fic: With the Day Now Breaking
Sep. 25th, 2008 12:22 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rubberbuttonTitle: With the Day Now Breaking
Rating: NC-17/Adult
Words: 9,500
Fandom/Pairing: the BBC's Robin Hood; Robin/Much
Summary: Much and Robin in the Holy Land. No spoilers.
Warning: dark themes, some violence, explicit sex
Beta: Many thanks to the gracious![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ignazwisdom for beta duties and to the irrepressible ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-syndicated.gif)
purridot for cheerleading.
A small rivulet of rain had found its way through the worn awning, trickling down the back of Much's neck in a constant drip, drip, drip. He'd ceased wiping it away and there was nowhere to go to avoid it -- the barber surgeon's tent was cramped with wounded and the tools needed to tend them. A stinking piss-pot was at Much's left elbow and a moaning amputee lay to his right. The barber surgeon had taking the man's leg when gangrene set in, but judging by the gray cast of the man's face, it was too late.
Robin had got one of the camp beds -- Much had made sure of that -- so at least he was off the hard ground and out of the grime. Much leaned his head back against it, the wooden frame digging into his neck. It was easier to endure the rain than the worry and the exhaustion. The hunger. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a proper meal. He snatched a bit of hard bread or a bowl of broth in the rare moments away from Robin's side. And those first few precarious days he hadn't left Robin at all, as if he could keep life in his master's body by sheer will alone.
With nothing to distract him, he'd remembered: Robin surrounded by Saracens, cutting them down but not fast enough. Much closing in, but not able to stop the curved blade. Now Much thought of a hundred different ways the day could have ended, if only he'd been faster or smarter or braver. He'd got the Saracen in the end, felled him with a blow so heavy it nearly cut the man in half.
Much shook his head, scrubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands, trying to rid himself of the image. He twisted around; Robin's chest rose and fell steadily, and the sight eased Much's own breathing. Robin's pulse was faint but steady when Much laid fingers on his wrist. But he still hadn't woken up.
The barber surgeon looked Robin over and shrugged. “He's as well as can be expected. Don't know why he hasn't woke yet,” he said, inspecting the ugly black stitches along Robin's ribs for signs they'd begun to fester. “Looks clean enough.”
“Is there anything I can do? Anything at all? Please.”
The man shrugged again, wiping his hands on a graying apron. “Either he wakes or he don't.”
---
Much had just reached his nineteenth year the summer they left for the Holy Land. It was a hazy memory now of wheat ripening in the fields. The sun had glinted off Robin's newly minted armor, like a knight from a troubadour's song. Much had been happy to follow where his fine master led, shining in reflected glory. He was the first in his family to escape into service on the Locksley estate and then to war, where honor and advancement awaited.
“I have to say,” Much said, emptying sand from his boots. “I really don't see what's so holy about this Holy Land. A more inhospitable, miserable, hot, dusty stretch of acreage you will not find.”
Robin twisted the cap off a water skin, taking several long swallows before passing it to Much.
Some of the miseries, he'd expected -- bad food, the monotony of the road -- but there were so many others he hadn't. The entire months he spent thirsty, the water measured out in careful cupfuls each morning. The raw welts worn across his shoulder by a pack heavy with his master's gear. The sweet and nauseating stench of bodies left to rot, no one left to claim them.
Robin snorted. “It's holy because of what happened here, Much. Not because of the scenery.”
Everything was harsher in the Holy Land. The sun shone brighter, intensified by the sand; Much's eyes ached from squinting into the brightness. More than anything Much found he missed green, for there was none. Bleached sand and blue sky, reds and ocher sunsets, but no green.
“I know that,” Much protested. The water tasted like old shoes and dirt. “But it seems like our Lord Jesus Christ could have picked a more promising place to make an appearance. Some place with fewer scorpions.”
---
The true hell had begun after they met with the Saracens. Battles ended, but Much couldn't tell who won until they'd tallied up the dead. Robin earned glory and a reputation as the most fearsome of King Richard's men. Much followed Robin into battle, offering another quiver or a new blade, and learned to fight. He earned no commendations from the King, but Robin would smile in thanks and Much didn't care about the rest. But the blood and death took its toll.
“How can you speak so carelessly?” Robin demanded, after Much had told him a bawdy story involving a bar maid and a well-endowed minstrel, trying to break Robin's black mood. “Do you know how many men I've killed today?”
“They were all trying to kill you,” Much said, scrubbing the red from between rings of mail. This morning he'd found Robin in the same position as night before, the flask still in his hand. “And they were just Saracens. The priest says killing them isn't the same as killing a Christian.”
But this only agitated Robin further. “What right do we have to be here? Attacking their homes, their villages? Certain of our righteousness as the hooves of our horses crush their children?” He sat up on his pallet, shoving his flask aside. He wore only his breeches and Much could see how much weight he'd lost, deep shadows lining his ribs and the hollow of his throat. The desert had stripped away what reserves he had and left bone and whipcord. Robin stood, moving with a speed that surprised Much, crossing the small tent. He grabbed the front of Much's tunic and hauled him upwards. Even as thin as he was, he lifted Much easily. The mail dropped from Much's fingers, pooling on the floor with a metallic jingle.
“What man wouldn't try to kill us? How can we say he doesn't have the right?”
“I'm sorry, Master, you're right. Quite right,” Much sputtered.
Much's knees turned to water as Robin backed him up and he hit the center pole of the tent with enough force to send a shudder through the canvas walls, yelping with surprise and pain.
“I'm right, of course I'm right -- yet no one sees it. Why is that, Much?” Robin shook him a little in emphasis. “Why are an entire people just anything?”
“Master, I beg you -- whatever madness has taken you, please return to yourself.”
Robin's breath came shallowly, hot on Much's cheek, and Much thought Robin might strike him. Instead, Robin's eyes cleared as the ugly anger faded. The tent shook again, this time with a gust of wind bringing a chill in. The desert cooled rapidly as the sun set.
“What am I doing?” Robin whispered. He kept his grip on Much's tunic, now to support himself. Much realized that Robin's prick was hard, obvious even through their clothes. Robin's forehead rested against Much's neck, his skin damp and feverish. Much tried to swallow, his throat painfully dry.
Robin slipped a hand down between them, as fumbling at his groin. Much stared over his shoulder at the water-stained canvas as Robin caught his hand and brought it to his prick. Much's hand closed on the hot flesh reflexively, but it was Robin who moved his hand up and down in short, ragged strokes. Much's own prick twitched in his breechclout, but it seemed distant and unimportant.
With a sharp exhalation, Robin spilled himself over Much's fingers. He staggered backwards a few steps and then dropped to his pallet and pulled his cloak over him.
Much wiped his hand clean and went back to polishing mail.
---
When winter came, they shared a pallet, sleeping as close as lovers to conserve heat. The fighting had ceased for the season and idleness reigned during the long winter months. The respite, at first welcome, had become a curse as boredom set in. Dice, wine and the whores who followed the camp were the only diversions -- and Robin availed himself of all three.
Much lay curled on their pallet, the wind steadily rattling the tent, threatening to pull it off its moorings. Robin had left earlier and Much dozed while he waited, though the cold was enough to keep him from real sleep. Elsewhere in the camp he could hear the roar of laughter and a woman's shrieking protest. He rolled over, pulling the rough wool blankets up to his chin. Squeezing his eyes shut, he struggled to call to mind his loft at Locksley Manor. He could almost see the dust dancing through stray sunbeams and almost smell the sweet alfalfa hay in his mattress .
He started as Robin dropped onto the pallet beside him. Robin struggled with his boots, drunk enough to make a production of it, throwing first one and then the other across the tent. Fully clothed and reeking of sour ale, he crawled in next to Much, the cold air stealing in with him. Much shivered and shrank away, but Robin followed, burrowing insistently under the covers.
“You're back late,” Much said, not bothering to keep the recrimination from his voice. “Or early, I guess.”
“I was losing. Henry of Kensington,” Robin said angrily, his voice loud but not slurred, “Is a liar and a cheat.”
Much closed his eyes. “How much did you lose?”
“I'll win it back tomorrow.”
Much didn't reply, there wasn't any point. Suddenly, Robin shoved Much's shoulder, deftly rolling him onto his stomach. Much didn't have time to protest before Robin took his wrists, half on top of him.
“Master,” Much panted, struggling to no avail. “What are you doing?”
“You're always worrying.” Robin leaned over, his lips against Much's ear. “Always worrying. But it's not your place.”
Much struggled for breath, Robin's weight on his back. A hand stroked down his side and came to rest on his hip. Gut twisting into knots, he realized what Robin was after and he began to thrash wildly. Robin rolled off him, catching himself with an elbow.
Much scrambled away, the blankets falling to the side. He braced himself, but Robin had let him escape. They held their positions, panting in the dark of the tent, staring at each other. Finally, Robin moved toward him, and Much frantically struck out. The blow glanced off Robin's cheek and Robin stopped, putting a hand to the reddening skin.
Much went utterly still. He'd raised a hand against his master -- the worst offense a servant could commit. Robin could have him beaten. Or worse.
“I don't, please ... I can't ...” Much's heart hammered beneath his ribs; he was close to weeping.
Robin held up his hands, as though he were surrendering. “I know. Much. You don't understand.”
“Seems clear enough,” Much said, his throat aching.
Robin shook his head. “Look, I don't want to ...” Already on his knees, he leaned over to rest his weight on his forearms. “I want you to.”
Much flushed and his palms prickled with sweat. “You could buy it.” He knew there were boys who sold such favors, though no one spoke of it, save as an insult.
Robin sat back on his heels again. “And risk my position if anyone found out.”
Much knew it was true; gossip traveled through camp faster than it did through the smallest hamlet. And this would prove rich fodder for the scandalmongers. Bending a boy over was a sin, but to bend over for one was unthinkable.
Much swallowed. “Are you set on this?”
Robin nodded, looking away. “I need this.”
The heat leeched from Much's limbs in the freezing air; his teeth began to chatter.
“You're the only one I can trust, Much.” Robin said quietly, and then, as close as he would get to begging, “Please.”
Much's voice shook badly, but the words were clear. “All right.”
Robin beckoned him over, and Much moved slowly, not quite trusting his limbs. Robin loosened his belt, but hesitated when Much didn't do the same.
“Even if I want to,” Much said helplessly, his crotch of his trousers slack, “I don't know that -- that I can.”
Robin understood immediately, Much knew, though he could see little more than Robin's silhouette in the dark. “Come here, it's too damned cold anyway.”
Much crawled into the warmth of the blankets and Robin reached for his belt with sure hands, opening the front of his trousers. Robin's hand was on his prick and Much yelped a little -- Robin's hands were cold, but they warmed quickly. Robin leaned over and took the soft flesh of Much's prick in his mouth. Much grabbed Robin's shoulders, meaning to shove him away, but was distracted by the warmth of Robin's mouth. Neither clumsy or tentative, Robin worked with the same practiced skill of a two-copper whore. Soon Much panted and shook, his prick hard and desperate.
When Robin pulled off, Much whimpered. Robin turned, and Much felt as he slipped his trousers off his hips and down his thighs. Much followed more stiffly, draping himself over Robin's back. He was slick with Robin's saliva and the fluid leaking from the head of his prick, but still he spit on his own fingers. Robin jerked as Much touched him, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
Much hesitated, waiting for Robin to change his mind -- or at least give further direction -- but he said nothing, his head resting on his arms. With a shaking hand, Much aligned himself and his hips pressed forward reflexively. Robin was hot and Much paused, overwhelmed as much by the intimacy as by the physical sensation. Robin's back was rigid under him and he was panting.
“Master?” Much asked, fear edging through need.
“Keep going.” And then, when Much didn't immediately, “Now.”
It was an order; Much obeyed. It got easier, though Robin remained silent and tense as Much's strokes became hurried. They were both still clothed, but Much worked the hem of Robin's shirt up, so his fingers touched the skin of Robin's hips.
Robin cried out as he found release. Much held him, pulling him back onto a few sharp thrusts before Much spilled himself deep within Robin. His limbs turned to jelly, and he sank down on top of Robin. Their breath was suddenly loud in the silence. Much realized his weight must be uncomfortable and carefully pulled out, settling in his usual spot to Robin's left.
Robin grunted and rolled over, his back to Much, already asleep.
---
Robin was washing, grime and blood streaking his limbs. It wasn't a proper bath, just a bowl of murky water and a cloth. He'd stripped down to the skin, places exposed to the sun burnt dark brown, but pale as milk everywhere else. Much had seen him naked before; they'd lived in a tent together for over a year and privacy was an unknown luxury. Even before the Holy Land, they'd gone swimming in the pond behind the Locksley manor, running into the woods with their clothes in their arms when Cook had caught them.
Much learned to watch for the dark and distant look in Robin's eyes. In victory, the men would be looting and celebrating; in defeat, nursing their wounds and burying the dead. But either way, Robin would catch Much's sleeve, hurrying him back to the tent. Much would barely have Robin's armor off, the both of them soaked with sweat and blood, before Robin would be pawing at his belt.
Much would protest Robin's injuries needed tending, a dozen minor cuts, more from the sharp edges of Robin's own armor than Saracen blades. Robin always shrugged, peeling out of his gambeson and Much always gave him what he sought. A couple of times Much drew blood -- not a lot, but it horrified him still. It didn't seem to bother Robin and he wouldn't tolerate gentleness, cursing Much if he was too cautious. Only afterwards, as Robin lay staring at the tent's ridgepole, would he allow Much to tend his injuries.
Robin wrung out the cloth and scrubbed it along his shoulders and neck, down across his stomach. Much focused on the knife he sharpened; Robin's life might depend on its edge. He told himself that Robin's request was just another of his duties, a service his master required, like mending tack or fetching water. But some small part of his brain accused him of enjoying it too much. Shame settled in his stomach like a stone and he wished to God that his prick wouldn't jump when Robin gave him that look.
---
He'd never much fraternized with the other squires, so it wasn't hard to start avoiding them altogether. He'd tired of their quarrels and endless gossiping -- which lord had brought himself glory, which shame. But more than that, he feared their questions. He'd heard the rumors circulating about Robin. An up-start lord from Locksley, it was no wonder he attracted notice. Wherever Robin's glory inspired admiration, it inspired envy as well. The petty hunted for weakness in the young lord, ready to pounce on any rumor.
Much had never been a good liar; his face betrayed his thoughts as quickly as they entered his head. He feared he would give something away, some small clue that all was not right between Robin of Locksley and his squire.
So he kept to himself, rising before dawn to be the first to the well, skirting carefully around their boisterous gatherings when fetching fuel. He nodded when greeted, but walked faster to avoid conversation.
Much had run out to one of the apothecaries for lanolin to mix an ointment. He'd spent longer than he'd meant to haggling with the old man and now he hurried his steps, pulling up the hood of his cloak. The camp was always dangerous, but after nightfall it was even more so. Busy fussing with the hood, he didn't see the man peel out of the shadows and Much ran into him, catching him hard on the shoulder.
“Oh, pardon me,” Much said, peddling backwards.
Blood chilling, Much recognized Randolph, Lord Dansbury's squire. His shoulders strained against his leather jerkin as he crossed his thick arms. “Watch where you're going.”
“Yes, yes. I'm sorry,” Much said. “It was an accident.”
“Aren't you Robin of Locksley's squire?” the man said, making it sound like an accusation rather than a question.
“Er, yes. Much.” Much drew his cloak more tightly about him.
“You don't look like much to me.” He laughed at his pun, though it was one Much had heard a hundred times before. “So you're the one what thinks he's too good for the rest of us?” Much's protest was drowned out as Randolph called out to squires throwing dice around a fire pit. “Hey, you lot, here's Locksley's boy, out running errands for his fine master.” He drew the words out, affecting a mocking accent.
The gamblers got up, wandering over in a lazy way that made the hair on the back of Much's neck stand up and his mouth go dry.
“Uh, I, I really must be off, I'm afraid -- not that I wouldn't love to spend some time chatting with you gentlemen.” Much turned, but his way was blocked by a wiry man with a narrow face.
“Oh come on, stay awhile,” he said, feinting a punch. Much flinched automatically and the gathered squires laughed their approval. “Tell us your master's secret.”
“Secret?” Much's voice was shrill. “What secret?”
“There's none that can match him with the bow.” This came from over Much's shoulder, the circle tightening around him. “It's uncanny.”
“Unnatural is what it is,” another piped up, jostling Much. “Only the Devil could give a man a hand so steady.”
“The Devil?” Much repeated incredulously. “No, no --” but they didn't give him a chance to defend Robin.
“What else to explain how he keeps himself apart and secret-like?”
“You must have seen him worshiping idols or practicing the dark arts,” the wiry man said, but Randolph interrupted.
“Fool -- you think he'd tell us what his master's been up to?” He spat, hitting the hem of Much's cloak. “He's doubtless in on it. Like now --” He grabbed for the jar of lanolin. Much hung onto it determinedly, and they struggled for a moment before the Randolph yanked it from Much's grasp. The jar bounced into the mud and rolled under foot. Much dropped to his knees reaching after it, but they kicked it away. “What spells are you concocting?”
“Nothing! It's just oil for sore muscles -- I swear before God.”
“Rubbin' oil into his fancy hide? And what other services does your master have you perform?” Randolph asked, his voice thick with innuendo. Another laugh went around the circle, ugly and far too loud. Much tried to get to his feet but Randolph caught him with a fist to the jaw, and the force of the blow sent him sprawling. He didn't know who landed the next blow -- a brutal kick to his ribs -- and after that there were too many to keep straight. Much tried to fight back, and though a few of his punches made contact, he didn't know if he'd done any damage. In the end, he curled into a ball, futilely trying to protect his head and stomach.
When they finally stopped beating him, he didn't immediately realize it, and lay stunned, his own heartbeat pounding his ears, keeping time with the throbbing of his blackened eyes and battered limbs. But when he opened his eyes, they'd gone. He stayed down, inventorying his injuries; everything hurt and it was impossible to tell where one injury ended and another began. He got to his feet, nausea and dizziness threatening to topple him again.
He found the jar in shards, pale ointment churned into the mud.
---
“Look what the cat's dragged in,” Robin said, when Much finally pushed aside the tent flap. He looked up from his ale cup and his eyes widened as he took in the mud ground into Much's clothes and hair, the blood and bruises. He sprang up, moving to Much's side, taking his cloak and helping him take a seat. “Much. What happened?”
Much just shook his head mutely. Robin gathered a basin of water and some cloths, coming to kneel in front of Much.
Robin's voice had an edge when he asked, “Who did this to you?”
It hurt to speak through his split lip, but Much managed, “Doesn't matter.”
“Yes, it does. Tell me, I need to know.” Robin gently wiped away the grime from Much's face.
“You can't do anything,” Much winced as the cloth loosened the dried blood. He caught Robin's wrist. “It'd only make things worse. Promise me you won't do anything.”
“Is that the only way you'll tell me?” When Much nodded, Robin sat back on his heels. “Fine, then. I promise.”
Still Much hesitated and Robin set aside the cloth so he could take Much's face in his hands. “You must tell me, Much.”
“... Dansbury's squire, Randolph. He was the leader, at least.”
Much could see Robin filing the name away. “Why would he do this to you?” Much shrugged, looking away, but Robin forced his head up. “I cannot believe you insulted his grandmother.”
“They're jealous of your success. Their own masters haven't earned half the glory you have.” Robin let Much go, reaching again for the water. “And they think your skills unnatural.”
Robin wrung out the cloth; the water was muddy now, tinged pink. “Oh, if it's unnatural they want, it's unnatural they'll get.”
“No, Master. You promised you would do nothing. Retaliation will only make it worse. It won't stop the rumors, only spread them faster. No other lord would care what scrape his squire gets into --”
“-- This is no scrape. It's attempted murder --”
“-- And if you go after him, you'll only confirm their suspicions.” Much licked his lips. “That there is something more going on here. That there is something more going on ... between us.”
That brought Robin up short. His mouth hung open for moment and then he snapped it shut, his jaw set angrily.
---
The waiting had proved torturous as his blackened eyes and broken ribs -- waiting for Randolph to come after him again, waiting for Robin's reprisal. Much set about his normal tasks with enthusiasm, though he made excuses to avoid leaving the tent without Robin. When Much winced, a hand going to his bandaged ribs, or when Robin traced the purpled skin with a gentle finger, Robin's eyes hardened. But the bruises faded and nothing happened.
By the time King Richard's army had reached Jableh, Much had completely recovered. The town's fortification consisted of a stone wall no higher than Much's hip and a few teenage shepherds with slingshots. Taking the village proved easy enough and King Richard gave his men permission to sack it and take whatever they could.
The afternoon was already darkening in an unnatural dusk as smoke from the burning houses obscured the sun when Robin returned. He had little beside a couple of chickens to show for the day's efforts.
“Here,” he said, throwing the chickens down on the table, grinning at Much. “How about dressing these for dinner?”
Much set about gutting the chickens, spitting them, planning to do them up savory. “I don't suppose you thought to steal any herbs -- rosemary? Oregano?”
Robin shook his head, laughing at Much's disappointed look, and pulled off his boots. He brought out his sword, cleaning its blade with a soft cloth he kept for the purpose. His hands were deft and careful over its razor edge.
“Was there much action?” Much asked, watching him sight down the blade.
“Hm?” Robin looked up. “No, no real action. Just a little clean-up.”
---
The following morning, Much drew water from the well, the rope rough in his hands. Two foot soldiers sat near by, passing a flask back and forth between them.
“The pickings were too thin,” the first complained loudly, “Hardly worth it.”
“Of course they were -- what'd you expect?” the second snorted. “If there'd be anything worthwhile, they'd have a whole hoard of Saracens protecting it.” Much filled his first bucket and sent the second plummeting down. “If you want riches you're going to have casualties.”
“We did,” the first soldier protested. “One of baggage masters took a girl, but she'd got a knife hid in her skirts and he got a sticking instead of giving one.” They laughed at that and Much drew the second bucket up a little faster. “Oh, and I heard one of the squires got sliced up. Dansbury's, I think.”
Much's fingers slipped on the wet rope and it went hissing back over the edge of the well.
“The big brute?”
“That's the one. They found him early this morning, just outside the wall. Saracens must have caught him out by himself. Made short work of him too.” The man shuddered.
“What a shame.” They took a moment, considering the ugly fate of Dansbury's squire. “Well, why don't we go see if we can lighten some of the purses brought into camp this morning?” the second soldier said, and the men walked on, leaving Much to haul the water back to Robin's tent.
Sprawled on his stomach, Robin slept, his lean legs tangled in the blankets. Much set the buckets down carefully and drew the tent flaps closed, tying them with numb fingers. Robin didn't stir as Much knelt beside him and laid a hand on his shoulder. He was smiling slightly and that, more than anything, was what angered Much. He shoved Robin, hard. Robin woke with a grunt, already reaching for his sword. Seeing Much, he relaxed and rolled onto his back.
“Well, good morning to you too,” he yawned, scratching the stubble on his chin.
“You did it. Didn't you,” Much said. “You killed Randolph.”
Robin met Much's gaze evenly, but remained silent.
“Oh God, you did. You did, you did.” Much started shaking and he wasn't sure if he wanted to cry or vomit or both.
“Hush.” Robin sat up, and clamped a hand over Much's mouth. “Do you want the whole camp to know?”
Much tried to reply that of course he didn't, but he settled for shaking his head vigorously. Robin pulled his hand away, but held it ready in case Much started shouting.
“Why -- why did you do that, Master?” Much begged, careful to keep his voice low. “You shouldn't have done that. You promised.”
“Much.” Robin took Much's face in his hands. “I did what I had to do. That is all I'm going to say on the matter.”
“What if they get suspicious? Start looking around, asking questions --”
“The discussion is closed.” And then Robin kissed him.
Much jerked in surprise, but the kiss was over before he could react. “What was that for?”
Robin grinned. “To shut you up.”
---
At first Much thought it was a polished rock, lying in the dust outside Robin's tent, catching the rays of the late-afternoon sun. When he stooped to pick it up, he realized it was metal. Probably lead, judging by the dull gray weight of it. About half the size of his palm, the disk had been beaten flat and etched with a crude stick figure, its limbs disjointed, mud lining the heavy grooves. His blood ran cold and he realized it was a curse -- the kind villagers back home used against witches. The old priest had tried to root out the practice, warning against the dangers of magic. The villagers had nodded and promised to stop, all the while hiding their curses under mattresses and in grain mangers.
Much stood transfixed by the ugly little thing. He couldn't throw it away and he couldn't put it back. Who knew what evils it might bring down upon their heads? He tucked it into his pocket and set about heating water for breakfast. It rested unnaturally cold and heavy against his leg, distracting him as he stirred the porridge. Robin was awake when Much ducked into the tent, bowls in hand. He accepted the porridge with a look of distaste.
“No sugar,” he sighed. They hadn't had sugar in four months' time, but Robin was freshly disappointed every morning.
Much stuck his hands in his pockets, fingers closing on the sharp edges of the curse. “Master?”
Robin took an unenthusiastic bite. “Mmm?”
“Is there anyone who wishes you ill? Besides the Saracens, I mean. Obviously.”
Robin's eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?” The muscle in his jaw jumped as he clenched his teeth. “Have you had any more ... trouble?”
Much thought of Randolph, could picture his skewed limbs and the blood-soaked ground, even though he hadn't seen the body. He didn't have to; he knew the exact shade of gray a man's face turned as he bled out, his life seeping into the dust.
“No, no,” Much said hastily. “Nothing like that. I was just, uh, curious. You're so popular these days, I was trying to imagine someone not liking you. I couldn't imagine it, but maybe that's because I like you -- clouding my judgment and all. So I thought I'd ask.”
Robin rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. “Do you think about this a lot?”
“Well. Not a lot, but you know, things occur to a man.”
Robin sighed again and shook his head a little, trying to clear it. “Is there any wine?”
“I'll go get some.”
After Robin had eaten and departed for a meeting of the war lords, Much buried the curse out on the edge of camp, sprinkling the mound of earth with holy water while reciting the Lord's Prayer, which was the only one he had memorized from start to finish. He hoped it would be enough.
Two days later he found three finger bones bound together with a red thread. A day after that, a rat skull dyed black. He buried them all out next to the lead amulet, like a tiny row of graves.
---
The horse was one of the small mares the Saracens favored, with delicate head and feet. Next to Robin's charger she seemed like a toy. Much didn't think such a horse was very practical.
“I don't see how anyone could ride her into battle,” Much said. “She looks like she might break if you just sit on her.” The Mediterranean stretched out in the distance, a darker smudge of blue against the bright haze of sky.
Robin spoke softly to the mare as he eased a saddle onto her back and worked the girth tighter. “They're tougher than they look. It's better to be light in the desert. Just think how much Hobgoblin needs to drink.”
He finished tightening the girth and patted her neck. The mare stamped restively, distrusting her new master. Robin waited until she stilled and then swung up onto the saddle. She danced sideways, but Robin brought her under control with a firm hand on the reins. He brought her around, first walking and then trotting in a small circle around Much, showing off his new prize. Much had to admit that they made a handsome pair, moving together, the mare's neck arched and Robin easy and natural in his seat. He turned to ride up one of the dunes and moved her into a canter with a whoop.
Much watched as they receded, catching his breath as they turned and came racing back. The mare was much faster than Hobgoblin, her gait smooth and graceful. Sweat slicked the mare's bay coat and Robin's hair was mussed, his face flushed.
“Much!” he cried as they approached. He slowed the mare. “She doesn't run, she flies!”
Something flashed in the corner of Much's eye, drawing his attention. A bit of white cloth -- a rag or maybe a woman's cap -- danced in a sudden breeze. The wind carried it under the mares hooves as Robin turned her for the camp. She shied away, rearing suddenly. Robin, caught off balance, fell as the mare wheeled backward, desperate to get away from the unknown object.
Much's heart stopped beating in the eternity it took Robin to fall, hitting the sand, limbless as a dropped doll. The mare ran, her hooves just missing Robin's prone form. Much stumbled, running through the deep sand, dropping to his knees beside Robin.
“Master?” He grabbed Robin's shoulder.
“Easy, Much,” Robin said.
“Don't move, you could be injured.”
But Robin pushed himself up to a seated position, his elbows on his knees. “I'm afraid the only thing I've injured is my pride.”
Much helped him up, steadying him as Robin caught his breath. “You could have been killed -- broken your neck or back or spilled your brains out ...”
Robin's breathing was returning to normal and he laughed, limping a little as they walked back toward the tents. “Don't worry so much. It was just bad luck.”
Much stiffened. That rag had moved straight toward the skittish mare, like something was driving it. He swallowed. “Yes. Bad luck.”
---
In the gray light of early morning Much dug the curses back up, stowing them in a small wooden box. They were beyond his ability to combat. He dismissed the idea of a priest out of hand; he needed something more substantive than prayer. And a priest would start asking uncomfortable questions as to why people might curse Robin. And that really only left one person in the camp qualified to ask.
Maud the Bawd ran one of the most notorious brothels and also had a side-business in fortune telling – mostly soldiers asking would they make it back home and were their sweethearts still true to them.
Her tent was unmistakable -- a large pavilion with a battered shield set outside to mark it, a parody of the standards the nobility carried, the crudely-painted stallion possessing a member of staggering proportions.
Much hesitated before the door; it was midmorning and only a few patrons were hanging around and them mostly too drunk to make it back to their own tents. Fingers clutching the box, Much took a breath and pushed aside the tent flap. A series of curtains hung to partition off a room for each of the girls to receive. Most were drawn back now; women slept or brushed their hair, all in various states of undress. Much's face heated and he kept his eyes on the toes of his boots.
“What are you after, boy?” Much turned to find Maud herself, settled at a camp table, a ledger book before her and a mug of ale at her elbow. “The girls don't receive just yet.”
“Ah, no. No, that's not what I, uh, was looking for.” Much cleared his throat.
She eyed him shrewdly; silver showed along the roots of her artificially blackened hair. “No, I'd guess not.”
Much was acutely aware of the girls watching. “Um, if you had a moment, do you think we could speak privately?” Maud sat back, considering. “It's important. And I have coin.”
“Do you now.” Maud was laughing at him, Much knew. She rose and gestured to one of the partitions. “Please step into my chambers.”
The heavier material used for her own room muffled both light and noise. It wasn't exactly private, but it was an improvement. A large chest sat against the far wall, heavy iron hinges and lock.
“What's your problem, boy?” she said, “What can old Maud help you with?”
Much handed over the box. She opened it cautiously and sifted through the curses, taking each out to examine and cluck over, murmuring to herself. “Someone wants you done in.”
“Not me. My master, I think.”
She looked up from examining the rat skull, dropping it back into the box. “You Robin of Locksley's boy?”
Much nodded, startled, and it suddenly occurred to him that she very well could have sold these curses. “Can you help me?”
She picked out the finger bones, rolling them between her thumb and finger. “Well ... I don't know. It'd be difficult.” She gave the box a little shake, rattling its contents. “That's a lot of evil will.”
“Please, please try. You've got to. If anything happens to him ... If he dies ...” Much bit his lip.
“Don't fret, my lovely. I'll do my best to fix it.” She snapped the lid shut. “But there's the subject of payment, not a nice one I'm afraid, but I've got to put something away for my old age.”
Much pulled out the small purse hanging from his belt. It was everything he had, the Saracen coins collected as spoils and the few English pounds Robin had given him. She took it, weighing it in her hand, and tucked it into the front of her gown.
“All right, let's see what we can do now.” She set the box aside to rummage through the chest, removing a large mortar and pestle and a slender knife. “Really as it's him the curse is aimed at, I'm not sure it'll work with you doing the counter magic. Maybe he should come by on his own to work it up proper.”
“That's not possible,” Much said, trying to peer in the chest.
“No?” But she wasn't really asking, instead laying out the items in a line and settling down cross-legged, gesturing for Much to do the same. “So we'll hope it works with you. Maybe it will. Maybe it won't. It depends.”
“Depends? Depends on what exactly?” Much asked nervously.
“Well.” She sucked on her teeth as she considered the arrangement before her. “Usually it's blood kin that can work magic on behalf of the cursed. Or sometimes a wife or husband. The bond's got to be strong for the magic to recognize it.”
“I'm just his man-servant,” Much said, his stomach tightening. “Is that enough? I mean, I've known him my whole life, we were raised on the same estate. That must be enough, right?”
“It's not for me to say.” She shrugged. “You're the only one who knows what's between the two of you.” She looked at him, an eyebrow raised and Much shifted uncomfortably.
Much swallowed. “Yes, it is. It's got to be.”
“Very well then.” She placed the first curse in the mortar and pricked one of Much's fingers, squeezing out three drops of blood. Then she had him crush the thing under the heavy pestle. The metal crumpled, the etching erased. When it was no longer recognizable she had him do the same to the next curse. Where she could, she undid bindings, unwinding the cord from around the finger bones. “To help loosen the magics,” she said.
His fingers were all raw and his arms sore by the time he'd finished, but he felt lighter. “Shouldn't I have to say something? In Latin?”
“Do you know Latin?”
“No.”
“Then no.” She gathered the pulverized bit of curses into a leather bag. “Words don't mean much to the other world, it's actions what count.” Much nodded and she handed him the bag. “Scatter this out in the desert a bit at a time, so that not too much falls in one place. Understand?”
“Yes, I will. And that's it? The curses are broken?”
She shrugged and led him out, holding the tent flap aside. “The only true test is time. But you've done all that you could. Good luck, my dove -- to you and your pretty master.”
---
They'd been traveling south along the coast, and now the port of Jaffa was in sight. King Richard would have to take it before his army could hope to move on Jerusalem. But Saladin's army waited for them -- the largest they'd faced yet. Much turned the heavy saddle, rubbing in oil to to keep the leather supple, checking and double checking the stitching. Baldwin of Clermont's girth had given out and the man had been trampled by his own horse. Much stopped, his hand still on the saddle leather, waiting for his bile to settle. It wasn't as though he had anything left in him; he'd already emptied his stomach once, out in the privy pits.
He'd broken the curses, he reminded himself. He knew he had. ... But if he hadn't, Robin would ride into battle a marked man.
Robin ducked into the tent, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows and the collar undone in the heat. He flashed a smile at Much and settled on his pallet, sinking back with sigh.
“The king has a solid plan to match Saladin's forces,” he said, sounding confident, as though predicting good weather for a picnic.
Much rubbed oil into the pommel with strong, even strokes, bringing the leather to a high shine. “Don't fight tomorrow.”
“What?” Robin asked, his eyes narrowing.
“I'm serious, Master. You can't. Tell the king you're too ill or make up some story, but don't fight tomorrow.”
“It's not a chore -- something I can avoid.” Robin sat up. “It's my duty. To do otherwise would be dishonorable.”
“No, not dishonorable. Please listen to me. All men go into battle knowing they face death. But for you --” Much grabbed Robin's forearm, his fingers digging in tightly, “-- it's not safe.”
“Not safe?” Robin repeated incredulously. “I'm aware of that, actually.”
Much drew a deep breath and released it slowly. “There's something you don't know.” Much told him about the curses, finding each one around the tent and how he buried them, but he left out the visit to Maud. “I buried them -- with holy water and everything. But it's best not to try your luck. Curses are really tricky things, and it's so easy for a blade to turn in battle.”
“So that's what's had you so stirred up,” Robin said and to Much's horror, he sounded relieved. “Look, Much. It's a bunch of silly trinkets and nonsense. Danger is a sharp knife or a poisoned well -- this is just superstitious fools venting their spleens.” He put his hands on Much's shoulders. “Just men trying to scare you. It can't hurt you.”
“I know that,” Much said, changing his attack. “But how can you stand shoulder to shoulder in battle with men who think you're the Devil?”
Robin caught Much's neck in the crook of his elbow, bending him over to ruffle his hair. “You worry too much.” He let go and Much smoothed his hair, trying to recover his dignity.
“Master. I beg you.” His voice quavered a bit; Robin still didn't understand.
“You really are worried, aren't you?” Robin reached out and traced the side of Much's face lightly. Much closed his eyes. “Don't be. It'll be all right, Much.”
Robin kissed him and Much was going to ask if Robin was just shutting him up again, but as soon as he opened his mouth, Robin's tongue slipped in. Much was so surprised he forgot his question completely. Robin's tongue was soft and slick and Much moaned and opened wider, allowing Robin to do what he liked. Robin's hands came up to cup the sides of Much's neck, his thumbs rubbing little circles behind Much's ears.
“Please listen, Master,” Much tried when Robin gave him a chance, but Robin wasn't listening. He nuzzled Much's neck as he pushed him backward, until Much was flat on his back.
Robin's tongue was on his throat, tracing the curves of his collarbone. Stubble scraped against his skin in contrast with the softness of Robin's mouth. Much couldn't speak any longer, his prick coming to attention. Robin sat back, pushing Much's knees apart so he could settle between them.
Robin pushed the hem of Much's shirt up, the soft flesh of Much's belly jumping as Robin's fingers caressed it. Robin pushed the shirt up higher to tug it over Much's head. Much shivered under Robin's gaze, and reached out to pull on Robin's shirt. Robin took it off, baring lean muscles and the light dusting of golden hair on his chest. He tossed the shirt aside and leaned back over Much, his mouth finding Much's again. Much met him with equal passion, pushing back against Robin.
Much's body arched upwards, straining for more contact, desperate to relieve the pressure. Robin's naked skin burned against Much's, sweat dampening the crooks of his elbows and the small of his back. The weight of his boots and trousers was unbearable, but Much couldn't bring himself to take his hands from Robin long enough to remedy the situation.
Robin ran the backs of his fingers down Much's chest, sending fire racing through him, and came to his belt. His fingers fumbled with the buckle, but the stiff leather slowed him. He cursed, breaking the kiss to look down. Much moved blindly toward, his mouth searching, finding Robin's temple. His hair smelled of sweat and the leather that padded his helm and something else that Much couldn't name, rich and warm and heady. Much breathed deeply, ending in a gasp as Robin finally got his belt undone and pulled out his prick.
Robin gave it a few strokes, making Much shiver and buck, before he started on his own belt. Much wanted to see him, but Robin was nipping at his chin and sucking on his tongue. Robin thrust against him slowly, skin dragging against skin, prick against prick. Much closed his eyes, turning his face away.
“Look at me,” Robin said softly.
“I ... can't,” Much gasped, laid open and raw, helpless under the intensity of Robin's regard.
“Much.” Robin kissed his neck. “Look at me.”
Much struggled for breath, forcing himself to open his eyes and, shuddering, found release. Robin thrust faster against him, the way eased by the slickness on Much's belly, until he gasped and collapsed. They lay together, Much's fingers curled in the hair at the nape of Robin's neck.
Robin rolled off of Much, tucking his prick away. He wiped himself off with his abandoned shirt and handed it to Much so that he could do the same. Much scrubbed at the cooling mess, watching Robin settle down. He stowed the soiled shirt away and moved to lay next to Robin, draping a tentative arm over his waist.
Robin shifted and shook him off. “It's too hot, Much.”
Much rolled over, careful to leave enough distance between them, and listened to Robin's breathing. It was a long time before sleep took him.
---
Much spun, searching through the chaos, looking for the King's Guard. Where were they? He could see no yellow-and-red in the sea of Saracen standards. Had he missed the call to retreat? He thrust and parried, his attention forced to the task at hand, and then he realized. They'd been left. The horror paralyzed him and he forgot to block. Robin grabbed his elbow, dragging him backward, and the sword whistled past his ear instead.
“Much, look lively, will you,” Robin shouted, his words were barely audible over the sound of metal on metal and the war cries and screams of the dying.
“They've left us,” Much cried, following as Robin pushed heedlessly forward. “They've left us to die.”
“We've just got separated,” Robin called back, neatly opening an unprotected belly. But he hesitated, scanning the field, pausing as he came to the same conclusion Much had. “Pull back. Now!”
Much hastened to do so. Another Saracen was coming at him, and he sidestepped and drove his sword up through the gap in the armor at the armpit. He turned; there was a break in the line and he saw his chance. He ran, weighed down by armor and exhaustion. A glance over his shoulder told him Robin, too, had broken from the fray. Much put his head down and concentrated on forcing his legs to pump faster, his helm narrowing his vision to a tiny slit. There -- he caught sight of the lions rampant, fluttering in the breeze.
He heard Robin shout; though he couldn't make out the words, the sound of his master's voice brought him up short. He turned so quickly he nearly went sprawling, unbalanced and awkward in his armor.
The Saracens had caught up to Robin, and he fought now, so quickly that Much could scarcely trace the arc of his sword. Much ran back, closing the long yards between them. Robin had lost his helmet and Much could see the sweat on Robin's brow and the surprise in his eyes as the sword caught him, just below the ribs.
It was his sword that cleaved the Saracen near in two and then turned on his brother-in-arms, working with fierce and deadly accuracy, but Much didn't control it; it moved with a life of its own and Much merely held the hilt. He killed them, and later would have no memory of how, but more Saracens were coming. Robin lay on the sand, his blood soaking it. Much's sword dropped from his hand.
Robin grunted painfully as Much pulled him up and eased Robin onto a shoulder, his arms dangling limply.
“Hang on, Master,” Much said, though Robing was beyond hearing. “Please. Please just hang on.”
The Saracens were closing in as he approached the Crusader line. Someone broke through the ranks, and Much recognized Legrand's hulking form. A prayer of thanks on his lips, he passed him.
“Go on, get him to the surgeon,” Legrand shouted, drawing his sword. “I'll take care of this.”
Much nodded but Legrand was already gone.
---
The amputee beside him had begun to whimper, but at least the rain had stopped. Pins and needles prickled along Much's foot and he shifted, trying to ease the pain as feeling returned.
Under his breath, he began to sing, “In faith love me solely, mark the faith of me, from thy heart wholly, from the soul of thee.” He picked up toward the end, if only to drown out the sound of the dying man.
“I must be dead and in Hell --”
“Master?” Much scrambled to his feet, upsetting the piss pot so some of its contents sloshed over the side. Robin blinked owlishly up at him; the stubble on his face had grown into an actual beard.
“-- and as punishment for my sins, I'm to spend the rest of eternity listening to your yowling.”
“Oh, Master, thank the Lord you're awake.” Much didn't risk tearing Robin's stitches by embracing him, so he settled for taking Robin's hand and clasping it to his chest. “Do you want anything? You must drink some water.”
“That would be good, yes.”
Much hastened to fetch some, wiping his damp cheeks before he returned. Much helped Robin drink, cradling his head as he drained the cup. Even that cost Robin; he collapsed back, his face pale and drawn.
“Should I fetch the surgeon?” Much asked, setting the cup aside.
“No, no -- stay. I'm fine.” Robin reached out and rubbed a thumb over Much's own beard. “You've been here this whole time, haven't you? You look terrible.”
“Not as bad as you, I shouldn't wonder,” Much said, pushing lank hair off his forehead.
“Much. I meant no offense just -- you should rest. I don't know how you can sleep in here.” Robin waved away a fly that sought to land on his cheek.
Much shrugged a shoulder. “Well, you know. Wasn't exactly peaceful. But I couldn't sleep anywhere else.”
---
“Much.” Color had returned to Robin's face and he could walk short distances, though he always pushed himself too far and ended up leaning on Much on the way back. “There's something I need to say.”
Much tasted the broth. It needed salt, but he was out. “Yes, Master?”
“Actually. I'm not anymore,” Robin said.
“What?” Much asked absently. He still had a bit of the chili pepper he'd got in Antioch, but it might be too stimulating for a wounded man.
“Your master.”
The wooden spoon slipped and splashed into the broth. “You're not my ...” Much looked from the pot to Robin.
“I'm releasing you from service,” Robin said.
“Master, I'm sorry.” Much's voice rose in tenor. “I swear next time I'll be faster -- I'll practice harder, longer. Whatever it takes, I won't fail again.”
“Calm down. I'm not punishing you -- I'm rewarding you, you fool.” Robin was grinning and Much stopped mid-protest. “There's an estate in my holdings. Bonchurch. It's not very big, but the land is fertile. I think you'd be happy there.”
“I, uh ...” Much's mouth hung open.
“You don't have to take it, if you don't want it.”
“I want it!” Much said and Robin laughed. Much hugged Robin tightly, forgetting the injury for a moment. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
Robin winced and Much eased up a little, but he was still smiling. “I just wish I could do more.”
“This -- oh, this is more than enough. I don't even know what to say.”
“For once.” Robin sobered a bit. “I'm returning home to Locksley. The king thinks it would be best if I spent some time home to ... recover.”
“Right. That's a good idea. And I'm coming with you ...” Much let the sentence trail off uncertainly.
“I think you'd better. You've got an estate to oversee, after all.”
“Yes. Yes, I do.”
---
Much looked back over his shoulder. The camp lay behind them, the tents pale in the predawn light. He was glad to leave it, leave all of it behind. He shivered a little, but not because of the chill in the air, and clucked to his horse, coaxing it into a trot. Robin did the same, so they were riding knee and knee.
“It's going to be a great journey, Master -- Robin, I mean. I can feel it. Everything's coming up roses.”
“Is that so?” Robin said skeptically, but he was smiling. The sun hadn't quite crested the eastern horizon, but the sky was a promising pink.
“Oh yes. We'll get back to Locksley -- and Bonchurch, of course -- and we'll be greeted as war heroes; just you wait and see,” Much said with confidence. “All our problems are over.”
Rating: NC-17/Adult
Words: 9,500
Fandom/Pairing: the BBC's Robin Hood; Robin/Much
Summary: Much and Robin in the Holy Land. No spoilers.
Warning: dark themes, some violence, explicit sex
Beta: Many thanks to the gracious
ignazwisdom for beta duties and to the irrepressible purridot for cheerleading. A small rivulet of rain had found its way through the worn awning, trickling down the back of Much's neck in a constant drip, drip, drip. He'd ceased wiping it away and there was nowhere to go to avoid it -- the barber surgeon's tent was cramped with wounded and the tools needed to tend them. A stinking piss-pot was at Much's left elbow and a moaning amputee lay to his right. The barber surgeon had taking the man's leg when gangrene set in, but judging by the gray cast of the man's face, it was too late.
Robin had got one of the camp beds -- Much had made sure of that -- so at least he was off the hard ground and out of the grime. Much leaned his head back against it, the wooden frame digging into his neck. It was easier to endure the rain than the worry and the exhaustion. The hunger. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a proper meal. He snatched a bit of hard bread or a bowl of broth in the rare moments away from Robin's side. And those first few precarious days he hadn't left Robin at all, as if he could keep life in his master's body by sheer will alone.
With nothing to distract him, he'd remembered: Robin surrounded by Saracens, cutting them down but not fast enough. Much closing in, but not able to stop the curved blade. Now Much thought of a hundred different ways the day could have ended, if only he'd been faster or smarter or braver. He'd got the Saracen in the end, felled him with a blow so heavy it nearly cut the man in half.
Much shook his head, scrubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands, trying to rid himself of the image. He twisted around; Robin's chest rose and fell steadily, and the sight eased Much's own breathing. Robin's pulse was faint but steady when Much laid fingers on his wrist. But he still hadn't woken up.
The barber surgeon looked Robin over and shrugged. “He's as well as can be expected. Don't know why he hasn't woke yet,” he said, inspecting the ugly black stitches along Robin's ribs for signs they'd begun to fester. “Looks clean enough.”
“Is there anything I can do? Anything at all? Please.”
The man shrugged again, wiping his hands on a graying apron. “Either he wakes or he don't.”
---
Much had just reached his nineteenth year the summer they left for the Holy Land. It was a hazy memory now of wheat ripening in the fields. The sun had glinted off Robin's newly minted armor, like a knight from a troubadour's song. Much had been happy to follow where his fine master led, shining in reflected glory. He was the first in his family to escape into service on the Locksley estate and then to war, where honor and advancement awaited.
“I have to say,” Much said, emptying sand from his boots. “I really don't see what's so holy about this Holy Land. A more inhospitable, miserable, hot, dusty stretch of acreage you will not find.”
Robin twisted the cap off a water skin, taking several long swallows before passing it to Much.
Some of the miseries, he'd expected -- bad food, the monotony of the road -- but there were so many others he hadn't. The entire months he spent thirsty, the water measured out in careful cupfuls each morning. The raw welts worn across his shoulder by a pack heavy with his master's gear. The sweet and nauseating stench of bodies left to rot, no one left to claim them.
Robin snorted. “It's holy because of what happened here, Much. Not because of the scenery.”
Everything was harsher in the Holy Land. The sun shone brighter, intensified by the sand; Much's eyes ached from squinting into the brightness. More than anything Much found he missed green, for there was none. Bleached sand and blue sky, reds and ocher sunsets, but no green.
“I know that,” Much protested. The water tasted like old shoes and dirt. “But it seems like our Lord Jesus Christ could have picked a more promising place to make an appearance. Some place with fewer scorpions.”
---
The true hell had begun after they met with the Saracens. Battles ended, but Much couldn't tell who won until they'd tallied up the dead. Robin earned glory and a reputation as the most fearsome of King Richard's men. Much followed Robin into battle, offering another quiver or a new blade, and learned to fight. He earned no commendations from the King, but Robin would smile in thanks and Much didn't care about the rest. But the blood and death took its toll.
“How can you speak so carelessly?” Robin demanded, after Much had told him a bawdy story involving a bar maid and a well-endowed minstrel, trying to break Robin's black mood. “Do you know how many men I've killed today?”
“They were all trying to kill you,” Much said, scrubbing the red from between rings of mail. This morning he'd found Robin in the same position as night before, the flask still in his hand. “And they were just Saracens. The priest says killing them isn't the same as killing a Christian.”
But this only agitated Robin further. “What right do we have to be here? Attacking their homes, their villages? Certain of our righteousness as the hooves of our horses crush their children?” He sat up on his pallet, shoving his flask aside. He wore only his breeches and Much could see how much weight he'd lost, deep shadows lining his ribs and the hollow of his throat. The desert had stripped away what reserves he had and left bone and whipcord. Robin stood, moving with a speed that surprised Much, crossing the small tent. He grabbed the front of Much's tunic and hauled him upwards. Even as thin as he was, he lifted Much easily. The mail dropped from Much's fingers, pooling on the floor with a metallic jingle.
“What man wouldn't try to kill us? How can we say he doesn't have the right?”
“I'm sorry, Master, you're right. Quite right,” Much sputtered.
Much's knees turned to water as Robin backed him up and he hit the center pole of the tent with enough force to send a shudder through the canvas walls, yelping with surprise and pain.
“I'm right, of course I'm right -- yet no one sees it. Why is that, Much?” Robin shook him a little in emphasis. “Why are an entire people just anything?”
“Master, I beg you -- whatever madness has taken you, please return to yourself.”
Robin's breath came shallowly, hot on Much's cheek, and Much thought Robin might strike him. Instead, Robin's eyes cleared as the ugly anger faded. The tent shook again, this time with a gust of wind bringing a chill in. The desert cooled rapidly as the sun set.
“What am I doing?” Robin whispered. He kept his grip on Much's tunic, now to support himself. Much realized that Robin's prick was hard, obvious even through their clothes. Robin's forehead rested against Much's neck, his skin damp and feverish. Much tried to swallow, his throat painfully dry.
Robin slipped a hand down between them, as fumbling at his groin. Much stared over his shoulder at the water-stained canvas as Robin caught his hand and brought it to his prick. Much's hand closed on the hot flesh reflexively, but it was Robin who moved his hand up and down in short, ragged strokes. Much's own prick twitched in his breechclout, but it seemed distant and unimportant.
With a sharp exhalation, Robin spilled himself over Much's fingers. He staggered backwards a few steps and then dropped to his pallet and pulled his cloak over him.
Much wiped his hand clean and went back to polishing mail.
---
When winter came, they shared a pallet, sleeping as close as lovers to conserve heat. The fighting had ceased for the season and idleness reigned during the long winter months. The respite, at first welcome, had become a curse as boredom set in. Dice, wine and the whores who followed the camp were the only diversions -- and Robin availed himself of all three.
Much lay curled on their pallet, the wind steadily rattling the tent, threatening to pull it off its moorings. Robin had left earlier and Much dozed while he waited, though the cold was enough to keep him from real sleep. Elsewhere in the camp he could hear the roar of laughter and a woman's shrieking protest. He rolled over, pulling the rough wool blankets up to his chin. Squeezing his eyes shut, he struggled to call to mind his loft at Locksley Manor. He could almost see the dust dancing through stray sunbeams and almost smell the sweet alfalfa hay in his mattress .
He started as Robin dropped onto the pallet beside him. Robin struggled with his boots, drunk enough to make a production of it, throwing first one and then the other across the tent. Fully clothed and reeking of sour ale, he crawled in next to Much, the cold air stealing in with him. Much shivered and shrank away, but Robin followed, burrowing insistently under the covers.
“You're back late,” Much said, not bothering to keep the recrimination from his voice. “Or early, I guess.”
“I was losing. Henry of Kensington,” Robin said angrily, his voice loud but not slurred, “Is a liar and a cheat.”
Much closed his eyes. “How much did you lose?”
“I'll win it back tomorrow.”
Much didn't reply, there wasn't any point. Suddenly, Robin shoved Much's shoulder, deftly rolling him onto his stomach. Much didn't have time to protest before Robin took his wrists, half on top of him.
“Master,” Much panted, struggling to no avail. “What are you doing?”
“You're always worrying.” Robin leaned over, his lips against Much's ear. “Always worrying. But it's not your place.”
Much struggled for breath, Robin's weight on his back. A hand stroked down his side and came to rest on his hip. Gut twisting into knots, he realized what Robin was after and he began to thrash wildly. Robin rolled off him, catching himself with an elbow.
Much scrambled away, the blankets falling to the side. He braced himself, but Robin had let him escape. They held their positions, panting in the dark of the tent, staring at each other. Finally, Robin moved toward him, and Much frantically struck out. The blow glanced off Robin's cheek and Robin stopped, putting a hand to the reddening skin.
Much went utterly still. He'd raised a hand against his master -- the worst offense a servant could commit. Robin could have him beaten. Or worse.
“I don't, please ... I can't ...” Much's heart hammered beneath his ribs; he was close to weeping.
Robin held up his hands, as though he were surrendering. “I know. Much. You don't understand.”
“Seems clear enough,” Much said, his throat aching.
Robin shook his head. “Look, I don't want to ...” Already on his knees, he leaned over to rest his weight on his forearms. “I want you to.”
Much flushed and his palms prickled with sweat. “You could buy it.” He knew there were boys who sold such favors, though no one spoke of it, save as an insult.
Robin sat back on his heels again. “And risk my position if anyone found out.”
Much knew it was true; gossip traveled through camp faster than it did through the smallest hamlet. And this would prove rich fodder for the scandalmongers. Bending a boy over was a sin, but to bend over for one was unthinkable.
Much swallowed. “Are you set on this?”
Robin nodded, looking away. “I need this.”
The heat leeched from Much's limbs in the freezing air; his teeth began to chatter.
“You're the only one I can trust, Much.” Robin said quietly, and then, as close as he would get to begging, “Please.”
Much's voice shook badly, but the words were clear. “All right.”
Robin beckoned him over, and Much moved slowly, not quite trusting his limbs. Robin loosened his belt, but hesitated when Much didn't do the same.
“Even if I want to,” Much said helplessly, his crotch of his trousers slack, “I don't know that -- that I can.”
Robin understood immediately, Much knew, though he could see little more than Robin's silhouette in the dark. “Come here, it's too damned cold anyway.”
Much crawled into the warmth of the blankets and Robin reached for his belt with sure hands, opening the front of his trousers. Robin's hand was on his prick and Much yelped a little -- Robin's hands were cold, but they warmed quickly. Robin leaned over and took the soft flesh of Much's prick in his mouth. Much grabbed Robin's shoulders, meaning to shove him away, but was distracted by the warmth of Robin's mouth. Neither clumsy or tentative, Robin worked with the same practiced skill of a two-copper whore. Soon Much panted and shook, his prick hard and desperate.
When Robin pulled off, Much whimpered. Robin turned, and Much felt as he slipped his trousers off his hips and down his thighs. Much followed more stiffly, draping himself over Robin's back. He was slick with Robin's saliva and the fluid leaking from the head of his prick, but still he spit on his own fingers. Robin jerked as Much touched him, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
Much hesitated, waiting for Robin to change his mind -- or at least give further direction -- but he said nothing, his head resting on his arms. With a shaking hand, Much aligned himself and his hips pressed forward reflexively. Robin was hot and Much paused, overwhelmed as much by the intimacy as by the physical sensation. Robin's back was rigid under him and he was panting.
“Master?” Much asked, fear edging through need.
“Keep going.” And then, when Much didn't immediately, “Now.”
It was an order; Much obeyed. It got easier, though Robin remained silent and tense as Much's strokes became hurried. They were both still clothed, but Much worked the hem of Robin's shirt up, so his fingers touched the skin of Robin's hips.
Robin cried out as he found release. Much held him, pulling him back onto a few sharp thrusts before Much spilled himself deep within Robin. His limbs turned to jelly, and he sank down on top of Robin. Their breath was suddenly loud in the silence. Much realized his weight must be uncomfortable and carefully pulled out, settling in his usual spot to Robin's left.
Robin grunted and rolled over, his back to Much, already asleep.
---
Robin was washing, grime and blood streaking his limbs. It wasn't a proper bath, just a bowl of murky water and a cloth. He'd stripped down to the skin, places exposed to the sun burnt dark brown, but pale as milk everywhere else. Much had seen him naked before; they'd lived in a tent together for over a year and privacy was an unknown luxury. Even before the Holy Land, they'd gone swimming in the pond behind the Locksley manor, running into the woods with their clothes in their arms when Cook had caught them.
Much learned to watch for the dark and distant look in Robin's eyes. In victory, the men would be looting and celebrating; in defeat, nursing their wounds and burying the dead. But either way, Robin would catch Much's sleeve, hurrying him back to the tent. Much would barely have Robin's armor off, the both of them soaked with sweat and blood, before Robin would be pawing at his belt.
Much would protest Robin's injuries needed tending, a dozen minor cuts, more from the sharp edges of Robin's own armor than Saracen blades. Robin always shrugged, peeling out of his gambeson and Much always gave him what he sought. A couple of times Much drew blood -- not a lot, but it horrified him still. It didn't seem to bother Robin and he wouldn't tolerate gentleness, cursing Much if he was too cautious. Only afterwards, as Robin lay staring at the tent's ridgepole, would he allow Much to tend his injuries.
Robin wrung out the cloth and scrubbed it along his shoulders and neck, down across his stomach. Much focused on the knife he sharpened; Robin's life might depend on its edge. He told himself that Robin's request was just another of his duties, a service his master required, like mending tack or fetching water. But some small part of his brain accused him of enjoying it too much. Shame settled in his stomach like a stone and he wished to God that his prick wouldn't jump when Robin gave him that look.
---
He'd never much fraternized with the other squires, so it wasn't hard to start avoiding them altogether. He'd tired of their quarrels and endless gossiping -- which lord had brought himself glory, which shame. But more than that, he feared their questions. He'd heard the rumors circulating about Robin. An up-start lord from Locksley, it was no wonder he attracted notice. Wherever Robin's glory inspired admiration, it inspired envy as well. The petty hunted for weakness in the young lord, ready to pounce on any rumor.
Much had never been a good liar; his face betrayed his thoughts as quickly as they entered his head. He feared he would give something away, some small clue that all was not right between Robin of Locksley and his squire.
So he kept to himself, rising before dawn to be the first to the well, skirting carefully around their boisterous gatherings when fetching fuel. He nodded when greeted, but walked faster to avoid conversation.
Much had run out to one of the apothecaries for lanolin to mix an ointment. He'd spent longer than he'd meant to haggling with the old man and now he hurried his steps, pulling up the hood of his cloak. The camp was always dangerous, but after nightfall it was even more so. Busy fussing with the hood, he didn't see the man peel out of the shadows and Much ran into him, catching him hard on the shoulder.
“Oh, pardon me,” Much said, peddling backwards.
Blood chilling, Much recognized Randolph, Lord Dansbury's squire. His shoulders strained against his leather jerkin as he crossed his thick arms. “Watch where you're going.”
“Yes, yes. I'm sorry,” Much said. “It was an accident.”
“Aren't you Robin of Locksley's squire?” the man said, making it sound like an accusation rather than a question.
“Er, yes. Much.” Much drew his cloak more tightly about him.
“You don't look like much to me.” He laughed at his pun, though it was one Much had heard a hundred times before. “So you're the one what thinks he's too good for the rest of us?” Much's protest was drowned out as Randolph called out to squires throwing dice around a fire pit. “Hey, you lot, here's Locksley's boy, out running errands for his fine master.” He drew the words out, affecting a mocking accent.
The gamblers got up, wandering over in a lazy way that made the hair on the back of Much's neck stand up and his mouth go dry.
“Uh, I, I really must be off, I'm afraid -- not that I wouldn't love to spend some time chatting with you gentlemen.” Much turned, but his way was blocked by a wiry man with a narrow face.
“Oh come on, stay awhile,” he said, feinting a punch. Much flinched automatically and the gathered squires laughed their approval. “Tell us your master's secret.”
“Secret?” Much's voice was shrill. “What secret?”
“There's none that can match him with the bow.” This came from over Much's shoulder, the circle tightening around him. “It's uncanny.”
“Unnatural is what it is,” another piped up, jostling Much. “Only the Devil could give a man a hand so steady.”
“The Devil?” Much repeated incredulously. “No, no --” but they didn't give him a chance to defend Robin.
“What else to explain how he keeps himself apart and secret-like?”
“You must have seen him worshiping idols or practicing the dark arts,” the wiry man said, but Randolph interrupted.
“Fool -- you think he'd tell us what his master's been up to?” He spat, hitting the hem of Much's cloak. “He's doubtless in on it. Like now --” He grabbed for the jar of lanolin. Much hung onto it determinedly, and they struggled for a moment before the Randolph yanked it from Much's grasp. The jar bounced into the mud and rolled under foot. Much dropped to his knees reaching after it, but they kicked it away. “What spells are you concocting?”
“Nothing! It's just oil for sore muscles -- I swear before God.”
“Rubbin' oil into his fancy hide? And what other services does your master have you perform?” Randolph asked, his voice thick with innuendo. Another laugh went around the circle, ugly and far too loud. Much tried to get to his feet but Randolph caught him with a fist to the jaw, and the force of the blow sent him sprawling. He didn't know who landed the next blow -- a brutal kick to his ribs -- and after that there were too many to keep straight. Much tried to fight back, and though a few of his punches made contact, he didn't know if he'd done any damage. In the end, he curled into a ball, futilely trying to protect his head and stomach.
When they finally stopped beating him, he didn't immediately realize it, and lay stunned, his own heartbeat pounding his ears, keeping time with the throbbing of his blackened eyes and battered limbs. But when he opened his eyes, they'd gone. He stayed down, inventorying his injuries; everything hurt and it was impossible to tell where one injury ended and another began. He got to his feet, nausea and dizziness threatening to topple him again.
He found the jar in shards, pale ointment churned into the mud.
---
“Look what the cat's dragged in,” Robin said, when Much finally pushed aside the tent flap. He looked up from his ale cup and his eyes widened as he took in the mud ground into Much's clothes and hair, the blood and bruises. He sprang up, moving to Much's side, taking his cloak and helping him take a seat. “Much. What happened?”
Much just shook his head mutely. Robin gathered a basin of water and some cloths, coming to kneel in front of Much.
Robin's voice had an edge when he asked, “Who did this to you?”
It hurt to speak through his split lip, but Much managed, “Doesn't matter.”
“Yes, it does. Tell me, I need to know.” Robin gently wiped away the grime from Much's face.
“You can't do anything,” Much winced as the cloth loosened the dried blood. He caught Robin's wrist. “It'd only make things worse. Promise me you won't do anything.”
“Is that the only way you'll tell me?” When Much nodded, Robin sat back on his heels. “Fine, then. I promise.”
Still Much hesitated and Robin set aside the cloth so he could take Much's face in his hands. “You must tell me, Much.”
“... Dansbury's squire, Randolph. He was the leader, at least.”
Much could see Robin filing the name away. “Why would he do this to you?” Much shrugged, looking away, but Robin forced his head up. “I cannot believe you insulted his grandmother.”
“They're jealous of your success. Their own masters haven't earned half the glory you have.” Robin let Much go, reaching again for the water. “And they think your skills unnatural.”
Robin wrung out the cloth; the water was muddy now, tinged pink. “Oh, if it's unnatural they want, it's unnatural they'll get.”
“No, Master. You promised you would do nothing. Retaliation will only make it worse. It won't stop the rumors, only spread them faster. No other lord would care what scrape his squire gets into --”
“-- This is no scrape. It's attempted murder --”
“-- And if you go after him, you'll only confirm their suspicions.” Much licked his lips. “That there is something more going on here. That there is something more going on ... between us.”
That brought Robin up short. His mouth hung open for moment and then he snapped it shut, his jaw set angrily.
---
The waiting had proved torturous as his blackened eyes and broken ribs -- waiting for Randolph to come after him again, waiting for Robin's reprisal. Much set about his normal tasks with enthusiasm, though he made excuses to avoid leaving the tent without Robin. When Much winced, a hand going to his bandaged ribs, or when Robin traced the purpled skin with a gentle finger, Robin's eyes hardened. But the bruises faded and nothing happened.
By the time King Richard's army had reached Jableh, Much had completely recovered. The town's fortification consisted of a stone wall no higher than Much's hip and a few teenage shepherds with slingshots. Taking the village proved easy enough and King Richard gave his men permission to sack it and take whatever they could.
The afternoon was already darkening in an unnatural dusk as smoke from the burning houses obscured the sun when Robin returned. He had little beside a couple of chickens to show for the day's efforts.
“Here,” he said, throwing the chickens down on the table, grinning at Much. “How about dressing these for dinner?”
Much set about gutting the chickens, spitting them, planning to do them up savory. “I don't suppose you thought to steal any herbs -- rosemary? Oregano?”
Robin shook his head, laughing at Much's disappointed look, and pulled off his boots. He brought out his sword, cleaning its blade with a soft cloth he kept for the purpose. His hands were deft and careful over its razor edge.
“Was there much action?” Much asked, watching him sight down the blade.
“Hm?” Robin looked up. “No, no real action. Just a little clean-up.”
---
The following morning, Much drew water from the well, the rope rough in his hands. Two foot soldiers sat near by, passing a flask back and forth between them.
“The pickings were too thin,” the first complained loudly, “Hardly worth it.”
“Of course they were -- what'd you expect?” the second snorted. “If there'd be anything worthwhile, they'd have a whole hoard of Saracens protecting it.” Much filled his first bucket and sent the second plummeting down. “If you want riches you're going to have casualties.”
“We did,” the first soldier protested. “One of baggage masters took a girl, but she'd got a knife hid in her skirts and he got a sticking instead of giving one.” They laughed at that and Much drew the second bucket up a little faster. “Oh, and I heard one of the squires got sliced up. Dansbury's, I think.”
Much's fingers slipped on the wet rope and it went hissing back over the edge of the well.
“The big brute?”
“That's the one. They found him early this morning, just outside the wall. Saracens must have caught him out by himself. Made short work of him too.” The man shuddered.
“What a shame.” They took a moment, considering the ugly fate of Dansbury's squire. “Well, why don't we go see if we can lighten some of the purses brought into camp this morning?” the second soldier said, and the men walked on, leaving Much to haul the water back to Robin's tent.
Sprawled on his stomach, Robin slept, his lean legs tangled in the blankets. Much set the buckets down carefully and drew the tent flaps closed, tying them with numb fingers. Robin didn't stir as Much knelt beside him and laid a hand on his shoulder. He was smiling slightly and that, more than anything, was what angered Much. He shoved Robin, hard. Robin woke with a grunt, already reaching for his sword. Seeing Much, he relaxed and rolled onto his back.
“Well, good morning to you too,” he yawned, scratching the stubble on his chin.
“You did it. Didn't you,” Much said. “You killed Randolph.”
Robin met Much's gaze evenly, but remained silent.
“Oh God, you did. You did, you did.” Much started shaking and he wasn't sure if he wanted to cry or vomit or both.
“Hush.” Robin sat up, and clamped a hand over Much's mouth. “Do you want the whole camp to know?”
Much tried to reply that of course he didn't, but he settled for shaking his head vigorously. Robin pulled his hand away, but held it ready in case Much started shouting.
“Why -- why did you do that, Master?” Much begged, careful to keep his voice low. “You shouldn't have done that. You promised.”
“Much.” Robin took Much's face in his hands. “I did what I had to do. That is all I'm going to say on the matter.”
“What if they get suspicious? Start looking around, asking questions --”
“The discussion is closed.” And then Robin kissed him.
Much jerked in surprise, but the kiss was over before he could react. “What was that for?”
Robin grinned. “To shut you up.”
---
At first Much thought it was a polished rock, lying in the dust outside Robin's tent, catching the rays of the late-afternoon sun. When he stooped to pick it up, he realized it was metal. Probably lead, judging by the dull gray weight of it. About half the size of his palm, the disk had been beaten flat and etched with a crude stick figure, its limbs disjointed, mud lining the heavy grooves. His blood ran cold and he realized it was a curse -- the kind villagers back home used against witches. The old priest had tried to root out the practice, warning against the dangers of magic. The villagers had nodded and promised to stop, all the while hiding their curses under mattresses and in grain mangers.
Much stood transfixed by the ugly little thing. He couldn't throw it away and he couldn't put it back. Who knew what evils it might bring down upon their heads? He tucked it into his pocket and set about heating water for breakfast. It rested unnaturally cold and heavy against his leg, distracting him as he stirred the porridge. Robin was awake when Much ducked into the tent, bowls in hand. He accepted the porridge with a look of distaste.
“No sugar,” he sighed. They hadn't had sugar in four months' time, but Robin was freshly disappointed every morning.
Much stuck his hands in his pockets, fingers closing on the sharp edges of the curse. “Master?”
Robin took an unenthusiastic bite. “Mmm?”
“Is there anyone who wishes you ill? Besides the Saracens, I mean. Obviously.”
Robin's eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?” The muscle in his jaw jumped as he clenched his teeth. “Have you had any more ... trouble?”
Much thought of Randolph, could picture his skewed limbs and the blood-soaked ground, even though he hadn't seen the body. He didn't have to; he knew the exact shade of gray a man's face turned as he bled out, his life seeping into the dust.
“No, no,” Much said hastily. “Nothing like that. I was just, uh, curious. You're so popular these days, I was trying to imagine someone not liking you. I couldn't imagine it, but maybe that's because I like you -- clouding my judgment and all. So I thought I'd ask.”
Robin rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. “Do you think about this a lot?”
“Well. Not a lot, but you know, things occur to a man.”
Robin sighed again and shook his head a little, trying to clear it. “Is there any wine?”
“I'll go get some.”
After Robin had eaten and departed for a meeting of the war lords, Much buried the curse out on the edge of camp, sprinkling the mound of earth with holy water while reciting the Lord's Prayer, which was the only one he had memorized from start to finish. He hoped it would be enough.
Two days later he found three finger bones bound together with a red thread. A day after that, a rat skull dyed black. He buried them all out next to the lead amulet, like a tiny row of graves.
---
The horse was one of the small mares the Saracens favored, with delicate head and feet. Next to Robin's charger she seemed like a toy. Much didn't think such a horse was very practical.
“I don't see how anyone could ride her into battle,” Much said. “She looks like she might break if you just sit on her.” The Mediterranean stretched out in the distance, a darker smudge of blue against the bright haze of sky.
Robin spoke softly to the mare as he eased a saddle onto her back and worked the girth tighter. “They're tougher than they look. It's better to be light in the desert. Just think how much Hobgoblin needs to drink.”
He finished tightening the girth and patted her neck. The mare stamped restively, distrusting her new master. Robin waited until she stilled and then swung up onto the saddle. She danced sideways, but Robin brought her under control with a firm hand on the reins. He brought her around, first walking and then trotting in a small circle around Much, showing off his new prize. Much had to admit that they made a handsome pair, moving together, the mare's neck arched and Robin easy and natural in his seat. He turned to ride up one of the dunes and moved her into a canter with a whoop.
Much watched as they receded, catching his breath as they turned and came racing back. The mare was much faster than Hobgoblin, her gait smooth and graceful. Sweat slicked the mare's bay coat and Robin's hair was mussed, his face flushed.
“Much!” he cried as they approached. He slowed the mare. “She doesn't run, she flies!”
Something flashed in the corner of Much's eye, drawing his attention. A bit of white cloth -- a rag or maybe a woman's cap -- danced in a sudden breeze. The wind carried it under the mares hooves as Robin turned her for the camp. She shied away, rearing suddenly. Robin, caught off balance, fell as the mare wheeled backward, desperate to get away from the unknown object.
Much's heart stopped beating in the eternity it took Robin to fall, hitting the sand, limbless as a dropped doll. The mare ran, her hooves just missing Robin's prone form. Much stumbled, running through the deep sand, dropping to his knees beside Robin.
“Master?” He grabbed Robin's shoulder.
“Easy, Much,” Robin said.
“Don't move, you could be injured.”
But Robin pushed himself up to a seated position, his elbows on his knees. “I'm afraid the only thing I've injured is my pride.”
Much helped him up, steadying him as Robin caught his breath. “You could have been killed -- broken your neck or back or spilled your brains out ...”
Robin's breathing was returning to normal and he laughed, limping a little as they walked back toward the tents. “Don't worry so much. It was just bad luck.”
Much stiffened. That rag had moved straight toward the skittish mare, like something was driving it. He swallowed. “Yes. Bad luck.”
---
In the gray light of early morning Much dug the curses back up, stowing them in a small wooden box. They were beyond his ability to combat. He dismissed the idea of a priest out of hand; he needed something more substantive than prayer. And a priest would start asking uncomfortable questions as to why people might curse Robin. And that really only left one person in the camp qualified to ask.
Maud the Bawd ran one of the most notorious brothels and also had a side-business in fortune telling – mostly soldiers asking would they make it back home and were their sweethearts still true to them.
Her tent was unmistakable -- a large pavilion with a battered shield set outside to mark it, a parody of the standards the nobility carried, the crudely-painted stallion possessing a member of staggering proportions.
Much hesitated before the door; it was midmorning and only a few patrons were hanging around and them mostly too drunk to make it back to their own tents. Fingers clutching the box, Much took a breath and pushed aside the tent flap. A series of curtains hung to partition off a room for each of the girls to receive. Most were drawn back now; women slept or brushed their hair, all in various states of undress. Much's face heated and he kept his eyes on the toes of his boots.
“What are you after, boy?” Much turned to find Maud herself, settled at a camp table, a ledger book before her and a mug of ale at her elbow. “The girls don't receive just yet.”
“Ah, no. No, that's not what I, uh, was looking for.” Much cleared his throat.
She eyed him shrewdly; silver showed along the roots of her artificially blackened hair. “No, I'd guess not.”
Much was acutely aware of the girls watching. “Um, if you had a moment, do you think we could speak privately?” Maud sat back, considering. “It's important. And I have coin.”
“Do you now.” Maud was laughing at him, Much knew. She rose and gestured to one of the partitions. “Please step into my chambers.”
The heavier material used for her own room muffled both light and noise. It wasn't exactly private, but it was an improvement. A large chest sat against the far wall, heavy iron hinges and lock.
“What's your problem, boy?” she said, “What can old Maud help you with?”
Much handed over the box. She opened it cautiously and sifted through the curses, taking each out to examine and cluck over, murmuring to herself. “Someone wants you done in.”
“Not me. My master, I think.”
She looked up from examining the rat skull, dropping it back into the box. “You Robin of Locksley's boy?”
Much nodded, startled, and it suddenly occurred to him that she very well could have sold these curses. “Can you help me?”
She picked out the finger bones, rolling them between her thumb and finger. “Well ... I don't know. It'd be difficult.” She gave the box a little shake, rattling its contents. “That's a lot of evil will.”
“Please, please try. You've got to. If anything happens to him ... If he dies ...” Much bit his lip.
“Don't fret, my lovely. I'll do my best to fix it.” She snapped the lid shut. “But there's the subject of payment, not a nice one I'm afraid, but I've got to put something away for my old age.”
Much pulled out the small purse hanging from his belt. It was everything he had, the Saracen coins collected as spoils and the few English pounds Robin had given him. She took it, weighing it in her hand, and tucked it into the front of her gown.
“All right, let's see what we can do now.” She set the box aside to rummage through the chest, removing a large mortar and pestle and a slender knife. “Really as it's him the curse is aimed at, I'm not sure it'll work with you doing the counter magic. Maybe he should come by on his own to work it up proper.”
“That's not possible,” Much said, trying to peer in the chest.
“No?” But she wasn't really asking, instead laying out the items in a line and settling down cross-legged, gesturing for Much to do the same. “So we'll hope it works with you. Maybe it will. Maybe it won't. It depends.”
“Depends? Depends on what exactly?” Much asked nervously.
“Well.” She sucked on her teeth as she considered the arrangement before her. “Usually it's blood kin that can work magic on behalf of the cursed. Or sometimes a wife or husband. The bond's got to be strong for the magic to recognize it.”
“I'm just his man-servant,” Much said, his stomach tightening. “Is that enough? I mean, I've known him my whole life, we were raised on the same estate. That must be enough, right?”
“It's not for me to say.” She shrugged. “You're the only one who knows what's between the two of you.” She looked at him, an eyebrow raised and Much shifted uncomfortably.
Much swallowed. “Yes, it is. It's got to be.”
“Very well then.” She placed the first curse in the mortar and pricked one of Much's fingers, squeezing out three drops of blood. Then she had him crush the thing under the heavy pestle. The metal crumpled, the etching erased. When it was no longer recognizable she had him do the same to the next curse. Where she could, she undid bindings, unwinding the cord from around the finger bones. “To help loosen the magics,” she said.
His fingers were all raw and his arms sore by the time he'd finished, but he felt lighter. “Shouldn't I have to say something? In Latin?”
“Do you know Latin?”
“No.”
“Then no.” She gathered the pulverized bit of curses into a leather bag. “Words don't mean much to the other world, it's actions what count.” Much nodded and she handed him the bag. “Scatter this out in the desert a bit at a time, so that not too much falls in one place. Understand?”
“Yes, I will. And that's it? The curses are broken?”
She shrugged and led him out, holding the tent flap aside. “The only true test is time. But you've done all that you could. Good luck, my dove -- to you and your pretty master.”
---
They'd been traveling south along the coast, and now the port of Jaffa was in sight. King Richard would have to take it before his army could hope to move on Jerusalem. But Saladin's army waited for them -- the largest they'd faced yet. Much turned the heavy saddle, rubbing in oil to to keep the leather supple, checking and double checking the stitching. Baldwin of Clermont's girth had given out and the man had been trampled by his own horse. Much stopped, his hand still on the saddle leather, waiting for his bile to settle. It wasn't as though he had anything left in him; he'd already emptied his stomach once, out in the privy pits.
He'd broken the curses, he reminded himself. He knew he had. ... But if he hadn't, Robin would ride into battle a marked man.
Robin ducked into the tent, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows and the collar undone in the heat. He flashed a smile at Much and settled on his pallet, sinking back with sigh.
“The king has a solid plan to match Saladin's forces,” he said, sounding confident, as though predicting good weather for a picnic.
Much rubbed oil into the pommel with strong, even strokes, bringing the leather to a high shine. “Don't fight tomorrow.”
“What?” Robin asked, his eyes narrowing.
“I'm serious, Master. You can't. Tell the king you're too ill or make up some story, but don't fight tomorrow.”
“It's not a chore -- something I can avoid.” Robin sat up. “It's my duty. To do otherwise would be dishonorable.”
“No, not dishonorable. Please listen to me. All men go into battle knowing they face death. But for you --” Much grabbed Robin's forearm, his fingers digging in tightly, “-- it's not safe.”
“Not safe?” Robin repeated incredulously. “I'm aware of that, actually.”
Much drew a deep breath and released it slowly. “There's something you don't know.” Much told him about the curses, finding each one around the tent and how he buried them, but he left out the visit to Maud. “I buried them -- with holy water and everything. But it's best not to try your luck. Curses are really tricky things, and it's so easy for a blade to turn in battle.”
“So that's what's had you so stirred up,” Robin said and to Much's horror, he sounded relieved. “Look, Much. It's a bunch of silly trinkets and nonsense. Danger is a sharp knife or a poisoned well -- this is just superstitious fools venting their spleens.” He put his hands on Much's shoulders. “Just men trying to scare you. It can't hurt you.”
“I know that,” Much said, changing his attack. “But how can you stand shoulder to shoulder in battle with men who think you're the Devil?”
Robin caught Much's neck in the crook of his elbow, bending him over to ruffle his hair. “You worry too much.” He let go and Much smoothed his hair, trying to recover his dignity.
“Master. I beg you.” His voice quavered a bit; Robin still didn't understand.
“You really are worried, aren't you?” Robin reached out and traced the side of Much's face lightly. Much closed his eyes. “Don't be. It'll be all right, Much.”
Robin kissed him and Much was going to ask if Robin was just shutting him up again, but as soon as he opened his mouth, Robin's tongue slipped in. Much was so surprised he forgot his question completely. Robin's tongue was soft and slick and Much moaned and opened wider, allowing Robin to do what he liked. Robin's hands came up to cup the sides of Much's neck, his thumbs rubbing little circles behind Much's ears.
“Please listen, Master,” Much tried when Robin gave him a chance, but Robin wasn't listening. He nuzzled Much's neck as he pushed him backward, until Much was flat on his back.
Robin's tongue was on his throat, tracing the curves of his collarbone. Stubble scraped against his skin in contrast with the softness of Robin's mouth. Much couldn't speak any longer, his prick coming to attention. Robin sat back, pushing Much's knees apart so he could settle between them.
Robin pushed the hem of Much's shirt up, the soft flesh of Much's belly jumping as Robin's fingers caressed it. Robin pushed the shirt up higher to tug it over Much's head. Much shivered under Robin's gaze, and reached out to pull on Robin's shirt. Robin took it off, baring lean muscles and the light dusting of golden hair on his chest. He tossed the shirt aside and leaned back over Much, his mouth finding Much's again. Much met him with equal passion, pushing back against Robin.
Much's body arched upwards, straining for more contact, desperate to relieve the pressure. Robin's naked skin burned against Much's, sweat dampening the crooks of his elbows and the small of his back. The weight of his boots and trousers was unbearable, but Much couldn't bring himself to take his hands from Robin long enough to remedy the situation.
Robin ran the backs of his fingers down Much's chest, sending fire racing through him, and came to his belt. His fingers fumbled with the buckle, but the stiff leather slowed him. He cursed, breaking the kiss to look down. Much moved blindly toward, his mouth searching, finding Robin's temple. His hair smelled of sweat and the leather that padded his helm and something else that Much couldn't name, rich and warm and heady. Much breathed deeply, ending in a gasp as Robin finally got his belt undone and pulled out his prick.
Robin gave it a few strokes, making Much shiver and buck, before he started on his own belt. Much wanted to see him, but Robin was nipping at his chin and sucking on his tongue. Robin thrust against him slowly, skin dragging against skin, prick against prick. Much closed his eyes, turning his face away.
“Look at me,” Robin said softly.
“I ... can't,” Much gasped, laid open and raw, helpless under the intensity of Robin's regard.
“Much.” Robin kissed his neck. “Look at me.”
Much struggled for breath, forcing himself to open his eyes and, shuddering, found release. Robin thrust faster against him, the way eased by the slickness on Much's belly, until he gasped and collapsed. They lay together, Much's fingers curled in the hair at the nape of Robin's neck.
Robin rolled off of Much, tucking his prick away. He wiped himself off with his abandoned shirt and handed it to Much so that he could do the same. Much scrubbed at the cooling mess, watching Robin settle down. He stowed the soiled shirt away and moved to lay next to Robin, draping a tentative arm over his waist.
Robin shifted and shook him off. “It's too hot, Much.”
Much rolled over, careful to leave enough distance between them, and listened to Robin's breathing. It was a long time before sleep took him.
---
Much spun, searching through the chaos, looking for the King's Guard. Where were they? He could see no yellow-and-red in the sea of Saracen standards. Had he missed the call to retreat? He thrust and parried, his attention forced to the task at hand, and then he realized. They'd been left. The horror paralyzed him and he forgot to block. Robin grabbed his elbow, dragging him backward, and the sword whistled past his ear instead.
“Much, look lively, will you,” Robin shouted, his words were barely audible over the sound of metal on metal and the war cries and screams of the dying.
“They've left us,” Much cried, following as Robin pushed heedlessly forward. “They've left us to die.”
“We've just got separated,” Robin called back, neatly opening an unprotected belly. But he hesitated, scanning the field, pausing as he came to the same conclusion Much had. “Pull back. Now!”
Much hastened to do so. Another Saracen was coming at him, and he sidestepped and drove his sword up through the gap in the armor at the armpit. He turned; there was a break in the line and he saw his chance. He ran, weighed down by armor and exhaustion. A glance over his shoulder told him Robin, too, had broken from the fray. Much put his head down and concentrated on forcing his legs to pump faster, his helm narrowing his vision to a tiny slit. There -- he caught sight of the lions rampant, fluttering in the breeze.
He heard Robin shout; though he couldn't make out the words, the sound of his master's voice brought him up short. He turned so quickly he nearly went sprawling, unbalanced and awkward in his armor.
The Saracens had caught up to Robin, and he fought now, so quickly that Much could scarcely trace the arc of his sword. Much ran back, closing the long yards between them. Robin had lost his helmet and Much could see the sweat on Robin's brow and the surprise in his eyes as the sword caught him, just below the ribs.
It was his sword that cleaved the Saracen near in two and then turned on his brother-in-arms, working with fierce and deadly accuracy, but Much didn't control it; it moved with a life of its own and Much merely held the hilt. He killed them, and later would have no memory of how, but more Saracens were coming. Robin lay on the sand, his blood soaking it. Much's sword dropped from his hand.
Robin grunted painfully as Much pulled him up and eased Robin onto a shoulder, his arms dangling limply.
“Hang on, Master,” Much said, though Robing was beyond hearing. “Please. Please just hang on.”
The Saracens were closing in as he approached the Crusader line. Someone broke through the ranks, and Much recognized Legrand's hulking form. A prayer of thanks on his lips, he passed him.
“Go on, get him to the surgeon,” Legrand shouted, drawing his sword. “I'll take care of this.”
Much nodded but Legrand was already gone.
---
The amputee beside him had begun to whimper, but at least the rain had stopped. Pins and needles prickled along Much's foot and he shifted, trying to ease the pain as feeling returned.
Under his breath, he began to sing, “In faith love me solely, mark the faith of me, from thy heart wholly, from the soul of thee.” He picked up toward the end, if only to drown out the sound of the dying man.
“I must be dead and in Hell --”
“Master?” Much scrambled to his feet, upsetting the piss pot so some of its contents sloshed over the side. Robin blinked owlishly up at him; the stubble on his face had grown into an actual beard.
“-- and as punishment for my sins, I'm to spend the rest of eternity listening to your yowling.”
“Oh, Master, thank the Lord you're awake.” Much didn't risk tearing Robin's stitches by embracing him, so he settled for taking Robin's hand and clasping it to his chest. “Do you want anything? You must drink some water.”
“That would be good, yes.”
Much hastened to fetch some, wiping his damp cheeks before he returned. Much helped Robin drink, cradling his head as he drained the cup. Even that cost Robin; he collapsed back, his face pale and drawn.
“Should I fetch the surgeon?” Much asked, setting the cup aside.
“No, no -- stay. I'm fine.” Robin reached out and rubbed a thumb over Much's own beard. “You've been here this whole time, haven't you? You look terrible.”
“Not as bad as you, I shouldn't wonder,” Much said, pushing lank hair off his forehead.
“Much. I meant no offense just -- you should rest. I don't know how you can sleep in here.” Robin waved away a fly that sought to land on his cheek.
Much shrugged a shoulder. “Well, you know. Wasn't exactly peaceful. But I couldn't sleep anywhere else.”
---
“Much.” Color had returned to Robin's face and he could walk short distances, though he always pushed himself too far and ended up leaning on Much on the way back. “There's something I need to say.”
Much tasted the broth. It needed salt, but he was out. “Yes, Master?”
“Actually. I'm not anymore,” Robin said.
“What?” Much asked absently. He still had a bit of the chili pepper he'd got in Antioch, but it might be too stimulating for a wounded man.
“Your master.”
The wooden spoon slipped and splashed into the broth. “You're not my ...” Much looked from the pot to Robin.
“I'm releasing you from service,” Robin said.
“Master, I'm sorry.” Much's voice rose in tenor. “I swear next time I'll be faster -- I'll practice harder, longer. Whatever it takes, I won't fail again.”
“Calm down. I'm not punishing you -- I'm rewarding you, you fool.” Robin was grinning and Much stopped mid-protest. “There's an estate in my holdings. Bonchurch. It's not very big, but the land is fertile. I think you'd be happy there.”
“I, uh ...” Much's mouth hung open.
“You don't have to take it, if you don't want it.”
“I want it!” Much said and Robin laughed. Much hugged Robin tightly, forgetting the injury for a moment. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
Robin winced and Much eased up a little, but he was still smiling. “I just wish I could do more.”
“This -- oh, this is more than enough. I don't even know what to say.”
“For once.” Robin sobered a bit. “I'm returning home to Locksley. The king thinks it would be best if I spent some time home to ... recover.”
“Right. That's a good idea. And I'm coming with you ...” Much let the sentence trail off uncertainly.
“I think you'd better. You've got an estate to oversee, after all.”
“Yes. Yes, I do.”
---
Much looked back over his shoulder. The camp lay behind them, the tents pale in the predawn light. He was glad to leave it, leave all of it behind. He shivered a little, but not because of the chill in the air, and clucked to his horse, coaxing it into a trot. Robin did the same, so they were riding knee and knee.
“It's going to be a great journey, Master -- Robin, I mean. I can feel it. Everything's coming up roses.”
“Is that so?” Robin said skeptically, but he was smiling. The sun hadn't quite crested the eastern horizon, but the sky was a promising pink.
“Oh yes. We'll get back to Locksley -- and Bonchurch, of course -- and we'll be greeted as war heroes; just you wait and see,” Much said with confidence. “All our problems are over.”