"This is strange, going without Robin."
"It's fine," Much said to Will's brown-cloaked back, unable to help the irritation from leaking into his voice. "He's made his decision. It's fine." And so it was. Just fine. The king was returning to Nottingham at last, England would be restored, everyone in the gang would be pardoned for their crimes, Much would get Bonchurch, and Robin … Robin was sitting on a hill, sulking. Damn him. Damn that stubborn, self-centered …
Much stopped walking. As much as he hated to, as much as he wanted to go on.
It wasn't fine.
"What're you doing?" Alan asked, glancing over at him. They all came to a stop and were staring impatiently at him from under the cowls of their hoods.
"There's something I have to do," said Much, groaning inwardly. "I must find Robin." And before they could argue he turned and went tearing back through the town, throwing his hood to the wind. He ran, the world whipping past him in a dull-colored flash as he headed for the gates leading out, where everything became green. Bolting across the bright grass, he headed for Locksley, where he knew Robin would be. Perhaps he was a pox under Robin's skin, but one thing was more than certain – he was not going away. As much as both of them may have wanted it at that moment.
And then … soldiers. He could see them coming up over the crest of the hill, shining silver with red banners dancing in the wind. The sight of them made Much forget the breath hitching in his chest, his side knotting with pain, and everything going wrong in the world. Suddenly, everything was right. "Your majesty," he breathed, and with a scream of welcome, plunged forward.
The glorious utopia was knocked out of him when he hit the ground, having been ungraciously shoved by one of the soldiers. Unbelievable. "I'm Much!" he cried, lying on his back in the grass, searching the sea of silver for the blinding white robes of the king. "I fought in the king's guard! I – your ma –"
Wait.
The world around him shifted. Wait.
It was not the king. He knew King Richard, and that … that was not him.
Much was disgusted, betrayed, confused … and yet … it all made sense. It was not the king. It was all the Sheriff's idea, the Sheriff's doing, once again, and why? To trap Robin? To identify disloyal subjects? Did it really matter?
He stumbled to his feet, shell-shocked, aware once again of the world and the wrong and the heavy weight of the shield on his back, and he wished with all his heart he were not alone. "Edward," he said, and as that name left his lips, another one slapped him hard in the face. "Marian." She might've been at the altar at that moment, marrying Gisborne, based on a lie. Robin's love, marrying another.
He didn't know what to do. And yet he did.
"There's no other girl like her, Much. Not in the whole world. I love her. I love her so, so dearly."
That had been a long time ago, but Much knew it was still true, every word of it. There was only one thing Robin loved more than he loved England, and that was Marian of Knighton.
And because Much loved Robin more than both those things, the decision was easy to make.