This is the last chapter of what is expected to be my final Robin Hood post. Much appreciation to all who have given my tales a chance over the last few months. Your encouragement and kindness have been my inspiration.
Be well, be blessed and smile.
Zaedah
Valiant Splinters
They think me a fool.
With my pretty hair complimenting my pretty gown covering my pretty shoes, they see the embodiment of pretty ignorance. The secrets of men are intended to glide untouched over the heads of our simpler gender. These times have rendered it improper for women to doubt the professed constancy of her mate. Yet many a new bride, having steadfastly guarded her virtue, clasps the hand of an unfaithful groom. The noble Lady Fitzwater is specifically expected to suffer blindness to the world, the one where lies are as commonplace as ale. But my love well knows my wits and perception are sharp. In the end, it is a matter of proof and my lacking it creates the illusion that no indiscretion exists. As though truth requires sight. Whatever disruption of vision I may possess is not forged by deception, but rather by choice.
They think me a fool.
Because I accept the prospect that another rests with my beloved this night. Because I am aware little resting will actually be accomplished. Because I love him regardless. Having known him in youth, I have watched the appeal of his lithe frame and free spirit entice the strictest girl to swoon. Blind, perhaps, but is that not how love is said to be? While I might pronounce that suspicions do not impact me, I will admit to a roaming eye of my own. Only not for suitors. Whether dressed as nobility at the castle or disguised in the Watchman's vengeful leather, I engage in daily tasks with an examining eye upon England's flock of females. In order to keep some vestige of sanity, I turn the inescapable gazes into a game. Telling myself I can discern his preference in a lover, women are quickly sorted by first impression: This one's too red. That one's just thin enough. Too timid. Lovely features. Awfully tall. A laugh pleasantly warm. A sob gratingly false. Married. Seeking. In truth, it could be any combination of features that draw him to someone, but intuition assuages thoughts of multiple interests. No, my love is capable of singular devotion and therefore I believe there is but one. And I apply pardon on the basis that the dalliances may not be performed under his complete control. For such a strong, determined leader, he can be so easily led.
They think me a fool.
Even as I submit to the work of unsought forgiveness, I fear. Should the conclusion of present turmoil result in our marriage, how might I be certain he will not stray? How will I know that I am enough? Far too much reflection has been committed to explorations of my shortcomings, holding them up to the sullied lamp of an experienced woman. I possess no special skill in private matters, being innocent in this one area of life. Perhaps I will disappoint when the emotion of love does not equate to physical satisfaction.
They think me a fool.
Because I speak not of indiscretion, lips untainted by accusations or gossip. Perhaps he relies upon my careful silence to redeem him. I never ask, so he will not be forced to lie. I never ask, so he will not be tempted to tell me the truth. There remains a possibility that this folly is the product of lonely imaginings. In my longing for him, have I created a rival? But when his fury is beheld, I cannot help questioning what manner of relief is employed. I have not known him to find calmness within and must wander what source is being dredged to provide it.
He thinks me no fool.
We have been known to disagree.