The Two Torcs (6 page)

Years ago, not long after John had become a man himself, Old Soldier had come to Longstride Manor and taken up a plot of land, working side by side with the rest of them. His actions always spoke louder than any words. He was a friend to the people, and wiser even than he was old. John had never seen him without his mail shirt on—not even in the field.

Finally Scarlet replied. “He is my cousin,” he spat out, “and he’s right, this is a free forest. When was the last time any of you could ever truly say you lived as free men, who did as they pleased?”

There was muttering among the other men.

“Never,” John snarled. “And no matter what you or that outlaw think, we’re still not. Free men could go home to their families.”

Scarlet narrowed his eyes. “If you can’t go to your families, maybe you should consider bringing your families to you.”

“We can’t live in the forest,” John protested.

“We wouldn’t be the first who had,” Old Soldier rubbed his grizzled chin thoughtfully.

He was right.

John knew it—he just didn’t like it.

They had no other choice. They couldn’t risk endangering their families by returning home. Yet maybe, somehow, someday they
could
bring their wives and their children to be with them. For now, though, they had to stay away.

“But everyone knows Sherwood Forest is haunted,” one of the other men said, fear making his voice quiver on the edges.

“It is haunted.” John put his head in his hands. “Haunted by us.”

The fire popped and spat tiny embers toward his legs. They didn’t reach him, burning out before they could. The flame had died to little more than coals, leaving the room dark. He leaned on the mantle, chin on his arms as the remaining heat radiated against the front of his body.

The edge of the mantle had been worn over time, the cedar under his forearms rounded instead of an angled block, the wood fibers smoothed to a slick, hard surface with no splinters. His father had stood in this very place almost every evening, his big arms crossed, mighty head bowed so that his shaggy beard, uncut for decades, could hang and sway from the up current of heat.

His father had taken up so much more room at the mantle. His own arm didn’t fill the worn-in place, just as the man didn’t take up as much room in the kingdom as his father had.

A noise, a shoe on flagstone floor.

“What do you want?” He didn’t turn. He’d had one too many whiskeys, and felt no need. Not in his house.

“Lord Locksley,” a voice said. “Forgive the intrusion…”

“Finish intruding before you ask forgiveness.”

The voice behind him faltered. “Lord?”

He turned then, shoulders rolling on the front of the mantle as he brought his face around to see who had interrupted his reverie. A man he did not recognize stood by the door to the study. A heavy wool cloak wrapped him, covering floor to throat. The cloak’s blood-red color, dark in the shadows, marked him John’s, the sitting king.

Locksley waved his hand. “Get on with it.”

The king’s man nodded. “You are required at the castle.”

“Why?”

The man blinked. “Why?”

“Why?”

More blinking. “Why?”

Instantly Locksley was across the room, hand wadded in the man’s cloak before he could react. He pulled the man close.

“Say ‘why’ one more damned time.” Locksley shook him, and the man shoved back with all his strength, breaking free. He stumbled away, fumbling under the edge of his cloak to grab the hilt of his sword.

Locksley held up a finger.

“Don’t make that mistake, laddie,” he said. “I’ll gut you here, and feed you to a pack of wild dogs.”

The king’s man stopped, hand flexing and unflexing on the hilt of his sword.

“Let it go, son.”

The man dropped the edge of his cloak.

“Why am I being summoned at this late hour?” Locksley said, and he waited.

“I was ordered to fetch,” the man said angrily, “not told why.”

“Then feck off with you.” Locksley turned away in dismissal. “I’ll be along shortly.” Again the sound of shoes on stone, and the door closed behind him.

The room grew silent, save the crackle of the coals.

Locksley sighed.

“You may as well come out, and get it over with. I know you are skulking in the shadows.”

Robin stepped to the edge of the dull orange glow.

It had been months since Locksley had set eyes on the younger man, the last time when he’d laid his claim to his land. Robin set fire to Longstride Manor as he disappeared into the depths of Sherwood. He’d been more than a boy then, but not much more.

Before him stood a man pared down by survival. Robin had grown shaggier, his dark hair hanging down along his shoulders, the edges raw cut by knife instead of shears. Hollow cheeks had been shaved to hard edges by living as an outlaw. Dark clothing made him a shadow in a shadow.

He had the look of a winter-starved wolf.

“Clever using the other man’s entrance to cover your own.” Locksley picked up his cup and took a sip.

“Why did you sell my men into slavery?”

“You waste no time on pleasantries.”

Robin stepped closer, the light casting up over his features.

He has her eyes. The color is wrong, but the shape is right.

“There is no room for polite conversation between us.” Robin scowled. “Answer the question.”

“They aren’t
your
men,” Locksley said. “You abandoned them. I bought the property.”

“They aren’t property. They are free men.”

Locksley slammed his cup down. “They are
responsibilities
! Mouths to feed. You didn’t plant enough, and the fire took part of what you did. Between the lack of harvest on your piddly land and the taxes levied by the throne, there is not enough. Kraeger needs strong backs, and he had good gold to buy them. I now have fewer people to feed, and more money to care for the wives and children.”

Robin snarled, a low animal sound that rolled out of the left side of his mouth.

“Don’t pretend to be noble,” he said. “You act only out of spite for my family.”

“I bought the land out of spite,” Locksley acknowledged, and he lifted his chin, “but I made the hard choices out of nobility, and because they were the right choices to be made.”

Robin stood there, quivering in the half-light, fists tight by his side.

“You run at the call of your master, John the Usurper,” he said. “You support his abuse of the land and the people. How
dare
you claim nobility?”

“You’ll learn one day that noble is not just how you are born, but how you act,” Locksley said. “Abandoning your responsibilities isn’t noble.”

“Kissing arse to a tyrant isn’t either.”

“Staying alive is the first rule.”

“I’ll take my freedom.”

Locksley barked out a laugh. “Surely your freedom has been terribly cold and hungry this winter.”

Robin’s eyes glittered in the firelight. “I’m going to kill you.”

Locksley’s guts turned to iced water. He saw the sword hilt jutting off of Robin’s hip, and his mind measured the distance between them. As he did, he cast back to the day he’d gone to collect taxes at Longstride Manor.

The planks shook under his feet. He threw himself sideways, shoulder hitting the boards as a hurley crossed the space where his skull had just been. He rolled, stopping in a crouch, sword halfway drawn from its scabbard.

Robin stood in front of the door, hurley in hand and swinging back for another try. The planks still vibrated where the boy had dropped from the roof of Longstride Manor. He was bare-chested, filthy from the waist up, his dark hair matted with dirt. He looked like an ancient Pict—dark, savage, and full of murder.

Locksley felt the whiskey in his own blood, dulling him.

No
, he thought,
I’ll never close on him before he cuts me down.

Locksley stood straighter. “You will be hunted down.”

Robin chuckled. “I’m already hunted.”

“Then do your dirty deed, low-minded savage.”

Robin shook his head. “You buy your life with the bread you feed the families of Longstride land. Care for them while the traitor holds the throne. They are your ransom from my wrath.” He stepped back into the shadows. “But sell anyone else into slavery, and you won’t see the arrow until it is jutting from your chest.”

He made no sound as he disappeared into the shadows.

It took several moments for Locksley to be certain he was alone in the room. He lifted his cup with a trembling hand, and drank the rest of the whiskey it held.

* * *

Will felt pity for Old Soldier and the others—even John Little. Being cut off from their families was not what they would have chosen for themselves, but they were out of options. Men without options were desperate men, and often given to doing things that were ill-advised and rash. He knew as much from his own situation.

“Come with me,” he said. “I know a place in the forest where you can build camp. You’ll be safe there.”

Little John spat on the ground, and looked as if he might be ready to say something more, but Old Soldier stepped forward.

“Take us there,” he said in a calm voice.

Will had learned early on in life that the quiet ones were the ones who always bore the most watching. Old Soldier was a man with whom he would never want to cross swords, and he was grateful for his cooperation now.

He indicated the two horses that had been pulling the cart.

“Take them with us,” he said. “You can take turns riding, and a good horse is a useful thing. Take the merchant’s horse, as well.”

Two of the men quickly set about freeing the beasts. Once they had done so, the men looked around at one another.

“What’s wrong?” Will asked, eyeing the guards and wondering how long before they started to wake up.

“We don’t know how to ride,” one of the men finally confessed.

Old Soldier turned and mounted the larger of the two beasts with ease.

“I’ll teach them,” he said.

One of the men took firm hold on the bridle of the merchant’s horse. Little John took the lead rope of the other cart horse.

“Until then, we’ll walk,” he grunted.

Will tried not to stare. The horse was a big one, built for heavy labor, and yet Little John was so large that he made the horse look more like a child’s pony.

“Suit yourself,” Will muttered, turning his own animal’s head deeper into the forest.

Old Soldier walked his mount a couple of paces behind, allowing Will to lead. He couldn’t help but notice that the grizzled old man, though he likely had not been on a horse for years, still had a more relaxed seat in the saddle than Will himself did. It was enviable.

The place he had in mind was a few hours’ hike into the thick forest, far enough that they would not be found. Only Robin and his allies ventured so far in. With each step they traveled, though, he could feel the unease growing, like a steady itching on the back of his neck.

When he could stand it no longer he turned in his saddle and glanced back at them.

“What’s wrong?” he demanded.

“The forest is haunted,” one of the men said, his voice low, his eyes darting.

Will shrugged. “Leave the haints and the fey alone, and they’ll leave you alone, as well,” he said. “They want even less to do with you than you do with them.”

“How can you be sure of that?” Another man spoke up, somewhat fearfully.

“Have you seen what an ugly lot you are?” Will asked.

They stared at him for a moment, blinking, then to his surprise Little John was the first to guffaw at this quip.

The others followed suit until all were laughing. With a small sigh of relief, Will turned forward again.

“You got lucky,” Old Soldier commented, softly enough that only he could hear.

“I was counting on my luck to hold,” Will replied. “Besides, a man who has lost his sense of humor has truly lost everything.” He paused, then added, “They’re going to be alright.” He knew perfectly well, however, that he was trying to reassure himself.

“I’ll help train them,” Old Soldier said, his voice still soft.

“Train them for what?” Will asked.

“For war,” the old man answered. “That’s where all this is headed, after all.”

Will shook his head. “I hope it doesn’t come to that.”

“But it will, and hoping one way or another won’t change anything.”

“What will you need?” Will asked. He wasn’t ready to admit that Old Soldier was right, but at the very least it would give these men something on which to focus. That was a very good idea.

“We could make some weapons—bows and arrows, staffs—if we had the tools to cut the wood. Beyond that, swords. As many swords and knives as can be laid hands upon.”

“I’ll see what I can arrange,” Will said. “I’ll try to get some food to you as well.”

“Unnecessary, we can eat off the land.”

“Alright, then. I should be able to get some blankets,” Will said, thinking of how bitterly cold the winter was, even so early in the season.

Old Soldier shook his head fiercely. “We don’t want them making a home. Home makes you soft. It’s what you fight for. The more comforts and luxuries they have, the faster they’ll forget that we are at war.”

Will nodded slowly. “Tools and weapons then.”

“Weapons, then tools.”

Will indicated the bundle behind his saddle. “You can have the ones we took from Locksley’s men.”

Old Soldier nodded. “It’s a start.”

* * *

When they finally reached the clearing, Old Soldier nodded as though satisfied with Will’s choice for an encampment. A creek bordered one side, and would provide fresh water. This deep in the forest, there would be an abundance of game. Tall grass, brown and brittle with the winter, bordered another section. It was close to where Robin most often spent his nights, since retreating into the forest. These men would need his cousin’s help and guidance, even if he wasn’t ready to take on that responsibility. And if Old Soldier was right, Robin would soon need their help as well.

The men began to spread around the open space, exhibiting an assortment of emotions, until Will was getting that itching sensation on the back of his neck again. This time, though, he didn’t think it was because of the men themselves. He needed to go back, before his absence was noted.