The Two Torcs Read online

  Back at the scene of the ambush, it had been his intention to leave none of their enemies alive. One man had escaped, though. He was wounded and wouldn’t last out the night, but still Robin had followed after him as soon as he could. He’d worried what the man might say before he died.

  He had found the man’s body on the road just outside the forest. He was dead, but not from the wound that Robin had inflicted. The corpse was half-eaten, and just seeing the remains left a bad taste in his mouth. He wondered if one of the Sheriff’s pets had been responsible. He just hoped the man had died before being able to tell anyone what he had seen.

  He was heading toward the monastery when he encountered the cardinal heading away from it. The man was walking briskly, clearly with a purpose and a destination in mind.

  “What’s happening?” Robin asked sharply.

  Cardinal Francis looked up at him in genuine surprise. “Apparently more than I expected, if you’re not with Alan. He was supposed to lead everyone to a new meeting place,” he said.

  Robin shook his head. “Things went… badly.”

  He leaned down and offered the cardinal a hand. The man swung up easily behind him, surprisingly spry for his age.

  “Let’s just hope the bard was able to tell the others,” Robin muttered, fear wrapping itself around his heart.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Even though things had gone horribly wrong, Alan knew that it could have all turned out much, much worse.

  They had been lucky, really, to escape with their lives. As he looked around at the worn faces, he could see the toll the stress was taking on each of them. Robin’s anger was slowly fading and being replaced by a sense of helpless frustration. Cardinal Francis wore the look of a man resigned to his fate. Friar Tuck was jumpy, constantly looking over his shoulder as they all sat on the giant felled log that was their meeting place.

  “If they were smart, Will and Marian have made for the castle,” Alan said softly, “hopefully arriving before they were missed.”

  “What if they’re at the monastery looking for us instead?” Tuck growled.

  “I left instructions with Lenore, in case she saw them,” Cardinal Francis said.

  “You put her in danger?” Tuck snapped, his skin growing even paler than it already was.

  “No one looks twice at a child when they’re seeking information,” Francis said. “She knows enough to hide from strangers, but she’s met both Will and Marian. She will be fine.”

  “They knew we’d be coming,” Robin said, his voice angry.

  “It was more than that,” Alan responded. “They lured us out. There were no children, no cargo was being sent to Scotland.”

  “No, it wasn’t,” Robin agreed. “Once I was free of pursuit, I circled back and checked the roads,” he said. “They were empty—no carts, no wagons. They only held soldiers.”

  “What do we do now?” Friar Tuck asked. “What happened to the men who attacked us?” He peered over his shoulder, as if one of the soldiers might materialize at any moment.

  “All the soldiers are dead,” Robin said. “The wounded one who escaped was…” He paused, and frowned. “He was attacked, and eaten by something. The man was dead when I found him.”

  Alan couldn’t stop the shudder that worked its way down his spine.

  “So as long as Will and Marian aren’t caught sneaking into the castle, we are safe from discovery for now,” Francis said. “We should heed the warning of what just happened, though. We have to view every activity as a trap, whether it is or not, and take appropriate precautions. John’s men will be better armed, and their numbers will increase.”

  “We need help,” Alan said quietly.

  “And where exactly do you expect it to come from?” Friar Tuck asked.

  “There are others with cause to hate John and his allies, just as much as we do,” he answered.

  “No,” Robin said.

  “No what?” Tuck asked.

  “He’s talking about Little John and the other men we freed. But I won’t put them in harm’s way.” Robin shook his head. “I won’t let them down again,” he muttered.

  “You never let them down in the first place,” the cardinal said gently, but Alan could tell that Robin would never believe it. He needed to be convinced.

  “It’s their lives, their country as much as it is ours,” he said. “They deserve a chance to decide for themselves if they will stand and fight.” He let that sink in, then added, “The more we can rally to our cause, the greater our hope of success.”

  “And the more we’ll have to bury,” Robin said bitterly.

  “We can’t trust anyone else,” Tuck said. “Not even Will and Marian—why aren’t they here? How can we be certain they didn’t lead us into that trap?”

  Alan blinked at the friar in surprise.

  “What has happened to you?” he asked. “You’ve been acting strangely, ever since the fight.”

  “I just don’t like being stuck like a rat,” Tuck growled. There was more to it, though. Alan wasn’t sure what, but the friar’s demeanor, his attitude, they were just… off. This wasn’t the man he’d known for so many years. Something more was at play than fear and shock, he was sure of it. Whatever it was, however, it would have to wait. They had more pressing business to discuss.

  “There are others who have been rendered homeless by the usurper and his lackeys,” Alan said quietly. “Left penniless by the tax collectors. We can no longer keep them safe where they are, and the forest seems to be the only place that the Sheriff and his men cannot go.” Robin and Tuck both glowered at him. He shrugged his narrow shoulders. “The forest protects those within it. It will protect them, as well.”

  “Consider the extra burden this would place on Little John and the others,” Robin argued. “I will not ask them to bear it.”

  “They are already training for war,” Alan replied. “This will remind them what they are fighting for, and it will add new warriors to their number.”

  “You’re a bloody savage,” Tuck growled. “You always have been. How can you understand what good Christian people need to live?”

  Everyone froze at the words.

  “Something did happen to you in the battle,” Alan said. “Were you struck by anything?”

  “Do I look wounded?” Tuck replied angrily. “You’re imagining things.”

  “No, Alan’s right,” the cardinal said, “there is something amiss.”

  “Maybe it’s because I’ve had enough,” Tuck said, clambering to his feet. He was shouting now. “You lot have been conspiring together and excluding me. It’s only a matter of time before you betray me, give me up as the Hood to save your own skins!”

  Robin stood, his face twisting in concern, and he placed a hand on the friar’s shoulder.

  “There was a moment, during the battle,” he said. “A thin man attempted to throw something at me. You jumped in front of him, and it struck you, instead.” He peered closely at the holy man. “What was it?” he asked.

  “Water, for all the damage it did,” Tuck answered. “I shouldn’t have bothered trying to save your worthless hide.” He turned and stormed off suddenly into the woods.

  They all stared after him and after a moment, Alan broke the silence.

  “Whatever was thrown, it clearly wasn’t water.”

  * * *

  Marian paced, tracing the confines of her new room in the tower. Her prison. Furious one moment and filled with despair the next. She had to find a way to stop her uncle, even if it meant strangling him with her own two hands. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t be that easy. All too well she remembered Robin’s description of what had happened the night he had crept into John’s bedchamber and attempted to kill him. John had demons on his side.

  She supposed she should be grateful that he hadn’t had her killed outright. Shut up here, though, she might as well be dead. He had rendered her useless. She couldn’t spy, she couldn’t fight—all she could do was pray. Even that felt ineffe
ctive, as though the evil swirling around and through the castle was somehow blocking her supplications. Yet the chaos in her mind served a more important purpose—to help her avoid the truth.

  She had killed a man tonight.

  Sword through the chest.

  She had taken a life. Marian had only been in the tower for a handful of hours, and already she felt like she was going mad. Abruptly the bolt on the door of her cell shot back. The door opened and Chastity entered, hastily bolting it again behind her.

  “I brought you some things,” the younger woman said, balancing a platter of food in her left hand and holding a squirming baby fox in her right.

  “Champion,” Marian said, moving quickly to take the fox into her arms. She buried her head against his fur.

  “Didn’t think you could leave either of us behind, did you?” Chastity asked as she put the food down on a table by the narrow window.

  Marian lifted her face. “I need you to get word to Will,” she said.

  Chastity cocked her head to the side. “Best wait a day or two, until everyone’s not so jumpy, Princess.”

  “It can’t wait,” Marian insisted. “He needs to know that I went down to the other docks—the ones in the north harbor. The ship waiting to take a messenger to Richard had been burned, the crew killed, butchered like animals. All the other vessels had been scuttled, as well.”

  Chastity gasped and covered her mouth with her hands.

  “So we can’t get word to Richard,” Marian said, hating the tremor in her voice. “Will needs to know that. We mustn’t risk delay, for he might try to send a messenger of his own, and they’ll be killed. He might even try to go himself, as did I.

  “We can’t afford to lose a single ally.”

  * * *

  The middle of the night and Will was still up, pacing in his room. It was a miracle that he and Marian weren’t both dead. He should be grateful for that, but anxiety was eating him alive.

  It was only a matter of time before John grew tired of dealing with the princess and had her executed. And he would follow. When she was gone, suspicion for any leaks coming from the castle would fall directly on him.

  There had to be a way to implicate someone else, one of John’s allies. That would relieve the pressure on them, and rid them of one of their enemies all in one blow.

  The steward.

  He was the logical choice—unless, of course, he had known about the trap for the Hood. Then trying to put the blame on him would be worse than useless. It would be a noose around his own neck. One that he could almost feel tightening now.

  Will had a vision of himself, asleep in his room, when suddenly there was a pounding on his door. Before he could rouse himself soldiers would flood in, led by the cursed Nottingham.

  He closed his eyes and shook his head, trying to tell himself he was being paranoid. John didn’t suspect him.

  A sudden knock caused him to jump, and he nearly yelped. His heart raced out of control. The knock had been soft, not the pounding of a soldier’s fist. Still he stood, as if frozen to the spot. Finally he forced himself to take a deep breath, and make his legs move.

  When he cracked open the door, he sagged in relief. Chastity was standing there, a shawl pulled tight about her shoulders. He opened the door wide and she slipped inside before he closed it again.

  She turned. Her normally rosy cheeks were pale, and the air of mischievousness that usually clung to her was notably absent.

  “Has something happened to Marian?” he asked sharply. “Is she alright?”

  “For now, though the Lord only knows for how long,” Chastity replied. “She wanted me to warn you not to send an emissary to King Richard. She rode herself today to the harbor, and found the king’s men dead. His ship on fire.”

  “What are you saying?” Will asked, feeling his chest tighten even more.

  “We are cut off,” she replied. “There is no way we can get word to King Richard.” Her eyes bulged with fear. “We are on our own.”

  Will sucked in his breath, his mind racing. Until now he had believed they were playing a waiting game, trying to keep John in check until Richard could return and set things right. A sudden, bleak thought struck him like a physical blow. What if Richard was already dead? There were a thousand dangers in the king’s path. John’s betrayal was but one of them.

  His legs refused to hold him anymore. He staggered over to a chair by his writing table, and slumped down in it. He fought the urge to bury his head in his hands. Instead he forced himself to look up at Chastity. Her shoulders were shaking, and he realized with a start that she was crying.

  It seemed so unnatural for her, the opposite of her normal, quick-witted, saucy self. It drove him back up to his feet even though he himself felt on the verge of collapse. He crossed the floor between them and took her in his arms. She stiffened for just a moment, and then buried her head against his chest.

  “I’m so scared for her,” she sobbed. “She takes the most awful chances.”

  “Marian is strong, and she’s the king’s niece. John wouldn’t dare hurt her,” Will said, lying for the girl’s benefit. John would kill any of them if he suspected betrayal.

  “Yet I had the most terrible feeling as I walked the halls tonight,” Chastity said. “I heard something, in my mind. I heard the bells tolling, as though for a wedding, but all around there was the sound of people weeping. Then in my mind, I saw an old woman, and I asked her what had happened. She said, ‘The Hood is dead and woe has come upon his lady.’”

  “It was just a phantasm,” Will said. “A trick of the imagination.”

  Chastity shook her head violently and straightened so that she could look him in the eye.

  “It wasn’t,” she protested. “As a child, a week before my father died, I heard my mother weeping for him in my dreams. A few years later, I saw a vision of my mother’s grave, even before she passed.” She pushed away from him. “Mark my words, the Hood is going to die.

  “I’m afraid Marian will die with him.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Glynna Longstride awoke, the remnants of a particularly dark dream singing through her blood. She stretched, the fur coverings of the bed rubbing luxuriously against her skin.

  Her eyes sought out the dark corners of the room, looking for her love. Others could not see him when he chose to hide in the shadows, but she could. They didn’t understand that he was the very shadows themselves.

  He wasn’t there, however, and she felt a tickle of disappointment until the substance of the dream came back to her. Then she sat up, excitement crackling through her. She had devised the perfect way in which to kill the hated necromancer woman.

  Glynna glanced over at the clothes she had dropped on the floor earlier that evening. She had grown to despise the cursed things which bound her, kept her imprisoned. She took a deep breath to clear her thoughts, then she reached deep down, touching the darkness that was growing inside her.

  Turning her mind outward, she focused, raised her arms, and swirled them together.

  Shadows suddenly spun around her, settling for a moment upon her skin, only to take flight again. She wanted to cloak herself in them, and knew she would be able to do so soon.

  However, as the shadows flew back to the corners from whence she had summoned them, she realized that day had not yet come. It would soon, though. With a small snort of disgust she stood, and set about finding something suitable to wear.

  The Sheriff had been keeping his dark allies close to him, so they would be available quickly when summoned. Thus, the woman she hated had taken to sleeping in the hovel where they all met. No doubt she hoped to curry favor, or dreamt that he would notice her devotion. As if he gave a damn about the likes of her. He used her—as he used all of them. They were tools, and ones that could be replaced.

  Glynna paused. He would not be pleased when she broke one of his tools, but surely he would understand, and forgive her for it. He would probably even love her more. She smiled at
the thought.

  Lifting a quilted cloak from the wardrobe, she pulled it out and flung it around her. Made of a tightly woven linen the color of a canary, it was stuffed with goose down and wrapped her like a blanket. The seamstress had affixed ram’s-horn buttons that went from throat to mid-thigh. The inside had been lined with a thin silk, too thin to contain all the pinfeathers, so here and there a few small quills poked through to scratch and slip across her bare skin.

  Covered enough to leave the room, she went in search of the necromancer.

  * * *

  He was the strongest man in England. Everyone knew that. Why, then, were his arms so exhausted that the muscles were shaking, while Old Soldier stoically notched another arrow into his bow.

  “I can’t do another one,” John protested as he stared at the arrow the old man had driven into the ground in front of him.

  “You can and you will,” Old Soldier said, as calmly as if he’d been discussing the weather.

  “I can’t, I tell you,” John said. “My arms are on fire. We’ve been shooting arrows for over an hour now, and I can’t take anymore.”

  Old Soldier let his arrow fly. The slender piece of wood raced through the air with a soft whooshing sound before embedding itself next to its brothers in the target tree. Then the old man looked up at him, eyes glinting with a hard light.

  “Is that what you’ll say in the heat of battle?” he asked. “‘Stop, I can’t take anymore.’ And what will your enemy say to you?”

  John felt himself flushing. He hated it when he was chastised. Sometimes he deserved it, other times he wasn’t so sure, but it always made him feel squeamish in his belly.

  “In the heat of battle, there’ll be no time to think,” John argued. “The passion, and the fear it has stirred up, will see me through.”

  Old Soldier stared at him, and made him feel stupid.

  “On the battlefield, passion, fear, those only last so long before your body can’t keep them up,” he said. “You know what comes after those? Exhaustion and then resignation. I’ve seen many a great fighter bested by a lesser man because he resigned himself to his fate. He stopped fighting in here,” Old Soldier continued, tapping John’s chest over his heart. “And in here,” he added, tapping John’s forehead.