The Two Torcs (18 page)

She stepped forward, moving between John and the cardinal. She pushed her fear aside, reaching in her mind for a response.

“I called for this monk because I haven’t been to mass in too long, and needed reconciliation,” she said. “I did not mean to be a trouble.”

From the depths of his hooded cloak, the cardinal spoke weakly. “I’ll take my leave.”

At a motion from John, the two soldiers shuffled forward, blocking him with their bulk, mail-gloved hands clamping on his arms.

“You’ll go nowhere.” He looked at Marian, eyes slit as he studied her. “How did you send for him, Princess?”

Marian hesitated, unsure of what to say.

“I fetched him, sire.” Chastity stepped forward, head down.

John turned his attention to the serving girl, eyeing her narrowly.

“You chose well, wench. This is no simple monk you’ve brought to us today.” John’s voice sounded almost pleasant, lilting over the words as he stepped close to the hooded man. In the next breath he turned, words curdling into a harsh snarl. “Where is it?”

“The monastery?” the cardinal replied. “It’s on a hill just above—”

The wet smack of a fist striking flesh cut his words short.

Marian winced.

“I know about the book, fool!” John spat. “You will tell me where it is.”

Marian blinked, intensely aware of the weight pressed against her leg. The symbols etched on the cover blazed in her mind’s eye. A small portion, the tiniest bit of the feeling she’d had when touching it, trilled through her. She thought of the urgency he’d expressed when he had entrusted it to her, as if he knew the book itself was in danger.

“The only book I know is the Holy Writ of God.” Francis’s voice was strong. Unwavering.

A second blow knocked the priest’s legs out from under him. He hung in the hands of the soldiers. She knew he was willing to die to protect the book and its secrets, but she would be damned if she watched it happen.

“Do not lie to me!” John’s fist raised again.

Marian darted forward, throwing her body between the coming blow and the cardinal.

“Stop, just stop!” Her hands shoved hard against John’s chest, pushing him back. “Haven’t you done enough?”

His mouth curled, revealing sharply pointed teeth.

“Insolent whore!” He pulled a knife from his belt, the blade notched from hard use, but still sharp. “I’ll teach you a lesson you’ll never forget.”

Anger boiled in her chest. She stepped closer, fists clenched.

“You wouldn’t dare,” she gritted. “The king will flay you alive if you harm me.”

“My brother is not here.”

“He will return.”

“Do not be so sure, little Princess. Death has no respect for royalty.”

“You’ve never spoken truer words,
Prince John
.”

The cardinal spoke behind her. “It is alright, Maid Marian. Let him do his worst. God is in control.”

His words brought back his warning and commission to her from just moments before. He trusted her with a task, and that task was more important than the both of them. She turned to face him. The skin over his left eye had swollen shut, and a split on his cheekbone bled freely, blood running down parchment-thin skin. He looked at her intently, and she could read in his eyes what he was thinking.

The book is what John wants. Our lives are forfeit if he finds it
. All
of our lives…

Maybe there was hope for the cardinal’s survival. As long as John thought he knew where the book was, then the monk should live. Maybe she could orchestrate a way for him to escape, if not today, then tomorrow. Chastity would help her, call in all her favors with the other castle girls.

Hope flared briefly inside her.

She stepped aside.

“I will have that book,” John hissed.

“There is no book,” the cardinal said. “It’s a rumor, a lie spread to bring fear to all who defy the Lord God. A story to check the vipers that would destroy this land, usurp the king, and blaspheme the Most High.”

“I don’t believe you,” John said. “I know the book exists, as it has for centuries, watched over by your predecessors—and now by you.”

“You’re mad.” The cardinal’s voice was quiet, but even.

Silence fell like thunder. It stretched into the room, the warning of a coming storm.

“Take him to the dungeon,” John said. “Strip and search him.”

The soldiers nodded. As one they dragged the cardinal to the door. He looked at her over his shoulder, his eyes telling her one last time to be strong. Then as they left the room, John stepped close to her.

“That will be the last visitor you ever see.”

She wanted to demand the cardinal’s release, to insist upon his safety, but she held her tongue. The holy man’s exhortation, to safeguard the book and deliver it to its rightful place, repeated inside her head. She also feared that if she pushed, he would cut off her access to the few servants loyal to her—particularly to Chastity, whom she needed now more than ever.

King John turned on his heel, stalking out without a backward glance. The door slammed shut and Marian blinked after him, not sure if she had seen him actually touch the door or not. It was almost as if he had waved his hand in its direction, and it had closed on its own.

Chastity rushed to her side. “Are you alright?”

Marian nodded. “I will be.”

Striding to the window, she pushed open the glass and pressed her face between the bars, drinking deeply of the crisp air. The clean scent of the forest rolled across in a light wind, scouring away the raw anger and fear that burned inside her.

Head clear, she turned and walked to the bed.

She took a deep breath.

“I need to find a way to escape.”

“We can figure something out,” Chastity said.

Marian glanced at her.

“I don’t want harm coming to you,” she said firmly. “Even if I manage to escape, all is for naught if I can’t quickly find the man I’m looking for.”

Chastity raised one eyebrow. “Any particular man?” she asked, her voice uncertain.

“The Hood.”

“Oh.” Chastity stepped back. Her hands fidgeted with the fabric of her skirt. “There is a price on his head. Even if word could be sent to him, he wouldn’t dare come anywhere near here. He’s too smart for that. They say John
hates
him. He’ll skin him alive if he ever catches him. No one knows his true identity. Some even claim more than one man is the Hood.”

Marian had never trusted Chastity with the secret of the Hood, although she wouldn’t have been surprised if the smart young woman had guessed at it. Certainly she might have guessed at Robin’s involvement.

“You know who he is,” Marian said.

Chastity licked her lips.

“I reckon I do. Doesn’t make him easier to find.”

“If you go into the forest, he’ll find you,” Marian said, unwilling to send her to Will or Friar Tuck. If Chastity was followed then their lives, too, were put in danger. Robin could protect himself—and Chastity, if it came to that.

“I’ll go myself,” the girl said. “Tonight.”

“Not tonight.” As much as it pained her, Marian shook her head. “They’ll be looking for us to make some sort of move, forced by panic to make a mistake.”

“Then tomorrow night,” Chastity said.

“Yes,” she agreed. “Hopefully that will be soon enough.”

Chastity nodded. “Tomorrow night I will find him.”

Marian’s hand touched her friend’s arm. “Thank you. You have no idea how important it is.”

“You say it’s important, that’s enough for me, Princess.”

Chastity turned and went out the door. The scrape of the bolt being thrown rang like church bells at a hanging.

His bare feet stuck to the flagstones, just slightly, as he moved back to the brazier and dropped the iron pliers on the hot coals. The wet jaws of the tool sizzled against the embers as blood boiled away and the tiny scraps of flesh stuck to the rough teeth began to cook.

The blood underfoot was turning tacky.

“Was that fun for you?”

John turned to the doorway where the Sheriff stood.

“I find myself enjoying things like this more and more as we go forward.”

“I was talking to him, Princeling.” The Sheriff tilted his head, indicating the man hanging from his wrists in the center of the room.

“Oh,” John said, “he’s not talking.”

The Sheriff walked over, standing close to the man, studying him. He was naked, in good shape for a man of his advanced age. His skin hung loose on a slender frame with very little paunch.

“He told you nothing?”

“No.”

The Sheriff grunted.

John felt the disapproval across the cell.

“He’s stronger than he looks.”

“A compulsion spell didn’t work?”

“Not on him.”

The Sheriff grunted again, and leaned close to Cardinal Francis’s face. The older monk’s eyes were swollen, turning black, and the side of his lower lip hung loose, torn free at the edge. The Sheriff sniffed deeply.

“Is it true? Are you that strong?”

The cardinal swallowed hard, throat working past the raw burning that had stolen his voice, struggling to speak.

“Come with it, monk,” the Sheriff said. “Speak freely.”

The man’s voice was tiny, barely a whisper, and broken as if poured over salt.

“I am… nothing.” He swallowed. “Christ… in me is strong.”

The Sheriff stepped back, lip curled in disgust.

“I told you,” John said.

“Your cursed Nazarene won’t keep you from dying,” the Sheriff told Cardinal Francis.

The holy man’s mouth moved, but no words came out.

“Leave him,” the Sheriff said, moving toward the door.

“Where are we going?”

“I’m going to put an end to that damned monastery.”

“Do you want me to come with you?”

The Sheriff turned and looked him up then down. “No, Princeling, but I do want you to put your clothes back on.”

As he left the room, John called behind him.

“I didn’t want to get blood on them.”

* * *

Much the miller’s son was used to being ignored.

It was right and proper that he was ignored. Who was he after all? The only son of a poor miller and his wife, born late in their lives when both had forgotten how to interact with a child. He didn’t feel it as a lack of love—despite the hard work his father laid on him—just a distance. He’d grown up alone in a house with two other people, quiet and isolated. He didn’t talk much, didn’t draw notice, and so people ignored him.

He paid attention to them, however.
Close
attention. People had a funny way of saying the truth when they thought no one was around to hear them.

He’d stumbled upon one of those moments on the road.

Walking back toward his father’s mill, after fetching needle and thread for his mother from the village market, he’d been pushed off the road by a regiment of soldiers. At their head was the Sheriff of Nottingham astride a cobalt-black charger. It was the biggest horse Much had ever seen, its chest and shoulders knotted with muscle upon muscle as it strode down the lane. Passing by, its long head swung toward him. Dark marble eyes fell on him and he swore they blazed red in the sunlight.

The Sheriff did not look down. He sat spine straight and staring ahead. White-blonde hair hung from his scalp in a thick braid. The Sheriff’s face was clean-shaven, the skin smooth over sharply angled cheekbones and jawline. A straight and patrician nose jutted over a mouth with thin, villainous lips.

His hand rested on the hilt of a long bastard sword that rode his hip. Hatchmark lines cut the pommel, forming a ruby red star. It was the same red star that blazed from his breastplate, the symbol somehow sinister in the eye of the beholder. Much couldn’t see where the Sheriff ended and the mighty warhorse began, the man’s black leather armor blending perfectly with the beast beneath him.

Behind him marched a column of dog soldiers, King John’s personal guard and the right hand of the Sheriff. The ground rumbled beneath their boots, making the grass shake and sway. These were the soldiers who’d arrived with the Sheriff just days after Prince John had been installed in the castle. These were the soldiers who took everything when the Sheriff came to collect the taxes that seemed to be needed every few days.

These were the men who destroyed property, and took prisoner any who couldn’t pay.

They marched in perfect rhythm, hobnail boots rising and falling in lock-stepped unison. Each carried a weapon, some a fierce sword, some a powerful war hammer, some their own deadly instruments twisted with blades and spikes and chains that looked like they’d been forged in the furnaces of Hell itself. The same fiery red pentagram glowed on their black steel breastplates, like lava under cracked basalt.

Much fought to keep his mouth closed as they marched by.

Behind them came what was left of King Richard’s men. Too old, too out-of-shape, or too cowardly to join the king in the crusade. They were a motley assortment of men, eyes downcast, unshaven, unkempt. Their armor was shabby, their weapons spotted with rust and pitted by corrosion. They dribbled along behind the Sheriff’s men in straggled groups of two or three.

After a moment’s thought, he crouched low in the grass, watching and listening for all he was worth. The last two soldiers dragged their feet as they walked past with their horses. They acted as if they really didn’t want to reach their destination. With each step they took, the gap between them and the rest of the regiment grew.

Much crawled closer to the edge of the road as they drew near to his hiding place. Their voices came to his ears.

“…used to be something,” the taller man said to his companion. “I was a sergeant of the guard.”

“I remember,” the shorter one said. He was older than the tall man, armor pushed out across a stomach it wasn’t forged to fit. “You were an arsehole about it, too. I’m glad you’re the same rank as me now.”

“I’m still higher rank.
I’m
a private first rank.”

“You made that up,” the short one replied glumly. “We’re all just privates since the Sheriff took over the garrison.”

The taller man grunted. They took a few more dawdling steps before he spoke again.