Choices - Part IV
Spoilers: references to S1, 2, and 3.
PG for romantic scenes.
PG -13 for violent scenes.
Ah, life is good, Tuck thinks to himself. He is enjoying Marian’s debate as they sit under a tree. God in his wisdom has kept its shade at bay with the air still cool so the Sun can warm them as they sit. Its branches are blanketed with a heavy sprinkling of bright green buds yet to open. They are the little heralds of the good breaking through from beneath the bark, announcing there will be new leaves, new life, the tree’s new beginning. The buds have sparked this stimulating discussion about the beginning and so-called end of a man, and the good and evil between. “But my lady, what of the men who steal from the innocent slaughtering any who try to defy them?”
“I still say containing the good or evil within, whichever it is, is always a choice.”
Her answer does not explain every circumstance. “And what of the evil you do, Lady Marian. Is that always a choice?”
Her reply is prevented by Sir Guy pulling her up by her right arm. He’s holding her too roughly and too close. Neither she nor Tuck had heard Sir Guy’s approach.
“You played the good little wife to perfection last night,” sneers Guy. “You fooled me, at least.” He holds a parchment up to her face. It undulates in the afternoon breeze.
It’s the note she wrote this morning and the seal is broken. “Where did you get that?”
“Read it.”
She shakes her head slowly. No.
“Read it!”
Even though it’s obvious he’s read it, to have the contents of this note out in the open between them is unthinkable. “His” and “her” secrets and lies. That’s how they’ve kept a friendly balance between them. What he’s demanding would make her recent subterfuge count. “No.”
“Read it, or I will turn old Bess into your personal whipping -“
“- Very well!” Guy may be calm whilst making his sadistic threat, but he is making her furious. “The Sheriff - ”
“From the beginning” Guy whispers. His malicious smile promises some heartless cruelty unless she does as he says.
“My only love.” She looks into Guy’s eyes trying to discern how those words have affected him but they are deadened above the frightening smile, as though nothing she could say or do could ever reach him again.
“Go on.”
“The Sheriff plans to help Prince John seize the throne before Kind Richard returns. Soon. Getting this information was easy. Married to Guy, the ladies think of me as one of them. All I had to do was act all knowing at supper since my husband would have kept me as informed as theirs have kept them. ”
In silence, husband and wife in name only regard each other. Marian wishes he would show something so she would know how best to manipulate him right now.
“Finish it.”
Her voice wavers as she reads, “Keep waiting for me, Robin.”
“I should kill you.”
“Sir Guy, no!” Tuck tries to intercede. Dropping his iron grip to her hand, Gisborne drags Marian in a fast walk down the road. “M’Lord! What will you to do to her?”
“Just watch.”
Marian winces in silence. She may deserve this but she refuses to let Guy know the fast pace is hurting her even though he is holding her by her good hand. She’d rather suffer rather than give him the satisfaction. The punishing pace doesn’t end until ten minutes later in the center of the lawn outside Locksley Manor.
“Everyone! Out here! Now!”
Guy waits until every guest, servant and child has come out of the house, gardens, and barns to form a large circle around the three of them. “My wife refuses to give me an heir, so I am ridding myself of her.” Gasps and gossip flit among watchful onlookers. “Starting now.” Marian cringes. This is his tone of polite interest that he reserves for those new and unwanted acquaintances he cannot wait to get rid of. “Tell them, Thornton.”
Thornton’s step forward is reluctant, “It is as our Master says.” He steps back into the crowd to hide the shame, feeling just as Peter must have when he denied his Lord three times. This public humiliation in front of noble guests had not been part of the deal.
Rounding on the only man of the cloth present to register this event with the church, Guy states flatly, “This marriage is officially over. See to any loose ends.” He pushes Marian away but not hard enough to make her fall. “You two!”
All Friar Tuck can do is nod. The abruptness of it all. One minute Marian was enjoying a restful afternoon immersed in the happy companionship of debate and challenge, the next Guy is cutting her out of his life.
Two guards step forward. “Yes, m’Lord?”
“Take her to Nottingham.” His composure is a cold ruthlessness.
“Yes, m’Lord.”
The birdsong in the trees beyond sound clear enough to be over their heads, such is the somberness of the crowd witnessing the downfall of the Lady Gisborne. To his guests, this is a surprise. It had all seemed so normal. Most knights allow their ill wives to recover in peace using a wench or two in the meantime. To those in his employ, this is a shock. Sir Guy had seemed devoted to her. Over meals and by evening fires in the kitchen, a few had even dared to say the Lady Gisborne was the best thing that had ever happened to him. She was good for his temper. Perhaps she was even good for his eternal soul. Seeing their master put their lady aside like this must mean they were mistaken. His patience has run out; he intends to make her pay for her failings as wife.
Bess begins to whimper then cry. As she cannot hear herself, her cries are loud.
“Shut it, Bess!” Gisborne hisses.
Bess daren’t disobey the thunder in his face, and does her best to stifle her sobs under the lump in her throat that grows larger and larger the harder and harder she tries to quiet herself. Why is he turning Lady Gisborne out like this? And so cruelly? She’d thought giving Sir Guy the note had been the right thing to do for him to have the chance to stop the Sheriff himself. For Marian to have the chance to see Sir Guy would do anything for her.
Guy pauses as though he is debating the wisdom of his next step, then goes to stand in front of Marian. “Tell me. How do couples such as we say goodbye?” His gentle voice of last night now a whiplash of sarcasm.
His hands are behind his back held by a force that could not possibly be mistaken for restrained passion. More likely he’s preventing himself from murdering her with his bare hands right there and then. Marian vows she will not let him continue to humiliate her. Not now. Not ever. Leaning near, she whispers. “You forget I’ve bested you in many a fight. I can handle any guard.”
“We shall see.” He has sensed her fear of him, her mistrust, every day. She begins to step around him. His traitor is going willingly. His brave Marian. God, if only for a fraction of a second could she understand down to her soul how fiercely he loves her. With every ounce of willpower he has he keeps his hands as they are - behind his back. With his body he does honour.
“Come, m’Lady.” One guard takes her gently by her good arm and begins to lead her away from Locksley. The other falls into step beside them and doesn’t even reach out to her splinted arm, let alone hold it. The crowd parts to let them pass. No one offers a word of friendship or fond farewell as their lady leaves Locksley for good.
Her broken arm will be a handicap, but if she takes out the one on the left with a strategically placed punch with her right, she can kick the other one down before he knows what’s hit either of them. Just as soon as they are out of sight.
Rounding the first corner in the road that takes them out of view of the manor one of the guards pulls the armored mail off his head. “Gosh, is it me or is it really hot in this get up?”
“Much?” Marian then looks to the guard holding her arm. Come to think of it, she hadn’t felt any pain with him leading her. She reaches up - his hold on her arm falls away - and lifts back the hooded mesh that has been covering most of his face, “Robin!”
“There’s something I’ve been meaning to do for quite some time now.” Robin leans to kiss her, but rubs her nose with his instead as he slips off her finger the hated wedding ring from beneath the edge of bandages. His grin is disarming. His mouth close yet not close enough is meant to tease. He tosses the ring over his shoulder into the forest leaves beside the road. “Gone for good.”
“Gone for good,” Marian echoes. Impatient for her kiss, she steals one. “But how did you know to be here today - as guards?”
“Gisborne.”
Marian is skeptical. Right now, Guy is probably looking forward to toasting the news of her death with wine and deep foot massages. “But how did he know where to find you?”
“He didn’t. He took a risk we’d find him - or his message at least. We saw him riding around the forest yesterday with someone I couldn’t make out. They came pretty close to our camp - “
“- I say we should move our camp,” Much interjects.
“It is a little disturbing. Still, they didn’t find it. After they’d left, Allan found a pouch on the ground with a message to me inside. Gisborne had written to say he wanted to talk, that even though someone was trying to kill you, you -” Robin taps her nose affectionately with his finger, “- were being obstinate about it. Pretty rude since I’d told him that myself. Isn’t that right, Much?”
“Yes. But shouldn’t we get a move on before someone comes along?”
“In a minute,” says Marian. Robin is running his hand gently over her injured arm satisfying his need to know. His touch is healing, almost vital to her. “When did you plan all this?”
“Last night - after I’d watched Bess help you dress for supper.”
“Robin.” Not much of a reproach, she knows.
“Just making sure you were all right. I didn’t see anything,” Robin winks. “Said he meant to give you a choice from the start and since you’d made it, it was over and to be at Locksley Manor at three today. As guards. ‘Course, the threat of death might have had something to do with his following through.”
“What threat?”
“I reminded him my letter to you might fall into the Sheriff’s hands if he didn’t keep his word today and let you go.”
“You forced him,” Marian clarifies. “But which letter?”
“The one I wrote to keep you alive. I know where you keep it. And that you re-read it now and then.”
“It’s a good letter,” she smiles. So this is why Guy had been late to supper last night. Her heart stops. “Do you mean the note I wrote this morning had nothing to do with what just happened?”
“What note?”
Marian tells Robin of the Sheriff’s plans, and how Gisborne had somehow gotten hold of her morning’s work. “Well, that explains the unmistakable edge to today’s performance. Last night he said he was going to do it in the church with only a couple of witnesses present,” he laughs. “Thanks for the tip my love, but I’m glad you’re away from him.”
“Just don’t try to run my life again. You can tell Guy the same thing, next you two cross swords,” Marian runs her finger down his cheek, along his chin, and up to his lips but she is pensive. She’s useless as a spy at Locksley now that Guy’s found her out. But why didn’t Guy try to get the letter from her? He could have destroyed it then sent her to the Sheriff with the proof of her deceit. But he hadn’t. He had waited for three o’clock. Knowing she would tell Robin everything. We could remain married, if you want. We could say you had to go on a pilgrimage to obtain healing.
Robin kisses her fingers, his eyes never leaving hers. His hand has enfolds hers. He’s not letting go this time. As the legend he is, Robin leads his faithful friend and his only love into the forest as invisible and present as the breeze among the oak and pine.
And as the God He is, God has granted Guy that fraction of a second.
“Get back to work!” Lollygagging scum, staring at him with disapproval.
The servants drift back into the house, gardens and barns to pick up the ladels, hoes, and rakes of day-to-day life despondent that life just got much more harsh. Without her and her effect on the master already Sir Guy is acting like his old self, set to strike the first person who dares to speak to him or who dares to speak at all.
“Sir Guy.”
Guy whips around. “WHAT!” It’s Sir Edgar, the spokesperson for the other knights. Tall and thin, dressed in a black tunic trimmed with an elaborate design of petals and teardrops in thread of gold he’d make a stately one too, if his jowls and friendly blue eyes under a mop of messy grey hair didn’t make him look like such a pushover.
“Your attempts at hospitality are crude to say the least. We leave in the morning. Give the Sheriff our worst regards.”
“Worst regards?”
“We’re abandoning the pact - and you. This latest plot is far too reckless.” Smug and confident, Sir Edgar turns from Gisborne and follows the rest of the knights who have started stroll into the house. That’s shut Gisborne up. He’s insignificant to any political circle, especially now that he’s recklessly discarded his alliance with one of the most respected families in the realm. Sir Edward’s, God rest his soul. His daughter sent to the Sheriff. What a waste. She could have been a match for his own son, if it’s true she is still a maid. His son knows how to handle women.
“Might as well make the most of what’s left to our stay,” calls one from the front of the pack.
“Too, right, Sir John,” Sir Edgar agrees. Once inside with the others, he takes a moment for his eyes to adjust. “Ah. Thornton. We want godale and plenty of it. Tell your prettiest maidservants to keep it coming.”
The men’s deep laughter is lascivious as they plop themselves onto benches at tables and into chairs by the fireplace burning red coals. “And the fire is in want of more logs!” Sir Edgar calls after Thornton who’s left for the kitchen. “What’s wrong with these people? That should have been done an hour ago.”
Guy’s heard every word. Edgar’s voice has a tendency to carry. Barn muck, all of them.
Most of the wives pass by Gisborne on their way into the manor with their noses up and their hands clasped across their midriffs, like nuns saving all acceptance for the Almighty and their own saintliness as they pass the dirty guttersnipe on their way to vespers. They whisper what must be done. The servants must be rounded up and told what to do. Some will have to take down the colourful, luxurious tournament tents which have been housing those guests who could not be accommodated in the house in the nearby field at dawn. This afternoon, however, they can begin by taking down the flags and outdoor trappings of home and hearth. Not that their husbands have made the packing any easier. Guy hears the beautiful one complain from their midst, “Why does Sir Edgar encourage him?” Sir John will cause even more trouble after he’s had a few drinks. Her friend commiserates, “What I want to know is why in the name of God’s Earth did the Sheriff have us stay here anyway? Nottingham Castle has plenty of room for us to avoid our husbands in. Locksley has hardly any size to it at all.” Guy’s blood is pulsing against his temples and there’s the all too familiar bite in his gut of clenching pressure.
The beautiful one leans close to her friend’s ear. “At least we got to see more of Sir Guy. He doted on Marian and she just threw it away. If he were my husband, I’d give him heirs.”
“No,” scoffs her friend, “you’re far too good for the likes of him.”
“My husband says I’m a gnat in his wine. That’s not ‘good.’”
“Well, he would say that seeing as he’s a self-centered sod who thinks the point of your existence is to cater to his every ignorance about who you are and what you feel. And you, my dear, have finally stood up for yourself. I’m rather proud of you.”
“But he’s drinking all the time now.”
Only when the yard is finally deserted does Guy show his impatience borne on waves of rage, lusting for murder as he marches into the barn. There, he glares at the man and a stable boy to get out. They waste no time or words obeying.
Guy grabs his horse’s bridle off its hook and the saddle off the bar. The horse sighs an objection as in his haste Guy tightens the saddle’s girth too roughly. Soon, Sir Guy is leading his majestic friend out of the barn. He runs a gentle but brief peace offering along his horse’s warm, velvet black neck before putting on his gloves and stepping into the stirrup. The leather saddle creaks under his weight for the short time it takes him to swing his leg over and dig in his spurs, threading the reins between his fingers. From standstill to black comet, Guy and his horse tear the road asunder with a trail of dust.
“Who was that?” asks the young lady, her heart thudding hard against her chest from being so nearly trampled to death, and by what she had seen in the rider’s sea blue eyes as his devil horse had beared down on her. One blink and she had been transfixed by those eyes, unable to move from where she stood. The power of him had surged with his horse, faster they’d come even as he had skillfully averted disaster in the split second he had to do it.
“Gisborne. He’s married.”
“I wasn’t asking to marry him,” she answers with disgust.
Rounding on his daughter, he grabs her arm. “But you will marry, Meg. I’m going to see to that.”
“I hate the ones you pick, Dad. All of them.”
“Ungrateful girl.” He strides to the road’s edge and finds a switch - yes, this will do. It’s flexible, long and thin. He has to twist it roughly for a while where he’s snapped it before it finally breaks off the tree. Even better. It’s got some sting in it. “Bend over!” He waits for her to obey before he commences his fatherly duty. He whips her back, the back of her legs, her back again with the calm conviction that this is the best way fathers show they have their daughters’ best interests at heart.
Meg waits. She waits for it to be over. For his grip on her arm that steadies his own balance as he beats her to let her go. For her chance to be free of all men, and about time too. Dolts like the one her father thought she could give herself to - Meg shudders. Brutal cowards with gigantic opinions of themselves like that Gisborne she’s heard about. And men who think they own their daughters as one would own a piece of livestock to buy and sell as they please. Like her father. She closes her eyes to switch’s searing sting against the back of her thighs.
“Little John, did you bring the big water jug?” asks Much rummaging through a few pewter plates, eating knives, sacks of grain, and tools piled on a flat, low rock. The soggy leaves and muddy ground underfoot ineffectively compensate for their wet inconvenience by filling the air with the fragrance of spring.
“No,“ his mood sour over having to split wood when there’s plenty of it stacked at their camp.
“Allan?”
“Yeah, I’ve got it.” He hands it to Much, and then goes back to carrying armfuls of logs out of the woods over to Little John, the ones he’s chopped out of what little dry wood he’s found lying around.
“Has anyone seen my blanket?” Much asks.
“Go hunt for it yourself,” growls Little John, as he takes a swing. Imagining the log is Gisborne’s ugly face might help.
Much mutters his own sympathy, “Everyone expects me to handle this with no problem whatsoever.”
But Allan hears him. “Well it would be a lot easier if you’d stop whining!”
“It’s not like I asked Gisborne and his mate to -“ everyone dives for cover among trees not yet lush with full grown leaves. Weapons ready. Hooves drumming against the earth are fast approaching. The soft wind rustling the leaves on the ground, a chirp in the distance. The quiet of the forest follows.
“Marian?” Robin’s back. His mission is speaking. Weapons away. Marian steps out from behind her mossy boulder. “How’s the arm?” asks Matilda.
“And what are you going to do with that, may I ask?” asks Much as Robin takes the water jug out of his hands.
“Water my horse,” says Robin.
“I’ll have you know the river is twice as far away, now.” Robin irritates Much with a shrug. “Right. Then you can refill it.”
Robin stops and stares at his beloved, life-long friend. What’s brought this on?
“It throbs now and then, and the itching will drive me insane by tomorrow, if the present company doesn’t first,” Marian answers Matilda.
Matilda doesn’t seem to hear her. She’s busy inspecting Marian’s arm, lifting a bandage to peek underneath. “We won’t know if you’ll have full use of your hand until we get the splint off. Your wrist was pretty mangled.”
“When will that be?”
“Six more weeks.” Marian rolls her eyes. Matilda understands not out of disrespect, but frustration. If her patient were a man, she’d be the one charging around with a lance all day. “Good. No swelling,” states Matilda with calm triumph. “How’s your head?”
“Apart from the headache of moving camp yesterday afternoon?”
“Yes,” Matilda laughs. “Apart from that.”
“Oh, stop it.” Robin joins the women with a grin and a kiss to Marian’s cheek. “All you had to do was watch, and it’s only until we’re sure our camp is safe - which I bet it is.”
They hear Allan behind them, “Much is pouting over his missing blanket like a girl.”
“Thanks for that, Mr. I’ve Got My Blanket,” retaliates Much.
Robin quickly tells Matilda, “Glad you’re here,” then starts walking back to his horse with a sigh, “I’ll get it. It’s still on my horse.”
“Is all well at Locksley?”
Matilda checks on Marian’s head which bled worse than the damage there had warranted. Her voice low, she lets the softness she’s developed for Sir Guy creep around her better judgment. “I think it’s time you knew. That first week, when you slept most of the time, he was tenacious looking after you. Until the Sheriff summoned him and the knights to Nottingham.”
Marian nods, mutely putting the pieces together. All she had been able to recall of that first week was Matilda nearby, sometimes washing her and changing her bandages. And a masculine presence. His hushed prayers racked with fear and worry, his touch resting on her forehead steadying her spirits, smoothing the tension away from her face with a wisp of a stroke that continued down her arm to cradle her hand. She thought the man was the product of half-conscious dreams of Robin. But if what Matilda says is true, then he had to have been real - he must have been Guy. He got me away from Locksley as soon as he could. Even though he knew I would tell Robin. Matilda’s studying her expression. For some inexplicable reason, Marian feels as though she’s been caught red-handed.
“Last night, he came home late and drank himself to sleep but not before lunging around the manor snarling at everyone like a chained black bear.” Matilda finishes, “I’d say Locksley’s back to being ruled with terror.”
Having placated Much with his blanket and had a quick meeting with his men, Robin returns, “Matilda saw the Black Knights leave this morning.” Matilda nods an affirmation. “We’re off to wish them bon voyage, which will cost them all they have, of course. You and Matilda should be safe here. Matilda? You don’t mind staying a while longer?”
“As long as I’m back in time to kiss my granddaughter goodnight.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Then where are the cups and the mead?” Matilda asks.
“I hate moving!” Much storms after Little John and Allan who have melted into the forest. This is worse than not being able to find game for dinner. Worse than finding out Allan had sold them out. Worse than giving up Eve. With Allan, Eve, and the game he knows where they are with him. Allan’s with the gang again. Eve cares, he’s certain. And the game drops dead if you shoot it right. The mead? The cups? No idea.
Looking after him, Robin shakes his head with a small sense of befuddlement. “He should be happy. This was his idea.” He takes Marian’s hand. “The mead’s over there,” he nods in the direction of another small pile of their possessions set on the high and wide trunk of a fallen oak. “Spiced with apples, I think. Good luck finding the cups.” He squeezes Marian’s hand goodbye.
As soon as Robin is gone, Marian states, “Something must be done for the people of Locksley.”
The people of Locksley? Not a certain man who has - Matilda admits with a chuckle - all the potential of a pompous male hen harrier collecting oversized nesting materials? “Well, it seems we’ve got some time this morning to sort it all out. I was in Nottingham market when Robin found me.” She pulls a round loaf of bread out from the large pocket in her skirt. “This should go well with the apple spiced mead. There’s just enough for two.”
Once more, the Great Hall in Nottingham Castle is barren of a woman’s touch, much to the Sheriff’s satisfaction. Flowers are tedious. They dust pollen everywhere and their vases need watering. Ornaments of silver cost time and money to maintain, so better they are stored away unless there are guests to impress as was the case last week. And tapestries are of no use whatsoever. Setting any of his servants to make one - or to tend to fresh flowers or to polish silver for that matter - would take them away from their paramount duty to pay constant attention to him. The bath water they’ve been heating for three hours. They can just keep heating it. This conversation is too important to put off. “Do you mean to tell me he’s discarded the backstabbing wench?” The Sheriff twirls his quill against a fingertip on his other hand back and forth as he relaxes against the high back of his chair at the long table in the middle of the hall, the court judgments and letters of Nottingham policy strewn before him.
“It appears so,” replies his henchman from behind a hood meant to hide his face from all but the Sheriff. He sits on a corner of the table with one leg on and one leg off at the opposite end, the end nearest the door, his arms folded across his chest.
“Well, why isn’t she here then!” He waves away the servant who’s come to the door for the third time. Probably to tell him his bath is ready, stupid pest.
“Gisborne tracked me yesterday. He kept me hiding where I was until after nightfall so that by the time I got to Hood’s camp it was abandoned, and the trail was cold, but -”
Vasey points and shakes his quill by way of a finger. “- If it had been me, I would have sent her to myself with a small army around her! He knows the hag is perfectly capable of escaping. Gisborne’s on thinner ice than ever. If you should choose to join him by your incompetence, I will not hesitate to push you both through it, understood? I’m wondering if you can handle this job.” Well, at least I know which pest is going to bear the brunt of today’s sport. “WHAT IS IT, WOMAN!!!!”
“I know you ordered that no one disturb you m’Lord, but Sir Guy of Gisborne is insisting he see you. He’s waiting outside with an important message from the Black Knights.”
Snapping his quill in two, the Sheriff bellows, “Well why didn’t you tell me that straight away?” He wants something more to destroy but can’t find anything amongst the important papers. “Don’t let him see you on your way out. I’m giving you exactly one minute. GISBORRRRRNE!”
So much for one minute. The hooded man bolts for the door, sees Gisborne coming, and runs down the stairs back into the Great Hall. “If you had a damn tapestry for me to hide behind that would be something.”
“M’Lord. The Knights are gone,” Gisborne announces from the upper landing. The Sheriff is red-faced with anger. That’s normal. A window is wide open. That’s unusual.
“What do you mean ‘gone.’ Gone to market? Staying home? Off to roast beefy barmaids?”
“They have dissolved the pact.” Gisborne starts down the stairs, thoughts of the window interrupted by Vasey’s shouting, but not ruffled.
“Oh, Gisborne. But why?” Vasey’s disappointment turns into suspicion. “What have you done?”
“This time, it was you. They said your scheme is too risky. We cannot count on their support any longer.”
Gisborne is standing exactly where the man hired to kill Marian had been just moments before. Vasey finds that poignant to a delicious degree. “Fine. We don’t need them. They can be the first traitors we execute once Prince John seizes the throne. As planned.”