Chapter 43 | Robin
Feared for our safety? The thought sickened me.
Because I knew the truth. It all came crumbling down around me after Wulfric told us who had alerted the camp about our disappearance.
When we arrived at camp, one man down, the fury that had been fading in the background of my mind burgeoned to life. It flared so hot that my skin itched, and I felt as though my blood was boiling.
One thing cooled that sensation for a moment as Will and I pressed into camp, and noticed John, Tuck, Alan, and Briggs carrying Uncle Gregory’s body through the site, between the parted seas of our bandit brethren.
It wasn’t the sight of Gregory or my mates that tamped my anger: I was impressed with the stand the Merry Men and Oak Boys were willing to make in our absence. Had George’s army ambushed us during a night attack, they would have been met with cold steel and hard faces.
Even the whelps—the orphans and girls who had only recently started their training, were awake and wielding clubs, daggers, and farming tools to fight with.
One problem about the sheer size our group had grown to was that we didn’t have all the necessary weapons to arm everyone. Our coffers stolen from Sheriff George had been dwindling, and we hadn’t gotten a chance to acquire more spears, axes, and other inexpensive weapons.
So the girls had knives. The boys had roughly hewn bows and logs of wood shaved down to a point. Emma had been ready to lead the girls to war if it came to it. Rosco and his guttersnipes were ready with the veteran fighters and the boys.
I couldn’t help but smile proudly at the arrangement they made. It was a fierce expression of our resilience: girls and boys in trees like feral monkeys ready to pounce down on the heads of invaders; quivers full of arrows resting on the ground next to overturned barrels used for concealment; men stationed at every entrance into our camp.
The pride only lasted for so long before the vengeful wrath came back twofold when I saw her walking away from camp, into a tent.
Marian all but sagged into the tent, and I stormed after her, breezing past my comrades as they focused on the heart-tugging funeral procession of Uncle Gregory.
Mourning can wait, I told myself. I have things I need to get off my chest.
When I came to the tent with heavy footfalls, I faltered at the closed flap. I heard weeping on the other side. It was a broken sound, snotty sobs ripped free from wet lungs.
I stormed into the tent anyway, with my guard up and my fury dampened a bit.
Maid Marian was a sorry sight. She was huddled in the corner of the tent, against her cot, with her knees pulled up to her chest. Her head was between them, arms wrapped around her knees to hide herself from the world.
But she couldn’t hide from her treachery.
She couldn’t hide from me.
I stood over her. “Marian.”
She looked up with red-rimmed eyes spilling big droplets of tears down her cheeks. Her usually-pristine face was marred with streaks of dirt, and her hair was at ends, like she’d been yanking on her luscious curls for hours.
The sight of her startled me, and I lurched where I stood, head reeling. I had never seen Marian exhibit such emotion—never seen her weep openly, or show something so visceral on her face.
In fact, I’d never seen her show any real emotion at all. Everything with her was a ploy, a scheme.
Could be right now, too.
Marian had always been a guarded, snappy woman. A sarcastic succubus who got what she wanted with her quick wit, her snide comments, and her impeccable beauty.
Now . . . she looked broken.
Marian was clearly lost. Either that, or she was a better actor than I realized. If her state was anything to go by, her hubris had taken a dramatic hit—so much so that she didn’t try to hide her sorrow from me.
“R-Robin,” she croaked through her sobs, trying to bring down her hysteria. “This is all my fault.”
“I know, Marian.”
“I’m a horrible person!”
“I know.”
All I could do was nod. What was the point of denying what she said?
Wulfric’s words about Marian alerting camp sounded like she had done the right thing—that she had rounded up the troops for defense once we left, telling them what was happening on that southern hill next to Ravenshead.
But that had only stemmed from guilt, if anything.
She had also been the only other person around who knew of our plans. Everyone else who knew the plan had been in our group, fighting for our lives once we were ambushed in the wooded thicket beneath the hill.
That’s why it was so obvious Marian was our betrayer—yet again—once we had made it out alive and my brain could focus on logical, reasonable things.
Marian had helped us hatch the plan. She had been in the command tent tracing her finger over the map. Arguing with us about what to do. Getting her way, as usual, and veering the conversation in the direction she liked.
“Which is why,” Marian had said, “we must act preemptively. Get ahead of the bastard, before we’re get surrounded by Sir Montford and his horsemen.”
She had urged us to carry out this mission tonight.
“This is where Sheriff George will situate his command tent.”
Jabbing her finger on the map. Showing us the exact hill—with pinpoint accuracy. Will had agreed, being a native of Ravenshead, because it made sound sense.
How could I not have noticed? Why did I just go along with her assumption that George would settle in Ravenshead for a time and set up his base there? After razing the village to the ground, there was certainly no guarantee George would do that. I mean, wouldn’t a man trying to set up a base for hundreds of soldiers want to keep some of the buildings intact, rather than burning them to the ground?
And then, when it was discovered Marian had been right about the Sheriff’s location, why did I not question the coincidence of that?
Because I let my guard down with her, my mind said for me. She’d done two good things for us: helping us locate Bishop Sutton’s carriage, and then rescuing the orphans later that night from Muddy Meddlers . . . and I had naively thought it absolved her of all sin.
I was such a fool. So gullible to trust this witch.
“I told you not to trust me!” Marian yelled at me through her choked sobs.
She cried some more, pathetically.
The anger inside me, strangely enough, had subsided again. It was replaced by a deep sense of defeat and shame. Pity for this woman took root in my belly, no matter how hard I wanted to be furious at her.
“I wanted to give you a second chance,” I murmured in a low, faraway voice.
“And a third? A fourth? Don’t you see? I’m cursed.” Marian shook her head, hiding her face in her knees again. “Everyone who touches me dies! Your father to start—”
“Don’t you dare try to take credit for my father’s downfall,” I snapped with a snarl. “His demise was brought on by his own actions. Don’t flatter yourself with self-importance, Marian.”
I should have exploded on her harder. Should have laid into her.
But I was so tired. The lethargy creeping through my bones wasn’t just from the pain of my bruises, or the trauma of getting groped by George on the ground, or even all the death and carnage and running.
It went deeper than that, to my soul.
I was simply tired of being angry. Of being vindictive and wrathful. Of looking for someone to blame my problems on, so I could point to my doubts and say, “Well, if this person hadn’t done this thing, none of this would have happened.”
I was just as guilty as Marian, whether I wanted to admit it or not.
Of course, I wanted to know why she had done it. Why she had betrayed us this final time, when the stakes were highest, after seemingly turning over a new leaf and helping us with our run against Bishop Sutton.
What changed within her?
Clearly, whatever “unfinished business” she’d had in Nottingham had changed her perspective on things. Maid Marian was back where she started: untrustworthy, despicable, and wretched.
And now, with a new quality: sadness.
What is this? I wondered. Is she finally showing . . . remorse? Is it because she saw Uncle Gregory’s body being brought through camp, and it finally woke something inside her?
Or maybe she’s tired, too. Tired of being the villain in a story where she thinks she’s doing the right thing.
“I didn’t mean for anyone to die,” Marian eked out, lifting her head a fraction. “I . . . I had to do it. You don’t understand, Robin.”
“I don’t care anymore, Marian.” And that was the truth. When I shrugged my shoulders, staring down at this beautiful, pitiful creature, I felt a severance that would never be reattached. “I don’t need to understand. You’ve betrayed us for the last time.”
Her long lashes flickered, caked with tears. Her red eyes focused on mine, neck craned. “Maybe . . . if you were a mother . . . you’d understand.”
My eyes blew wide. What’s this?
I opened my mouth to retort—
And stopped.
No. Another one of her ploys. Another trick to get me to feel bad for her—to traipse into the world she’s created for herself.
Something inside me told me to let it go. The darkness I expected to take hold when I stepped into this tent . . . to guide my hand toward vengeance like it had done so prolifically in recent times . . . wasn’t there. It nagged at the back of my mind, begging to be unleashed, yet I kept it chained. Somehow.
I realized, perhaps for the first time, that Marian had no one besides herself. She lived this wretched existence, traveling from one camp to another, without loyalty. Now that she showed remorse—if it was even true—it was too little too late. This had been the final straw.
Now, she wasn’t worth the anger begging to be summoned. She wasn’t worth killing, either, or bad-mouthing, or goading.
She wasn’t worth anything.
I crossed my arms over my chest and stared down at Maid Marian, letting out a heavy sigh. “You must live with your decisions, Marian. I can no longer help you, and I no longer have the willpower to try. Stay if you wish—the orphans seem to like you. Or go. I don’t care.”
I crouched, wincing on creaking knees, to get to her level. My face was inches from hers, and my voice came out brooding and low. “Just know: You will never matter to anyone else more than you matter to yourself. I can’t save you from your ambition. I can’t fix you.”
The last sentence struck my heart, as I recalled Sir Guy saying those same words to Sheriff George as the bastard lawman tried to rape me.
Guy had stayed by George’s side because he thought he could fix something intrinsically broken inside the Sheriff.
I had done the same thing with Marian, to an extent, thinking I could change her. I realized that now. The folly of it—the heartbreak in Guy’s dark eyes before he plunged his blade through his monstrous friend’s neck.
Ultimately, Guy had died for his allegiance.
Not me, though. I wasn’t going to die for this woman. Enough people already had.
Some people simply didn’t deserve your trust, respect, and loyalty. Those things had to be earned, and once cut off, could never be recovered. Not in my mind, anyway.
Marian sniffled, pouting at me. Her chin trembled and she broke into another wave of tears, burying her face once more.
I stood to my full height and frowned.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have an uncle to bury.”