A Squirrel is a Fine Meal, 1/1
It was not quite evening as the outlaws made their way back towards the camp from the small village of Nettlestone. The forest was peaceful, as the birds nested for the evening, and the atmosphere of the forest was relaxing after another long, hard day of doing what they did best - robbing the rich to give to the needy.
They’d gone to Nottingham, of course, thrown around a few guards and received a few bruises in the process. The only thing truly hurt in the shuffle had been John’s pride, as he’d been the receiver of an unexpected punch to the jaw.
The great man sulked now as the gang trampled over the forest floor, Allan leading the way with a spring in his step, his mood empowered by their latest success. Will followed, leading the horses, and Robin behind him, already planning tomorrow’s activities. It was Much who was forced to travel alongside the cranky outlaw, who, whenever the former manservant tried to keep up a decent conversation, glared murderously.
“I find this behavior a bit disconcerting,” he informed the bitter man. John huffed. “It was just a punch, you know. No reason to get angry or mope around.”
There was no response. A wiser man would’ve taken his silence as a warning, but Much, who consistently ignored warnings such as these, took it as an invitation to continue his one-sided conversation.
“Moping…pitiful,” he muttered to himself. “If anyone should be moping around here, it should be me. I haven’t eaten since last night; I’m starving. When we return to the camp, I am going to start a roaring fire and make a stew, yes sir. A nice, hot, filling - “
“Much, shut up,” Robin commanded, a hint of laughter in his voice.
“Well, excuse me if I can’t look forward to a decent meal.”
“Decent?” Allan interrupted, stopping in his tracks and turning to face the cook. “What’re we goin’ to ‘ave tonight? More squirrel?”
This elicited a trickle of laughter from the others, including Rogin, who, upon hearing Much’s astonished protest of “Master!” simply shrugged nonchalantly, grinning.
“Well, this is - this is outrageous!” he stuttered in anger and frustration, still looking at Robin incredulously. The outlaw winked at him. “I will have you know that I do not cook squirrel. It is - “
“C’mon,” Allan snorted in disbelief. “What d’you expect us to believe we ate last night, eh? Chicken?”
“It was rabbit, you big oaf,” Much exclaimed angrily, his hands balling into fists, “and you would know that it you had any - “
“Much, shut up.” The command was from Robin again, but his former manservant was too upset to obey.
“No, Master, I shall not shut up. I spend hours hunting in the woods and - “
“Much, shut up.”
This time, his voice held a sense of urgency, and as his hand glided to his bow, a cautious silence fell over the outlaws, hands drifting to weapons, eyes on alert.
“What is it?” Will whispered, axes held high.
“A noise,” Robin replied, pointing to a grouping of overgrown bushes. On cue, the leaves rattled with movement.
“Robin…”
The former Earl of Huntingdon nodded. “On my mark. Three…two…one…NOW!”
Simultaneously, they leapt at the bushes as something small and furry rocketed out from under the leaves in panic, zig-zagging between their feet.
Much yelped in surprise.
“Don’t worry, it’s just a cat,” Will reassured him, pointing at the scruffy black and white animal now hiding up a tree. Much, his heart still beating wildly, smiled weakly.
“Hey, a cat!” Allan exclaimed happily. “We should catch it.”
Of all the ridiculous ideas Much had heard stream from the pick-pockets mouth, that had been, by far, the most unusual. “Catch it? Why on God’s green earth would you want to catch a cat? It’s so mangy and…mean.”
The cat hissed.
“Why, to eat it, of course.”
Much blinked. “Eat it?” His voice was filled with horror and disgust. “Why would someone want to eat a cat? That’s like - “ He struggled for a metaphor. “ - eating a rat, or something.”
“People’ll eat lots of things when they’re starving,” Will quietly replied, his face dark with memories of long, cold winters with little to eat.
“Oh.”
Much had few memories of life before Locksley, of a time when food had not been provided regularly by a caring master, and when shelter and warmth had not been offered in kind spirit. Of course, he hadn’t lived like a noble by any means, but perhaps, to the people of the village, it had seemed that way.
“So…cat is good?”
Allan gave him a cheeky grin. “Well, it’s a lot better than squirrel.”
The gang burst out laughing again, enjoying the moment and Allan’s excellent comedic timing, but Much had a reputation to protect.
“For the last time, I do not cook squirrel. I - “
“Much,” Robin interrupted again. This time, his face was kind, and amused. “Shut up.”
They’d gone to Nottingham, of course, thrown around a few guards and received a few bruises in the process. The only thing truly hurt in the shuffle had been John’s pride, as he’d been the receiver of an unexpected punch to the jaw.
The great man sulked now as the gang trampled over the forest floor, Allan leading the way with a spring in his step, his mood empowered by their latest success. Will followed, leading the horses, and Robin behind him, already planning tomorrow’s activities. It was Much who was forced to travel alongside the cranky outlaw, who, whenever the former manservant tried to keep up a decent conversation, glared murderously.
“I find this behavior a bit disconcerting,” he informed the bitter man. John huffed. “It was just a punch, you know. No reason to get angry or mope around.”
There was no response. A wiser man would’ve taken his silence as a warning, but Much, who consistently ignored warnings such as these, took it as an invitation to continue his one-sided conversation.
“Moping…pitiful,” he muttered to himself. “If anyone should be moping around here, it should be me. I haven’t eaten since last night; I’m starving. When we return to the camp, I am going to start a roaring fire and make a stew, yes sir. A nice, hot, filling - “
“Much, shut up,” Robin commanded, a hint of laughter in his voice.
“Well, excuse me if I can’t look forward to a decent meal.”
“Decent?” Allan interrupted, stopping in his tracks and turning to face the cook. “What’re we goin’ to ‘ave tonight? More squirrel?”
This elicited a trickle of laughter from the others, including Rogin, who, upon hearing Much’s astonished protest of “Master!” simply shrugged nonchalantly, grinning.
“Well, this is - this is outrageous!” he stuttered in anger and frustration, still looking at Robin incredulously. The outlaw winked at him. “I will have you know that I do not cook squirrel. It is - “
“C’mon,” Allan snorted in disbelief. “What d’you expect us to believe we ate last night, eh? Chicken?”
“It was rabbit, you big oaf,” Much exclaimed angrily, his hands balling into fists, “and you would know that it you had any - “
“Much, shut up.” The command was from Robin again, but his former manservant was too upset to obey.
“No, Master, I shall not shut up. I spend hours hunting in the woods and - “
“Much, shut up.”
This time, his voice held a sense of urgency, and as his hand glided to his bow, a cautious silence fell over the outlaws, hands drifting to weapons, eyes on alert.
“What is it?” Will whispered, axes held high.
“A noise,” Robin replied, pointing to a grouping of overgrown bushes. On cue, the leaves rattled with movement.
“Robin…”
The former Earl of Huntingdon nodded. “On my mark. Three…two…one…NOW!”
Simultaneously, they leapt at the bushes as something small and furry rocketed out from under the leaves in panic, zig-zagging between their feet.
Much yelped in surprise.
“Don’t worry, it’s just a cat,” Will reassured him, pointing at the scruffy black and white animal now hiding up a tree. Much, his heart still beating wildly, smiled weakly.
“Hey, a cat!” Allan exclaimed happily. “We should catch it.”
Of all the ridiculous ideas Much had heard stream from the pick-pockets mouth, that had been, by far, the most unusual. “Catch it? Why on God’s green earth would you want to catch a cat? It’s so mangy and…mean.”
The cat hissed.
“Why, to eat it, of course.”
Much blinked. “Eat it?” His voice was filled with horror and disgust. “Why would someone want to eat a cat? That’s like - “ He struggled for a metaphor. “ - eating a rat, or something.”
“People’ll eat lots of things when they’re starving,” Will quietly replied, his face dark with memories of long, cold winters with little to eat.
“Oh.”
Much had few memories of life before Locksley, of a time when food had not been provided regularly by a caring master, and when shelter and warmth had not been offered in kind spirit. Of course, he hadn’t lived like a noble by any means, but perhaps, to the people of the village, it had seemed that way.
“So…cat is good?”
Allan gave him a cheeky grin. “Well, it’s a lot better than squirrel.”
The gang burst out laughing again, enjoying the moment and Allan’s excellent comedic timing, but Much had a reputation to protect.
“For the last time, I do not cook squirrel. I - “
“Much,” Robin interrupted again. This time, his face was kind, and amused. “Shut up.”