The Two Torcs

by Debbie Viguié

  The sense of community, of bonded brotherhood, was unusual for a person of his profession, yet there was merit to it. Being tied to the plans of others was uncomfortable, though, even when he was exercising his gifts.

  Alan stood at the door of the stonecutter’s home. Much had described the family as having the poorest chance of surviving the winter on their own. When the stonecutter’s widow opened the door, and Alan observed her hollow cheeks and fearful, bloodshot eyes, he knew the young man had been right.

  One of the gifts that came with being a bard, a student of the old ways, was the ability to read people, to know the contents of their hearts. The woman before him did not believe she would survive the week, let alone the winter. For her, hope was in shorter supply than food.

  In Sherwood Forest there would be food and shelter, but it would not be an easy life. It would require each person to want to survive, to be willing to fight for it. There was no fight left in the woman he faced.

  There was movement behind her, and then her two sons stepped forward, curiosity drawing them like moths to a flame. Both were younger than ten, and both still had fire in their eyes.

  Alan swallowed.

  “My lady, I am here to help your sons,” he said. Most likely the woman had never been called a lady in her life, but she deserved the kindness, the show of respect, given what he was about to ask of her.

  “How?” she asked curiously.

  “The coming winter will be long and harsh,” he said. “I can take them someplace where they will be warm and fed, and will live to see it through.” He paused, to allow his words to sink in. Then he asked, “Will you send them with me?”

  Curiosity turned to understanding, and tears sprang to her eyes, but she nodded her head swiftly, evidence that she knew how dire their situation was.

  “Will you take them with you now?” The way she asked it said that she hoped he would.

  “Yes,” he replied. “Gather whatever warm clothes they have, and we will leave as soon as you are ready,” he said.

  She nodded and disappeared inside the house. The two boys turned to stare after her, then looked back at Alan, eyes wide.

  To her credit, the woman was swift, returning almost immediately with two small bundles. She handed one to each boy.

  “Audric and Haylan, you’re going to go with this man,” she said, bending down to look into their eyes. “He’ll take care of you,” she said, giving each of them a hug.

  “You aren’t going with us?” Haylan, the younger one, asked, a tremor in his voice.

  “No, I need to stay here, but I expect you to be good boys,” she answered, struggling to keep her voice firm. “Be strong for each other.”

  The older one said nothing, but Alan could tell by looking at his face that he knew he’d never see his mother again.

  The woman rose, dashing away a tear.

  “God go with you then,” she said to him, “and thank you.”

  “You are welcome,” Alan said softly, then he turned to the boys. “Alright then, follow me. We are going on an adventure.”

  Audric, the older boy, took the younger one’s hand and nodded. There were tears on his cheeks, but he was doing his best to be strong for his little brother.

  Alan turned and began to walk back down the path to the road. The boys trailed a step behind him.

  As much as he wished he could have taken the mother with them, the woman had given up all hope of living, and she would have been a burden they could not afford to carry—one that might have got them all killed. It was a hard choice, but it had to be made.

  That was why Alan had been chosen for this task. It would have been impossible for Cardinal Francis to leave anyone behind. The decision would have broken him. He wouldn’t have been able to do it. As it was, the bard breathed out deeply, exhaling his regrets.

  He couldn’t afford to have them.

  He wouldn’t let himself have them.

  This job was one he alone could do.

  “Where are we going?” Haylan finally asked.

  “Somewhere safe,” Alan said.

  “That would be nice,” the boy replied.

  “I don’t want to go somewhere safe,” Audric said. “I want to kill the Sheriff.” With that he lapsed into a sullen silence.

  I hope you never get the chance, Alan thought, though he did not speak. If you do, it will mean that we have failed. He forced himself to turn and smile down at the boy.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “There are plenty of dragons in this world to slay. I’m sure you will have your chance.”

  * * *

  The quarterstaff had always been Little John’s weapon of choice. Because of his size and strength, he could spin it with great speed and force. He could break another man’s bones and feel it in his hands when he did.

  It turned out that sword fighting, though also requiring speed and strength, was an entirely different skill and one that was much harder for John to master. The sword he held was short, almost like a child’s plaything in his hand, and yet its deadliness was driven home to him again and again by Old Soldier.

  A dozen shallow cuts leaked blood onto his skin. If it had been a warm spring day, instead of the cold of winter, his arms would have been red from shoulder to wrist.

  He lunged, shoving the sword forward at the old man, who casually flicked his wrist and parried, knocking Little John a half step sideways. Before he could pull back and slash at Old Soldier’s head, he had another burning cut on his forearm.

  “Dammit!”

  Old Soldier grinned.

  “Stop smirking, you old bastard.”

  “Why?” Old Soldier asked. “I’m enjoying this.”

  “When’s the last time you faced a worthy opponent?”

  “Not any time recently.”

  “If I got my hands on you…”

  “How likely is it that anyone will let you do that?” Old Soldier gave an amused cough. “Even the missus could keep you at arm’s length.”

  At that, John’s mind went immediately to his home. He missed his wife desperately, and the longing of it sounded like a church bell inside his chest.

  Old Soldier read the look on his face.

  “Soon, my friend.”

  “Not soon enough,” Little John spat bitterly.

  * * *

  Alan gave Audric and Haylan a nudge toward the campfire and the men who stood around it. A man with a crooked shoulder stood with him.

  They watched as both boys squatted by the fire. One of the other men there handed them each a turtle-shell bowl filled with stew.

  “They’ll have to earn their keep,” the man said. “That’s as we all agreed.”

  “They will.”

  “Shelter’s limited.”

  “They won’t take up much room.”

  “Food’s even more limited.”

  “It will be provided.”

  The man grunted.

  “What is your name?” Alan asked.

  “Aiden,” the man replied. “Aiden Peter’s Son.” He looked sideways at the bard. “Why do you ask?”

  “I want to report to Lord Longstride exactly who will be responsible for the safekeeping of those two boys.”

  “Well, now—”

  “He will be glad,” Alan continued, “to know you care so much that they will eat before you yourself will.”

  “I never said…”

  “No, you didn’t. I did.” Alan turned to walk away. “And a true bard never lies.”

  * * *

  Both men sat against the wall, soaked in sweat.

  Friar Tuck leaned against Cardinal Francis, his giant head against the stone.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “Thank Christ.”

  “Amen.”

  Silence between them grew.

  “It must have been the liquid I was struck with on that ship.”

  “That is what I assumed,” Francis said.

  “Will I be susceptible from now on?”


  “You will have to maintain spiritual diligence.”

  “That is a yes.”

  “It is.”

  “Fasting?”

  “Mayhap.”

  They fell to silence again.

  After a long moment, Friar Tuck pushed himself over a bit to make space.

  “Why did it happen to me?”

  “It was a spell. An attack by the enemy. As you may recall, it was aimed at Robin, not you.”

  “Yes, but why did it work?”

  Cardinal Francis said nothing.

  “Is it because of sin in my life?”

  Cardinal Francis said nothing.

  “Is it?”

  Francis sighed. “Sin can be a doorway to this kind of thing,” he admitted.

  “Is it—”

  Francis cut him off.

  “You indulge your appetite.”

  “It isn’t anything else?”

  “I would say not.”

  “Not even…?” He let the words trail off this time.

  “No.” Francis’s voice was firm as the stone beneath them.

  Silence came again, this time it held for a long time before it was broken.

  * * *

  “So, that’s it,” Tuck said. “We have no way to contact Richard.” He heard and hated the defeat that was so clear in his voice. “Nor Rome either, to warn her of what’s happening.”

  “Take heart, my friend,” Francis said. “All is not yet lost. It just seems that way.”

  “The true king of the land is needed here, in order to heal it.”

  “There may yet be another way to accomplish that very thing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It might be time to use the book.”

  Friar Tuck regarded his friend and mentor for a long moment, trying to find words with which to express his concern. As if reading his mind, Francis put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Do not be afraid,” he said softly. “It is for this very crisis that we sought out the book, and had the bard bring it here, instead of leaving it in Ireland.”

  “You knew?” Tuck asked. “Even then?”

  “I feared,” the cardinal answered. “And I knew that if my fears were correct, we couldn’t risk being cut off from so powerful an object.”

  “Taking it to Marian is a risk, and she’s already lost so much.”

  “Before the end,” Francis said, “sacrifices will have to be made. Each of us will need to prepare our souls for that.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Marian put down her cross-stitch and uttered a frustrated sigh. The thread had tangled and knotted, becoming unusable. She’d have to cut it out to continue the pattern. Even that was too much to ask of her distracted mind.

  Standing, she stretched and then moved across the room to the window. Scraping away the frost with her finger, she looked out over the top of Sherwood Forest, normally a verdant blanket stretching as far as she could see. It now lay black.

  She had been trapped here for three weeks, and longed desperately for freedom. The masons who built the castle long ago had cemented bars across the opening to keep the tower’s occupant from tumbling out. Installed for safety, they simply reminded her that she was a prisoner.

  The scrape of an iron bolt made her turn toward the door. Chastity bustled in carrying a tray with Marian’s supper on it. She was early, and she had an air of furtiveness about her. Leaving the window, Marian met her in the middle of the room.

  Voice hushed, she asked, “What’s wrong?”

  “There is a visitor here to see you.”

  “No one is allowed to visit me here,” Marian replied, and her eyes closed to slits. “Who is it?”

  “I don’t know,” Chastity said. “He wears a monk’s robes.” The young woman turned her eyes to the floor, and added, “but he keeps his face hidden inside a hood.”

  “A monk?” She wondered if it was Friar Tuck, with news from the outside. As unlikely as it seemed, it was as good an explanation as any. Marian looked down at the dressing gown she wore. “I’ll need to change.”

  Chastity nodded, mouth pulled into a tight line.

  “Give me a few minutes to prepare, then bring him in,” Marian instructed. Chastity turned to go, and Marian caught her arm. “Is there any word from Robin?”

  The younger woman shook her head, strawberry-blonde curls bouncing. “That gives me a bad feeling,” Marian admitted as she shivered, struggling to dismiss the thought. She shook her head, putting it away. “For now, however, there is a monk awaiting me in the hallway.”

  “Get dressed, milady. I’ll bring him in shortly.” Chastity turned and slipped out the door, leaving it unbolted.

  They were both taking a huge risk. Marian wasn’t allowed to have visitors, but if the monk had come to her, it must be important. From the wardrobe she pulled a demure dress, one she always reserved for mass. Before the tower, when she was permitted to go. She slipped it over her head, and it hung where it used to fit. Adjusting it as best she could, she stepped into well-worn boots.

  She picked up the shawl her mother made when she was a wee child, and draped it over her unbrushed hair. By the time the door swung open, she was at least presentable.

  The monk entered, walking with a stooped, geriatric shuffle, folds of simple brown cloth draping him from head to foot. He trundled in, head bowed, face hidden in the shadow of his hood, a shadow made darker by the flickering candlelight.

  Chastity stayed at the door. “I’ll keep watch, milady.”

  Marian nodded and the serving girl stepped out, pulling the door closed for privacy.

  Marian held her arms out in welcome. “Well met and God bless, Father. I am glad to see a servant of God,” she said. “What brings you to the castle?”

  The monk did not move. He did not speak. He simply stood, bent nearly in half, for a long moment. He appeared to be… listening.

  “Father?”

  Marian was about to speak again when the monk straightened and pushed back his cowl.

  Silver hair shone in a tonsure, a halo around his head. Their eyes met, and her heart locked inside her chest. This “monk” was the cardinal himself. There had to be a pressing reason for him to take such a risk. Her thoughts flew to Robin, filling her with fear that maybe something had happened to him.

  Her breath caught in her throat.

  The cardinal closed the distance between them and his hands gripped her shoulders. He looked down at her with eyes as green as Sherwood and still clear, despite his age.

  “It is good to see you looking well,” he said, and he smiled. “We knew that you had been imprisoned, but beyond that…” He let go of her, and stepped back.

  “You’re risking everything by being here,” she said, suddenly realizing that she was shaking. She stopped herself—just barely—before giving in to the temptation to lecture him.

  “Just listen,” the cardinal said. Marian tilted her head and he continued. “A very important time is upon us. I bring a mission from God to lay at your feet, a task that will require much of you, but it must be done.”

  “I’ve proven before that I will do all that I can, give all that I have,” she answered, “but as you see for yourself, I’m useless now, trapped here in this tower.”

  “You might be trapped at the moment, but you shall not be much longer here. It is dark days in Avalon, and you have been chosen for a time such as this. Your role is to be much changed… and will become much greater than what it has been.”

  Her heart began to beat faster.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Our rebellion is not working,” he said, sadness appearing in his voice. “The darkness is flooding in faster, and our efforts to staunch the tide are quickly becoming futile. There is more that can be done, though, that must be done. The Lord Almighty chose you before you were born.”

  He paused, but she didn’t know what to say.

  The cardinal stepped close.

  “Do you know the story of your par
ents?”

  Marian nodded.

  After all the years that had passed, the thought of them still made her chest tighten.

  “In your veins runs the blood of the original people of this isle, and the blood of their conquerors. You are the perfect embodiment of England—a true Celt with the bloodline of conquest. You are the truest heir to the kingship of Avalon.”

  “Me?” She was taken aback.

  His hand touched his chest. “I have been destined for the church since I was a child. My father was a priest before me, and his father before him, but grandfather converted to the truth of the church, from a life as a druid, the holy people of our ancestors. They foretold this day, and the crisis in which we find ourselves now.

  “I had my suspicions about you, always, and recent events have made things clear. My family has been looking for you throughout the ages. The darkness is falling and you are our only hope.”

  “Cardinal Francis, I’ve been trapped in this tower for three weeks,” she said. “How much worse have things become?”

  “The season is fully upon us, and the poor are starving to death,” he said. “We are doing everything we can, but they are too many, and we who would help are too few. The winter is bitter, the worst any of us—even the oldest—has ever known.

  “John and the Sheriff are growing bolder even as evil gathers around them. The people are oppressed, treated as chattel and slaves. Abused and robbed, they turn on one another. Desperation drives them to avarice, for the arms of sin always open widest to the hurting and the betrayed.

  “Across the land sorcery begins to rear its ugly head as witches and wizards and devil worshipers grow bold.” He took a deep breath and shook his head sadly. “Children have started to disappear in the night, and the signs show that if things continue unchecked, the Devil himself will walk the earth. It’s as if that day at the southern harbor was some kind of unleashing of all manner of evil.”

  Marian gasped in horror. She had heard him speak of the prophecies, the darkness they were facing, but it made her dizzy to hear how bad it had grown in such little time.

  “What can be done?”

  Reaching deep inside his robes he pulled out a dark square small enough to fit in his palm. It was a book covered with holy symbols and bound shut by a braided leather cord.