Robin awoke from another dream of blood and sand. There were sounds outside the tent. He was aware of yelling – screaming – for Much. They were attacking the King. He had a bow, he had arrows, and he was Robin.

Three simple facts that had brought him through the last few years of non-stop skirmishes and battles. Bow, arrows, Robin. A deadly combination as Much had remarked one night. That innocent remark had sent Robin out into the cold of the desert.

He was firing arrows. He was aware of it happening. He was always aware. It was an art. When he ran for the King's tent and saw the tall Saracen there he drew his sword. He was no longer aware. He was no longer rational. He was no longer Robin.

He felt the Saracen's sword cut deeply into his side. Robin's world suddenly became highly focussed. Colours were alternately deeply saturated or all too dull. Time was running far too slowly. This was dangerous, Robin knew. He was dying. Time was slowed to enable him to save his own life.

It was a choice he was not able to make. Robin dimly saw himself inflict enough damage on the Saracen to force him to retreat; saw the man's tattoo split in half by his sword. Then Robin was gone. Back to dreams of blood soaked sands.

*

When the King's physician exited the tent, he was covered in Robin's blood. Much found his mouth dropping open. Robin was a skinny thing, always had been, how could he possibly have so much blood in him? More importantly, how could he lose so much blood and yet live?

'My master,' Much began. Then he felt a restraining hand on his shoulder and turned to see King Richard standing there.

'How fares the Earl of Huntington?'

'He lives,' the physician said, wiping his hands, 'Though I would not like to say for how long. I have stitched the wound, but he has taken a fever. If it does not break soon, then he will be in need of a priest, not a physician. I have done all I can, sire.'

'I take it he is not fit to travel?' King Richard asked.

'It would most likely kill him, sire.'

The King nodded his dismissal and the physician disappeared into the desert night.

'I will check on Robin,' the King said, 'Much, I am afraid we cannot linger here. I must move on tomorrow.'

'My master cannot be moved, sire, the physician said so.'

'Robin cannot move, but I must. We must avenge this attack. You understand that I would stay and wait for Robin to be well if I could?'

'You have no need to explain to me, sire.' Much said.

The King grasped Much's upper arm then strode past him and into the tent that contained Robin. Much stared after the man. He was the King and he cared for Robin, Much knew that. Robin was the captain of his guard. Robin was an excellent soldier, as though it was something he had been born to do.

Nevertheless, Robin read the Qur'an. Robin had developed something that, if it was not exactly sympathy, was understanding. Not that Robin fought any less hard. Watching Robin fight was like watching some terrible, beautiful animal. But Robin was not there, not really.

Much had seen the blankness that overtook Robin when he fought. Sometimes it lasted the whole night afterwards. He did not eat. It seemed to Much that he only slept to dream of the fighting.

After several moments, the King exited the tent. He handed Much some papers, bearing his official seal. 'If he wakes, give him this.'

Much bowed and the King brushed past him. Dimly, Much could hear him giving orders to strike the camp.

Much stared down at the papers in his hand. If he wakes. The King was a good man. Robin loved the King. Much loved Robin. Therefore, Much had to love the King. If he wakes.

Much found his feet had apparently turned to stone. He dragged himself into the tent. Robin lay on the bed, blood covering the sheets. Robin was so very pale. Much remembered a time when they were very young, probably about six years old, when Robin had been sick. The skinny dark haired child had lain in his bed for days. Much had been relegated to the kitchen, but had managed to sneak into Robin's room each night to keep an eye on him.

On the third night of Robin's sickness, Much had entered Robin's room to find Lady Locksley sitting by her son's bed. Her eyes were red and swollen, her cheeks were wet. Much tried to leave the room before she noticed him, but Lady Locksley, in some ways, was very like her son. And Much had never been able to sneak up on Robin.

'Come in, Much. You are early today.'

Much was ready to be scolded. He was not supposed to be here, he knew. His place was in the kitchen.

'You should not be here, Much.' Lady Locksley said gently, her soft words echoing Much's thoughts. 'Robin is very sick. He could make you sick.'

Much refused to move. 'He needs me, my Lady. He has bad dreams.'

'Come here, Much.'

Much moved closer to his mistress. Lady Locksley surprised Much by pulling him into her lap. This enabled him to see Robin better. He was so still. In all his young life, Much could not remember seeing anyone so still.

They sat like that until dawn. Both of them watching over Robin.

Much looked around the tent. 'A disgrace,' he muttered. Then he began to tidy up, locating clean sheets and carefully shifting Robin onto them. He forced himself to ignore how light Robin was, how every rib dug into his hands as he moved his master.

Then Much sat beside the bed, preparing to watch until Robin woke up.

*

Robin was not aware. He was not aware of Much sitting by his side, of the man's whispered prayers to a God who, if Much was honest with himself, he blamed for Robin's current situation.

'Marian…' Robin's voice was little more than a whisper, hoarse through dehydration. Much dabbed at Robin's fevered forehead with a damp cloth.

*

The forest. Always the forest. Logically, Robin knew it was a long way between Acre and Nottinghamshire, but somehow, all he had to do was think himself home and he was. He stood in Sherwood Forest, looking down on Locksley through the trees and fell to his knees, giving thanks that he was here. He was home. His clothes were those of the young nobleman he was, soft, thin cloth and he was unarmed. His relief at finding himself with neither sword nor bow was palpable, and made him feel vaguely guilty.

But Locksley was empty. The forest was empty. Robin knew it was so, he could feel it. He was alone here. Then he was not. He stood and turned, knowing whom it was he would see. It was always the same. As she came into view, Robin was again wearing his Crusader's garb. White robes saturated in blood. Behind him, where Locksley should have been, stood blood soaked desert. He could hear the sounds of battle.

Marian stood in the forest, all was quiet around her. Robin tried to step towards her but found himself hampered by his chain mail.

'Marian…'

Marian moved to him and pulled him into her arms. Then she screamed. Robin stepped back to see what was wrong. Marian was covered in blood. Her clothes were bright red with it. Then she was torn from his arms. Robin looked beyond her into the eyes of the tattooed Saracen who had attacked the King. The man thrust at Robin with his sword, leaving him bleeding in the sand.

'Marian!'

*

Robin opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was the tent fabric above his head. It was hot. He was in a tent. Therefore, he must be in the Holy Land. 'Much?'

'I am here Robin. I am here.' Much sounded tired, his voice comforting, as though he believed Robin still unconscious.

'The King.'

'The King is safe, Robin. You saved him. Saved him so he could leave us in this Godforsaken place.' The last sentence was muttered and obviously not intended for Robin's ears.

Robin laughed. Or attempted to do so. His throat was too dry and he ended up coughing.

This alerted Much to the fact that his master was indeed awake. Robin heard something drop to the floor as Much stood. Suddenly he loomed into view. He pressed a hand to Robin's head, which Robin ineffectually tried to bat away.

'I have been so worried about you,' Much said.

*

It was some days before Much gave Robin the papers the King had left in his keeping.

Much was sitting outside the tent, by the fire he had built to ward of the night chill. Robin exited the tent, still slightly unsteady on his feet, and sat down beside Much.

'Where is the message the King left for me?' Robin asked.

Wordlessly, Much handed Robin the papers he had told him nothing about. Robin opened them and read in silence for a few moments.

'The King says we are to return to England, to help speed my recovery. I have been awarded a commendation,' he said after a while. Much watched him in silence, waiting for a response to the King's words. Robin looked up at Much, his eyes shining brighter than they had any right to, now his fever was gone. 'We are going home, Much.'

'We are.' Much said, still uncertain as to Robin felt.

Robin stood and dragged Much to his feet, pulling his friend into a hug that allowed Much to feel every single one of his master's ribs.

Robin released Much and Much could see he was grinning. 'We are going home, my friend.'

*