The Two Torcs (8 page)

As he approached the people they turned toward him. With each step the lateness weighed heavier on him. He had many complaints about King Richard, but the man had never called him to attention at such an ungodly hour.

King John tilted his head, wide crown sliding on his dark brow.

“Glad you could come,” he said, sarcasm edging his voice, and he indicated two men who knelt beside the throne. Their hands were bound, their heads bowed. One of them wore a blue tabard. He couldn’t see the insignia, but he knew in his heart of hearts it was a rampant lion. “Some of your friends have returned.”

The heavyset man raised his head. Locksley’s stomach tightened at the sight of the familiar face.

Mendly Mercroft, seller of goods and items of curiosity.

The man he’d tasked with trying to kill the Hood in ambush.

Locksley cursed in his own mind.

The last to turn toward him was the Sheriff, pivoting on his heel and stepping aside.

Seated behind him, obscured from view, was Lady Glynna Longstride.

Locksley cursed out loud.

Lady Glynna giggled.

He was stunned that she was alive. The summer plague had claimed her daughters, and he’d thought it had taken her, as well—but here she was, bright-eyed, fair-skinned, her hair luxurious against her bosom…

…and immensely pregnant.

Her belly jutted out from her tall, athletic frame, swollen to enormous proportions, the size of it pulling her skin taut and thin so that light blue veins marbled the entirety of it. Her blouse had been pulled up over it, leaving it exposed like a pale moon rising over the horizon.

Thin, squiggling symbols had been painted on its surface in curving lines. They pulled at his eyes, one row of flame-script pulling his eye left and another pulling it right. His eyes began to water and he had to blink and look up at her face.

Alive
, he thought,
and with child. It cannot be.
He’d seen her just a few months back, when he’d sought to collect taxes on her household. She’d shown no sign of it then. Could this be Longstride’s child, conceived before he sailed to the Holy Land? He pictured her before, long and lithe, no sign of having borne four children, and his mind tumbled further back.

To warm summer days of his youth, and the difference in her after just one child. The subtle widening of her hips, the light crackle of stretch marks on her stomach, hidden in the crease of her hipbone, the fullness of her…

“Why do your men always fail?”

The question jerked him back to his present situation. His eyes focused on John as he leaned forward on the throne, staring. The Sheriff stood beside Glynna, his hand slid under her hair, black gauntlet-covered fingers just coming around the other side to splay against her throat, lying against her fair skin like the legs of some tremendous spider covering the artery there.

Her eyes were closed and she leaned back against his touch. Her lips turned up in a sly, wicked smile.

No…

He blinked, wanting to shake himself, but refusing to show that much weakness.

“Excuse me?” he said.

King John stood. “I asked, why do your men always fail?” Raising the heavy scepter in his right hand, he gestured at the two bound men. The staff was a rod of hardwood, coated in gold. The top of it bore a fist-sized lump of gold that had been worked into the snarling head of a ravening wolf.

A wolf with curling horns.

“More to the point,” John continued, “are you in league with the Hood?”

Locksley’s eyes went wide, and he took a step back.

“You accuse me of treason?”

“Treason, or incompetence,” John growled. “Which is it?”

His skin grew hot under his clothes. “Neither.”

“Then why is the Hood
always
taking the taxes that have been collected?”

“He doesn’t,” Locksley protested. “We deliver most of…”

The Sheriff’s voice cut him off.

“Any delivery he attacks, he takes.”

Locksley looked at the Sheriff. The man unnerved him.

“Do you hire cowards for the job?” the Sheriff continued. “Men who lay down at the sight of a rogue and a bandit?” The man stared at him now, dark eyes glittering in the shadow of his brow.

“My men always fight.” He stepped closer to the dais, closer to the two men bound there. He snapped his fingers. “You two, look up, let me see your faces.”

Mercroft and the guardsman did as they were told. It took him a second to place the name of the guardsman. He was a young man, new to Locksley’s service. In fact, he was one of the men who lived on Longstride land.
Barkley? Benton?

Bentley. The man’s name was Bentley. An ugly bruise cut across his throat, a wide line of mottled flesh. A dark line of dried blood bisected it, curving over his Adam’s apple and under his jawline, the mark left by a rough sinew bowstring.

“See their injuries?” He gestured toward Bentley’s throat. “They fought.”

The Sheriff snorted through his nose.

“The fat one bears no injury.” Glynna’s voice was a purr as she stroked her face along the armored fingers at her jaw and cheek.

Mercroft’s eyes went wide and he began to stammer, lips smacking and jowls shaking. “H-he struck me from b-behind! You can’t see it for my hair!”

“So you were running away?” the Sheriff asked.

“No, no, no, no… I was trying to stab him! I was!”

“Then how was he behind you?” Sinister humor sparkled in the Sheriff’s eyes.

Mercroft’s mouth moved, but no sound came out.

Bentley’s head dropped to his chest. The soft sounds of his sobs came to Locksley’s ears.

The Sheriff met eyes with King John, who still stood in front of the throne, scepter in hand. The Sheriff nodded once, a quick up and down of his head.

Dread filled Locksley’s stomach.

He leaned forward, a protest in the back of his teeth.

King John took one step, drew back his scepter, and smashed it into Mercroft’s face.

The heavy gold ram’s wolf sank into the space where Mercroft’s left eye met his nose, the bones of the man’s face folding like they were made of cloth, and in an instant the merchant Locksley had known for three decades didn’t even look like a man anymore. Blood and bone splinters sprayed, drenching the side of Bentley’s head. As the gore struck him like a wet slap he screamed a long, pitiful wail, high pitched and mewling, like an animal being slaughtered.

John’s face pulled into a wide, gleeful smile. He tugged on the scepter and Mercroft’s body shuddered. The thing had lodged in the collapsed skull. John put his foot on the dead man’s chest, grasped the scepter with both hands, and yanked. It came free with a long, lingering squelch that hung in the air, not quite echoing in the room.

Mercroft’s body slumped sideways, falling against Bentley. The young man was screaming, his wail now undulating as his body convulsed, trying desperately to get away from the bloodied corpse but still bound hand and foot.

John twirled, his long robe slinging out from his lean body, showing a hairless, blood-spattered chest. His spin brought him closer to Bentley and he swung the gore painted scepter up in an arc, to bash it against the young man’s jaw.

The scream ended.

The impact bounced Bentley on his knees, his head twisted sharply by John’s blow. Locksley could see he was already dead. The lifeless body of the young man leaned out, pushed by the weight of dead Mercroft against him, and tumbled off the dais. It fell onto the tiled floor, landing on his neck which creased like a letter to be sent.

John tossed the scepter into the air. It spun in a lazy arc from his right hand, across his body, and into his left hand.

The Sheriff spoke.

“From this moment forward, any time your men fail to stop the Hood from taking a delivery, one of them will die.”

Locksley turned to look at him. He’d gone numb, left hollow at the casual destruction of two men.
His men
. One he almost counted as friend, the other he’d taken as a responsibility.

His words to Robin burned deep inside him, below the dullness of shock.

“And make no mistake,” John continued for the Sheriff. “Fail us many more times, and
you
will be that man.”

Locksley realized his hand was shaking by his side. He clenched it to make it stop.

“You are dismissed,” Glynna chirped. “Fare thee well.”

He turned and stalked out of the room, cursing the name Longstride with each step.

* * *

Friar Tuck carefully maneuvered the heavily laden wagon through the forest, heading for the clearing where Will had told him the men would be. He had brought with him tools, such weapons as he could get his hands on, and two casks of ale.

He had been fortunate, as well, in that Alan-a-Dale had stopped by just in time to accompany him on the short journey. The young man would help in cheering the men.

“It’s starting,” Alan said softly, interrupting Tuck’s thoughts.

“What is?” he asked.

“Everything. These men must be convinced to rally around Robin, to help the cause. If they stand with him, others will, then others, until we actually have a chance at something other than being slaughtered.”

“You’re in a good mood,” Tuck said drily.

“I am, actually. Just because I’m being pragmatic doesn’t mean I’m in a bad mood.”

“Still, I’d appreciate a little less pragmatism and a little more optimism when we get where we’re going,” Tuck grunted.

“I’ll endeavor to give what is needed.”

That was what worried him. Alan had been a little too blunt lately, and honest, and it was upsetting to say the least. Maybe bringing him along had been a bad idea. It was too late to turn back now, though. They were almost there.

And at the end of every day, even blunt, too honest, and in a foul mood, he would rather be in Alan’s company than anyone else’s.

* * *

As they rolled into the clearing, the man known as Old Soldier stood, alone and alert, a sword in his hand. He slowly lowered it as he nodded to Friar Tuck.

The old man let out a whistle and the tall brown grass rustled and shifted as two men rose up out of it. Tuck started as one man clambered to his feet not a dozen paces away from him. He hadn’t even seen him hiding there.

“They’re already making a good start of things,” Alan said for his ears alone. Tuck pulled the horses to a halt and climbed down from the wagon. He strode forward and clasped Old Soldier by the arms.

“Bless you,” he told him.

“Friar, we were expecting you.”

Friar Tuck glanced around. “I’d hate to see what would have happened if you
hadn’t
been expecting me.”

“Have you brought us tools, and more weapons?”

“I brought all that I could,” the friar replied. “Plus I brought some ale to help ease the transition, and chase away the cold.”

Old Soldier smiled. “I’m sure the men will welcome it. We’ve already killed dinner for the night, so it will be quite the feast.”

“Caught some rabbits?”

“Better than that, my friend.”

Better turned out to be a deer. Tuck had no idea how they had managed to sneak up close enough on the beast to fell it with a sword. At the camp proper, the wagon was quickly unloaded by the other men and a fire was built. Chunks of deer meat were soon roasting and Tuck found his mouth beginning to water. At last the ten of them gathered around the fire and one of the men began carving off slices of meat while another passed around cups of ale. A quieter group Tuck had never experienced, and that included those of his brothers who had taken vows of silence.

“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.

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.”