The Two Torcs (16 page)

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.

“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 room.

“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.

The sense of community, of bonded brotherhood, was unusual for a person of his profession, yet there was merit to it. Being tied to the plans of others was uncomfortable, though, even when he was exercising his gifts.

Alan stood at the door of the stonecutter’s home. Much had described the family as having the poorest chance of surviving the winter on their own. When the stonecutter’s widow opened the door, and Alan observed her hollow cheeks and fearful, bloodshot eyes, he knew the young man had been right.

One of the gifts that came with being a bard, a student of the old ways, was the ability to read people, to know the contents of their hearts. The woman before him did not believe she would survive the week, let alone the winter. For her, hope was in shorter supply than food.

In Sherwood Forest there would be food and shelter, but it would not be an easy life. It would require each person to want to survive, to be willing to fight for it. There was no fight left in the woman he faced.

There was movement behind her, and then her two sons stepped forward, curiosity drawing them like moths to a flame. Both were younger than ten, and both still had fire in their eyes.

Alan swallowed.

“My lady, I am here to help your sons,” he said. Most likely the woman had never been called a lady in her life, but she deserved the kindness, the show of respect, given what he was about to ask of her.

“How?” she asked curiously.

“The coming winter will be long and harsh,” he said. “I can take them someplace where they will be warm and fed, and will live to see it through.” He paused, to allow his words to sink in. Then he asked, “Will you send them with me?”

Curiosity turned to understanding, and tears sprang to her eyes, but she nodded her head swiftly, evidence that she knew how dire their situation was.

“Will you take them with you now?” The way she asked it said that she hoped he would.

“Yes,” he replied. “Gather whatever warm clothes they have, and we will leave as soon as you are ready,” he said.

She nodded and disappeared inside the house. The two boys turned to stare after her, then looked back at Alan, eyes wide.

To her credit, the woman was swift, returning almost immediately with two small bundles. She handed one to each boy.

“Audric and Haylan, you’re going to go with this man,” she said, bending down to look into their eyes. “He’ll take care of you,” she said, giving each of them a hug.

“You aren’t going with us?” Haylan, the younger one, asked, a tremor in his voice.

“No, I need to stay here, but I expect you to be good boys,” she answered, struggling to keep her voice firm. “Be strong for each other.”

The older one said nothing, but Alan could tell by looking at his face that he knew he’d never see his mother again.

The woman rose, dashing away a tear.

“God go with you then,” she said to him, “and thank you.”

“You are welcome,” Alan said softly, then he turned to the boys. “Alright then, follow me. We are going on an adventure.”

Audric, the older boy, took the younger one’s hand and nodded. There were tears on his cheeks, but he was doing his best to be strong for his little brother.

Alan turned and began to walk back down the path to the road. The boys trailed a step behind him.

As much as he wished he could have taken the mother with them, the woman had given up all hope of living, and she would have been a burden they could not afford to carry—one that might have got them all killed. It was a hard choice, but it had to be made.

That was why Alan had been chosen for this task. It would have been impossible for Cardinal Francis to leave anyone behind. The decision would have broken him. He wouldn’t have been able to do it. As it was, the bard breathed out deeply, exhaling his regrets.

He couldn’t afford to have them.

He wouldn’t let himself have them.

This job was one he alone could do.

“Where are we going?” Haylan finally asked.

“Somewhere safe,” Alan said.

“That would be nice,” the boy replied.

“I don’t want to go somewhere safe,” Audric said. “I want to kill the Sheriff.” With that he lapsed into a sullen silence.

I hope you never get the chance
, Alan thought, though he did not speak.
If you do, it will mean that we have failed
. He forced himself to turn and smile down at the boy.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “There are plenty of dragons in this world to slay. I’m sure you will have your chance.”

* * *

The quarterstaff had always been Little John’s weapon of choice. Because of his size and strength, he could spin it with great speed and force. He could break another man’s bones and feel it in his hands when he did.

It turned out that sword fighting, though also requiring speed and strength, was an entirely different skill and one that was much harder for John to master. The sword he held was short, almost like a child’s plaything in his hand, and yet its deadliness was driven home to him again and again by Old Soldier.

A dozen shallow cuts leaked blood onto his skin. If it had been a warm spring day, instead of the cold of winter, his arms would have been red from shoulder to wrist.

He lunged, shoving the sword forward at the old man, who casually flicked his wrist and parried, knocking Little John a half step sideways. Before he could pull back and slash at Old Soldier’s head, he had another burning cut on his forearm.

“Dammit!”

Old Soldier grinned.

“Stop smirking, you old bastard.”

“Why?” Old Soldier asked. “I’m enjoying this.”

“When’s the last time you faced a worthy opponent?”

“Not any time recently.”

“If I got my hands on you…”

“How likely is it that anyone will let you do that?” Old Soldier gave an amused cough. “Even the missus could keep you at arm’s length.”

At that, John’s mind went immediately to his home. He missed his wife desperately, and the longing of it sounded like a church bell inside his chest.

Old Soldier read the look on his face.

“Soon, my friend.”

“Not soon enough,” Little John spat bitterly.

* * *

Alan gave Audric and Haylan a nudge toward the campfire and the men who stood around it. A man with a crooked shoulder stood with him.

They watched as both boys squatted by the fire. One of the other men there handed them each a turtle-shell bowl filled with stew.

“They’ll have to earn their keep,” the man said. “That’s as we all agreed.”

“They will.”

“Shelter’s limited.”

“They won’t take up much room.”

“Food’s even more limited.”

“It will be provided.”

The man grunted.

“What is your name?” Alan asked.

“Aiden,” the man replied. “Aiden Peter’s Son.” He looked sideways at the bard. “Why do you ask?”

“I want to report to Lord Longstride
exactly
who will be responsible for the safekeeping of those two boys.”

“Well, now—”

“He will be glad,” Alan continued, “to know you care so much that they will eat before you yourself will.”

“I never said…”

“No, you didn’t. I did.” Alan turned to walk away. “And a true bard never lies.”

* * *

Both men sat against the wall, soaked in sweat.

Friar Tuck leaned against Cardinal Francis, his giant head against the stone.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Thank Christ.”

“Amen.”

Silence between them grew.

“It must have been the liquid I was struck with on that ship.”

“That is what I assumed,” Francis said.

“Will I be susceptible from now on?”

“You will have to maintain spiritual diligence.”

“That is a yes.”

“It is.”

“Fasting?”

“Mayhap.”

They fell to silence again.

After a long moment, Friar Tuck pushed himself over a bit to make space.

“Why did it happen to me?”