Everything is a Choice

Chapter 4

Previously...

My resolve not to talk to Gisborne blows apart. “It was your sword that killed her.  Yours and no one else’s.”

“You think I don’t know that.  You think I don’t suffer every day remembering what I’ve done.”

I stare at the floor.  I will not listen to him.  I do not want to hear of his suffering.  I do not want to feel sorrow or pity for him.  Because if I do, then I will be giving something of Marian back to him, and he can’t have her.  She is mine.  She is my wife. 

“Robin?” Much places his bloodied hands on top of mine.

“Get me out of here,” I plead.

“No.  Not until you promise not to kill him.”

I shake my head and his hands slide away. 

“Then I can’t help you,” he says sadly.

Chapter 4

“Aww, boyfriend left you, has he?”

I turn my back on Gisborne and hug my knees to my chest, wishing I were still drunk, sitting at the harbour in Acre, watching the boat sail without me.  I think of Much, standing protectively by my side after we boarded the boat, and press my forehead into my knees, swallowing a mixture of gratitude and guilt, wondering if I have lost his friendship for good.

By the time I think my forehead must bear an imprint of my knee, I hear the hatch open and someone thumps down the wooden steps and stomps over to my cage.  With a grunt, a barrel-chested sailor thrusts a piece of bread and a mug of water through the bars, slopping the water as he does so.  Then he stomps and thumps his way back up the steps and out of the hold.

I pick up the blackened piece of bread, take a nibble and toss it in the corner of my cage in revulsion: it is full of maggots. I drink the water, though. I notice Gisborne flicking his fingernails at his own piece of bread and then eating it. I hope he chokes.

At the next change of watch, Gisborne asks our gaoler how late the hour is.  The man shrugs, not understanding the question.  I have no idea, except that we’ve been stuck down here for what feels like an eternity so it must be well past midnight. 

There is a blanket rolled up in the corner of my cage and I shake it out.  It smells of sweat and mouse droppings, but I am too cold to care and wrap it around me.

I flick my eyes in Gisborne’s direction.  He is slumped against the thick wooden beam, eyes closed, presumably asleep.  How can he sleep, I think. How can I? But I am incredibly tired; I simply have to rest.  My head is still throbbing from its rivet bashing and my hip is paining me to the point that no matter which way I position myself I am uncomfortable.

Eventually I fall into a cruel doze.  Cruel because I dream of Marian – not skewered by Gisborne’s sword as on so many other restless nights, but sliding away from me, into a pit of sand. 

“Robin, help me!”

“Hold my hand.”

“I can’t. It’s too far away.”

“Here, take hold.”

“I can’t—”

“I’ve got you.”

The sand is sliding, a fluid thing.  Her hand starts to slip from my grasp.

“Don’t let go,” she pleads.