Apparently, Robbie’s idea of a truce was to duck in long enough to grab some clothes, mumble a few words, and then disappear. He slept in the tent with her, but he waited until after she was asleep to creep in and woke before she was awake to creep back out. In between, she tried to keep herself busy and do her best (without much success) to not perish of boredom. During the long hours alone, with only her none-too-friendly Douglas guardsmen for the curt exchange of words that passed as “conversation” (they probably thought something was wrong with her, she asked to go to the privy so often just to go outside), Rosalin was seriously considering mutiny. Or, as they weren’t on a ship, open rebellion. The first day, she’d attended to her person and her much abused clothing. She’d combed her hair until it was free of every last knot and tangle and fell around her shoulders in long, shimmery waves, and pounded and brushed her woolen gowns until they were free of most of the dirt.
