ENGLAND - Allan-A-Dale and Aislinn Scarlet have left to intercept the path of the Sheriff's man, and the outlaws' camp is quiet for a moment before the next move in the unfolding chess match against the Sheriff and Gisborne.
Luke has sought out a moment alone with Robin, and together they have been silent, their interior, unshared musings on separation from their wives surprisingly similar.
Luke: [gestures to Robin's wrist] I should like to make one such as that of Aislinn's locks.
He is not as fastidious about avoiding the subject of Marian as those in the gang who were witness to her gruesome passing.
Luke: Could you show me how?
Robin: [a bit startled, as though out of a dream. He had forgotten Luke was there] Ahh, it was already woven for a plait when Marian tied-[stops, does not correct himself immediately. Lets the words hang between them, seeping into the air until they become part of Sherwood's atmosphere]
When he continues speaking, still not backtracking on what he has said, he sticks to the truth, if being somewhat inexact in his word choice.
Robin: [continuing] -when it was cut and tied together with this thong. Myself, I do not know how to make the plait.
Robin feels bleak at having sent away Luke's wife, and now at being unable to help him fashion a wanted remembrance of her.
Robin: [as if to console Luke over his own lack of help] Perhaps the weaver-woman on the road to Bonchurch Lodge may help you, Old Tara as is her name. [considers] She is friendly to the gang.
Luke: [onto a new topic] Let me thank you now, Robin, for what you have given us, Aislinn and myself, before what is to come might get in the way of such thanks. It is good to be in the forest-
Robin: [good-naturedly interrupts. He has had enough gratitude] It is good to once again be stealing sacks of flour for the poor?
Luke: [smiles with the memory] It is good to fight for Robin Hood...and King Richard.
Calais, FRANCE, Court of Philip II - Queen Eleanor and her retinue of attendants have arrived, and the holiday atmosphere has hit fever pitch.
Marian has found herself to be almost 'wooed' by the French king, as he seems determined to discover if the child she carries is truly Richard's. A simple, "yes" and she feels as though she has the power to change history-at least for the present moment.
But Eleanor refuses to allow outright assertions in the matter, believing obfuscation and misdirection to be better wielded in the cause of keeping Prince John and Philip apart. And in keeping Philip in line with his previous comradeship with Richard.
The attentions paid Marian and her ever-expanding waistline by Philip come almost daily, like scenes in an on-going mating dance. It does not hurt matters that Philip finds himself also captivated by her company.
As is another visitor to the Court: Season Two, Episode Two's Count Friedrich Betrand Otto von Wittersburg of the German duchy of Bavaria has brought a generous money chest and his aggressive gaming appetite for risk to Calais, looking for excitement, but hardly expecting to find Marian of Knighton under an assumed name and glowing expectantly with child.
"My lady," he greeted her as she occupied the arm of the King (too suave to reveal her here secret identity). You are somewhat changed since last we met." It was literally the mother of all understatements.
Marian: Quite happily so, I must confess.
King Philip: Ah, but are you disposed to confess any more to us this day, Lady Matilda?
Marian: No, your Highness. I believe I will keep any other confessions for my next trip to shrive.
The King is called away, leaving Marian and the Count alone.
Count Booby: [charmed to see her, but curious] Are you now, Lady Marian, doxy to the French King? I wonder, is there nothing you cannot accomplish if given time-and a suitably stimulating dress?
Marian: No, Philip believes I carry the child of King Richard.
Count Booby: [impressed, but far from displeased] And do you?
Marian: The Queen has forbade me speak on the subject.
Count Booby: Fascinating! What risk, what shocking odds you play. But, is the jeu winnable?
Marian: Does it matter so much to you?
Count Booby: [with his typical relish] It would certainly be an exciting position to find oneself in. Either way, danger would surely ensue. [pauses a moment to think] I know many nobles, royals, even, who would pay handsomely for such information, or to have you "delivered" to them.
Marian: [not taking it seriously] My, but you are well-connected.
Count Booby: But, in the end, the whole affair would be politically fraught. Which is on the whole tedious. And I have never cared much for tedium. [pauses a moment to think] But if you find the adventure ever overwhelms the tedium, you will find, I think, that Bavaria is the place for you. There is a lovely, yet cozy chateau recently vacated by a mistress of my father's (Finally she has died!). It is in need of a new occupant.
Marian: [bemused at his propositioning her] So you invite me in order to bed me?
Count Booby: Well, as the father of your child seems to be, hmm, in absentia-and your considerable beauty and thirst for danger obviously not diminished by your blossoming figure-
Marian's expression shoots down his indecent proposal.
Count Booby: Ah, you have me. You may have the house at your disposal, no strings attached. But I should like leave, as landlord to visit you there.
Marian: It is a very kind offer. I shall remember it. And you. [eagerly] Now, share with me all the excitement you have encountered since last I met you.
ENGLAND - At Allan's suggestion, as the Sheriff's man leaves for Dover, and then on to Calais, Robin and Company engage Gisborne and his men elsewhere, allowing the Sheriff a sense of 'I-love-it-when-a-plan-comes-together-ness', believing his plans (whatever they may be) for this man still secret from all who might choose to oppose them.
As Robin and Gisborne tangle with one another, upon seeing the bracelet of Marian's hair, and intuiting what it is, Gisborne slices it neatly from Robin's wrist with his sword (leaving a smarting cut-mark in its place) and claims it for his own. So energized is he by this victory, he fails to feel annoyance at that day being overall bested by Hood and the Sherwood Lads.
Upon Marian's death at his hand, rather than despising her for what she proved in truth to be to him in the end, his somewhat broken mind (bruised and battered from the experience) has re-styled her into being much as he believed her to be on the eve of their wedding in his heart to heart with Locksley's Thornton.
In the coming days he will cut some of his own hair and re-plait the token-joining his with Marian's. It is to become more sacred to him than a piece of the True Cross.
Robin, conversely, is left only with Gisborne's cut to recall his once-cherished touchstone to the living Marian.
Adjacent woods near the Inn at Dover, ENGLAND - As the Sheriff's man stops in to quaff ale before the crossing to Calais, Allan and Aislinn make the final preparations for their charade. Allan considers shaving himself clean (as minstrels generally are), but Aislinn waves him off the idea.
Aislinn: Perhaps your being so mustachioed will not make my own face being so very bare stand out.
Allan: That's not a bad thought, that. Well, then, [going over checklist in his mind] have you bound your bosoms?
Aislinn: [flatly] The fact that you have to ask is a little disconcerting.
Allan: Yeah, well, sorry, there.
Aislinn: Never thought I'd have a moment to feel glad I'm nearly flat as a board.
Allan: Well, [oddly knowing] havin' yer children'll fix that right enough. [trying to make up for slighting her figure] Until then, when we get back I can show you how to help yourself [waves to the area with his hand] up there.
Aislinn shoots him a 'that's a queerish things for you to say' look.
Allan: [in his defense] Been in tavern's me whole life, ain't I? You learn more'n a few things about illusion and sleight of hand.
Aislinn: Your whole life?
Allan moves 360 degrees around her, convincingly arranging her clothing, her hair, even ordering her to rough up her fingernails and cuticles for appearances' sake.
Allan: [mutters to self] You're too pretty a boy, still. Can't put too ridiculous a face on it. Your boyishness has to come out somewhere. [Tears a small run in her hosen.] Allan: [satisfied, now speaking to her] There! Repair that less-than-perfect. [giving it a backstory] You got that climbing a tree. Now that's something boys do.
Aislinn: But ladies like a soft-handed, bare-faced minstrel, gently spoken.
Allan: Aye, that they do, but it ain't the ladies we have to convince. 'Tis the lords, Asher. That's what we'll call you by: Asher. You'll be my pupil, my unofficial apprentice. It is to keep the lords from smelling a fake that we must 'boyo' you up.
Aislinn: [still insecure about the hair, nothing more devious in her mind] Did you say I was pretty?
Allan: [not missing a beat, as though he's planned this speech] Look, Asher, I'm a straight talker, so I'm gonna tell you now: It's never gonna happen. When I say; 'it's cold tonight, let's sleep back to back'. That's what I mean, and that's what it's going to be.
Aislinn begins to hold in a smile as she sees where this preemptive rejection is going.
Allan: Don't worry for me [as if she were], I'll get mine. We'll meet people along the way, we'll play the occasional tavern or ale house. I'll get mine. You? You'll have to wait for yours. Until we get back. [warns] If necessary, I'll see that you have to wait. I'll not have you out sinnin' against our Lukey. [changes tone] I think of you as my little sister.
Aislinn: [quietly correcting him per her disguise] Brother.
Allan: Though I ain't got no little sister [grins casually] as I know of.
Aislinn: What? Are you not in contact with your family?
Allan: [matter-of-factly] Ah, well, my mum was a hard-time good-time girl. You know what that is?
Aislinn: I can guess.
She begins to inexpertly darn her now-removed hosen, per his instruction.
Allan: My first memories are of the tavern where she worked, being looked after by one of the other girls when she was with a paying customer [checks to see if she is shocked]
She is not.
Aislinn: So you mean to say you do not know your father?
Allan: Story was that it was his death what began the hard times. Story was that they were proper married. But may be all that was a story: past decency to hang on to, to try and overcome present humiliation. Dunno. Got four half-brothers from my mum: Aidan, Aaron, Owen and Eamon. Got a fifth one, hanged by the Sheriff.
In her sloppy darning, stabs her hand with the needle. He gestures her to blot the blood with the hosen, perfecting its bona fide appearance.
Aislinn: And your mum?
Allan: [without negative emotion, rather factually] Passed on. She were an awfully pretty woman though. Even at the end. [stands to stretch from where he has been sitting] Even if I do say so myself.
Aislinn: [in wonderment] You always do put such a bright face on things.
Allan: Well, Mum used to always say, 'Life is full of enough grief'.
Aislinn: So it was a good life?
Allan: [lightly snorts] It was not a terrible life (I have since seen far worse), but I would wish it on no one. But neither would I judge one who has taken to it.
Aislinn: [reflecting] I thought on it once.
Allan: [disbelieving] What, when you were seven?
Aislinn: No, before Luke. He is not my first husband.
Allan: [bewildered] So a true cradle-robber was that one?
Aislinn: I was given by my dead father's brother to the Scarborough blacksmith in marriage (to settle a debt) when I was fourteen. He was widowed, with children to raise. It was not an-intimate-marriage, you understand. I cooked, cleaned, sewed and minded the children, and took on the brunt of their father's occasional anger and bouts of drinking for them. I wanted to run. Tavern slut in another town where I was not known seemed the only career path opened to me.
Allan: [genuinely curious-he had not expected this] So what happened?
Aislinn: Luke was apprenticed to him at the forge.
Allan: [clueless] And?
Aislinn: [as if one sentence explains it all] I saw Luke. I fell in love. You don't believe in love at first sight?
Allan: [answers with a question] Can you see something you're not looking for? Seems to me you can't love something you're entirely ignorant of. Can't know you love a good brisket until you've tasted it. Seems to make more sense knowing something before loving it.
Aislinn: [shrugs, not contesting his view] My husband died unexpectedly. His extended family took in the children, and along with my widow's portion, Luke and I were able to bid on and buy the forge.
Allan: So you knew you loved him at first sight?
Aislinn: Aye. I did. And I have never wavered from that moment to this.
Allan: [startled by the confidence and resolve in her story, in her complete certainty of self. So, he jokes] [pointing] You. Are dangerous. I shall not turn my back on you.
FRANCE - Court of Philip II - Count Friedrich the Booby is at Court (and at Philip's gaming tables) for perhaps a month, then is recalled to Bavaria on matters relating to his lands and estates. Marian is sorry to see him go.
She is approaching her seventh month and soon will be confined to chambers until the child's birth, a confinement she dreads most especially after her confining convalescence in France, that lonely experience still fresh in her memory.
She dreams often of the Nightwatchman. Always she encounters him in a village. The moon is high, but when he removes his mask, the face revealed (half-hidden in the shadows) is one she knows not. It is surely not her own.
She awakens from these dreams sour and out-of-sorts, feeling more sharply than ever her current sidelined uselessness.
"Perhaps it is the child's face you see," Salima attempts to encourage her. "Carrying out his mother's legacy."
"Don't be ridiculous," was as far as Marian got in reply, censoring herself before she could add; "there will be no need for Robin Hood or the Nightwatchman in my child's adult life!" though it was very much her particular hope.
Besides, she rather thought the child would prove a girl.
"How delightful," she gloated, "were it to be a girl! Robin, who has charmed far too many a lass in his day might find himself at the mercy of one, wrapped around a wee girl babe's finger."
"Men prefer boys and heirs," came Salima's predictable reply. "Certainly this holds true in England as well as elsewhere."
"Salima, you are very dour," Marian pouted on her. "I command you," (though she had no power to do so), "to stop it. You must say only bright, charming things for the next quarter hour!"
"The sooner you are delivered and free of this couch," Salima replied, "say I charmingly, the better!"
Having had a bit too much of her twitterpated with happiness charge, she went in search of some distraction for Marian. Perhaps she could find Tristan free of his kitchen duties and willing to sit with the bubbly Lady Matilda. Her own nerves, straining with jumbled emotions could take no more for now. She felt a strong pull to join Marian in her every delight over the coming child, but Salima's own history and experience cut that choice out from under her. She could do nothing with her whole heart.
She feared for the life of this miracle child, which she herself longed to hold. She feared for the heart of Marian should it not live. And feared for herself and what grim path she would be sent down should Marian not live (not to mention the loss of her best and only true friend on earth). And she feared greatly (for perhaps she understood it better) for this dangerous game they formed the central conundrum of-this riddle of parentage Queen Eleanor so aggressively promoted.
Only today Salima had heard the newest (completely unsubstantiated) rumor: that Richard would hold off on claiming to have fathered the child, waiting for its healthy delivery. If it were a boy, he would own it for an heir, despite his wife, Berengaria, and her thus-far barren womb. If it were a girl he would set it up handsomely in perpetuity for the future; for alliances and fealty between countries could still be well-sealed through a marriage, even to a king's bastard daughter.
But what, Salima wondered, would be done to a child unmasked as Robin Hood's? And to the mother believed (though not of her own accord) to have falsely put it forward to have been sired by the King?
Salima did not doubt for a moment that she and Marian, (and the child) were alone. Without Richard here in body to protect them (assuming, in his absent way, the King still recalled the path he had set them on), they had not a hope in the world for any assistance the moment the truth broke. And Salima knew (though she had never heard the phrase) that though the truth might set one free, it sent just as many to their death, or on a mad run for their very lives.
TBC