This notion appealed; Robin couldn't deny it. Daniel had been a solid fighter and looked as robust and keen as he had in Sherwood long ago. Whether Robin decided to battle on with the fairies and Herne or return back north, it would be good to have his old friend at his side. The Elfaene's plan might be improved on if Daniel had some hold over Brock.
"Very well," he said, still guarded.
Daniel beamed, and his chin and cheeks dimpled. "Come on."
Through quiet byways, Daniel led Robin to the bailey wall where a water conduit tunnelled beneath. Robin glanced up at the battlements to check nobody's attention was on them. A man leaned over a turret a little way off, but he pondered the horizon and didn't look their way.
"Don't fret," said Daniel, gesturing that Robin should hurry. "All will be well. This inlet feeds the inner moat. We follow the flow a short distance; then a staircase winds up."
Bent double, they sloshed down the stream a few yards, the stink fetid and the darkness as thick as the Elfaene's magic. Daniel grabbed Robin's arm, pulling him sideways, then onto a ledge. From there, groping after his old comrade, Robin climbed narrow, winding steps slimy with lichen.
"At the top," said Daniel, "we'll come out into the chapel undercroft. It ought to be empty but let me check."
A warning voice tolled ever louder in Robin's head. Whether Daniel could be trusted or not, Robin tasted the bitter gall of danger. This was too straightforward, too easy. "No. I'll go first."
As he hastened to go by, Daniel lunged to push aside a drape at the end of the passage and stuck his head beyond. Robin gripped his dagger and braced himself for a quick retreat.
"All clear. Come through." Daniel's voice sounded little more than a breath.
Robin didn't move. Beyond the curtain, three steps led up into a low room, where yellow light filtered between stout pillars. Man-size shadows shifted on the flagstone floor.
A trap.
He turned, took one pace, and a grid of iron smashed down in front of him. Another step and the portcullis would have severed his foot.
Anger surged up, joining the burn of betrayal. Daniel closed in, and Robin punched him in the gut. Daniel reeled, then slammed Robin back against the slippery wall. Robin shook off the pain, tempted to stab him, but a flash of wild grief restrained him. Seizing each other, they grappled as one. Robin tried to keep the fight from advancing, but Daniel was no common opponent. Daniel steered him up the shallow stairs into the undercroft with rapid blows and a shoulder to the chest, his ferocity undermining Robin's defences. Two waiting guards grabbed Robin from behind, pulling him off Daniel and snatching his knife.
He strained to escape but understood when a cause was futile. He was outnumbered three to one. Another man barred the exit. The far end of the little chamber had been daubed with a painting of the Wheel of Fortune. Robin couldn't help sympathizing with the fallen sinner, who'd been crushed beneath the ever-turning circle. Fixing on Daniel, he forced bitter words. "You're Odo's servant, aren't you?"
Daniel's countenance was unchanging. From a stoop near the door, he splashed holy water on his flushed face. "My master has sought you all over the land. He's had men watching John and Will—they're only alive because of you, in case you came to them."
Daniel stepped near, and they stood toe-to-toe, as close as the lovers they'd once been.
"Why? You were once the staunchest of men."
Daniel pinched the rich fabric of his mantle. "Hearts change."
They did indeed.
Fury quaked through Robin. How dare his friend come between him and Cal? He needed to rescue Cal, to put things right, as surely as he required air to breathe.
Or maybe he was fooling himself.
He wondered if there was truth in the Elfaene's accusation—he was a tender-hearted, trusting blockhead, getting what he deserved in a world of cheats.
His old friend gave a familiar chuckle. All Robin saw was yellowed teeth, and he wanted to punch them in.
"Yours is still the finest arse I ever swived." Daniel clapped him on the shoulder. "Come on, old chum."
*~*~*
The torturer looped his thumb and forefinger about Cal's wrist. When he chuckled, phlegm cracked in his throat. "You're a puny one, but don't ye worry." After dropping Cal's arm, he pinched Cal's cheek and twisted. "I got sizes to fit all."
His jailer was stout as a bull, tall and bare-chested, his layer of brawn thickened with a pasting of fat. He reached into the canvas bag he'd brought to the wine store when Odo summoned him, pulled out some shackles, and slapped them on. They were a snug fit, mottled with rust stained the colour of dried blood. The torturer slammed another pair about Cal's ankles and grabbed the scruff of his tunic just as Cal's legs gave way beneath.
He hung limply from the man's grasp, reduced to a husk of quivering flesh. He vowed not to cry, to stay strong, but it would only be a matter of time. He'd be sick, or he'd soil himself. They'd strip the last of his dignity, and he wouldn't care, because the pain—that would be worse.
The torturer looked to Odo for instruction. Lolling against the door, Odo gestured nonchalantly. "I'll let you know when I want him back. It might be as long as a week."
"A week?" Cal forced his quavering voice down a pitch. "My lord, I'm supposed to deliver the answer to…to…"
"Maybe never if you can't hold your impudent tongue," snapped Odo.
"Shall I remove said tongue?" asked the torturer.
"Not yet, Ames." Odo opened the door for the torturer and Cal to pass through.
Ames. His jailer's name meant friend. Rage outweighed his terror. All that shit Robin had spouted about camaraderie and faithfulness. The bastard had dumped him straight into hell.
The next few minutes passed in a blur. Ames half-dragged, half-carried him down a spiral staircase till they reached a narrow passage that stank worse than the latrines. The torturer pushed him through an iron-studded door at the end, and hell got worse. In the low, barrel-ceilinged chamber, an iron brazier spewed scant light across an array of brands, floggers, and torture devices, including hammers, manglers, shears, and truncheons in a variety of sizes.
When Ames let him go, Cal dropped hard on his knees.
"Please," he murmured. "What do I have to say? What do I do to get out of here? I'll do anything. Anything."
Other words poured out, similar and useless and increasingly garbled till his throat grew too constricted to speak. He threw all his effort into breathing, a series of shaking, snatched gasps. Ames towered over him, a flabby-faced devil illuminated from beneath, holding a thick collar studded with spikes.
"No." Cal scrambled backward, his chains clinking. Odo must have changed his mind, given some secret instruction for his death. When those barbs pierced him, he'd choke on his lifeblood. Fright unhinged him, and there was no escape. Ames seemed twice his size and a hundred times his strength. The torturer hoisted him upright onto his knees and closed the collar about his throat.
The anticipated puncturing of flesh never came, just a restriction of his windpipe. The leather band encircled him from his breastbone to his chin, which it forced high.
With flailing fingertips, he struck the points of the collar. They faced out, not in. If he'd been thinking straight, he might have realized. Wheezing, he tasted salty tears.
Oh God. What next?
Cal couldn't control his sobs when the man lifted him then squashed him down into a confined space—a chest of some sort, just large enough to contain his slight form. To fit, he curled his limbs in front of him, the manacles chafing, his knees and toes jammed against the box's wooden walls. His bottom had been forced down against the base, his legs cramped, and he whimpered—the noise small and pathetic and smothered by his tormentor's bass chuckle.
"I'll try to remember where I put you, but no promises." Ames shoved Cal's head forward so the spikes grazed his chin and the leather cut into his chest, and then slammed the lid shut.
Light vanished. His face pressed to his knees, Cal gaspe
d raggedly, but the pressure against his throat and the confined space were too much, and panic conquered him. He was suffocating already.
Yet after a few minutes of mindless terror, air still came. He breathed because his body refused to stop fighting, and his consciousness pressed steadfastly on. The silence proved as terrifying as the blackness, but from the depths of despair, he dragged his brain back into action. The first coherent words to drift into his mind were, Why me?
A little while later, he remembered the answer.
Robin Hood. I'm here because of Robin Hood.
He ought to be wishing a slow, lingering death on Robin to match his likely fate.
But he couldn't. Robin was…so good, so right. The best man he'd ever known and the most beautiful too.
The remembrance of Robin filled his heart till he feared it might burst. His tears flowed with his fevered sweat, yet warmth spread from his core that no torture box could contain. It smashed through the dungeon, laid waste to the thick stone of the keep, and streamed away from the stench of death and blood, back to the Greenwood.
Robin Hood must linger there in peace forever, while he, the dirty traitor, received everything he deserved. His memory of Robin's gentle touch calmed him, and soon breath trickled more easily into his aching, tight chest. Squirming in vain to get a little more comfortable, he kindled a faint hope.
Robin. Come for me.
For a few fleeting heartbeats, he believed his friend might.
*~*~*
After marching Robin high into the keep, his escort deposited him in a bedchamber fit for a king. Hot air from torch lamps agitated crimson wall coverings, though the proffered hospitality turned out far from regal. He was shackled in an upright position. Iron cuffs bit into his wrists, attached to chains that looped over a ceiling beam and forced his arms vertical so the sinews burned. Longer, coiling fetters fastened his ankles to the floor. He tugged and tested them, receiving little give, and battled to contain an outpouring of futile shouts.
Escape without assistance would be nigh impossible, and he anticipated little aid from present company. Daniel poured wine into a goblet and passed it to Baron Odo, who reclined like an emperor on an elaborate tester bed. This stood about two yards in front of Robin and was the sole furnishing in the large, draughty room beyond an oak chest. Odo's gloves of kid leather rippled like a second skin as he clasped the delicate glass stem. Sipping, he regarded Robin with the curiosity of a well-fed cat.
Hatred threatened to devour Robin. He'd been younger last time this man made him his prisoner, stronger too. He'd clung to the belief John would come, and John had. Who had Robin got to place faith in now? He reached out to Cal, a wrench of despairing hope.
"My dear outlaw." Odo slid from gold-threaded coverlets, smudging ruby liquid on his lips. He passed the drink back to Daniel, removed his gloves, and with three swift paces, the distance between he and Robin vanished. "I enjoyed our tussle the other day, but this is what I longed for through so many lonely nights. I dreamed about your fine body but had only the comfort of courtesans or my hand. Many a seamstress's fingers have bled in embroidering quilts to be ruined by the seed I spilled for you."
Robin wanted to spit in his face. His throat felt so dry it didn't seem worth it. "Rot in hell."
Odo affected an expression of hurt. "Why so cruel? All I desire is to admire you. To enjoy my prize in the time we have left."
Odo clasped the bejewelled handle of a dagger at his belt, then drew the blade. Robin half wished for the cut of steel. Odo had methods other than pain to undermine a man's dignity—as he demonstrated, severing the laces of Robin's tunic with five deft flicks. He ripped the fabric apart, exposing Robin's chest as far as his waistline, and then sheathed the weapon.
"The years have not withered you." Odo skimmed fingertips across Robin's torso, lingering over each contour of his muscles, which coiled tighter with every stroke. "Ah, take comfort. 'Tis not all bad news. Your old friend, whom you believed dead, could not be more hale or hearty."
Fighting to shut out Odo's touch, Robin fixed on Daniel, who lingered near the door, shifting his weight from foot to foot. If Robin's stare had been an axe, it would have cleaved Daniel's skull in two, though even now he couldn't bring himself to wish the man's slaughter. He suspected John had discovered Daniel's duplicity and shielded Robin from the truth. It seemed likely that had been what the friar tried to tell Robin on his deathbed.
Odo must have perceived Robin's attention straying. He rounded on Daniel. "Wait outside."
The servant didn't need telling twice, though Robin heard rather than saw the door shut. Odo shoved his face so close that Robin inhaled the baron's liquor-drenched breath.
"My men never harmed Daniel, at least not that day. He was wounded by your man. I'd bought Daniel's loyalties several days prior, with a branding iron and a pitifully small purse, though that forester whore came cheaper."
Cal. Robin clamped his jaw and breathed through his nostrils, refusing to lose control.
Odo laughed. "How generous of you to deliver him with such a gift. The Wild Hunt, all but mine to command."
Odo described his plan to unleash Herne's army of wrath for his ends. Robin struggled to keep the anguish from his face. He wanted to trust Herne not to rise to Odo's bait, but he'd had faith in closer companions shattered. Even John had proved dishonest, albeit to protect him.
"The Wild Hunt will scour the country," said Odo, "and you will tell me everything I want to know and give me everything I desire."
"I'll die first."
"Even though I could have every last one of your friends slaughtered? John, Bess, those fine children… and the blind man, Will. He commits his sodomy, so I'm told, with the miller of Kirklees."
Robin eked out blunt words. "Just kill me."
"Ah, you're so selfless, so noble. 'Tis no wonder not only human tongues wag about your virtues, so they say, and there lies the wonder of it. Haven't you ever asked, why you?"
Robin loosed his tongue in a useless attempt to keep Odo at bay. "Stories bring the people hope against devils like you, but there are few left who care if the man behind them lives or dies."
"I care very much."
Odo clasped Robin's face and clamped his lips with a bruising kiss. Robin clenched his mouth shut and twisted within the limits of his bonds. He tried to set his mind blank, but all he could think of was how he wanted no mouth on him but Cal's. Oh Goddess, Cal. Whether he'd capitulated or not, he could be suffering much worse, weeping with pain. Cal could already be dead, not knowing Robin sympathized, that he forgave him, and that he begged of Cal the same mercy.
A cry of anguish burst from his throat. He arched his body, thrusting with such force Odo fell away.
"You do that again," snarled Odo, "I'll have you castrated."
Odo leaned close once more, and Robin composed himself fast. They panted like criminals running the gauntlet. Then Odo planted his palms on Robin's chest, and sharp canines pierced the flesh of Robin's shoulder. Red-hot pain lanced him as Odo ground his teeth before pulling away.
"Try answering my question again, slave. Why do the trees whisper of Robin Hood? Why are you special?"
"I don't know." A rivulet of blood oozed down Robin's torso. "I've never known."
Odo smoothed his lips, savouring the gore. "Well, my handsome outlaw, it's a good job I do."
Chapter Thirteen
"What?" Robin rewarded Odo with the unguarded reaction the baron no doubt craved.
"Let us go back," said Odo, "to the last time you and I enjoyed each other's company."
Robin's flesh crawled. He recalled those nights too well.
"You were an attractive addition to my household, though I didn't intend to cherish you long. I would have killed you when I tired of you, had not…he come to me, that creature of the oak."
The Green Man.
Robin's shock was muted. The spirit had spent enough time in his slumbers, and their last encounter had seemed like waking life.
Every assumption he'd ever made about the guardian of his dreams—each time he'd attributed the apparition to his overly active imagination—wavered.
Odo paced the room, his voice thickening with excitement. "He towered over me like a dark knight, weeping and railing till storms unleashed. Thunder roared so loud I feared my castle would crumble. Though he spoke not a word, I knew I must cease my attacks on you."
"No. It was just a dream," Robin lied. He could no longer believe these visions were his mind playing games. The Green Man protected him, as real as Sulis and Herne and the Elfaene. Mayhap the spirit embroiled him in some strange plan. He sealed his lips against sharing this realization, though Odo didn't require telling.
"He's as real as you and I." Odo turned to him, his eyes feral. "I dared not touch you again. When you were rescued, relief tempered my anger, but not for long. I had to know more. How could I make such strength my ally—or mine to command?"
Robin prayed this could never be, but dread prickled his skin amid the blood and perspiration. Greenwood magic encompassed good and evil and every shade of uncertainty that lurked between. As he strained to see, Odo threw aside one of the wall coverings to reveal a hidden chamber, about five paces squared. Here he'd erected an altar garnished with candles and twisted hazel wood. Two objects lay at the centre—a coil of hemp rope and a glass vial containing a cloudy liquid. Odo placed his jewelled dagger beside them.
The tools for a sacrifice to the spirits of Niogaerst. Death by poison, suffocation, and then the draining of the blood.
Robin managed an incredulous laugh. Odo's plan deserved to be belittled. "You can kill me, but it won't lure the Wild Men or make the foul spirits yours to command. The magic of the Greenwood is bound to the forest."
"We both know that when it's at its most powerful, those bonds can be broken." Odo picked up the knife and then spiralled back to Robin. "Your blood must be a fine prize, and I will know the truth of it. Spill your secrets, and I'll make this easier on you."
Lord of the Forest Page 13
