“Sheriff, good morning to you,” he said, forcing his voice to stay even, but the Sheriff of Nottingham ignored him. His eyes slid over to the bard.
“What are you doing here?”
Alan bowed with a flourish. “Even a humble bard must take the time to confess his sins.”
“Get out.”
“Do not think you have power over me.”
The Sheriff bared his teeth. “I am the law.”
“No, I am the law.” Alan drew himself upright. “I am the law and the lore and the lyric.”
The Sheriff looked at him, his face gone from scowling to interested, as if he had never seen Alan before.
It made Tuck nervous.
He touched his friend’s arm.
“Thank you. I can handle this.”
Alan bowed again, picked up his harp, and walked away without a backward glance, leaving the Sheriff and Friar Tuck alone. Outside the door Friar Tuck counted at least a dozen soldiers, armed to the teeth. A heaviness was in the air and he dreaded to find out exactly what the Sheriff’s latest atrocity was going to be.
“I’ve been collecting taxes for John today, instead of Locksley,” the man announced.
“I see.”
“So many can’t seem to pay.” The Sheriff’s hand stroked his sword hilt, making the rings of his mail shirt whisper against one another like conspiring snakes. “Some will have to go to prison for this, of course.”
He held his tongue.
“Others I know once held certain items of value, trinkets and heirlooms that might be applied to their debt, but it seems many of them have been seized by a sudden fit of piousness, and have given these things to the church.”
It was true. Many of the people gave their most valued possessions to the church, rather than see them go to Prince John. It was the same in villages across the countryside. Tuck personally had helped dozens of families save their treasures in that manner.
“People give what they can to the service of the Lord.” He shrugged, palms raised.
“They give the church what they should be giving to me,” the Sheriff snarled, his mouth twisting. He looked feral, like a rabid animal. “I mean to get it back.”
At that he lifted his hand. Soldiers poured into the church, their boots shaking the floor, bodies shoving aside the wooden pews.
“What’s the meaning of this?” Tuck demanded.
The Sheriff spoke over his head, addressing the soldiers.
“Search the place,” he commanded. “Take anything of value.”
“This is the house of God!” Tuck protested. “You can’t do that!” He lunged forward to block one soldier’s path.
The soldier just drove his sword hilt into the priest’s stomach. Friar Tuck fell to his knees, gasping for air, fighting to keep his breakfast from spilling onto the floor.
“God lives in Heaven. He has no need of earthly things,” the Sheriff spat. “John, on the other hand, lives here on Earth, and his need is great. Move out of our way or—”
“Or what?” Friar Tuck demanded, struggling to his feet.
The Sheriff smiled. “Ask your friends at the monastery.”
Suddenly Friar Tuck realized there was a commotion outside the chapel. Shrill cries and shouts of alarm sang through the doorway. Terror flooding his chest, Friar Tuck shoved past the soldiers and stumbled outside.
The air was gray.
Confusion flared inside him.
Fog on a winter day? The cold, brisk air should be clear. Lord, how can this be?
His eyes searched, past the huts and the homes, past the road that cut through the countryside and up over the ridge. There, in the distance, he saw a crimson glow and a column of black smoke coiling like an angry serpent into the blue, blue sky. Then he knew.
The monastery is on fire.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
A fist smacked the side of Lenore’s head. It wasn’t intentional, just a clenched hand in the confusion of a panicked crowd, but it still watered her eyes and rang her ears.
She fell against a woman, bouncing off an ample hip. Taking a deep breath, and ducking her head, she pushed on.
The air grew thick with smoke, making it hard to see. Hard to breathe. She pulled her tunic collar up over her face. It helped, but a cough settled deep in her lungs, a tickle midway down her throat that she swallowed to hold at bay.
Someone dropped a bucket of water in front of her. It landed flat, sloshing water onto the dirt but staying upright. The hand that let it slip didn’t reach for it and without thinking, Lenore snatched it up.
Water to the fire… water to the fire… Have to help!
Her thoughts jumbled, confused and falling all over one another. Above people’s heads she could see the top of the monastery walls and the sooty black smoke that billowed into the sky. This was her home, the place where she’d lived for the last year. She had to do something to help.
The bucket was heavy, dragging her arms down, icy water splashing over her waist as the bottom of the pail bounced off her legs. Her feet slipped as she got closer, the heat of the flames melting the snow into a muddy slick around the walls. She shoved people aside with her shoulders as she pushed forward. The crowd parted and she tripped into the heat of the inferno, spilling the water over the slowly browning grass.
A black-armored soldier ran his sword through Friar Hanson, just three feet away from her.
She screamed as the blade folded the monk in half. Friar Hanson turned his face toward her as he lay over the soldier’s gauntleted arm. His mouth moved, but no sound came out, only blood spilled from his lips and onto his chest. Brown eyes, eyes that had been so kind as he taught her the basics of mathematics, fluttered then drooped half-lidded as their light went out.
Something broke in Lenore’s chest. It split wide, spilling a boiling torrent of rage into her. Screaming through clenched teeth she charged the soldier. He looked up in surprise as she swung the heavy wooden pail at his head. The hardwood rim crashed against his helmet with a clang that jolted all the way down her arm.
Shoving the dead monk off his blade he growled, the noise tearing through the roar of the flames behind him. He turned and backhanded her, the slap knocking her off her feet and driving the air from her lungs. The rough links of the mail glove tore the skin along her jaw.
Stepping over, he straddled her, one booted foot on each side as she lay in the puddle created by Father Hanson’s blood. Lit from behind by the inferno, he looked monstrous. Rage had flown from her with his blow, and now cold fear—colder than the muddy ground upon which she lay—settled into the marrow of her bones. He seethed above her, all glittering eyes, sharp teeth, and an evil blade that dripped the life of someone she knew.
Oh, God, please save me.
* * *
Alan-a-Dale’s eyes burned from the acrid smoke that stacked the air in layers. A woman stumbled in front of him and he snatched her arm, holding her up. If she went to the ground she would be trampled. She turned wild eyes up at him and jerked free. He watched as she ran. Trained by years at his vocation, his mind instantly began turning the incident into verse.
With trembling step and halting gait
The frightened deer made her escape
Running far and running free
From the fiery flames she did flee
It would go into his song, fulfilling his duty to record the inferno at the monastery, giving it a proper place in history… but later, much later. He filed it away, pushing the snippet to the back of his mind, then turned to look for Friar Tuck. He had to find his friend.
He’d seen the girl-child, Lenore, as she’d gone toward the garden around the back of the monastery, just outside the brick walls. He pushed and shoved in that direction, hands raised to protect the ancient harp strapped to his shoulder.
There, he thought, spotting her just ahead.
He’d seen the concern in Tuck’s eyes. The monk would be hunting for her, making certain she was safe, so he trailed after her, bumping
and shoving against the villagers who crowded around, some trying to help, most stumbling in shock and awe at the level of destruction.
The monastery provided an anchor to these people, offering stability and hope for something beyond the toil of life. It was the house of God, but also the hospital for the village, where the monks applied healing arts to body, heart, and soul.
Now it had been laid low by consuming fire.
He broke through the crowd. A wall of heat nearly knocked him flat, intense and merciless. Black-armored soldiers stood close to the structure, unaffected by the waves that threatened to dry the eyeballs from his skull. They used their blades to drive monks back into the inferno, hitting them with the flat steel like balls in a child’s game.
Faces split in wolf grin
Blood dript upon their chin
They lay flame to the house of God and all trapped within
Alan swallowed the acid that lurched into his throat. There was nothing he could do for them. He turned away, sick in his heart, moving along the front of the crowd, looking for the young girl.
He found her on her back next to a dead monk. A soldier crouched over her with murder in his eyes.
The Sheriff’s man raised his bloody sword, mouth twisted in a snarl. Alan took a step then stopped.
The girl was good as dead. There was nothing he could do. He was too far away. He had no weapon.
No weapon.
Slender fingers scrabbled at the well-worn straps that bound the yew-wood harp to his shoulder. They parted in seconds, releasing the instrument from its position of protection and honor. The grooves in the spine of the harp called to his fingers, the arch of the harp notched to lovingly cup his cheek. Thick callouses brushed across the taut strings made of brass, iron, silver, and gold. They hummed to life, the vibration buzzing through the bones of his face—not music, not yet, but the promise of it.
He did have a weapon.
The most powerful weapon of all.
He was a bard of the old tradition.
Woe be to the man who trifled with him.
Swimming through the heat, he moved toward the soldier. As he drew near his hand struck the strings, calling forth a razor-sharp chord. It rang out, and Alan felt the Awen spark inside him.
The music flew straight and true, striking the soldier. He jerked his head, black iron coif jingling ring upon ring, to look at the bard. Alan kept walking, fingers plucking out note after note. It was fuel to the fire of the Awen, stoking the furnace of the Celtic spirit inside him until it burned as hot as the monastery.
He was the Singer of the Song, the Keeper of the Truth and Law, the Voice of the People.
He was an awenydd, a bard.
His voice rose, spilling from his throat and carried across the distance by the music of the ancient harp. The soldier staggered. The world fell away as he sang of truth and light.
Melt away o’ wax of evil
Blow away o’ smoke of iniquity
Fall before the strength of
The Goodly-Wise and the Many-Gifted
Righteousness shall prevail over thee
And cut you off at the knee.
The soldier staggered with each line, hips folding and knees buckling. Lenore scrambled, scurrying away. Alan kept singing, power pouring off him with each note, with each chord he struck.
Finally the soldier crumpled to the ground, greenish ichor spilling from under his black iron helmet as he howled in agony.
Caught in the song, Alan didn’t see the blow that felled him.
* * *
Lungs burning and legs trembling, Friar Tuck reached the monastery.
It was a column of red flame and black smoke. Back at the chapel, when he had turned back from the doorway to accuse the Sheriff, he found himself alone.
The man had vanished. So he did the only thing he could.
He ran.
Soldiers were milling about, blades and firebrands in their hands. The flames trailed from the ends, as if not wanting to separate from the inferno inside the walls. Despair washed over him. This was his home—had been since his family had delivered him to the service of the Lord, the fourth son and one too many mouths to feed. He bore no malice for them. At this point in life he didn’t know them any longer. Any pain that came from their abandonment had been lost in his love for priesthood. This was his family.
The brothers here his kin and kith.
To see it destroyed left him gutted.
Knees weak, he began to fall to the ground before a sharp thought drew him upright.
“Lenore!” he shouted as he ran around the burning structure. The heat was nearly unbearable, beating at him through his coarse robes. Every doorway was blocked by flames. He could see no way in. Hanging out of one of the windows was the body of a monk on fire. He ran to help, but backed away when he realized the man, his brother in the Lord, was already dead.
The villagers milled about and he could hear the horror in their words. Their cries echoed in his heart.
Something had changed. As recently as a week ago, the Sheriff would never have done something this bold. Could it be true? Had he really made a deal with the Dark One? Or was there something he knew that the rest of them didn’t?
Fear clenched his guts.
Has King Richard been killed? Is John now our ruler, and the Sheriff free to do as he wills? As he passed the well house a low, bitter sobbing caught his attention. All around him people wept openly, but this was quiet, muffled, as though someone didn’t want to be heard. Listening closely, he followed the sound. A few feet away, behind the woodpile, he found Lenore—huddled in terror, bitter tears streaking down her face.
“Thank God,” he whispered, sinking to his knees next to her. “Praise be to Jesus, you weren’t in there, child.”
“It was the Sheriff’s men,” she croaked, her voice raw. “They taunted the monks, wouldn’t let them escape, and told them that all men of God had the same fate coming to them, or worse.” Her words struck him like a fist.
Or worse? What could be worse than this?
He shuddered at the very thought.
As he looked again at the flaming structure, at the body of his dead brother monk smoldering in the window, he couldn’t imagine what worse would look like. Lenore’s trembling hand caught his sleeve and he looked down.
Eyes wide and unblinking in shock the girl spoke, voice thin and thready.
“One of the soldiers tried to…” she began, and her words trailed off.
Fear caught in his throat. “What is it child? Are you hurt?”
“He saved me. The man with the harp. But…” She turned her head. “I’m sorry I ran away.”
“Alan-a-Dale?” Snatches of his vision flashed in his mind. He lifted her to her feet. “Where, child? Show me!” Lenore shook herself and took a deep breath. In her face he saw the determination he had seen before. The girl had a fierce spirit and it was coming to the surface now. She nodded once sharply and turned away, moving around the flame-torn monastery. Friar Tuck started after her, offering a prayer that they would not be too late.
* * *
The fire was glorious.
The Sheriff of Nottingham reveled in its destructive beauty.
Flames spit high in the air, smoke rolled across the ground seasoned with the roasted meat of holy men, and the air was spiced with fear, confusion, and agony.
It felt like home.
Soon it would be.
He swung down from his mount, sliding one hand on the sleek skin of the nightmare. The hell-horse nickered and stepped aside. Black-armored soldiers gathered behind it, forming rank. The inhabitants of the monastery were done for. Dumb villagers stood in a herd of mooing humanity, joined by a sorry lot of soldiers left from the Lionheart’s retinue.
He glared at them. Slaves to be subjugated, all of them. Terrorized into obedience. Fodder and food for the engine of King John’s reign under Hell’s authority.
Under his authority.
Soon and very
soon.
On the ground the bard pulled himself to his knees.
This one could be a problem.
He stepped toward the fallen minstrel. The bard looked up at him, eyes still glassy from the kick that had knocked him flat. Even dazed, the man’s hands clutched the harp to his chest, holding it above his own heart. The sight filled the Sheriff with hot rage.
Teeth clenched, he reached for the handle of the sword that hung off his narrow hip.
The bard’s eyes sharpened and grew wide as wicked steel slid from its scabbard with the sinister chime of metal on metal.
The Sheriff smiled. He was going to enjoy gutting this one, using his sword to carve the lungs from the bard’s chest. There would be no more song then. He would use the dark arts to keep the man alive, leaving only a mewling piece of meat when he was done.
He raised his sword.
“Stop! In the name of Christ Almighty, stop!”
Pain slammed into him from the left, crackling along the nerves under his skin. He whirled, looking for the one who would dare order him in that name. A friar ran toward him, wobbling on thick, stumpy legs. It was the one they called Tuck. The scrawny girl dressed as a boy was running beside him.
He swung his sword around, a wolf-grin appearing on his face.
“Fat friar, how do you like the hearth I stoked for you?” he said. “I made sure to laden it with the finest meat in the land.”
Friar Tuck stumbled to a stop, legs kicking along the scorched grass.
“You dare mock the deaths of holy men?”
“I dared to kill them,” he said, and he shrugged. “Mocking the act seems well within my rights.”
“Blasphemer!” the priest screamed, anger running down red cheeks in the form of tears.
“By my very nature,” he agreed, and he stalked toward Friar Tuck. “How does it feel to be the last priest in all of Avalon, fat man?”
The soldiers began to form a circle around them, eyes glittering red under black iron helmets.
* * *
The last priest. He blinked. Francis. Francis had been going to try to see Marian. What had they done to him?
“You won’t destroy the word of God,” Tuck managed to say around the lump in his throat.
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