Everything is a Choice

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Three days we waited. Will and Djaq offered us rooms until we could find a suitable passage, but I declined and the others weren’t about to argue with me.

We eventually found lodgings close to the harbour: a largish room for Allan, John and Much and a smaller one for me.  Much protested about the rooms, suggesting he and I should double up, but after a few pointed looks from Allan and John, he shut up, realising that I might want to be alone with my grief. 

I didn’t grieve, though.  I didn’t do anything.

I don’t know how my friends managed; none of them can speak the language, except Much, who has a smattering.  I guess they did all right; they never bothered me. I stayed in my room. A boy brought me food, which I nibbled occasionally but mostly threw out the window for the scavenging birds or beggars. I drank, though, an inexcusable amount. 

I could actually do with a drink now, to negate the effects of the last one.  Because although I’m still hung over, it’s starting to squeeze and twist and ache like some open wound – my heart that is.  Until this moment, I never realised that a piece of muscle and sinew could hurt so much; I mean physically hurt.  Sometimes I think it will simply stop, that the term heartbreak is not just a figure of speech.  Yet every morning I wake up to find I am breathing, while she is not.

“Master?”

I don’t know why Much is calling me that.  I’m not master of anything, not even my own spit. 

“It’s time to go aboard.”

“I need a piss first.”

“Fine, but you won’t be long will you?  I mean to say, the boat will be sailing soon.”

“No, Much,” I smile wearily, “I won’t be long.” I look around me.  Few places afford any privacy on the bustling waterfront.  Eventually, I spot a couple of rows of barrels stacked near the water’s edge that will shield me from onlookers.  With a surprisingly steady gait, I make my way over to them. 

It is refreshingly cool in the shade of the barrels and, for a few moments, I simply stand, my mind empty of all thought save the relief of being out of the pitiless sun.  But the relief only lasts a moment. Because the relative cool reminds me of shady trees, and trees remind me of home, and home reminds me of Marian. Oh, God, I miss you.

“Robin!” John, calling from the boat. 

I rest my forehead against one of the wooden barrels, breathing in its scent and wondering if the wood is oak. 

“Where is he?” Allan this time.

John calls again, louder, and I realise I’d better get on with it. I fumble with my laces, panicking that I’ll miss the boat and therefore my chance to get back to England and kill Gisborne.  “To hell with it,” I mouth in frustration; wet warmth runs the length of my inner thighs and beyond.  As I said – I don’t give a damn.

I stride purposefully back to Much, pushing him out of my way in my haste to get on board.  John is standing at the top of the gangplank. He offers me a hand and I gratefully take it.  John pulls me out the way as Much thuds onto the deck.

Once again, three pairs of eyes stare at me, waiting for me to organise them.  They take great pains to keep their eyes fixed at a point above my empty sword belt. I stare past them, at the tall mast, unable to meet their pitying looks.

Allan says, “Right, things to do,” and marches off, leaving John standing guard over our bags, Much chewing his bottom lip and me sorely regretting my don’t care attitude as one and then several more crew, or maybe passengers, give me bewildered looks.

Much throws down his satchel and plants himself protectively by my side.  A couple of deckhands nudge one another, sniggering.  Much shuffles closer until he is pressing into my arm.  My throat constricts; he still cares for me, despite the fact I’ve shunned his company these past few days.

Compulsively, I grab his hand and lead him away, blindly pulling him to a quieter part of the boat, my throat still so tight it’s hard to swallow.

“It’ll be all right,” Much mutters under his breath.  He looks at our clasped hands and whips his away with an embarrassed grin; and, although I can’t explain it, I wish he hadn’t let go.

To hide my tear-filled eyes, I turn my head to look out to sea, watching as the boat pulls away from the harbour, away from the land where my beloved Marian sleeps her eternal sleep.  I can’t believe I’m leaving her behind. 

Allan and John eventually find us and, once again, they and Much resume their conversation about the likelihood of the boat making it to France, while all I can think is that if the boat goes down, because I’m the only swimmer among us, I might survive while they all drown.  The irony of it is not lost on me.

“Allan’s got us cabins,” Much beams.

I simply nod.  It doesn’t surprise me.  Allan could probably get you the moon if you asked him to. But you can’t get me Marian back, can you? 

I walk away. Because I hate them and I don’t want to hate them.