It's Not Over

Much Makes a Friend or Two

Much Makes a Friend or Two

It was dark by the time we reached Nottingham. I had carried Jasmina all the way and my injured side was killing me. She had opened her eyes several times along the road and drowsily offered to walk, but I had shaken my head and told her she was fine, I could manage.

“Where is Much?” she asked as I eased her from my aching arms.

I glanced around the deserted marketplace. “I expect he’s begged a room for the night, or a bed, at least. It’s a chilly night and Much hates being cold.”

Scratching my bearded chin, I wondered who of the friends we had had in Nottingham prior to our departure for the Holy Land might have taken Much in; I doubted many would have opened the door to a crusader knight with nothing to show for his troubles but an empty pouch and an even emptier belly.  

“What shall we do? Should we go find him?”

“Sorry?” Distracted by shouts and guffaws coming from the nearby Trip Inn, I hadn’t been paying attention to Jasmina.

“Robin? Is it trouble?”

I smiled at her. “No. Listen.”

Jasmina cupped a hand behind her ear and listened. “All I hear are loud voices and...oh, now I hear it.”

Above the din of the Trip’s patrons, we could hear Much tunelessly singing a song that he and I used to sing under our breath on some of the long and tedious marches we made in the Holy Land after conversation had dried up and before our saliva did.

I sang a few discordant notes in imitation and she giggled.

“He is a rubbish singer, isn’t he?”

“One of the worst,” I said. “I had to warn him against singing in the Holy Land whenever the king came calling on our tent for fear that Richard would hand him over to Saladin’s army.”

Jasmina grinned, her perfectly straight little teeth standing out whitely on her olive-skinned face. “Maybe your enemy would have surrendered if that had happened.”

Taking her hand, I led her down a narrow street that ran alongside the inn. There was one small window on that side of the building. It was open, so I peered inside, hoping to spot Much in the noisy, crowded room.

Luck was on my side. Much was standing near to the window, his back to me. In front of him was an ale-stained table upon which stood several empty mugs. A sandy-haired young man, presumably Much’s drinking companion, was advising Much to shut up and sit down before someone decided to put a fist in his face.  

“Not being funny, my friend, but singing for your supper is likely to earn you a less than tasty mouthful of teeth. I said I was happy to stump up for your drinks and meal seeing as you helped me fool those drinkers at cups.”

Much sat down. “Robin taught me the trick of that game. When we were in our tent we used to use goblets as cups and...” He trailed off, his eyes widening at the sight of a serving girl plonking a plate of pie and cheese in front of him.

“Eat up, my friend,” advised Much’s companion, waving a hand at the food, “and save your singing for the bath tub.”

Much needed no encouragement. He crammed the pie and cheese into his mouth as though he hadn’t seen food for a month.

Jasmina tugged on my shirtsleeve. “Will we wait here?”

I nodded. “Yes. As I said before, a rowdy tavern is no place for a young girl and a Saracen at that.” I gave her a sideways glance. “Are you still tired? Would you rather I found you somewhere to sleep? I can easily come back here later.”