As the dawn shattering the sombre charcoal of the storm, the resin rays splitting through the clouds like blades of light, a former Crusader woke to the morning in an instant – one hand poised above Robin's shoulder, prepared to shake his master awake for the arrival of Saladin's men... No. Much retreated, his arm relaxing in relief. The Holy Land lay miles away and the only dry sand present happened to be the warm grit in his boots and the only incense in Sherwood was the heady smoke curling from the dampened firewood.
Blinking his eyes rapidly, Much shifted himself into a sitting position to pay attention to the murmuring in his stomach.
In the middle of reaching for his own faulty bow, he glanced at the re-curve majesty by his arm. The leader had drifted in to a half-sleep, still alert, for any attackers. Much carefully loosening Robin's grip on his bow, covering his master's body and his most treasured possession with a thin shroud of wool. He had knitted the blanket himself and smiled smugly at his work, remembering how a young man had teased his efforts yet tugged at the material in the middle of the night.
Now, what would the others do if he returned from his hunt without a hare? They would skim over their own remarks about Much's 'endless complaints' and winge, like bawdy hypocrites, until dusk. Sometimes, he had the urge to leave the ungrateful outlaws to nurse their own hunger – and he would, if only the youngest was a little older than nineteen and didn't have a vital couple of years left to grow.
The carpenter had, as Much expected, curled his extended limbs into a knotted mess. Shaking his head, he remembered how chivalrous Will had attempted to puff out his chest and bear the harsh weather for his companion – also a habitual deed to prove himself a hero to his trickster comrade. Peering across the dying fire, Much noticed the smallest member tighten her grasp on the Will's blanket and Allan fling a careless arm across her middle.
Wait.
A ragged leg of fur leaped past his peripheral vision. Much turned slowly away from the gang's sleeping bodies and crawled towards his bow.
Aha! It was large, thank God. He couldn't bear any more grumbling from John about the size of the meals. Carefully dragging his bow backwards...He twitched his fingers, anticipating the snap from the rope...The arrow head was as positioned as perfectly as a coarse thread poking through the fine eye of a needle...
The brown pelt blurred, vanishing from sight.
Missed. Again.
The rustle of leaves caused Robin to roll over in his sleep, most probably dreaming of an approaching soldier. The cautious outlaw bit his lower lip, climbing over the heap of blankets and bodies, following the hare into the dense brush.
"God, please spare this meat, please, please please."
Muttering under his breath was something Much had become accustomed to. And mumbling prayers for his wellbeing became a forced habit since shedding his short-lived dream of rose petal baths to pinching his nose and dunking his body into icy creeks. Only the Holy Father knew when winter would kill them all from the cold...But, to his relief, the seasons had turned a sharp corner – only leaving next year's fate for his prayers.
At this point in time, the thought of starvation had consumed Much's mind over other anxieties. The outlaws were becoming painfully thin, sans the tones muscles in their forearms, and Djaq's deteriorating figure – being less able to bulk up - was the first to be noticed by their mother hen. Being a woman already provided her with enough irritating attention, but Much's sailor anthems would never fail him. Their Saracen was always too preoccupied with frowning at the Englishman's singing to detect the extra stew he would slyly ladle into her bowl.
A soft crack below his feet broke through the chef's thoughts.
Fingering the residue of the egg shell, Much squinted into the oak canopy to find a nearby nest laden with speckled lark's eggs – the remaining still in tact. Perfect. Breakfast would be served shortly!
As he latched his foot onto the crook of the tree trunk, the outlaw rubbed his fingertips together, the yolk from the dead chick spurring aching thoughts. The baby lark had been pushed away, neglected, and the mother had no idea – not a single care – that it's unborn child had ended it's life. Much wrinkled his nose in distaste. Ridiculous. Nobody thought about birds like that.
His foot slipped against the tree bark.
But was the egg too much hassle for the mother? Perhaps, it was better for the others. One less mouth to feed? Babies were always complaining, obviously.
A bit of a handful.
But, maybe, that's what he was. Much bit his lip, staring into the cracks of sky that had peered through the leaves. Was he just a handful? He looked at his hand, clawing for stability on the branches. Every gesture, every thought, every worry seemed like a desperate act for...a need, a purpose. Suddenly, scrabbling half way up a tree to steal a nest of eggs for a group of grumbling men seemed to loose it's triumph.
Did they truly need him?
Lowering his weight and feeling the disheartening pressure of the ground below his feet brought a bitter lump to Much's throat. The egg shell crumbled in his fist as the deep-toned complaints of his comrades wafted through his memory...Muffled but lucid.
"Much!"
"Oh, Much..."
"Shut up, Much."
"Much – shut up."
"Oh Heavens, Much..."
"Much? Shut it."
"I swear to God – Robin, will you get the manservant off my back?"
Perhaps that was the problem. He still had the blood of a servant.
They were always groaning his name. Even after he had darned the hole in their socks or ran a chicken leg over the fire, they shrugged him off as if he were a leech or parasite. A pest – who only slowed them down. The eggshell disintegrated into dust in his palms and the crust, becoming embedded in his skin, suppressed the quiver hinting at the former manservant's lips.
Perhaps the shards of his life were all too tainted with the urgency to serve the man he would die for – the gang he had grown to love – and the friends who would never love him in return.
Tossing the broken eggshell over his shoulder, Much balanced on a lower branch and plucked the nest of eggs from the nest with ease. It's a shame he loved them, Much eyed the size of the prize in his arms...This much.
- -- - --
"Much?"
A Saracen lilt broke through his contemplations. The day had shifted to dusk and the shadows had stretched across Sherwood in haunted silhouettes. "You've been quiet, today," Djaq remarked with her usual scrutiny.
"I was – just – wondering if I should run after Robin."
Will smiled wryly, prodding the dying embers at his feet, "He's been at Knighton for some time." he shifted himself a little and pulled up a familiar-looking sheet of wool over his shoulders from Robin's sleeping quarters. Much managed a small smile in return.
"Your English romance is so boring," Djaq sighed, boredly resting one cheek on her hand, "Simply dancing around windows and throwing down your hair...It's so plain."
Will smiled uncertainly, considering her point, then countering with: "What about in the Holy Land?"
"Women would be veiled from all prying eyes. But, my point is, if your women are not – why don't they do something more exciting?"
As the conversation deepened and Allan woke from his evening nap, bringing ear-burning topics that his two friends had never touched, Much carefully quietly placed another spoonful of scrambled eggs into Djaq's bowl before squealing into the debate, "Honestly! You lot are awful,"