Salt was a blessing for which he truly thanked the Lord.
He did wonder, though, why Marian had asked to speak with them both privately. When he had inquired whether or not she wished to keep counsel with Alan, as well, she had responded that the bard needed to build his strength, and they should let him rest for a while.
Friar Tuck wasn’t sure that Alan needed rest so much as a good, swift kick in the seat of his pants. Still, he was trying to be patient. He knew what the bard had lost and was probably one of the few who understood just how much of an atrocity that had been. At least he had begun playing something that resembled music again, instead of the discordant screeching it had been. He assumed they had Marian to thank for that change.
Marian looked at Thomas and him with a very grave expression. For just a moment he panicked, thinking that perhaps Jansa had taken sick and she was reinstating Thomas as cook. He told himself that was ridiculous, though, since he’d seen Jansa a short time earlier, and she’d looked the picture of health.
“What may I do for you, Lady Marian?” Thomas asked, his face pinched and anxious.
Maybe he’s worried, too, Tuck mused, that she’s going to ask him to start cooking again.
“I understand that you are a wood worker,” Marian began. Instantly Tuck could feel relief steal through him, and one look at Thomas’s face let him know the other man was experiencing the same.
“I am,” Thomas admitted.
“Excellent. I have use of your skills.”
“What is it you want me to build, milady?” Thomas asked, sounding a bit anxious.
“Tools of war,” she said.
Thomas frowned. “I’ve already helped make arrows and bows and cudgels. Several of us have been working to make as many of those as we can.”
Marian shook her head. “I appreciate the effort and we will need them, but I’m thinking bigger.”
“How much bigger?”
Marian stared at him intently. “Have you ever heard of a trebuchet?”
Thomas frowned. “For a trebuchet to cause real damage, it would require forty-five men to work the ropes. We just don’t have the numbers.”
Marian smiled. “Perhaps we could get that down to just a handful of men.”
“How?” Thomas asked.
“I’ve heard stories about modifications instituted by King Philip of France, a couple of years ago. I think we can take advantage of his design work.”
“You’ve ‘heard stories’?” The skepticism lay raw on the man’s face. It made Friar Tuck want to slap it. Marian’s eyes narrowed and her tone went waspish.
“I am the niece of Richard the Lionheart,” she said, “raised by his own hand from a child. Do you assume he only taught me to cross-stitch?”
“N-no, milady.” Thomas went pale.
“I am well-versed in the vagaries of modern combat.”
“My a-apologies,” he said. “I did not think clearly.”
“Forgiven.”
“Just tell me how, milady, and I will do everything I can to make it.”
“Excellent,” Marian said, unfolding a piece of parchment and handing it across. Friar Tuck stared over his shoulder at the drawing on the page. There were diagrams he didn’t quite understand, but Thomas began to nod his head, slowly at first, then quickly. Finally he looked up at Marian, and there was a light in his eyes that hadn’t been there before.
“I think we can make this work, milady,” he said.
“Excellent,” she responded. “We will need every advantage we can conceive and create.”
“It’s quite ingenious.”
“I am sure a man of your skill can improve upon my crude designs.”
Thomas’s mouth opened, then closed, unsure of what to say. Marian left him like that for a moment before breaking into a grin and reaching out a reassuring hand and touching his arm.
“It is well, Thomas. I am only jesting.”
Thomas wiped his forehead.
“You’re thinking of laying siege to the castle?” Tuck asked incredulously.
“I’m not ‘thinking’ of it. I will lay siege to it,” Marian said firmly. “The Sheriff’s demon soldiers have tried time and again to enter the woods. They can’t as yet. Sooner or later, though, the Sheriff will find a way to flush us out of here, and then we will all die. Our only hope is that we reach out and flush him first.”
Friar Tuck didn’t know what to say, so he just stood there gawking at her. He couldn’t even bring himself to look around the clearing, because he knew it would only remind him of just how hopelessly they were outnumbered. A few dozen able-bodied men and women from the seventy that had come to the forest, to stand against the Sheriff, the king’s guard, and the Sheriff’s dog soldiers...
“Will you be wanting other siege weapons, too?” Thomas asked.
“Yes, but these new trebuchets are our first priority,” Marian said.
“We’re going to need wagons and horses to transport some of these things when we’re ready to move them,” Thomas said.
“Leave that to me,” Marian answered matter-of-factly. “For now, take whatever men you need and begin working on this design.”
“Yes,” Thomas said, bowing before scurrying away.
“You would destroy the castle?” Tuck asked. “The throne room?”
Marian shook her head. “The throne room isn’t a single place. It is wherever the rightful king holds court, be it grand or humble. The castle itself has already been destroyed in my eyes, forever tainted by the evil of the Sheriff and all his puppets. Losing it is a small price to pay if we have a chance to defeat evil.”
“But how?” Tuck asked, his own frustration and despair welling up in him. “The Sheriff is inhuman. Arrows can’t kill him.”
“Then we’ll just have to find something that does,” Marian said thoughtfully. She turned abruptly and walked off toward the forest. Tuck thought about calling out to her, but realized it was probably just best to let her go do whatever she was of a mind to do.
He clenched his fists at his side, trying to push down his own fear and frustration. Marian was smart. Cardinal Francis had said that she was the key to everything. Tuck had to believe his friend knew what he was talking about. So he took a deep breath. The Lord worked in mysterious ways, and he had to trust that He was at work here.
* * *
A short distance away, Alan watched the exchange between Marian, Tuck, and young Thomas. When the wood worker left the other two he began making the rounds of the men in camp, starting with those who were skilled at making things with their hands. Marian had given him a piece of parchment and—most likely—instructions for making something.
If he had to guess he’d say it was a weapon.
Marian was the next to walk off, and she walked straight into the forest with a determined stride. That left the good friar, who looked worse off than he had at the beginning of the conversation. Anxiety stood out in every line of his old friend’s body, and he could sympathize.
Alan was wearier than he had ever been in his life, but he dared not show it. He had to be strong for Friar Tuck and the others. Each man was at or near his breaking point. The weeks of fear and uncertainty, the cold, the rationed food, had worn them down until they seemed like ghosts of their former selves, pantomiming the motions of living without really doing so.
He sat down on a log near the fire and unfastened his harp. His fingers found the familiar strings and began teasing out a melody, one that started low and slow and then began to build. He sought to build the fire and strength within the sluggish bodies and hearts around him. After a moment the boy Haylan came to sit beside him.
Word had reached them even here in the forest that Haylan’s mother had died a few weeks back. Alan had known it was coming, but being right brought no joy—just greater sorrow for the life he could not save. Haylan’s older brother, Audric, had reacted with rage and grief. Haylan, though, had turned inward, keeping more and more to himself.
Al
an’s heart ached for the boy and it hurt even more that he couldn’t speak words of comfort to him. So he played his harp and gradually he forgot about the rest of the men, women, and children at the camp as his eyes focused in on the young face next to him.
The music stirred something deep inside his young companion. It rippled over his face, wildly different emotions chasing one after the other, none staying for more than a few seconds. The boy was an orphan, and because of his father’s death, one without skills. It would be hard for him to make his way in the world, if he survived.
There was spirit there, though, living just below the surface. The boy had fire in him. He also had the kind of determination that would be needed to rebuild when this was all over.
If any of us lives to see that, Alan thought with a sigh. He was so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he almost missed the soft sounds coming from Haylan. Startled, he turned his full attention to the boy. Haylan’s face was scrunched up in concentration and words came slipping out of him. They were words of hope and victory, and the voice that sang them was clear and unwavering, even if it was soft.
The sound cut right through Alan and pulled at his soul.
He blinked at the boy in surprise. Haylan had the Gift.
Sudden tears filled Alan’s eyes as he realized he might not be the last of his kind after all. He nodded encouragement to the boy, who responded by singing louder. Soon his voice rang out like a bell. Out of the corners of his eyes Alan watched as one by one, everyone in the camp stopped to listen. In the silence that fell around them Haylan’s voice gained more power until it filled the clearing. He sang of war and loss and victory and hope. The words just seemed to tumble out of him, a silver stream so vibrant and alive.
Alan cast a quick look to Friar Tuck, who stood staring slack-jawed. Alan smiled. His old friend was not easily impressed, and it only confirmed his own estimation of the boy’s gifts, his raw talent.
After a moment Alan let his fingers fall from the strings of his harp so that the boy’s voice alone filled the clearing. It was as though he could feel the mighty forest holding its breath as it, too, listened to the song, and the boy who sang of things well beyond his years.
When at last Haylan came to a stop Alan reached out and embraced him, letting his tears flow freely. He was in awe of the miracle he had just watched, and the sure knowledge that the song of the old ways would live on beyond him in this boy.
“I couldn’t help it,” the boy whispered.
“Nor should you have tried to,” Friar Tuck said, moving up beside them and resting a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “God has given you a mighty gift and presented you with the finest of teachers.” There was raw emotion in the man’s voice. Suddenly, for just a moment it was so clear. The world was falling apart. Evil was threatening to overrun them. Yet despite the machinations of the devil and all his allies, life would go on.
“Alan will teach you everything he knows,” Tuck continued. “He shall be father and mentor to you now.”
Alan released the boy and smiled at him in what he hoped was an encouraging way. His fingers found his harp strings again and he began to play. He would be the child’s instrument and the child would be his voice, and together they would be mighty and all of England would hear their song.
* * *
Tuck had been shocked by what Marian suggested. It couldn’t be helped, though. The castle was expendable. As, in truth, were all of them. It was possible none would survive the coming battle, but the sacrifice would be worth it if England could be saved.
That was yet another reason she’d had Friar Tuck marry her and Robin before he left. Every step she took in Sherwood, she couldn’t help but think about him. So many emotions pulsed through her. Love, sorrow, fear, desire, and, above all, hope that he would come back to her safely.
As she walked farther into the forest she paused frequently to make sure that no one was following her. She couldn’t afford to have her secret discovered. Each time she stopped, though, she felt only the forest around her and the animals that called it home. There were no humans and even the fey seemed absent, for which she was grateful. Not all of them were to be trusted. It wasn’t that they would choose evil over good. It was just that they thought differently than men and it made them unpredictable.
Even to her.
Even though she wore the torc taken from the heart of the forest. The second torc, the one belonging to Robin, had been stolen. Last she’d seen it Prince John had taken it, so she had to assume it was in the Sheriff’s possession now. She grit her teeth in anger at the very thought. She didn’t know what he could do with it, but she knew that they needed to get it back.
She paused one last time before finally reaching her tree. It stood, tall and majestic even though it had died long before. There was a hollow in its base and it was there that she had hidden the book entrusted to her by the Cardinal.
When they had used it to obtain the two torcs, it had gone blank except for the incantation on the last page. When the torcs had been taken, the writing had returned. She hadn’t had a chance to read it all yet, but knew she must. She hoped against hope it would give a clue as to how the Sheriff could be defeated. If it didn’t...well...
She just prayed that it did, for all their sakes.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Philemon Longstride had grown used to the iron tang of blood in his mouth, though it seemed a bit stronger than on other nights.
The guards flung him into the cell. His bloody knees landed on the hard ground. He refused to give the bastards the satisfaction of hearing him cry out in pain, then took a moment to gather himself. He breathed in the fetid smell of the dungeon and breathed out the pain that seared through him. The guards closed and locked the cell behind him and went on their way without saying a word.
The fat of soft living had melted off him the last few months, leaving behind only muscle and iron. His wife, Glynna, would have appreciated it. She’d always been drawn to strength and appreciated masculinity. He closed his eyes for just a moment and let himself imagine his homecoming. Her running into his arms, the girls hugging his legs, Robert embracing him, and Robin...
Robin staring at him with that same disapproving stare he always did.
He sighed and opened his eyes. He and his youngest son had always been opposites. So much so that there had been a time when he wondered if Robin was even his son. Stuck here in this cage, though, those differences didn’t seem to matter as much. He just hoped that when he made it home, Robin and he could learn to understand each other. That was, as long as Robin hadn’t let the place go to hell in his absence.
“You risk too much, Philemon.” The voice came out of the darkness and he dragged himself to his feet. “You should not antagonize the guards like you do,” King Richard continued, his voice weary.
“Ah, but every time I’m out of this cage I learn something new,” Longstride replied. “A bit more about the layout of this place, news, gossip.”
“Truly I should have made you a spymaster instead of Robert,” Richard said, a note of humor in his voice.
“Yes, but then he’d be here, and you know I’m a better conversationalist,” Philemon said. He kept his tone light, even though his stomach clenched at the mention of Robert. He hadn’t been able to shake the growing conviction that his son was dead. He didn’t know how he knew, but he felt it, deep down. Every night as he fell asleep he begged God to not let it be true, and every morning he awoke more convinced that it was.
Richard chuckled. “You know I always enjoy our little talks. I’m quite convinced they’re the only thing keeping us both sane at this point.”
Philemon believed that to be true as well. Since their capture at the hands of that thieving shitsack Wulfhere, many of the men with them had lost themselves to sorrow. One had taken the short road out at the end of his own belt.
Sir Lawrence had escaped capture, hopefully fleeing back to England to seek help. A handful of the other nobles had died from some s
trange sickness, one going insane before he did so. Philemon would hear the echoes of that man’s screaming for the rest of his life. Worse than the screaming, though, had been the hallucinations. The man had been convinced that England had fallen to the dark one, and that devils had claimed the land as their own. He shuddered just remembering the rantings.
He had been on the verge of killing the man himself just to make it stop.
One by one they had been reduced, taken away, until only he, Richard, and four others were left. What had become of the men serving under them was anyone’s guess.
“So, what did you learn on this little expedition tonight?”
Philemon grunted. “Something about the plan has changed.”
“What do you mean?” Richard asked sharply.
“Wulfhere is no longer in communication with your brother John.”
Richard sat up straighter. “With whom is he communicating?”
“The Sheriff—at least, that’s what I heard.” His eyes had finally readjusted to the dark enough that he could see Richard frowning.
“The man who came with John?”
“That’s my best guess,” Philemon admitted.
“I wonder why?”
“I wish I knew.”
“I’m not sure if this improves our situation or not.”
“Nor am I, but for some reason I doubt it does.”
“I feel the same, my friend.”
The king fell into a thoughtful silence. Philemon turned to the bars of the cell and began testing them again, as he did every night, looking for a weakness. One of these days he hoped to be able to bring something back with him which they could use to saw through them.
After a few minutes had passed Richard broke the silence.
“Come, sit down and let’s talk for a while. I need to hear someone’s thoughts other than my own.”
Philemon gave up on the bars and went to sit by his king. Despite years of friendship, the circumstances in which they found themselves had led to more familiarity with his sovereign than either of them could have expected. Still, he imagined that when they were free of this wretched place, things would return to normal.
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