Everything is a Choice

Chapter 7

Previously...

“His father was wronged,” I blurt out.  I don’t mean to shout, to be angry with Much, especially when he doesn’t have all the facts.  “He was wronged,” I repeat, trying to keep my voice steady.  “By my father.”

“Gisborne told you this?”

“Yes.”

“And you believe him?”

“Trust me, Much. You wouldn’t lie about this kind of thing.”

Much balls his fists and smacks them onto the bed. “But Marian!”

“We both loved her,” I say.

Much makes to take another bite of bread, changes his mind and throws the remainder of the loaf into the pail with a stomach-roiling splash. “I still don’t understand why you even want to talk to him.”

“Because before I started talking to him, all I had was hate.”

“And now?”

“And now I just hurt,” I say, turning my face to the wall. I lie on my bunk, my tears sliding onto the thin sheet beneath me, and even though my injured arm throbs and burns, pinned under my body as it is, it is not reason enough to turn over.

Chapter 7  

I am in trouble.  I had foolishly thought the prickling, burning sensations in my arm were all part of the natural healing process, but as I unwind the bandages, stare at the angry red flesh and at the yellowish ooze seeping from the edges of the blackened stitches, I see I am mistaken. I know what this means, and somehow I don’t think the cook-come-doctor’s medical store runs to much more than a needle, thread and a few dirty bandages.

Not knowing what else to do, I wash out and rewind the stained bandage around my upper arm.

“Blimey!” Allan exclaims, cracking his head on the doorframe.  “I’m never going to complain about living in a forest again.  At least the ground doesn’t keep moving under your feet.”

I give him a wan smile.

“You all right, Robin?”

“Fine,” I lie, fastening my leather jerkin over the new shirt Much had found me, one of Jehal’s, I think.   

Allan sits opposite me, on Much’s bunk.  “What’s going on?”

I’m not sure whether Allan’s referring to my arm, the fact that Much and I have barely spoken to each other these past couple of days, or my visits to Gisborne in the hold.

“With what?” I ask.

“You and Much.  Have you two had a falling out, or what?”

“Why? What’s he been saying?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Yeah, that’s just it, Robin – nothing.  Much never says nothing.  Well, I mean he does.  He usually says a whole load of nothing, but at least he’s making a noise like.”

“He’s sulking,” I say.

“Sulking. Why?”

“Because of Gisborne.”

“What?  Gisborne’s not offered to do all the cooking in future has he?”

I shake my head. 

“Actually,” Allan continues.  “Perhaps things aren’t so bad.  I mean, the sheriff’s dead, Gisborne’s locked in a cage, and Much is being quiet for once.” Allan sprawls on Much’s bunk, if it is possible to sprawl on something so narrow. “Yep,” he says.  “If it weren’t for all this damn up and down business, I’d say life was pretty good.” He cocks an eye at me. “Sorry, Robin, I didn’t mean—”