“What are you doing here?” she demanded.
“Wondering what you are doing here,” Much said. “Friar Tuck wouldn’t approve.”
“I can take care of myself,” she said, showing him the dagger.
“Do you know how to use that?” he asked.
She thrust the dagger at one of the plants and then sliced off the leaves of another.
Much hunkered down beside her, nodding in approval.
“You’re going to use it on someone,” he said.
“Yes.”
He nodded again, but didn’t say anything about trying to stop her, which was good.
“So, why are you here?” she asked.
“Something’s happening. I’m here to help if I’m needed,” Much said.
“You do that a lot,” she said. “Help.”
Much shrugged. She had known him as long as she could remember and she’d never thought much about him. The last few days, though, he seemed older to her, wiser somehow. Lord Longstride trusted him. That had to mean something.
“Neither of you should be here,” a voice said from the darkness. Lenore spun around and came face to face with Lord Longstride himself. The man was dressed in dark clothes. A hood was pushed back off his head. He held a longbow in one hand, and there was a quiver of arrows on his back.
He reminded her of the stories her father used to tell her about the avenger of Sherwood. Sometimes she watched him and wondered if Lord Longstride was that same man, immortal as the forest itself.
“Look!” Much said suddenly, excitement in his voice. Lenore turned back around and saw a lady running out of the castle. She was dressed in the finest dress Lenore had ever seen.
“Is that the Maid Marian?” she asked.
“No, that’s her servant, Chastity,” Lord Longstride said, his voice taking on a hard edge.
Moments later soldiers sprinted out the door, chasing the lady.
An arrow sang past Lenore, the wind of it ruffling her hair.
Lord Longstride was shooting at the soldiers.
A figure emerged from the other side of the road and ran forward, sword drawn. The woman ran into his arms, and together they turned and headed for the bushes.
A soldier swerved and put on a burst of speed. He swung a wicked-looking sword and slashed the man across the back. A moment later the soldier fell as one of Lord Longstride’s arrows buried itself in his chest.
The man and the woman made it into the bushes on their side of the road, and Lenore moved toward them with Much beside her.
“Are you alright?” Much asked the man.
“I’ll live,” he hissed through clenched teeth. Lenore stared in surprise at the woman, who was clutching a tiny book in her right hand and a squirmy fox in her left.
“Where’s Marian?” Lord Longstride demanded as he ran up behind them.
“Captured by John’s men,” the woman said with a sob.
“Likely so was Alan,” Will added.
Lord Longstride cursed. He turned back toward the castle, and then cursed again. Lenore turned to look. The Sheriff’s men were filing out of the doors. They set up a perimeter of swordsmen around the castle. On the top of the wall she could see a dozen archers taking position.
Lord Longstride turned and put his hand on Much’s shoulder.
“Much, get them all back to the camp. You’ll find two horses tied up a hundred yards down the road. Fetch the men from the camp, and bring them here. We need to rescue the Lady Marian and the bard before John kills them both.”
Much nodded. Then he put an arm around Will, helping to support some of the man’s weight. Lenore put away her knife and ran around to help support the man on the other side.
“Hurry,” she heard the lady say, but she wasn’t sure if she was talking to them or Lord Longstride.
Together the four of them moved down the road, leaving the lord behind. There was going to be a battle tonight. Then maybe she would have the chance to get her revenge.
* * *
Old Soldier paused, whetstone against the steel across his knee. Carefully he put the small stone back in its pouch and stood, keeping his sword in hand. He faded back into the thicket, and waited for whoever was coming down the trail toward the camp.
It didn’t take long for the snow-covered undergrowth to part and reveal Will Scarlet, being helped along by a voluptuous maiden and the miller’s boy. Just a few steps behind them, knife in hand, came the orphan Friar Tuck had dropped off. He let them pass, then slipped in behind them, following them to the camp. Climbing to the top of the small ridge on the westernmost side, he watched the quartet enter.
“Ho, men of the forest, awaken yourselves!” Will cried out.
The men at the fire had already turned, Will’s shout brought out the ones huddled in tents and lean-tos.
Little John strode up, thick arms swinging.
“What is the meaning of this?”
Will eased himself down onto a stump. “Everyone needs to gather their weapons and come with us back to the castle.”
“Why would we do that?”
Will shifted, wincing. The woman moved behind him, examining the wound through his cloak and tunic.
“Robin has called for you.”
“That isn’t a reason.”
Much leaped forward, closing on the far larger man. His hands had knotted into fists.
“Damn you, John Little! Heed the call!”
John looked down at Much. “Check your passion, lad. It could land you in a world of hurt.”
Much spat. “Oh, now you find courage? Against me?” He spat again, this time on John’s boot. “The much-vaunted man of strength, mighty John Little, with only the bravery to fight someone a quarter his size.”
“You scrawny…” John drew back. Much didn’t flinch, narrow eyes staring at the giant of a man.
John swung.
* * *
Something struck him from behind, knocking into his shoulder and pushing him forward a half step. Pressure circled his arm, gripping it tightly. He turned his head and felt something sharp under his beard against the big vein in his throat. Lenore’s face was inches from his, teeth bared in a hard white line as she clung to his arm like she had climbed a tree. Her breath smelled like a man’s as she spoke.
“Touch him, and you’ll be smiling under your whiskers.”
He froze, unsure of what to do. The knife was at his throat, but he could feel her body on his arm beginning to tremble from the strain of hanging on. In just a few moments she would fall, he was sure of it.
But would she slit his throat as she did?
Anger roared up in him at the helplessness of the situation.
He felt the knife pull away, just slightly, as she slipped down his arm.
His other hand curled into a claw, moving to snatch her off him and dash her little bird skull against the ground.
“Enough.”
The voice cracked across the camp like lightning striking a tree.
Every head turned, John’s included, to look up at Old Soldier on the ridge. He stared down at them, steel in his hand and steel in his spine. For a long moment, time hung in the balance.
Then he spoke.
“Lord Longstride has need of us,” he said. “Pick up a weapon, each of you, grab your sorry excuses for balls, and be quick about it.” He pointed around the camp with his sword. “Anyone who chooses not to come—” He stopped with his sword pointed directly at Little John. “—begone from here before I return, or I will gut you and leave you to fend off the crows and the ravens.
“Do not test me on this.”
* * *
It only took moments for everyone to scramble to readiness. Old Soldier turned to the forest and set off at a pace hard for a man half his age. In twos and threes all the men followed him.
“Where do you think you’re going, serving girl?” Little John asked Chastity, who was sorting through the cooking utensils until she found a wide-bladed knife meant for cutting meat
. It had a stiff spine and a sharp edge, and it would do.
She turned on him, eyes blazing. “My friend is captured by John. I’m going to help free her. She is my responsibility.” She looked him up and then down. “I will not wait here like a coward.”
John dropped his eyes. He couldn’t argue with that. She had a sense of duty, a master she was willing to die for. He had once been willing to die for Robin, but that was before…
Chastity gathered her skirts and sliced through them with the knife. A few more slashes made quick work of the bottom hem, turning it into strips that she used to tie the material into pantaloons that she tucked into her boots. She grabbed a small blanket, sliced through the center of it, and stuck her head through. It hung over her shoulders as she turned, and ran to the back of the line of men and children who were following Old Soldier.
As she disappeared he looked around and found himself alone in an empty camp.
“Damned fools,” he muttered.
The fire crackled beside him.
“Damn stupid fools, every one of them.”
A log popped in the fire pit.
“An old man, a bunch of refugees, and some children.”
A cold wind blew smoke in his eyes.
“Damn them all to hell for being idjits.”
Little John picked up his quarter-staff and set off toward the trail they had all taken.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
In the span of just a few moments everything had gone wrong. Alan looked around him. The blackness—a physical manifestation of evil that filled the throne room—was making him sick, twisting his innards round and round. He had seen many dark things in his time, abominations and desecrations, but never anything like this.
The nobles stood around the room, listless, as though their very souls had been sucked from their bodies. Looking at the stack of bloody scrolls John had next to him, Alan thought it likely that they had been.
Dark magic was clearly present in those scrolls, and the act of signing with their own blood had done something to each of the men who had pledged their loyalty. Better far that they had resisted him.
Each man who refused, died in the act.
Alan shuddered, wondering just how much further John was going to go, and what his intentions were. Whatever they might be, they could not be allowed to come to pass. He was stripping the people… and the land.
The last time Alan had walked alone in the woods, he had heard a weeping sound as though the earth itself was in torment. Nothing was going to survive John’s madness and ambition.
Alan glanced over at Marian, who had been tied to a chair to keep her from trying to escape again. Her skin was unnaturally pale, nearly translucent. He could see veins throbbing in her hands, neck, and face. The poison in the room was having an effect on her as well—a profound one.
The cardinal had been right about her. She was the one to save them. If only he could save her first. Yet he didn’t have his instrument. It was across the room. His hands, too, were bound, so even if he did have it, he couldn’t play. That left only his voice.
The greatest weapon a bard possessed.
“Prince John, heed my words.” he said, letting his voice echo around the room. “There is no victory here for you. You oppress the people of this land, a land carved by the very hand of the Creator and set as a beacon on a hill. The Goodly-Wise and the Many-Gifted will not see this people laid to waste.
“We are ancient. We have stood against evil before, and we will continue to be steadfast. Turn aside and honor your vow to the rightful king, Richard the Lionheart. Forgo this mad quest to usurp the sovereignty of England. Turn toward the light of wisdom and knowledge.
“Choose to follow darkness at your own peril.”
Silence rang at Alan’s last words.
John began to clap… slowly, each one a mocking reverberation.
He descended from his throne, snake-like eyes locked on Alan’s. The bard stood, chest out, unwilling to give an inch of ground. His was the right. His was the truth.
“I have met a couple of your kind before, bard,” John said as he came to stand before him. “So arrogant, so smug, feeling like you know everything and the world should listen to you. I can respect that on some level. You know what your problem really is?”
Alan stood, unblinking, refusing to answer.
“None of you know when to hold your tongue.” John flashed him a wicked smile and suddenly there was a curved knife in the man’s hand. “So I shall do it for you.” He nodded to the soldiers. “Hold him,” he barked.
The guards on either side of Alan grabbed his body and head, even as he realized what John intended.
He clamped his lips shut.
John just stabbed him in the face, knife prying his jaws apart. Then pain unlike any he had ever known coursed through him as blood filled his mouth. Everything went black.
* * *
Marian screamed in horror as John cut out Alan-a-Dale’s tongue. It was the ultimate desecration, the worst thing that he could have done to the bard. Alan slumped unconscious, and as John held his tongue aloft the guards let the bard fall to the floor.
John was laughing, blood dripping down his arm as he paraded around the room with the tongue held high for all to see. At last he stopped and turned to look at Marian.
“Oh, don’t feel too sorry for the bard, little Princess. Your turn is coming,” he said with a cruel smile. “And we have something much more special in store for you.”
“You will pay for this, all of you,” Marian warned. Her eyes flitted between John, the Sheriff, and Robin’s mother. Clearly the woman had bound herself to the Sheriff. Marian didn’t know if Robin was aware.
“Actually, it’s you who will pay,” John said. “And them,” he added, carelessly waving a hand at the nobles who were standing around the room like statues.
“You are not king, and you never will be. The earth will spit you out. Richard will return and the rightful king will sit on the throne,” she said. “You have surrounded yourself with darkness, but the light always wins.”
John chortled as though she had said something funny.
“Not always, dear niece, and not this time. No, I am king, and soon I will be the greatest king. The King of all the West.”
“A sorcerer is what you are,” Marian spat.
“Yes, but Sorcerer King of all the West is a little too long a title, don’t you think?”
“So, you admit it,” Marian said, raising her voice and looking around, hoping against hope that at least one or two of the nobles still had their wits about them. None seemed to react at all.
“Don’t look to them for help,” John said, following her gaze. “They are all now bound to me, their wills are mine.”
“You sold your soul,” Marian accused.
John shook his head. “No need to sell anything if you have the right spell. Say, a spell that will raise an arch-demon and bind him to you,” he said, eyes glancing toward the Sheriff.
Marian’s blood ran cold. An arch-demon. The Sheriff just continued to stare with his unnatural eyes. She looked past him, and tried to make eye contact with Glynna.
“Lady Longstride, help me,” Marian said, her voice pleading.
Glynna turned and looked at her as though seeing her for the first time.
“Why, whatever is the matter, my dear?” she asked.
“The Sheriff is a demon, and John means to destroy everything.”
Glynna smiled at her. “Not everything, dear,” she simpered. “But then again, you won’t be around to know, will you?”
“What does she mean?” Marian asked, turning back to John.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you. To seal my kingship, only one little thing is left—and, you, my dear niece, are going to make the perfect sacrifice.”
* * *
Robin had been watching the castle for hours, his fear for Marian gnawing away at him and driving him toward insanity. Too many times he’d had to control himself. Rushing
in, getting killed, would leave her defenseless.
Not helpless, though. Not Marian.
He prayed that her strength remained enough.
At last he heard the sounds of movement from behind him, still coming from a way off.
It was another ten minutes before Old Soldier crouched down next to him. The others arrived in groups, and remained back a few steps. Fifteen souls ranging in age from a young boy to an old man. He prayed it would be enough.
“We are here, Lord Longstride,” the man said.
Robin didn’t correct him. The title chafed him, but he knew it was important to Old Soldier.
“There are almost no soldiers around the right side,” he said, pointing. “They’ve focused mainly on the front and the side where the kitchen is, since those are the easiest points of entry.”
“Begging your pardon, Lord Robin, but I spent years as the king’s right hand and shield. I know this castle.”
“You know a better way in?”
“That I do.”
Robin nodded. “So, let’s hear it.”
“There’s a secret way into the dungeons—there to get the king to safety if need be—which they likely don’t know about. It can be accessed through the king’s garden. They won’t have but a guard or two in the dungeon. We arrive on the inside, and then fight our way outside.”
Robin clapped his hand on the man’s shoulder.
“Lead the way.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Prince John looked like a fool, prancing around the room, crowing over Marian and the bard. Glynna could tell that her love felt the same way. There was no change of his countenance as he stared at the little prince, but she could feel his contempt. The little fool had been going on for what had to be hours. She wished he would just get on with it already.
She leaned back against Nottingham, who stood behind her.
“All the boys lusted after that one,” she said, pointing to Marian.
“She’s no match for your beauty,” he said absently, stroking her hair with a gloved fist.
Glynna thrilled at the compliment.
“Maybe not, but a match with her would put a man one step away from the throne.” Before he had left, Philemon had urged Robin to try to claim the Lady Marian for himself. The thought of Robin as royalty was laughable to her. The boy had never cared anything for power or responsibility. He was content to play in his woods like a child.
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