Blinded by rage, Robin followed Marian to their room to continue confronting her about the letter he believed she'd written to Gisbourne. Her tears cut through him like slashes from a sword, but he hardened his heart, believing they testified to her guilt. He didn't stop to consider their true source was his lack of trust in her, magnified by her delicate condition.
"What I want to know is," he snarled, pointing his finger at her as she lay sobbing on their bed, "how you could so deceive me, all this time making me think you cared only for me, while deep in your heart, you just couldn't decide between us!"
Tears gave way to anger, as Marian regained her dignity. Sitting up, she glared back at him, her chin held high. "You really believe me capable of that?"
"I have proof!"
Isabella's forgery was crushed in his fist, which he lifted in accusation. Marian mistakenly thought he meant to strike her, though she never would have believed her noble-hearted Robin capable of such a deed. Bravely, she refused to flinch, readying herself to strike back.
"I was a fool to ever care for you, Robin of Locksley, since it seems you're no different from Gisbourne, after all," she told him, hiding her hurt behind a show of proud defiance.
Robin felt the sting of her words. "How am I not different?" he shouted. "Gisbourne's a murderer, a man with no conscience, a man who takes pleasure inflicting pain on good, decent, innocent people...my people, whom I thought you cared about!"
"Are you so different, deriving pleasure from the pain you're inflicting on me?"
"You're hardly innocent. And this is not pleasure."
"You really believe that, don't you? Get out."
"Gladly!"
Without another word, Robin turned on his heel and strode from their room, surprising his wife. Open mouthed, she heard him below in the yard, thundering away on the back of his horse.
...
Robin didn't return home that night, and Marian refused to go hunting after him. It was the first night since they'd shared a bed, that he willingly stayed away.
Marian tried not to let her thoughts dwell on him, forcing herself to appear cheerful and not waste a moment brooding over his stubbornness. Yet she couldn't help being miserable over their argument, missing their close tenderness toward one another and his sunny smile. She assumed he must be spending the night at Bonchurch, and she hoped Much would help him to see reason.
But Robin was not at Bonchurch.
Needing to think, he'd galloped off alone to his former outlaw camp in Sherwood, where he spent the night without the comforts he had planned to pack to delight the company of his wife and child.
He could not sleep, but spent the night in tortured agony, longing to meet Gisbourne so he could kill him, as he wished he'd done years before when he'd had the chance.
Tomorrow would be Sunday, and he felt compelled to join his wife and daughter in their front pew in Locksley Church, for the peace of his village. But there was no peace in his heart.
Towards dawn, still believing in Marian's falseness, he dropped off to sleep, only to be further tormented by dreams of Guy of Gisbourne kissing his once beloved wife.