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It wasn't the fighting that caused Much's problems. At least he didn't think it was. He'd only accompanied Master Robin
as his squire, but when the heat and the flux did for a lot of the nobs, he got given a sword and told to fight, every man
who could was, and he could see why. Mind you, he'd nearly died of the flux too, would have done if the master hadn't shared
his water with him.
Much had enough about him to know which end of a sword was which, and if he hadn't killed those
men, they would have killed him, or the master, which would have meant the same thing, more or less. Those were fair and just,
or as fair and just as anything in this war was. Much could live with it, he could sleep knowing what he'd done.
It
was what happened when they breeched the citadels that he had waking nightmares about, women and children slaughtered, Crusaders,
their fellows, wrist deep in gore, scrabbling for the jewels and gold people had swallowed to prevent it being in Crusader
hands. Much could understand that, he couldn't understand why the supposedly Christian knights were killing them for their
gold in the first place. This wasn't supposed to be about gold.
His master agreed with him, they did what they could,
tried to move any children they found to safety. They tried to get the women free passage out of the walled cities, but mostly
they failed. It was more than Much could stand, and he was ever so glad when Master Robin decided enough was enough and left.
Much could never have left without him, not without Robin, he couldn't have left him here in this pit, where what he'd been
taught to believe wasn't true anymore, and he couldn't tell who was holy and who was an infidel.
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