“But I saw him doing magic, when he didn’t know anyone was watching.”
* * *
Friar Tuck was frightened. He had never had to face a magic user by himself before. He didn’t particularly want to do so now, but he refused to put either Marian or Will in harm’s way, nor would he risk the life of any other innocent.
He wished the cardinal was there. He prepared himself by kneeling in prayer for nearly an hour, girding himself for the battle to come. He had a dagger up his sleeve, and he’d sprinkled it with holy water just to be on the safe side.
At last he rose. The time had come. To delay anymore risked too much. He walked around the clearing until he found Ean. Finding the boy, he forced a smile onto his face.
“Hello, Ean.”
“Good day, Friar,” the boy said hesitantly.
“Settling in alright are you?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” Tuck continued. “You’ve been here long enough it’s time you started taking a sentry shift. Don’t worry, though, it’s not too hard. A lot of standing around staring and trying not to act too bored. Let me walk you around and show you all the things you’ll be looking for.”
“Okay,” Ean said. He still looked hesitant.
Friar Tuck put a hand on his shoulder, and Ean flinched at the contact. A wave of nausea rolled through the monk, but he refused to give any sign. Casually moving his hand, he pointed toward the one side of the clearing.
“Let’s start over there,” he said. In the distance he could hear Alan starting to play his harp. It was a haunting melody that pulled at him. It was distracting, but he was grateful that his friend was feeling well enough to play. They moved out of earshot of anyone in the camp, and Ean turned to him.
“What are we looking for when we stand sentry?”
“Mostly we’re keeping watch for strangers coming our way,” Tuck replied. “Oft times they’re folks needing help, like everyone here. We wouldn’t want soldiers or the Sheriff’s men surprising us, though.”
“That would be... bad,” Ean said as though struggling to complete his thought.
“Yes, it would. Ordinarily it’s best to stand at the edge of the clearing, although I’ve found it can be quite helpful to stand just inside the trees themselves. One hears and sees things a bit differently there,” Tuck said, watching the boy’s reaction.
“Like what?” Ean asked quickly.
“Like ghosts,” Tuck said as they stepped into the trees.
Ean looked at him sharply. “You believe in ghosts?”
“Yes, ghosts, fey, all of it.”
“Have you ever seen any?”
“Ghosts? One or two.” They were out of sight of the clearing. Tuck’s mouth was going dry. He didn’t want anyone to witness what was about to happen. On the other hand, if he ended up in trouble, there was none that could see to help him. He was on his own.
He moved his arm and the hilt of the dagger slid into his palm.
“What about fey?” Ean asked intently.
“Fey? I know they’re here.”
“Yes, but have you seen one?” There was an intensity to the boy’s questioning. It would be good to know the reason behind it.
“Why are you so interested in the fey?” he asked. “Most folks would prefer not to think of them and to leave well enough alone.”
“My father saw one once,” Ean said. “He told me about it. I’ve always wanted to see one ever since.” He was lying. Tuck could read it in the boy’s face. He might be evil, but a practiced liar he wasn’t. They could still hear the music from Alan’s harp. It seemed to rise in volume and made a buzzing sound in the air around them.
Ean narrowed his eyes. “What is the bard doing?”
Friar Tuck stared. “I think the better question is what are you doing?”
A knife suddenly flashed in Ean’s hand, and he slashed out with it. Tuck gave a shout and lunged to the side, producing his own weapon. A thick liquid dripped off the boy’s knife and the friar’s heart skipped a beat as he realized it was likely poisoned.
“Tell me where I can catch a fey,” Ean hissed, his face contorting in a snarl.
“Why do you want one so badly?”
“Their life force protects this land.”
“And the Sheriff intends to do what, use one in a ritual to help destroy us all?” Tuck guessed. “What will he do to you if you can’t get him one?”
He stalled as he tried to find an opening. The boy hunched over, making a smaller target of himself. Tuck meanwhile was painfully aware of what a large target he presented. He had expected the boy to lash out at him with magic, not a blade. Otherwise he would have brought a sword with him instead of a dagger.
Better to have struck while we were walking, before he knew what was coming, he lectured himself. It was too late for that, though. At least he knew what the boy’s purpose was. Hopefully he would live to share that knowledge.
He feinted but it didn’t work. The boy kept eyes fixed on him.
He knows that he has the advantage, because all he has to do is scratch me. Tuck began to sweat, and it rolled down his forehead, stinging his eyes. He was going to die soon if he couldn’t cause the boy to make a mistake.
“You’ll never get your hands on a fey,” he said. “Even if you escape here, you’ll never be able to find one by yourself.”
“By myself? Who can show me?”
Tuck smiled. “Several here can, but they’re not going to.”
“Who? The bard?”
Tuck just laughed.
“The princess?”
Tuck forced himself to laugh some more.
“Who?” Ean demanded, becoming agitated.
“It turns out you asked the wrong brother,” Tuck said gleefully.
“What?” Ean stared at him in shock. His blade lowered slightly. Just as Friar Tuck was about to lunge forward, he saw a flash of movement behind his opponent.
“Yup, you asked the wrong person.”
A long, slender green hand snaked out of the brush, grabbed the boy’s wrist, twisted it and plunged the knife into Ean’s stomach. The boy shrieked and fell to his knees. The fey who had slain him danced around into his line of sight.
“I heard you were looking to catch a fey,” the creature said, wicked teeth bared in a snarl. “Perhaps you should have been more careful.”
Ean’s skin changed to a mottled gray, and then he fell backward, dead. Friar Tuck stood there, trembling as the fight left his body. The fey turned large eyes on him.
“We have heard the call.”
“The call?” He struggled to understand.
A girl creature covered in pink came out of the woods next. “Yes, your minstrel has played the song. It has been heard. He has called us to war.”
The song that Alan was playing. He had been calling the fey. In doing so he had saved Tuck’s life.
“Thank you,” he said, then he turned and ran.
The last notes of the song still drifted on the air when he reached Alan’s side. The bard’s eyes were dazed. Haylan sat beside him. The girl fey appeared at Tuck’s side, knelt down, and touched Alan’s cheek.
“He has given his life for the song,” she said.
“What?” Friar Tuck demanded, praying he had not heard her correctly.
She glanced up at him. “To play the songs of the fey, it takes more from a bard than knowing the notes to play. It takes a part of him, heart and soul, to give the notes the proper weight, to make them dance, to make them heard. He was dying, and with what he had left he has saved you by calling us.”
Friar Tuck spun. “Alan, no,” he said, falling to his knees in anguish. “Alan, no—I didn’t want you to die.” Haylan remained quiet by the bard’s side.
“He knows,” the fey said. “He also knew this was the only way. He says not to blame yourself. He dreamed of this day many months ago, saw the end at the start. He knew the why and the how, but not the when.”
Alan blinked up at him as if to sa
y it was true. With great effort he turned his head a fraction of an inch toward Haylan. He stretched out his hand slowly and pressed his harp into the boy’s arms.
“To you, young one, he is leaving his greatest treasure,” the fey continued. “I have promised him that we will complete your training, teach you the songs he could not.”
Haylan nodded, clutching the harp as the tears rolled down his cheeks. Alan turned his head back toward Friar Tuck, and his eyelids flickered. A smile found his face.
“He wants you to know that of all the people he has known his whole life, you are his favorite,” the girl said.
Tuck reached out and grasped his friend’s hand.
“You are my favorite, too,” he told him.
“He cannot hear you any longer, but I have told him.” She closed Alan’s eyes and then a moment later pulled her hand from his face. A shudder passed over his lean frame.
“He is gone.”
Tuck began to weep bitterly.
Marian ran up just then, flanked by several others.
“What is happening?” Jansa gasped, staring at the fey. The girl rose and turned to Marian. She bowed to her.
“Marian, Queen of the Fey, your bard has called. Your army has arrived.” She turned and swept her hand toward the tree line as out of it stepped hundreds of creatures, the likes of which no human had ever seen.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
The day dawned cold and bright. Marian could see her breath in the air as she rode toward the castle on an old nag of a horse laden down with pots and assorted tools for metal work. Her pants were very comfortable and it felt good to be astride a horse, even if it was one as disreputable looking as the bay she was riding.
After she had donned the costume and smeared her face with grime, Chastity had declared that no one would recognize her as a woman, let alone the princess Marian. That was good. Friar Tuck had lived up to his end of the bargain. Now if she could win the black arrow, she’d have lived up to hers.
They still didn’t know who the Sheriff planned to hang, furthering the suspicions that he was hoping to catch the Hood and his supporters at the gathering. There was nothing she could do about that, though. She just had to trust that God was on their side, and her army would be enough.
On the road she was joined by others heading to the festival. It was good that she arrive amidst others unknown to her. She planned on speaking only when absolutely necessary.
Many of her allies had departed the day before, to be in place for whatever was to come. Friar Tuck had dressed like a peasant. It was the only time she’d ever seen him in something other than his robes. Even when masquerading as the Hood he’d worn them beneath the cloak. He looked ridiculous trying to adjust to his breeches.
Haylan clung to him, pretending to be his son. Chastity had left as well, making a final round of the manors. No one was left behind. They didn’t want to risk the camp being discovered while the fighters were away.
Nor could they spare a single man, woman, or child. When the fighting came, all had the right to fight for their lives. Remembering the expressions she’d seen on their faces, she felt confident that they would.
Thomas had taken charge of two wagons carrying the parts of the trebuchet he’d managed to construct. It hadn’t yet been fully tested, but there was nothing to be done about that. They’d run out of time.
When the castle finally came into sight she felt a swell of emotion in her breast. So much had changed since she had fled it. Even if they were victorious today, it might never truly be her home again.
The ground to the left of the keep had been set up as the festival area. There she surrendered her horse to one of the stable boys who was caring for the beasts and presented herself to the man in charge of the games.
“Here for the archery tournament?” he asked, looking her over and taking into account the bow slung around her slender shoulders.
She nodded.
“You actually know how to use that thing?” he asked.
“Want me to plant some feathers in your chest to prove it?” She kept her voice hoarse. He rolled his eyes and wrote something down on a parchment.
“Contest starts at noon.” He pointed to a section of grass where targets were already set out. She nodded and turned to go.
Walking along, she watched the people around her, seeing if she could spy any friends in the crowd. She couldn’t, and it was probably a good thing. If she couldn’t find them, then neither were their enemies likely to do so.
Her stomach did a flip and she panicked for a moment, thinking that it might be the morning sickness rearing its ugly head. It settled within a couple of moments, though, and she realized that it must have been nerves.
As she walked she carefully surveyed the lay of the land, marking where everything was so that she could navigate her way through it all quickly, if the need arose. A stand had been built from which the Sheriff and Henry and their select others would be watching the proceedings. Most likely it was there the black arrow would be kept. At the start of the tournament they would display it as the prize the archers sought.
If they didn’t, then she’d have to assume Friar Tuck had been right—that they didn’t have it at all, or were keeping it safely hidden away. She’d cross that bridge when she came to it, though.
* * *
Friar Tuck was still raw with grief, and the chafing from his disguise did nothing to improve his mood. Still, he had his duty and performed it, walking through the festival, keeping a sharp eye out for anything that might be useful. He wished they could have planted weapons in various locations, but they hadn’t been able to plan that out properly. As it was each man of Sherwood was responsible for carrying in as many weapons as he could, and doing so discretely.
Tuck himself was carrying a short sword and four daggers. The boy at his side was carrying three.
“Do you think the… tinker will win?” Haylan asked.
“I hope so,” Tuck said. “At least I think I do.” Truth be told he wasn’t sure that the winner wasn’t going to have his head instantly parted from his neck, just for good measure. Now that the Sheriff knew the Hood was alive—or at least that his followers were carrying on in his stead—it would make sense for him to kill the best archer in the competition instantly.
He glanced at the sky. It was getting close to noon.
“Let’s go get a good place to stand and watch,” he said.
Haylan nodded and grabbed his hand. Friar Tuck squeezed it, wishing he had words of comfort for both of them.
* * *
A crier announced the beginning of the tournament and Marian stepped up to take her place among the men. It looked as if there were only about a dozen competitors. A magical black arrow wasn’t quite the enticement as the gold that tournaments usually offered. Some likely stayed away just because they didn’t want to be on the Sheriff’s radar. She couldn’t blame them.
The competitors were mostly peasants and farmers, from the looks of them. There were also three members of Henry’s army. Noticeably absent were any of the Sheriff’s dog soldiers, nor could any be seen on the grounds—although she was sure they were around in great numbers. The low number of entrants made her nervous, as each one would face greater scrutiny.
The Sheriff, Glynna, and Henry were introduced, and all took seats on the platform to watch. Glynna was carrying a pillow with something on it. She craned her head, trying to see. Before she could tell what it was, however, the Sheriff stood and all eyes turned to him.
“Thank you for coming to today’s... festivities,” he said in his oily voice. Just hearing him gave Marian a visceral reaction which she struggled not to show. Still she watched intently, hoping to see the black arrow.
“As eager as we are to proceed with the hangings,” he said with dark humor, “first we shall have a bit of competition. This is the prize these fine archers are shooting to win.” He reached over and picked up the pillow Glynna was holding. He hoisted it aloft and Marian sucked
in her breath. On it was indeed the black arrow still lodged in a chunk of the monster’s decaying flesh.
“It’s a magical black arrow, used not long ago to bring down Guy of Gisbourne,” he said. “A rare prize indeed. And truly priceless.” At his words Marian hazarded a glance at the other archers, wondering if any of them had any idea about the shaft’s significance.
“We begin with twelve contestants, from the look of it,” the Sheriff continued. “After the first round, half will be eliminated, leaving six. After the second round another half will be eliminated, leaving three. The final three will shoot for the prize.” He handed the pillow back to Glynna and stared back out at the gathered archers. “To make things even more interesting,” he said directly to the archers, “and to make certain you are trying your best, allow me to explain what it means to be ‘eliminated.’”
A sudden sick feeling seized Marian.
“The losers,” the Sheriff continued, “as in the first nine to be eliminated, will be hanged this afternoon.” He paused for effect, then added, “Best of luck to you all.”
The contestants all looked stunned. Two men immediately turned and tried to escape. The Sheriff’s dog soldiers appeared seemingly from nowhere and grabbed both of them, returning them to their positions and holding swords to their backs. The message was clear. Anyone who lost would die later. Anyone who refused to compete would die now. Even Henry’s men looked disconcerted, glancing toward their liege, who only nodded. They looked away again, and all wore expressions of grim determination.
Marian’s heart was in her throat. There was no alternative plan that would enable them to steal the black arrow. She had no choice—she needed to win. Her life, the life of her unborn child, and the future of England might well depend on it.
“Archers to your marks,” the crier shouted. “The targets are currently set at twenty-five paces. Each man will be given three arrows for this first round. The best arrow will be counted.” He raised his arm. “Ready first arrows!”
Marian unslung her bow from her shoulders, pulled an arrow out of her quiver, and notched it. Her heart pounded in her chest as she sighted down the length of it.
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