It's Not Over

Unsettling Times

Unsettling Times

Much knocked on the heavy oak door of Knighton Hall. We heard footsteps. The door opened a crack and then abruptly slammed shut.

“How rude,” Much said.

Jasmina and I stood several paces behind him, me nervously shifting my weight from foot to foot, she twiddling a dark curl of hair around her index finger.

My heart was beating fast, an unwelcome reminder of the many times I had stood next to King Richard, fingering my weapons, awaiting the king’s order to attack. I licked my dry lips and caught myself touching the familiar curves of my Saracen bow despite knowing I was among friends here. For the briefest flash of time, no more than a handful of heartbeats, I envisaged Marian standing in the doorway, holding an arrow-loaded bow and pointing it in my direction. The moment passed and I let go the breath I’d been holding.

Much gave another determined rap and this time the door opened fully revealing Edward, the Sheriff of Nottingham. He looked a lot older than when I’d last seen him, though I know I should not have been surprised at this. His once thick hair was thinning and completely grey, peppered with white. His face was lined, his mouth pinched and his eyes had that watery look of the old and infirm.

At Much’s enquiry, Edward informed us that Marian was not at Knighton.

My disappointment at this news was so acute I could feel it coming off me in waves. I think Jasmina sensed my dismay as she quickly grasped my hand as if to stop me from pushing into the hall to see whether Edward was lying.

“I am sorry,” Edward said, shaking his head. “You were not to know. My daughter no longer lives with me. She is with her husband now. At Locksley.”

“Husband? at Locksley?” I said, giving Edward an accusatory stare, as though he was entirely to blame for Marian’s present circumstances, which indeed he might have been.

I quickly realised that Marian must be married to the master that Thornton seemed so keen to keep us away from. Who was this man? What kind of unfeeling character could he be that he wouldn’t welcome home a crusader knight with open arms? And why had Marian married him? Had Edward arranged the marriage or was the man of Marian’s choosing? These and a dozen other questions whirled around my head while Edward carried on talking.

“My daughter does not live at Locksley exclusively. She divides her time between there and the castle. Her husband works for the new sheriff,” he added, as though this would explain everything.

“Oh,” Much said. He glanced over his shoulder at me, his brow crinkling in puzzlement, and then returned his attention to Edward. “That is...well, that is.” He trailed off, clearly not knowing what to say. I didn’t know what to say either. Commiserations at Edward’s loss of office would have been the polite thing, I suppose, but the news about Marian had made both Much and I mute.

Jasmina nudged me and said something in her mother tongue that I failed to understand despite speaking her language well. I guess I was in shock. I had stupidly thought that nothing would have changed during the time I’d been away; that Locksley, Nottingham and indeed all of England might have collectively held its breath until I had returned from the Crusades. Noticing Much’s bewildered expression, I surmised he felt the same.

By the time we regained our composure, Edward was already shutting the door on us, mumbling something about not fraternising with anyone who might oppose the new sheriff’s authority. As we had yet to visit Nottingham and meet the new sheriff, I could do little else but wonder what kind of tyrant might be ruling over both my and Edward’s people.

Much hopped about on the doorstep for a moment and then, with a muttered, “We’ll see about this,” he rapped firmly on the closed and bolted door. He did so several times, but the door remained shut. It seemed Knighton, like Locksley, was off-limits to us.

Defeated, he turned away with a prolonged groan. I patted his shoulder in sympathy: I knew how much he’d been looking forward to getting something to eat at Knighton Hall. For myself, I could not have eaten a thing.

~

“I don’t believe it,” Much exclaimed as we headed back towards the forest. “Run out of Locksley. Turned away by Edward. What is going on? And when,” he added, viciously kicking a clod of earth, “am I going to get something to eat?”

Unbelievably, we spent the night in Sherwood Forest.

Jasmina remained in high spirits despite our setbacks. The forest could be our home she said and we could sleep beneath the stars. After I told her about the English climate, however, her enthusiasm waned.

Never one to stay downhearted for long, she soon invented a game of running ahead of us, hiding behind a tree and then jumping out at us with a squeal. I joined in with her games for a while in an effort to shake off my unhappiness; that is, until my side began to ache and I realised I’d pushed myself too hard. It had been several months since the king’s would-be assassin, a Saracen, stabbed me, but my wound was still apt to twinge and burn if I overdid things.

Much meanwhile continued to bemoan the fact that he had not eaten and that it was coming on night.

“At least in the Holy Land I had a tent,” he grumbled.

I have to admit that as twilight fell I was beginning to wonder where we could spend a halfway comfortable night.

Happily, we found a cave.

It was cold, dark, and full of bats. Much didn’t like it at all and let loose some foul language that made me block Jasmina’s young ears. In the end, though, he conceded that it was preferable to sleeping in the open.

He gathered some brushwood and managed to light a feeble fire while Jasmina and I poked about in the gloomy cave wondering where best to lie and checking nothing more sinister than bats was lurking in its depths. We stuck closely together because Jasmina was frightened of the dark and, truth be told, I don’t like the dark either.

“‘Well,” Much grumbled, rubbing life into his cold hands over the crackling flames, “I suppose I’d better go find something to eat before I starve to death.”

Jasmina poked me in the ribs before I could make some witty remark: the chance of Much starving to death was about as likely as me failing to win the Silver Arrow in the archery contest held in Nottingham each year, back when I used to compete, of course.

Much sighed, grabbed his bow and, whinging loudly, set off into the forest. I didn’t like the idea of him going off alone – he’d probably lose his way back to the cave – but I couldn’t leave Jasmina either. 

In the end, we all went. 

Much didn’t catch a thing and my deadly aim proved not so deadly for once. Cursing his bad luck, Much made do with a few berries for supper. I was glad not to eat them, even though I knew they weren’t poisonous; from the way Much screwed up his face as he chewed and swallowed, I guessed they didn’t taste too good.

Night fell and we settled down to sleep.

Jasmina and I spoke in hushed whispers until Much finally nodded off. Then she snuggled into my chest and wrapped her arms around me, as she did most nights. I stroked her hair and she kissed me goodnight – a soft brush of her lips to each cheek and then one on the end of my nose.

Occasionally, she chose to kiss my desert-chapped lips. I told her that she shouldn’t, though in truth I did little to discourage it, much to my shame – Jasmina was young enough to be my daughter. If Much was aware of what we did, he never let on.

Tonight, sensing her about to kiss my lips, I covered her mouth with my bow-calloused fingers and shook my head no. It felt even more wrong here than it did as we lay together in Acre, shortly before the boat brought us back to England.

She gave me a puzzled look, but, ever willing to please me, accepted my refusal, instead nuzzling into my neck and whispering goodnight, first in Arabic and then in English.

It turned out not to be a good night, as Much’s empty stomach rumbled and growled through most of it and Jasmina and I hardly slept a wink.