They buried him beside a stately oak tree deep within Sherwood. No one spoke as they lowered him in – no one had said much of anything since that evening – but she took Robin's hand as a prayer was said, feeling it slack around her own.
She wished she knew what to say to him, how to comfort him in such a way that would ease the suffering she saw within his eyes. Nothing seemed right, though. It was as if the world had been pulled off its path.
They had ridden fast for the Scottish border, wanting to be free from the long reach of the king as soon as possible. Joanna had come, as well as Maggie, the sole refugees from the forest camp who chose to go with them, rather than simply melt back into the fields and villages of the shire. Their destination was Dundee: John's family raised sheep and cattle some distance north of the city, on the edges of the Highlands.
After several days' ride, much of it through particularly bleak and rainy countryside, they finally arrived on the outskirts of the city. All they wanted was a place to warm themselves, where they could find a decent supper and a soft bed.
The sole inn they could find was dank and dirty, but the ale was cheap and the rooms cheaper. Rainwater leaked through holes in the ceiling.
There was little conversation over supper. She could feel their exhaustion and desire to simply put the day behind them. Will drank too much ale and tried to sleep with his head upon the table before they finally hoisted him to his feet and put him to bed upstairs.
She felt a small pleasure to discover they would have a room to themselves. They had not been alone since the morning of his capture, and if she was honest with herself, she knew she missed the feel of him. It was unclear to her what Robin was thinking – both with his injuries and his present state of mind – but she hoped that he might feel the same.
He shut the door behind him and looked at her as she perched on the edge of the bed. She swallowed.
He took a step forward, just as a knock rattled the door on its hinges.
His brow tight with confusion, he turned back to open it. A figure, swathed in shadow, held out a gloved hand. He passed over some sort of paper and a leather pouch to Robin before stalking wordlessly away.
"What is it?" she asked.
"A letter," he answered, closing the door. He sized up the pouch in the palm of his hand. "And something heavy."
"What does it say?"
"I don't know." He handed her the letter. "It's addressed to you."
She examined it closely, the smooth vellum, the elaborate calligraphy, and recognized her own Christian name, no more. She handed it back.
"Read it to me."
He tore back the heavy waxen seal and unfolded the paper, smoothing it in his grasp.
"'My dearest lady…'" Robin raised his eyebrows into points.
"Please continue," she said.
"'My dearest lady, I hope this message finds you in good spirits and good health. You may have heard of the events of late, but if not, it shall be my pleasure to relate them to you.
"'Robin of the Hood, the notorious outlaw who had terrorized the countryside for so long, was finally brought to justice and executed this past week within the confines of the Tower. The king did not attend, owing to some ailments which have long been troubling him, although he did send a representative.'"
He sat down, an arm's length away from her.
"'On the same day, one of the guests at my residence, the Sheriff of Nottingham, who had in fact brought the very same outlaw into royal custody, fell violently ill with fever and aches. He would let no one in to see him, excepting my person, despite my continued entreaties to fetch a physician. He continued to decline throughout the evening, finally speaking of seeing spirits flying through the air. In fear for both his life and his soul, I sent for a doctor and a priest, but as soon as I had done so, he overpowered me, knocking me to the floor of the chamber, and then in a delirious state, he escaped out of the house and fled into the darkened streets. Curiously, he has not been seen these five days hence, in spite of numerous searches within the city and the hinterland beyond. I worry that he has come to some unfortunate end and we might never know what has become of him.'"
"'Such strange events to relate, but I have no doubt that you will find some measure of comfort in them. I hope that you will also take comfort with the enclosed offering, which I ask you to accept as a token of my esteem. In our brief days of acquaintance, I must say that I was humbled by the strength of your devotion and determination. Had we met in another time and place, it would have been my honor to take to the field as your champion.
"'I remain, as always, your ladyship's humble servant.
"'William.'"
He laid the letter in his lap and fell back upon the bed covering.
"So this was your plan? The Sheriff being executed as an outlaw? Some patched-up excuse for his disappearance?"
She turned towards him, leaning down upon her elbows, deliberately not touching him.
"We didn't know what else to do. We couldn't leave you there."
He didn't look at her, but continued to stare at some unfixed point in the wooden rafters of the ceiling.
"You should have," he said quietly, as if only to himself.
"Please don't say that. Especially now."
He took a long and deep breath. She could see his chest tightening as he exhaled.
"Do you know what I thought about, when I was in there? I know that you want to think that I was busy planning my escape, that I was looking for some strategy, some way out…"
"It doesn't matter what I think."
She moved her hand towards him, as if to place it on his chest, but he caught her wrist and held it away from him.
"I was ready to die. I had imagined it, so many times. The long walk up the gallows steps, the feel of the rope around my neck, the priest's words. It was as if it had already happened." He turned his head towards her, his gaze catching hers. "I made my peace with God. He forgave me."
She slid her hand down into his, feeling the calluses of his palm, the warmth underneath.
"What have you done that you need forgiveness for?"
"Don't you understand? Everything that I've done – everything I am – has brought people into danger. And rather than meeting my creator with an unburdened soul, I had to watch my oldest friend die in front of me, knowing all the while it was my fault it was happening."
He turned on his side, curling into himself and burying his face in the rough fabric of the bed cover.
"I did this, Marion. I did this," he whispered, his face a misshapen grimace. "It's all my fault."
She lay down next to him, cupping his cheek with her hand and fanning her fingers around the side of his neck. She wished to Heaven above that she could take this from him, as if the pain could simply be transmitted into her through the ends of her fingertips.
"It's not your fault," she answered. "Alan came because he loved you, because he would never have left you behind. And if it had been him, you would have done exactly the same.
"We each make our own choices. You are not responsible for everything that happens. That burden does not belong to you."
He opened his watery green eyes. She wondered what he had looked like as a boy. Perhaps a little like this.
"He was my friend."
She drew him towards her, enveloping him in her embrace, all the world kept at bay.
"I know. He was mine, too."
In time, the candles burned down, the embers of the wick sputtering into a thin tail of smoke. The rain outside stopped, and a day was born into the starry indigo expanse of the sky.