Sincerely dedicated to Glorious Clio and Denouement Intrusion for their kind readership and the most humbling reviews. Really, you two do wonders for a girl's habitual self-doubt!
Fables and the Emergent Dusk
Chapter Two
Robin's target practice has become incompatible with my stomach.
As boys, we'd tromp through the woods with toy bows and arrows in hand. Fortunately, our survival did not depend on our hunting skills. We were far too noisy. Rarely was spotted a creature at which to shoot and typically we brought an equal number of arrows out as we carried in. I admit I was rather heavy of foot and Robin could not resist pushing his faithful servant down every sloping hill. Truly, that trick only grew tiresome for one of us. Never did we return home clean. And never with food.
Food is still a point of contention in his bow training. Now we do not venture into the forest and pretend to seek robbers. Age has seen to a mature progression of activities. Rather, he shoots from a still, standing position at a post. A post topped with fruit. This change in technique did not bother me at first. His aim was such that he might strike the post in the attempt, but the food was blessedly spared. Therefore, whatever large and succulent melon he'd chosen would invariably sate our appetites later. But at nearly sixteen, Master Robin can mortally wound an apple from 50 paces. I'm still trying to hit the post. Many a grassy lump has suffered for my aim. While he finds vast opportunity for mockery, at least one of us is not wasting provisions. 'We'll be hungry one day,' I tell him, 'and long for that lemon you've gutted.' Of course, the rich man's son thinks this impossible. Plenty is his lot in life.
In the same vein of impossibilities was the Earl's announcement that war sits precariously upon our horizon. Although 'announcement' is possibly too strong a word. I overheard him divulge court murmurings to our weapons instructor. Well, 'overheard' is perhaps approaching untrue. I might have hidden under a window and eavesdropped.
Regardless, I listened as Robin's father relayed the worst of all lies; the rumors of nobility. In the past, such retellings have made me almost proud to bear no noble blood. A myth may be crafted about someone else for the sheer spite of it. It hardly requires the flexing of the smallest muscle to cause ostracism, rarely for any other gain than that of entertainment. I am not cured of the occasional white lie, but no one has ever been ruined by the deeds of my imagination.
The newest aristocratic whisperings involve our worthy King and his interest in exploring the Holy Land. At least, I hope it is mere curiosity that prompts his plan to visit heathens. The Earl viewed this as a military campaign, which apparently displeases him. Despite being a thorough despiser of the Turks and any other non-English pagan, the prospect of needlessly spilt blood enrages the old man. This surprises me, the fervor with which he condemns the notion. Our teacher, in the splendor of his religious piety, was eager to raise a sword to the hated pagans. With sweating effort, he controlled his tongue, as employment is such a fickle endeavor.
In my friendship with Robin, there are moments when I wish for a more open forum for discussion. This is one of those times. Eager as I am to bring these rumors to his attention, to debate their likelihood in the same way we dissect the motives of girls, I dare not mention this. Not the least of my concern is the manner in which I obtained the information, although should Robin have been present, he'd have had his ear as firmly to the wall as myself. But it is his reaction to the content that worries me. He has lately spoken of the lackings of this land; the adventures undertaken within the manor's confines are now child's play. There is no test of skill, no chance to advance a reputation, no way to gain sufficient notoriety. I say that he could easily achieve that last one, though it may bring quite a beating.
The word 'glory' is not used but the implication is ever present. I've reproached him with the reminder that some of us would not hesitate to reside in his father's considerable shadow, a place where want and need have no foothold. That this is not enough for him shows a flaw in character that should be taken to the nearest alter and sacrificed. The eye rolls I get for such statements are substantial. It was so much simpler when he just wanted village songs written for him. Now he wants glorious hymns.
I am not a coward. A cautious life observer, perhaps. A careful participant, yes. But I lack no bravery. I once dove into a heavily populated hog's pen to save a girl's life. Alright, it was the girl's shoe. But without it, she would have been required to limp home, which may have hurt her delicate foot. Gangrene could have set in after an innocent injury on the road and a leg might have been lost. So in the end, a life was indeed saved. Who would marry a one-legged woman? Clearly then, cowardice is not my natural inclination. But fear? Fear is the motivator of the very pulse within me. And there's nothing wrong with that. Except that yesterday's fear has melted into today's panic.
The issue is thus; should master Robin decide to seek glory in the inhospitable Holy Land, his manservant will be expected to journey with him. Even on the hasty battle field, a nobleman can hardly be asked to strap on his own armor. Should that servant refuse he can anticipate death by slow starvation, as he'll never work again. No one wants to employ someone neglectful in loyalty. But neither will anyone find work for a dead man, which will be my condition if I leave Robin's side. His father made that abundantly clear 6 years ago when Robin escaped my oversight and remained misplaced for two days. That he got lost and subsequently fell asleep in the forest had little bearing on the responsibility placed upon my nearly decapitated head.
Yes, I would go to the Holy Land, but only should my shameless begging fail to sway the errant master. Our first day there would see my death of sheer fright at being caressed by heathen winds. God will not follow us to that forsaken place, of this I am certain.
I think it wise to begin a campaign of my own. After all, one can never begin too early in sincere effort to hold off impending death. I could show him that death is no sort of life. Or perhaps I can make the prospect of war indigestible. Robin has taken a fancy to the future Lady Fitzwater, which could be exploited. Encourage him to pursue Marian to the point where leaving her open to other suitors could become unpalatable. He does so hate to lose.
Plan number three involves improving my swordsmanship to give evidence that he is not as invincible as he believes. A great deal of work would be needed and the more I ponder it, the more I seek plan number four. There is always the opposite approach. Bow training is akin to redrawing the sky for me and this ineptness could be displayed during the next target practice. An accidental arrow with a mind of its own could wander into a relatively harmless location in my master. After all, they would not take an already wounded nobleman into the ranks, would they? He will be livid with me for any injury but if it keeps English air floating into our nostrils, I am willing to cost him a hand or leg. True, they don't regrow, but surely he wasn't going to use the limbs in a godly manner anyway.
And then, in the creases of my musings I catch his silhouette in the clearing, drawing his bow against the foe of a post-inhabiting grape. When the shot is made, there is brotherly pride eclipsing the planning of harm. Besides, I probably would commit the deed incorrectly and enjoy an arrow to my own foot instead.
My heart, in truth, could not bring it to pass. He is a friend, my only one in this life and likely the next. Regardless of the measure of reluctance, where he goes I shall follow. It is the course of my life to trail the course of his. Right through the emergent dusk.