this feels different.” Djaq shakes her head. “I do not believe that Robin knows his king as well as he thinks he does. I watched when he visited us in the camp, curious to see this great leader who wants peace and yet remains and remains and remains. He is still devoted to his crusade, it is plain,” she says before her face settles into determined lines. “Saladin believes in this treaty. It needs to hold.”
“And it will,” Marian says. “Think of all that you have accomplished in Nottingham. No one would have believed it possible.”
“But we had Robin,” Djaq says heatedly. “We had the help of the people. Now our information is secondhand and our resources limited. I am the only one of us who can read the letters, and I do not even know what this Baldrick looks like . . .” She trails off, running a hand through her short hair. “I am sorry; I told you that I would not press.”
Marian wants to say that they will fix it, that she will join them and that everything will be set right. She wants to say that it doesn’t matter whose loyalty she has to betray or what it means for her own future. But every time she reaches for the conviction, the belief in her own judgment that helped her in the past, she finds only lingering unease.
A hesitant shuffling comes from her right, and Marian turns to find Ahmad haunting the foot of the stairs. Djaq asks something in Arabic. The boy nods violently.
“Gisborne is stirring,” Djaq tells Marian.
“I should go,” Marian says, standing up and trying to ignore the rippling dread that has pooled in her stomach; Guy will be livid and a part of her does not blame him. Before she leaves, however, she casts one last look at Djaq, who is staring into the candle with faraway eyes and a grave set to her lips.
“What if I were to convince Guy to join us in Jaffa?” Marian asks, trying to keep her own skepticism from coloring the question even while she chastises herself for even suggesting it. When it is obvious that the idea makes Djaq uncomfortable, she adds, “He knows more about this than anyone. He was here with Baldrick for weeks. And he hates Richard.”
Djaq studies her in the low light. “We are not to in the position to deny help from any quarter, if it is sincere,” she says judiciously. “And if so, then I might have something to help with his headache.”