Everything is a Choice

Chapter 25

Previously...

Slowly, I make my way through the open doorway and into the camp. I look around. Everything appears to be as we left it all those months ago: Much's cooking pots; empty mugs and decaying trenchers; a frayed belt of mine, still on the ground. The chest we kept trinkets of little value in is unmoved. Certainly, there is no sign that anyone has disturbed our forest sanctuary. I breathe out, turn around and motion the others to come in.

I walk towards my bed, remembering the many nights I'd slept there dreaming of a time when Marian and I would be together, as man and wife. As I stare through a blur of tears, I realise my blanket, the striped one, isn't on my bed. Neither is Much's.

Someone coughs. I whip up my bow and hastily nock an arrow. The cough came from in front of me, not behind. Someone is here.

Chapter 25 

He is under the missing blankets, my striped one over his head with just the smallest amount of bearded face showing, Much's similarly striped one tucked around his long legs.

I lower my bow and step towards him, wary. He looks unwell, his face pasty, his eyes bloodshot and unfocused. But a part of me still distrusts Guy of Gisborne, despite everything we've been through, despite my want of him. The knight at The Trip told Allan that Prince John is not in Nottingham, but for all we know that could be a lie spread by John himself. Since dismissing him at Portsmouth, Guy has had ample time to make contact with the new sheriff and Prince John; if he wants any chance of bettering himself what surer way than to rid Prince John of the thorn in his side, namely me. Under those blankets, Guy could be holding a blade.

"Look at the mess," Much groans, doubtless thinking of the tidying up he will have to do to make the camp spick-and-span once more.

"Nothing a decent bonfire won't put in order," Allan quips. "Or a woman's touch."

"Bugger off," Rowena says. "I'm not here to clean up after you lot."

None of the gang attempted to follow me into the sleeping area, doubtless thinking I might like a moment to myself.

Guy coughs again, a phlegmy, chest-rattling cough, and I realise my foolishness at thinking he might be concealing a weapon, about to plunge it into my heart. The man is sick, dreadfully so by the looks of him. I suspect he hardly has the strength to wipe the mucus from his upper lip let alone take on not only me but also the rest of the gang.

"Guy." I place my bow on the ground and crouch in front of him. "It's me. Robin."

He stares at my face, a flicker of recognition lighting up his sleep-depraved blue eyes and then leans forwards as another spasm of coughing overtakes him.

I reach out to pull the blanket from his head and recoil as he retches up a watery mess onto the one covering his legs.

"Robin?" John calls.

Moments later, the curtain dividing our sleeping area from the main camp flaps open.

"John, it's—"

It's not John but Rowena, a hunting knife in her hand.

"It's all right," I tell her, holding up my hands, warning her off. "This man is very sick. He means us no harm."

Another bout of coughing dislodges the blanket from Guy's head and shoulders. His dark hair is still as long as ever, but, unlike when I left him at Portsmouth, it is unwashed and tangled, the ends stuck together from previous retches. He stinks, too, doubtless too ill to manage to relieve himself anywhere other than where he is sitting. My heart goes out to him, even as I wrinkle my nose in revulsion.