It's Not Over

Homecoming

Homecoming

“Look at it, Robin. Just look at it!”

Much grinned and then noisily inhaled a lungful of crisp morning air through flared nostrils.

“I’d forgotten how beautiful the forest is in spring. Well, summer, too. And autumn. Maybe not the winter, though. Hate trudging through the mud and snow, wet leaves smacking into my face. But this...this!”

He spread his arms wide and did a twirl.

Dear Much. I haven’t seen him this happy in a long time and I’m expecting him to break into song at any moment.

“Time for a song, I think.”

What did I tell you?

Him and his blooming songs. Don’t get me wrong; I love dear, bumbling, ever-hungry Much, my boyhood friend and former manservant. It’s just that sometimes I want to strangle him. Not today, however. That would be too cruel. Today he can sing all he likes because we are back in England after five years of bloody war. We are in Nottinghamshire, home, and presently walking under a shady canopy of green leaves topped by a cloudless blue sky.

Before the heat, the flies, the relentless sun and the never-ending sand of the Holy Land, before all the death and dying in Acre, Sherwood Forest had been my sanctuary. Hidden among the trees, away from prying eyes, Much and I practised our swordsmanship and archery. My father, having once caught us sparring in the yard, forbade me to waste my time teaching a servant to use sword and bow. He sent Much off to the kitchens with a swift kick up the backside and me to my room. After that, Much and I practised in Sherwood, where my father could not see us.

Not that I needed to practise with the bow. Even at the tender age of ten summers, I was one of the best archers in the shire. Much, however, needed all the help he could get. He was full of enthusiasm but lacked any real skill. He huffed and puffed his way through my lessons, whooping when he made a good shot and scowling and moaning, blaming the wind or a dodgy arrow, when he didn’t.

We persevered and in the end the hard work paid off. Not that I did anything that could be called hard work, as I spent most of the time teasing Much over his clumsiness and lack of finesse. Nevertheless, by the time we took up King Richard’s call to arms, Much was a fine archer and swordsman. My father was also long dead.

In the Holy Land, I thanked God almost every day that I’d disobeyed my father and spent all my spare time in the forest with Much. Little did we know then how necessary those sword and bow skills would be. It was because of my prowess with the bow that I escaped death many times over, and it was because of Much’s dogged loyalty to me and those skills he’d learned in the forest that he too survived the bloody horrors of war.

Much continued with his inane chatter and, for once, I was glad.

“I could just weep,” he declared, to no one in particular. 

He did of course. Because that was Much, always wearing his heart on his sleeve. There have been many times when I wished I could be more like him.

“Oh, Master, just look at it,” he said, wiping his tear-stained face. “You don’t know how good this feels, to be so close to home. I’m so excited I could—I could—”

I gave him a piercing look forgetting that I'd decided to allow him to sing today.

He shrugged his shoulders and sighed. “All right, I won’t sing.”

Jasmina turned to me and smiled. 

“You did not tell me your home was such a beautiful place. I never thought I would see somewhere with so much green.”

She made me start; I’d forgotten she was with me for a moment.

Smiling, I watched as her head darted from side to side, taking it all in, wide-eyed with wonder.

I was glad she had decided to come back to England with us. She had been a great source of comfort to me following the attack on the king and the days that followed. And I think she was happy to be with me. Her parents were dead, both killed during the fighting, and she had no one else.

“Your lady, you will see her soon, yes?”

“Yes, Jasmina. Soon. That is, if she still lives with her father.”

“She is pretty, no?”

She ended many of her sentences with a yes or no. I found it an endearing quality.

“Well, she was pretty when we parted. I cannot believe she will have changed that much.”

“And you?” Jasmina asked. “You have not changed much, yes?”

“If you mean the way I look, then a little. Thinner, I guess. We didn’t eat so well in your country. I didn’t, at least.”

I glanced at Much and Jasmina laughed.

Sorry, Much, but it’s true. The way to your heart, mind, feet, everything in fact, is through your stomach.

“I guess my hair needs cutting too,” I said.

“If she could, she would do it for you, no?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know.”

She had so many questions. It is the way with the young. I didn’t mind. It’s just that sometimes I prefer not to talk. Sometimes I just want to be alone with my thoughts.  

Perhaps she sensed my mood because for a while we walked in silence – apart from Much’s occasional happy outbursts, of course – and in the relative peace and quiet, my mind began to wander.

What will Marian say when she sees me? After all, we had not parted on the best of terms.

“I still do not understand,” she had shouted, for what seemed like the umpteenth time.  “Why are you going?”

“Because it’s my duty,” I had retorted. “Because there are many men leaving their homes and their lands to go fight for their king. It is an honour, Marian. Surely you can see that.”

Honour. Duty. Words I used to hide the truth. The truth that I sought adventure, craved the risks – after all, life was easy going for Robin of Locksley, Earl of Huntingdon. And yes, I had wanted glory. 

Rather than finding adventure, however, I suffered exhausting marches in mind-numbing heat and boredom and terror in equal measure. Instead of glory, I lived with the stench of battle in my nostrils and listened to men dying in agony, weeping for their mothers.

I did not want to do my duty. I wanted to go home.