The Two Torcs

by Debbie Viguié

  “You give up in either of those places, you let yourself feel the pain and the exhaustion, and you’re dead. All I’ve taught you means nothing, and I’m left helping your widow bury you. Is that what you want?”

  “No,” John said, licking his lips.

  “Then I don’t give a damn how tired you are. You don’t stop until I tell you that you can. Is that understood?”

  John nodded.

  Part of him hated Old Soldier in that moment—wanted to pick the man up and snap him in half like a twig. Old Soldier had seen things that John couldn’t even imagine, though, and he had survived. If John wished to survive, he had to do as the old man said. Even though all he wanted in the world right then was a cool drink, a morsel of bread, and a tree to sit under.

  Another part of him realized that he should be honored. The old man didn’t drive everyone else half as hard as he drove John. That meant he respected him, expected him to be capable of great things. It was good to have someone believe that much. It helped take a bit of the burn off, as he forced himself to pick up the arrow and notch it.

  He pulled back and let the arrow fly. It went straight and true, and buried itself in the tree next to Old Soldier’s last one.

  “Good,” Old Soldier said. “Ten more arrows, and then we’ll switch to sword training for the rest of the morning.”

  John gritted his teeth and nodded. He refused to let the old man see him hurting anymore. He made a vow to himself and God, then and there, that he would not yield a weapon until the old man had. He was, after all, John Little.

  Strongest man in England.

  * * *

  Put me away. Hide me.

  Agrona blinked herself out of the trance she’d been in, the image of her mother dissolving like early morning mist. They had been prodding the spirit of her sister, trying to draw her out of the relic that lay slimy across her knees. The shinbone left a streak of goo on her robe as she lifted it up and placed it into the black oak box beside the dry bones of their mother. Closing the lid, she slid it under the edge of her pallet and stood, all in one sinuous motion.

  The door rattled.

  “Come in—” she said.

  It opened before she had finished speaking, and Glynna Longstride strode into the room.

  “I do not need you to allow me entrance.”

  The words whipped across Agrona, and she fought to keep her temper in check.

  “This is where I have made my home,” she said. “I was welcoming you.”

  Glynna kept moving until she stood close enough to touch the necromancer. Her icy blue eyes narrowed.

  “Quite the accommodating little bit, aren’t you?”

  “Only to some,” Agrona replied.

  “Only to those with power.”

  Agrona tilted her head at the accusation, considering it, and considering the woman who threw it. She took in Glynna’s long, lithe form. Even with the pregnancy, it was laden with sensuality. Lust dripped off her like droplets after a shower. It perfumed the air, a heady scent of sex and power. Agrona stepped closer.

  “It is intoxicating to find someone worthy of attention.”

  “Worthy as the Sheriff?”

  “Worthy as he.” Agrona licked her lips. “Worthy as thee.”

  Glynna reached out, grasping Agrona’s wrists, drawing her sticky hands to the buttons on the robe. As Agrona’s fingers began to work, Glynna inhaled deeply. Agrona knew the other woman could smell the must of bone, the tinge of rot, the warmth of womanhood—and there, down in the layers of it all, the blackberry smoke and grave-dirt scent of her lover.

  The ram’s-horn buttons fell away. The robe parted around her stomach. She hitched her shoulders and it slipped down her arms to puddle at her feet.

  Agrona drew in a sharp breath.

  When she could, she whispered. “Sweet Goddess, thou art glorious.”

  “You desire me as you desire the Sheriff?”

  “I do, milady.”

  Glynna brought her hands up to her collarbones, sliding her palms down to cup her breasts, swollen to the point of ridiculousness. She squeezed them and the flesh went translucent. White and the blue veins stood out like woad painted on a corpse.

  Then Glynna reached down, and Agrona rocked on her heels.

  Long, slender fingers slipped below, caressing around the swollen stomach and then under, disappearing from the necromancer’s sight. Yet she could feel them against her own skin, as if she were the one being touched.

  She bit her lip to hold in a moan.

  The other woman raised her hands, cupping Agrona’s face and pulling her close. The necromancer tilted her chin up, lips parting as she stopped against the taller woman’s distended, pregnant stomach.

  Glynna leaned down, their lips close enough to brush.

  “Whose are you, little corpse-talker?”

  “Yours, milady,” Agrona gasped, her breath closed tight in her chest. “Yours and our lord’s.”

  Glynna’s tongue flicked out, swiping across Agrona’s bottom lip. The necromancer’s knees buckled at the crackle of power that stabbed through her.

  Glynna chuckled then, holding the other woman up.

  Agrona’s hands found Glynna’s belly, the skin under her palms tight as a drum. There was a sharp kick under her right palm. It cleared her mind just enough to speak.

  “My sister was a midwife.”

  “Was?”

  “Our lord sacrificed her.”

  “Good for her.”

  “We talk more now,” Agrona said. “I can force her to share her knowledge with me, when your time comes.”

  Glynna brushed her bottom lip against Agrona’s.

  “She is dead?”

  Agrona nodded.

  “Tell her I said hello.”

  Then Glynna’s mouth fell, latching onto hers. Her lips were soft and hot, so very hot. Agrona’s head swam as the other woman’s tongue invaded her mouth, insistent, pushing past her teeth. There was a split second of ecstasy as raw lust poured over her like fire-warmed honey.

  The tongue in her mouth kept pushing.

  It shoved, swelling as it went into her throat. She choked around it, the urge to gag jerking her forward. She pushed, trying to get free, to get breath, to get away, but Glynna’s hands were iron around her head. The tongue, the thing, in her throat began to squirm, to crawl its way deeper inside her.

  Panic stampeded through her as red spots clouded her vision from the edges. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak, couldn’t think. She could only feel the invasion of what was once a human tongue, burrowing inside her.

  The darkness took her as it unleashed spikes that tore the soft tissue inside her. The last thing she saw was Glynna Longstride’s eyes, glittering with hate and insanity, just inches from her own.

  * * *

  “Was that necessary?”

  Glynna dropped the dead weight and turned, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

  The Sheriff of Nottingham leaned against the doorway.

  His pale hands and face seemed to float in the dark that gathered around him, his ever-present armor drinking the light from the room.

  Heat jumped inside her, leaping from point to point in her body like embers in a raging forest fire. She was ecstatic to see him, and could not tell from the tone of his question if he was angry with her, though angry would be fine.

  His punishments could be so exquisite.

  She smiled a wicked smile. “Necessary enough.”

  In an instant the Sheriff was beside her. He hadn’t walked across the room, he just suddenly was there. He looked down at the dead woman on the floor. The body had collapsed in on itself like a drained wineskin. He looked back at Glynna and raised a pale eyebrow.

  “How did she taste?”

  Glynna parted her lips and leaned toward him. “See for yourself.”

  * * *

  It was three days before Will felt it was safe to leave the castle. Even so, he found himself glancing frequently over
his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t being followed as he headed toward the monastery.

  He was wrapped in a fur-lined cloak that did little to fend off the creeping cold that seemed to seep into his bones. In his room at the castle he kept the fireplace burning night and day. He told himself it was just imagination that made it seem as if his room—and indeed, the whole world—grew darker and icier by the day.

  There were many preparations to be made for the upcoming solstice. He secretly wondered if Marian still lived because of the festival, or something associated with it. At the last such gathering John had orchestrated a horrific series of hangings. Will still saw them in his mind’s eye, women and children, killed without remorse.

  He would not watch Marian be executed, and he prayed it didn’t come to that. Will rounded a bend in the road and saw a lone figure trudging toward him, baskets swinging from the stick he held across his broad shoulders, head down against the cold winter wind. Will relaxed as he recognized Much. The miller’s boy had done a lot of growing in the last couple of months. His shoulders seemed broader, and his face thinner.

  Then again, a lot of faces seemed thinner these days. With winter settling in prematurely, he couldn’t help but wonder how the people were going to survive it. He thought of the fine meal he’d enjoyed just that morning, and felt a surge of embarrassment that he had a full belly, while so many did not. It was a monstrosity what John was doing to the people. Even the men living in the forest ate better and more often than their families did in their homes.

  They should all seek refuge in Sherwood.

  “Hail, good fellow,” Will said as he drew close to Much. “Where have you been so far this morning?”

  “As far away as the stonecutter’s home.”

  “Wasn’t the father taken by the pox?” Will asked, straining to remember. So many had died from King John’s curse, it was hard to remember them all.

  “And the oldest son,” Much agreed. “His wife and two young sons are left. My father sent me to check on them, make sure they had enough.” His brow puckered in concern.

  “And do they have enough?”

  Much shook his head. “My father instructed me to leave some food with them, and they cried and thanked me. I felt bad, though, because I knew it would not last them long.”

  Will’s fists clenched where they held his horse’s reins. It should be up to the nobles to care for the people. With King John squeezing them so hard, though, the nobles scarcely had the food needed to feed their own families. All others were going to have to fend for themselves during the harsh months ahead.

  Most would be reduced to begging, and he feared that a great many would end up dead. There was an obvious course of action. Robin wasn’t going to like it, but he had to hear it nevertheless.

  * * *

  Cardinal Francis knew deep in his soul that Will’s arrival was a dark omen. The tide was turning against them. He’d felt it for days, but had not wanted to admit it to himself, let alone the others. The more time he spent in prayer and fasting, the more he knew his own days were numbered.

  “We are cut off from Richard,” Will said, as he finished relaying what the Lady Marian had seen when she rode to the harbor.

  No ships to send word for help. No ships on which to escape.

  For Francis, there was something far worse than being cut off from King Richard. He was cut off from Rome herself. At the very thought, he shuddered deep inside. Unlike some of his brethren he had never wanted to be Pope, never wanted the responsibility for so many souls. His entire time in the Church had been spent as a scholar, an adviser.

  He closed his eyes.

  Francis was still those things, and he would continue to be those things for whatever time was left to him.

  He opened his eyes and looked at Will.

  “There’s something more,” he said. “What is it?”

  “The people,” Will said, and the cardinal shot him a curious look. “So many of them are starving, or will be before this winter is even half over. Between the pox, the taxes, and this unnatural early cold, they are hard pressed even to find scraps of food.”

  “And you have a suggestion of what might be done,” Francis guessed.

  “I think they should be sent to Sherwood,” Will said.

  Francis leaned back in his chair. Robin wouldn’t like that, but it wasn’t his choice to make. Besides, if the portents were true, young Longstride was going to have to forgo his lone wolf ways, and learn to lead. The people needed a leader.

  They’ll need him even more after I’m gone.

  “I agree,” he said quietly.

  It was the logical choice—and if it prepared Robin to step up to his destiny, then all the better.

  Will nodded, but there was hesitation in his eyes.

  “Don’t worry,” Francis said, guessing the source of his trepidation. “I’ll tell Robin.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You should return to the castle before you’re missed,” the cardinal cautioned. “We can’t afford to lose you.”

  Will nodded and rose. A minute later he was gone, leaving Francis alone with his thoughts.

  Yes, his time was definitely nearing an end. There were things that had to be done, however, before it arrived. Most importantly, he had to find a way to see Lady Marian. He had something he needed to give her.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “What do you mean the boats have been scuttled?”

  Cardinal Francis looked hard at Friar Tuck. “Do you need me to define the word?” he asked sternly.

  “I know what ‘scuttled’ means,” Tuck growled. “How did it happen?”

  “John’s men did it.”

  “They feared someone might send word to King Richard.”

  “It appears so.”

  Friar Tuck began to pace, the wool of his robe crackling with static electricity as he swung his meaty arms around. The chamber they were in was small—five steps across and nine steps long. The stout monk seemed to fill the space, his anger radiating off him in waves.

  “Calm yourself, my friend.” Francis raised his hands, palms out. “It is bad news, but we shall persevere.”

  “Do you not know what this means?” Tuck exploded. His round face had gone red, darker on the edges of his jowl line.

  “I do.” Francis kept his words measured.

  “We are without hope!” the friar cried.

  “We are never without hope, my friend.”

  Tuck locked eyes with him. “Tottering old fool.”

  Francis drew himself to his fullest height.

  The moment has arrived, he thought. You leave me no alternative. Reaching into his robe he removed a small bottle with a cork and uncapped it. Friar Tuck turned to cross the small room again, hands balled into fists and his head down like a bull preparing to charge. Francis slung the contents of the bottle on his friend.

  “In the name of Christ I bind you,” he cried.

  The anointing oil slung from the bottle in an arc, slapping across the fat friar’s chest. It sparked purple and sizzled.

  Friar Tuck froze, mid-stride.

  Francis slung the oil at him again, this time up and down. The oil struck him again, from brow to belly. The oil sizzled and sparked once more, before soaking into the coarse wool robe. The stain of it formed a rough cross.

  Jaw clenched, Tuck growled.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I anoint you, Tuck, in the name of the Father and by the authority of the church. The works of evil are denied, the chains of iniquity are broken.”

  “Leave me the hell alone!” Friar Tuck bellowed.

  “There is no power over you but the power of Christ Almighty!” Cardinal Francis struck Friar Tuck in the face with an open hand. The monk, who was thirty years younger and a hundred pounds heavier, dropped to his knees as if felled by an axe.

  Francis could feel the magic spell that laid over his friend. It made his skin crawl and feel dirty. The air smelled sour in the small r
oom.

  “It burns, Francis!” Tears streamed down Tuck’s cheeks. “Why are you doing this to me?” he cried. “I trusted you!”

  The words punched Francis in the gut, but he had to hold strong. This wasn’t an exorcism—Friar Tuck hadn’t been possessed, but he was under the influence of dark magic. It could not remain unchecked. To leave it thus would endanger them all.

  Then Tuck began to howl in pain.

  Francis had to be strong. To see this through.

  “In the name of Christ, I command the demonic forces to depart,” he cried. “You are banished to the pit.”

  Tuck screamed then, a shrill sound that broke at the end.

  “Be bound, devils, be broken, spell,” Francis continued. “Be free in Christ, Brother Tuck.” He turned the oil up over Friar Tuck’s head, letting the last of it drip onto the monk’s face.

  It ran into his mouth as he screamed.

  * * *

  Bards, by the necessity of their vocation, were always moving, always traveling. They never stayed in one place too long. It was more than their position that dictated it, though. Every bard was born with a wayfaring spirit, a driving force that scratched at the back of his mind and chewed away at his guts if he stood still for too long.

  Alan had stood still for far too long, and it was starting to affect him in a very real, very intense way. Over the past fortnight he had begun sleepwalking, his unconscious mind attempting to address the problem that his waking mind refused to sort out. News that the boats had been destroyed caused him a rush of sheer panic. Not that he’d ever crossed the sea to France. Knowing that he couldn’t, though, made him feel as if he was being closed in, caught like an animal in a trap. He fought the urge to flee up north, to Scotland, to see if there were boats there that could take him off the island.

  Unfortunately, Alan had a duty he couldn’t ignore. He’d known that responsibility might trap him here, once events were set in motion. He just wished there had been another way.