The Two Torcs

by Debbie Viguié

“Why am I being summoned at this late hour?” Locksley said, and he waited.

  “I was ordered to fetch,” the man said angrily, “not told why.”

  “Then feck off with you.” Locksley turned away in dismissal. “I’ll be along shortly.” Again the sound of shoes on stone, and the door closed behind him.

  The room grew silent, save the crackle of the coals.

  Locksley sighed.

  “You may as well come out, and get it over with. I know you are skulking in the shadows.”

  Robin stepped to the edge of the dull orange glow.

  It had been months since Locksley had set eyes on the younger man, the last time when he’d laid his claim to his land. Robin set fire to Longstride Manor as he disappeared into the depths of Sherwood. He’d been more than a boy then, but not much more.

  Before him stood a man pared down by survival. Robin had grown shaggier, his dark hair hanging down along his shoulders, the edges raw cut by knife instead of shears. Hollow cheeks had been shaved to hard edges by living as an outlaw. Dark clothing made him a shadow in a shadow.

  He had the look of a winter-starved wolf.

  “Clever using the other man’s entrance to cover your own.” Locksley picked up his cup and took a sip.

  “Why did you sell my men into slavery?”

  “You waste no time on pleasantries.”

  Robin stepped closer, the light casting up over his features.

  He has her eyes. The color is wrong, but the shape is right.

  “There is no room for polite conversation between us.” Robin scowled. “Answer the question.”

  “They aren’t your men,” Locksley said. “You abandoned them. I bought the property.”

  “They aren’t property. They are free men.”

  Locksley slammed his cup down. “They are responsibilities! Mouths to feed. You didn’t plant enough, and the fire took part of what you did. Between the lack of harvest on your piddly land and the taxes levied by the throne, there is not enough. Kraeger needs strong backs, and he had good gold to buy them. I now have fewer people to feed, and more money to care for the wives and children.”

  Robin snarled, a low animal sound that rolled out of the left side of his mouth.

  “Don’t pretend to be noble,” he said. “You act only out of spite for my family.”

  “I bought the land out of spite,” Locksley acknowledged, and he lifted his chin, “but I made the hard choices out of nobility, and because they were the right choices to be made.”

  Robin stood there, quivering in the half-light, fists tight by his side.

  “You run at the call of your master, John the Usurper,” he said. “You support his abuse of the land and the people. How dare you claim nobility?”

  “You’ll learn one day that noble is not just how you are born, but how you act,” Locksley said. “Abandoning your responsibilities isn’t noble.”

  “Kissing arse to a tyrant isn’t either.”

  “Staying alive is the first rule.”

  “I’ll take my freedom.”

  Locksley barked out a laugh. “Surely your freedom has been terribly cold and hungry this winter.”

  Robin’s eyes glittered in the firelight. “I’m going to kill you.”

  Locksley’s guts turned to iced water. He saw the sword hilt jutting off of Robin’s hip, and his mind measured the distance between them. As he did, he cast back to the day he’d gone to collect taxes at Longstride Manor.

  The planks shook under his feet. He threw himself sideways, shoulder hitting the boards as a hurley crossed the space where his skull had just been. He rolled, stopping in a crouch, sword halfway drawn from its scabbard.

  Robin stood in front of the door, hurley in hand and swinging back for another try. The planks still vibrated where the boy had dropped from the roof of Longstride Manor. He was bare-chested, filthy from the waist up, his dark hair matted with dirt. He looked like an ancient Pict—dark, savage, and full of murder.

  Locksley felt the whiskey in his own blood, dulling him.

  No, he thought, I’ll never close on him before he cuts me down.

  Locksley stood straighter. “You will be hunted down.”

  Robin chuckled. “I’m already hunted.”

  “Then do your dirty deed, low-minded savage.”

  Robin shook his head. “You buy your life with the bread you feed the families of Longstride land. Care for them while the traitor holds the throne. They are your ransom from my wrath.” He stepped back into the shadows. “But sell anyone else into slavery, and you won’t see the arrow until it is jutting from your chest.”

  He made no sound as he disappeared into the shadows.

  It took several moments for Locksley to be certain he was alone in the room. He lifted his cup with a trembling hand, and drank the rest of the whiskey it held.

  * * *

  Will felt pity for Old Soldier and the others—even John Little. Being cut off from their families was not what they would have chosen for themselves, but they were out of options. Men without options were desperate men, and often given to doing things that were ill-advised and rash. He knew as much from his own situation.

  “Come with me,” he said. “I know a place in the forest where you can build camp. You’ll be safe there.”

  Little John spat on the ground, and looked as if he might be ready to say something more, but Old Soldier stepped forward.

  “Take us there,” he said in a calm voice.

  Will had learned early on in life that the quiet ones were the ones who always bore the most watching. Old Soldier was a man with whom he would never want to cross swords, and he was grateful for his cooperation now.

  He indicated the two horses that had been pulling the cart.

  “Take them with us,” he said. “You can take turns riding, and a good horse is a useful thing. Take the merchant’s horse, as well.”

  Two of the men quickly set about freeing the beasts. Once they had done so, the men looked around at one another.

  “What’s wrong?” Will asked, eyeing the guards and wondering how long before they started to wake up.

  “We don’t know how to ride,” one of the men finally confessed.

  Old Soldier turned and mounted the larger of the two beasts with ease.

  “I’ll teach them,” he said.

  One of the men took firm hold on the bridle of the merchant’s horse. Little John took the lead rope of the other cart horse.

  “Until then, we’ll walk,” he grunted.

  Will tried not to stare. The horse was a big one, built for heavy labor, and yet Little John was so large that he made the horse look more like a child’s pony.

  “Suit yourself,” Will muttered, turning his own animal’s head deeper into the forest.

  Old Soldier walked his mount a couple of paces behind, allowing Will to lead. He couldn’t help but notice that the grizzled old man, though he likely had not been on a horse for years, still had a more relaxed seat in the saddle than Will himself did. It was enviable.

  The place he had in mind was a few hours’ hike into the thick forest, far enough that they would not be found. Only Robin and his allies ventured so far in. With each step they traveled, though, he could feel the unease growing, like a steady itching on the back of his neck.

  When he could stand it no longer he turned in his saddle and glanced back at them.

  “What’s wrong?” he demanded.

  “The forest is haunted,” one of the men said, his voice low, his eyes darting.

  Will shrugged. “Leave the haints and the fey alone, and they’ll leave you alone, as well,” he said. “They want even less to do with you than you do with them.”

  “How can you be sure of that?” Another man spoke up, somewhat fearfully.

  “Have you seen what an ugly lot you are?” Will asked.

  They stared at him for a moment, blinking, then to his surprise Little John was the first to guffaw at this quip.

  The others followed s
uit until all were laughing. With a small sigh of relief, Will turned forward again.

  “You got lucky,” Old Soldier commented, softly enough that only he could hear.

  “I was counting on my luck to hold,” Will replied. “Besides, a man who has lost his sense of humor has truly lost everything.” He paused, then added, “They’re going to be alright.” He knew perfectly well, however, that he was trying to reassure himself.

  “I’ll help train them,” Old Soldier said, his voice still soft.

  “Train them for what?” Will asked.

  “For war,” the old man answered. “That’s where all this is headed, after all.”

  Will shook his head. “I hope it doesn’t come to that.”

  “But it will, and hoping one way or another won’t change anything.”

  “What will you need?” Will asked. He wasn’t ready to admit that Old Soldier was right, but at the very least it would give these men something on which to focus. That was a very good idea.

  “We could make some weapons—bows and arrows, staffs—if we had the tools to cut the wood. Beyond that, swords. As many swords and knives as can be laid hands upon.”

  “I’ll see what I can arrange,” Will said. “I’ll try to get some food to you as well.”

  “Unnecessary, we can eat off the land.”

  “Alright, then. I should be able to get some blankets,” Will said, thinking of how bitterly cold the winter was, even so early in the season.

  Old Soldier shook his head fiercely. “We don’t want them making a home. Home makes you soft. It’s what you fight for. The more comforts and luxuries they have, the faster they’ll forget that we are at war.”

  Will nodded slowly. “Tools and weapons then.”

  “Weapons, then tools.”

  Will indicated the bundle behind his saddle. “You can have the ones we took from Locksley’s men.”

  Old Soldier nodded. “It’s a start.”

  * * *

  When they finally reached the clearing, Old Soldier nodded as though satisfied with Will’s choice for an encampment. A creek bordered one side, and would provide fresh water. This deep in the forest, there would be an abundance of game. Tall grass, brown and brittle with the winter, bordered another section. It was close to where Robin most often spent his nights, since retreating into the forest. These men would need his cousin’s help and guidance, even if he wasn’t ready to take on that responsibility. And if Old Soldier was right, Robin would soon need their help as well.

  The men began to spread around the open space, exhibiting an assortment of emotions, until Will was getting that itching sensation on the back of his neck again. This time, though, he didn’t think it was because of the men themselves. He needed to go back, before his absence was noted.

  “I will not be able to return for several days at least,” he said, “but I will see to it that you get what you asked for, and as swiftly as possible. We are not entirely without allies. So, if you see a fat friar or a lanky bard, try not to hurt them. They are on our side.”

  Old Soldier nodded and clasped Will’s hand, a sign of respect. When they let go Will turned and rode quickly from the clearing, hating that he could not do more for these men who had been wronged by Locksley.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Some days Friar Tuck felt as if he didn’t have enough prayers to go around. There were so many in need. The poor were being devastated by the harsh, early winter, so soon after the pox, and having been squeezed nearly to death by King John’s tax collectors. He could no longer pray for them each individually—there were too many. That hurt him deeply. Even worse, the majority of his prayers dealt with greater issues—the defeat of John, the return of Richard, the safety of those who fought for the realm. His knees hated the cold stone floor, yet he spent more and more time on it, praying with his heart and soul.

  “Friar, are you alright?” It was a quiet little voice, interrupting his latest devotions.

  He opened his eyes and found a child staring at him wide-eyed. It looked to be a boy, judging from the clothes and the haircut, but it was really Lenore, a girl orphaned by the tax collectors. Her father had been a well-respected merchant, and her mother a kind soul. Friar Tuck had taken Lenore in, disguising her for her own safety. There was too much darkness in the world these days, and he couldn’t risk others taking advantage of her simply for who she was.

  “Yes, I’m fine,” he assured her. “Is there something that is troubling you?” he asked, heaving himself up off the ground and staggering for just a moment as he realized that his left foot had fallen asleep. He gripped the back of one of the pews, and stomped to awaken it.

  “A man is asking to see you,” she replied timidly. “He wears the fanciest clothes I’ve ever seen.”

  Will Scarlet. Tuck would wager just about anything on that.

  “Fetch him in here,” he said, then he moved to the back of the chapel, where there was a small alcove. Lenore left and quickly returned with Will, who looked to be in as sour a mood as Tuck had ever seen.

  “Thank you, boy,” Will said absently. Lenore nodded, and then departed. Will glanced around and moved close to Tuck, his movements furtive.

  “I’m surprised to see you here,” the friar admitted.

  “Is there someplace safer?”

  Tuck shook his head. “I’m not certain there is one,” he said. “One of our brothers is missing, and it bodes ill. The cardinal is concerned… but, that is not what has brought you here.”

  Will glanced around and then dropped his voice. “We… liberated a group of men who had been sold into slavery on Locksley’s orders. I have relocated them to the glen where we have met on many occasions prior to our… adventures. They are in need of supplies, but all they wish for are tools and weapons.” He paused a moment, then corrected, “Weapons, and tools.”

  Friar Tuck frowned. “No clothes, blankets, or food?”

  “No. There is one among them, Robin only ever called him Old Soldier. The man insists that we only send weapons and tools. He sees a war coming, and he wants to help, train the men to fight when the time comes.”

  A chill touched Tuck’s spine. He marveled for a moment at the fact that he had been moved by what King Richard had said, so long ago, and had been ready to follow him off to war, had the cardinal not forbidden him from doing so. It turned out that he’d had no need to go off to war, since war seemed insistent on coming to him.

  He took a deep breath. “I will do what I can. The tools will be easier than the weapons.”

  “I told them to expect you.”

  “I’ll take as much as I can gather right away. They will be in need of comfort, as well, and spiritual counsel. Regardless of what the man said, I’ll take some blankets, and our woolen robes. There’s no reason they should have to pass the first of many cold, lonely nights in the forest without someone to ease their minds, and help share their burdens.” Then he added, “A little ale might help to warm their bodies and lift their spirits as well.”

  “So long as it is not all drunk before you arrive,” Will commented with a small smile.

  “You mind I don’t box your ears,” Tuck said gruffly, but the smile just broadened.

  “I must be off,” Will said. “John will be wanting to see me. I’ll have to tell him that there is indeed an outlaw haunting Sherwood, and that Locksley isn’t just making that up.”

  “Be careful, Will,” Tuck said, placing a hand on the other man’s shoulder. “I worry for you and Marian, every day, in that nest of vipers.”

  “So do I,” Will said with a sudden, intense seriousness that was unusual for him. “Sometimes I have nightmares…” He drifted off, and then shook his head, clearly not wanting to discuss them. “Suffice it to say, the sooner King John is off the throne, the better.”

  Tuck nodded, his concern deepening. He knew what it was like to have disturbing dreams. He knew how much worse it could be when they sometimes came true.

  * * *

  It was w
ith a great deal of reluctance that Will rode away from the monastery.

  Every time he left the castle, he returned with an even greater feeling of dread, and his stomach was already in knots even before he drew anywhere near the keep. He was playing a dangerous game with John, and every day he prayed to God it wouldn’t be the day that he lost.

  The fear and anxiety caused by his role as spy, combined with the ever-increasing sense of evil that permeated the place, were taking their toll. He did his best to keep up appearances. Robin, Marian, even the good friar needed him to be strong, indeed merry. It did no good to let them see the dread in his heart, as it would only add to their own.

  It used to be that Alan-a-Dale could be counted on to raise people’s spirits. Of late, though, the bard had taken it upon himself to fill the role of truth-teller, or soothsayer. That was all well and good, but sometimes what people needed was hope. Even if it was a lie. Though he kept his horse at a walk, Will arrived at the castle far sooner than he would have liked. He felt his chest tighten as it came into view. By the time he arrived in the forecourt, though, a fake smile was firmly in place. He tossed the reins to a stable boy, and then sauntered into the castle with as much arrogance as he could muster.

  He encountered the steward almost immediately, and the man quickly led him into John’s presence. The prince was at his desk, poring over some documents. He looked up as Will approached, and smiled in the way that made Will’s blood run cold. It was like watching a serpent trying to smile, and knowing all the while that it intended to kill you.

  “Leave us,” John told the steward.

  The man bowed and then left the room—perhaps too readily. Will wondered for a brief moment if he was lurking just outside, listening to their conversation. Then he dismissed the thought as irrelevant.

  “Well?” John said, leaning forward eagerly.

  “There is indeed an outlaw,” Will reported, “one of impressive physical prowess. Locksley is not making that up, and he stole the entire shipment. Once I had ascertained that the Hood did exist, I didn’t waste time beating a hasty retreat. I wasn’t about to risk my neck, not without first being able to tell you what I saw.”