Everything is a Choice

Chapter 11

Previously...

“Jesus!” Allan skids to a stop in front of us, John bundling up behind him.  They both wear the same expression – abject fear.  Swords they can do, arrows they can do, drowning they cannot. 

Abruptly, my heart erupts into life.  I have to save these men, my friends.  I have to get them safely back to England.  And I have to get myself back to England and keep my promise to Marian.

They are all looking to me and I am determined not to let them down.  I will never let them down, I think.  Robin Hood will never let them down.

Chapter 11

“Much, listen to me.  I need you to help me here.  I can’t do this thing on my own.”

Much wipes his vomit-flecked chin with the back of his hand, nods.

“Allan?” I say.

Allan shudders, as though he’s just surfaced from one nightmare and stepped into another.  I’ve never seen him this frightened before.

“Allan, go and find out about the boats, and find Salim if you can.”

“Right. Yes. Boats. Salim.” He turns full circle, and another, as if he doesn’t know which way to go. John grabs his shoulders and propels him towards the stern.

“John, we’ll need water.  The barrels.”

John nods, squares his shoulders and strides away.

“Much, go with John. I’m going to—”   

“What, Master?  Going to what?”

Not like that.

“Robin!” Much calls, as I push past him and charge towards the hatchway.  “Where are you going?”

I’ll be too late, I think.  Gisborne is sitting in a locked cage, the cage is in the hold and the hold will be full of water.  I doubt that whoever is guarding him, if indeed anyone is, will waste his breath trying to get him out. 

As I skid to a halt in front of the steps that lead to the hold, a memory blazes: Gisborne and me in Locksley pond, against the wishes of our families, who were constantly warning the young of the village to keep out of its seemingly innocuous waters.  We used the pond irrigate the village’s crops. Various waterfowl inhabited its algae-strewn waters and occasionally you would find someone gazing at it in a moment of quiet contemplation.   It was not for youngsters to lark about in, but we all did.

Gisborne and I had had another one of our arguments, over the usual thing: his father going to fight in one of the glorious crusades that I had heard snippets of information about, but of which my father would never divulge.  Gisborne had been labelling my father a coward and I’d been defending him, while secretly wondering if Gisborne spoke the truth.  It had ended in a challenge, as so many of our arguments did.  This time to swim the length of Locksley pond.

As we took off our boots, I glanced across at Gisborne.  He was both taller than I was and, at three and ten, three summers older, but I knew I was the better swimmer.  I’d seen him in the river that ran the outskirts of Sherwood, all arms and legs and thrashing about. 

“Frightened, Locksley?”

“No. You?”

“No.”

“So, how do we—?”

“On the count of three,” he said.

“And first one across wins?”