Locksley glared at the man, a landowner from the edge of the kingdom. He was like his holding, small and barren of any true value. His property had passed to him simply by dint of the fact that no one else wanted it. He was just a freeman with aspirations and a plot of rocky soil.
The other men stood back. One of the guards began to hack away with a poleax. Chips of wood fell into a pile at his feet, but because each swing caused the haft to strike the planks of the porch under his feet, he wasn’t able to wield the long weapon effectively.
“Circle the house,” Locksley said. “Find another way in.”
The small noble nodded. He moved off to begin relaying Locksley’s order. The remaining men turned and shuffled, moving off the porch and spreading to either side of the stone structure. Their feet stomped through flowers and herbs planted in shallow beds, trampling them and crushing the petals into the soil. Being shut out had turned their mood black.
Locksley watched them closely.
I should take command, rein in their anger before they destroy this house. His mind went back to a summer night, long ago in his childhood. A night he’d left his home and traveled across the county to see a flaxen-haired maiden. He’d been smitten, and neither the distance nor the late hour had dissuaded him. Her father was overbearing in his watchfulness, but a sound sleeper. Middle of the night rendezvous had been the way of their courtship.
He’d pulled his horse short of the field of clover where they would meet, wanting to slip quietly through the wood and surprise her in the moonlight. When he arrived, he found her in the arms of another. The two of them were like liquid moonlight made human, their fair hair and pale skin gleaming in the night.
He said nothing then, and he said nothing now. The men under his command stopped moving around the house with a clash of metal on metal, jerking him from his reverie. He stretched to see what was happening.
The men were being pushed back by a few farm hands and servants. A motley crew, they’d come around the side of the house, rushing toward his men with locked shields. The shields themselves were a mangled lot, dented and rusted, any paint long ago chopped away. The styles ranged a century at least, from one made of thick wood planks to a bronze scutum left behind by some Roman legionnaire to a few rough kite shields of hammered steel.
The men wielding them were just as mismatched. An old man, an impressive giant holding two of the shields, a handful of boys too young to have been taken to war, one woman stout enough to hold back two of his men, and a lone field hand hunched of spine but strapped with muscle from hard labor.
Only the old man held a weapon.
“What are you doing?” Locksley demanded loudly. His voice tore out of him, roaring out over the clash and the din. “Put them down, or I’ll have you all lashed! We are agents of the king’s authority.”
His nobles and soldiers lunged forward, driven by his command. One of them thrust a halberd between the shields and pried an opening that the rest shoved through, splitting the line. His men stumbled past, turning left and right as they drew their swords.
The back of his neck itched as air passed over it.
The planks shook under his feet. He threw himself sideways, shoulder hitting the boards as a hurley crossed the space where his skull had just been. He rolled, stopping in a crouch, sword halfway drawn from its scabbard.
Robin stood in front of the door, hurley in hand and swinging back for another try. The planks still vibrated where the boy had dropped from the roof of Longstride Manor. He was bare-chested, filthy from the waist up, his dark hair matted with dirt. He looked like an ancient Pict—dark, savage, and full of murder.
The club swung again as he growled like an animal.
“Never threaten my family!”
Locksley twisted away, rolling on his knee and up to his feet in one smooth motion. His sword came out in his hand. As he lifted it, the hurley clanged off the flat of the blade, jolting a shock of pain all the way to his elbow. He held onto the weapon, but just barely. Swinging from his shoulder instead of his numb arm, he flailed out, opening some distance between him and Robin.
“Stand down, boy,” he bellowed. “We’re just here for the taxes.”
Shoulders drawn tight, hands white-knuckled around the end of the club, so angry that his hair stood on end like a wild animal raising its hackles, Robin Longstride redoubled his efforts. He looked swollen, inhuman, his hatred driving his every movement.
Locksley took a step back.
He’s going to make me kill him.
Robin lunged, hurley back and over his head, ready to fall like a boulder and smash and crush and grind into dust.
Locksley drew back his sword.
A cry broke the tension like a stone through glass.
They both turned.
The defenders of Longstride manor had been subdued, taken by sheer numbers and force of arms. The cry had come from one of the lads who lay face down in the dirt, his arm twisted viciously up and behind him in an angle the Creator had not designed it to go. Five men held Little John to the earth. Four held the woman.
The only one left on his feet was the old man wearing mail. He hunched over, blood dripping from his mouth. His sword lay far from his reach behind a handful of soldiers who circled him. Still he moved, keeping them in sight, a wounded wolf more dangerous for his injury.
“If you keep fighting, we will kill them,” Locksley said.
Robin glared at him.
“I would be justified in ordering their deaths,” Locksley continued. “There would be no repercussion to me.”
The boy looked from him to his men and back again. He swallowed, and it sounded as if he were choking. His voice rattled out of him as if each word had been strangled as it passed his lips.
“If we stand down, no harm will come to them?”
“Lord Longstride, we will still fight for you,” the old man cried.
The giant struggled even more.
Locksley’s gaze never moved from Robin. “On my honor. Cease and desist and they may leave here unharmed.”
Robin’s body vibrated. The hurley dropped to the end of his arm, thudding against the porch. He waved his other hand.
“Do not fight any longer,” he said loudly. “Leave be.”
Locksley’s men looked to him for guidance. He nodded once, up and down. Slowly they stepped back, releasing Robin’s men. The woman and giant leapt to their feet, their faces matched in twin snarls, their hands up in fists. The boys scurried toward one another, the two comforting the one whose arm now hung limp from his shoulder.
The old man picked up his sword, holding it naked in his hand.
“What now, Lord Robin?”
Robin’s eyes blazed.
“Let them take what they want.”
“Your king appreciates your service,” Locksley said with a sneer on his face and his words drawn out. “Now piss off before I have you arrested for resisting the tax brigade.”
Robin stared at him for a moment, and Locksley tensed again, fearing a new assault. The boy just walked away.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Alan’s heart was heavy. He was traveling once again to see some who’d been paid a visit by Locksley’s tax collectors. He still worried about the men searching for the book, and the revolution Tuck and the others wanted to start.
He needed to free his mind, to center himself.
His thoughts rolled over into song, composing all he had seen and heard into verse and melody. It began to flow inside him, his refuge the music itself. His feet stepped to the rhythm of the song in his head.
Then he stopped short.
The rhythm wasn’t coming from inside him. No, it echoed through the green of Sherwood. Pinpointing its direction, he stepped off the path and began moving through the undergrowth, making his way deeper into the gloom.
* * *
The hurley cracked, splintering down its length in his hands. The rock against which he’d beat it remained unchanged. Robin Longstride
grunted out his rage.
His fingers jammed into the crack in the ashen bat, pulling the two halves apart. Splinters drove into the calluses on his fingertips and palms, but he didn’t notice, or care. Pulling across his chest, muscles taut with the resistance, he ripped the halves from the leather binding of the handle, tossing one, then the other. They flew through the forest in two directions. One struck a tree somewhere in the gloom, clattering tempered wood against living. The other simply disappeared, swallowed up by the darkness.
Leaping, he clambered up the rock like a feral creature. At the top he stood tall on its edge, looking over the glens and the hollows of Sherwood.
“Are you quite finished?”
He whirled, one hand clenched in a smashing fist, the other curled into a claw.
Alan stood on the other side of the outcropping, arms crossed, leaning against the stone behind him. The harp on his shoulder lay high, near his cheek, and he had tilted his head so that his face rubbed the smooth polished wood.
“How did you sneak up on me?”
The bard chuckled, keeping his face angled down.
“I am the last of my kind,” he replied. “The Learned Brotherhood. We know the forest well, and it knows us.”
“You are a bard, not a druid.”
“All bards are druids… but not all druids can become bards.”
Robin stared at him for a long moment. “Shove your riddles up your arse. What do you want, music man?”
“I am idly curious as to what that hurley bat did to deserve such brutal treatment.”
The air between them crackled as Robin took a step forward.
“Are you mocking me?”
“Not in the mood for humor then,” Alan said. The bard raised his hands but did not step back. “Well, then, let’s see what reaction you have to this?” He paused for effect, then said, “Locksley.”
Robin did not reply. Hands clenched in fists, he shook where he stood, caught between the struggle for control and rage. Alan stepped back, making distance. The darkness in Robin’s eyes made him suddenly unsure if his status as a bard would protect him.
As the silence stretched on, he slowly reached up and undid the latches on his harp, sliding it over to his cheek. Fingers moving softly, he strummed the strings, calling forth a slow, sullen lullaby. The music tumbled out and rolled across the top of the leaf-strewn outcropping they occupied, a cool stream to quench a raging fire, lapping into its edges, pushing it down and down, smothering it oh so softly, oh so delicately.
Robin stopped shaking.
Alan hummed along with the melody, providing a grounding element to the song, a richness to the tune.
Robin’s hands opened. He blinked, looking at the bard.
“Thank you,” he said.
Alan strummed the harp one last time with a flourish, drawing the tune to a close.
“Would you like to learn how you can do something about Locksley and the tyranny of Prince John?” he asked, and Robin stared at him with new interest.
* * *
The scrap of parchment sat on the other side of the table. Even though it was surrounded by a circle of blessed salt and anointing oil, Francis could feel the symbol like grime on his skin. It was the one which Friar Tuck had given him, the symbol he had seen appear on the bishop’s arm.
Francis had kept it, pondering the meaning, wondering why it had appeared on the other man.
He was using the scrap to test himself. It was a game, a contest to not snatch it up and burn it, to cleanse it in fire. He was being prideful, betting that his faith was stronger than the call of evil.
Dear God hold me fast.
Thoughts ran through him, chasing one another.
Why did the prince seek the relic?
Why did the bishop have this symbol carved into his skin?
What could that do to a man’s soul?
Was the bishop willing… or coerced?
Was the prince given over to the forces of darkness, or was he their pawn?
The relic, a book bound in the skins of Christian martyrs, had been hidden. Safe. Or was it? The prince sought it, and had unleashed Locksley to root through the land. Now John had conscripted the bishop himself to search the monastery.
He crossed himself, murmuring the Lord’s prayer.
Something fluttered, drawing his eye. The parchment had unfolded, the symbol now open to the air. It was darker than before. The charcoal looked wet, glittering in the candlelight.
Ave Maria…
His heart began to pound in his chest.
I am a prideful fool… Sweat rolled under his robe as he stared at the symbol. The light in the room dimmed.
Please save me from my arrogance.
Someone knocked on the door. It was just enough to break the hold. His chair fell to the floor with a crash as he leapt to his feet. His movement sent a small puff of air across the table. It struck the parchment, flipping it over and into the puddle of oil. The blessed liquid rushed through the thin skin, soaking into it. The charcoal broke free of its now slippery mooring and smeared, sliding through the oil in tiny streaks until the symbol was ruined, becoming an obscure smudge.
He crossed himself, fingers hitting hard on shoulders, skull, and breastbone, as he murmured a prayer of thanks and moved toward the door. Opening the wicket he found Alan-a-Dale staring back at him. He closed the wicket and opened the door, ushering him in. Then his eyes went wide.
Close behind came Robin Longstride.
He closed the door behind them and threw the bolt.
The bard swept the room with sharp eyes, taking in the oil-soaked parchment, the double rings of salt and oil, the overturned chair.
“Is everything alright, Father?” he asked anxiously.
The cardinal waved the question away, not wanting to answer it. He looked pointedly from Alan to Robin and back again.
“You have brought a friend.”
“I have.”
“It is always good to see any of the Longstride family. However, I wonder what reason you might have for bringing him here?” His brow wrinkled in a frown.
“I believe he is perfect for our plan.”
The cardinal felt his face turn hard. “You keep a secret well, Alan-a-Dale.”
“I’ve told him nothing.”
“You’ve revealed that there is a plan.”
Alan smiled.
“Well, there is that.”
* * *
Locksley’s men had left the place in shambles. As Glynna picked through the rubble in the kitchen her rage only grew. A step at the door caused her to turn. Lila was coming inside, walking carefully, her face filled with dismay as she looked around at the broken pottery.
“You! You told them about my book, didn’t you?” Glynna demanded, striding forward and grabbing Lila by the hair.
Lila cowered before her. “I don’t know what book you mean,” she said, putting her hands up.
As if she could protect herself from me, Glynna thought contemptuously.
“The book of the craft that my mother left me,” she hissed.
Lila’s eyes grew wide and round. “I never… I never told anyone about that.”
“Liar!” Glynna bent down and wrapped both hands around the woman’s throat. She felt power coursing through her arms as she squeezed, beginning to choke the life out of the other woman. The more she squeezed, the more powerful she felt. Lila thrashed about, batting at her with useless hands as her face changed color.
“You knew about the book?” she demanded, easing the pressure a little.
Lila nodded, still struggling to breathe.
“My mother used it, didn’t she?”
Again she nodded.
“And yet you never told me about it, or about her!” She hurled the accusation as she squeezed even tighter. A wicked laugh bubbled up within her and she did not deny it. This was power, real power. She held the choice of life and death in her hands. Her choice.
Her strength.
Her will.
Dark Lord take this sacrifice.
And then the light faded out of Lila, as though she were a candle that had simply been snuffed.
Glynna dropped her on the floor beside her. Black energy crackled between her fingers, tracing little shocks up her arm. The world was clearer, sharper, everything connected to her through her senses. Her tongue tingled as she tasted the air, suckling the scents from it. She looked down at the corpse of her servant and saw the bones of her.
“You were always a terrible cook,” she said.
* * *
Robin knew what had to be done. Cardinal Francis and the rest, they were insane—but they weren’t wrong. Morning dawned, and he had been up all night thinking about what they had told him.
He had finally come to a decision. His father had a distant cousin who lived in Scotland, the lord of a very small manor there. In the morning he would send Becca and Ruth. He would send their mother, as well, if he could persuade her to go. It would be safer for all of them, far from the prince or the Sheriff’s reach. Freed from worrying about them, he could act as his conscience dictated.
He’d send Old Soldier and Little John to watch over and protect them. That way they’d be safe, too. Perhaps he would send away the entire retinue. Then, by God’s beard, nothing could hold him back.
* * *
A quarter turn of the glass later he found his sisters in the stable, feeding treats to the horses as they so often did. He watched them for a moment from the shadows. It felt as if he’d been doing that all his life. Mother had discouraged a close relationship with them, and he regretted now that he hadn’t fought her on it.
When they ran out of apple pieces Robin stepped forward. The girls turned and jumped. They had been that way since the incident with the soldiers, and it hurt his heart. Slowly they began to smile at him, but they were hesitant smiles, as though they didn’t know what to make of his being there. Becca’s eyes were especially guarded. She had seen what he’d done to protect them both.
“What is it, brother?” Becca asked.
He forced a smile onto his face. “I have a surprise for you girls.”
“Tell us what it is!” Ruth said, eyes growing wide.
“You’re going to go visit our cousin in Scotland for a little while. You’ll get to meet more family, and ride horses all you want on green fields. You’re going to love it.”
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