Author's note. I own nothing and have no idea where this story comes from. This takes place after the 2nd series, but ignores the last episode. Nice reviews make me update quicker.
Songs out of Clay
His head hurt. That was the first thing he was aware of.
Wincing he opened his eyes.
He was lying on his back, gazing up at a white high vaulted ceiling.
His head ached too much for him to take in any other details.
A face swam into view, tousled and wrinkled like a walnut.
It gazed kindly down at him.
"You're awake." The face said.
He tried to speak but his voice would not come.
The face swam out of view and came back with a pottery beaker clasped in its hand.
"Drink this." It said, gently.
He did so gladly. The mixture was vile, but eased the pain in his head.
"Where." He managed to grasp. "Where am I?"
The face shook.
"No questions. Rest now."
He wanted to argue, to protest, but the blackness was creeping at the edges of his vision.
The face nodded, satisfied.
"Yes. Sleep." As he passed in unconsciousness, he heard him add.
"Soon you will be well."
The road to Nottingham, England.
Magdalen cursed the road, cursed her uncle, cursed the king even, but under her breathe. She was not stupid and had no desire to hang for pretty treason.
Gripping the bridle tightly in her hands, she peered out from under her hood at the road ahead of her.
According to the landlady at the inn she had stayed at the night before, she didn't have far to go.
She leant down, stroking Jet's muzzle.
"Come my beauty." She muttered, and set off into the forest.
Sherwood Forest.
"We have to find him!"
"How?" John demanded. "We've no idea where they've taken him."
He glanced, not unsympathetically, down at Will, who was having his head treated by Djaq.
Will shook his head, wincing as he did so.
"Aah. No. I told you, one moment we were both entering the house, next I was where you found me."
"Why did they take you?" Djaq wondered, but the sound of horse's hooves made them fall silent.
His head hurt less this time, and he was able to take in more of his surroundings.
He was in a small, white washed cell, probably part of the infirmary of some monastic house. This was further evidenced by the crucifix hanging above the bed.
He was lying under the clean linen sheets.
He attempted to pull himself up into a sitting position, but he couldn't' move his arms or legs.
He turned his head, to one side and stared.
Tightly knotted rope cords bound his wrists and held his arms to the bed. His attempts to move his feet, told him that they were likewise secured
Desperately he struggled against the cords, his voice rising to a scream.
Magdalen had to hand to these men, they were better than most of the men she had encountered on the road.
She had not seen their lookout, and wouldn't have heard them had Jet bristled at the sound of a bow been drawn.
Yes. They were good. Only problem, she was better.
The large man now knelt, clutching a bleeding arm.
Jet was keeping the Moor at bay.
And the dark hair man had present few difficulties.
The man she was fighting now was the one she was truly concerned about.
Armed with a scaren sword and a round shield, his movements proclaimed him as an experienced fighter.
Briefly she wandered how he came to be with these outlaws, but reasoned that it was probably the usual story. A useful man in war, but of no use in peace.
With this in mind she lunged forward, apparently a clumsy move.
The small man behaved exactly as she would have expected, bring his sword upwards and lunging forward for a killing blow.
She grabbed his sword twisting it, while a blow from her knee brought him to his.
"Anyone comes closer," she snarled, a dagger at his throat. "And he dies."
Again the unusualness of this group was proved. Rather than try to rush her, they drew back.
"Now." She said, regarding her captive. "What is your name?"
"I said," the young person repeated, bringing the dagger even closer.
"What is your name?"
"Eww. Ouch. Much."
"Much?" the accented voice demanded again. "Much the miller's son."
"Yes. That," he swallowed. "That would be me."
"Much." His captor demanded again. "Who was bondsman to Robin of Loxley?"
"Yes." Much observed, feeling the knife release form his throat. He gazed up, seeking some familiarity in the face.
It gazed at him as though making a decision.
"Then you'd best take me to your master," the young person said. "My name is Magdalen de Halle. I have a message for him."
TBC