The gang couldn't decide who wanted to narrate this one, and Little John was making a mess of it, so I gave the reins back to Allan again. If you think you may be detecting a slight bias in Allan's favor…. you're probably right. The more I write for him, the more I like the fellow (obnoxious though he can be). Little John will get his turn in a chapter or two, though; I promise not to leave him out. Thank you all for reading/reviewing - seeing the views tick upward each day is just wonderful, and I've never looked forward to Thursday/Friday so much in my life!
Lady Murdock: I know what you mean – I was waiting eagerly for that Much-focused episode, too, and was sorely disappointed when I realized it simply wasn't going to happen. It seems like such an important piece of character development for both Much and Robin, and I'm amazed the scriptwriters didn't at least attempt it, along with all the rest of the changes they were making. :P I hope you and your family stay safe, warm, and dry!
Prats 'R' Us: Maybe a little bit biased. Just a tad. ;) There's a big part of me that wanted Robin to break down in the last chapter, apologies and tears and all, but it just wouldn't have been in character, sadly. He's not going to make this easy for me. :P
Erin: Thank you so much! You're right that this isn't going to be a quick and easy fix for Much. He bounces back from problems and near-misses so often that I think the gang kind of assumes he's indestructible, and he's really, really not. :(
DoubleDaggered: That does seem to be Much's luck, doesn't it? :(
To all my readers who are still dealing with the aftermath of Sandy and the new storms rolling in – stay safe, and hang in there!
"Can you hand me that bit? Thanks."
"Put these ends together-"
Allan drew a slow breath, grinding the heel of his hand into the rough bark of the oak beside him to distract from the unrelenting ache in his calf. The makeshift bandage there felt too tight, magnifying each pulse of pain, but Djaq had tied the cloth in place herself, and she knew what she was doing. A few yards away, barely visible in the gloom, Will gathered up the last folds of his abused net, collecting Djaq's armful, and heaved the bundled rope into the brush to repair and replace later. Little John stood in the middle of the road like a sentinel, staff planted firmly with one hand, torch flaring with the breeze and casting an orange glow around their little group.
Today hadn't gone at all according to plan, though they'd somehow managed to all come out alive, if not in one piece. It had been bad luck, simple and unavoidable, that Gisborne had ever realized the man he was shouting to wasn't Robin Hood, just a bad hand that bluffing couldn't improve. The plan had been to draw out the meeting as long as possible, and then make themselves scarce before the guards figured out the locked chest actually held rocks, not the promised silver. And Will had been right, of course, back at camp: Allan couldn't imitate Robin's voice along with everything else, not well enough to fool Gisborne. Little John and Djaq had done a valiant bit of work distracting the lieutenant, answering his typical barbs and snide comments with their own, saving Allan from having to answer himself, but that tactic couldn't work forever. The familiar silhouette on the hill hadn't satisfied Gisborne for long, and when he flat-out demanded that Robin answer, Allan knew the game was up.
In retrospect, it hadn't been his best idea to toss back his hood and call down, "Sorry, mate – you were lookin' for Robin Hood?" The grin and shrug thrown in afterward definitely topped his list of terrible decisions made lately.
The ensuing explosion of rage from the Master-at-Arms had seen John, Djaq, and Allan taking to their heels, leaving the decoy chest and the swarming guards in the clearing, but not before one of them had gotten off a lucky shot and sunk an arrow into Allan's calf. One minute he was running, the next he was sprawled on his face in the muddy leaves, too shocked to do anything but gulp a shaken breath as the sounds of pursuit drew closer. Only Little John pulling him upright and hurrying him along had saved Allan from a deeply unpleasant fate.
Then, strangely, Gisborne had called off the hunt, though he was perilously close to overtaking them, and swung his men off at a gallop toward Nottingham. The gang's original plan had been left in a shambles, since Allan was supposed to be meeting the others with a horse right about then, but Djaq had kept her head, as always. She'd set John to keep a lookout and stop Allan's leg bleeding, while she managed to catch and quiet one of the guards' mounts, the saddle slung around its ribs, a buckle missing from the torn leather. A few pain-blurred minutes later, Allan's leg was bound and Djaq had ridden off bareback like the devil was at her heels. They'd never seen her ride before, and Allan hadn't been entirely sure she could – did women do much riding where she came from? – but even riding without a saddle hadn't daunted her, and Allan had to admit he was impressed.
"Robin wouldn't have tripped this on himself," Will commented as he dusted off his hands and rejoined them, "no matter how much of a hurry he was in. Must've been Gisborne and his men coming through." The profusion of hoofmarks matched Will's interpretation of the scene, and Allan's heart lifted a little from the place deep down in his chest where it had settled. Robin had made it far enough to lead Gisborne into at least one of their traps; that had to be a good sign. John crouched to examine the tracks further, and Allan tried to resist the urge to groan with mingled impatience and pain. If he sat down now, it'd take all three of the others to get him upright again, but he wasn't going to be able to just stand there much longer. Djaq joined them, completing their little group, and waited in silence to hear what the trail told them. The petite Saracen woman and the lean carpenter had appeared out of the darkness like ghosts about an hour ago, as John and Allan were walking and limping (respectively) toward camp, only Will's preceding whistle saving him from a sturdy knock in the skull with John's staff. Djaq had quickly filled them in on Robin's successful rescue as they went on together. From the sound of it, Robin had gotten a decent start, but the sheer number of hoofprints spoke of even more determined and ruthless pursuit than usual, and Allan couldn't quite quell the worry gnawing in his stomach.
"They've returned to Nottingham," John announced, straightening carefully with the torch. "Half these tracks go the other way." His statement hung in the cool air, three flame-lit faces looking back at him, unwilling to voice the question that rose in those words' wake: Did Gisborne return empty-handed or not?
"Safe enough to take the road, then." Allan limped up to join them on the muddy North Road, grimacing. "Robin'll turn up like he always does, right?" He leaned gratefully on Will's shoulder when the other man took up a position next to him again, and Djaq spoke up, her gentle voice and strange accent almost otherworldly in the gloomy darkness.
"We should look for marks where Robin might have left the road. Whatever happened, I do not believe they would have been able to reach the camp." She hadn't said anything about Robin being hurt, only that Much was "not well", and that she knew nothing else for certain, that she could tell them more when they were all together again. Reading her dark eyes was still a challenge, her small features taking on a studied stillness when she wanted to hide her thoughts, but Allan caught sight of a deep worry she was quick to conceal. She said nothing more, and John took the lead wordlessly, nodding them onward in his own inscrutable way.
They took their time, treading carefully in the churned-up earth. John strode along in tense silence, shaggy hair swaying as he ducked out of the torch's smoky trail, while Djaq flitted shadow-like at his side, now and then casting from one side of the path to the other. Allan and Will made up the rear guard, the younger man matching his pace to Allan's limping gait with his usual patience, for which Allan was mutely thankful. The entire forest held a hush, the breeze lofting a cautioning whisper through the branches above them. But for the multitude of tracks under their boots, it might have been any ordinary night in Sherwood.
"Here!" Djaq cried softly, holding her hand up to ward them back. "These marks here-" When John leaned in, she stepped aside and gestured at a set of smeared bootprints that cut a chunk of mud from the edge of the road.
"What – so they jus' got off the horse and thought they'd have a nice stroll?" Allan didn't bother to force the slight whine from his voice when he spoke up. He'd had an arrow in his leg not two hours ago – if anyone had a right to complain, it was him, hang it all.
Will turned to look at him, probably with that faintly reproving expression he got sometimes, so Allan ignored him, eyes on Djaq as she replied, "I don't know," shaking her head in frustration as she threw an arm to the forest; John had to swing the torch aside to avoid lighting her sleeve afire. "I don't know where they could have gone. It is impossible to read the trail through this…" Her gesture took in the black bars of tree-trunks and the hidden expanse of leaf-covered ground that lay like a shadowed rug beneath them. The signs pointed them off at a sharp angle away from the camp, something Robin would certainly have known. So would Much, but no one knew what sort of shape he was in except Djaq and Will, who offered only reluctant shrugs and tight-lipped shakes of their heads; only made sense to assume Robin was the one making all the decisions for the two of them right now.
They stood there in the cool breeze for a few long moments, Allan wracking his exhausted brains, trying to place himself in Robin's mind, to understand where he could possibly have been headed with Gisborne on his tail and a wounded man to manage. It didn't make sense, and Allan stifled another sigh. Robin had to make this difficult for them, didn't he? Had to go and start up a game of "come and find me" instead of just following the road another mile and reaching camp like any sane person would have.
His brooding was interrupted by Will's surprised voice.
"I know where they've gone. At least, probably where they've gone." His eyes flicked from Djaq to John and back, unsteady in the torchlight, but he continued, "There's that old hill, remember? If they had to stop, and needed shelter…" John snorted suddenly at this, his deep chuckle earning a piercing stare from Djaq and identical puzzled frowns from Will and Allan.
"They'd be better off making for camp. That ledge wouldn't keep the rain from a rabbit." His wry tone suggested he knew from experience. But if Much was as bad off as Djaq's somber non-answers suggested, then that would be just the sort of place Robin would make for. It was a non-descript area of the forest, unremarkable except to the gang, who had learned the contours of Sherwood as a matter of self-defense, and known well enough to them all that Robin could expect them to search there sooner rather than later.
Will was already towing Allan off the road with him, brushing past John with an apologetic, "There's nothing else this direction. Robin would've made for it – he knows we'd check there." When Djaq hurried past to catch up, John was left to heave a rumbling sigh and stride up behind them with the torch, disagreement audible in his heavy steps.
After a minute or two making much louder progress than they would have liked, mostly thanks to Allan's uneven steps, the hill rose ahead and John took the lead again, peering warily through the gloom. At first, all they saw was the shallow cut in the hill filled with night shadows, mounded and indistinct. A few steps closer, and then a human form materialized – two, one lying against the other, motionless and silent, while the second lifted his head to reveal eyes dark with worry, and a hand darting to his belt.
"Robin!" John's voice drew a gusty sigh from the sitting figure, which torchlight soon revealed to be their missing leader replacing his knife in its sheath and looking out at them with undisguised relief. Robin's features were haggard, eyes glittering, and as the rest of the gang gathered round eagerly, those eyes flickered among them all, counting, lingering on Allan's bandaged leg, reassuring himself that all his men were present and relatively whole. That thought immediately brought Allan's eyes back to the still body propped against Robin's chest, head pillowed in the crook of his arm: unmistakably Much, but so bruised and begrimed it looked as if Robin had dragged him face-down through the forest on the way here. For all he moved, the manservant might as easily have been dead as asleep, but then Allan saw his chest rise faintly, and he hastily pushed aside the thought before it drew even more ill luck down on them all.
Djaq hurried ahead to kneel beside Robin, and John crouched to hold the torch close, his sturdy staff set close at hand. Gritting his teeth as Will helped him sit gracelessly on the forest floor, Allan nodded his thanks, and Will sat down beside him, deliberately close enough for Allan to lean against him slightly, taking a little pressure off his leg. Robin's Saracen blade was cumbersome, and Allan had been forced to fasten both the quiver and the recurve bow over his shoulders after he was hurt, to leave his arms free for balance; the combination was both frustrating and confining. Cast into burly silhouette by the torch, Little John's shaggy head jerked back suddenly, and the bear-like man met Robin's eyes with incredulity.
"Why do you-" He sniffed carefully again, rough burr disbelieving. "Have you two been drinking?" Sure enough, the light breeze carried the scent of the Trip Inn's signature ale, utterly out of place here in the middle of Sherwood, and Allan saw the corner of Robin's mouth twitch upward wearily before he replied, "Getting out of Nottingham required a bit of creativity. It'll make for a story later, I can promise you, but for now…" His expression sobered as he looked down at Much, and he continued quietly, "Can you do anything for him here, Djaq?" Her small hands were already ghosting over Much's pale face, resting against his throat for carefully counted seconds, and Allan felt a twinge of relieved guilt to know that he was not alone in wondering at first whether they had come across Robin holding only the body of his friend.
"Tell me what you can about his injuries," Djaq said simply, motioning for more light. "How long has he been unconscious?" John brought the torch forward as Djaq ran a gentle, seeking hand through Much's hair, and Robin frowned.
"I don't… Maybe half an hour."
Apparently satisfied that this was a natural sleep, not one caused by a knock to the head, Djaq leaned back and nodded for Robin to continue; with a heavy breath, he went on, "Gisborne beat him within an inch of his life. He can't breathe properly… he said maybe a broken rib. His hand…." Robin trailed off when he saw Djaq already reaching for the hand resting on Much's chest, and her tentative movements revealed as dark bruises what Allan had thought were only shadows. Gently, Djaq slid her hand under Much's wrist, but even that slight touch was enough to bring Much whimpering back to consciousness, shadows joining the bruises in the torchlight to turn his grimace grotesque.
Djaq reached out to still his sluggish attempt to escape the torch's bright glare, but Much jolted under the sudden pressure on his shoulders, and as both Robin and Djaq tried to calm the injured man with low voices, Allan's heart sank just a bit. If there had been any doubt before, then Much's panicked movements, the brief flare of terror on his face, confirmed what Marian had told them: Much had been tortured by Gisborne. And Allan knew torture, though that wasn't a tale he'd go telling the lads around the fire anytime soon, or ever. After nearly three days in the dungeons with Gisborne's undivided attention… Allan quietly recited a litany of curses in his head, and wondered what Robin would do when they reached camp to find half of Nottingham's garrison making themselves comfortable and sharpening their blades. Not being funny or anything this time, because the whole gang knew the wide-eyed man held secrets about as well as a sieve. When it came to details about Robin, stuff about the Holy Land, he'd sometimes go quiet or change the subject, but cute little tricks like that didn't work with Gisborne.
Much lay still again, gasping, working up a tentative nod when Djaq quietly asked something. It was a mark of how miserable the man must have felt that he didn't try to sit up, showed no sign of wounded pride despite lying cradled in Robin's arms like a helpless infant. Allan couldn't be sure Much had even noticed anyone else besides Djaq yet. The bruised eyes were already tightly shut again as their resident healer began her careful examination of Much's ribs through his thin shirt, murmuring what sounded like apologies as she went.
Between Allan's own fatigue and the hectic pace of the day, the whole scene was turning surreal. It was getting on to midnight by now, or close enough to it, and here they all sat cozily a mile from camp with Much lying in Robin's arms, beaten half to death. It was like somewhere in the back of his mind, he'd thought they would just rescue Much, dust him off, and the gang could carry on as always. Much didn't get hurt, he just didn't, at least not in any real way. They'd all laughed over him tripping over his own feet, heard him yelp over a burnt finger near the cookfire, but whenever Djaq had to actually sit down and tend something worse than a scratch, Much was the one fetching for her, not sitting in front of her.
Allan jumped, and Will flinched beside him, when a shift of Djaq's probing hands pressed a hoarse cry from Much, almost obscenely loud in the shadowy forest. Much pressed his bloodstained sleeve to his mouth an instant later, Djaq sitting back with sympathetic eyes, while John looked on gravely. As the small woman leaned back, Much drew a slow breath against his fist that was probably meant to be steadying; instead he sounded like he was about to cry. Allan had to amend that thought a moment later, when Much clumsily rubbed his good hand across his eyes, leaving suspiciously shiny streaks through the dust and blood. Much's efforts only ended up smearing his face further, and Robin finally reached over gently to halt his increasingly fretful movements. The manservant was obviously clinging to composure by the thinnest of threads, and Allan felt keenly as if he were intruding somehow by being there. Not that he could just get up and amble on to the camp, but neither Djaq nor Much needed them all sitting around and gawping like this.
The nice, steady shape of Will beside him vanished suddenly, and Allan thrust out an arm to keep from toppling sideways, biting back a few choice words when the pain in his leg flared sharp and hot again. The young carpenter ducked down beside Djaq for a few moments, listening intently, then nodded and stood to take the torch from John's hand. Everyone shifted away and to the sides as the torch-lit circle widened, giving John room to crouch down where Djaq had been kneeling.
"You must be careful, John," Djaq said from her anxious place next to Will. "Too much movement could…" She trailed off with the faintest trace of uncharacteristic sheepishness on her face when John twisted around to look at her, face ruddy and eyes twinkling faintly in the orange glow. His voice held a rare note of humor as he said, "We'll be fine, Djaq." With surprising gentleness, the big man took Much's weight from Robin's arms and stood, the disheveled head high on his shoulder. The movement wrenched a strangled groan from Much that left John hurriedly adjusting his grip to support the suddenly limp body in his arms. He exchanged a regretful, unsurprised glance with Djaq, but honestly, Much was probably better off this way. Spared him the pain for a while, and the embarrassment of having to be carried back to camp, if Much would have even cared at this point.
Robin stood stiffly, staggering a step or two, and accepted one of the plain swords Will had been wearing – he must have held Robin's for him at some point before they split up. Whatever their clever plan for getting out of town had been, swords would have given them away, no doubt. Much's sword still waited on the carpenter's belt, alongside its owner's cap and vest, suggesting just how rushed their exit from Nottingham had actually been. No time even to give Much his cap.
Robin sighed softly, shadows finding and settling into the lines furrowing his forehead, draining inkily down to fill the hollows around his eyes, and looked over at Allan, who sat in the leaves with Robin's weapons and cloak like a defeated doppelganger, an alternate self with worse luck. The real Robin looked him over distantly for an interminable second or two, as if trying to remember what his men had been doing while he was away, and Allan shifted his gaze, glad when Will came over to help him up. A few seconds of murmuring between Djaq, John, and Robin, and then the big man set off slowly with his burden. Robin took the torch from Will and strode wearily ahead, wearing a barely-credible mask of assurance, a faded and moth-eaten confidence. Djaq collected Will and Allan with her eyes before following, and Allan's slow, limping steps made up the rear; his human crutch stopped to pick up Little John's staff and scan the area, making sure they'd left no trace, before nodding to himself, or to Allan, or to no one, and moving on.
There was a vaguely funereal atmosphere to their hushed procession, and it didn't sit right with Allan, like someone breathing a chill down the back of his neck. Djaq was uncanny when it came to sorting things like this, though, really. She knew stuff they didn't, could tell you where every bone was in a body and how it ought to work together with the rest, could tell you so much about how it all ought to work that Allan sometimes half-wondered if she just made it up on the spot to show them up for doubting her. But it worked, everything she did, and it wasn't like Much had already passed on or anything. He'd taken a good beating, of the caliber only Gisborne and his lot could dish out, and maybe a few other things – his hand had looked nasty, definitely something broken there – but they'd gotten him back, hadn't they? They'd got him back, and Djaq could work her little bit of magic on him, and things would be all right in the end.
Up ahead, Robin led the way without a sound, and Allan wondered if those same thoughts sounded just as hollow in their leader's mind as they did in his own.