Once Upon A Time. A Long Time Ago. Somewhere in Arabia… Somewhere…

 “I touch your ears and you hear only me.”
She ignored the sound of booted feet thundering down the corridor.
“I touch your nose and you smell only me.”
Ignored the disembodied voices raised in urgency.
“I touch your skin and you feel only me.”
Ignored the sound of shoulders slamming against the wood.
“I touch your eyes and you see only me.”
Ignored everything apart from what she was doing. She was almost done.
“I touch your lips and you taste only me.”

The door burst open.
She got up from the bed. “You are too late,” she said to the men who had come into the room. She held out a slim hand to the youth still lying on the bed. “He is mine now.”
The men hung their heads or turned away.
Taking her hand, the boy sat up. Suddenly seeing the men, amongst them his father and brothers, his eyes widened in horror and a cry welled in his throat.
“You have nothing to fear.” The boy’s cry died as she kissed him. “They can never take you away from me now.”
One of the men, one of the boy’s brothers, turned to the window behind him. They were too late. The first light of dawn was already beginning to fill the room, and she brought with her a host of kings, princes, and warriors, all as deathly pale and as ghostly as his younger brother. They were too late.
“Come, My Love. It is time.” She smiled as the boy got up from the bed. Kissing him again, she then led him to where her previous lovers stood waiting.
The ghosts parted making a place for the boy in their midst.
“Stop!”
No! It couldn’t be! Turning to the doorway again, she screamed in outrage seeing the cloaked and hooded figure standing on the threshold. “You! I thought I killed you!”
“You thought wrong,” the figure replied calmly.
“Well, you are too late,” she said. “As you can see, he is mine now.”
The figure shrugged. “I may be too late to save him but I am not too late to stop you.” Pulling something from its cloak, the figure then threw it at the girl.
Looking down at the blood-red stone at her feet, the girl laughed. “If you think that some silly bauble will stop me you are even more of a fool than I thought you were.”
“Some silly bauble will not stop you,” the figure said. “But a silly bauble coupled with this will.”
Quickly, the figure bent and picked up a leather bound book from the shadows behind it. Its heart thudded as opening the book, it then began to read out loud. There would be only one crack at this. There would be no second chances. 

Hearing the words directed at her, the girl took a step back. “No!” Her hands flew to her throat as wisps of smoke began to issue from her nose and mouth. “No!”
The figure continued reading; continued reading even above the smoke and the screams, continued reading even when the men fled from the room in terror, continued reading even when the girl began to burn. And as the girl burned the ruby at her feet began to glow. It filled the room with an unearthly light. The screams stopped.
The figure looked up. A single flame flickered where the girl had once stood... It watched as the flame was slowly drawn into the ruby. But only when the flame had vanished completely did it slam the book shut. The light in the room went out taking the ghosts and the boy with it.
Entering the room, the figure picked up the stone. It sank to its knees shaking with relief. She had finally been stopped. In the palm of its hand, the ruby glowed even bloodier than before… After all these years, she had finally been stopped and, Insh’Allah, it would now be forever. Blood and flame.  And it had taken blood and flame to stop her... trap her.  And it would take blood and flame to free her again.

Pocketing the stone, the figure left the room closing the door behind it. It did not see the glint of sunlight on metal till it was too late.




31st December 1190. The Holy Month of Ramadan. Salah al-Din’s Tented Encampment.  The Port of Acre. The Holy Land.

She is so beautiful, Robin thought unable to take his eyes off the girl. Spellbound, he watched as her body swayed from pride to devotion in the same heartbeat, her eyes turned from adoration to scorn in the same breath. She’s so beautiful; so very beautiful.

Not again. Much hung his head. To him, it was almost as if Robin had said the three words out loud instead of just thinking them. Not again. When it came to a beautiful girl, his master was so predictable. But why did he hate those three simple words so much? He hated them because nine times out of ten those three simple words not only got just his master into trouble. Much humpfed to himself. Why couldn’t they enjoy a night out without having to run for their lives before the end of it? And choosing to go after a ‘bit of skirt’ here, of all places, was sheer stupidity. There was living dangerously and there was living dangerously. If either of them got caught this time they would be put to death instantly; no questions asked. No, wait, worse than that. They would be castrated first then put to death.

The breath caught in Robin’s throat as looking directly at him, the girl slowly raised her arms above her head and began to languidly sway from side to side. She was like… she was like the music she was dancing to; so strange; so seductive. Who was she? Robin swallowed remembering to breathe again. He had never seen skin that golden brown before or even hair that long. Raven black, it snaked in a thick, flower-braided plait to just past the curve of her buttocks. And what was she doing here? She wasn’t Saracen. She couldn’t be. Not with those looks and definitely not from the way she was dressed. All the Saracen women he had ever seen had been shrouded from head to foot. In sharp contrast, what the girl wore left little to the imagination. A knee-length skirt and a barely-there sleeveless top of pale gold silk accentuated bare arms and bare midriff. Robin swallowed again as the girl moved nearer to him. The silk clung teasingly to the swell of her breasts while a pair of deep rust coloured calf-length leggings, also of silk, hugged firm, shapely legs. It was almost as if the girl was dancing for him alone and not also for the other men sat next to him. Gold and rubies enhanced her throat, waist and wrists. There was even a tiny gold chain that ran from a stud in her nose, across her cheek, to a stud in her ear. Robin’s eyes moved lower. And around each slim ankle were tiny gold bells that jingled with each step of her bare feet, echoing the bells on the jesses of the falcons that were perched in the far corner of the tent. All the gold and rubies made the girl look incandescent in the firelight. It was almost as if she could go up in flames at any minute.

Suddenly the man sat beside Robin leaned in closer. Startled, Robin jumped. Barely a year or two older than him, the Saracen’s near-black eyes shone with laughter in the firelight.
“She is mimicking a cobra, Sadeek,” the man said in perfect English nodding at the girl. “Transfixing its prey before it strikes.” He smiled lightly. “And from the look on your face, it would seem that she has you totally mesmerised.”
Robin grinned back. He had been caught out. “That obvious?” he said in Arabic. He was warming to the man, despite the barely-hidden threat that had coloured the man’s voice.
The man’s eyes widened in astonishment hearing his own language coming out of the mouth of an infidel. Quickly, masking his surprise, he then nodded, still smiling. “I am afraid so, Sadeek,” he said switching to Arabic. And may I commend you on your command of our language.”
Robin bowed his head. “Shukran.”
Sat behind Robin, Much smiled proudly. After nearly four years here, his Master’s Arabic was near-perfect. Now if Robin would only concentrate on things like perfecting his language skills instead of his next female conquest, life would be so much easier; and safer.  Much then cringed inwardly. Though the Saracen was laughing, he could tell that the man was also not too happy with Robin’s interest in the dancer. It had been only too obvious what he was really saying. You can look but you can’t touch, Sadeek. She belongs to me. Had Robin noticed though? Much wasn’t sure. When it came to a pretty girl, Robin could be pretty much one track-minded. And even if he had noticed Robin would just choose to ignore the threat like he usually chose to ignore threats. Robin, forget her, he pleaded wordlessly. Find another girl. Leave this one alone. You know only too well that the man sat beside you is al-Afdal, the head of Salah al-Din’s personal guard. You really do not want to get on the wrong side of him. And especially not here! Much looked back to the dancer. Wait. What’s a cobra?
You can look but you cannot touch. Is that a challenge? Feeling Much’s eyes boring into the back of his head, Robin then glanced behind him. He knew Much as well as Much knew him. “What’s a cobra?” he asked, turning to al-Afdal.
“A hooded snake that hypnotises its prey before striking,” al-Afdal answered watching Robin watching the dancer.
Robin’s grin widened. “Oh, to be struck by those fangs.”
Much stifled a groan as Robin and al-Afdal then started to laugh. I cannot believe that Robin just said that. No, wait. I can.
“Insh’Allah, you will not be,” al-Afdal said.
“Insh’Allah, I will be,” Robin corrected. 

Exasperated, leaving Robin to figure out how exactly he was going to get the girl this time, Much looked around him. He had never for the life of him dreamed that one day he would be sat on thick Turk rugs breaking fast with a bunch of Saracens. And if that wasn’t enough the Saracens he was breaking fast with were none other than Salah al-Din’s personal guard. And to think none of this would ever have happened if, making the most of the uneasy truce that settled over both sides during Christmas, New Year and Ramadan, Robin hadn’t been asked by the King to deliver Season’s Greetings to the leader of the Turk, Lord Salah al-Din, himself. It was a moment of sanity in an otherwise insane world according to Robin. But once the message had been delivered instead of letting Robin leave, the head of Salah al-Din’s guard had invited him to break fast with him and some of his men. Sometimes being Robin’s manservant had its plus points. O.K, so these were few and far between but when they did occur they made up for everything else.
Much’s stomach started to growl. Trying his best to ignore it, he instead eyed the seven men sat beside Robin warily. Short dark hair, dark eyes, thick beards, flowing white robes over heavy chain mail, weapons within easy reach. Even when relaxing, these men were ready for combat.  Much frowned. They reminded him of Robin and the rest of the King’s Guards.
Much’s stomach growled again. The smell of food in the tent was almost unbearable. His eyes as large as saucers, he stared at the almost untouched plate of food in front of Robin. What a waste. His mouth watered at the sight of the roast meats, the jewel-like pomegranate seeds, the dates, the orange segments. In fact, the only things missing from the feast were the goblets of wine or the mugs of ale. In their place were glasses of hot sweet mint tea or snow-cold bowls of sherbet. Unable to still quite believe that he was actually here, Much tried to attract Robin’s attention but it was of no use. Robin was far too engrossed in the girl to notice anything else around him, including his manservant. It wasn’t that Robin was totally oblivious to his surroundings; that he hadn’t taken in the men, the weaponry and the possible escape routes out of the tent, it was more that, right now, his mind was somewhere else completely. 

Robin jumped again as suddenly the music stopped. He had been so hypnotised by the girl that when ‘the cobra’ finally struck him, he was totally unprepared. He stared still dazed as the girl undulated towards him and picking up his unfinished glass of mint tea drank from it. For the first time, for as long as he could remember, he was totally lost for words. He had never before seen anything like what he had just seen. Finishing the tea, the dancer put the glass down again and as the glass came into contact with the rug, almost as if on cue, the music started again. The music was far faster this time and al-Afdal and his men began to clap in time with it. Beginning to enjoy himself, Robin joined them.
As the music became faster, so too did the girl’s steps. And as the girl’s steps became faster so too did the clapping. Faster and faster, till the girl was literally whirling like a child’s spinning top around the tent. Her plait whipped around her like a live thing, scattering the tiny star shaped flowers that had been imprisoned through it. As the heady scent of jasmine filled the air, Robin’s eyes were fleetingly drawn to the flowers littering the carpet. They looked like tiny snowflakes. His eyes darkened as a momentary pang of homesickness gnawed at his stomach. More than likely it would now be snowing back home.
The girl spun closer. She was almost close enough to touch now. All he had to do was reach out… Robin gasped as, without warning, the girl collapsed at his feet. Heartbeat followed heartbeat followed heartbeat. Sensing Robin’s eyes still on her, the girl lowered her head demurely. The silence seemed to go on forever till a single clap from al-Afdal shattered it. Slowly, the girl lifted her head and, for a moment, ice-blue met forest green. Robin looked away. Home. Sherwood; her eyes were the colour of the leaves in Sherwood in Summer. He then shuddered as a delicious thrill ran through him. The promises that had coloured the kohl-lined eyes had been anything but ladylike. The girl was playing him at his own game but was doing it far more discreetly. Who was she?
Then, as if nothing had passed between them, the girl stood and took two steps back. Putting the palms of her intricately hennaed hands together, she then bowed her head in respect.
Cheering and clapping filled the tent, accompanied by Al-Afdal’s men tossing coins at the girl’s feet. But the girl didn’t seem to notice the attention or the money and, still keeping the palms of her hands together, still keeping her head bowed, she quietly backed away from them and left through a guarded opening at the rear of the tent. Her musicians followed her, moments later, taking the money with them.
Robin sighed silently, sorry to see her go. Not only had the girl been beautiful but she had also been the only one of the fairer sex in the tent. He wasn’t surprised though. Saracens guarded their women fiercely. So much so that even the slaves that had waited on them had been men or boys.
Turning to Much again, Robin then smirked. But before he could open his mouth to say anything, Much glared at him.
“No, Master.” Much said quietly, so quietly that only Robin could hear him. “Whatever you’re thinking stop thinking it. There are plenty _ ”
The rest of Much’s sentence died as al-Afdal and his men stood. Turning to Robin, as he and Much stood too, al-Afdal then bowed graciously.
“I must leave you now. Lord Salah al-Din will have need of me,” al-Afdal said.
Robin smiled. This was their cue to leave. “Your turn on watch?”
Al-Afdal nodded. “Yes,” he replied. He inclined his head. “Go in safety, Sadeek. It was an honour to meet you. Finally.”
Robin echoed the gesture. “Ma’ as Salaama. And, the honour is mine. Thank you for inviting me to break fast with you. It is something that I will always remember.” And for more than one reason.

Drawing their cloaks tighter around them, Robin and Much began the long walk back to camp. A crescent moon hung bright above them, reminding Robin of a newly oiled and polished scimitar. He rubbed his hands together, blowing on numbing fingers. Though inside the tent it had been beautifully warm outside it was cold; very cold. Desert days were blazing but desert nights were freezing.
“You should feel honoured, Master,” Much said.
“Why? Because this is my first official visit here?” Robin grinned. All his other visits to Salah-al-Din’s camp had been far more ‘unofficial.’
“No,” Much answered. “Because His Majesty chose you to deliver the message.” 
“Oh,” Robin said, not really paying that much attention. He was far more interested in his surroundings. Unlike their own camp with its grey shroud-like tents, Salah al-Din’s was a sprawling mass of billowing white tents that resembled clouds. Everywhere, men watched them through narrowed eyes, their hands on their sword hilts. Robin’s hand too rested on the hilt of his own blade. Despite the truce, there was no point being too relaxed; too relaxed more often than not only got you killed.
Suddenly Robin put a finger to his lips. “Shh.”
“What’s wrong?” Much asked his hand going to his own blade.
“Shh,” Robin chided again. “Listen.”
Not hearing anything, Much frowned. “Master?”
“There,” Robin said as once again the sound of soft female laughter filled the air. He nodded in the direction of a tent that was much larger than the rest.
Much’s shoulders slumped in defeat. “Oh great.” Standing in front of the tent was the dancer. Seeing them, the dancer put the palms of her hands together again and dipped her head. Much groaned as Robin echoed the gesture. This was not good. This was not good at all.
Hearing the groan, Robin shoved Much with his shoulder. “What?” He then smiled to himself as more laughter came from inside the tent. Things were starting to look up. Could this be where Salah al-Din kept his wives? No, it wasn’t; it was too far away from the Royal Tent. These women had to belong to his men. Things were definitely looking up.
Sensing what Robin was planning on doing next, Much grabbed Robin’s arm. “Master, no!”
“Five minutes.” Robin said.
“That’s what you said the last time,” Much said, tightening his hold. “And the time before that and the time before that.”
Robin tried to pull free. “Much, let go of my arm.”
“Master, please,” Much pleaded. “Not them.” He shook his head in frustration, releasing his hold. “They belong to Salah al-Din.” ‘I don’t go looking for trouble. Trouble comes looking for me.’ To date, this had to be the stupidest risk that Robin had ever thought of taking. As far as he was concerned trouble didn’t come looking for Robin, Robin was trouble. Trouble with a capital, bloody T.
“They don’t,” Robin replied. “They belong to his men.”
“And that’s supposed to make a difference?” Much humpfed.
“Yes.”
“Well, what if you get caught?” Much pressed in desperation. He had to do something. “They’ll castrate you if they catch you. They’ll castrate us. Then they’ll kill us just to make sure.”
“Stop worrying, Much,” Robin laughed. “They will not catch me.” The very idea of the women belonging to Salah al-Din’s men only made the challenge of ‘getting the girl’ all the more irresistible now. Kept in luxurious idleness just for sex, these women were guarded like virgins but enjoyed like whores.
“Remember what happened to the cat.” Much said. Robin was seriously beginning to get on his nerves.
Robin smirked again. “It got the cream?”
If he hadn’t been Robin’s manservant, Much would have thumped Robin without a second thought. And hard. “Arrgggh, NOT that cat!” He then shook his head in defeat. “I give up,” he half-shouted, throwing his arms up in the air. “Just promise me you’ll be careful.”
“What are you, my mother?” Robin laughed. “Much, lighten up. Anyway, I do not remember the last time you got laid.”
“I don’t need to get laid,” Much humpfed. “You get laid enough for the both of us.”
Robin flinched as if he had been wounded. “That is harsh.”
“It’s true,” Much said. “And it’s a wonder that you haven’t caught anything.”
“But that’s just it,” Robin said, unable to stop grinning now. “I have not.” The grin widened irritatingly. “Wait. I am sure I can find you a lovely young lady willing to oblige when we get back to camp. I will even pay for it. Think of it as buying you a drink on my birthday.”
“I’d rather have the drink,” Much said, suddenly remembering a Saracen description he had heard of the prostitutes that plied their wares in Acre. 'Tinted and painted, desirable and appetising, bold and ardent, these girls offered their wares for enjoyment, bringing their silver anklets up to touch their golden ear-rings’. No, he wasn’t that desperate. He then glared as slipping on a pair of soft, intricately-worked, sandals, the girl came towards them.
“Just be careful, Master. Please,” Much grimaced as taking the girl’s hand, Robin pulled her into the shadow of another tent. But he might as well have been talking to himself. Again.
Much watched as Robin kissed the girl’s hand and drew her closer to him. From the looks of it, Robin couldn’t keep his hands off her. And Robin’s hands were everywhere. Much hung his head. Why me? Why me? And the girl wasn’t even resisting. How did Robin do it? Turning away, he too then found some shadows in which to hide. Hide, wait and keep a lookout. Someone had to keep an eye on him; make sure that nothing happened to him. Robin might not care what happened to Robin but he cared about what happened to Robin.
“Who are you?” Robin asked as burnt roses, jasmine and spices assailed his senses. He slowly traced the girl’s face with his fingertips. “No, what are you?” Trying to impress her he had decided to stick to Arabic and from the looks of it was paying off. “Your eyes… they seem to see right into me.” The girl trembled… deliciously in his arms. “I think you can see straight into my soul. See my hopes, my dreams…” Her breath was tantalisingly soft against his skin.
“Your desires?” the girl finished, putting a finger to Robin’s lips.
Robin eyes widened slightly. Her English, though heavily accented, seemed as perfect as al-Afdal’s. But even her accent wasn’t Turk. In fact, it was unlike any accent he had heard before. Who was she? Well, he would find out before the night was through or, just to annoy Much, die trying.
The girl shivered again.
“Forgive me, My Lady.” Robin said, switching to English. It was so much easier to be charming in your own language. “I forget my manners.” Taking off his cloak, he wrapped it around the both of them. “Better?”
“Thank you, My Lord.” The girl then smiled looking over his shoulder to where Much stood waiting. “Your servant is starting to look like landed fish.”
“I think you are the one that’s been landed, My Lady,” Robin whispered. He ran a hand through the girl’s hair undoing the plait and freeing the last of the flowers. “And I cannot keep calling you ‘My Lady’, My Lady. What is your name?”
“Nagini,” the girl replied.
“Nagini.”  Robin bowed. “Such a beautiful name for such a beautiful lady. Does it mean anything?”
“A Nagini is a snake goddess, My Lord,” the girl replied.
“And would she be a cobra by any chance?”
Nagini nodded laughing. “Yes, My Lord. How did you know?”
“Just a guess,” Robin said. “And tell me is it true what they say?”
“My Lord?”
“Is it true that the female of the species is more deadly than the male?”
“That is for you to find out, My Lord,” the girl said. “A challenge?” Robin said thrilled at the prospect.
“May be,” Nagini answered. “And I know who you are, My Lord. You are Robin of Loxley. One of King Richard’s personal protectors.”
Robin grinned. “I’m impressed,” he said. “Who told you?”
“Al-Afdal,” Nagini said. “I asked him who you were when you and your servant came into camp.”
“You seem to know more about me than I do about you,” Robin said. “Tell me, where are you from? Your real home? I know you are not from around here.”
“Why, My Lord?” the girl asked. “Are you going to help me get back?”
“Only if you want me to,” Robin answered. “Do you want me to?”
“No,” Nagini replied. “I am happy here, so does it matter where I am from?”
“Humour me,” Robin said.
Nagini frowned. “Humour me?” She shook her head. “Sorry, My Lord. I do not understand ‘humour me.’”
“I meant,” Robin said. “Tell me, any way, where you are from.”
“Orissa,” Nagini replied.
It was now Robin’s turn to frown. “Orissa?”
“It is in India,” the girl said. “My Lord. Do you know it?”
“I have heard of it,” Robin replied. It was where the Turks got their spices from.
Suddenly Nagini put a hand on Robin’s chest. “But wait, My Lord,” she said. “Would you still have been willing to help me if I had been a hundred years old and wrinkled? Or are you only willing to help me because I am young and beautiful and you are far from home?”
Nice one. Robin lowered his eyes and bit his lip, trying to stop the laughter welling in his throat. The girl was good. “And are all the women from Orissa as young and beautiful as you?” he asked. He wasn’t about to give up that easily.
A smile lit up the girl’s face. “And are all the men from England as forward as you?”
Robin grinned. Really good. “Touché.”
“Touché.” Nagini started to laugh. “That I do understand.”
“But what are you really doing here?” Robin asked. “And so far from home.” Was Nagini a slave? A camp courtesan? A spoil of war? Or something far worse?
“I was a gift, My Lord,” Nagini replied still smiling.
“A gift?!” Robin was stunned; his eyes widened in horror. “A gift?”
“Yes,” Nagini said. “A gift from my father, the Maharaj of Orissa, to the Great Salah al-Din.”
Robin stayed silent. Dear God.
“Lord Salah al-Din, in turn, then gave me to Lord al-Afdal,” Nagini continued. “He said that he already had too many wives. And that another would only cause him more grief.”
“You are a princess?” Robin asked finding his voice again. Things were definitely looking up.
Nagini dipped her head again. “Yes, My Lord.”
Robin bowed. “Your Highness.”
But despite things getting better by the minute, Robin was still appalled. Here too, like back home, people were just seen as commodities; things to be given away to whomever, whenever the whim took them. Even if you were a princess. But to be given away by your own father! “You were_”
Seeing Robin’s expression, Nagini laughed again. “Do not look so concerned, My Lord. I am here out of choice. I wanted to come. And I am happy here. Al-Afdal treats me like his sister. As if I were related.” The girl shrugged. “Unfortunately.”
Unfortunately? Robin raised an eyebrow. And no wonder, al-Afdal had been so protective of her. And yes, the girl definitely was happy here. He could tell from her expression and the tone of her voice that she was actually telling the truth. Not wanting to push the matter further, he then changed the subject. “Is that where you learnt to speak English?” he asked. “Your father’s palace? In Orissa?”
Nagini nodded. “Yes, My Lord,” she said. “Princesses are taught many things from an early age. Two of them being the Court Languages of other lands and_”
Robin smiled rakishly. “And how to dance?”
The girl inclined her head. “Yes, My Lord,” she smiled. “And how to dance. Where I come from we are taught that dance is divine. It can be used for worship or pleasure.”
Never give a sword to a man who can dance, Robin thought or, in this case, a woman who can dance. The girl would be lethal with a blade in her hand. “Pleasure, Your Highness?”
“Yes,” Nagini said. “Using one’s hands and eyes.”
“And you have such beautiful eyes.” Laying his fingertips against the side of her face, Robin inclined his head and leaned in closer to kiss her. “Your eyes_”
“Especially the eyes,” the girl said pulling back ever so slightly. “Your glance must be full of meaning; filled with expression.” Nagini smiled. “Dance is visual music, My Lord. Watch.”
Once more, Robin was transfixed as the girl began to repeat the hand movements he had seen less than an hour ago. Fingertips softly brushed his eyelids.

“I touch your eyes and you see only me.”
His cheek.
“I touch your skin and you feel only me.”
The tip of his nose.
“I touch your nose and you smell only me.”
The curve of his ear.
“I touch your ears and you hear only me.”
Leaning closer, she then brushed his lips with her own.
“I touch your lips and you taste only me.”
Robin couldn’t move. He didn’t want to move. He was barely aware of the girl pushing the cloak off them… Somewhere in the distance, a bell chimed midnight; heralding in the New Year; and the day of his birth.
Guiding Robin down onto the cloth pooled on the sand, Nagini then kissed him again.
“My lithe form, which gleams darkly against your whiteness, is as a black serpent wrapped around a white sandalwood tree. I am as the darkness of night touched by the pale light of the moon.”
The kiss deepened.

Happy Birthday to me.




New Year’s Day, 1191. The King’s Camp

“Happy New Year!”
“Happy New Year!”
Shading his eyes, Robin pushed aside the gauzy curtain that hung across the entrance to their tent and stepped outside, even this early in the morning, the sun was blindingly bright.
“Happy New Year!”
Listening to the greetings echoing around the camp, Robin leant back against the tent pole and looked across it, taking in its familiar sights, sounds and smells; familiar now after all these years. He half-heartedly kicked at a small stone; watched as it skidded across the sand.
“Happy New Year!”

And familiarity bred contempt. There was nothing but sand as far as the eye could see, broken only by the occasional palm tree and the city walls in the far distance.
He smiled humourlessly to himself. With so much sand around, he could make a really big sandcastle if he had wanted to; one big enough to hide in the next time that trouble came looking for him; like Much wanted him to. He shrugged. One small problem though, there wasn’t enough water to spare to make even a little one, let alone not one big enough to hide in. He scrubbed a hand across his face. And the sand, it also got everywhere and in everything. It got in their food, in their drinking water, in between their clothing and their armour, in their boots, in their bedding. You name it and it got in there. It even managed to get into places where you seriously wouldn’t want sand to get into.
“Happy New Year, Locksley!” A knight called out walking past the tent. “And Happy Birthday!”
Robin returned the greeting half-heartedly, Happy?! What was so happy about it? They were still stuck out here. It just was another Christmas; another New Year and another… birthday thousands of miles away from home. Winter in the middle of the desert wasn’t quite the same as Winter back home. For starters, it was so very hot here. Which was just… just wrong at this time of year. He missed the crisp cold winters of his childhood. He missed sitting in front of a roaring fire drinking hot sweet wine, he missed gathering mistletoe with the other young men of the village and the ‘rewards’ that the sprigs brought with them. Most of all, he missed hiding in the bushes outside Knighton Hall and pelting Marian with snowballs. He smiled sadly. Marian. She would be almost eighteen now. Once, a lifetime ago, they had been betrothed. So was she still waiting for him or had she married someone else like she said would? ‘I’m not waiting for you, Robin.’ Did she miss him as much as he missed her? Did she even think about him? Right now, he would have given his sword arm to see her again; given his sword arm to be back in England; back in Loxley. He kicked at another stone. He missed being with those he cared about and those that cared about him. Did they even know or even care that he was still alive? He turned sensing Much coming to stand beside him. He smiled wordlessly. He wanted to go home.

“Homesick?” Much asked. He winced seeing the look in Robin’s eyes. Robin was always melancholy this time of year but today, today was different. Today, Robin wasn’t just homesick he was heart-achingly homesick.
“Yes,” Robin answered. He couldn’t keep anything from Much. Much knew him too well.
“Me too,” Much said softly, hoping that it would make Robin feel better. He handed Robin the goblet of wine he had been holding. “Happy Birthday, Master.”
“Happy New Year, Much.” Heedless to the goblet, Robin drew Much into fierce hug.
“We survived another year.”
“No,” Much corrected. “You survived another year,”
Robin shrugged. “A detail.” He raised the goblet. “Well, here is to surviving another one. The both of us.” Taking a sip of the wine, he then passed the goblet to Much. Sometimes, it felt so weird sharing his birthday with the birth of another year.
Taking a sip himself, Much then gave the goblet back to Robin and slipped back inside the tent.
Robin frowned. “Much?”
“Wait,” Much called out from somewhere in the shadows. “I have something for you.”
“Much, you shouldn’t have,” Robin replied distractedly, sipping from the goblet again. It then struck him like an arrow to the chest and he choked as the wine went down the wrong way. “Wait,” Robin spluttered. “What is it?!”  He prayed that it was not another one of Much’s lame attempts to cheer him up. “If it is anything like last year’s thing with the camel, you can forget it. And please, no singing.”
“Why, you ungrateful…” Much glared. “I don’t know why I bother sometimes.”
“It is because you love me,” Robin smirked.
The smirk died as Much then revealed the metal plate that he had been holding behind his back. Robin bit his lip, blanching. What the_?! Sat on the plate was a sickly-sweet, pistachio-filled, honey-steeped, Turk pastry. But it wasn’t the pastry that made Robin then suddenly burst into uncontrollable fits of laughter. It definitely wasn’t the pastry. It was the tiny lit candle that had been stuck in the middle of it.
“You have to be joking,” Robin said trying desperately to stop laughing.
“I’m serious,” Much said. His plan to cheer Robin up had worked. Though between the two of them, Robin was usually the cheerful one, sometimes that cheerfulness was just a front. “Now make a wish and blow it out.”
Shaking his head, Robin closed his eyes and thought of what he wanted the most right now. Opening them again, he then quickly blew out the candle.
“So what did you wish for?” Much asked.
“You tell me,” Robin answered.
“To see the girl again?” Much prompted. “The one from last night?”
Though Much knew that what Robin had really wished for was to go home he did not say it. Robin was starting to show a side of him that not many people saw or even knew about and if left to go unchecked, it would quickly spiral downwards. But before he could ask Robin if he would be seeing the girl again, a small boy, dressed in a page’s uniform, came running towards them at full speed, yelling Robin’s name.
Robin deftly caught the boy seconds before he ploughed into him. “What is it, Simon?” he asked, recognising the King’s newest page.
Much glared. “Where are you manners, urchin?” he chided. “You can’t go barging into people like that. You might… they might get hurt.”
Simon hung his head. “Sorry, My Lord,” he squeaked at Robin.
“Leave him alone, Much,” Robin said quickly. The boy, he couldn’t have been more than five or six years old, looked as though he was about to burst into tears. “Go pick on someone your own size.” Kneeling in front of Simon, Robin then grinned and put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s all right, Simon. No harm done. What did you want to tell me?”
“His Majesty wants to see you, My Lord,” Simon said. “Right away.”
Robin straightened. “Much, my sword.”
But as the boy then turned to go, Robin stopped him.
“Simon, before you go, a word of advice. Try not to run in camp unless it is absolutely necessary. People only run here if something is wrong. So, the next time you have a message for someone, remember more haste less speed, alright? Some of the others here…” He glared at Much. “Are not as nice as I am.”
Simon nodded, beaming at Robin. “Yes, My Lord.”
Taking his leave of Robin, Simon then went back to the Royal Tent; walking this time. He couldn’t wait to tell the other pages that Lord Locksley had actually come to his defence. Now he knew why the others looked up to and liked the Guard so much.
Robin quickly belted on his sword. Did His Majesty wanting to see him have anything to do with what had happened with the girl last night? Seeing Much watching him, he then shrugged, putting on his best ‘I haven’t done anything, honest’ face’.
It was now Much’s turn to glare at Robin. “I know,” he said. “Whatever it is they accuse of you of, you didn’t do it.”
Robin barely heard the greetings shouted at him as he made his way to the King’s Tent. Lost in thought, he only just managed to acknowledge the shouts of ‘Happy New Year, Locksley!’ and the even louder shouts of ‘Happy Birthday, Locksley!’ Simon had made him remember something that the King had told him literally hours after he had made him one of his Personal Guards…

“Do you know why these Turk bastards respect me, Robin?”
“Your Majesty?”
“It is because I look like they do. The Turk see the other crusaders, with their clean-shaven faces and long hair as disgraceful and feminine. To them, short hair and beards represent virility and masculinity. So if you want them to even begin to respect you, Robin, I would suggest that you get a haircut and, maybe even, grow a beard.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”

It had been one of the best pieces of advice that anyone had ever given him. Here, in the Holy Land, respect was everything; especially the respect you had for those you were fighting.

“Happy Birthday, Robin.” One of the two guards standing outside the King’s tent slapped Robin on the shoulder hard enough to make him stagger. “And a Happy New Year.”
“Happy New Year, Jean.” Robin replied, snapping out of his reverie. He nodded to the second guard who was a spitting image of the first. “Happy New Year, Christophe.”
“Happy Birthday, Robin.” Christophe dipped his head. He then tsked under his breath.
Robin frowned. “What?”
Christophe smiled knowingly. “Now what have you done?”
“What makes you think I have done anything?” Robin asked ‘innocently’.
Christophe smiled knowingly at his twin brother. “Oh, nothing,” he said pushing back the tent flap. “Right, Jean?”
Jean just grinned back lewdly. “You can tell us all about her when you buy us that drink,” he added as Robin then went into the tent.
Robin cringed. How had the twins found out? Had Much told them? He didn’t think so. Much wouldn’t dare. But if the twins knew, did His Majesty know? Was that why he was here? Was that why he had been sent for? Was His Majesty about to ask him about the little extension to his visit to Salah-al-Din’s camp? The one that made him get back to camp only a few hours ago. And if His Majesty did ask him, what would he say? Worse still, what would His Majesty do? Robin’s thoughts raced. Would he dismiss him from the Guard? Throw him out because of a small indiscretion? He wouldn’t; he couldn’t, could he? There had already been two attempts on the King’s life already and he had been integral to foiling both of them, so what would happen if there was another one and he wasn’t around? He shuddered. He had been at Acre less than a year when the first attempt had taken place. A single Saracen assassin had entered their camp seemingly unseen intent on killing the King, but he had seen him and taking him on single-handedly, he had managed to stop him. An equally good swordsman as he was an archer, he had already proven himself in battle, but stopping the assassin where others had failed had only confirmed it. And stopping the assassin was how he ended up in the King’s Guard. In recognition for saving his life, the King had made him one of his personal protectors.

Robin grinned remembering what had happened when he had told Much of the promotion. Instead of being proud and happy for him, Much had gone totally ballistic. Furious with both the King and with him; especially with him, Much had just yelled at him, saying that being in the King’s Guards would only put his life in even greater danger. Robin’s grin widened. What Much had really meant though was that by being in the King’s Guards he could get into even more trouble than he usually did.
Holding his breath, Robin entered the part of the tent where the King held court. Being one of those responsible for the King’s very safety was to him the greatest honour that the King could ever have bestowed on him. So to lose that honour would be worse than losing… his life. He quickly let the breath out again. Already sat in the King’s presence were the rest of the Guard, apart from the twins, his advisors and his most trusted knights. Robin then sighed in relief as the King began to speak to them of how he planned on bringing an end to the siege and of what his plans were once it had been achieved. This was a council of war not a telling off.

It was almost noon by the time the King finally finished but when Robin turned to leave along with the rest of the Guard, the King stopped him.
“Robin, wait,” the King said. “I need to speak with you. Sit down.”
Here it comes, Robin thought sitting down again in one of the vacated camp chairs. “Your Majesty?”
“It would seem that you made quite an impression last night, Robin,” the King said opening a wooden box on the table beside him and taking from it a small package wrapped in red silk.
Robin shuddered. Oh oh. He knew news travelled fast. But this fast?! Surely not?! And wasn’t that the package that he_
“I received news this morning from Salah al-Din saying that you conducted yourself honourably during your visit last night,” the King continued. “He also said that I should be proud for choosing one such as you to represent me. From all accounts, Robin, you acted with great tact and diplomacy. Especially when you were invited to break fast with his personal guard.”
O.K., maybe not that fast. As for tact and diplomacy that was the first time he had heard ‘getting the girl’ called that. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”
“In recognition of that conduct I want you to have this.” The King held out the package to Robin. “Do you recognise it?”
Robin nodded in disbelief. “Yes, Your Majesty. It is the gift that Salah al-Din gave me to give you.” He then shook his head. “I am sorry, Your Majesty, but I cannot accept it.”
The King’s eyes darkened in astonishment. “And why not?”
“Because the rest of your men will see it as favouritism, Your Majesty,” Robin replied.
The King laughed. “Are you accusing me of favouritism, Robin?”
Robin shook his head again. “No, Your Majesty,” he said quickly trying to backtrack. “It is only_”
“Would it be easier if I ordered you to take it?” the King said still laughing. “An order that you cannot disobey.” He pressed the package into Robin’s hand. The King then raised his voice so that the men who were sat in other parts of the Royal Tent could hear him. “I am ordering you to take this, Locksley. Do not make me have to tell you twice.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Robin grinned back. “Thank you.”
Still somewhat stunned, Robin then carefully opened the package. His eyes widened. Inside the layers of silk was a small thick gold band set with large ruby.
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Robin said again. He didn’t know what else to say. This was almost as great an honour as being made one of the King’s Guard. Almost.
Putting the ring on to the middle finger of his right hand, Robin turned his hand so that the stone caught the light. The colour of fresh blood, the ruby seemed to dance like a live thing every time the light hit it. It was almost as if… he quickly dismissed the thought. That was stupid. How could anything be trapped inside it?



That night, sat outside the King’s tent on First Watch, Robin’s mood darkened again. Had he really been here only four years? But it felt like so much longer. It felt like he’d been fighting here… forever. And each Christmas, New Year and… Birthday that passed here, only made him question exactly what he was doing here. Now he wasn’t even sure what he was fighting for. It definitely wasn’t for the glory that was for sure; not like it had been in the beginning. There was nothing glorious about it. So what was he really doing here? Nothing made sense any more. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to do his duty. It was just that he no longer knew what his duty was.
Taking off the ring, Robin distractedly fiddled with it. By the light of his small Watch Fire, the ruby looked even more incandescent than it had before. It was now as incandescent as… as incandescent as the dancer had been… Ready to burst into flame in a heartbeat… just as she had been.

“I touch your eyes and you see only me.”
If he closed his eyes, he could still see her swaying seductively in front of him.
“I touch your skin and you feel only me.”
Feel her fingers dancing over him.
“I touch your nose and you smell only me.”
Smell burnt roses, jasmine and spices.
“I touch your ears and you hear only me.”
Hear the music of her ankle bells.
“I touch your lips and you taste only me.”
Taste her lips against his.

Would he ever see her again? He didn’t think so, not unless he made another visit to the Turk camp; an ‘unofficial’ one.
Taking off the ring, Robin rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger. The ring was old, really old; so old that the gold had turned dark with age. He winced as something sharp suddenly nicked his thumb. A drop of bright blood welled. Putting his thumb in his mouth, Robin sucked on it briefly before looking at the ring more closely. One of the five gold clasps that held the ruby in place was nothing more than a jagged edge. Wiping away a smear of blood staining the stone, Robin then reached for the oiled cloth at his feet, the one he had used earlier on his watch to polish his sword. But as he gently rubbed the ring with the cloth, it slipped from his fingers and fell into the fire. Robin cursed loudly as, unable to catch it in time, the ring was engulfed in flame.

“Blood and flame.”

Robin watched in horror as suddenly red smoke began to billow out from the fire. What was happening?! Putting a hand over his nose and mouth, he stumbled backwards; away from the smoke. But the smoke grew thicker; bloodier and it reached out… enveloping him… smothering him.

“It will take blood and flame.”

Robin lay on the sand coughing uncontrollably; the smoke cloying at his throat, burning his eyes. What in God’s Name_?! His sword; he had to get to his sword. But before he could draw another breath, the smoke as suddenly as it had appeared then just as suddenly vanished again. Still coughing, tears streaming down his face, Robin pushed himself to his knees. What was happening? The smoke had been there one minute; gone the next. Pulling his sword towards him, Robin crawled back to the fire. Dear God, the ring! He could still see the ring in the flames! Taking a piece of kindling, he quickly fished it out. Hanging on the end of the stick, the ring glowed white-hot. It made the ruby look even more like a drop of blood than a gemstone.
“Robin.”
Dropping the stick and the ring, Robin spun round his sword still in his hand. He then relaxed. Christophe. He smiled. It was only Christophe.
Robin frowned. “Where is Jean?” he asked. Jean was meant to be relieving his Watch not his brother. Unlike the other Guards, he found it easy to tell which twin was which.
“As usual, my beloved brother cannot hold his drink,” Christophe said sitting down in front of the fire. He seemed totally oblivious to the way Robin had reacted to seeing him. “Right now, he is lying on his pallet cursing your name.”
“So you are going to take his place?” Robin said.
Christophe nodded. “Also as usual,” he said. “And since you are the only one who can tell us apart what difference will it make.”
“My lips are sealed.” Robin grinned. “As usual.”
Putting the now-cool ring back onto his finger, Robin stood and picked up his sword belt, bow and quiver. Taking his leave of Christophe, he then made his way back to his tent. He quickly pushed aside what had taken place just before Christophe had relieved him, dismissing it as being nothing more than a coincidence that the fire had belched smoke, the very same instant that the ring had fallen into it. It was nothing more than a coincidence. And red? No, it was just the light from the fire that had made the smoke look red.
Slipping quietly into his tent, Robin grinned at Much. Much was sat cross-legged on his bed, his head resting on his chest, more asleep than awake.
Hearing Robin, Much looked up at him sleepily; his eyes half-opened.
“Master…”
Robin dropped his weapons beside his pallet; close enough to grab should he need them. “Go back to sleep, Much.”
“Good night, Master,” Much mumbled, stretching out and hugging his bundled up cloak that doubled as a pillow.
“Good night, Much.”
Lying down, Robin stared up at the ceiling of the tent waiting for sleep to take him. It had been nothing more than a coincidence. Either that or he was suffering from sunstroke and was starting to see things. No, it was just a coincidence… Nothing … more…

“Blood and flame. It will take blood and flame.”

Robin stirred in his sleep but did not wake. And because he did not wake, he did not see the ruby on his finger begin to glow. Brighter and brighter, the stone burned till eventually it filled the tent with an unearthly blood red light. But despite the brightness, Robin and Much slept on. And those outside the tent slept on too; to those outside there was no light, Locksley’s tent was in still darkness. The light then slowly dimmed; went out, and as it died the sound of soft female laughter could be heard coming from the tent.
Instinctively, Robin’s eyes half-opened and he turned on to his back, but though he stirred, he did not wake fully. Neither did he wake when unseen fingers touched the side of his face; his neck. Loosening his hauberk, the fingers then reached under his tunic. Robin moaned as the fingers moved lightly across his chest. His moans grew louder as the fingers then moved lower. He writhed as the fingers began to stroke him; arouse him. But though he writhed, he still did not wake.

“You are mine now.”




“Master.”
The breath caught in his throat.
“Master.”
“I touch your eyes and you see only me. I touch your skin and you feel only me.
“It’s time to get up.”
I touch your nose and you smell only me. I touch your ears and you hear only me.”
“Master. Wake up.”
Leaning closer, she brushed his lips with her own. “I touch your lips and you taste only me.”
“ROBIN!”
Robin woke with a start.
“Wake up!”
“I am wake,” he said. Slowly sitting up, he wiped the sleep from his eyes. I am wake. I wish I was not but I am wake. How long had he slept? Not that long from the way he felt. He still felt so tired. Right now, all he wanted to do was go back to sleep again. Well, the sooner he got up the sooner he could go back to bed. He smiled. Then the sooner he could… He quickly brushed the thought aside. He stretched, trying to ease the knots in his shoulders. The dream had been so vivid. It had felt so real. As real as when he had actually made love to her. Suddenly his eyes narrowed. Hold on… The sky was never this light when Much woke him.
“Much, what time is it?” Much woke him?! Much never woke him! He was the one that always had to wake Much.
But instead of answering him, Much just held out the goblet he was holding.
“Much.”
“Just gone daybreak,” Much answered somewhat reluctantly.
“What?!” Robin stood up quickly. It couldn’t be. He had not heard the Fajr. “Why did you not wake me sooner?!” Overwhelmed by a sudden wave of dizziness, he then just as quickly sat down again. He sunk his head into his hands trying to calm the herd of horses that had suddenly started to stampede through it. May be he should not have got up so fast.
“I tried,” Much said worriedly, kneeling beside Robin. “But you wouldn’t wake up.”
Robin nodded not really listening. Taking the goblet from Much, he then drank from it. The water helped; sort of. He felt awful. He felt like he had not slept for days. Which did not make sense because he had been sleeping. OK, may be not enough, but then none of them slept enough. He drank more of the water. He felt so… drained. Coming to think of it, none of them really slept. Though the water woke him up a little more, it did not make him feel any better, neither did it ease the pounding in his head. Overcome by a sudden wave of nausea, he started to close his eyes but as he did so they were drawn instead to the ring on his finger. First thinking he saw red smoke, now this. What was wrong with him?
“Master?”
“I am fine, Much,” Robin said standing again; more slowly this time. He was seriously losing it that was what was wrong with him. Seeing Much’s expression, he then put what he hoped was a reassuring hand on Much’s arm. “Just tired.”
“May be if you eat something you’ll feel better,” Much said trying to hide just how worried he really was. Robin looked worse than just tired. He looked terrible. He was so very… pale. Even his eyes were not as bright as they usually were.
“May be later,” Robin answered. “I said I was fine, Much. Honest.” He was just tired; nothing more. “So no more mother hen, please. I am too tired to argue with you.”
Much nodded half-heartedly. Robin was not fine. Something was wrong with him, and it wasn’t tiredness. For one thing, no matter how tired Robin was, Robin never overslept like this and, and this was the more worrying thing, since when had Robin been too tired to argue? Robin was never too tired to argue. But badgering Robin to try and find out what was really wrong would only be fighting a losing_
Suddenly a woman’s scream made Much freeze. Beside him, Robin froze too.
“Stay here,” Robin whispered poking his head outside the tent.
Much shook his head. “No. I’m coming with you.”
Robin smiled slightly, a glimpse of his old-self ghosting across his face. “Don’t you trust me?”
“No,” Much answered a little too seriously. And the way you look right now I trust you even less. Trouble with a capital T.
As Robin belted on his sword and grabbed his bow and a handful of arrows from where he had let them fall the night before, the woman screamed again. And this time, she kept screaming.
Robin’s heart pounded as he ran towards the sound, his tiredness and headache quickly forgotten. This was not an attack. No alarm had been raised so this was not an attack. But if it was not an attack then what was it? His thoughts tumbled over each other in a tangled confusion. What was happening? There was no fighting so this was definitely not an attack. What was happening?!
“Master, be careful!”
Barely aware of the others around him, Robin kept running. What was happening? Why was the woman still screaming? Robin suddenly grinned to himself suddenly thankful that he slept in his mail. Knowing his luck, he would need its protection only too soon. ‘I don’t go looking for trouble. Trouble comes looking for me.’
Robin stopped dead. Gathered by one of the tents, the one that prisoners were kept in, was a small group of women. They, they were camp followers, were surrounded, in turn, by a larger group of men made up of knights, archers, soldiers and even some non-combatants. What was the Hell was going on? Recognising the archer backing away from the crowd, Robin grabbed the man’s arm.
“Jason?”
The archer turned. Robin’s eyes widened, his hand going to his sword hilt. The archer’s face was as white as a sheet.
“Archer report.”
The archer opened his mouth to speak but instead of speaking, he then suddenly clapped his hand over it and ran. Heartbeats later, Robin heard retching somewhere behind him. What the hell was happening?! And why was the woman still screaming?
“Shut up!”
Suddenly Robin’s heart skipped a beat and his hand tightened on the hilt. Dear God, no. Not him. This was all he needed.
“Someone shut that bitch up!”
Robin flinched at the sound of someone being slapped. The screaming stopped as suddenly as it had started; it was as quickly then replaced by the sound of someone sobbing. Heedless to his own safety, Robin drew his sword and began to push his way through the crowd. No matter how justified the reason, it was never justification enough to strike a woman. 
“Master, wait!”
Still ignoring Much, Robin moved closer. Much could yell at him later. Right now, he had more important things to worry about other than own his safety. Besides, being in the King’s Guard, it was his duty to find out what was happening. It could mean life or death, and not just for the King. Robin relaxed slightly as Jean and Christophe joined him. Though, he never ran from danger, he was more than a little thankful that the twins were with him. There was nothing wrong with someone you trusted watching your back, especially here and especially now.
Shaking his head, Christophe grinned at Robin. “You cannot stay away from danger, can you, Locksley?”
Robin grinned back. “You know me. I am drawn to it.”
“Like a moth to a flame.”
Robin’s eyes then narrowed seeing the two men stood at the centre of the commotion; Sir Owen and his manservant, Peter. Things had just gone from bad to worse; a lot worse. Not only were the two men well-known troublemakers but one of them also wanted him dead. He would have to tread carefully, very carefully.
“Méfiez-vous,” Christophe warned, putting a hand on Robin’s shoulder. “Careful, Robin. You know Sir Owen is just itching for an excuse.” 
Nodding, Robin re-sheathed his sword. Over Sir Owen’s shoulder, he could see two women; one sobbing in the arms of the other. Was she the one that had been screaming? The one that had been slapped? Robin frowned. By the knight? But why?
“Méfiez-vous,” Christophe said again, this time a little more urgently and a little louder.
Robin nodded again. He knew only too well just how much Sir Owen hated him, he did not need to be reminded. He may have had no sense of self-preservation but he did not have a death wish. He was not that stupid.
“Do not anger him,” Jean added. “He hates you enough as it is. Do not give him another reason.”
“I will try not to,” Robin replied. No, he was not that stupid. Provoking Sir Owen would have been plain suicidal. Sir Owen had been extremely dangerous to begin with, even before he, Robin, had been made a Guard, but jealousy had made the knight only doubly so. Sir Owen hated him for the simple reason that he had been made a King’s Guard and he had not, despite him being a knight and having served in Acre far longer than he had.
Knowing that the twins were watching the knight and his manservant, Robin momentarily lowered his eyes. He had seen something lying at Sir Owen’s feet the instant he had broken through the crowd but he had not dared take his eyes off the two men till he had known that it would be safe to do so. He frowned seeing the cloak covered form. Raising his head, he then dipped it ‘politely’ in greeting. He would have to play this by the book. For now, at least.
“Sir Owen.”
“Locksley.” Sir Owen barely nodded back not bothering to hide the hatred from his voice.
As the twins and Sir Owen then exchanged greetings too, Robin took the opportunity to take a steadying breath. Don’t let him provoke you. Not here; not now. And another look at the body. And it definitely was a body. But whose? Closing his eyes for a heartbeat, he then pinched the bridge of his nose. As the adrenaline of fight or flight had stopped flooding his system, his headache and tiredness had returned with a vengeance. But before he could find out whose body it was there was something he had to do first. He turned to the crowd. The way he was feeling, a bunch of panicked onlookers was the last thing he wanted to deal with.
“There is nothing to see here,” he told them. “Go back to your work.”
Slowly the crowd began to disperse; reluctantly obeying him for who he was; one of the King’s Guard. But for Robin it was not fast enough.
“Now!” he shouted impatiently. His headache and tiredness was also starting to make him irritable. “I said there is nothing to see here.”
As the last straggler then finally left the scene, Robin and the twins moved nearer to the body.
“Who is it?” Robin asked.
“We do not know,” Sir Owen answered flatly.
“Pourquoi pas?” Jean said. “Why not?”
Sir Owen pulled away the cloak. “See for yourself why not.”
Robin blanched his eyes widening in horror. He turned his head away. Though he was more than used to seeing the horrors of battle and the carnage that came with it he had never in his life seen anything like this before. He glanced at the twins. And from the looks of it neither had they. Jean and Christophe looked worse than the archer had done earlier. The body, if you could still call it a body, was nothing more than a shrivelled shell; a dried husk of skin and bone clothed in a soldier’s mail and surcoat. And it was only the mail and surcoat that told them that the body was one of theirs and not a Turk because without the mail and surcoat there would have been no way of telling which side the soldier fought for.
Biting back the gorge rising in his throat, Robin looked back at the body. He was glad that he had not taken Much’s advice and eaten something. Right now, he just wanted to throw up. And if the woman had seen the body, it was no wonder that she had started to scream. He pulled the cloak back over the body; once more hiding it from prying eyes. The dead, especially one of their own, should not be put on show for all to see; and especially not in this state. 
“Who could have done it?” Christophe asked quietly. 
“Don’t you mean what could have done this,” Sir Owen said, butting in before Robin even had the chance to answer. “I’ll tell you what could have done it.” He pointed to the Prison Tent. “One of them! This is the work of the Devil. Or one of his minions.”
Robin’s eyes widened in disbelief. “What?! You actually that believe one of the prisoners did this?” Though Sir Owen hated the Turk even more than he hated him, and was ever ready to the lay the blame on them for anything untoward that happened in the Christian camp, to accuse them of this, and without any proof, was sheer stupidity.
“Who else, Locksley?!” Sir Owen’s voice rose. “It had to be one of them. This is not the work of a Christian! It is not the work of a human!”
Robin tried to keep his own anger in check, which was not easy. Don’t let him provoke you. “And they are not human, are they?” He gestured around him. “Not like the rest of us.”
“You think one of us did this?!” Sir Owen said, his eyes beginning to blaze. “You would rather accuse one of us than accuse a Turk?!”
“Robin is saying nothing of the sort,” Christophe said as he and Jean then quickly put themselves between Robin and the knight. “What Robin meant was we should not accuse anyone before we can be sure. Am I right Robin?”
His thoughts beginning to race even faster, Robin did not answer. Right now, he had more pressing things to worry about other than what he had or had not meant. “Christophe, we need to search the area,” he said. “Set extra guards, whoever…” He looked at Sir Owen. “Or whatever, did this may still be here.”
Christophe nodded. “I will see to it.”
“I will come with you,” Jean added.  
Robin smiled to himself. He could see from Jean’s expression that, even though he thought that he should stay with him, Jean was not about to let his brother go off alone; especially if there was a killer in the camp.
“Will you be alright, my friend?” Jean asked. He lowered his voice. “Alone?”
“Go,” Robin grinned slightly. “I can look after myself. I do not need you nurse maiding me as well. Having Much do it is bad enough.”
The twins looked at him in astonishment. ‘Are you sures?’ visibly etched on each of their faces.
“GO!” Once the twins had gone, Robin then called over one of the soldiers stood by the Prison Tent. “We need to find out who he is,” he said nodding to the body. “Take two men and find out if anyone is missing a man.”
The soldier bowed. “Yes, My Lord.”
But as the soldier ran off to carry out Robin’s order, another came running towards them. Unfortunately for Robin, Sir Owen intercepted him first.
“Soldier, report.”
“Two more bodies have been found over by the well, My Lord,” the soldier answered breathlessly.
More bodies?! What In God’s Name was going on around here?! “Do we know who?” Robin asked.
“No, My Lord,” the soldier said turning even paler than he already was. “They are in worse condition than…” He pointed to the body. “… than that one.”
“Ours or theirs?” Sir Owen asked. “You must be able to tell that at least.”
“Ours, My Lord,” the soldier replied. He then lowered his eyes unable to look at them.
“Who were they?” Robin pressed. Something shouted at him that it was him the soldier was unable to look at, not Sir Owen. “Soldier.”
The soldier looked up reluctantly. “Archers, My Lord,” he answered finally.
Robin’s heart sank. Dear God, no. Not archers. Not archers.
“Did you hear that, Locksley?!” Sir Owen shouted. “ARCHERS! Your men. Are you still going to stand by and do nothing? Are you going to allow more of them be killed?”
“No,” Robin answered still keeping a lid on his anger. “But neither will I accuse anyone of this crime till I am certain of their guilt.” He turned back to the soldier. “What has been done with the bodies?”
“They are still by the well, My Lord,” the soldier answered. “We were awaiting orders from the Guard.”
Robin nodded. “Have them taken to the Hospitalers’ Tent,” he said. “This one too.  They will need to be identified. Somehow.” I have to know who the archers were.
The soldier bowed. “Yes, My Lord.”
Taking a step closer to Robin, Sir Owen shook his head. “I always knew there was something wrong with you, Locksley. Now I know what it is.”
Again not waiting for to Robin answer, the knight then turned and went into the prison tent; closely followed by his manservant. The two of them emerged almost immediately, the knight dragging one of the prisoners with him. The Saracen, though bound, struggled wildly, his eyes wide with fear.
Robin bit his lip, the prisoner was no more than a boy. He could not have been sixteen or seventeen, if that. Expecting even more trouble, he rested his hand on his sword again. Sir Owen’s brutality was well known. It was one of the reasons why he had not been promoted into the Guard. He watched as, pulling away the cloak, Sir Owen then threw the prisoner down in front of the body. Shouting in Arabic, the Saracen desperately tried to scramble away but Sir Owen shoved him back and pinned him down so that he was face to face with the corpse. The prisoner continued shouting but since his shouts were stricken with fear, his words were more or less incoherent. The only words that Robin could make out were the words for God, evil and protection. The prisoner also kept repeating the word Djinn over and over. Djinn? Demons? Robin sighed. Could this get any better? The Saracen was worse than Sir Owen. Robin then frowned. He vaguely remembered reading something about Djinn in the Qu’ran, the Turk Bible, but right now, he could not remember what.
Keeping one hand on the scruff of the boy’s neck, Sir Owen glared at Robin. “Ask him which of them did this, Locksley.” The knight’s voice became a sneer. “Everyone knows you speak the language.”
Robin shook his head. “No,” he said keeping his voice steady. “I will not be part of this.”
“Well, if you will not find out I will.” Hauling the prisoner back to his feet, Sir Owen then struck the man hard across the face. He pointed to the body. “Which of you bastards did this?!”
Robin’s heart hammered against his ribs. To question a prisoner was one thing but to abuse them like this was something else. No one should be treated like this; not even the enemy. Once long ago he might have just stood and watched; once long ago he might have even treated the prisoner in the same way, but not any more. He was also now no longer able to stand by and do nothing. He took a deep breath, his heart beating even faster. Oh, well. Out of the frying pan into the fire. “Let him go, Owen. He does not understand you.”
“Then ask him!”
“Let him go.” Robin’s voice coloured threateningly. “Now.”
“Let him go?” The knight was aghast.
“Yes,” Robin answered. “I will not let you take out your bigoted frustrations on him.”
“You seriously want me to let him go?!” Sir Owen snapped unable to believe what he was hearing.
“Yes,” Robin said. “Do not make me make it an order.”
“Whose side are you on, Locksley?”
“I said_”
“Master, no!”
Seeing Much come to stand just behind Robin, Sir Owen then laughed; nastily. “Ah, how touching, Locksley. Your mother has come to defend you. Now do as she tells you and go and play like a good little boy. This is for grown ups. It does not concern you.”
“But it does concern me,” Robin said. He then glared at Much. “I told you to remain in the tent!”
“But, Master.”
“GO!” Robin thrust his bow and handful of arrows into Much’s hands. “NOW”
As Much very reluctantly left him, Robin looked back at Sir Owen and the prisoner. Though well meant, Much’s interference had not helped the situation. Also they were starting to attract attention. Despite his orders, a crowd had, once more, started to gather around them.
“This has gone far enough,” Robin said. “You, yourself, know that there is to be an exchange of prisoners tomorrow as part of the truce.”
Sir Owen shrugged. “What of it?”
Robin took a step forward. “What of it?!” They were almost face to face now; almost.
“What of those that will be given in exchange for them? Are you willing to sacrifice them? Our own men?”
“The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few,” Sir Owen said laughing again. “Were you not the one that said that, Locksley?” The knight gestured around him. “We are winning, Locksley. This truce is insane.”
“You call all those that have died ‘winning’? Show me an argument ever settled with bloodshed then I will call it winning.” Robin took a deep breath. “I am ordering you to stand down.” Though the last thing he wanted was to have to use his authority as one of the King’s Guard, he now had no choice. “Now!”
The knight nodded. “Very well. If that is what you want.”
Pushing the prisoner away from him, Sir Owen then closed the gap between him and Robin. As he did so, Robin glanced down at the Saracen lying on the sand. The Saracen looked back at him confusion more than evident on his face. The poor wretch did not have a clue as to what was going on. First, one Infidel wanted to kill him then another wanted to protect him. Robin frowned as the man then ever so slightly dipped his head in thanks. Or did he?
“What are you, Locksley?” Sir Owen said seeing Robin and the prisoner exchange looks. “A sympathiser? A Turk lover?!” His voice grew louder with anger as realisation dawned. “Is that the reason you broke fast with them two nights ago? Maybe it is you that I should be questioning!”
Robin did not move. “Are you calling me a traitor?” he asked calmly.
But instead of defusing the situation, Robin’s calmness only seemed to anger Sir Owen even more. “How many of our secrets did you tell them, Locksley?!” Drawing his sword, he then pointed it at Robin.
Robin stayed still; stayed still even when Sir Owen put the tip of the blade against his throat.
“Are you a coward as well as a traitor, Locksley?”
Unfazed by the sword at his throat, Robin held the knight’s gaze. “Lower your blade, Owen.” In his eyes, trail by combat was not big and definitely not clever; especially where Sir Owen was concerned.” With the knight still glaring at him, Robin then slowly raised his hand and putting his fingers to the flat of the sword, pushed it away from him. “I will not fight you.”
“Will not fight me?!” Sir Owen was mortified. No one had ever, till now, not fought him. No one had ever been that stupid. He shrugged. “Have it your way, Locksley.”
Before Robin could even draw breath, Sir Owen, in one fluid movement, then handed his sword to Peter, balled his fist and punched Robin in the face.
“Master!”
Caught off guard, Robin went sprawling, his hand instinctively again going to his own sword as he did so.
“Master!”
Keeping one eye on Sir Owen, Robin pushed himself to his knees. A collective gasp echoed from the crowd as Robin then unsheathed the blade and skidded it across the sand to Much. Seeing Much pick up the sword, Robin shrugged. His face throbbed and, for a moment, he wondered if the bone had been broken by the blow. As usual Much’s eyes had been filled with both horror and worry by his actions and standing a little away from Much, and now guarded on both sides by soldiers, the prisoner too looked at him with a similar expression on his face. Biting back the pain, Robin frowned. The Saracen’s eyes had also been filled with something else; pity. Cursing himself for being so stupid and, even more, for being caught by surprise, Robin then stood slowly; cautiously pushing himself back to his feet. But as he did so Sir Owen grabbed his sword arm and twisted it up behind his back. Robin struggled to pull free but the knight was much bigger and much stronger than he was, and the more he struggled, the higher Sir Owen twisted his arm. Robin gritted his teeth as the knight forced him back down to his knees. He did not want to give the knight the satisfaction of crying out but if Sir Owen twisted his arm any higher he would either dislocate it or, worse still, break it. He had to do something before it was too late; but there was only one thing he could do and he did not really want to do it. It was even more stupid than provoking Sir Owen. But what choice did he have? Robin steeled himself. Things were about to get worse; a whole lot worse. He stopped struggling.
Still holding Robin by arm, Sir Owen hauled him upright. But instead of letting him go as Robin had hoped he would, the knight punched him again; this time in the side and this time much harder.
“Stay down, boy.”
Robin raised his head. Pressing his left arm against his ribs, he then tried to push himself to his knees again but the world spun and he rolled on to his back fighting to catch his breath, blinking away the tears that sprang to his eyes with each rise and fall of his chest. Dear God, make the pain stop.
“Good boy,” Sir Owen mocked, standing over Robin.  “Now stay down.” Suddenly the knight’s eyes darkened. “What are you doing?” he shouted as pushing himself onto his elbows, Robin then slowly sat up. “I said to stay down.”
“Stay down, Robin.” Much’s voice echoed. “Don’t get up. Please don’t get up.”  Much too then watched in total disbelief as wiping blood from his mouth, Robin put his hands down on either side of him and shakily stood.
“I told you to stay down!” Sir Owen yelled.
“Master, stay down!” Much pleaded.
“Do as your mother tells you!” With another blow, Sir Owen knocked Robin to the ground again. Grabbing a handful of Robin’s hair, he then pressed Robin’s face to the sand. “Stay Down!”
Once more, Robin tried to break free but, once more, Sir Owen was too big and too strong… Robin began to choke as the sand got into his mouth… his nose… in his eyes… The hand pressed down harder…
“Step away from him!”
Robin’s vision grew hazy; started to grey.
“Step away from him!”
Suddenly the hand in his hair was gone. As he fought the encroaching darkness, Robin sensed footfalls beside him… and hands, far gentler hands, turned him over on to his back.
“Robin?”
“Master!”
As if from really far away, Robin felt fingers wipe the sand away from his mouth and nose… Breathe. He could breathe! Sucking in great lungfuls of air, he let the fingers wipe the sand from his eyes.
“Robin?”
His vision swam; this time from the gritty tears streaming down his face and he fought the urge to rub his eyes as the hands then lifted him into a seated position.
“Easy, my friend.”
“Master?”
Recognising both Christophe and Much’s voices. Robin opened his mouth to tell them that he was alright but a fit of coughing engulfed him. The hands held him tighter, supporting him till the spasm eased. Robin slowly then raised his head. His throat and chest burned from the coughing and the sand that he had somehow seemed to have swallowed. He could just about make out Christophe and Much kneeling in front of him. Leaning closer, Much held a waterskin to his lips; tipped it so he could drink.
“Slowly,” Much urged as Robin gulped gratefully from the skin. “Slowly.”
Robin could not remember tasting anything quite so sweet as the water that rushed into his mouth. And not only did the water quench his thirst but it also put out the fire in his throat. Nodding his thanks to Much, Robin then looked round. He grinned lightly at Jean knelt behind him.
“I tell you not to anger him,” Jean chided in frustration still supporting Robin. “But you do the exact opposite. Why do you never listen?”
“I… I… ” Spitting the last bits of sand from his mouth, Robin then tried again. “I was not_” But again his words were cut short. This time, it was not by sand though. It was by the sound of an all-too-familiar voice.
“Robin.”
Dear God! Robin’s heart skipped a beat. The King?! Here?! What was His Majesty  doing here?! He winced. Much must have gone for help. Too engrossed with Sir Owen beating the crap out off him, he had been too busy to notice Much slip away. . And it was not just the King and the rest of the Guard that Much had brought. A little way away from them stood a group of archers, their bows aimed unwaveringly at Sir Owen; the very same men that he had been part of before he had been made a Guard.
With Jean’s help, Robin stood as quickly as he could; which, for Robin, was not very quick. His body protested after the beating it had taken and twice he instinctively grabbed at Jean’s arm to stop himself from falling. It was not just his head that hurt now. His face and ribs throbbed maddeningly; reminding him with each breath of just how stupid he had been. Shrugging off Jean’s hand and shaking his head at Christophe and Much who also tried to help him, Robin then turned to face the music. Knowing his luck this was going to be one hell of a telling off and, loathe to show any sign of weakness, he wanted to face it stood on his own two feet.
Robin bowed; albeit gingerly. ‘I don’t go looking for trouble. Trouble comes looking for me.’ “Your Majesty.”
The King looked back at Robin in much the same way that a put upon adult would look at a loved but extremely naughty child. “Robin, would you care to tell me exactly what is going on around here?” he asked, his tone of voice echoing the look. “And why it is that I find one of my Personal Guard brawling with one of my knights like common serfs? My men do not brawl!” 
Robin did not answer. What could he say?
“If you did not already know we are here to fight the Turk not each other,” the King continued. “And should we ever stoop so low we never do it in front of a prisoner! What do you think he will say to Salah al-Din when he is released?! What will he tell him about the ‘Infidels’ that held him prisoner? Nothing good, mark my words.” The King shook his head sadly. “I am disappointed with you, Robin. I thought you better than this.” The King then looked to the archers. “Lower your weapons.”
Wanting more than anything to be able to speak out; to defend himself, and wondering how exactly he was going to get out of this particular predicament, Robin glanced at Sir Owen. His looks still daggered, the knight stood to one side flanked on either side by two of the Guard. Robin bit back a smirk. From the looks of it, the Guard trusted Sir Owen almost as much as he did.
“Well, Robin?”
Robin took a deep breath then carefully choosing each word, he started to explain what had taken place. But before he could get very far, the King silenced him.
“Enough. I will deal with the two of you later. If the two of you wish to behave like children I will treat you as such. Go to your tents!”
As Robin and Sir Owen then bowed and backed away; ‘their tails firmly between their legs’, the King nodded at Much, a barely-there smile lighting up his face. Seeing it, Much quickly dipped his head in thanks, the barely-there, yet put-upon, smile vanishing from his own face. Muttering to himself that he should have asked the King to find him a new master, Much then ran off to catch up with the one he was stuck with. What had he ever done to deserve having Robin as a master? Well, whatever it was it must have been something really bad.




He could not get the image of the dead man out of his head… The body was nothing more than a shrivelled shell; a dried husk of skin and bone clothed in a soldier’s mail and surcoat… Even if he closed his eyes he could not get the image out of his head.
“Happy now?!” Robin snapped.
“Very.”
Standing behind Robin, Much tried not to smile. Robin was in a foul mood; a really foul mood. But that was not why he was trying not to smile. He was trying not to smile because not only had the King made good his promise and had dealt with Robin and Sir Owen, as he had said he would, but he had also done it far sooner than Robin had expected. He had barely helped Robin to his pallet and pulled off his surcoat than Simon had come with orders to say that Robin was to be confined to his tent for the next two days…

A short while earlier…
Much stayed silent as Robin beckoned the boy closer.
“And the crime?” Robin asked.
“Brawling, My Lord,” the page replied quietly.
Stunned, Robin shook his head. “What?!” he almost shouted; almost but not quite. He clenched his right hand. “Brawling?!”
“Yes, My Lord.”
“And Sir Owen? What of Sir Owen?”
“Sir Owen too, My Lord,” Simon replied gawping at Robin with even more awe than he had earlier.
Sensing that the boy had something on his mind; something that he was desperate to ask him, Robin then grinned. “Simon?”
The page slowly edged closer. “Is it true, My Lord, what they are saying?”
“Is what true, Simon?”
Much cringed as Robin distractedly then looked at his palm; and at the crescent moons his nails had left on his skin. Though he knew that Robin had known exactly what the boy was referring to, he still cringed. Why did Robin always decide to feign ignorance? How could he be so… vain?
“That you defended one of the Turk.”
Much cringed again. Robin was going to be even more intolerable to be around now. Robin was vain enough as it was, this was just going to make him worse. News of his actions must have spread across the camp like wildfire and, because to the pages the Turk were even more lowly than they were, because of what he had done, Robin had gone up even further in their eyes. Much watched as Robin then flashed Simon a slight yet enigmatic smile.
“What do you think?”
A lot worse.

…“You got off lightly,” Much said once the boy had gone.
Robin lifted his head. “Lightly?! You call ‘two days’ light?!”
“Very lightly.”
“Whose side are you on?” Closing his eyes, Robin sunk his head back into his hands. His head was starting to throb even more and the pain, coupled with the mood he was in, was starting to make his vision go hazy. It hurt to even think straight right now. And if he was going to be stuck in his tent for two days think was all he could do. He had known that the punishment would be harsh but two days!! What was he meant to do for two days? And tomorrow’s prisoner exchange; he was meant to be part of it. How was he meant to carry out his duties stuck in his tent?! He was a King’s Guard for Pity’s sake!! And how was he meant to find out who the dead men were confined to quarters?! To die like that… Try as he might he could not get the image out of his head. How was he meant to find the killer?! How was he meant to stop it from happening again?! He could not stay in his tent. And brawling for God’s sake?! Brawling?! “What am I meant to do for two days?!” he asked out loud, the words aimed more at himself than at Much.
“Rest,” Much replied, coming around to stand in front of Robin. Not only was Robin hurt, he was also mentally and physically exhausted. “Get better.” And two days of Robin being confined to his tent would also mean two days of peace for him. All he had to do was make sure that Robin actually stayed in the tent. O.K. so that would be a task in itself but miracles sometimes did happen. “You have to rest. You are not yourself. I think you may be coming down with something.”
“I am not coming down with something,” Robin snapped irritably. “I cannot just stay here and do nothing.”
“You have to,” Much said gently. He then frowned seeing the look in Robin’s eyes; a welcome ghost of his old self. “Master, no. You can’t go against His Majesty’s orders. Master, please.”
A stray, but forced, smile flashed across Robin’s face.
“And don’t tell me you’re fine again,” Much said desperate to distract Robin from what he was planning. “You’re not fine. Especially now. Wait, what were you thinking?”
Robin did not answer. Instead, he gingerly lifted his arms as Much then gently pulled first his hauberk then his tunic over his head. He would go but not just yet; in a moment… he was still so tired.
“Dear God! What in_” Much sucked in his breath biting back the rest of the sentence. He had been on the verge of yelling at Robin for what had happened; for having been so stupid and not having listened to him, but seeing the bruises marring Robin’s torso, he quickly changed his mind; the words dying along with his anger. At first he had thought that Robin had been extremely lucky not to have been far more seriously hurt, but now seeing the bruises he wasn’t so sure.
“Nothing is broken,” Robin said trying and failing to sound reassuring. “I checked. It looks worse than it is.” He looked up at Much. “So no physician.”
Much nodded. But though he no longer wanted to yell because he no longer had the heart to, he could not not say anything. What had Robin been trying to prove letting himself get beaten up like that? And to whom? Much shook his head. No, he could not not say anything. So, instead of scolding Robin as he had wanted to, he settled instead for asking him why he had not stayed down.
“Owen would have won if I had,” Robin replied watching as Much took a handful of folded cloths from somewhere behind him and dropped them into the bowl of hot water at their feet. He had changed. Four years ago, he would not have dared do what he had done. He would have simply defended himself and beaten the crap out of Owen instead of letting Owen beat the crap out of him. But he was no longer the same headstrong, glory-seeking young man that had come here all those years ago. Yes, he had first come here simply for the glory but now, four years later, he was not so sure why he was here.
Squeezing excess water from one of the cloths, Much put it into Robin’s hand. “Then why didn’t you defend yourself?”
Robin gingerly held the cloth to the side of his face and lay back on the pallet. He closed his eyes again, wishing; no, praying, that Much would shut up. The last thing he wanted or needed right now was one of Much’s lectures. Suddenly something snapped inside him. What right did Much have speaking to him like that? Who did he think he was? How dare he even think of speaking to him like that?
‘He dares to speak to you like that because he cares about you, that’s why,’ a little voice inside him answered. ‘One of the only ones here that do. Wasn’t he the one you were counting on to go and get help?’
“Master? Why didn’t you defend yourself?”
Yes, he had been counting on Much to go get help. Owen would probably have killed him if he had not. “He would have won if I had done that too.”
Much nodded again as he went about treating Robin’s injuries. He nodded even though he had not really understood but then he had never really understood the way Robin thought. Try as hard as he might sometimes he just did not get what went on inside his head; and he had known Robin far longer than anyone else. Just be thankful that he wasn’t more seriously hurt, he told himself taking the compress from Robin. Things could have been worse; a lot worse. Soaking the cloth in the hot water again, Much then gave it back to Robin. No, he definitely didn’t have the heart to tell Robin off. Robin looked so sorry for himself. Not only had his argument with Sir Owen resulted in a badly bruised face and ribs, it had also resulted in a split lip, a badly wrenched sword arm and sand abrasions to the same side of his face as the bruising.  Yes, things could definitely have been worse.
Barely aware of Much fussing over him, Robin tried desperately to get his thoughts into some sort of order. Nothing made sense any more. Archers. The soldier had said that they were archers. But which archers? Had anyone managed to find out who they were? And had Jean or Christophe found out who had killed them? Had they found any trace of the killer, or was it killers? And the way the men had been killed… What was left of the body he had seen… It was… it was like nothing he had ever seen before. Who could have done it? Or… was Owen right? Was it a what not a who? And the other man who had been killed…Who was he?
“Master?”
No, nothing made sense any more. What was going on around here? Yesterday he had been ‘celebrating’ his birthday and today; today they had a killer in camp. Dropping the cloth; cursing himself to get a grip, Robin gritted his teeth and sat up.
“Master, what are you doing? Master?”
Ignoring Much’s protests, Robin reached down and grabbed his tunic from the floor. Orders or no orders, he had to go to the Hospitalers’ Tent. He had to find out who the dead men were. He could not just sit here doing nothing.
“Master?!” Much’s jaw dropped as Robin slowly and painfully pulled the tunic back on again. “What are you doing?! You’re in no state to go anywhere.”
Standing slowly, Robin took his sword from the foot of the pallet. He shut his eyes momentarily as his vision wavered with the movement.
“Master?” Much was at Robin’s side in an instant.
“I am fine.” Robin waved Much away. “Cover for me,” he said, still holding on to the blade; not bothering to belt it on.
“Where are you going?”
“I have to find out who those men were.”
Much was horrified. “The ones that were killed?”
“Yes,” Robin said fingering the sword hilt. The same little voice had told him that there was no point in taking any more chances by going unarmed.
“Are you mad?!” Much admonished. “No, don’t answer that. You are mad. What about your orders? You’re meant to be confined to your tent not out_”
Robin’s smile softened; endearingly so. “That is why I will need your help.”
“My help?! What if someone comes looking for you? What do I tell them?” Much grabbed Robin’s arm. “What if it’s The King?!”
“You will think of something. Please, Much. I cannot do this alone. Much?”
“Master, no,” Much said anxiously. Robin was going to get himself killed at this rate, or worse. “You’re unwell and you’re hurt.”
“Much, please.”
Knowing that, as usual, he was going to loose the argument, Much let go and sat on the pallet. “I give up,” he humpfed in surrender, watching as Robin then put on his cloak and drew the hood over his head. “Go. Just try not to get caught, will you?” What had he ever done to deserve Robin?
“Trust me.”
“Arrgh. I hate it when you say that.”
Robin’s heart hammered as he crept cautiously towards the Hospitalers’ Tent. If the King found out what he was doing he would be in serious trouble; in even more serious trouble than he was in already; make that in so much more serious trouble that his life would no longer be worth living. Only a complete fool disobeyed the King. O.K., so he was a complete fool but what was he meant to do? Four years ago he would not have dared disobey His Majesty but just as he had changed so too had his sense of what felt right and what did not; and remaining confined to his tent did not. Looking around to make sure that he had not been followed or was in any way being watched, Robin pushed aside the tent flap and quickly went inside.
Being the Hospitalers’ Tent, the tent was far larger than the others that made up the Christian camp; in fact the only tent larger was the King’s Tent itself, and it took Robin’s eyes several precious minutes to find a physician that was not part of the hive of activity going on inside. Taking the physician into a quiet, shadowy corner, Robin pulled down the gauzy curtain that separated the different parts of the tent then pushed back his hood.
“Lord Locksley.” The physician’s eyes widened. “Your face. You’re hurt.”
Robin shook his head. “No,” he told the startled man in front of him. “I am not here. You have not seen me.”
Reluctantly, the physician inclined his head. “Yes, My Lord.”
Taking the physician by the arm, Robin then pulled him further into the shadows. “Where are the bodies?”
“With the rest of the dead, My Lord,” the physician replied, knowing exactly which bodies Robin had meant. “Awaiting burial.”
“Take me to them.”
“Yes, My Lord.”
Robin pulled his hood back over his head. “Have they been identified yet?” he asked as he followed the physician.
“No, My Lord,” the physician answered.
“Have you found out how they died?”
The man shook his head. “No, My Lord.”
“Nothing?” Robin frowned. “No clue?”
“I am sorry, My Lord. There was not a mark on them. It is as if they were simply…” the physician’s voice trailed away.
“Simply,” Robin pressed.
“Simply… sucked dry.”
Sucked dry… leaving nothing behind except for a desiccated husk; a shell of nothing more than skin and bone. He looked straight ahead as the physician took him to the very back of the tent, keeping his eyes fixed on a point straight ahead of him; the way he was feeling, he could not bear to see the wounded and the dying around him. He shuddered. The battlefield was the last place to find glory.
“My Lord? Are you alright?”
Robin blinked, snapping out of his reverie. At any other time he would have found all this concern for him funny. If he had a penny for every time someone asked him if he was all right he would be rich as Croesus by now.
“We kept them away from the others,” the physician said pointing to three covered shapes set apart from the rest of the dead. “We thought it would be best. Everyone is fearful as it is because of how they died.”
Robin nodded not really listening to what the physician was saying. He knew this part of the Tent only too well. He had lost count the amount of times that he had come here after a battle to identify the bodies of his friends. “Leave me.”
“Yes, My Lord.”
The physician dipped his head and walked away. Robin did not see the man look at him one last time before he turned his back. The physician’s dark eyes had been filled with concern. To the physician, Robin had looked even paler than the bodies around him; even more dead, if that were possible, than they were.
Left alone with only the dead and his thoughts for company, Robin knelt beside the nearest of the three bodies. Laying his sword on the ground beside him, he then, once more, pushed back his hood. Compared to the other dead, the three seemed so much smaller. He took a slow steadying breath in a vain effort to clear his head. Not only was he finding it difficult to think straight but his vision had started to shift in and out of focus. His hands shook as he then took hold of the cloth covering the body. He did not want to see but he had to. Slowly, he pulled the cloth back… Dear God, No! Sarah! The world blurred… What was he going to tell Sarah?

… “Cover his eyes, boy! Quickly! Before he wakes! Use your scarf!”
He grinned, shaking his head in amusement. They were back. And William’s shouts were becoming angrier the nearer he got to them.
“Now, you son of a motherless goat!”
But wait… There was something else tingeing William’s voice. He quickened his pace. It sounded like… fear.
“Do I have to do everything myself?! Did your mother never tell you to heed your elders, boy?!”
“But according to you the boy does not have a mother.”
“Robin!”
William clapped him hard on the back; hard enough to make him stagger. “Good to see you’re still alive.” The archer then turned back to the boy standing next to him.
“Now, you fool! Don’t just stand there! Did no one ever tell you that the Turk can kill you just by looking at you?!”
“Just by looking at you?!” His grin widened. “Come on, not even you believe that.”
The archer laughed. “No,” he whispered conspiratorially. “But don’t tell them that. So were you worried about me, Baby Brother?”
He bit his lip to try and stop himself from laughing too. “No,” he scowled. “I was worried about having to face Sarah if you came back dead. I would rather face a hundred crazed Turk than that wife of yours.” He smirked. “She is…” He paused searching for the most appropriate word that best described William’s wife. “Scary.”
William nodded. “She is that, Baby Brother,” he said laughing even louder than before. “She is that. It is why I love her.”
He gave up, finally surrendering to the laughter bubbling inside him. “I always knew you were a masochist. And how many more times do I have to tell you, I am not your brother.”
William clapped him on the back again. “But you wish you were.”
This time, he did stagger. He shook his head. Why did people keep on insisting on whacking him on the back? Did he have a sign saying ‘Hit Me’ pinned there?

…Sarah. What was he going to tell Sarah? How was he going to tell her that William was dead? How was he going to tell her that he had been killed by… He did not know what. He pushed himself to his feet. He would think of something. He would have to. He owed it to William.
It was early afternoon when Robin finally got back to his tent. Removing his cloak, he sat down heavily on his pallet trying to ignore the familiar out of tune whistling coming from the other side of the tent cloth. 
“The twins were here,” Much’s voice called out. They asked me to tell you that the extra guards have been set. And that though a thorough search has been made of the camp and the immediate area around it no trace of the culprit has been found.”
Pushing aside the tent flap Much then entered carrying a tray of food and a goblet of wine. He froze seeing Robin’s expression. Putting down the tray he then quickly knelt in front of him. Robin’s face was as white as a winding sheet.
“Master?” Much could tell from Robin’s expression; the pain in his eyes that Robin had found out who the dead archers were.  “Who were they?” he asked urgently, concern for Robin filling his voice.
Robin looked down at his hands, the sight of the food was making his stomach churn.
“Matthew,” he replied quietly. Why were the deaths feeling like his fault? “I knew it had to be him when I saw the calluses on the left hand. He was the only left-handed archer out of all us.”
“And the other?”
Robin did not answer.
“Master?”
“William,” Robin said his voice thick with grief. “I recognised the charm; the one that Sarah gave him to keep him safe. He did not believe in it yet he always wore it.”
“Does she know?” Much asked softly. He sat down on his own pallet.
“Yes.” Robin answered not looking up. “I told her.”
“You told her.”
“It was my duty.”
“Your duty?” Much said. “But you don’t command the archers any more.”
Robin raised his head. “He was a friend, Much. I owed him that much at least.&