Post of the Month

~ July 2006 ~

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Alan/Much ~ Written by Rhys & Gwyn. 

Posted on the HoS Yahoo group July 2005.

Much and Alan walked hurriedly and steadily without rest.

They kept clear of the Lincoln Road, of any of the villages, and as soon as they could, crossed into the welcome cover of Sherwood. As soon as they were in the cool shade of the massed trees, Alan felt some measure of relief.

He walked alongside Much, and neither said anything.

Much was in deep thought, mulling over all that Patrick and Jenet had said. "Get back to Robert as soon as possible an' tell him what's been going on," he said at last aloud, as he and the minstrel tramped through the thick undergrowth of the forest, heading West, back to the site of the camp.

They crossed a small wide shallow stream, the water splashing under their boots, and as they crossed, Alan found the courage to ask the question he had been wanting to ask. "Who's the woman....Jenet...you know her well?" he enquired of Much as they walked on.

"Some," replied Much simply as they wended their way on through the trees. A bird chattered overhead.

"Sounded like you hadn't met her for some time....years, in fact," Alan probed a little further with.

"Well," Much answered with. "I hadn't. It was in Robin's time....when he was here, was Herne's Son. That when I met her. When we all met her..."

Alan's waterskin fell off his shoulder, he hastily slung it back again over his shoulder and kept pace with Much as they walked on. He cleared his throat. "Scarlet met her too, then... She talked about him... Asked about him. Asked about everyone. She seemed to know most everyone."

"Aye, she would. She spent a few days with us in Sherwood," was Much's unconcerned reply.

"Was this when her husband was still alive?" Alan asked.

"Aye, though she pretended she was a maid - fooled Will good and proper. He was fair smitten with her." Much laughed.

"I see." Alan frowned to himself in thought. He didn't see, but he did not want to make a fool of himself by appearing not to understand.

"The Sheriff made her do it. Made her pretend, tried to get her to drug us." Much told Alan the story in a few short sentences, and Alan listened. "She nearly got us all killed," Much finished. "But she only did it because the Sheriff held her husband in the Nottingham dungeons and would've killed him if she hadn't done what the Sheriff wanted."

"She told me that story," Alan said wonderingly. "She said it was Gisbourne who started everything off."

"Gisbourne..." Much's voice held contempt.

They turned onto a little-used deer trail, brushing softly past bushes and leaves from overhanging branches. The warmth of the sun did not touch them here. "So Scarlet, then....and her...." continued Alan.

"I don't know what happened there," Much said. "Except when Will found out about her husband, that she'd been lyin' to him - he was angry. An' more than just angry. It was strange. Angry...but also like he'd lost something he'd wanted...."

"Did she like him?" Alan questioned softly. "Jenet, I mean. Did she like him?"

Much moved past Alan to take the lead as the trail became narrow, and his answer came over his shoulder at Alan. "I think so."

Alan gritted his teeth and said no more on that subject, but followed Much in silence.

They crossed Darkmere and headed onwards, deeper into the forest, now walking side by side once more. "How well do you know that strange Welshman?" Much asked curiously as they walked on.

"Gwydion? I've known him since I was a boy," Alan answered.

"Where's he from?"

"My village."

"And where's that?" Much was curious.

"In Wales."

By unspoken agreement, they paused by a stream. Here, the tree tops parted above them, and the warmth of the sun touched Alan. He sat on the grassy bank of the stream in that patch of warmth, glad for a rest, and contemplated all that had happened that day.

Much bent to drink from the stream, still thinking over the minstrel's most recent revelation. Then he came and sat beside Alan, glad too to rest for a moment, and he looked at the minstrel.

"You don't SOUND Welsh," Much said, both fascinated and wary.

Alan laughed. "I was only nine years old when I left my village and was apprenticed out to a noble English lord. Apprentice minstrel in his household. You should have seen me then. I was frightened and unsure - I'd never left my valley before. And very bewildered - I'd never experienced such a grand place before as that first noble household in England. There were so many people... And I did not know what to make of the English language. I could barely speak it, back then. But I learnt, and then I learnt to lose my Welsh accent. It was best, I thought. If I wanted to survive in England...and Norman England at that...."

"Do you miss it?" Much asked curiously. "Your homeland?"

"Sometimes." Alan sat back, his arms braced behind him, drinking in the sunshine that fell upon them. "I was a child of the mountains and the valleys, and deep inside, I still am in many ways. It's all a part of my heart."

"Are your family still there? In your village?" Much pressed.

"My mother's dead. I have sisters, but they are older than I and wedded."

"What about your father?" Much asked.

Alan did not answer. Something about his silence told Much not to press further.

"We shouldn't rest long," Alan said at length. He lay back on the warm grass, his arm flung outstretched, his eyes closed and his face tilted up to take the warmth of the sun. It almost seemed to Much as though the man was drinking in the patch of sunshine, finding it soothing and restorative.

"Ain't no harm to rest for a moment," Much said. "What was your village like?"

The trees moved softly above him, and Alan allowed his mind to wander back to the past. "It was a wild, cold, place. I remember being a child sitting by the fire, hearing from village elders many a triumphant story of age-old victories.And our hearts would be stirred by the songs we heard sung. Those songs! They almost seemed to possess magical powers. Whilst they were sung, the slashed tapestry of hopes and dreams could be mended, the world could be set to rights, our old old heroes could be brought back to life, and we could find our way, warming our hands on newly-fanned flames within our souls. Those songs...." Alan murmured reflectively, the echoes of them coming back to ring in his memory, along with a childhood filled with awe and wonder. "A man cannot live on air alone - but we as near as could lived on those songs...."

Much sensed more hovered on Alan's lips and waited expectantly, but to his disappointment, no more was forthcoming.

"Come on." Alan suddenly sat up, gathered up waterskin and longbow, then rose. "We should get going back to the others."

Much rose also, and they headed onwards again.

"I'd rather you didn't tell the others what I have told you," Alan said as he and Much crossed the shallow stream together, side by side, splashing their way. "I'd rather you didn't tell the others I was Welsh."

Much was puzzled. "Why not?"

"Well...Scarlet for example. He'll think I'm related to Owain of Clun or something," Alan said wryly.

Much, full of innoccence, couldn't help asking: "Are you?"

Alan laughed. "Do you really think that?! No. But I'd never hear the end of it from Will..."

"Might be good as a joke on him," said Much. "Get him going, it would, and no mistake..."

"Maybe," Alan replied softly. "But maybe it's not the sort of joke to make on someone. Not on someone as twitchy as Will, not under these circumstances."

Much shivered, despite the warmth of the day, as they passed under the trees.