Work Text:
1.
"The tragedy! The sadness!"
Marian slammed the book shut as Robin dropped from the tree behind her, clutching his heart and falling to his knees.
"Must you always go spying on me in trees?"
"It works rather better than trying to spy on you in the open. Must you always read sappy romances? You're always in a bad mood afterwards."
"Tristan and Isolde is good literature, you uncultured oaf, and can I help it if I despair of ever being treated like a proper lady?" Marian scrambled to her feet, but when she raised her eyes she had to look away from the intensity of his gaze above his insolent grin.
"You would get annoyed if you were always treated like proper lady. And don't you get bored reading silently, all by yourself?"
"I find reading very engaging, thank you."
"Only when your father's got use of your horse."
She rolled her eyes and walked away, which resulted in Robin chasing her all the way back to Knighton and them collapsing exhausted and happy by the creek. Robin reached out to brush an errant hair from her face and she threw a walnut at him, blushing all the while.
2.
"That's the third time I've seen the armourer here this week. Your father's not thinking of going on crusade, is he?"
Robin looked down at the apple he had been idly playing with, his attempts to juggle having come to nought. Slowly, he crossed the room to stand near Marian at the window.
"No," he said, fidgeting with the apple. "But I am."
"You can't be serious," was the first thing out of Marian's mouth, though she already knew from his expression that he was.
"What, you don't think I can hold my own?"
"I think that we're engaged Robin, and we can't exactly get married if you're not here."
"That's nothing to worry about. I'll sweep into the Holy Land with the king, take back Jerusalem, win silks and jewels of untold wealth for my lady, and be back within a year."
Marian jerked her hand out of his grasp. "Robin, we are supposed to be married in the spring." Her voice had lowered to a dangerous level. He picked up the apple again and rolled it from hand to hand.
"We'll have to push back the wedding--but think of how wonderful it will be, when I can afford to give the greatest feast outside the royal court, and can dress you in the finest silks--"
Marian pulled away from Robin's outstretched hand. "I don't care how many beautiful things you win or how much it makes you feel like a man. You could be hurt, or killed, or gone fifteen years. Once you're in a war you can't just leave, Robin!"
"Marian, don't worry--"
"I'm not worrying," she snapped as she spun around, eyes flashing. "I'm angry that you want to leave me right before our wedding. I'm angry that you expect me to sit at home and wait around for you, wondering every day if you're hungry or dead or in the arms of some pagan beauty. I'm angry that you decided all of this without telling me you were even considering it." She dashed tears from her eyes, angry at herself for showing this weakness now.
"I'm sorry, Marian."
"You're sorry that I'm upset with you."
"I didn't think. You're right. But I don't think it's that unusual to want to go on a Crusade."
"No. It's not. And that's why I liked you, because I thought you were different. But you're just like every other glory-obsessed male who puts everyone around them in second place!" Marian grabbed her book from where it lay on the table and launched it at his head. Robin ducked and the spine struck the wall, snapping with a loud crack and spilling folios across the floor. Robin looked at her in shock.
"Our engagement is over. Godspeed, Robin of Locksley."
3.
Marian had long given up hope of a letter from Robin. They came regularly after he left, but she was too angry to read them--only her father had stopped her from throwing them immediately into the fire ("At the very least they're good parchment," he had said)--but later, when missing him overcame her anger at his leaving before their marriage, she read through them all in one long marathon, picking through the Latin painstakingly to follow his journey: a sojourn in France, then the sea route to Portugal, Sicily, and Greece. The crowning moment had been the arrival of a beautifully illuminated copy of Tristan and Isolde from Paris. Marian delicately ran a finger over the gold leafing, her heart softened by this obvious peace offering.
But then the letters grew infrequent, and it had been eight months since she'd had the last. She didn't worry that he'd died (except at night); word would have been sent to his father. But her eagerness cooled as her anger had, hardening with disappointment into a firmness of will her father called "maturity," and in past weeks her thoughts had begun to turn to closer landscapes.
Today, for example, she had ridden out far into the countryside; it would have been a perfect day for hawking if they'd been able to afford another falcon after the death of the last. So she sat on her horse, imagining a raptor wheeling in the sky and enjoying the briskness of the wind whipping her cloak about her.
The sound of hoofbeats caught her attention. From her hilltop she looked down at the road to Nottingham, a pale stripe curving through green pasturage all the way to the city in the distance. A small entourage was making its way along the road; there were no flags or banners, only shields painted with black-and-yellow arms she didn't recognize. One of the men, all in black, glanced up at her. Her red cloak would be striking in the subdued colors of late autumn. He watched her until he passed, and she shivered.
4.
"I do not wish to go to the Sheriff's party," she told her father for the dozenth time.
"Nor do I, but you know it would be unwise to refuse."
Marian sighed, and went upstairs to don her best dress. It was in honor of the new Sheriff's government, finally assembled with the arrival of Sir Guy of Gisborne. She rolled her eyes when she realized he was the man that had stared at her some weeks ago. Up close, though, he was strikingly handsome save for the curl of a sneer perpetually on his lips. His eyes were beautiful, but cold, and too interested in her for her liking. She curtseyed and took back her hand sooner than was quite polite.
When she and her father were seated, Sir Edward looked at Sir Guy speculatively.
"No," Marian said flatly.
Her father turned his eyes to her, a steady, inscrutable expression. She quailed a bit, then set her jaw.
After the meal, the minstrel stood. "This feast is honor of your arrival, Sir Guy," he said. "What shall I recite for you?" Guy wiped his mouth and leaned back in his chair. "Play whatever the Lady Marian wishes," he said.
Marian was caught off guard as dozens of eyes turned to her. "Tristan and Isolde," she stammered. Guy nodded, and the minstrel bowed low. As the opening notes sounded, Guy raised his cup to her. She could feel her father watching.
5.
Tristan died of his longing, Ysolt because she could not come in time. Tristan died for his love; fair Ysolt because of tender piety.
Here Thomas ends his book. Now he takes leave of all lovers, the sad and the amorous, the jealous and the desirous, the gay and the distraught, and all who will hear these lines . . . May they derive great comfort from it, in the face of fickleness and injury, in the face of hardship and grief, in the face of all the wiles of Love.*
Marian closed the book slowly and fixed its clasps. She ran a hand over the cover, tracing the pattern stamped in the leather, and made her decision. She stood, crossed the room, and gently placed the book in the trunk with the few books her father owned. That part of her life was over. She did not know what the next would hold, but it was time to move on.
Of course, that was when their servant Margery, granddaughter of Thornton at Locksley, rushed panting through the door. "My lady," she gasped, "Robin of Locksley has returned!"