CONTENTS
Cover
Also Available from Debbie Viguié and James R. Tuck
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Prisons and Prisoners
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
The Wilderness Hours
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Sacrifices
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Acknowledgments
About the Authors
Also Available from Titan Books
DEMON’S BANE
SOVEREIGN’S WAR
ALSO AVAILABLE FROM
DEBBIE VIGUIÉ AND JAMES R. TUCK
Robin Hood: Mark of the Black Arrow
Robin Hood: The Two Torcs
DEMON’S BANE
SOVEREIGN’S WAR
DEBBIE VIGUIÉ + JAMES R. TUCK
TITAN BOOKS
ROBIN HOOD: DEMON’S BANE
SOVEREIGN’S WAR
Print edition ISBN: 9781783294404
Electronic edition ISBN: 9781783294411
Published by Titan Books
A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd
144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP
First edition: August 2017
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This is a work of fiction. Names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 by Debbie Viguié and James R. Tuck. All Rights Reserved. Visit our website: www.titanbooks.com
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
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To all of our readers, you truly are our band of Merry Men.
Thanks for going on this journey with us.
–DV
Dedicated to the Missus, the light in a dark Sherwood.
–JRT
PROLOGUE
The room was dark and filled with the sour iron stink of old blood and unwashed men.
He pushed himself up slowly, each hitching movement bringing a new version of pain that lit him up inside. It felt like old pain he’d lived with for years, as if it had set up home in his body. It was the deep ache of bruise and cut and scrape, not the grinding agony of a broken bone or the cold penetrating sharpness of a stab or puncture.
He’d survived worse. Of course, he’d been younger then.
Some meager light filtered into the cell allowing him to see that other men—men who’d traveled with him, been with him at war in God’s Name—were now imprisoned with him. He would ask the count once his head stopped throbbing.
Damn barbarians with their damned war hammers.
He would also ask how long he’d been unconscious.
Long enough for the battle to be lost by them, to be brought wherever here was, and then locked up. From the steadiness of the ground he knew they were on land, and not sea. The living shadows that had seemed to overtake them with the ambush did not seem present, though. Only normal shadows existed in this dark and dank place.
Once his back was against the damp stone wall a voice came from nearby.
“Finally back among the living.”
He blinked. Even if he hadn’t recognized his friend’s voice, there was no mistaking his noble features, even in the deplorable conditions they found themselves in.
“I am, Milord.”
“Use my name,” his friend chided.
He grunted, half from the pain, half from annoyance at the persistence.
“Richard the Lionheart,” he responded, “you will always be my lord and liege above all else.”
“So, I should refer to you as ‘Lord Longstride,’ despite the circumstances we find ourselves in?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Don’t be ridiculous… what?”
“Don’t be ridiculous… Richard.”
The king’s teeth gleamed in the low light. “I would never, my friend Philemon, I am the soul of propriety.”
“You are very cheery for a sovereign imprisoned by a madman.”
“I wouldn’t consider myself a madman.” The voice broke in from outside the bars of the cell. Instantly the men around them who were able rose to their feet, many of them cursing under their breath. Philemon Longstride was right there with them.
King Richard remained sitting on the ground.
The man on the other side of the bars stood in hobnailed boots of the Roman fashion, all leather straps and buckles to the knee. A heavy horsehide cape with a wide collar made of wolf fur hung over a simple square tunic of wool, held there by a thick gold chain clasp. He stood solid and built low to the ground, but with the wild ranginess of the wolf whose fur he wore. The tunic was belted with a wide strip of stiffened leather, and even in his own keep he wore an arms-length, wide-bladed sword and a short hawkbilled axe, ready at hand.
He stroked his plaited beard, fingers laden with heavy rings worn between swollen knuckles.
“You do not stand in the presence of your better?” He spoke to Richard.
“You’re nobody’s better, you vicious little cur.” Philemon lunged, reaching through the bars.
The man ducked back, twisting away so that Philemon’s fingers merely scraped along his tunic. His heavy knuckled hand clamped on Philemon’s wrist and he pulled, slamming Philemon’s face against the bar, teeth chiming against iron. With his other hand he pulled out the hawkbilled axe, and he drove the heavy ash handle against Philemon’s arm, sending him to his knees inside the cell.
“I am a cur and a mongrel, and yet you are the beasts in my pen.” He shoved Philemon back, letting him stumble between men stunned by the ferocity of the maneuver. “Stick it out again and I will cut it off.”
“Leave him be.” King Richard spoke up.
“You do not command here. You are my prisoner, Lionheart.”
“And I can tell that brings you much joy, Wulfhere.”
“King Wulf
here.”
“You are no king,” Philemon spat. “A mere robber baron, and a pagan to boot!”
“You say pagan as if it is a bad thing, Christ-worshiper.”
“Barbarian.”
“I have carved out my holding here, and I am lord and liege in the name of my gods.”
Philemon pushed up from the ground, holding his arm. “Here in the wilds where you were driven by a proper Christian king.”
Wulfhere snarled, baring square teeth. “Yes, I still remember your attacks on me and mine simply because we would not bow knee to your Christ.”
“I never cared whether you worshiped the One True Lord,” King Richard said. “I only sought to stop your continued assaults against my people.”
“You attacked me.” Wulfhere lifted his chin, causing the beads in the plaits of his beard to click and clack. “That is all I care about. I shall be revenged, Lionheart.”
“Then let us duel.” King Richard pushed off the wall, rising to his feet. “You and I with whatever weapons you choose.”
“You would face me by the river at dawn, swords in hand?”
“Gladly.”
“That would answer my personal affront, if I were to leave you bleeding in the mud, but what of the blood debt you owe for my men and my property?”
“You filthy—” Philemon growled
King Richard put his hand out, stopping Longstride’s rant before it started. He sighed, then spoke.
“Very well, take me out to the field, cut open my belly, and leave me for the ravens and the wolves to chew on. Whatever makes you satisfied, just let my men go free.”
The men around him gasped, several crying out in protest at the suggestion their king had made. Philemon grabbed King Richard’s arm. He shrugged it off, still watching their captor.
“Ah, they do not like such talk.” The pagan king grinned.
“I am their king,” Richard replied. “They will obey regardless of their feelings, because they are men of honor.”
“And I am not?”
“You were captured many times by me—did I ever place you in a cell like this?”
“No, you put me in a room with a feather bed and a servant to bring me meals from your cook,” Wulfhere spat. “Rubbing my nose in how much you have, how much you prevented me from having simply because my blood was not good enough.”
“Blood does not matter unless you shed it.”
“You claim that, surrounded by your nobles?” Wulfhere snarled. “You shunned me and then drove me out because I had no nobility.”
“Och, Wulfhere.” Richard shook his head sadly. “That was never the intent.”
“To hell with your intent. I only care about your actions.”
“You wished to be nobility, yet without effort. Your father was a scoundrel and did you no favors. It fell upon you to prove you could be trusted with decisions that affect people’s lives.”
“You never gave me the chance. You judged me on my blood.”
“It gave me pause,” Richard said, “but only because a son is often like his father. You had your chance to prove it not so.”
Wulfhere spat on the ground. “Petty offerings. You allow a noble’s son—no matter how thin-skinned or milk-fed—more power at the start than you would ever give the son of a thief.”
“And there is your problem, Wulfhere. You seek power over service. That’s not the way my court runs. No one stays who seeks power. Only those who seek to serve, even imperfectly, are given a place at the table.”
“Nonetheless, I carved my own from here. Now Odin has delivered you unto me, and I will have my full ransom for you.”
“Be reasonable, and John should pay it without fuss.”
Wulfhere’s smile pulled his face crooked. “Ah, much is different since you crossed the sea to kill pagans, Richard. You are in for a rude awakening.” He turned to leave.
“What news, you bastard?” Philemon demanded.
The pagan king ignored him and rounded the corner in a swirl of horsehide cloak and rough laughter. Longstride stood a moment more, staring, waiting, but the mongrel was gone.
“That went well, I think,” he said. Philemon flopped onto the ground and regretted it instantly as new pain shot up his spine.
“Well enough.” Richard shrugged. “But our fate may not depend upon the man who holds us captive.”
“What does that mean?”
“Lawrence is not among us.”
“Lawrence with the…”
“Yes, him.”
“Where did he go?”
Richard waved his hand to indicate a vague outside.
“That is slim hope,” Longstride said dubiously.
“Hope is still hope.” Richard leaned back and closed his eyes. “And that can change everything.”
PRISONS AND PRISONERS
CHAPTER ONE
The Hood was dead. Everyone knew it. His head had been placed on a pike for all to see. Though none dared lay flowers at the foot of it, the people all mourned Will Scarlett in their hearts. What fragile hope had remained in their bosoms was snatched away.
So was Prince John Lackland, brother to King Richard, and in the week since his death the man who had been his servant ruled in his stead. The Sheriff’s reign was far more cruel. His dog soldiers scoured the countryside for any with even the tiniest spark of fire left in them and snuffed it out. Those who could had fled to Sherwood Forest, where they huddled together, seeking out others like them, trying to forage and survive.
The newcomers were easy to spot. They were the ones who jumped at every sighing in the trees and stared fearfully all around them. It wasn’t the Sheriff and his demons that they feared here, but rather the legends of the ghosts that inhabited the forest.
Still, ghosts and legends seemed the lesser evil when compared to the darkness raging without. So, they watched the trees with fearful eyes and stayed because they had nowhere else to go.
* * *
Friar Tuck prayed, yet the words tasted like ashes in his mouth. Will and Cardinal Francis were both dead. Robin gone since the battle with the Sheriff and, for all they knew, dead, as well. His dear friend Alan-a-Dale, the last bard, had been muted, his tongue torn out of his mouth. Now Alan haunted the woods like a ghost. Only he and Marian were left of the original conspirators.
Little had been seen of Lady Marian since the slaughter. With nothing to do about Robin’s absence she had refused to mourn and focused on the fate of her maidservant, Chastity. There had been no word what had happened to the girl.
Friar Tuck assumed the worst.
It was easier that way.
Tuck had taken to doing the only thing he could, holding services—such as they were—for the dead. There were no bodies for them to bury, so it was a purely symbolic act, though he believed it was an important one. That morning alone he had performed a service for Little John, and another for Lenore.
So many gone…
He was too worn out for anymore tears. The ones he’d shed had long ago dried up. There had been too much death, too much loss. He ventured into the forest, not far enough to lose the camp but just far enough that he could feel that he was alone. Sitting on a dead log, staring at nothing, he wondered when God would avenge His fallen.
There was a light step, and he twisted around in alarm.
Marian stood there, wearing a plain brown cloak fashioned from a tattered monk’s habit to protect her from the chill in the air. She wore the slender torc around her throat, made of a bright gold and woven of dozens of thin strands that twisted around one another, mimicking the pattern of ancient knotwork, ending in the form of birds. Dark hair spilled from the cowl in a tangle that hung, unbrushed and possibly unwashed, across her chest. Marian was much changed these last few days. The winter’s privation of their camp had carved away any of her castle-living softness. She was slender and hard like bone, her skin taking on the milkiness of the snow, gleaming against the darker tone of her somber clothing, as though she glowed with a
light inside.
Her eyes moved, her sight roving among the bare branches overhead, never setting in one place, not looking at him when she spoke.
“Fear not,” she told him, her voice soft. “Good shall prevail.”
Had grief driven her mad?
“You’re insane,” he said, the words rushing out of him, bitterness twisting them.
She cocked her head to the side, regarding him as though he were strange to her. In that moment she seemed… less than human, like she wasn’t of the world anymore. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end.
“You despair, you who should know better,” she reprimanded him.
Anger surged through him. He was a man of God. Who did she think she was to lecture him on faith and hope?
“And you should give a damn about those who’ve died!” he snapped. It was true. She hadn’t been at the funerals. She’d been here, in the forest, giving into her own madness.
“We will prevail,” she said, her voice hardening. “The losses are… unfortunate… but they were to be expected.”
“Unfortunate?” he shouted at her. It was so much more than that. It was terrible, overwhelming, unthinkable. Something dark moved inside of him.
All of this was so hard.
So much to take in, to carry, to hold. A shudder passed through him and suddenly she reached out, and before he could shy away from her touch, she put her hand on his head. Warmth seemed to pass into him and he had the unnerving sensation that she was ministering to him, reaching down and touching his soul and trying to bring healing and restoration. It was disorienting.
“God has blessed you, my lady,” he said, the words wrung from him. He felt ashamed of his own weakness. He closed his eyes and heaved a ragged sigh as he realized that there were tears yet to come.
“We are not alone. You will see,” she said softly. “This war belongs to all men. They will rise and fight when they are called upon.”
“There is no war,” he said bitterly. “Only ashes and death and refugees.”
“We fought together.”
“We tried,” he said. “We failed.”
“The time was not at hand.”
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