Shadows of the Past

By: Emmithar

Rated: T

Disclaimer: Robin Hood BBC and all recognizable characters do not belong to me sadly

Summary: People called him a hero; he called himself a fool. What really happened in the Holy Land after the Saracen attack?

A/N: Another short story; it'll only be a few chapters. Basically an insight on the reason Robin had to return home from war. Thanks goes out to Kegel for the beta

Chapter One: A Masked Saracen

They all started the same. These dreams—nightmares; his mind filling with screams and cries, the lingering odor of blood and sweat. He was trapped in a fire, burning under the rays from the harsh sand, and above from the glowing sun. No matter that he couldn't even breathe; stopping, even for a moment, could cost him his life. He blade was a blur of motion, hardly to be seen, favored in close combat. His bow, on his back, just within reach so that he could fire an arrow if called upon. For now, his sword would have to suffice.

Metal clashed upon metal, intermingling with the sounds of cries, shouts of alarm. The livestock they had were growing wrestless, pulling at their leads as they bellowed, trying to find escape. There were more cries…Robin opened his eyes, heart pounding in his ears. There were cries…and he was no longer dreaming.

He could see them, figures just outside of his tent, through the veiled opening. Metal sounded against metal, he could see the blows being exchanged. Without missing a beat he pushed himself to his feet, hand hastily closing around a bundle of arrows. There would be no time to properly arm himself.

"Much!" He called out for his squire even as he ran, trusting for the man to hear him. "Saracen raid! The king is under attack! MUCH!"

He trusted for his bow to work, for the arrows to find their mark. Robin knew that he was deadly with a bow; knew that he could kill a man with his eyes closed. One arrow, two…and another. Each one finding and hitting its mark without as much as a hesitant pause. A quick glance across the battlefield told him what he needed to know. The group of Saracens were not many. They could easily be defeated…

When the hand first landed on his shoulder he didn't think. Often a times war was loud; one could not even hear himself scream even if he burst his lungs trying to do so. Often a times a motion was used, the slightest of touches to direct or communicate. And so he assumed it was one of his men, perhaps even his squire, who had finally caught up with him.

Pain blossomed in his side, cold steal cutting through his skin, sliding through his body. He could feel the sword, biting into his flesh, could feel the blade moving inside of him. It hurt worse coming out, the breath being stolen from his lungs as he collapsed unto the cold sand below.

A Saracen. Robin bit his lip, fighting against the pain, raising his head to see the man running across the sands. The King's tent. He was headed for the King's tent. Robin gripped the bow tightly, trying to battle the pain, his hand trembling as he strung another arrow, his last. The shot had to count, he could not afford to miss.

"Master!"

It struck wood. Not flesh. Close enough to make the Saracen pause, to realize how close he had come to death. He glanced back, but it did not divert him for long. Robin felt his body seize with pain, forcing him to the ground once more, a free hand pressing against the wound as though it could chase the agony away. The wound was deep, painful; perhaps deadly even.

"Master, you're wounded…"

He had never heard Much's voice so grave before. The man had dropped to the ground beside him, had touched his wound, had felt the blood. There was a lot of blood…

Robin shook his head, fighting for the breath he needed. He couldn't give in, he couldn't give up. "Get help," he breathed, gripping the sword in his hand. The sword that had been brought by Much. "The King's tent, now."

The king…he was their first priority. Talks of peace had been close, there had been a cease-fire. No one had been suspecting an attack, and there had been a celebration earlier in the evening. Robin had forbidden Much to drink, he had felt uneasy. Robin had also cautioned the king to take care as well. A cease-fire was not the same as a peace treaty. But the King had only raised his goblet, smiling at him.

'I hear your words, Locksley." And then he had finished his cup. Robin had said nothing after that, couldn't have said anything after that. After all he was only a servant to the king. His job was to protect the man, not order him about. And now, Robin knew, the king was sleeping in his tent, perhaps soundly, lulled in succulent dreams brought on by the wine. Very likely, the king was not even aware of what was going on, making him defenseless, a perfect target.

Much still hadn't moved, simply sitting there with a torn look on his face. Robin felt the anger, the pain building up inside him as he slowly drew himself to his feet, one hand still pressed against the open wound. "NOW!"

Much nodded, scrambling to his feet and racing off into the distance. Robin was running as well, crossing the gap and slipping inside the tent, his heart pounding wildly. He had waited too long, had wasted too much time. It took only moments to kill a man, and surely the King of England was dead.

But the king slept on. The Saracen stood above him, sword poised, ready to strike. But he hadn't yet. Why hadn't he struck? Robin did stop to ponder, instead he thanked the Gods that had allowed for the briefest of indecision on the enemy's part.

"Your Majesty!"

Robin hoped to rouse the king, his heart beating a little faster at the sight of the slightest stir of movement. He swung his sword, knocking aside the intruder, driving him back, away from the king. Each strike he made with his sword sapped a little more of his strength, and each blow was failing to hit its mark. The Saracen was dancing circles around him, dodging each strike. But he was running out of room, and soon had to meet Robin's blows with ones of his own.

There wasn't much time left; Robin could feel his strength fading, and soon he wouldn't be able to fight anymore. He had to drive the other out, had to hold him off long enough until help arrived. The Saracen lashed out with the sword, Robin ducking it through some miracle, and coming up to strike with the butt of his, the handle knocking the other aside.

Again he drove the other back, somehow managing to grab hold of the man's arm. Robin lashed out with his blade, metal meeting flesh, a deep, superficial wound scaring across something…a tattoo he realized dimly. It had thrown him off guard, distracted him. Why the Saracen failed to use the opportunity to strike he wasn't sure. Instead the man fled.

For half a moment Robin almost went after him. But his side clenched in pain, a cry escaping his lips as his fingers dug into the wood. The sword fell from his hands as his knees buckled, and not even his hold on the post could keep him up anymore.

"Robin!"

The hands caught him before he could fall, easing him to the ground. The pain was there, sharper than ever, and it was hard to breathe. Each small gasp he drew only caused more agony, stealing what little air he had left in his lungs. He was distracted only momentarily as the flap of the tent drew open. He half suspected Saracens, coming to finish the job. His hand shot out to grab the sword, relaxing only when he could see that they were other crusaders.

"Master!"

Much was on his knees, by his side once more. Sir Daniel, the other crusader, could only watch as both king and squire held the man. How many other men had died that night Robin could not know. He would be one among many, he suspected. But he had done his duty, he had protected his king.

"The attack?" King Richard addressed the knight.

"Finished," Sir Daniel responded. "The Saracens are either dead or have withdrawn. I do not think we shall see them again tonight."

"The medic, then," the king demanded, a hand squeezing Robin's shoulder. "And hurry."

The man nodded once, departing in haste. Robin could only shake his head as the king turned to him. There were other men that would need help, others that had a chance…his wound…

"You will be alright," the king promised, or perhaps he demanded. He may have been the King of England, but even he could not control life or death. The thought stayed with him, Robin smiling, as he closed his eyes. A strange weariness was coming over him, and he felt more tired now than he had when first going to sleep earlier in the night.

"Forgive me."

They were the last words he remembered.

Robin winced as the needle pierced his skin. It was a strange irony. With the pain of the stab wound, Robin had been certain that there was nothing else that could match that kind of anguish. He had been wrong. Again he flinched, the small instrument looping through, and pulling the string tight. He shook his head at the offer of wine, grinding his teeth together instead. The last thing he wanted to show was more weakness; he had done enough of that already.

He couldn't remember what had happened in the King's tent. One moment he had been half-held on the cold ground, battling off an encumbering sleep he had first thought to be death. The next, he had nearly flown from the crude bed as the needle pierced his torn and ragged flesh.

Much, with the help of another man, had been forced to restrain him until he calmed. It had been embarrassing, becoming even more so the longer Robin thought about it. He turned his mind away, focusing instead on the needle as the physician toiled by his side. He couldn't see the instrument as it pierced his skin, but the simple fact that the man was working a steady pace helped Robin brace for each pull.

At long last it was done, earning a sigh of relief from Robin as he sunk against the cushions. His entire body ached, having been held tense for much of the process, and his head was still swirling with muddled thoughts and a growing headache. He crossed one hand over his bare torso, moving to feel his side. He could swear that the blade was still inside of him, cutting him open even further.

"No touching," the physician slapped his hand away. He was a gruff and angry man, but good in his work. "Keep it clean, and get rest. You'll be fighting again in no time."

"Certainly no time soon," Much muttered under his breath, quieting only when Robin shot him a stern glare. The man moved to sit on the edge of the bed as the physician left, leaving the pair alone.

"What happened?"

The man stared at him, confusion wrought over his face. "There was an attack…you were wounded…"

"I know that," Robin snapped, his brows furrowing. "How many did we lose?"

"Half a dozen?" Much suggested, shaking his head. "I have…haven't really had the time to ask, Master. You were my first worry."

Of course the man wouldn't know. Rather than gather information concerning what was important, Much had bothered to hamper himself with worry over his master. It was a touching gesture, but foolish. Timidly Robin raised himself on his elbows, working his way to sit up.

"Master?" Much asked warily, seeing what he was doing. "You should rest."

"Do not worry yourself," he shook his head, "I'll rest soon enough. I need a shirt."

There would be plenty of time to rest later, once he knew all was safe, and what exactly was happening. An attack like this, no doubt they would be relocating soon, or risk inviting another attack upon themselves. Robin preferred to know now, as opposed to later.

With Much's help, he was able to bring the fresh garment over his head. No one now could tell of his wound simply by looking, the fabric seemingly untouched by war and hiding the stitching. No doubt though that the others already knew, knew that he had let down his guard, and so earned his own folly. This wasn't the only thing that troubled him.

There had been an attempt on the king's life. That in itself wasn't so strange; this was a war after all. Yet the Saracen who had led the attack had managed to flee. He, Robin of Locksley, service to the King's Holy Guard, had failed to kill him. And there wasn't the faintest trace of doubt in Robin's mind that the man would try again.

The bright sun, the burning lands, greeted him as he stepped outside. He had forgotten how blistering hot it got out here. Shielding his eyes from the glare he surveyed the area, his gaze picking up the areas where the sand darkened considerably. There were many, but one in particular caught his eyes. The place where he had fallen.

Robin bit his lip, forcing his gaze elsewhere. There were several knights moving out in the daylight, busying themselves with graves, a pyre burning off in the distance. They had killed the lot of them, Robin realized, taking in the size. Most…but not all.

He turned away, walking with slow, shuffling steps, the unnerving pace set by his sore body. Much was shortly behind him, seen rather than heard, as they made their way across the camp. The flap to the King's tent was open, voices could be heard drifting out into the open. The arrow was still embedded in the wood. For a long moment he could only stare, his gaze hardening as he studied it. How had he missed?

He was a renowned marksman, he never missed. Yet when his aim had mattered the most…and now it was there for all to see. Yet another failure in the course of one night. He wanted nothing more than to take it from there, to tear it free from the wood and destroy all evidence. But he resisted, more from fear of not having the strength to do so and seeming like more of a fool than he already was.

Instead he ducked inside, waiting just at the entrance, his eyes adjusting to the change in light. Even after five long years here he hadn't gotten used to that. There were four others in there, the King included, as well as his closest of warriors, the remains of his private guard. Quietly Robin cleared his throat, catching their attention.

"Locksley?"

"Your Majesty," Robin gave him a small bow, hoping against hope that he would not be expected to do more. If he went to his knees, then Robin knew that he would not be able to get back up on his own. But the king waved a hand, dismissing him as he stepped closer.

"I must say that I'm surprised to see you up already, giving the nature of your wound."

"It is a scratch, nothing more," Robin encouraged him.

"You know, there is such a thing as dismissing a truth to save concern, and then there is such a thing as mendacity. I do believe you've surpassed both in this instance."

Robin grimaced, but then smiled, knowing that the king's tone had been light and amiable. At the invitation he stepped further into the tent, acknowledging a greeting between the other crusaders. There was Sir Daniel, as well as Sir Geoffrey, and two others that had recently joined the ranks to fight alongside the king.

A map was strewn over the table, easy to read in light, and Robin realized then that they were planning on leaving, as he first suspected. His first of several questions answered, he couldn't help but ask another.

"Do we know how many we lost?"

"Four good men," the king answered, turning back to the table. "A couple of squires. More wounded, though none as grievous as you. It pleases me to see you recovering so well."

Grievous…it was all he could do to suppress a snort. He had seen far, far worse on the battlefield, had found men so crippled that they had been begging for death. Men who had lost limbs, had suffered blindness and those who had been burnt by searing flames from fires so horrendously that they were no longer recognizable. Grievous…his wound was anything but.

"The damage is done," King Richard continued, looking back at him. "But it could have been worse. I owe you my life."

"Your Majesty," Robin shook his head, trying to disregard the praise. He had done his duty, what his king had asked of him to do. But at the same time he had failed. "The Saracen…he will try again."

"I doubt it, Robin," the man shook his head. "No one is fool enough to try such an attack twice. And now that we are back on our guard it is even less likely."

"Foolishness has nothing to do with it," Robin snapped, falling silent only a moment after. Sometimes it was difficult to remember who he was speaking with.

The king was silent, watching him. Then he nodded to the crusaders behind them. "Leave us."

"I speak out of turn, forgive me," Robin pleaded quietly once they were alone.

"And still you speak," Richard chided him. "There must be something on your mind that worries you. Tell me."

Robin drew in a breath, keeping his voice calm. "He was bold; smart. He should have stayed, and fought. He didn't. He ran so that he could come back another day."

"He ran, because he was a coward," the king countered. "He knew that he could not win against you, despite your hindrance. I never questioned my decision when I made you a private guard. You have proven yourself more than I had ever expected."

"I do think—"

"That is why there will be a feast tonight, in your honor."

"If I may speak—a feast?" He frowned. Only the night before they had had a feast, had eaten their fill, had drowned themselves in wine. Now the dead were paying, the wounded suffering. And yet the king wanted to do the same again just this following night? "Is that even wise?"

"Not only wise, but necessary," the man answered with a nod. "I would not be here without you, you have done not only me, but all of England a favor."

"We lost men last night due to our own folly."

"A mistake which we will not make again. Do not fret, Robin of Locksley. You have no need to worry. I ask nothing of you today other than that you rest. Regain your strength."

It was madness, but one thing that Robin knew of the king was when a discussion was over. Timidly he bowed, doing his best to not bend too far. Then with the same, slow walk, he left the tent. It was difficult, to not hold his side, to not wince in pain as he passed the other crusaders. Sir Daniel clapped him on the shoulder, a sign of a job well done, but it drew from him a silent hiss. Thankfully he had quickly been able to mask the expression, Daniel not even catching the flicker of pain across his face.

"I heard something about a feast," Much spoke quickly, moving up alongside him. "Is it true?"

Robin nodded, slightly amused by the grin on the other's face. Anything that involved food made the man happy. How wonderful it would be, he mused, to be so content with so little. The pair began walking, returning to their own small tent.

"It'll be good to have food again. I mean, it's not like we are ever without. Just good food…and twice in one week, it makes it very good. Will it be like last night, will we have meat again? I wouldn't mind some wine…if you…well, I guess not, now that I think of it."

Robin let him ramble, focusing on his words rather than the pain that was starting to eat away at him. Slipping inside he eased himself on the bed, letting out a grimace as he held his side. Much was standing there in the entrance, watching him, his words trailing off.

"Is there something I can get you, Master?"

"No," Robin shook his head as he laid himself down. There wasn't anything anyone could do for him. While he may have succeeded in one duty, Robin also knew that his failures could not go unmarked. He may have saved the king this one time, but he feared what the near future would bring.

"Master?"

He opened an eye, glancing at the other man with a raised eyebrow. "What is it, Much?"

"Are you going to rest?"

"That was my general idea," Robin muttered quietly.

"Ah, right," the other nodded. "But…what shall I do? I am not weary."

"Find something," he suggested, closing his eyes. "Just…stay away from Langley."

"I just want you to know that wasn't my fault," Much muttered quietly after a moment.

"I don't know, and I don't care. Just stay away from him."

The man agreed quietly before departing, leaving Robin alone in the shaded tent. It was warm, uncomfortably so, and would make difficult for any proper rest, but he was so worn Robin wasn't sure he had a right to complain. There were so many thoughts with him, troubling him, that his mind could not find the rest that he sought. And the most pressing of questions remained.

How had he missed?

TBC