It is commonplace enough among the devout, a Saint Christopher medal. A plain disc of silver, tarnished by the heat and salt of his skin and so worn by anxious fingers the face of the saint is hardly recognizable. Much wears the medal under his tunic, closest to his heart because although she no longer draws breath, that is where his mother lives still.
It gets him through sleepless nights in the Holy land, listening to good men bleeding out in the sand, clutching it so hard the face of it was etched into his palm for hours later. It gets him through nights afterward, too, when he starts awake from nightmares that throw him right back to Acre, the scent of blood and sand and death sharp in his nostrils. The silver in his palm remains constant.
She gives it to him when he's very small, when they first travel to Nottingham. He stills remembers her kneeling before him, the metal shining and freshly polished, catching the sunlight upon its face. She loops the chain around his neck. It's so long the pendant falls nearly to his belly button. "Saint Christopher watches over travelers and little boys," she says, "so you'll never walk alone."
Later, after Robin is lost to them all, Much clings to these words more than ever because he feels so very alone.