The Two Torcs Read online

  Darkness and thirst and pain.

  These were the things John Little had known all morning.

  Lids held shut by a length of hemp spun tight with a stick and secured by a knot in his hair. The edges of his eye sockets were chafed, the bridge of his nose sanded raw by the rough fibers of the rope. The pain was constant but small compared to the sharp fissure of pain that ran down his parched throat.

  The rag shoved between his teeth tasted foul and slimy. It wicked away all the water in his mouth leaving him near mad with thirst. His jaw throbbed with grinding agony having been forced wide, tendons straining until they creaked with every breath he forced past the damned gag that kept trying to crawl down his gullet.

  His shoulders, back, and legs were knots of fire as the muscles spasmed from being forced into one position for hours. Since morning he’d been shoved to the floor of the wagon, hands bound behind him. He’d listened as the conveyance shuddered to a stop, and the men who guarded him prepared their weapons. They jumped out, making it rock on its axles, tossing some of the other men against him. One landed across his leg, his weight driving nails of pain deep into the strained muscle. A short commotion was punctuated by loud and creative cursing.

  “Locksley, you son of a bitch,” someone said. Hands grabbed him roughly. The relief of being lifted was short-lived as he was dragged forward and pushed down. He knelt in what felt like mud that seeped, frigid and wet through the knees of his pants.

  Fingers pulled his hair as they shoved under the blindfold. The rope pulled tight, squeezing across his temples and pushing into his eyes, making flares of false light inside his lids.

  “Hold still,” a voice said above him. He tensed as something scraped the skin of his scalp—it was narrow and pointed and definitely sharp. A harsh tug sideways, and true light flooded his eyes. He blinked away the pain, and the world stuttered back into focus, going from black to blurry to only slightly fuzzy on the edges.

  In front of him stood a slim man holding a slim dagger. John squinted, straining to focus, to see who this was.

  Will Scarlet, John thought with confusion. He’s the only one who would wear a hat like that in the forest.

  Turning his head to the side he found his seven neighbors kneeling next to him. They all slumped, shoulders curved, heads hung low in their blindfolds and gags. All but one. The Old Soldier wasn’t bowed, much less broken. Seeing the old man, ramrod straight with his head high, made John force his own spine upright.

  Along the road lay the soldiers who had put them in the wagon that morning. They sprawled in the mud, beaten to unconsciousness but still breathing, although the biggest of them lay in a puddle of blood. His heart thrilled at the sight, glad to see them in such a condition. They were the ones who had dragged him from his bed.

  Dragged him from his wife.

  He hadn’t gone easy.

  Will Scarlet grabbed the gag and slid the knife between cloth and skin. Another sharp yank cut the filthy rag. John spit it to the ground.

  The slim man smiled. “Let me get you some water.” John tried to speak, but his voice stuck to the sides of his throat. Lips feeling like they had been peeled and dried, he swallowed, trying to find enough moisture to release his words. Barely a whisper came out.

  “Free… my… hands.”

  “Not until we know why you’re tied in Locksley’s wagon.” A different voice. There was someone else there. John leaned, eyes sliding past Scarlet and finding the second man who stood on the other side of the road.

  “I’m John Little,” he growled, and anger pushed his voice past the rawness in his throat. “Longstride knows me. Hell, he knows all of us.” Scarlet turned, looking at Robin. The bowman nodded once. Eyebrows drawn but not questioning, Will moved beside John, leaning against his shoulder as he reached behind him with the dagger. The feather of Will’s hat brushed along his cheek, tickling, making his eye twitch. He ignored it, staring at Robin.

  A small tug and the ropes parted like water. Immediately the burning cramps between his shoulder blades loosened in a rush of relief. Both arms were dead, useless from being constricted, void of all feeling from shoulder to fingertip.

  Will moved away to begin cutting another man free. John struggled to his feet. His mind felt disconnected from his hands, so that he had to push the thought at them to clench and unclench, trying to force feeling back into them.

  He stared at Robin, marking the difference since the last time he had laid eyes on him. Young Longstride had become leaner in his time as an outlaw, the soft fat of luxurious living carved away by surviving off the land and fighting John’s men. He looked… darker.

  His swarthy skin had always been different from his family, from his little sisters, God rest their souls, but now it was even more pronounced. It might have been the dim light of Sherwood, or the fact that Robin was dirtier than John had ever seen him—certainly since he had moved from boy to man.

  No, not a man, John thought angrily. A man lives up to his responsibilities, instead of running away.

  Needles of pain filled the space between skin and muscle in his hands as blood began to flow through his veins again.

  “What are you staring at, Little John?” the hooded outlaw asked quietly.

  “Don’t use that name,” John snarled. “That name is for friends and family. Your father could use it, but not you, Robin.” His voice was harsh, and not just because of the aftereffects from the gag.

  “I used to call you that.”

  “I used to call you Lord.”

  Silence fell between them.

  Done cutting the last man free, Will moved to stand beside Robin. The others moved to stand behind John, except for the old man. Old Soldier stood equal to John, not behind nor in front of, but beside. Except for him they all moved slowly, still recovering from being bound in one position for hours. A water skin passed between them.

  One by one they took it, drinking long and hard. It came to John and he handed it immediately to the old man. Old Soldier took a quick swallow, just enough to wet his mouth before handing it back. The water was ice cold and tasted of river moss and waxed leather.

  It was more delicious than wedding wine.

  “Do you really trust them?” Will asked Robin.

  Robin said nothing.

  John spat a mouthful of water onto the road between them. His throat eased with the liquid, the thirst slaked and the pain dulled.

  “He should trust us. He’s known some of us his entire life. Not that it made a damn bit of difference to him.”

  The old man put a hand on John’s shoulder. He looked down at it. The back of the hand was liver-spotted. Veins gorged with thick blood mapped the surface under parchment-thin skin, the knuckles swollen and scarred from the bite of sword through shield. Yet they did not shake. They were as steady and as strong as the man’s voice.

  “Be fair, Little John.”

  John bit back a growl.

  “Fair? You tell me, Old Soldier, was it fair for little Lord Longstride to abandon our lands? Was it fair that we fell under the reign of Locksley, just because Robin decided to piss off in this wood and play outlaw with sticks and string?” The men who had been cut free began to murmur behind them, their voices swelling in appreciation of John’s words.

  Old Soldier squared off against him, not threatening, but showing fearlessness in the face of the big man’s wrath.

  “You know the circumstance…”

  “Yes, I know! We all do.” His eyes narrowed and he leaned in. “Do you not remember burying little Becca and Ruth? We dug their graves, side by side, shoulder to shoulder. We buried the wee ones.” John’s heavy hand traced the sign of the cross. “God bless and keep them.”

  “What are you talking about?” Will’s hand was on his sword hilt, an unconscious reaction to John’s shaking rage.

  “I don’t have to answer to you, Scarlet. I’m a free man.”

  “Because we just freed you!”

  John said nothing. The pain ha
d passed, and now his hands simply remained clenched. He could feel the weight of his blood in them, the heaviness of his rage. He glared at Robin over the fop’s hat. Robin stared back at him, eyes flat and dark.

  He looks guilty, John noticed. Good. He knows what he has done.

  “If you are a free man, why did Locksley have you locked in a wagon bound for Kraeger’s land?” Will Scarlet asked.

  Old Soldier stepped forward. “Locksley took over Longstride Manor when Lord Robin—”

  “Don’t call him Lord.” John spat.

  “Don’t give me orders, Little John.” Old Soldier’s voice was even, patient. He waited a moment to see if John would reply. When the big man didn’t, he continued. “When Lord Robin left us. Locksley has occupied our land with soldiers, and taxed us heavily. This morning he gathered the eight of us, had his soldiers bind us, then informed us we’d been sold into the service of Lord Kraeger.”

  Robin spoke. “I didn’t leave you in slavery.”

  John lunged forward. “No, you abandoned us into it. Without a rightful Longstride to hold the land, Locksley came in under the Sheriff of Nottingham’s hand.”

  “He had no right,” Robin said, his voice low and menacing. “I’m still alive. Your homes should have been left alone.”

  “The Sheriff doesn’t give a damn what’s right,” John countered, “and he’s not the only one these days.” The men behind him grew louder, muttering their agreement.

  Old Soldier and Will Scarlet both moved toward him. Tension grew. John’s chest swelled as they did so, drawing in air, preparing to fight.

  “Stop.”

  The word cut through the air.

  Robin pushed past them. Both men moved aside, allowing him to step within arm’s length of John Little. The two men stared at each other, Robin looking up, John looking down.

  Robin spoke first.

  “I had to leave.”

  “You were a coward.” John’s face twisted in a snarl.

  “I did not mean for hardship to fall on you.”

  “I don’t care what you meant,” John replied. “I’m still here in this cursed wood, separated from my wife, and all because of your actions.”

  Robin took a deep breath. “When the pox took my sisters…”

  “Your sisters would be ashamed of you.” John’s voice was a knife. “I’m glad they’re in Heaven, and cannot see you now.”

  The words fell like thunder, leaving a brittle, hollow silence in their wake. No one moved. No one breathed.

  Robin’s fist lashed out.

  Viciously it smashed John across the face in a blinding burst of pain. Too quick for him to react, too fast to see it coming. One second the two men were glaring, the next he couldn’t see past a red wall of pain.

  His nose was broken. That much he could tell. He stumbled into the men behind him, the only thing that kept him from falling to the ground. They shoved him away and he went to one knee, his world a throb of red and black hurt.

  Weight struck him in the chest, riding him to the ground. Blow after blow clanged against his face, his neck, his head. His ears closed, the only sound he could hear was the smack of fist on flesh.

  After what felt like hours the hitting stopped.

  He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t lift the weight on his chest, couldn’t draw air past the blood in his nose. He blinked away panic, the world coming back into focus as he gasped air through his mouth.

  Robin was above him, one knee pinning him to the ground.

  The outlaw’s teeth were clenched, a bloody fist raised over his head. His face moved close to John’s. Teeth bared and a feral, fever glint in his dark eyes, Robin spoke, his voice low and dangerous.

  “Never speak of my family again,” he said. “I am not the boy you once knew.”

  Little John turned his head. His tongue worked and he spat a clot of blood into the dirt. He tried to speak, couldn’t. His eye pulsed, slowly swelling closed with every heartbeat. Swallowing the iron tang of his own blood, he found his voice.

  “You’re not the man, either,” he replied. “Try that again when I haven’t been beaten by soldiers, and the story will end differently.”

  Robin let go and stood. He looked at his hands, studying knuckles painted with John’s blood. He took a deep breath, let it out. With red fingers he pulled his hood back over his head, turned, and stepped away.

  Scarlet reached out to grab his arm, then clearly thought better of it, his hand hanging in the air.

  Robin paused. “Sell the swords, the wagon, and the horses. Give the money to the families of these men.”

  “I’ll see it done.” Will said.

  Robin nodded, walking toward the dim forest.

  “Gold won’t take away your guilt.” John dragged himself up from the mud, pushing through the pain, coming to his feet. “Walk away, Little Longstride, and leave us to fend for ourselves once again.”

  Robin kept walking.

  “What am I supposed to do now?” John bellowed. Tears streamed down his face. “I can’t go back to my wife. I’m an outlaw now, just like you. We all are.”

  Robin reached the tree line on the side of the road.

  “This is your fault, Longstride! All of this is your fault.”

  Robin didn’t turn.

  “Sherwood is not my forest.” His voice carried past the edge of the hood, over his shoulder. “Live here or leave, I don’t care. Just stay the hell away from me.” With that he melted into the trees, leaving John to his rage.

  He turned on the man with the feathered hat. “What of you, Scarlet? What call do you have to be helping an outlaw, when the nobles think you’re one of their own?”

  Scarlet went pale, but whether from fear or rage John couldn’t tell. Nor did he much care at that moment. His life was already over.

  Old Soldier reached out a hand and touched him on the arm. John wanted to snap at him, but his respect for the man held him in check. Old Soldier had been a King’s man in his youth, but more than that no one knew of him—not even his name. John had seen him once or twice as a boy, when the king would pass through the land visiting landholders and their people. The man he knew now as Old Soldier had been never more than a step away from the king’s side.

  Years ago, not long after John had become a man himself, Old Soldier had come to Longstride Manor and taken up a plot of land, working side by side with the rest of them. His actions always spoke louder than any words. He was a friend to the people, and wiser even than he was old. John had never seen him without his mail shirt on—not even in the field.

  Finally Scarlet replied. “He is my cousin,” he spat out, “and he’s right, this is a free forest. When was the last time any of you could ever truly say you lived as free men, who did as they pleased?”

  There was muttering among the other men.

  “Never,” John snarled. “And no matter what you or that outlaw think, we’re still not. Free men could go home to their families.”

  Scarlet narrowed his eyes. “If you can’t go to your families, maybe you should consider bringing your families to you.”

  “We can’t live in the forest,” John protested.

  “We wouldn’t be the first who had,” Old Soldier rubbed his grizzled chin thoughtfully.

  He was right.

  John knew it—he just didn’t like it.

  They had no other choice. They couldn’t risk endangering their families by returning home. Yet maybe, somehow, someday they could bring their wives and their children to be with them. For now, though, they had to stay away.

  “But everyone knows Sherwood Forest is haunted,” one of the other men said, fear making his voice quiver on the edges.

  “It is haunted.” John put his head in his hands. “Haunted by us.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The fire popped and spat tiny embers toward his legs. They didn’t reach him, burning out before they could. The flame had died to little more than coals, leaving the room dark. He leaned on the mantle, chin on
his arms as the remaining heat radiated against the front of his body.

  The edge of the mantle had been worn over time, the cedar under his forearms rounded instead of an angled block, the wood fibers smoothed to a slick, hard surface with no splinters. His father had stood in this very place almost every evening, his big arms crossed, mighty head bowed so that his shaggy beard, uncut for decades, could hang and sway from the up current of heat.

  His father had taken up so much more room at the mantle. His own arm didn’t fill the worn-in place, just as the man didn’t take up as much room in the kingdom as his father had.

  A noise, a shoe on flagstone floor.

  “What do you want?” He didn’t turn. He’d had one too many whiskeys, and felt no need. Not in his house.

  “Lord Locksley,” a voice said. “Forgive the intrusion…”

  “Finish intruding before you ask forgiveness.”

  The voice behind him faltered. “Lord?”

  He turned then, shoulders rolling on the front of the mantle as he brought his face around to see who had interrupted his reverie. A man he did not recognize stood by the door to the study. A heavy wool cloak wrapped him, covering floor to throat. The cloak’s blood-red color, dark in the shadows, marked him John’s, the sitting king.

  Locksley waved his hand. “Get on with it.”

  The king’s man nodded. “You are required at the castle.”

  “Why?”

  The man blinked. “Why?”

  “Why?”

  More blinking. “Why?”

  Instantly Locksley was across the room, hand wadded in the man’s cloak before he could react. He pulled the man close.

  “Say ‘why’ one more damned time.” Locksley shook him, and the man shoved back with all his strength, breaking free. He stumbled away, fumbling under the edge of his cloak to grab the hilt of his sword.

  Locksley held up a finger.

  “Don’t make that mistake, laddie,” he said. “I’ll gut you here, and feed you to a pack of wild dogs.”

  The king’s man stopped, hand flexing and unflexing on the hilt of his sword.

  “Let it go, son.”

  The man dropped the edge of his cloak.