The Two Torcs

by Debbie Viguié

  Rory didn’t see the slap that drove him to the floor.

  As the world faded to black he heard John say, “Leave this one, he’s worthless.”

  The words chased him all the way to the black.

  * * *

  Marian turned.

  Robin stood on the ridge just above them. The cold wind rolled from behind him, causing dark locks grown longer to lick out from around the hood of his wool tunic. In the gloom of the woods he looked darker, almost sinister. She could imagine how merchants felt when suddenly set upon. It would be as terrifying as a wolf attack.

  If the wolf appeared out of nowhere.

  And shot arrows at you.

  A long sword hung from his hip, something new. It added to his air of menace. Arrows could be used to harry and confuse, but a sword—especially a broadsword like that—was used only to cut or to kill.

  They don’t call them bastard swords for nothing.

  Her hand found the pommel of the long dagger that lay along the crease of her hip, under her robes. She touched it, giving it a little tug, not quite enough to release it from its sheath. It was nearly as long as her forearm, almost a short sword, the blade curved slightly with a thick spine ridge for strength and an edge honed to shaving sharpness. She’d ground off the cross guard, leaving just blade and grip so there would be no snag if she ever needed to draw it.

  Robin’s eyes cut down to her hand, and then back up to her face. His mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed dark.

  He’s as haunted as the woods themselves.

  She shook the thought away.

  “Robin…” Beside her, Will began to speak.

  Robin put his hand up.

  Will stopped talking.

  Robin pointed at Marian and Will.

  “I’ll have a word with you two.” He turned his back and walked away.

  Will looked at her. “I guess we follow him?”

  “Oh, I’ll follow him, to be sure.” Anger at the presumption that she would simply obey jumped into her throat. “But if he thinks he’s the only one who will be talking, he’s got much to learn.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The bolt squeaked as it was pushed into place, iron rubbing on iron and in need of oiling.

  Alan held the sound in his mind and rolled it around, turning it one way and then the other, examining it to see if he could replicate it with the ancient harp that was strapped to his shoulder. The deeper end of the sounds it could produce were made with iron strings. He could ask the blacksmith to fashion him a simple iron band to round the middle joint of his first finger. With this in place he could simply tap upward to the thickest part of the thickest iron string, unworn by playing.

  “Thank you for joining me.”

  The sound of it should be the same squeak of a thrown bolt but amplified by the yew-wood frame, Alan realized.

  It would work excellently in the saga of Dagda, The Goodly Wise, a harper himself who kept Uaithne, Stroker-of-Strings, as his personal harp. The Fomorians captured Uaithne and carried him off. The Goodly Wise gave chase with his son, Aengus Og.

  At the Fomorian camp they crept to the tent…

  The tale continued to unwind in his mind, twisting away to one of the many nooks and crannies that formed the maze of a bard’s memory.

  * * *

  “I said, thank you for joining me.”

  Alan blinked at the cardinal.

  “No thanks needed,” he said.

  The cardinal studied him, head cocked slightly to the side. Alan studied him back, noting the thinness of the other man’s skin, worn by age into wrinkled parchment. Cardinal Francis was still a fit man, but well into the winter of his life. His hands only trembled slightly, and his eyes were more than clear—they were piercing, able to divide a man body from soul.

  The cardinal smiled. “What were you cataloging in that wonderful head of yours?”

  “The sound of mishap.”

  “Esoteric, as always.”

  “Not always, but at times.”

  The holy man placed his hands on the table. “I need that talent exactly, so I do not mind.” He reached into his robe and withdrew a small bundle of waxed leather. Unfolding it revealed a book not much larger than a man’s palm.

  Alan recognized it.

  He’d accepted it from a wiry monk in Ireland, then carried it across the sea and into the dark depths of Sherwood to a tiny, ancient chapel. He’d given it to Friar Tuck, as requested.

  A secret book carried in secret.

  King John’s tax collectors have sought a book, he mused, from the beginning of their reign of terror.

  The connection was so sharp, it made Alan sit straighter in his chair. Cardinal Francis put his hand over the small book, not quite touching it, letting his fingers hover.

  “Do you know what this is?”

  “No.”

  Francis flipped it over, revealing a sigil carved into the bone plate that formed the cover. The symbol blasted itself into Alan’s mind, a roar of chaos in the highly ordered system of his brain. It squirmed through the tiered knowledge granted to him by his druidic training, layer upon layer of information carefully placed in the whorls of his thoughts. The bard’s stomach flipped, and everything he’d eaten that day threatened to spew out of him.

  He closed his eyes and took a breath, drawing air deep inside. Holding it, he used the weight of his full lungs to center himself, taking the symbol and shoving it to the side, locking it into a box he could use to observe it, but keeping it quarantined from the rest of his knowledge.

  He opened his eyes to find Francis staring at him.

  “I wondered how this would affect you.”

  Alan shrugged. “It was… uncomfortable.”

  “Not any longer?”

  Alan could still feel the symbol prickling at its box. “Not too much.” He sat forward. “Is this the book John seeks?”

  “I believe it is.”

  “Why?”

  “This is the Relic Grimoire.”

  “That makes… sense.”

  The name sparked knowledge inside Alan. A volume made from the bones and skins of saints killed in the Roman Coliseum by the dark magician Kursoa, with the intent of making the most blasphemous spell book in existence. St. Jonathan the Mystic had rescued it from the magician’s hands before it could be completed.

  He had used the book to record his own visions before returning it to the church, where it presented a dilemma. Should it be destroyed as a vessel of dark magic, or revered as an item composed of the last remains of some of the very first martyrs for Christ?

  “You are aware of the history?”

  Alan nodded. “But not its content.”

  Francis sighed. “St. Jonathan had… interesting ideas.”

  “I assume you’ve read it, and there is some reason you want to discuss it with me.”

  “The vision inscribed within tells of the splitting of the oak, the dark splinter, the absent king and his shadow, and the gathering dark.”

  “All in one record?”

  Francis nodded.

  “Then it confirms Merlin, Taliesin, Melchior, and your own St. Jonesius.”

  “Fully and completely,” the cardinal agreed. “It ties all their disparate parts into one unified prophecy. It also confirms other details from dozens of other sources.”

  “So Jonathan was a scholar of prophecy, and he compiled them?”

  “No,” the cardinal said. “He had no way of knowing of any of these. He was a first-century father of the church. He predates everyone save Merlin and Taliesin, and he had no way of knowing they existed, much less their predictions.”

  “Then he is the clear key.”

  “Yes.”

  Alan’s eyes narrowed. “What else is in that book?”

  “The lion roars across the sea, as his shadow thickens at home.”

  “Sounds like Richard… and John.”

  “It does.”

  “Yet prophecy can be shaped by the times of the
interpreter.”

  The cardinal’s face hardened. “I’m not seeking the worst, and I am no fool.”

  “I didn’t think you were.”

  “Still, you implied…”

  Alan’s long fingers waved it away. “A word of caution is all,” he said calmly. “It is part of my calling.”

  “So you agree with my interpretation.”

  “I have no reason to doubt it.”

  Francis nodded. “Good.” Looking down at the book, he nodded again, “It also talks of the oak as the King of the Forest.”

  Alan kept his face unreadable.

  “Now is not the time for secrets, son,” the cardinal said.

  Alan considered Cardinal Francis. He’d thrown himself into the rebellion formed by the older man, because it felt right. The people—his people—suffered terribly, and anything to ease that had to be done. He knew Francis to be a good man, a godly man, but the knowledge in him was sacred, kept secret for the protection of the ancient ways.

  Did he trust Cardinal Francis?

  Francis didn’t press as Alan came to his own decision.

  “The tree you speak of is the Oak of Thynghowe. It is the Heart of England herself, an ancient guardian in the center of Sherwood,” he said.

  “Do you know where it is?”

  Was I wrong in my trust?

  “No one knows where it is. The tree stands between this world and the otherworld. Its roots tap into the spirit while its branches spread into the physical. Legend states that as long as the Thynghowe stands in Sherwood, then the land and people will be safe. Only a true child of the forest can find it.”

  Francis nodded, his eyes off in the distance. “And its connection to the kingship?”

  “It is the guardhouse of sovereignty itself.”

  “How so?”

  Alan shook his head. “That is not clear. It may be metaphorical or actual. One way or another, the mighty Thynghowe protects the sovereignty of Avalon.”

  Francis closed his eyes and sat back, hands across his stomach. The quiet grew between them. It pressed against even Alan’s hard-learned druidic patience, but he did not break it. There was something coming, and he would wait for it rather than press and spoil it.

  Cardinal Francis did not open his eyes when he spoke.

  “What do you know of a woman of ancient blood, who can hold sovereignty in her hands?”

  * * *

  “Because I damn well said so.”

  Marian threw her hands up. “That is no reason at all.”

  Will leaned on a tree watching Robin and Marian argue. They were on the other side of the ridge, away from the camp. He was sure they could all hear the argument, even though Robin and Marian thought they were keeping their voices low. The crisp, cold air carried sound much further, especially through bare branches and shrubs shrunken under frost.

  “Is it not?” Robin countered.

  Marian moved closer. “Robin Longstride, we have let those children suffer too long.”

  “This isn’t about the children.”

  “Then why did we traipse all the way out here in this God-forsaken wood?”

  Robin’s voice went soft and low.

  “The forest hasn’t been forsaken by God.”

  Will pushed off the tree and moved slowly forward. He recognized the quiet edge in his cousin’s voice. The last time he’d heard it, men had bled.

  Marian took a deep breath. “It was a long ride and cold besides. Forgive me.”

  Robin looked at her. He took a half step forward then stopped. He nodded.

  “Always.”

  Will stopped moving.

  “Well and good.” Marian’s mouth twitched a small smile before pulling into a hard line. “Now stop being stubborn, and let us use these men.”

  Will shook his head and stepped back to the tree. He shifted against the rough bark, trying to get comfortable.

  “They always like this?”

  Will jumped as if bit by a snake. He jerked his head and found Old Soldier standing there, hands cupped around his mouth for the warmth of his own breath. A twinkle of amusement flickered in his rheumy eye.

  Will pulled himself together. “Not so far.”

  “There’s a fire there betwixt ’em. Maid Marian’s had backbone her whole life, like both her parents before her. A woman like that won’t let you rest ’less you’re doing your very best.” Old Soldier nodded knowingly. “She’s a good fit for him.”

  Will looked back at Robin and Marian. She moved her arms in circles, shifting from foot to foot. Robin stood resolute, and the only change in his position was to cross his arms.

  Old Soldier leaned close and whispered “Didn’t mean to startle you, Will Scarlet.”

  “You didn’t, Old Soldier.”

  The old man chuckled as they both watched the dance before them.

  * * *

  “Those men are angry.” Marian shook her head. “They want to fight.”

  “Their anger doesn’t make it their responsibility.”

  “We’re talking about children.”

  “The men are commoners, so it’s not their children.”

  Fire burned in her guts, roiling up inside her. He didn’t understand. He didn’t care. How could he stand by? She would convince him, compel him, make him come around. She snarled, the words spilling out of her.

  “Children, innocent children locked away and at John’s mercy since…”

  “Marian.”

  It was one word, spoken softer than before, and it cut her short.

  Robin opened his mouth to speak and faltered. He pushed back the hood of his jerkin, using his fingers to scrub his scalp in frustration. Marian watched the dark locks of it shake around. She’d seen Robin full of laughter, full of anger, somber and brooding, and wistfully near melancholy. She’d never seen him frustrated, and unable to express himself.

  It made her want to go to him, to pull him into her arms and press his head down to her shoulder.

  To her bosom.

  The thought of it brought a body memory of something that had never occurred. It hit her full force, and for a brief moment—a split second—she could feel him pressed against her. His lithe body, firm in its strength, touching against her from thigh, to hip, to stomach, to chest.

  Her breath caught, and deep in the most intimate part of herself she felt a longing she’d never experienced before.

  Oh, Robin.

  “Yes?”

  His voice startled her and she realized she had spoken his name out loud without meaning to.

  “Uh, oh, carry on, I’m listening.”

  His head tilted sideways, cocking at an angle as he studied her.

  “These men gathered here are from my family’s land,” he said. “Some I’ve known my whole life. When my father left, I was responsible for their well-being, but I hated it. Every minute spent working that damned farmland was torture. It’s why I joined our rebellion.”

  “The rebellion is needed…”

  He put up his hand. “I’m not saying otherwise, but that’s just not why I joined it. I wanted away from Longstride Manor, and fighting against John with you was a way I could justify it to myself. So I ran with you and the others, fighting his corruption but not because it was corrupt. If I had wanted that, I could have gone to court, joined the other nobles and made a stand. Instead I ran through these woods and fought fat merchants with good friends.” He paused for the briefest moment, not looking at her, then added, “And a beautiful woman.”

  She caught the words.

  Robin continued. “My hatred of my father, the idea that I was better than digging a field, and the thrill of fighting in our rebellion is why I allowed Locksley to take my family’s holding. It was selfish, completely selfish.” He looked up at her. “Because of me, those men lost their homes and families. None of them will lose their life as well. We fight this fight alone.”

  Her resistance broke. “Then we will rescue the children ourselves.”

 
He nodded. “As it should be.”

  BITTER ASHES SWIRLING TO EARTH

  CHAPTER NINE

  The ship rocked gently under their feet, bobbing slightly. The ice rimming the hull had been broken, smashed by the crew so that the ship could sail freely from the southern harbor.

  It crunched and chafed, covering any noise they might make.

  Wind blasted over the water, ripping across the deck and cutting them to the bone. For stealth and fighting they had worn as little as possible, leaving behind layers of clothing in favor of simple wool pants and tunics, dyed black, and wool cloaks only big enough to cover them.

  The moonlight poured down from the clear winter sky, bathing everything in a weird silver glow. It had allowed them to watch from the edge of Sherwood as a regiment of soldiers had escorted three wagons to the harbor. In its light they watched the soldiers open the wagons and drag out huddled figures covered in blankets. In the crisp air the sound of weeping was clear.

  The southern harbor was old, small, and rarely used. It was more treacherous to sail from there than the one King Richard and his men had used. Perfect for things that needed to be done away from prying eyes.

  They had watched as the huddled figures were walked up the gangplank, taken aboard, and put into the hold of the ship. Once they were secured, a portion of soldiers with them, the crew had begun their preparations as the rest of the regiment turned the wagons and headed back toward the castle.

  The sailors went to quarters, and the rebellion made its move.

  * * *

  Robin’s hand held the hatch’s rope handle. He nodded at Will and Marian.

  “Once I drop down, you follow,” he whispered. “We can deal with the guards if we move quickly.” He looked past at Friar Tuck and Alan-a-Dale. “You two watch for sailors.”

  One by one they returned his nod, each of them gripping a weapon. Will had his rapier and Marian held Raleigh’s saber. The fat friar carried an axe handle with no blade, just a stout stick of wood, its business end blackened from being fire hardened. Alan brandished two Scottish dirks each the length of his forearm. Their blades were nicked and notched from use, proof that they were of sturdy construction. “Wait.” Marian held out her hand.

  Robin turned to her.