The Two Torcs

by Debbie Viguié

  “Mayhap not, little friar.” The Sheriff stepped close enough to touch the priest. “But I will destroy every mother’s son who speaks it.”

  “I’m not afraid of you, devil-spawn.” Friar Tuck’s hands clenched into fists. “Get thee behind me.”

  Pain flared across the Sheriff’s skin, a cold ache of righteousness. He snarled at it, shaking his head to clear it away. Then he leaned forward.

  “Fool! My men are already behind you.”

  Friar Tuck’s eyes widened as Lenore screamed. He turned to see a soldier clamp hands on her arms and lift her from the ground. She thrashed and kicked, trying to fight free, but his grip was steel and she only dangled, helpless. While he was turned, more hands closed on him. The Sheriff’s men had him and he could do nothing.

  The Sheriff lifted his sword.

  “I will cut off the body of Christ at the head, priest.”

  The sword swung back over his head.

  “And I shall enjoy every pulse of blood from the stump of your fat neck!”

  The blade flashed like unholy lightning.

  Two arm-length arrows punched through his chest, sinking to the feathers and bursting out the back of him in a spray of gore.

  The Sheriff looked down.

  “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  * * *

  Much couldn’t believe his eyes. The Sheriff didn’t fall!

  Instead he jerked around, the sword in his gauntleted fist thrown wide from the impact of Robin’s arrows, but he stood on his own feet.

  Friar Tuck pulled away and ran over to scoop up a boy and carry him to the bard, who had staggered to his feet. The soldiers that once held them turned and drew weapons.

  Much ran after Robin, trailing behind as they crossed the field. His eyes drank it in as Robin pulled arrows from his quiver and shot in smooth motion. The shafts flew faster than he could follow, streaking through the air to magically reappear, embedded in the bodies of the dog soldiers. By the time Much had run ten steps, Robin had dropped as many of the Sheriff’s men.

  People ran past, finally having seen too much. They fled to their villages to huddle and hide and see how things happened. One man knocked into Much and fell down. He tried to help him but the man scrambled away with a curse. Much looked up and saw that Robin had left him far behind.

  The hooded archer fired three arrows into the faces of three dog soldiers. Much could hear the hollow melon thunks as arrowheads sank to the back of iron helmets. Another black-clad soldier, this one too close for Robin to shoot, swung a mace. Rusted iron blades swirled off the hardwood bat, jutting like the poison teeth of a basilisk.

  Robin fell to the ground and slid under the swing, death-blades cutting the air where he had been. He slid to a stop, pulled an arrow, notched it, and sank it under the soldier’s armpit. It jutted out the other side of his torso in a jolt of black gore, hitching up the arm that held the club and making it drop the thing. The soldier took two steps and tumbled to the ground.

  Robin stood, his features still obscured.

  Then the Sheriff faced him, fingers touching the feathers that sprouted from his breastplate. He looked the same as before, cold, icy, imperious—more frightening with his face pulled into a sneer.

  His voice was smooth and fluid when he spoke.

  “So you are the infamous Hood who has been interfering with my tax collecting.”

  Robin said nothing.

  The Sheriff began to pull on the end of an arrow. It drew out of him slowly, pulsing blood around the shaft as it slid.

  “This hurts you know.”

  “If you remove it, I will replace it.”

  “I think you can see that it won’t matter. All you do is make me angry.” The shaft came out with a squelch. The Sheriff dropped it to the ground and moved his hand to the next. “Besides, you are out of arrows, archer.”

  Robin slung the bow across his shoulders. “I have more. They worked fine enough on your men.”

  “They will be lazy until sunset.” The Sheriff knelt, dropping the second arrow beside the first. He wiped his own blood off on the grass. Much could swear he saw it smoke and sizzle. His mailed hand closed on the hilt of the dropped sword and he stood. “If I let you live until then, they can join in your torture for the pain you put them through.” He shrugged. “Most likely I’ll carve your liver here, and have it for my reward.”

  Robin drew the sword hanging from the baldric at his side. Much had seen it earlier, made note of it because Robin never carried a sword. It was a yard of shining steel, heavy and thick with a hilt the size of a man’s fist. Dark markings ran up the blade, but he couldn’t read them from where he was.

  The Sheriff stalked forward, swinging his sword back and forth. It crackled in the air.

  Robin spoke, jaw set in a clench.

  “Help the others, lad,” he said to Much. “Get to the forest and run. I’ll catch up.” He glanced to the side. “Be brave!” He turned back to the Sheriff in time to raise his sword and block a thunderous blow that would have clove his head to the teeth. It drove Robin to the ground. He scrambled, swinging wildly with his own sword, seeking to get space.

  “Go!” he bellowed at Much.

  Much went.

  He reached Friar Tuck, the bard, and the boy. His hands closed on the rough wool robes of the priest.

  “Come on! We have to make it to the Forest. Robin said!”

  Friar Tuck planted his feet, jerking Much to a stop. Shoving the boy and the bard toward him, the priest spoke.

  “Take them,” he said. “I cannot leave Robin to face that devil alone.”

  Much pulled hard on Friar Tuck, using the muscles he had earned hauling full sacks of meal. He felt guilty and breathed the hope this wasn’t a sin.

  “Robin said we all should go.” Friar Tuck looked at him sharply. There was a black splatter of the Sheriff’s blood across his face. Much tugged again. “He said. He can beat the Sheriff, we have to run.”

  The bard laid a hand on Friar Tuck’s arm. “We should go.”

  The priest nodded and shouldered himself under the weakened minstrel.

  “Help with the other side of him, lad.”

  Much took the other arm across his shoulders. The bard clutched the harp in a white-knuckled fist. It banged against Much’s chest, making little humming chimes with each step as they began to cross the field to the forest.

  The other boy picked up a short sword that lay on the ground. Behind them Much could hear clanging steel and shouted curses. He couldn’t look back with the Bard’s arm over his neck, couldn’t bear witness to the fate of the man he looked up to so desperately. He could only obey and run.

  With each step, he prayed for Robin’s safety.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Robin was losing. The Sheriff was better with a sword than he was. He was faster, and possessed a strength unknown to mortal man.

  He cursed himself for not having the black arrow with him. He had not expected his visit to the miller’s family to be anything other than pleasant. Thus the arrow was safely hidden, deep within the forest. He would never make the same mistake again. The weapon that could bring both life and death would never leave him—not if he survived this.

  Still he swung his sword, blocking every blow as he kept losing ground, inch-by-inch. He was going to have to flee. That truth was a bitter taste in his mouth, a clawing in his stomach, but if he did not run, he would not live. The Sheriff wasn’t human, else the arrows would have killed him. If what the creature said was true, his men weren’t human either.

  Too long have we been fighting a human war against inhuman opponents, he thought fiercely. That must stop. He breathed a prayer, asking for strength, that God would let him live to protect those who could not protect themselves.

  Surely Friar Tuck and the others would have gained the safety of Sherwood. The mighty forest seemed to be the only thing that could stand in the Sheriff’s way. They needed to figure out why that was, how to extend its protection, and
how to prevent it from being breached.

  His opponent’s sword whistled past his head, nicking the hood and nearly taking off his ear.

  His arms were burning with the strain of parrying the man’s blows. Even as Robin retreated, step by step, he did so with purpose. Behind him lay the trees. He needed to draw the Sheriff closer to them.

  * * *

  Friar Tuck was exhausted and almost numb from shock when he, Much, Alan, and Lenore arrived at the camp. Their arrival was heralded by a lookout, and soon he was face to face with Old Soldier and Little John.

  “What has happened?” Old Soldier demanded, his voice like burnished steel, strong, resolute.

  “The Sheriff and his men burned the monastery,” Tuck said. “They killed… all my brothers.” The grief was there, raw and terrible just below the surface, but held in check by the dreamlike state he felt he was walking in.

  It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. How was Nottingham so emboldened that he could destroy the representatives of God? Was it because he knew they were cut off from Rome, and that the Pope remained unaware of how dire things had grown?

  Next to him Lenore wept quietly. Alan and Much were both silent.

  Little John had recoiled in horror, crossing himself. Even Old Soldier looked rattled.

  “The Sheriff, he’s a monster,” Much said quietly. “Robin shot him twice, arrows through the chest, and he did not even fall.”

  “Where is Lord Robin?” Old Soldier asked.

  “He sent us to safety,” Tuck answered. “He was battling Nottingham. The man truly is a demon, walking abroad by some dark magic, as Much said.” Guilt gnawed at his insides like a starving dog worrying a bone.

  “If that’s true, then Longstride will be dead,” Little John said, voice strained.

  Silence fell among them.

  “I’m not that easy to kill,” a voice spoke up suddenly.

  They all turned to see Robin staggering into the clearing, bloody and so battered as to be almost unrecognizable. Relief surged through the friar.

  “The Sheriff?” he asked, daring to hope.

  “He can’t enter the forest, just as we’ve heard,” Robin responded grimly. “Unfortunately, he’s also unkillable, just as the rumors have said… just like that bastard John.”

  Tuck thought of the black arrow. Before he could ask, however, Robin locked eyes with him and gave his head a short, sharp shake.

  Then Robin’s eyes drifted past Friar Tuck to fall upon Much. “If the Sheriff is to be believed, the soldiers we killed will rise again at nightfall.”

  Tuck’s blood ran cold at the thought, and he involuntarily crossed himself.

  “Did any of them see you?” Robin asked, addressing Much.

  “I don’t know.” The boy hesitated a moment and then nodded. “Some of the villagers did.”

  Robin nodded grimly. “Then we shouldn’t take chances. If one of the soldiers revives, and remembers you, they might look for you at home and focus their revenge upon your family.” He spoke the truth, and every man there knew it.

  “I’ll run straight home to warn them,” Much said, his face pale.

  “Take care that you are not seen,” Robin instructed, “and when you reach them…”

  “Bring them here,” Old Soldier said. “We can settle them in the forest with some of the others.”

  “What of you?” Little John spoke up, pointing a shaking finger at Robin. “Did the Sheriff or his men recognize you?”

  Robin shook his head. “I managed to keep my face disguised. The identity of the Hood should still be a secret.”

  * * *

  Much’s heart was in his throat as he ran for home. There was still plenty of daylight left. If the soldiers would wake at nightfall, then he should be able to reach home and get his parents to safety before any of them could remember seeing him.

  He was grateful to Robin for thinking of that. He never would have. He hadn’t even done any fighting, just followed Robin and watched in awe. That wouldn’t stop the Sheriff or his men, though. They were cruel. Less than men. Demons, as Friar Tuck had said.

  He held to the forest as long as he could before bursting out of it close to home. His feet flew down familiar paths that he had walked so many times, laden with goods to trade. His heart pounded harder and harder and his legs burned but he dared not slow down. They’d have just enough time to pack a few things before leaving. They wouldn’t want to leave their home, but they’d understand. He’d tell them Robin had sent him, and then they’d listen.

  At last the mill was in sight and his heart swelled with relief to see it standing. A moment later, though, something cold touched him. There was something wrong. The door was open wide. There was no smoke rising from the chimney, though it was growing even colder as the day drew to an end. A fire should be burning on the hearth for his mother to use to cook dinner.

  There was a stillness to the place that terrified him.

  He wanted to stop, turn, and flee back to the safety of the forest, but he couldn’t. He had to know. His feet drove on, running even faster up the path as his mind screamed that it was dangerous. It was as if he had no control over himself, like he was compelled to move forward.

  Then he smelled something burning… something terrible.

  He grabbed the edges of the doorway and jerked himself to a sudden halt. A moment later he crashed to his knees with a cry. His father lay, blank eyes staring at the ceiling, his shirt coated in blood. A few feet away his mother lay in the fireplace, her body half its normal color and half charred like a bit of meat fallen into the fire.

  He didn’t look away as he retched.

  Even as he did, though, his mind tried to work. The Sheriff’s men would come alive at night. They couldn’t have told the Sheriff that he had been there, and he was sure the Sheriff hadn’t seen him, his attention focused on Robin. Some of the villagers had seen him, a couple in particular. One of them must have told the Sheriff about him. It was terrible, unthinkable. They knew him, his family. They were friends. Yet the truth was there to see, no matter how terrible it was.

  Someone he knew had got them killed.

  He had to leave, before someone could come back, looking for him. His parents should be buried, and properly, but he knew deep down he couldn’t be the one to do it. He hadn’t the time. He needed to make his way back to Sherwood, and pledge himself to fight beside Robin and his men. Old Soldier would train him and he would avenge his parents.

  Much forced himself to his feet, tried to think through the haze that clung to his mind. He made it to his room, grabbed some clothes and his warmest boots. He wrapped them in a blanket from his bed. He moved back into the living room and he took his father’s axe from the wall. It was the only weapon his family possessed, though it had only ever seen use as a tool.

  He was about to go out the front when he remembered something else. He turned and stared at the small door that led to his father’s private room. It was like invading a sacred place as he opened the door now, stooping to get inside.

  With reverent fingers he took the boxes that held his father’s tobacco and the jug with the sweet, fermented currant drink that his father had shared with him but once. These were his now. He felt the weight of them in his hands, and another weight on his shoulders, like the remembered weight of his father’s hands.

  He closed his eyes, allowing the weight to work upon him. He could smell his father in this room, almost hear his rare laugh, and he couldn’t help but feel that he’d been given a blessing by the man who had given him life.

  Without a word Much turned and slipped from the room. Out of habit he closed the front door of the house as he left. Then he set his steps toward Sherwood. His pace quickened as he noticed the sun sinking toward the horizon. Night was coming. The demons would be waking up.

  The tears froze on his face as he walked back to the camp.

  THE MANTLE OF WINTER MOURNING

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Will spent the day workin
g on the plans for the feast King John would be hosting in just over a week’s time. Even as he ordered food and materials, and spoke to various household staff, there was an itching in the back of his mind.

  He convinced himself he was being paranoid, that Chastity’s fear had rubbed off on him. He didn’t know why he was putting such stock in the girl’s vision anyway—such things weren’t to be believed.

  Of course, as he was learning, he didn’t have to believe in dark things for them to be true. The girl had been so afraid, too. He had seen her express many emotions, but never abject terror. He had held her in his arms for many long minutes while she cried. Then it had taken everything in him to let her go when she was finished.

  Since then his thoughts had been on her more often than not. She was beautiful, her charms beyond dispute. There was a strength about her that fascinated him. Maybe it was because she was one of the few women who had never shown any interest in him. There was no denying that the chase could be an intoxicating thing.

  He sighed. Chastity was Marian’s maid and friend. Pursuing her was unwise. It might also prove impossible. If the rumors were true, then she was well-named. Will shook himself.

  He had pursued many an alluring female but none had so occupied his thoughts. Maybe when all this unpleasantness was behind them, he would consider it. Until then he had plans to make, plans to foil, and he still needed to figure out a way to frame the steward.

  * * *

  It was dark and there was only a sliver of a moon out when Chastity made her way from the castle. Fear washed over her in waves. Fear not for herself, but for the Lady Marian, whom she was leaving alone in a nest of vipers.

  Chastity was not accustomed to being afraid. All her life she’d been quick, clever, strong as a boy and twice as smart. Many a time she’d defended her name and her virtue with her fists and a good swift kick. More often than that she’d bested her opponents with her wits.

  Of late, though, the fear had been creeping in. It had started with the vision of the Hood dead, and his lady brought to woe. Even then she’d suspected that Robin was the Hood and Marian his lady. Having acknowledgement just made it all worse. She didn’t want harm to befall either of them. England needed the Hood. Even more it needed Marian, particularly if anything happened to King Richard, God save him.