Chapter 21
"What if..." a panicked thought flashed through Robin's mind.
- The oracle does not lie," said the Baron, "your heart tells you so.
The black magician could read Loxley's mind like an open book.
- The future isn't predetermined, Robin. It depends on the path we choose. The mirror showed you what would happen if you made the right choice.
- What if I don't? - Loxley said thoughtfully, "What if I refuse to submit to your will...? What would happen to Marion?
The Baron sighed.
- Well, I'll let her go. But you can see the consequences of that decision right now.
The sorcerer again passed his hand over the dark surface of the magic stone, and the first snow-covered Hobb's Field appeared before Robin. It's flooded with moonlight, the snow sparkles and shimmers, but no, it's not a serene moonlit night. People, lots of people, peasants, Nottingham residents - many carrying lit torches, excitedly discussing something, and pointing their hands towards the centre of the crowd, Robin can see their eyes burning with excitement and curiosity. Mounted guards shove and crowd them. Someone had already been slapped by an armoured soldier. However, this did not cool the fervour of the curious gawkers, who stretched their necks trying to see something ahead and whispered. Robin recognised the words, "A witch, that's the impure power..."
As if at someone's command, the crowd parted, and Robin saw Marion on the smooth surface of the witch's mirror. Lost and gaunt with dishevelled hair, she stood chained to a post in the middle of Hobb's Field. In the torchlight Robin could see her face clearly. It was deathly pale, frightened and miserable, with streaks of tears glistening wetly on its cheeks. She was wearing the fur coat that Tuck had once carefully made for her from hare skins. Quite long, but it didn't hide her rounded belly. Robin saw him as clearly as he saw the bundles of kindling at her feet. Loxley's eyes widened. He clutched his hand frantically at the edge of the black stone. He knew what was happening, but he didn't want to believe it.
- Your beloved will be accused of conspiring with the devil.
De Bellem's voice was steady and calm.
- It will be some time after your death. The sheriff will declare you a godless man, and an enemy of all Christendom. Marion, as your accomplice, will be declared a witch and sentenced to death. What you are seeing is the last moments of her life.
Loxley was silent. His jowls were churning. He tried desperately to concentrate his thoughts. Could it be true? It seemed unthinkable, but knowing the sheriff, he knew he was capable of more than that.
- No one will come to her rescue," the Baron continued in the same impassive tone, "All your friends will be dead by then. They'll be hanged. The poor thing is doomed. She is destined to be martyred. She'll scream and call out for you. But you won't be there to spare her from her cruel fate. Can you go on living knowing you did nothing to save her?
The Baron spoke the last sentence almost in a whisper above Robin's ear. There was a pause. Locksley remained silent. Every word of the sorcerer felt like a whiplash. He wouldn't hesitate to sacrifice his life for Marion. But what the Baron was offering him to save her was quite possibly worse than death.
- People won't allow it," he finally said with difficulty, "They know Marion. She has always been kind to them, her generosity is well known.
- People?! - exclaimed the Baron.
He turned round sharply, and the flaps of his cloak flapped like the wings of a sinister black bird. Taking a few steps to the side, he turned again and stared at Loxley.
- You mean those poor ragamuffins you fought for with your lives? Those miserable peasants whose whole existence is about stuffing their bellies and grumbling at the authorities? Oh gods!
The Baron rolled his eyes, then gusted closer to Loxley again, looking at him point-blank with his serpentine gaze.
- This scum you call people aren't worth a penny of the money you've extracted for them by gutting the wallets of the rich. Those born to crawl on their bellies know no gratitude. Today they will take bread and money from your hands, and tomorrow they will come to watch your execution. Or the execution of those you care about. It's entertainment for them. There was metal in the sorcerer's voice. There was no trace of his former icy calm.
- See for yourself if you don't believe me. Look at the gawkers who came to watch your beloved die a painful death. By Asriel, you'll see many familiar faces.
And Robin looked. But I wish he hadn't.
The fluctuating light of the torches created bizarre shadows that fell across the faces of those present, distorting their features, but Loxley recognised them. Those faces were imprinted on his memory along with the cruel, hurtful words once hurled at him with disdain:
"- Go away. It's too dangerous. You're an outlaw.
- We've come to your rescue many times. Doesn't that mean anything?
- Why don't you get back to Sherwood? Go away and leave us in peace."
The peasants of Calwinton. They were the ones who had chased Robin and his free archers out of the village when they had asked for help. Their deed was a heavy blow to Loxley and left a deep wound in his heart. And now he sees them again, very close to where Marion was executed.
Robin clenched his teeth and stared desperately into their faces, trying to see a shred of compassion in them, but in vain. Their gazes were blank and indifferent, quite like then... One of them even busily picked up a couple of twigs that had fallen out of a bundle of brushwood and set them back down, close to Marion's feet.
Robin closed his eyes with a muffled groan, and when he opened them, he saw one of the soldiers holding a torch to the brushwood, and the flames gradually burst into flames, devouring the dry branches. None of those present even moved from their seats. They stood and watched. A crowd of identical grey faces and indifferent eyes.
Loxley reached out and ran his hand over the surface of the black mirror as the Baron had done earlier. The vision faded into a haze and disappeared. All that remained was the reflection of Locksley himself. A reflection of the man the heavens had just collapsed and buried him under the weight of its debris.