Dear Robin,

I am probably going to end up blotting out most of this letter and replacing it with dull and tedious facts of my life, but said in a witty way that will hopefully make you laugh. But at the moment, I don't really feel quite up to balancing that line of dull and amusing, so I'm going to be blunt with you.

You understand, don't you? I mean, half the time you go about laughingly forcing the high and mighty Norman lords to give you all their money as they pass through the forest, but the rest of the time you're serious and worried and frowning and moping about being and outlaw with all your honor gone and how you ought to be doing a better job protecting your men and the people of England.

So here I am, me, being blunt. I'm completely in love with you, Robin. Don't laugh. No, you wouldn't laugh; you'd look at me with a horrified expression and start slowly backing away, murmuring excuses why you can't love me back. But that's why I'm telling you in a letter, a letter you'll never read for the majority.

Robin, I miss you. Lots. I see you at least twice a week, if not more, but I wonder, do you see me? Or are you lost in your duties and your trees and everything else? I suppose it's better that way, because you're right. You're always right.

It makes me so angry sometimes, how right you are. That's probably why we fight so much. I just want to yell at you for being so sensible, and tell you to stop it all and just tell me how completely and utterly in love with me you are. Oh dear, Robin. I really am a lost cause.

Sometimes I think you should forget your duties and only think of me. I go to a different world when I leave my father's estate and the proprieties of society to come to Sherwood. I feel apt to losing myself amongst the towering trees, and I don't think I'd ever find me again. It's so different there, with the bards fiddling away and your men always laughing and practicing shooting and people coming and going.

Then I have to go to back to the real world, where no one is so merry and everyone says exactly what they don't mean in soft voices, all the while smiling as they imply the most dreadful insults. It's suffocating. I don't think you understand, far away in your forest.

I want to be with you, Robin. I want to leave the insincerity of the rich and live with you in Sherwood Forest and forget about the world. You make me feel happy and alive again, not confined to estates and stations in life. You make me feel like myself. And that's why I yell at you, Robin, because after all that you tell me to act sensibly and hint at how we could never be.

I admire you for it, though. I wouldn't want you to think that I don't. I like to think that you're heroic in that you are completely in love with me and yet deny me because you know it to be the right thing to do. Sadly, I can't make that assumption. I admire you anyway, though, because you give up everything for your men and your king and country. You let people say what they will about you and protect them anyway, no matter how horrid they make your reputation.

That's why I love you, Robin, and respect you more than anyone else I know. You have more honor and have made more sacrifices than any other man in England. So no matter how many times you refuse to even acknowledge my flirtations, I remain, forever, in love with you.

I will blot that all out shortly. Now, to the real issues at hand.

I told everyone in town the most lovely story about you today, Robin. You know how greatly I enjoy telling the world of your incredible feats. I told them how you singlehandedly saved seven children from a raging fire, lit by the Normans, of course, because their parents couldn't pay their taxes.

It was really very brave of you, Robin dear. You merely swept into their crumbling house and carried them out one by one. Or perhaps it was two by two. I don't remember now. And you were very nearly killed yourself by the horrid fire. You got some minor burns on your hands. Do you have any burns on your hands, Robin? Some villagers might look for some, if they ever see you.

And before you scribble back to me that I should stop spreading such gregarious rumors about you, read the rest of the letter. The story isn't entirely not true. You remember when you told me about that burning house you were near? You saved those four children lingering nearby, almost crushed by that burning column that was about to fall on them.

So see, it's not completed unfounded. Just exaggerated, and the story would have gotten exaggerated anyhow. Everyone exaggerates things these days; I merely started the story off with grandeur. And don't write back calling me a gossip-monger, because I think I might cry.

I'm going to be blunt with you again. And again, cross it out most likely. But Robin, please, don't reprimand me for the stories I spread. I need my stories, Robin. They're all I'll ever get of you. I know I can't have you, and I won't ever have you; you've nearly told me as much. But I can have your stories and spread your marvelous reputation all over England.

You don't know what they say about you, Robin. Some of it is horrible, and it makes me so angry! You're a good man, and I want the world to know. Some of them do. You're some people's hero, Robin, lots of people. All the poor people you've helped, they were oppressed and in desperation. Now they have something to hope for. I want the rest of them to know. So I spread stories about you. Don't try to stop me, please, Robin.

Anyhow, it was a good story, and my audience listened attentively. Then I had dinner with my father and Sir Guy of Gisbourne. It was rather dull, and afterwards Guy walked with me around the estate. He's a fair conversationalist. Not remarkable, but he does pay attention to what I say, unlike some people I know who are a bit preoccupied in saving all the Saxons in the world.

Not that I mind, Robin. It's actually rather amusing how I can say nearly anything to you and you merely nod demurely. Though occasionally you'll afterward stop and give me an odd look, and I laugh.

I'll come to Sherwood on Thursday, I think, if I can get away. I am having a brunch with Lady Georgiana, and then I am free the rest of the day. Perhaps we could have a rematch on our archery contest? But make Will and Alan and John join in, so I can beat them at least before being overrun by your magnificent shot.

I'm sending this letter by way of my stable boy; I think I'll tell him to gather walnuts for me in the forest. Please don't frighten him too much, Robin; you can often be rather overbearing when you come across unaccompanied fellows in the forest. He's a good boy; I want him back with all of his faculties.

With all sincerity,
Marian Fitzgerald