The Tragedy of Men - Chapter One
Title The Tragedy of Men
Chapter: Act one: I’ll believe in anything (1/9)
Author: smaragdbird
Summary: King Richard has arrived at Acre and enforced the Siege around the city but the combined forces of the Kingdoms of France, England and Jerusalem are not enough to conquer Acre. In the meanwhile Much has made friends with the locals.
Pairings overall: Richard/Philip, Much/Thomas, allusion to Robin/Marian plus diverse historical married couples
Characters/Pairings in this chapter: Much, Robin, Tahir, Harun, Hamid, Jocelin, Jehan, LeGrand, Adhémar
Rating: overall rating of NC-17
Spoilers/Warnings:overall warnings of detailed violence and torture
Disclaimer: Robin Hood belongs to BBC and not to me. Also I don’t make any money with this. It’s just for fun
Notes:Okay first a big, big thank you to both my beta-reader thymelady and my artistneaptidea. They have both done a more than incredible job especially in that short time. You are awesome guys, both of you :)
Second, I took a historical liberties with this fic: Richard and Philip didn’t arrive in Acre until summer 1191 but here I made them come to Acre in 1189 for dramatic purposes. Also I interpreted the historical characters in this story as it fit my purposes which I only say here in case one of you has seen Kingdom of Heaven and wonders why Guy de Lusignan is such a nice guy (although according to my textbooks and Wikipedia he wasn’t so bad ;)
Third, all Arabic in this fic comes from the phrase pages in an old travel guide. Feel open to point out any mistakes I made
Artwork, by neaptidea
The tragedy of men
Act one: I’ll believe in anything
Even in October Outremer was hotter than it had any right to be in Much’s opinion. The sun had long since set behind the horizon but the meeting of the King’s Guard dragged on and on. They had still lit fires, of course and he sat around one with a handful of other non-noble soldier’s from the King’s Guard, most of them squires or manservants like him.
“What’s taking them so long?” Much huffed for the sixth time this evening and Saer shot him a dark look:
“It won’t go faster when you complain about it every hour.” He said with his thick, German accent. He was one of the few survivors of Barbarossa’s army that had made it to the Holy Land and he had joined the Hospitallers here but thanks to the disarray in the Holy Land, he had ended up in the Siege of Acre with the rest of them. Much had sometimes problems understanding him, partly because his own French wasn’t perfect and partly because neither was Saer’s.
“I don’t complain, I’m wondering.,“ Much protested. Adhémar rolled his eyes.
“Call it what you want but stop it.”
“There was a messenger from Italy,” Jehan grinned excitedly: “My master told me that he came with a merchant’s ship but apparently the cities of Italy have finally decided to send their fleet to help us.”
“It is winter,” Jocelin pointed out: “The fleet won’t be able to cross the sea until March or April.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Jehan waved Jocelin’s words away: “At least they’re coming. And with help from the outside we will have Acre back in our hands soon enough.”
“We said the same when you arrived,” Aimery sounded amused at their expense. He was a soldier of Guy de Lusignan’s army that had first laid siege to Acre before any of the other Crusaders had arrived: “And look what difference you’ve made.”
“You wouldn’t be here anymore without us.” Much stated as if he knew that for certain. For once Adhémar agreed with him:
“You can’t find their arses without our help, arrogant bunch of fools they are.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Jocelin intervened: “They held the siege for two months and they have already been more successful than both the Hospitallers and the Templars.”
Before anyone else could express their opinion the King Richard’s tent’s flap was moved aside and James of Mersey stormed out, a dark look on his face. Much knew that expression only too well. Usually it meant that the King had listened to Robin instead of James’ opinion.
“Jocelin!” he snapped, but Jocelin had risen from his seat as soon as the tent had opened and followed his master without another word to his fellow servants.
LeGrand was the next one who stepped outside but he waited, giving Adhémar a sign that he should remain where he was. Adhémar nodded and took his seat close to the fire again.
As soon as Robin left the tent, LeGrand wrapped his arm around his shoulders and laughed.
“Well that calls for a celebration, doesn’t it?”
“I’m still looking forward to the day that doesn’t warrant some kind of celebration,” Adhémar murmured dryly. Jehan grinned but Much gasped and send him an surprised look. He felt always scandalized that Adhémar talked about his master like this. On the other hand Roger of Stoke seemed to have a similar opinion:
“If you keep this up I will never see the day when you fight sober,” he said, but his tone was a lot less dry than Adhémar’s had been.
“You, my friend,” LeGrand reached out and wrapped his other arm around Roger’s shoulder, “need to relax. Hey, Robin can your servant sing?”
Robin’s eyes found Much’s over the fire and he grinned:
“No, he can’t.”
“No protest from my side, here.” Adhémar’s quiet sarcasm made Much’s ears burn.
“Shut up,” Much said but without much force. So what if he couldn’t sing very well, he still liked singing and he still knew more songs than all of them combined.
“But Roger’s right. I think we should prepare for the foray tomorrow,” Robin finished and slipped out underneath LeGrand’s arm.
“Don’t worry my friend.” Robin smiled, “We can celebrate tomorrow as well.” He gave Much a look and Much followed him back to their tent with a last nod to Jehan and Adhémar.
Inside, Robin had already poured water into a bowl and washed his face from the sand and the grime of the Holy Land. When Much moved to unfasten Robin’s surcoat when Robin said:
“He’s such a fool.”
“Who, Master?” Much asked while he pulled the garment carefully over Robin’s head.
“James of Mersey.” Robin shook his head: “He wants us to sit here and starve until the fleet arrives.”
“We’re lucky the King listens to you more than to him, then, master.” Much replied cheerfully and began to work on the fastenings on Robin’s chainmail. He was quite thankful that Robin dropped into English when they were alone.
Robin chuckled: “Hopefully.” But Much could see the pride and confidence in his face. It was reassuring that at least Robin seemed to know what he was doing. Much wasn’t so sure about some of the other knights even if he would never admit it out loud unlike that Adhémar.
“Are you hungry, Master?” Much asked while putting the chainmail away but Robin shook his head:
“Just some wine.” Much poured him a coup but thinned the strong wine with water because he knew that Robin didn’t like to be drunk.
“Didn’t you say you wanted to visit that one armourer tomorrow?” Robin asked. That was something else Much liked about him; he always remembered what Much had said, even if it had only been passing conversation.
“Yes, master.”
“Where does he live?”
“In a village a bit south from here.” Much answered truthfully. Sure, it was a Saracen village, but the people there had lived in the Kingdom of Jerusalem for quite a long time and were friendly to him. They had even taught him their language, which Much sometimes found easier to understand than the strange accent of King Phillip’s soldiers.
“Good.” Robin looked thoughtful.
“Why, Master?”
“There will be a foray into the villages north from here but if you go south you should be fine.”
“Is the King’s Guard not taking part in the battle?” Much asked. Robin gave him an amused smile:
“It’s not a battle, Much, it’s an attack to secure our supplies.”
“But the trade with the villages...” Much began and trailed off. Robin shrugged.
“The King thinks it's bad for soldiers to sit around waiting for too long.” Robin finished his wine with a long gulp and offered Much a friendly: “Good night,” before he crossed the tent to lie down on the heap of skins and cloths that was his sleeping place.
///////////////////////////////////////
The next morning was bright, but every morning in the Holy Land so far had been bright. The King’s Guard had been called to another meeting concerning the Italian cities but Robin had told Much to go and see the blacksmith nonetheless.
When he climbed up the hills south of the camp he could see some troops readying themselves for today’s skirmish but he was too far away to see if the banner showed King Richard’s or King Phillip’s colours. Hospitallers and Templars usually refrained from attacking the villages that were part of the kingdom of Jerusalem.
The blacksmith Much had talked to about his shield had been recommended by Harun al Mahdi, a local steward and tradesman. Luckily Robin was part of the King’s Guard, and with his share of the treasures of Sicily and Cyprus, Much could trade enough that they didn’t have to rely on rations and raids.
///////////////////////////////////////
“As-salāmu ʿalaikum,” The blacksmith, whose name Much was sure was Hamid, greeted him when he approached his workshop.
“Wa-ʿalaikum as-salāmu,” Much replied, “Are you finished with my shield?”
Hamid wiggled his head and said something very fast in Arabic, which was made worse by the fact that he was missing his front teeth and lisped a lot so that Much only understood “too damaged”.
“But you said you could repair it,” he protested.
“Better one,” Hamid answered in French and waved him inside. Much liked the houses here, they were much better than the tents they stayed in since their thick walls they kept out the sun and the heat, but it would probably not be a good idea to build houses in front of a castle they were besieging.
“Here.” He pressed a small, round thing into Much’s hands and gestured for him to hold it into the small stream of light coming from an opening in the wall.
Much stared.
“That’s a shield?” He asked a bit astounded because said shield was maybe a quarter of the size of his old one. Small and round where his old one had been kite shaped and big enough to cover the most of his body.
The new shield was also very, very colourful. Everyone would see him coming from a mile away.
“I... that’s... I can’t ...” Much sputtered, searching for the right words. Hamid looked at him curiously. Much took a deep breath and started again:
“Look, this is not a shield. I couldn’t possibly fight with this.”
“No, it’s good shield,” Hamid argued, “Good for your sword.” He gestured to Much’s short sword: “Even Ṣalāḥ al-Dīn Yūsuf ibn Ayyūb use them.”
“Yes, that’s why we’re defeating him.” Much replied.
“Ah but I’ve heard that you need three of your Kings to conquer one of ours,” Harun grinned friendly, the tanned skin around his dark eyes crinkling with thousands of tiny laugh lines. In his hands was the line of wooden beads that he usually played with and that reminded Much of a rosary. He laughed loudly when he saw Much’s confused face.
“Don’t worry my friend. If two enemies are equally strong then the more determined one will win.”
“Our King is very determined.” Much replied confidently.
“So is ours,” Harun answered and walked into the workshop, greeting Hamid before he took a look at the shield they were arguing about.
“This is very good work,” he said, taking the shield from Much’s hands and added in Arabic, “You should be proud of this Hamid.”
“But I can’t use it.” Much repeated.
“Why not?”
“Because it’s too small, and too bright.”
“Your big shields aren’t conspicuous either,” Harun said with humour in his voice: “And I’ve seen some of your soldiers using round shields as well.” He laid a hand on Much’s shoulder. “Come, my friend, my son will show you how to use your shield.”
Much put up a few token protests before he paid for the shield and left the workshop with Harun.
///////////////////////////////////////
Tahir, Harun’s son, was already waiting for them, sitting in the shade of the house. He greeted his father respectfully and reported something about the stock that Much only understood the half of because it concerned many fruits and crops and animals that he had never heard of.
Tahir was a healthy young man and Much had asked him once why he wasn’t serving in Saladin’s army to which Tahir had replied that things worked differently in this country and that the best way to honour his father was to take over his trade, especially since he was his only son.
“I see your king still hasn’t taken Acre back,” Tahir teased him when he lead him out on the court. “Your home has to be a dreadful place since he wants to stay here so badly or why else would he lay siege to a castle that hasn’t been conquered before?”
“England is very beautiful.” Much protested but Tahir laughed to show him that he was only joking.
“Home always is, isn’t it?” He pulled off his shirt. Much followed his example and pulled off his own. As soon as he did, he could hear the high, clear laughter and giggles from the women inside the house that he couldn’t see.
“Go, you silly flock of geese!” Tahir called to one of the windows in the first story of the house. Promptly they could hear more laughter.
“Forgive my sisters,” Tahir said, “They are curious and CHILDISH AS HATCHLINGS!” Still more giggling. Much laughed lightly embarrassed: “I didn’t mean to - ;“ but Tahir stopped him:
“Don’t worry about it. Here.” He gave Much the shield. It was not only shaped differently and much more colourful than English shields, but also much lighter.
“Here.” Tahir threw him a stick that had about the length of Much’s sword.
“It’s a good thing you’re using a short sword, not a long one like your fellow Normans.”
“Why?” Much asked.
Tahir grinned: “Come on, attack me. Then you’ll see.”
Much pretty much fell in love with his new shield on that day. He had always had problems using his shorter sword with the regular English shield, but he liked his sword. It was much easier to handle than the longer swords that the knights used. Especially for someone like him, who hadn’t had proper training in sword fighting like Robin had.
He could still cower behind his new shield like he had done with the old one, but this shield would give the advantage of freer movement in close quarter fighting.
Harun called an end to their training session when the sun had nearly reached its zenith and led them under the canopy of his house where his wife waited for them.
“My wife, Khalida al-Khayyat,” Harun introduced her.
Much, who didn’t know how to greet a Saracen woman, lowered his head and more or less mumbled: “As-salāmu ʿalaikum.” Khalida’s laugher was deeper and friendlier than the high, clear laughter of Tahir’s sisters Much had hear earlier. “Wa-ʿalaikum as-salāmu,” she said.
“Mariam! Rayhanna!” she called and only moments later her daughters appeared in the doorway carrying trays with fruits and deep yellow liquid that Much couldn’t identify. Harun offered a small bowl of it to Much. “We call it sharbat. It’s made of ice and orange juice.” He smiled encouragingly and Much tried it.
“That’s delicious!” he exclaimed. Harun smiled kindly and clicked his wooden beads: “Please, eat. I know that you and Tahir must be hungry after such exertions.”
///////////////////////////////////////
The sun was soon to set over the Western horizon when Tahir and Much went back to their training. Tahir’s sisters were standing next to the house and whispering fiercely to each other while throwing looks in their direction. Much wondered if they disapproved of him being here.
Suddenly one of them walked up to him, encouraged by her sister who had shouted something Much hadn’t been able to understand. Quick as a cat she pulled on a strand of his hair and ran back to her sister again.
Much stared after her confused.
“I have to apologise for my daughter,” Harun said while sending a dark look in the girl’s direction.
“Did I do something wrong?” Much asked concerned.
“It’s not your fault.” He made a gesture as if he didn’t know how to explain. “It’s... your hair. That colour is very unusual and I believe my daughter wanted to see if the colour would rub off if she touched it.”
“No, it’s... I mean it’s just hair,” Much stuttered.”
“Very unusual hair, though,” Tahir added.
“Not in England,” Much told him. No one had singled him out because of his hair before.
“Are you sure it won’t wash off in our water?” Tahir grinned.
“Very sure.” Much grinned and followed him down to the river. About half a mile downstream he could see children playing in the water and heard their splashing and screaming. It wasn’t so different from back home.
“Hey, Much!” When Much turned to Tahir, he was met with a giant splash to the face. Tahir laughed.
“You!” Much tackled him into the shallow water. They wrestled between the water and the bank’s mud, laughing like the children downstream.
Suddenly the laughter turned into screams, screams of terror and fear.
Much and Tahir broke apart and saw that the river was full of corpses and the water was red.
Much had seen corpses and he had killed but this... this was something else completely. These were not only men but also women and children, some of them too young to even be able to walk.
“That is not good,” Tahir said quietly when Much looked away.
///////////////////////////////////////
“Nice arm decoration.” Jehan commented when Much returned to the tents that belonged to the King’s Guard.
“No, Jehan,“ Adhémar joined in. “I believe that’s supposed to be a shield.” Jehan tilted his head and stared at Much’s shield as if he was reconsidering his opinion.
“I think you’re right,” he finally said with an obnoxious smirk at Much. “I think I’ve seen someone else with such a shield, too.”
“Really?” Adhémar played along, sniggering. “Who else would run around with a shield that looks like it has fallen into a dyer’s vat?”
“Saracen’s of course.” Jehan turned to Much with a wide grin. “You’ve not turned Saracen did you?”
“You’re not funny.” Much shot him a dark look.
“They will have to recruit after the blow their numbers took today.” Adhémar’s voice was as dry as the sand around them. “Whole villages don’t fall from the sky.”
“You will die from the first arrow send in your direction. You’ll be useless.” Jehan added. Much, whose nerves were raw after what he had seen at the riverside, more or less snapped his reply at Jehan and Adhémar.
“I can show you how useless I’ll be.”
“Sure, whatever you say,” Jehan grinned, clearly not taking Much for earnest.
Much simply drew his sword.
“Oh, fine.” Jehan drew his own sword and grabbed his shield before he attacked Much viciously, aiming his blow at Much’s unprotected head. Much blocked it with his own sword and threw himself with his shield arm against Jehan’s shield before he used the energy to swirl around Jehan and kick him in the back of his knee, sending him to the ground.
Jehan struggled to get up but his shield was stuck in the sand.
“That’s my use,” Much said coolly while holding the tip of his sword against Jehan’s bare neck.
Something moved behind him and Robin bellowed “Much!” at the same moment King Richard demanded to know what was going on.
Much felt his cheeks heat up with embarrassment. He dropped his sword and looked at his feet, shifting away from Robin’s eyes on him.
“You, speak.” Even without looking Much recognised LeGrand’s loud voice.
“Just a little training fight.” Adhémar answered in a devil-may-care voice.
“A little fight?” King Richard raised his eyebrows. “It looked like one of you was trying to kill the other.” And he added, to Robin. “Get a grip on your man or I will let James handle him.”
“Of course, my King.” Robin said immediately but his eyes were on Much and they were filled with disappointment.
///////////////////////////////////////
“What was the matter with you?” Robin demanded to know as soon as they were alone in their tent.
“It was training, just as Adhémar said,” Much replied. What else could he say? That the sight of dead Saracens had upset him?
“Much, “Robin said softer. “You can talk to me, whatever it is.”
Much turned to him with his most faking and brightest smile. “It’s nothing, Master, I assure you and it won’t happen again. I didn’t mean to embarrass you in the eyes of the King.”
Robin gave him a thoughtful look but let it go. Instead he picked up Much’s new shield carefully and examined it.
“That’s different,” he said when he tried it on. He looked at Much. “You can fight with this?”
“Yes, Master.”
“Won’t be much use against a rain of arrows.” Robin said thoughtfully. “Not that we’ve seen much of those.” He took the shield off and gave it back to Much. “Can you make dinner? I’m hungry.”
“Of course, master.”
While Much bustled to prepare dinner, Robin reclined in a chair and cleaned his bow. Much had offered more than once to do it for him, he had after all his own bow and knew how to take care of it, but Robin always cleaned his bow himself just like he made his own arrows, even though there were some very good arrow-makers among the soldiers. Robin, however, claimed that none of them had Dan Scarlett’s talented and steady hands and since Robin learned arrow making from him, he was the best at making his own arrows.
Next Chapter
Chapter: Act one: I’ll believe in anything (1/9)
Author: smaragdbird
Summary: King Richard has arrived at Acre and enforced the Siege around the city but the combined forces of the Kingdoms of France, England and Jerusalem are not enough to conquer Acre. In the meanwhile Much has made friends with the locals.
Pairings overall: Richard/Philip, Much/Thomas, allusion to Robin/Marian plus diverse historical married couples
Characters/Pairings in this chapter: Much, Robin, Tahir, Harun, Hamid, Jocelin, Jehan, LeGrand, Adhémar
Rating: overall rating of NC-17
Spoilers/Warnings:overall warnings of detailed violence and torture
Disclaimer: Robin Hood belongs to BBC and not to me. Also I don’t make any money with this. It’s just for fun
Notes:Okay first a big, big thank you to both my beta-reader thymelady and my artistneaptidea. They have both done a more than incredible job especially in that short time. You are awesome guys, both of you :)
Second, I took a historical liberties with this fic: Richard and Philip didn’t arrive in Acre until summer 1191 but here I made them come to Acre in 1189 for dramatic purposes. Also I interpreted the historical characters in this story as it fit my purposes which I only say here in case one of you has seen Kingdom of Heaven and wonders why Guy de Lusignan is such a nice guy (although according to my textbooks and Wikipedia he wasn’t so bad ;)
Third, all Arabic in this fic comes from the phrase pages in an old travel guide. Feel open to point out any mistakes I made
Artwork, by neaptidea
The tragedy of men
Act one: I’ll believe in anything
Even in October Outremer was hotter than it had any right to be in Much’s opinion. The sun had long since set behind the horizon but the meeting of the King’s Guard dragged on and on. They had still lit fires, of course and he sat around one with a handful of other non-noble soldier’s from the King’s Guard, most of them squires or manservants like him.
“What’s taking them so long?” Much huffed for the sixth time this evening and Saer shot him a dark look:
“It won’t go faster when you complain about it every hour.” He said with his thick, German accent. He was one of the few survivors of Barbarossa’s army that had made it to the Holy Land and he had joined the Hospitallers here but thanks to the disarray in the Holy Land, he had ended up in the Siege of Acre with the rest of them. Much had sometimes problems understanding him, partly because his own French wasn’t perfect and partly because neither was Saer’s.
“I don’t complain, I’m wondering.,“ Much protested. Adhémar rolled his eyes.
“Call it what you want but stop it.”
“There was a messenger from Italy,” Jehan grinned excitedly: “My master told me that he came with a merchant’s ship but apparently the cities of Italy have finally decided to send their fleet to help us.”
“It is winter,” Jocelin pointed out: “The fleet won’t be able to cross the sea until March or April.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Jehan waved Jocelin’s words away: “At least they’re coming. And with help from the outside we will have Acre back in our hands soon enough.”
“We said the same when you arrived,” Aimery sounded amused at their expense. He was a soldier of Guy de Lusignan’s army that had first laid siege to Acre before any of the other Crusaders had arrived: “And look what difference you’ve made.”
“You wouldn’t be here anymore without us.” Much stated as if he knew that for certain. For once Adhémar agreed with him:
“You can’t find their arses without our help, arrogant bunch of fools they are.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Jocelin intervened: “They held the siege for two months and they have already been more successful than both the Hospitallers and the Templars.”
Before anyone else could express their opinion the King Richard’s tent’s flap was moved aside and James of Mersey stormed out, a dark look on his face. Much knew that expression only too well. Usually it meant that the King had listened to Robin instead of James’ opinion.
“Jocelin!” he snapped, but Jocelin had risen from his seat as soon as the tent had opened and followed his master without another word to his fellow servants.
LeGrand was the next one who stepped outside but he waited, giving Adhémar a sign that he should remain where he was. Adhémar nodded and took his seat close to the fire again.
As soon as Robin left the tent, LeGrand wrapped his arm around his shoulders and laughed.
“Well that calls for a celebration, doesn’t it?”
“I’m still looking forward to the day that doesn’t warrant some kind of celebration,” Adhémar murmured dryly. Jehan grinned but Much gasped and send him an surprised look. He felt always scandalized that Adhémar talked about his master like this. On the other hand Roger of Stoke seemed to have a similar opinion:
“If you keep this up I will never see the day when you fight sober,” he said, but his tone was a lot less dry than Adhémar’s had been.
“You, my friend,” LeGrand reached out and wrapped his other arm around Roger’s shoulder, “need to relax. Hey, Robin can your servant sing?”
Robin’s eyes found Much’s over the fire and he grinned:
“No, he can’t.”
“No protest from my side, here.” Adhémar’s quiet sarcasm made Much’s ears burn.
“Shut up,” Much said but without much force. So what if he couldn’t sing very well, he still liked singing and he still knew more songs than all of them combined.
“But Roger’s right. I think we should prepare for the foray tomorrow,” Robin finished and slipped out underneath LeGrand’s arm.
“Don’t worry my friend.” Robin smiled, “We can celebrate tomorrow as well.” He gave Much a look and Much followed him back to their tent with a last nod to Jehan and Adhémar.
Inside, Robin had already poured water into a bowl and washed his face from the sand and the grime of the Holy Land. When Much moved to unfasten Robin’s surcoat when Robin said:
“He’s such a fool.”
“Who, Master?” Much asked while he pulled the garment carefully over Robin’s head.
“James of Mersey.” Robin shook his head: “He wants us to sit here and starve until the fleet arrives.”
“We’re lucky the King listens to you more than to him, then, master.” Much replied cheerfully and began to work on the fastenings on Robin’s chainmail. He was quite thankful that Robin dropped into English when they were alone.
Robin chuckled: “Hopefully.” But Much could see the pride and confidence in his face. It was reassuring that at least Robin seemed to know what he was doing. Much wasn’t so sure about some of the other knights even if he would never admit it out loud unlike that Adhémar.
“Are you hungry, Master?” Much asked while putting the chainmail away but Robin shook his head:
“Just some wine.” Much poured him a coup but thinned the strong wine with water because he knew that Robin didn’t like to be drunk.
“Didn’t you say you wanted to visit that one armourer tomorrow?” Robin asked. That was something else Much liked about him; he always remembered what Much had said, even if it had only been passing conversation.
“Yes, master.”
“Where does he live?”
“In a village a bit south from here.” Much answered truthfully. Sure, it was a Saracen village, but the people there had lived in the Kingdom of Jerusalem for quite a long time and were friendly to him. They had even taught him their language, which Much sometimes found easier to understand than the strange accent of King Phillip’s soldiers.
“Good.” Robin looked thoughtful.
“Why, Master?”
“There will be a foray into the villages north from here but if you go south you should be fine.”
“Is the King’s Guard not taking part in the battle?” Much asked. Robin gave him an amused smile:
“It’s not a battle, Much, it’s an attack to secure our supplies.”
“But the trade with the villages...” Much began and trailed off. Robin shrugged.
“The King thinks it's bad for soldiers to sit around waiting for too long.” Robin finished his wine with a long gulp and offered Much a friendly: “Good night,” before he crossed the tent to lie down on the heap of skins and cloths that was his sleeping place.
///////////////////////////////////////
The next morning was bright, but every morning in the Holy Land so far had been bright. The King’s Guard had been called to another meeting concerning the Italian cities but Robin had told Much to go and see the blacksmith nonetheless.
When he climbed up the hills south of the camp he could see some troops readying themselves for today’s skirmish but he was too far away to see if the banner showed King Richard’s or King Phillip’s colours. Hospitallers and Templars usually refrained from attacking the villages that were part of the kingdom of Jerusalem.
The blacksmith Much had talked to about his shield had been recommended by Harun al Mahdi, a local steward and tradesman. Luckily Robin was part of the King’s Guard, and with his share of the treasures of Sicily and Cyprus, Much could trade enough that they didn’t have to rely on rations and raids.
///////////////////////////////////////
“As-salāmu ʿalaikum,” The blacksmith, whose name Much was sure was Hamid, greeted him when he approached his workshop.
“Wa-ʿalaikum as-salāmu,” Much replied, “Are you finished with my shield?”
Hamid wiggled his head and said something very fast in Arabic, which was made worse by the fact that he was missing his front teeth and lisped a lot so that Much only understood “too damaged”.
“But you said you could repair it,” he protested.
“Better one,” Hamid answered in French and waved him inside. Much liked the houses here, they were much better than the tents they stayed in since their thick walls they kept out the sun and the heat, but it would probably not be a good idea to build houses in front of a castle they were besieging.
“Here.” He pressed a small, round thing into Much’s hands and gestured for him to hold it into the small stream of light coming from an opening in the wall.
Much stared.
“That’s a shield?” He asked a bit astounded because said shield was maybe a quarter of the size of his old one. Small and round where his old one had been kite shaped and big enough to cover the most of his body.
The new shield was also very, very colourful. Everyone would see him coming from a mile away.
“I... that’s... I can’t ...” Much sputtered, searching for the right words. Hamid looked at him curiously. Much took a deep breath and started again:
“Look, this is not a shield. I couldn’t possibly fight with this.”
“No, it’s good shield,” Hamid argued, “Good for your sword.” He gestured to Much’s short sword: “Even Ṣalāḥ al-Dīn Yūsuf ibn Ayyūb use them.”
“Yes, that’s why we’re defeating him.” Much replied.
“Ah but I’ve heard that you need three of your Kings to conquer one of ours,” Harun grinned friendly, the tanned skin around his dark eyes crinkling with thousands of tiny laugh lines. In his hands was the line of wooden beads that he usually played with and that reminded Much of a rosary. He laughed loudly when he saw Much’s confused face.
“Don’t worry my friend. If two enemies are equally strong then the more determined one will win.”
“Our King is very determined.” Much replied confidently.
“So is ours,” Harun answered and walked into the workshop, greeting Hamid before he took a look at the shield they were arguing about.
“This is very good work,” he said, taking the shield from Much’s hands and added in Arabic, “You should be proud of this Hamid.”
“But I can’t use it.” Much repeated.
“Why not?”
“Because it’s too small, and too bright.”
“Your big shields aren’t conspicuous either,” Harun said with humour in his voice: “And I’ve seen some of your soldiers using round shields as well.” He laid a hand on Much’s shoulder. “Come, my friend, my son will show you how to use your shield.”
Much put up a few token protests before he paid for the shield and left the workshop with Harun.
///////////////////////////////////////
Tahir, Harun’s son, was already waiting for them, sitting in the shade of the house. He greeted his father respectfully and reported something about the stock that Much only understood the half of because it concerned many fruits and crops and animals that he had never heard of.
Tahir was a healthy young man and Much had asked him once why he wasn’t serving in Saladin’s army to which Tahir had replied that things worked differently in this country and that the best way to honour his father was to take over his trade, especially since he was his only son.
“I see your king still hasn’t taken Acre back,” Tahir teased him when he lead him out on the court. “Your home has to be a dreadful place since he wants to stay here so badly or why else would he lay siege to a castle that hasn’t been conquered before?”
“England is very beautiful.” Much protested but Tahir laughed to show him that he was only joking.
“Home always is, isn’t it?” He pulled off his shirt. Much followed his example and pulled off his own. As soon as he did, he could hear the high, clear laughter and giggles from the women inside the house that he couldn’t see.
“Go, you silly flock of geese!” Tahir called to one of the windows in the first story of the house. Promptly they could hear more laughter.
“Forgive my sisters,” Tahir said, “They are curious and CHILDISH AS HATCHLINGS!” Still more giggling. Much laughed lightly embarrassed: “I didn’t mean to - ;“ but Tahir stopped him:
“Don’t worry about it. Here.” He gave Much the shield. It was not only shaped differently and much more colourful than English shields, but also much lighter.
“Here.” Tahir threw him a stick that had about the length of Much’s sword.
“It’s a good thing you’re using a short sword, not a long one like your fellow Normans.”
“Why?” Much asked.
Tahir grinned: “Come on, attack me. Then you’ll see.”
Much pretty much fell in love with his new shield on that day. He had always had problems using his shorter sword with the regular English shield, but he liked his sword. It was much easier to handle than the longer swords that the knights used. Especially for someone like him, who hadn’t had proper training in sword fighting like Robin had.
He could still cower behind his new shield like he had done with the old one, but this shield would give the advantage of freer movement in close quarter fighting.
Harun called an end to their training session when the sun had nearly reached its zenith and led them under the canopy of his house where his wife waited for them.
“My wife, Khalida al-Khayyat,” Harun introduced her.
Much, who didn’t know how to greet a Saracen woman, lowered his head and more or less mumbled: “As-salāmu ʿalaikum.” Khalida’s laugher was deeper and friendlier than the high, clear laughter of Tahir’s sisters Much had hear earlier. “Wa-ʿalaikum as-salāmu,” she said.
“Mariam! Rayhanna!” she called and only moments later her daughters appeared in the doorway carrying trays with fruits and deep yellow liquid that Much couldn’t identify. Harun offered a small bowl of it to Much. “We call it sharbat. It’s made of ice and orange juice.” He smiled encouragingly and Much tried it.
“That’s delicious!” he exclaimed. Harun smiled kindly and clicked his wooden beads: “Please, eat. I know that you and Tahir must be hungry after such exertions.”
///////////////////////////////////////
The sun was soon to set over the Western horizon when Tahir and Much went back to their training. Tahir’s sisters were standing next to the house and whispering fiercely to each other while throwing looks in their direction. Much wondered if they disapproved of him being here.
Suddenly one of them walked up to him, encouraged by her sister who had shouted something Much hadn’t been able to understand. Quick as a cat she pulled on a strand of his hair and ran back to her sister again.
Much stared after her confused.
“I have to apologise for my daughter,” Harun said while sending a dark look in the girl’s direction.
“Did I do something wrong?” Much asked concerned.
“It’s not your fault.” He made a gesture as if he didn’t know how to explain. “It’s... your hair. That colour is very unusual and I believe my daughter wanted to see if the colour would rub off if she touched it.”
“No, it’s... I mean it’s just hair,” Much stuttered.”
“Very unusual hair, though,” Tahir added.
“Not in England,” Much told him. No one had singled him out because of his hair before.
“Are you sure it won’t wash off in our water?” Tahir grinned.
“Very sure.” Much grinned and followed him down to the river. About half a mile downstream he could see children playing in the water and heard their splashing and screaming. It wasn’t so different from back home.
“Hey, Much!” When Much turned to Tahir, he was met with a giant splash to the face. Tahir laughed.
“You!” Much tackled him into the shallow water. They wrestled between the water and the bank’s mud, laughing like the children downstream.
Suddenly the laughter turned into screams, screams of terror and fear.
Much and Tahir broke apart and saw that the river was full of corpses and the water was red.
Much had seen corpses and he had killed but this... this was something else completely. These were not only men but also women and children, some of them too young to even be able to walk.
“That is not good,” Tahir said quietly when Much looked away.
///////////////////////////////////////
“Nice arm decoration.” Jehan commented when Much returned to the tents that belonged to the King’s Guard.
“No, Jehan,“ Adhémar joined in. “I believe that’s supposed to be a shield.” Jehan tilted his head and stared at Much’s shield as if he was reconsidering his opinion.
“I think you’re right,” he finally said with an obnoxious smirk at Much. “I think I’ve seen someone else with such a shield, too.”
“Really?” Adhémar played along, sniggering. “Who else would run around with a shield that looks like it has fallen into a dyer’s vat?”
“Saracen’s of course.” Jehan turned to Much with a wide grin. “You’ve not turned Saracen did you?”
“You’re not funny.” Much shot him a dark look.
“They will have to recruit after the blow their numbers took today.” Adhémar’s voice was as dry as the sand around them. “Whole villages don’t fall from the sky.”
“You will die from the first arrow send in your direction. You’ll be useless.” Jehan added. Much, whose nerves were raw after what he had seen at the riverside, more or less snapped his reply at Jehan and Adhémar.
“I can show you how useless I’ll be.”
“Sure, whatever you say,” Jehan grinned, clearly not taking Much for earnest.
Much simply drew his sword.
“Oh, fine.” Jehan drew his own sword and grabbed his shield before he attacked Much viciously, aiming his blow at Much’s unprotected head. Much blocked it with his own sword and threw himself with his shield arm against Jehan’s shield before he used the energy to swirl around Jehan and kick him in the back of his knee, sending him to the ground.
Jehan struggled to get up but his shield was stuck in the sand.
“That’s my use,” Much said coolly while holding the tip of his sword against Jehan’s bare neck.
Something moved behind him and Robin bellowed “Much!” at the same moment King Richard demanded to know what was going on.
Much felt his cheeks heat up with embarrassment. He dropped his sword and looked at his feet, shifting away from Robin’s eyes on him.
“You, speak.” Even without looking Much recognised LeGrand’s loud voice.
“Just a little training fight.” Adhémar answered in a devil-may-care voice.
“A little fight?” King Richard raised his eyebrows. “It looked like one of you was trying to kill the other.” And he added, to Robin. “Get a grip on your man or I will let James handle him.”
“Of course, my King.” Robin said immediately but his eyes were on Much and they were filled with disappointment.
///////////////////////////////////////
“What was the matter with you?” Robin demanded to know as soon as they were alone in their tent.
“It was training, just as Adhémar said,” Much replied. What else could he say? That the sight of dead Saracens had upset him?
“Much, “Robin said softer. “You can talk to me, whatever it is.”
Much turned to him with his most faking and brightest smile. “It’s nothing, Master, I assure you and it won’t happen again. I didn’t mean to embarrass you in the eyes of the King.”
Robin gave him a thoughtful look but let it go. Instead he picked up Much’s new shield carefully and examined it.
“That’s different,” he said when he tried it on. He looked at Much. “You can fight with this?”
“Yes, Master.”
“Won’t be much use against a rain of arrows.” Robin said thoughtfully. “Not that we’ve seen much of those.” He took the shield off and gave it back to Much. “Can you make dinner? I’m hungry.”
“Of course, master.”
While Much bustled to prepare dinner, Robin reclined in a chair and cleaned his bow. Much had offered more than once to do it for him, he had after all his own bow and knew how to take care of it, but Robin always cleaned his bow himself just like he made his own arrows, even though there were some very good arrow-makers among the soldiers. Robin, however, claimed that none of them had Dan Scarlett’s talented and steady hands and since Robin learned arrow making from him, he was the best at making his own arrows.
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