Mystified, he opened his eyes and looked up at her. When first he saw her he thought the glow might have been a trick of his eyes. He realized now that it was real, and more intense than it had seemed. He had to squint as he looked at her.
“Has God made you one of His own angels?” he asked, marveling.
“No,” she answered, “but He has shown me our victory. I stand confident in it.” She smiled faintly at him, then fell silent, and he was content to just sit, letting her words sink in. He had felt so alone since his brothers had been burned, and Cardinal Francis killed. Inside he had been broken, and yet now…
He was not alone.
Tuck thought of Much and Old Soldier and several of the others. They might not be brothers of the cloth, but they were brothers in arms, in spirit, and he would not trade them for anything. That realization drove him to his feet.
They needed him even more than he needed them. He started toward the camp, then turned back.
“My lady,” he said, “if there is anything you can do for Alan, anything to bring him back to us…” He started to choke up. The bard was… special to him, one of his oldest and dearest friends. Though he lived, it felt as if Tuck had lost him, too.
“I will tend to him,” Marian said, inclining her head.
“Thank you,” he whispered before turning and scurrying back to the clearing.
* * *
Marian turned away after Friar Tuck had left. Her heart ached for him, but he was strong. He would carry on. Moments of doubt, those were what plagued him, and they were easily enough countered. There were others who were not so easily ministered to.
Something had broken in Alan-a-Dale, far beyond his physical injuries, and she wasn’t sure that she or any power on earth could fix it. There was more to it than the loss of his tongue, terrible as that had been. Something had broken in his spirit.
He might have to be put aside.
She moved through the forest and after a moment Champion came to walk beside her, the fox’s paws making not a sound as they trod on the dead leaves underfoot. In the past weeks he had become so much more than just a pet. He was her friend, her constant companion—and, when need be, her guardian.
Marian’s breath was visible in the morning’s cold. She stretched out her hands and let her fingertips brush against trees as they passed them. Each one was alive, though struggling. Each had its own pain, its own battle. She could feel it, read their stories in the rough bark that caressed her skin. Sherwood Forest had claimed her as one of its own, and she didn’t quite understand what that meant.
The fey could not hide from her anymore, nor did many of them even try. The druid blood in her veins called out to those of like kind. It was through that shared connection that she could find Alan-a-Dale, a bard of the old ways, whenever she chose now. As it was he was less than a mile from the camp, sitting with his back to a tree, his fingers strumming his harp so softly that she saw him before she could hear the music he was making. Music? The sound he tortured out of his instrument had no melody. It was a jangle and a crash of notes torn from strings, the ancient wood almost screaming through them. It was discordant and it actually hurt when it hit her ears. The notes reached deep inside of her and pulled forth an anger she had buried as deep as she could.
He glanced up as she stopped in front of him. It was as though the young man with the rakish charm had aged a decade. His face was lined with care, his brow furrowed.
“You’ve lost your tongue, not your ears,” she chided. “Surely that sound hurts you as it does me.”
He shrugged and strummed his fingers against the strings again. She crouched down and grabbed his hand, stilling it against the ancient wood, then shook her head sharply. He sighed and gave her a short nod, agreeing to cease. She released him and stood back. Champion circled her twice then went to sit next to the bard, to stare intently into the man’s face.
“Even the fox knows there is more wrong than should be,” she said.
With a roll of his eyes Alan reached into a pouch and pulled forth some parchment and a small piece of charcoal. She waited. Some ideas were too complex for him to try and express with gestures.
He handed her the parchment, the words were ghost lines, white on cream.
I failed.
“You did.” She gave it back to him. “We all did. We are still alive, though. Uncle Richard once told me that the mark of a great man is that when he is in the right, he keeps trying no matter how many times he fails.”
Alan scribbled on the parchment and then handed it back.
So many died.
She nodded. “And more could have died. More did die from the pox, and if we do nothing but sit here communing with the trees and feeling sorry for ourselves, then everyone will die.”
She handed back the parchment. A minute later Alan returned it.
Robin. Without him all is lost.
She looked at Alan, weighing what to tell him in that moment.
Could this broken thing seated before her be trusted? If she guessed wrong, what would be the consequence? Before she could decide, however, she heard the sudden flutter of wings and looked up just as a bird descended onto her shoulder. It chirped at Marian and for a fleeting moment she could see what it saw, feel what it felt.
She turned back to Alan.
“Get up. We must go. A stranger has entered the forest.”
* * *
As much as Alan didn’t want to move, even he knew better than to defy Marian when she looked and sounded like that. His mind may have been a fog of pain and sorrow over his state and the way of the world he now occupied, but he still had the habits of a bard to observe. He’d watched her of late.
Disregarding her tone and words could wind him up with her hauling him to his feet.
Or drawing a blade and putting it to his throat.
He scrambled to his feet and followed her and the fox back toward the camp. As they walked he reached out to the forest, trying to feel what fresh threat might be awaiting them.
The forest wasn’t speaking to him, though. Neither were the fey that had once whispered in his ear while he slept. He had failed the forest, his calling, everything. And everyone.
There was a reason bards didn’t get involved, a reason they put down no roots nor took families. They had to be free to wander the land, speaking truth as they saw it. That was the responsibility handed down through the centuries from the first bard to Alan—and now he was going to be the last.
Francis had been right about Marian. She moved as though she was one with the forest in every way, and instinctively his focus fell upon her. Before he realized what was happening the harp was back in his hands and he was strumming a melody. It was as though the notes themselves were forming words that he could hear, as if the music alone was telling her story without need of his voice. It was pure, reacting on him on a deep level, stirring his emotions, pulling forth and demanding of him more than any song ever had.
He felt himself giving his life force to the song, to give it breath, weight, a life of its own. The agony of the creation was exquisite, and he was nearly overcome by the time they arrived at the edge of the clearing. He heard voices, some muted and fearful, others loud and angry. Marian stood for a moment, foot raised before stepping forth out of the woods. He understood and froze with her.
At last she stepped forward, and he let his breath out.
The Queen of Sherwood meets her subjects.
All of them, including Alan himself, were beneath her. It wasn’t an accident of birth but a truer form of nobility that sprang from the soul. For just a moment he felt a flare of hope deep inside.
Perhaps we don’t need Robin.
He followed her into the clearing, and his fingers found the strings of his harp and played music that would let everyone know that she had arrived, that she would save them, that all would be well.
Because maybe it would be—and even if it wasn’t, even if the Sheriff of Nottingham and all his dog soldiers r
ounded them up tomorrow and put them to the blade, they still needed to die believing.
He ended with a flourish.
Logs had been set up in the center of the clearing, around a cook fire, and several people clustered around the flames to ward off the chill. There were perhaps seventy people there, and as she stepped into sight they fell silent, leaving whatever they were doing to crowd around. He saw despair and sorrow in their eyes. Yet there was something else, too—a determination flickered across their features as they stared at Marian.
They need her just now, he mused. Someone they will live for. Someone they will die for. He could help with that. Music carried emotion by itself. It didn’t require his voice. As he played, Friar Tuck pushed his way forward.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, voice tense.
“There’s a stranger in the forest,” Marian said.
A refugee in a ratty cloak toward the back of the crowd turned, moving away, Alan noticed. Moving toward the trees. Alan took a half-step to follow when Marian spoke to the crowd again, even though it felt as if she addressed him.
“Be at peace,” she said. “All is well. Stay by my side.”
He froze, unsure… and he did not like the feeling. The others murmured and glanced uneasily at one another. A few reached for weapons.
“I do not think he means us harm,” she continued. “Much will escort him here so that we might see this stranger for ourselves.”
Friar Tuck jerked slightly. Alan, too, was uneasy at the thought of bringing a stranger to the encampment. Marian laid a hand on the holy man’s arm.
“We all were strangers here, not so very long ago.”
Tuck nodded, but a frown remained on his face.
“Alright, you heard milady,” Old Soldier snapped, and he pointed. “Guards, to your positions.” Though he was not a particularly large man, his bearing demanded obedience. Just like that everyone scattered, moving to take cover or take watch or just take up a weapon. Some hid, while others simply found a place to wait. Alan looked again for the tattered refugee, but he had gone.
Most likely hiding.
Friar Tuck moved in closer as the rest left, and there was relief in his old friend’s eyes. Alan gave him a small smile and nodded. Marian was right. There wasn’t time to indulge their own sorrows. They needed to work together, if any of them expected to see another sunrise.
“How long until they’re here?” Tuck asked.
“Not long,” Marian said. “Half an hour. Less.”
Abruptly there was a moaning in the trees, and Alan felt a ripple run up his spine. Marian cocked her head as though she was listening. Seemingly satisfied, she nodded her head. There was excitement building in her eyes.
She thinks help is coming, he realized.
He just hoped she was right.
Marian moved to one of the logs and sat down. Instead of facing the center, though, she faced outward, toward the path by which Much would enter. After a moment’s hesitation Alan went to sit beside her.
He strummed quietly, meaning not to disturb but rather to help her soothe and organize her thoughts. He watched as Friar Tuck moved around the camp, checking on everyone, taking his role as spiritual father very seriously, as he should. Alan couldn’t imagine how much his friend must be missing Francis, who had been a spiritual father to everyone.
Muted conversations sprang up here and there, but then several minutes passed and everyone grew still. It was as if a collective breath was being held.
At last there was rustling in the brush. He let his hand fall idle, waiting to see what song he might be called upon to play next. There was some movement, and then Much stepped into the clearing. The lad seemed to have grown since Alan last saw him. He seemed bigger, taller. He no longer had the air of an overgrown child to him but that of a man. What had happened had changed them all, but Much now walked with a confidence few men could ever summon. Alan smiled. The miller’s son was all grown up and no one would ever look down on him again.
Another figure appeared a few steps behind Much, and all eyes fixed on him. The man was tall, thin, and wore a black cloak wrapped tightly around himself with the hood up as though to obscure his face.
There was the creak of bows, and Alan knew that half a dozen arrows were already trained on their visitor, just waiting for him to make a false move. Death would come swift and sure. Just so long as it didn’t come prematurely. The bard’s fingers hovered over the strings, waiting, daring not break the tension with even a single note, lest it cause deadly repercussions.
Much strode up to Marian and then knelt.
“Milady.”
“Rise, Much,” she said, her voice strong and clear. “Who have you brought to us?”
“One who has traveled far, milady, and endured much,” the stranger said.
“Show yourself that we may be the judge of that,” Marian said, lifting her chin slightly. She looked and sounded every inch the queen. The stranger bowed.
“As you wish, milady,” he said. He pulled free his cloak and dropped it on the ground to reveal a red cross emblazoned on a dirty and torn tunic. He was a knight, one who had gone with Richard to fight in the Holy Land.
Marian rose abruptly. “What news can you tell me of King Richard? Has he received word of what is happening here? Is he returning to help?”
The knight looked at her and then dropped his eyes. “He has received no word, milady, and he cannot help. Indeed, I am here seeking aid in his name.”
Marian glanced swiftly at Friar Tuck then turned back to the knight. “What aid does my uncle require?”
“As much as you can give. He’s been captured by a pagan king who is in league with his brother, Prince John.”
CHAPTER TWO
Marian struggled to keep her face from showing dismay. These people needed her to be strong, yet she stared at the man in front of her. He was painfully gaunt, cheeks hollowed out and lips blue from the cold. She felt as if she should recognize him, know his name, but she also had a feeling he was much changed from when she last would have seen him.
“Tell me everything,” she said.
The gaunt knight rubbed his face, his hand coming away oily. He opened his mouth and shut it again.
“Are you ill?” Friar Tuck asked.
The knight waved the question off with a weak gesture, his face turned to the ground. He swayed once then dropped to his knees, folding in on himself and slumping to the ground. Much moved to grab him by the shoulders and only caught his tunic, which tore slightly.
“He is unconscious,” the miller’s son said.
Marian flicked her eyes to Much. “Please see that he is well taken care of. Fetch me the moment he awakens.” Much dipped his head and took hold of the knight’s arm, lifting him up into his arms as if the grown man were a child. The knight didn’t move as the younger man carried him away. Watching the man’s face as they went, she remembered him.
He was a king’s man.
He’s broken, Marian realized, but I need answers from him. Yet, he had made it this far. There was hope for him. And perhaps for Richard.
She rose and signaled Friar Tuck and Alan-a-Dale to walk with her. They kept two paces behind as she entered the forest. Once there she felt she could breathe easier, think more clearly. The fear eased its hold on her mind, though not entirely. She did not go far, just enough distance to gain them privacy. At last she stopped and turned.
The friar was sweating. “Milady, I am so sorry,” he said.
“This is an unexpected blow,” she admitted, “but we cannot give in to fear.” I cannot give in to fear, she told herself. “We must determine what we’re going to do about it.”
“Do?” Friar Tuck’s forehead wrinkled up. “What could we possibly do about it?”
“If this knight’s tale rings true, we will send men to rescue Richard,” she said.
Tuck’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head. He leaned his considerable girth back against a tree and stared at her as if she was an i
nsane child.
“Marian, what few men we could spare, they’d never pass through England alive. And even if by the grace of God they managed to escape the Sheriff’s clutches, they would face the same dangers Richard faced—the same enemy who managed to imprison him. What hope could they have for surviving, much less freeing him? We don’t even know where he is held, much less if this is some ploy by the Sheriff to lure us from the safety of Sherwood ”
She flicked her eyes to Alan. He stood, face thoughtful. She raised an eyebrow, but he made no move to share his thoughts.
“You saw that knight,” she persisted. “It was Sir Lawrence—I remember now. You heard what he said. The man who has Richard is in league with John. This knight came to us without a letter—no demand for ransom. He escaped and made it back to England and then found us despite the Sheriff and his iron fist. If he can make it to us, then surely a small group can retrace his steps.”
“Every messenger you’ve sent has failed to return, milady,” Tuck protested. “We can now be certain that they were captured, perhaps killed.”
“Because they were messengers, not warriors,” she said firmly. “That is what we should have sent in the first place.”
“I mean no disrespect. I know he’s your uncle—”
“He’s more than just my uncle,” she said, cutting him off. “He’s England’s only hope for survival. He is the rightful king. With John dead, Henry is going to try and claim the throne. The Sheriff might even support him. Nottingham’s only claim to nobility is the bastard child he got out of Lady Longstride.”
Both men looked slightly taken aback, but she pushed on. “We can’t have a demon or his willing bedfellow on the throne of England. All this strife won’t be going unnoticed outside our borders, either. France has been waiting for an excuse like this, to seek to conquer us.”
“As much as I hate to say it, war with France right now might be a good thing.” Friar Tuck licked his lips. “Let them contend with the Sheriff while we regroup.”
“We don’t have the luxury of waiting. Remember what the Cardinal told us. If England falls, this evil will spread and overcome the world. No, this battle has to be fought here, and it has to be fought by us.”
Sovereign's War Page 2
