The Two Torcs

by Debbie Viguié

  “Come, don’t be so glum,” Tuck urged at last.

  “Were you expecting to find a bunch of merry men?” Little John asked, before spitting on the ground. “Well, excuse me if we’d rather be somewhere else than this.”

  “Would you rather be in chains, imprisoned or as slaves, or in your graves, perhaps?” Alan asked, his voice soft. “When you think of those options, this doesn’t look so bad.”

  “There are plenty of places worse,” Old Soldier averred before taking a bite of meat. “Fresh air, plenty of food, good comrades, and a purpose to life. That’s more than any man can ask.”

  “Yes.” Alan agreed. “I have spent many nights in nature’s embrace and have enjoyed them all, even in a winter such as this.”

  The men grumbled in their cups, but they grumbled in sullen agreement.

  Yet somehow, even Tuck’s modest life at the monastery seemed like a luxury in comparison.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The Sheriff had summoned his best spell casters. His impatience with the Hood was growing, and he had a new task for those who worked dark magic.

  He waited in the small hut where they would gather, letting the last arrive before making his own presence known. It always gave him pleasure to see their shocked faces. It also drove home to him how incredibly stupid humans were, since they seemed to be surprised every time.

  All except Glynna. The woman was a lot of things, but stupid wasn’t one of them. She had never been a part of his plan, but because of her, some things were working out even better than he could have hoped. She peered at him adoringly, the only one who didn’t shrink even a little bit at his darkness. In fact, she loved him for it, and he had been surprised to discover that love could make someone more loyal than even fear. She stayed apart from the others, seated by the fireplace on a bench originally designed for small work with hand tools that was of a height to make her comfortable in her condition.

  He admired the fall of her hair from his shadows as he listened to the conversation in the room.

  “Why have we been summoned?” Agrona the necromancer leaned over the arm of her chair, thrusting her chest toward the sorcerer beside her. The man had slid down in his own chair, allowing his long body to spill off the edge, legs wrapped in the tatters of a monk’s robe, the cloth age-eaten and grey. His hands rested on his chest like crossed spades, the knuckles swollen and raw red. Along his cheeks were patches of crumbling skin the color of ash that flaked and dusted the long gnarl of beard that hung from his jaw.

  “Why ask me?” The Mad Monk’s voice rolled through the air between them, years of reciting incantations not meant for human throats giving his words odd inflections on and between their syllables. “I am no more privy to a reason when summoned than you.”

  The moment he began speaking, all the others in the room grew quiet, eyes on the two of them.

  “Ah, but you are infinitely more curious than I.”

  The monk scoffed. “That is simply a lie.”

  “From these lips?” Her fingers slid across her chin, nails scraping the edge of her bottom lip just enough to make it swell and become plump. “Never.” Dark eyes glittered. “Surely you have something in that mad, swirling head of yours.”

  He stared at her. Slowly his hands slid down his body until they clutched at his own jutting hipbones like milk and blood spiders. He sniffed deeply through a hawkish nose. “It may have something to do with the upcoming solstice.”

  “A solstice is special,” another witch muttered, barely loud enough to be heard.

  “Ah, but not like this one. This solstice only comes every one hundred generations. The druids had a name for it, I believe.”

  Enough! the Sheriff thought from his place of concealment.

  Dropping his magick with a shrug, he appeared in the center of their gathering. Most of the people reacted sharply, jerking away from the sudden intrusion, reeling from the backwash of eldritch energy. Only the Mad Monk and the necromancer remained as they were; only Agrona did so with a smile on her face.

  “What progress have you made in countering the magic of the forest?” he demanded as he moved from the center of the room, pinning each person with his eyes.

  “We… we still haven’t found a way to break the geas that keeps you from entering,” the insane monk replied. “It is ancient, primordial. It’s like nothing I’ve worked against before.”

  The Sheriff was not surprised, however. Frankly he would have been surprised if this motley assortment had managed to make any progress in that regard. Normally he would show his disappointment, choosing one of them to be an example, but not this day.

  “Keep at it,” he commanded, “but I have a more immediate need, something that must be addressed at once.”

  “Is it the long night?” the necromancer asked, slithering her way across the floor toward him.

  Instantly he could feel Glynna’s hatred of the woman, like a physical force. The woman was not long for this world, he feared. A shame, since she had her uses. Best to get something out of her while he could.

  “I need a potion,” he said. “One that, when it makes contact with the skin, drives the victim into a state of pure paranoia, so that they are gripped by fear, suspicion.”

  There were people protecting the Hood. Of that he was certain. If he could undermine their trust in him, at the very least he could remove the outlaw’s safe havens. At the most he might bring him down without sinking either sword or arrow into him. The best way to do that was to turn the Hood against his own allies. Thus he needed to turn the man into a pariah.

  Murmurs went up around the room. Finally a voice from the back replied to his instructions.

  “It would be easier to make something that, if drunk or eaten, would produce the same effect.” The murmurs turned to agreement.

  “Easier, yes, but not what I require,” the Sheriff said, putting just a hint more menace in his tone. The murmurs ceased.

  “It will be done as you wish,” the necromancer said. As she did, he could feel Glynna’s hate deepening, and he couldn’t help but smile.

  He wondered how the woman would die.

  * * *

  Tuck tugged at the buckle on the harness. Despite the cold, it was slippery with horse sweat. He looked over the back of the docile animal.

  “You could help.”

  Alan-a-Dale smiled. “I could, in theory.”

  The friar pulled the harness, clearing it from the back of the animal and hanging it on the stable wall. Before he could turn back, the horse wandered into its stall and began eating from a bucket of oats.

  “What theory?” he grunted. “The theory that you are too lazy to help?”

  Alan made his face very somber. “The theory that my fingers strum the song of Avalon. They must be preserved at all cost.”

  Laughter brayed out of Friar Tuck’s mouth, making the horse snort in its stall.

  Then the two men walked toward the stable door, shoulders brushing together.

  A shadow crossed their path.

  “Francis!” Friar Tuck exclaimed as the cardinal stepped into view. The friar moved slightly to the left, making a small distance between him and the bard.

  Alan tilted his head, fingers touching his brow lightly in deference. The cardinal returned the bow with a smile.

  “What brings you to the stable?” Tuck asked.

  “I came to find our esteemed druid,” the cardinal replied, nodding toward Alan. “I have need of his knowledge.”

  “It is yours,” Alan said.

  “Follow me inside to my study, then, where we can talk privately.”

  “Of course.”

  Friar Tuck spoke as the cardinal turned to go. “Do you wish me to attend the door?”

  “No, we shall be fine with Alan’s sharp hearing.” The cardinal put his hand on Tuck’s shoulder. “You may continue to look for brother Stephen. He still hasn’t turned up.”

  “I will find him.”

  The cardinal smiled. “I have
faith in you.”

  * * *

  “But what is in this shipment, and why should we care?” John poked at the fire with a stick as thick as a man’s wrist. Sparks danced around the blackened tip, rising up in the swirl of hot air. The men of the camp huddled around the freshly dug fire pit as they listened.

  Marian put her hands on her hips.

  “It’s the noble children,” she said. “John is shipping them to Scotland for ransom.”

  “Well, to be perfectly honest—” Will held his hands out. “—we don’t know for sure that it is children being shipped.”

  “What else could it be?” Marian snarled.

  Will shrugged, deflecting her anger. “Gold, supplies, oil for the Sheriff’s armor? It might even be books. He has a real addiction to books, according to the tax collectors.”

  Marian bared her teeth, her anger unabated. “He collects all these things, but the children are the tools with which he holds his power over the nobles of the land.” She clenched a fist and held it in front of her, shaking with rage. “We should have moved to save them before now. I cannot believe we are so selfish.”

  Little John laughed, spitting out the bitter humor. “Selfish is having the balls to come ask us to help a bunch of noble children. We were dumped in this cursed forest by not one, but two nobles!”

  The men around them murmured in agreement.

  Old Soldier stepped forward to stand beside the fire. All chatter ceased.

  John threw his stick into the coals, upper lip curled in anger.

  “Go ahead and say it, old man,” he growled. “Get it over with.”

  For a moment Old Soldier just stared at him.

  “We weren’t put here by children,” he said.

  “So?”

  Old Soldier’s face twisted, the creases by his mouth becoming deeper as his lips pulled back over teeth still strong enough to pull meat from bone. His breath pulsed between those teeth, spilling white into the cold air.

  The men around Little John eased back.

  “Children are not responsible for the sins of their fathers,” he continued, the intensity of his words building. “They suffer the worst for them, more often than not.” Old Soldier pointed a thick-jointed finger. “You know that more intimately than most.”

  The words struck John like a hammer blow to the chest. His shoulders bowed, pulling together to drop his chin. He gave a shudder, and tears shimmered on the end of his lashes before shaking free and dropping to soak into the beard that covered his jaw.

  Old Soldier stepped forward and put his hand on John’s chest, directly over the giant’s heart. He murmured, so low that no one but John could hear it over the crackle of the fire.

  “I’m sorry.”

  John nodded, still looking down at the ground, shaking more tears free.

  Old Soldier spoke over his shoulder to Will and Marian.

  “He won’t kick a fuss anymore.”

  Before either of them could respond a voice cut across the gathering like a butcher’s knife through a piece of meat.

  “It doesn’t matter. This is not your fight.”

  * * *

  The lock on the door rattled, making them stop talking and draw closer to one another.

  They already huddled for warmth, gathered in the center of the room away from the cold stone of the walls. Once winter set in, Rory, son of Lord Montjoy, had them all pull their pallets together. A few of the children had resisted, but once the true chill set in, they joined the rest.

  Rory also forced them to get up often and move about, to stay active with games and exercise. When they huddled he made them all tell stories and answer questions and tell jokes, anything to keep the seriousness of their situation from settling into their spirits.

  He was the only child of Montjoy, twelve years old and the pride of his family. He spent every moment trying to act just as his father would, and Lord Montjoy would not have let them suffer any more than they had to.

  He held faith in his heart that his father was going to rescue him. He didn’t know when or how, but his father loved him and would not leave him behind. Yet as more time passed, the faith turned hard and stony, transforming from true belief into a stubbornness. He didn’t know how long it had been, trapped in the one room, but it seemed like months. Certainly the seasons had changed. There was no privacy aside from the half a blanket sacrificed to cover the entrance to the chamber-well. That allowed them a bit of dignity when attending to their personal business, and it cut the draft that came from the long well that ran down the inside of the tower wall.

  The only interaction they had with the outside world came twice a day when guards brought food and water and the occasional change of clothing.

  Some of his fellow prisoners were as young as four and five. The nights were the hardest for them.

  The door lock rattled again, and Rory clambered to his feet, instantly missing the warmth of the circle.

  It wasn’t time for a meal.

  Something new was happening.

  For a moment—a hard shining moment—he expected the door to open to reveal his father, coated in the blood of their captors coming to rescue him, and a tear formed in the corner of his eye.

  The door swung open.

  A paunchy man in a fine robe of wool and fleece walked in, flanked by two hulking guards clad head-to-toe in black armor. The man wore a heavy gold crown on his head and his left hand held a scepter with an animal head on it. The crown sat low above his ears, pushing dark blonde locks to lay flat on his brow.

  He walked in and stopped. His face drew in on itself, and he waved his hand in front of it.

  “Well, you little whelps have been closed up in this room for a very long time.” He breathed in and out through his mouth. “Noble birth doesn’t keep you smelling fresh as a rose, does it?”

  Rory watched the man. There was something about his movements that made him seem… unpredictable. Dangerous.

  “Well, what have we here?” The man sauntered over, drawing so close that Rory had to look up. “Who are you, standing so tall and proud like a little lord?”

  “Rory Montjoy,” he replied, “son of Samuel Montjoy.”

  The man tapped his lower lip, eyes turned up to the ceiling. “Montjoy, Montjoy, Montjoy… hmmmmmmm.” He frowned and dropped his eyes back down to Rory. “Don’t know him at all.”

  A pang shot through Rory’s chest. “Are you the king?”

  “I am,” the man replied gleefully. “Call me John.”

  “Are you here to rescue us?”

  The laughter brayed from John’s mouth. It blasted into the room, loud as a trumpet. Somewhere behind Rory, children began crying.

  “No, Rory the mighty.” John bent, leaning until his face was even with Rory’s. His breath was sour when he spoke. “I’m the one who put your little arse here.”

  Rory’s whole body tightened. Suddenly it was hard to breathe.

  King John’s eyes widened, and he grinned. “Oooooh, you want to hit me, don’t you, son?”

  Rory didn’t answer, but his heart pounded in his throat, and the edges of his vision tunneled red in rage.

  John straightened.

  Rory glared at him.

  John pulled a dagger from his belt.

  Rory didn’t step back.

  John turned the dagger handle first and touched Rory’s chest with the pommel.

  “Take it.”

  Confusion swirled through Rory’s anger.

  “Take the knife, boy.” John pushed the dagger, jabbing him in the breastbone.

  Rory took the dagger. He held it in his hand, unsure of what to do.

  “You have a choice.” John’s face smoothed into seriousness, brows drawn together under the edge of the heavy crown. He pointed behind Rory at the other children. “You can take the most annoying brat here, the one that won’t shut up, the one that won’t stop crying, the one that you all hate, and you can stab out their eyes. Do that, and I’ll let you all go free.”
<
br />   Rory stared at him.

  “You have to take both eyes though.”

  Rory’s hand flexed on the handle.

  “What’s one blind brat, compared to getting out of this room?”

  The crying spread, bubbling up from the huddled children. Either more had started, or the ones already crying grew louder.

  Rory could hear, inside the sobbing noises, the wet sniffle cough that was Miriam. Miriam who made that same sound every night when the light faded from the room.

  All.

  Night.

  Long.

  It wasn’t loud, but it was incessant, crawling into Rory’s brain through his ears and curling, curling, curling inside his skull like an animal that just could not get comfortable.

  “You’ve chosen.” John waggled his eyebrows, eyes glittering.

  Rory stabbed him with all his might.

  Shove the damned thing deep like you mean it and get that blade up in his guts with a twist.

  He swung the blade up, pulling with his shoulder, pushing with his thighs, aiming for deep under the ribcage just like his father had taught him.

  John’s hand clamped on his arm faster than Rory could see him move. Fingers wrapped completely around Rory’s wrist, jerking him to a stop.

  The dagger halted inches from John’s side.

  All the anger inside him drained like water from a broken cistern, spilling down his thighs and into the floor beneath him.

  John wrenched him close, hand squeezing. The pressure on his wrist blossomed to pain, sharp and hot all the way to his armpit. Something snapped and it shot into his intestines, making him hot and greasy in his guts.

  The dagger clattered to the floor.

  “You could have saved the whole world with that,” the king hissed. “If you weren’t a failure.” John’s breath forced its way down his throat as the man put his nose right on Rory’s face. “No wonder your father abandoned you.”