Hello! This chapter's somewhat shorter, but doesn't end on one of those rotten cliffhangers this time, I promise. ^_^ I debated over combining this chapter with the next one, but because of the changing viewpoints, I've given up trying to make all the scenes the same length; it would be a weird effect in an episode or movie, and wouldn't make much more sense in this story. I may post the next (much longer) chapter a little sooner, though, to make up for the relative shortness of this one.
ZeDancingHobbit: Your review cracked me up! Glad you liked Robin's solution to the problem. ^_^
Prats 'R' Us: This chapter goes back to Robin's point of view, so hopefully it'll answer some of your concerns. You've got to remember, too, that right now he's a man on a mission, and if he stopped to consider some of the things you pointed out, he wouldn't be able to focus on getting Much to safety, which would really defeat the whole purpose of this little excursion. :P Thanks for a beautiful review!
If any of you or those you know have been affected by super-storm Sandy, know that you're in my thoughts and prayers!
In any other situation, Robin would never have subjected a horse, even a trained soldier's mount, to this sort of strain. Riding double was twice the usual weight, and combined with its rider forcing such a punishing pace, Robin knew he was lucky the animal hadn't thrown them yet. As it was, the sharp ears were canted low, barely visible in the gloom, and the horse jerked angrily at the bit every few seconds.
The thunder of hooves behind him sent the horse's wellbeing to the bottom of his priorities, however. Gisborne and his men were little more than a few lengths behind, the lieutenant undoubtedly having whipped them into a bloodthirsty frenzy before riding out. He must have guessed Robin's plan – not difficult this time, given the distinct lack of options. Camp was the safest location, horseback the quickest way, and the North Road the only choice when riding at night. Gisborne must also realize that recapturing Much would do him no good at all; the Sheriff would return tomorrow regardless, and he would not have the missing silver in time. A captive outlaw might appease Vasey, true, but something warned Robin that Gisborne was not taking prisoners on this hunt. Two bloody outlaw carcasses would please Vasey just as well as one, with the silver now gone for good.
Much groaned again, hardly more than a breathless whimper. Robin knew he was hurting, the pace nightmarish for a man with his injuries, but slowing would see them both cut down within seconds. Turning off the road on horseback, galloping in the dark, would be suicide. At some point, they would have to leave the road, but Robin hoped to be much farther ahead of Gisborne's party at that point. There was a chance they had not been detected yet, their single horse's hoofbeats hidden among the others; if that were so, racing on was their best and only chance.
Gisborne remained an unseen menace while Robin flew onward just ahead of death's outstretched claws. The road stretched on forever, trees whipping past like black ghosts in blurred succession, and the horses might have been running in place for all the progress they seemed to make. Weak fingers pulled on Robin's arm, and Much twisted against him, panting something the wind slapped away out of hearing; Robin spared a glance and saw the other man's face contorted into a mask of pain, illuminated for a shocking instant by the feeble starlight fighting between the branches. His arms thrummed with the ache of keeping balance for two, and his heart ached for this new torment Much had to endure, but he quelled his own discomfort instantly. This was no different than retreating from the Saracens, a wounded soldier in his arms. You made no room for emotion, no thought for anything other than strategic retreat to safety, not with the enemy's blades reaching for your blood. Another mile or so, very soon now, and they'd be in the gang's home territory, near Will's snares and traps over the road. Off the road, back at camp, they could slow their frantic pace. There, Robin could tend to the man gasping in stifled agony against his shoulder. There, he could become just Robin again and feel all the ache and burn of righteous hatred against Gisborne and his lackeys for what they had done to his dearest friend. But for now he had to think, had to plan.
The road curved along a forested hill, and Robin felt the ground rise gently beneath his disgruntled mount's hooves. This was the first trap, then, in a moment or two. He swung the bay to the left, passing the well-hidden trigger on the right, and kept on down the dark road, listening with all his might behind them. He heard Much's voice instead, the faint syllables shaken apart by the horse's pace.
"Ma- Master…"
His soldier's instinct demanded that Robin ride on, grit his teeth against the pleading tones, and deal with it all when they reached camp. But this wasn't a battlefield: this was Sherwood. This was home, for now, and the forest was an ally here. A clamor of alarmed shouts erupted behind them, a tempest of whinnies and startled snorts from the men's mounts: as he had hoped, one of the horses had tripped Will's net-trap, leaving most of the men struggling to escape a net the width of the road. Much's fingers clawed into the fabric of his sleeve, digging into his arm, and Robin came to a decision, reining the bay in sharply, the horse splitting the cool dark air with a shriek at this newest offense.
Wasting no time, Robin flung the reins aside and got a firm grip on Much's shirt before dismounting. With no stirrup to slow his descent, this movement dragged Much from the horse's back as soon as Robin's boots hit the ground, but he was ready and caught the injured man, holding him clear as the stallion bolted eagerly down the North Road. Good – let Gisborne follow the beast. He could hear the soldiers forming back up under the lash of Gisborne's tongue, and staggered a step toward the trees on the left, the near side, muscles straining with the effort of supporting them both. Somehow he worked Much's good arm over his shoulder again and kept moving, a stream of whispered half-orders, half-pleas tumbling from his lips.
"Keep moving, Much. Just another few steps, a little farther… Come on…" He hardly expected a response; the man sagging beside him seemed barely conscious, breathing in ragged gasps, but somehow the weight across Robin's shoulders lightened by the barest amount, and the dragging feet began to find a bit of ineffectual footing as Robin cajoled him onward.
A few seconds later, he held his breath as the dull thunder of Gisborne's hunting party filled the night behind them, rising to a peak and falling, the orange feather-flickers of the torches shrinking down the road. Had it been daylight, or had the moon been full, Gisborne would have spotted them in a heartbeat.
Since the Holy Land, Robin had been sparing in his prayers to a God who seemed so aloof, but he released his breath in a silent "thank you" to that God now. Using Will's trap to orient himself, Robin knew there was a place ahead where a small hill had been worn away by the rains, leaving a miniature cliff-face with a hollow indent at the base. It wasn't even properly a cave, and would offer little protection from the elements, but all they needed right now was a place to sit and breathe and recover, someplace the gang could find them. Taking a short breath to steel himself, he tipped his head down and murmured, "Come on, Much. Just a little farther…"
The hill loomed black against the trees, just enough starlight filtering through the leaves to guide them around tree trunks and out of the chilling breeze. The overhang was wide enough but shallow, and with the threat of rain still lingering in the air Robin chose to settle them both sideways under the natural eaves, Much slumped low against his chest. They should be safe here, and if Gisborne did stumble upon them out of blind luck… he would think of something. Much lay a dead weight in his arms, but Robin could feel him shaking, each breath short and strained. When Much spoke, long minutes later, Robin thought he had imagined it at first; his voice was barely audible, worn away to nothing.
"Where…?"
Robin kept his voice low, removing the water-skin from his belt as he replied, "We're safe, not far from the camp. Gisborne's on the wrong trail." Bless Djaq for her quick thinking: Much was parched, his moan of relief at the taste of water a vivid reminder of searing heat and the hard lesson of the desert to conserve water, to learn to cherish every drop. It rankled at Robin's heart that he didn't know enough of medicine and healing to do anything while they waited but to make Much comfortable, or as comfortable as possible under the circumstances. Anything more would have to wait for Djaq.
Much had accused Robin of enjoying the sound of his own voice numerous times in the past. He might as well put that trait to good use now. It might help slow Robin's own heart to a more natural pace, as well. He still felt exposed so near the road, only a few minutes' careful search from discovery.
"What a sight we are, eh?" he said under his breath, dredging up a little humor to color his words. "The pair of us tucked away snugly, both fairly reeking of ale… The lads will think we've had a night out. Gotten drunk out of our wits and wandered out here to sleep it off." The slightest huff of amusement, barely more than an exhaled breath. "Allan will be jealous we went to the Trip without him, no doubt. John'll take us to task, of course, and we'll have to tell him we had a legitimate excuse for celebrating."
"M' wedding…" Much mumbled, surprising a chuckle from Robin.
"Exactly. And the Sheriff's guards will back us up. We've got witnesses – he'll have no choice but to believe us."
Silence grew in the space after Robin's words, but a little of the tension had melted from the air. The forest remained quiet, only the leaves rattling softly against each other and trees creaking. With any luck, Gisborne would chase his imagined quarry several miles further, though undoubtedly with more respect for the surprises Robin's men had arranged along the road. By the time they realized they'd been tricked for the second time that day, they would have no hope of finding where Robin and Much left the road. As planned, the rest of the gang would regroup at camp; he only hoped they wouldn't wait too long before trying to find their missing leader, for Much's sake. It was already late, and a night out in the cold wouldn't do either of them any good.
Much's shaking had stilled, for the most part, his face turned into Robin's arm, breathing shallowly but more evenly. He had been uncharacteristically quiet, all things considered, and that sent a shaft of worry into Robin's stomach. Much wouldn't be Much if he wasn't complaining about something, fussing over the way Little John prepared the rabbit, bemoaning the lack of respect the rest of the gang paid him, whatever the topic of the day was. Particularly if he received an injury more tangible than a blow to his pride, like the time Allan had nicked him during sparring practice, the whole camp would hear about it. Now, after his treatment at Gisborne's hands, not to mention the ride from Nottingham, which must have hurt hellishly, if anyone had a right to complain, Much did. This quiet worried Robin more than anything else.
Hurry up, lads, he thought, resting his head against the damp dirt behind him. Scanning the darkness again and seeing nothing, Robin closed his eyes and listened instead.