*does CPR on story* BE ALIVE! LIVE! I have found new inspiration to continue this story! Sorry to anyone who was reading it before (If you're still there) Enjoy!

Chapter Five- Weaknesses

The sun was rising and along with it, so was anger from the prior day. Warren glowered out of the open window. He would find them and then kill them. No outlaw messed with him and got away with it. No outlaw messed with his sister and made it out alive. "I heard what happened and came immediately." Heavy footsteps announced Sir Guy's entrance.

"It's no use, Gisbourne. There's nothing I can do yet. I'll just have to wait." Marlborough came away from the window and sat down in a large wooden chair. He motioned for Guy to sit next to him. "Just a quick question…Does Robin Hood usually kill his hostages?"

"No. He wins them over, uses them as spies in the castle." Gisbourne took a deep breath. He couldn't think about her. Not here. Not now. Not ever.

Warren smiled and gazed around the room. The walls were plain and wooden with emerald colored curtains draping the window. A fire was burning noisily in the fireplace adjacent to the large oak table they were seated at. "It would take a great amount of effort to win Margaret over."

"They'll probably beg you to take her back." He chuckled. "Robin Hood felled by a nineteen year old."

"Be serious, Guy." Warren leant back uneasily in his chair. "Are you completely sure that Locksley does not kill his hostages?"

"I am." There it was, Guy thought. A weakness. Something that could bring his friend down. The trademark smirk appeared on his face. He, himself, possessed no weakness at all. "Hood will probably want to send word to the castle, not here."

"I don't care." Marlborough rose and gaited towards the window. There was nothing he could do but wait. The man was worried. Robin Hood had Margaret. She was the type of person who could was very kind and quiet to a stranger. Warren bit down hard on his lip. Please, please, please, give him hell. "If Locksley kidnapped an unarmed, defenseless woman, he will come to see me. I am her guardian in Nottingham, not Vaysey."
Gisbourne knew that Marlborough meant business. Margaret meant very much to him, and whoever would hurt her was in deep, painful, and likely fatal trouble. And that was exactly the situation Hood had unknowingly gotten himself into. Yes. "We will get her back, Warren."

He now had a score to settle. "I want him dead. I want Robin Hood dead."

With every word out of Warren's mouth, Guy became slightly happier. They were going to be like a team now. Two tall, strong, fighting men against one, small and emaciated-looking outlaw. If Marlborough didn't calm down soon, the man would march out into Sherwood himself to take down Hood. "Everyone wants him dead."

As he twisted around to glare at Gisbourne, a glint of anger showed in his eyes. "Yes, but I will be the one that ends him." Warren walked over to Guy brandishing a sarcastic smile. "I will succeed. Anything you can do, I can do better. And anything you can't do I can."

The response was a punch to the face. "Couldn't do that." He stormed off just as Warren got to his knees. Marlborough stood up shakily and cursed. Sod Gisbourne. He didn't need Guy anyway.

XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXO

Much's mind was buzzing. Less than an hour ago he had been comforting Thomas and now he was in the middle of a siege. Master was injured and he was currently sprinting from tent to tent screaming at the top of his lungs. "Get up! Get up! The camp is under attack! Saracen raid!" The manservant was horrified by the responses he had gotten. Food thrown at him, curses he hadn't heard before, an arrow shot at his head (though he wasn't sure if that had been a Crusader or a Saracen), and even an "I don't care." Jesus, these men were grumpy in the morning. They were used to getting up at dawn, and it was only an hour before.

As he ran by Thomas' tent, Much poked his head inside. He knew his friend well, and it wouldn't be a surprise to find him out of bed, fighting. "Don't do anything you'll regret, okay?"

"You wouldn't." Thomas' quiet voice and unsteady breathing could be heard from inside the tent. Huh? What was he talking about?

"Oh I would. I'm going to finish off what Marlborough started." Something wasn't right here. Much stepped silently inside the tent. "This is where it ends for you, Lincolnshire. Sorry, but you know too much." A man was standing over Thomas, his sword pressed against the crusader's neck.

"Hey you!" Much lunged at the not-so-Saracen looking assassin who instantly took off running. "What the hell was that?" Rather than go after the man, Much sat down on the ground and caught his breath.

"It's a long story." Thomas rubbed his neck.

Contemplating his ally's strength, Much asked, "Can you tell me?"

"Are you forgetting that we're in the middle of a raid?" He propped himself up on his elbows and winced. "Throw me my sword."

"Are you forgetting your wound? You can't even stand, let alone fight." The manservant climbed to his feet. "Stay there!" Much ran out of Thomas' tent and towards the king's tent. Surely Master would be there. "Master! Master!" Fighting off a wave of fabric, he entered the tent. Robin was inside leaning against a support. "Master?"

"I'm alright. Don't worry about me." Robin took his weight off of the support and attempted to stand by his own power. His knees buckled beneath him, and luckily Much was there to catch his master.

"You are definitely not alright." The manservant waited for Robin to place his arm over his shoulder. Once he did, they walked to the sick tent. "Where were you?"

"What?" Robin was taking short, gasping breaths.

"Never mind." The two reached the tent and Much gave Robin to Thomas.

The physician took Robin and helped him lie down. "The Saracens?"

"Yes." The manservant squirmed and whispered to John, "Is it bad?"

Whitten scowled at frowned. "I don't know yet."

"I might go then." Much scurried off to Thomas' tent. Blood was bad. It was a sign of death. People weren't supposed to see it. Death was bad too. Thomas could help with these things. They had known each other for years. "Thomas, can you tell me the story now?"

"Yes, but answer one question first." His face was whiter pale and he was sweating. Wasn't that bad? Wasn't that a fever?

"Fine."

"Why are your hands covered in blood?"

He frowned and looked down at his hands. Sod it. "Robin was stabbed by a Saracen."

"Will he live?" Concern flashed in the young man's eyes. Much didn't know if it was good for him to be so concerned.

"Um I-I don't know," his face flushed red, "I left when I heard there would be blood."

"Oh…well do you want to hear my story?" Thomas started to shiver. "This might sound odd but are you cold too?"

Much gulped. He had a fever. He undoubtedly had a fever. "Just a little. Maybe…Uh. Let's get on with that story!" Thomas seemed as if he was becoming tired. Much's face fell. Don't take a fever on me, Thomas.

"It started in Portsmouth. I fell in love with a girl. A beautiful, kind, wonderful girl." He laughed a dry laugh that soon turned into a grimace. "I should have known when she immediately told me of a brother in trade in the Holy Land."

"You couldn't have known."

"No. I should have known. In my belief of her innocence, I told her brother the king's plans. Jesus, I was only trying to make conversation with the man. I never would have guessed that her brother was trying to kill the king. I never would have guessed that he would use me to get to Richard." Thomas met Much's eye. He grimaced and Much wasn't sure if it was in pain or of a broken heart. "When Marlborough used her against me, it was the first time I had seen her since Portsmouth. Sir Warren of Marlborough is her brother. Her name is Lady Margaret of Marlborough. When the king finds out-"

"Richard won't find out. Who will tell him?"

"Listen to me, Much. When the king learns of my stupidity, he will call 'betrayal' and execute me. If I even recover from this wound." Thomas paused. "I need you to make sure that no harm comes to her. Do you hear me? I need you to keep her safe when everything is out of the bag." The words echoed in Much's ears. He couldn't even watch over Master. "Promise me, Much."

He had known this man all his life. Thomas Fitzwalter of Lincolnshire, the cousin of Lady Marian. "I promise. Was he the one that tried to kill you?"

"The first time. The second was his lackey. He is a friend of Prince John…What a fool I was. I led them all to the king. I know that if I tell the king, she will be in danger." He closed his eyes for a moment. "And now Robin is injured. How many other men are dead because of me?"

"Not many." Much shifted nervously from foot to foot. "Ah, just three or four."

"How are they dead because of you, Thomas?" Both Much's and Thomas' head shot toward the direction of King Richard's voice.

Much grumpily opened his eyes. How would he look after Lady Margaret when she worked with the sheriff? "Now…I would like for you to tell me about your brother."

"I would prefer not to, Locksley." God, did Master have to start arguing with the lady this early? He closed his eyes and rolled over. "It is not a lady's place to converse with an outlaw."

"You don't have much of a choice, my lady."

"Of course I do, Hood. A man with your honor and values wouldn't harm a woman." With a sigh, Much focused on sleeping again. She was right, there was nothing to protect her from at the moment.

Rustling from the sheets above told him that Allan had woken. "Oi! Why are you fighting when you can be sleeping? And I'm not bein' funny, Lady Madge, but he might harm you if you caught in 'im in the right mood."

The manservant groaned. "Master, I must stress the fact of how a noblewoman should be treated. Think of your reputation." Grumbling further, Much clambered out of his bunk nearly stepping on John beneath him and falling over on Margaret to his right. "Sorry."

"For all your chivalrous words, Much, it wouldn't be a good example to step on the girl." A cheeky grin awaited him as he reached the ground.

Allan stuffed his head in the pillow. "That's not a sight for the morning, Robin. Or for anytime of the day really." Much laughed as Robin shot an angry glance in Allan's direction. "What?"

"Nothing." The outlaw leader exaggeratedly climbed into his bunk. His booted foot missing Margaret's face by only a few inches.

"How dare you! Ignorant man…" Margaret straightened and scowled. The outlaws' camp wasn't exactly Marlborough Castle. It was warm and cozy but it lacked any decoration. Obviously, it was crafted by a man. "How long are you planning to keep me here?"

Robin leaned over the side and craned his neck to see his captive. "Why are you so concerned?"

"Oh. I don't know. Aren't your hostages usually concerned?" The lady looked Robin straight in the eye. He would not scare her. That conclusion went hand-in-hand with her 'if it can't see me, it can't hurt me' philosophy.

Much pouted. There would be no more sleeping this morning. "Our hostages aren't usually women, my lady. Men try not to show fear."

"Look, if you lot are just going to talk, we should go to Nottingham." A freshly risen Little John joined the conversation.

"Nottingham? We did handouts in Nottingham two days ago. Bonchurch is next, isn't it?" Having lost some of his leadership after returning from the Holy Land, handouts were now a responsibility of the golden-hearted giant. Robin loathed going to Nottingham. Everywhere came with a memory of her. Nottingham contained every time she refused to join his gang, and it had lead to her death.

Allan stood and attempted to brush the wrinkles out of his clothing. "Is it really a smart idea to bring her to Bonchurch. Doesn't her brother lord the place?" He frowned and pulled a cloak over the tangle of fabric.

"Yes. But we will go anyway." Robin climbed down from his bunk once more and lifted Margaret from hers. All the better for him to taunt Marlborough, the newest addition to the Nottingham nobles, which he hated. "Come, my lady." For a second, his eyes locked with hers. He hadn't realized how beautiful she was when he had first seen her. And he hadn't noticed the ring on her necklace. Where had he seen it before?

"You can put me down now." Margaret's face was stone and her eyes emotionless. Bloody outlaw. If she wasn't a noblewoman, she would have taught him a few choice words by now. Gently, Robin took his arm away and let her stand.

Allan was growing impatient standing around. "Can we go then?"

"Yes of course we can, Allan."

"What are we gonna do with her?" The rogue nodded towards Margaret.

Robin sighed. "Throw me that rope."

"Can't I just stay here?" Margaret glanced up at Robin. For his sake, it would be better to stay far away from Warren.

"Nope, sorry. Give me your hand." He started to tie her wrists together. "We can't have you running away."

"I assure you, I've already had my activity for the year." Margaret laughed to herself. It had always been the Marlborough siblings' joke. She frowned, for once she missed her brother.

The outlaw leader gazed at her with blue eyes. Maybe she wasn't his type after all. Stop it. He scolded himself, he belonged with Marian. No woman could take her place. No woman. "Really? What was that, my lady?"

Margaret flushed, "I played tag with my servant's son." Noticing the outlaws' chuckles she added, "What? John can run very fast…not useful when he becomes a friar but….Hey, it is Alice's only child, though she thinks she's my mother, and she is a very kind woman." Good, she thought, ramble like an absentminded child.

John's head snapped up. "Alice? Alice Little and her son John Little?"

"Yes. And her husband Luke the Cooper."

The gang exchanged glances. John's Alice was the maidservant of their captive. "Small world." Allan gave a half-smile.

"Write to her, tell her to come here." Robin lead the way but of the camp and into Sherwood. The five walked to the horses and Robin helped Margaret to mount a chestnut mare and to her surprise jumped on behind her. "Say it, John."

"We go to Bonchurch."

XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXO

"Lord William of Durnam?"

"No."

"Sir Gordon of Hetherford?"

"No."

"Alright. Sir Edward of Longborough?"

"Leper. Definitely not."

"Foster of Rotherham?"

"Oh yes. Delightfully cruel and deceitful man. Perfect for our trip!"

"Good. That's our first man." Lord Henry Clare scribbled down the name. "Rather than go through these thirty names, do you want to tell me who you want to accompany us?" He placed both hands on the list, wanting badly to rip it in two. Daft, old fool.

The sheriff stroked his bearded chin in thought. "Hmm. Maybe Sir Simon Fitzwalter of Lincolnshire? He must be an enemy of Richard. Wasn't his brother declared a traitor?"

"Sir Simon went into hiding, Vaysey." Henry rested his head in his hands. This man was utterly incompetent. Doesn't Vaysey know about his relation to the Lady Marian? At this pace, he would have to stay here until sunset.

"We must find him then." Fool. It was only common sense to have Lincolnshire on their side.

Clare looked through his hands at the sheriff. "Where do you expect to find him?" Hood, Marlborough, anything, just get him out of here.

"My lord!" The door squeaked open. The drowsy guard from the prior day entered the room. "I have a message from Sir Warren."

"Exciting!" Vaysey rose from his chair and studied the guard, "You're new." He clapped his hands together and raised his eyebrows. "What is your name, boy?"

Boy? He was twenty. "Fletcher, my lord."

"Very good. Now what is the message?" Henry watched the young man cringe under the sheriff's eyes. Poor sod. In the light he could see the man better. The guard seemed familiar, strange as it was. "Vaysey, if we are to find Sir Simon it will take too long to fit into our trip."

The sheriff frowned. Maybe Clare was right. "Well," he studied Simon and wondered what Warren could want, hest, "how long could it take?"

Simon gulped. What could they want with him? What if they found him?

Henry kept his eyes trained on Simon. Very familiar. "Well anyway, if we find him, it will be hard to win him over if the man finds out I tried to kill his brother…And got very close."

Simon's face fell and he listened very closely. "You don't go around telling people." Vaysey rolled his eyes and put a hand over his face. "Do you?"

"No. But it is a good story. Makes me sound heroic." Henry grinned. It was an interesting tale to tell. And with the surge of gossip he asked, "Do you want to hear how he really died? Thomas of Lincolnshire?" Seeing no enthusiasm in the sheriff he continued, "The best fighter in the king's guard turned rogue and traitorous, aye?"

"If it will get you to shut up. And I want the short version." Sighing, Vaysey contented. For a fellow sheriff, Clare was like a gossiping kitchen maid…and gossiping kitchen maids were lepers.

"The last time I saw him, he was alive. If my sources are correct, the king tortured him and left him in the desert. I have been told Richard whipped him as he was getting a fever and the king dragged him to the desert at the height of it. Seeing how bad that wound was he couldn't have lasted that long." Noticing a spark of emotion in the young guard's eyes, Henry knew why he looked familiar. He would deal with him later.

XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXO

"Uncle! Uncle!" Djaq ran from the group of men standing outside to her uncle inside his Acre home. "You are needed outside."

"Why?" The older, portly man rose from his seat and hurried out into the hot, dry air. He froze for a second at the sight of the large group that was converging on him but still went forward, detecting something was amiss among them.

"Tadim, we need your help. Your people need your help." A man, clad in the customary outfit of a Saracen soldier, stepped forward. He bowed his head to the physician.

"What has happened?" The old man chuckled. "I am a physician, not a miracle worker."

The smile of the young soldier faltered. "Izra'il has fallen."

Tadim blinked. Izra'il. He had heard of the Saracen fighter only in legends and tales from haughty warriors. Djaq's uncle had no idea the man really existed.

"The Izra'il. Not the angel, but the soldier?" Djaq was just as stunned as her relative.

"Yes, milady."

"Is he still breathing? Bring him here."

"Oh, he's breathing. He's fighting too." With a flick of his wrist, two men came forward, half-supporting, half-dragging another. Djaq and Tadim stared at the figure. Even in the heat of the Saracen lands, the man was covered in black leather, no patch of skin showing. His face was concealed by a mask, and painfully Djaq realized, his costume resembled the Nightwatchman. Izra'il struggled against the two men, trying to shrug his arms off of their shoulders even though he was obviously too weak to stand by himself. He dug his heels into the sand beneath his feet in an effort to not be transferred to the physician.

"Easy there." Tadim took a step forward. "We have to take all of this leather off him." He reached for the top half of the mask.

Swiftly, Izra'il broke his arm free of his supporters and slapped Tadim's hand away before his knees buckled. The warrior fell to the ground but quickly pushed himself up with great effort.

The soldier who had addressed Tadim put an arm around the injured man's waist to steady him. "We can't figure out what his problem is. He's been fighting us since we told him that we were taking him to a physician."

"That is odd." Djaq took a long look at the only visible part of Izra'il she could find, his eyes. She nearly did a double take. His eyes were blue. In a Saracen, blue eyes were rare to nonexistent but she held her tongue.

"We found him after a skirmish with some Templars. He was wounded and acted the same way; he fought with us when we tried to help."

Tadim took a long look at his new charge before walking back towards his home. "Bring him inside."

Djaq, the two dragging Izra'il, and the lead soldier followed the stout physician. The entered the large house and went down a hallway until Tadim motioned towards a room. "You can place him in there. Saphia, fetch me my medicines."

"Yes, uncle." Djaq strode further down the hall and out of sight.

"Stop it. Lie down." Tadim smiled slightly as Izra'il nearly kicked one of the three men now restraining him in the head. "Would you rather die?"

"I would!" The soldier who had been in his face backed off. It was the first time he had heard the injured fighter speak. His voice was deep and hoarse but his Arabic was flawless. The warrior struggled even more and sat up swiftly. He batted away the helping hands and stood shakily. After a few seconds, Izra'il collapsed unmoving on the floor in a heap.

With a sigh, the other soldiers lifted him from the ground and placed him on the bed. Both were happy and scared that he had passed out. No longer was he struggling, but he was in a worse condition.

"I'll take it from here. You and your men may leave; I will send word of his progress."

As the four men exited, Djaq entered, her arms full of small bottles and cloth sacks filled with potions and herbs. Will walked behind her, curious about the Saracen fighter. She glanced at Izra'il worriedly, the only sign of him being alive was the shallow rising and falling of his chest and the movement of the mask over his mouth as he breathed.

"Step one: remove this mask. It is surely suffocating him." Tadim pulled the mask off the face of Izra'il. Djaq gasped. Will's mouth fell open. The physician raised an eyebrow. "An Englishman?"