by LeFey
Jacquelyn sat across the fire from him. The young woman wrapped a large, heavy
cloak around her shoulders, and hugged it tightly against her chest. The
garment's rich scarlet was faded to gray by the dark night.
"It grows colder," she said as she gathered her blonde hair in one hand. She
brought the long tresses over her shoulder and tucked the tail inside the collar
of her cloak.
"The days are still warm," Mac said as he idly stirred the embers with a stick.
"It's the lateness of the hour that chills you. Go to bed, Jacquelyn." He
waved the stick towards the rough tents that outlined the clearing with their
dark silhouettes.
She laughed and ran her tongue over her teeth. "I know you're up to something.
I'm not going anywhere until you tell me."
"Then you'll be here till dawn." He tossed the stick into the fire.
"I knew it!" She slapped her leg. "What sort of thing have you in mind, a
robbery, a kidnapping for ransom, perhaps an assassination?"
"I've told you before I don't kill except in defense of my life or another's."
He wished now he hadn't thrown the stick into the flames. He could not feign
tending the fire, and would probably have to talk to her. He hunkered within
his leather doublet, now painfully aware, since she'd mentioned it, of the night
cold. He pulled down the loose sleeves of the white tunic he wore under the
leather. He covered his hands with the finely woven fabric in search of a bit
more defense against the night air.
"I'm not leaving until you tell me your plan." She cocked her head at an angle
that always told of her single-minded determination.
Mac looked at her and plotted a strategy of evasion and denial. After a moment,
though, he acknowledged with a shrug that she had won. While she smiled and
rubbed her hands together in satisfaction, Mac thought of snatching the scarlet
cape from her shoulders and warming himself with the heavy fabric. The memory
of what it had cost one of his men when he had tried this same trick made Mac
think better of it. Jacquelyn could best most men in a fight. The brawl she
might not win she could always smile her way out of. That's how they had met.
She had gotten him away from a band of local oafs who were going to take him to
the Sheriff for the reward on his head. This brazen, beautiful woman had
promised them anything and left them with nothing. She spirited their prisoner
away as they tried to follow with their tights around their ankles. Mac shook
his head at the memory of how in short order she had turned her attentions on
him. Finally, he had no choice but to let her stay with his group of supposed
thieves just to gain some peace from her.
He still said nothing despite the demanding look she cast his way. He would let
her wait a moment longer just so he could pretend, if only to himself, that he
had some control in these situations. The sight of her gave him pause anyway.
She was done up in her prize cloak, painted in rich gold shadows by the fire.
She looked like some earth goddess ready to partake in and bestow all the riches
of the world. She had certainly brought luck to his camp. Grudgingly, Mac
admitted that they made an unstoppable team. When his fun-loving nature got the
better of him, her ruthlessness always bailed him out.
"I don't want to wait till dawn!" Jacquelyn stomped one foot on the hard packed
dirt.
"I have an idea I'm mulling over," Mac said slowly, still reluctant to share it
with her.
"I know that much." She rolled her eyes.
"That's all it is," he snapped. "It is just an idea."
"Your ideas are better than most men's plans." She smiled and raised her
eyebrows as if revealing a secret.
"What is the thing that harms us most here?"
"The cold, right now." She gathered the cloak more tightly about her.
"Not us." A frustrated frown knit his brow. "Not here, not now. The us
out there." His arm rose as he motioned out toward the dark forest that
surrounded them. "All of us here in this shire."
"Oh." Her expression grew thoughtful. "That would have to be..." She looked
at him hoping for some clue. Mac leaned forward and made a little ushering
gesture for her to continue. "Well... harms us most ... would have to be... the
King?" She shrugged as if the question had stumped her.
"And why the king?" Mac nodded his encouragement as his full lips slide into a
smile.
"Ah... because he...well he taxes us," she pointed out towards the dark as Mac
had done, "really, just to death."
"Exactly." He settled back, the small stool creaking as he did. "The time
draws near for the levy to be taken to the King's tax collector."
Her mouth formed an exaggerated O with her eyes widening to match it. "No!" She
swiped a hand out in front of her.
Mac knew that if he were close enough to that hand to receive a blow he would be
knocked back a step, and nursing a bruise in the morning.
"It's just an idea," he said again.
"A bold idea." She leaned forward, a thoughtful look replacing her surprise.
"If you succeed..."
"If?" Mac countered.
Jacquelyn's laugh rang out like fairy bells. "I knew this wasn't just an
idea." She clapped her hands, but quickly fell silent. She stared long and
hard at the fire as if the answer to some question lay in the light of the
flames. Finally, she shook her head. "If you steal the King's taxes he will
bring down a wrath on your head like you've never dreamt of."
He shot her a sly smile. "I have a price on my head now. To dream of mere
wrath, even if it be a King's, is a waste of my sleep."
"He'll send an army to find you."
"I've eluded worse."
"No you haven't." Her tone was knowing and hard. Her gaze grew determined as
her eyes narrowed. She straightened, and sat stiff and tense. "You've crossed
simpkins who have attempted to claim the bounty on your hide." She raised a
hand when he tried to protest. "You've skirmished with men-at-arms who were so
ill-trained they would not be allowed to tend the horses of real soldiers."
"Oh!" Mac waved a hand to silence her. "So if the truth be known you think me
some fool who has escaped by fortune, not skill."
"I think you possess great skills, but you would rather play than train to
fight. The men who will come here to avenge the King live to fight." Her hand
swept through the air, narrowing their own world to the tiny expanse of forest
floor that was revealed by the fire's flames. "You are Prince of Thieves in
this world, but not in theirs. In their world you are only prey."
Mac was silent. He wondered if in some other world he would be her prey. He
knew she had seen much of the world, or at least its worldly ways. She would
never say where she was from, but it was not this shire. Her words rose and
fell in an odd, if faint, singsong that was strange to this area. He'd often
wondered if she was from the valley beyond. All he knew for certain was that
when she grew serious he needed to heed her advice.
"I know it will be dangerous." He started slowly, studying his hands as he
heard a disgruntled sigh escape Jacquelyn. "But I cannot let that money be
taken from the people who need it. Not again." He raised his head and fixed
her with a look that said he was just as sure of this as she was fearful of the
same. "Besides," he hesitated, reluctant to tell her what he hoped for. "I
think after this I will win an ally, one who can help us stand against the
King."
"Your family seeks your head like everyone else. You challenged their plan to
provide men and arms to the King to pursue his campaigns in the East."
"I told you, I don't kill unless provoked, and I wouldn't provide anyone with
the means to kill others."
Jacquelyn tilted her head and gave him a sympathetic smile. "I know you wish it
were different, but they will not be your allies."
Mac let out a frustrated sigh. "I was not thinking of the family."
"Than who?"
"You'll know when the time comes."
Her lips moved to form words. Each one she thought better of before she spoke
it. Finally, she shrugged and rolled her eyes. "There is no reasoning with
you when you're in such a mood. By God's blood I hope the light of day will
bring some sense back into that addled head."
Mac smiled at her small concession.
"Don't use that smile on me," she warned shaking a finger at him. "I know your
tricks."
"This smile?" Mac flashed a toothy grin that he had used since childhood to
make people think he was agreeing with them while he was actually
persuading them to agree with him.
"That doesn't work on me."
"That's because you're the Queen of smiles." He made an elegant sweeping bow
with his hand while he remained seated. "You move your lips, dip your head,
flutter your lashes and strong men forget their names."
"And some women too, remember." Jacquelyn smiled, doing a perfect imitation of
what Mac had just described.
Well, the worst of it was past, he hoped. She had heard the seed of the plan
and was still sitting with him. She may have objected, but she didn't walk
away. He'd sweeten it for her now by revealing some details of his mere idea.
"In a few days the King's tax collector will arrive at the castle that
intersects the four regions and wait for the levies to come in."
Jacquelyn reared her head back and her face became a mask of disbelief. "You'd
go that far? This idea is too dangerous for me." She began to rise.
"Stay." His idea was quickly turning into a plan, and Jacquelyn was becoming an
indispensable part of that plan. "Please?" He raised his hand and she
reluctantly settled back.
"It's lunacy to think you can take all the King's taxes."
Mac rolled his shoulders trying to shrug off a growing anger that she couldn't
anticipate what he meant to do. "Thank you for thinking me dim enough to take
what is not mine from the King."
"But I..."
"I only intend to recover what by rights should stay in this shire. Our levy
will never reach the King's tax collector. In two days' time the Sheriff will
leave the shire to deliver the money. I am going to see to it that does not
happen."
Jacquelyn was silent.
"Now you may speak, and tell me how brilliant my idea is." Mac laughed, trying
to cajole a smile from her with his arrogance.
After a long, stony silence she returned his smile with a wicked one of her own.
"Bless you Lord Mackellman for allowing your humble servant to express what she
thinks you are really planning."
He didn't like the sound of where this was going. Mac leaned back and folded
his arms across his chest.
"I think your interest lies in more than just taxes," Jacquelyn continued. "I
can see now where your plan will lead. It's the Sheriff you hope to steal
away."
Mac was nearly smiling, and about to tell her that she had discovered the
identity of the ally he hoped to gain.
Jacquelyn's tone grew more knowing. "It's easy to see which head you think
with. And it's not the one on your shoulders."
A teasing laugh accompanied her words. Heat prickled over Mac. "You know
nothing, woman."
"I know he is a pretty man, and one I'd wager you have mooned over since you
were both old enough to feel the blood run hot in..."
"His allegiance," Mac interrupted, "is worth more to us than your fantasy
of spying on the two of us in bed."
Jacquelyn threw back her head and laughed. "Aye, now that you mention it that
would be a pretty sight." She clutched the scarlet cloak about her as she
shivered pleasantly at the thought. Then the smile faded. "But thinking that
he will help us is a fantasy as well."
"I know he wants to." Mac said quickly. "He just needs to be persuaded."
"Are we still talking about just an alliance?" A giggle rang out as she bit her
lip in order to contain more laughter.
Mac scowled. "Keep your mind above your belt, wench."
Jacquelyn licked her lips. "Women are creatures of the flesh. I cannot help
myself."
"Try."
She nodded her capitulation, but one more giggle escaped. She cleared her
throat and straightened. "Tell me. What makes you think that the Sheriff will
help us? He is the King's man, after all."
Mac did not answer immediately, but studied her to see if she was just laying
another trap for him. When he was certain that it was safe he said, "The man
treats the people of this shire as fairly as he can."
"By wringing the King's tax from them?"
"By supporting widows and orphans, giving his retainers a good wage and being
generous with alms for the poor."
Jacquelyn barked out a scoffing laugh. "The rich give alms to buy their way
into heaven. It has nothing to do with fairness. Besides, I doubt the stories
of his generosity are altogether true. You can pay for stories to be spread as
well. My own family found that a far cheaper way to buy redemption."
"Your family?"
Jacquelyn raised a finger in warning. She shook her head making it clear that
the subject of her heritage was off limits.
"I've seen his generosity," Mac said flatly.
Jacquelyn leaned forward, her hazel eyes bright in the flickering firelight.
"When? How?"
"Sunday, a fortnight ago, I stole into town. I had doubts about the stories as
well."
Jacquelyn shrugged as if saying how could you not.
"I went round to the back of his family's chapel. There on the grass were
tables laden with bread trenchers and cheese. His sister helped the servants
ladle thick soup into the trenchers. I was only there a brief time when the
Sheriff arrived."
"He didn't recognize you?"
"I was in disguise. My face was dirty, and I twisted my features." Mac
demonstrated by squinting and curling his lips until his face was an
unrecognizable grimace.
Jacquelyn raised her hands to her mouth and let out a low whistle. "To think
that's what you really look like."
Mac's face relaxed into a scowl as she laughed. "I wore tattered clothes." He
continued insistently as she quieted. "I used straw to form a hump on my back,
and I dragged one foot. He was completely taken in." A slight smile moved his
lips at the deception he had managed.
"So his sister was dispensing alms. That means nothing. Did you stay long
enough to see if he was only there to stop her?"
"I was there long enough to see him remove his doublet and roll up the sleeves
of his tunic like a plowman in the field. He stood by three fat bags of grain
and scooped out portions for anyone needing some to make barley bread for the
week. I was there long enough to see him spell his sister and watch him give a
meal to the poor himself." Mac's voice trailed off as he thought of that day.
He absently traced the fine stitches at the hem of his tunic that draped across
his thighs.
"And then...? And then what happened?" Jacquelyn was leaning forward, her hands
clasped on the long, blue skirt that covered her legs. Her cloak was open now,
and its warmth forgotten in her eagerness to hear the rest of his story.
Mac was reluctant to share all the details of his encounter with the Sheriff.
Part of that day had the power of a great secret that only he knew. There would
be no way, however, that Jacquelyn could hear his tale and not believe that this
man was destined to be their ally.
"When he was giving out the grain, and later the meal, the poor souls who took
the alms would only nod or mumble a word of thanks to him before they skulked
away." Mac gave a knowing nod of his head. "He is the Sheriff after all, and a
formidable looking man even in just a tunic, breeches and boots." He hesitated
a moment. "It was sad in a way because he was trying so hard to be gentle and
considerate. But all anyone wanted was to get some food and be away from him."
"What sort of nobleman gives a fig about a peasant? Except how much work he can
get out of them." Jacquelyn's fine little pug nose was wrinkled with genuine
puzzlement.
"That's what I am trying to tell you." Mac shook his hand at her. "He's not
like any other nobleman. It's as if he feels a duty to these people he rules.
I could see it in his eyes." He gazed into the fire as if the entire scene
played out for him once more. "I could see it when he handed me a trencher of
food."
"You went up to him?" Jacquelyn's voice rose as her hand cut through the air.
"No!"
"Yes," Mac told her proudly. "And when he gave me my meal I looked up at him
and said, Bless you sir. God has made in you a fine and noble
gentleman."
"You are such a rascal." A smile spread across her face. "You'd take the
chance to pull the devil's tail just to see him turn around."
He matched her smile, pride at his accomplishments growing in him. This was
high praise from a woman he was certain could kick the devil in the arse, and
then convince his Nibs to thank her for it.
"It moved him as well," he said, his smile growing broader. Then the memory of
what he'd witnessed, the emotion he had provoked in this man made him grow
somber. "I saw the tears well in his eyes and threaten to fall. This happened
just from those simple words I spoke. I couldn't face that tenderness in him
and turned away. He called blessings after me."
Mac realized he was looking into the fire. Once more he saw the images of that
day. He raised his head to fix his gaze on Jacquelyn. "That wasn't enough for
him though. I had only taken a few steps when he followed and reached for me.
I moved quickly out of his grasp." The small stool creaked under him as Mac
demonstrated by twisting about. "I was fearful that he would discover my hump
was false. The Sheriff stopped and raised his hands up to show that he meant me
no harm. I waited to see what he would do next. He told me that he could not
let me leave with such tatters on my back."
Mac stopped suddenly, and beamed out a smile at Jacquelyn. "He had no clue who
he was speaking with," he bragged. She gave him back a conspiratorial grin.
"He stood there for a moment and just stared at me. I could see he was
uncertain about what to do now that he had me stopped. Then without warning,"
Mac leaned forward startling Jacquelyn, "he pulled his tunic up and over his
head." Mac mimicked the gesture raising the hem of his own tunic with both
hands. "He placed it around my shoulders like a shawl, saying, this should
keep you 'till the weather changes. Come to my kitchen door in the fall, and I
will have a cloak for you, brother."
"No!" Jacquelyn's hand swept through the air again, and Mac was grateful that he
was not in range of that blow.
"Yes!" he confirmed with equal enthusiasm. "In the disguise I wore I was no
more his equal than a dog, yet he called me brother."
"He just stood there?" Jacquelyn asked. "In only his breeches, hose and boots?"
A tone of awe rang in her words.
"He stood there humbled and waiting until I thanked him again." Mac didn't tell
her that the Sheriff had stood so long because the would-be beggar had been
struck dumb by the action and the sight of this strapping man only half-dressed.
It had been stirring enough to see him when he had first arrived, wearing a
well-made leather doublet under a vast sweep of black cape. When the man stood
before him like a penitent asking for absolution it was all Mac could do not to
reach out and touch the flawless expanse of his bare chest.
"And he stayed that way?" Jacquelyn prompted after Mac had fallen silent.
"Without a stitch?"
"No." He drew out the word scornfully; offended that she would think the man so
shameless. "He called for one of his men to bring him his doublet and covered
himself with that." The memory of his strong trunk covered only by sleek
leather that revealed arms, throat and a deep V of his bare chest made Mac pause
again.
"And you've worn his tunic ever since?"
Mac was startled by her unexpected accusation.
"You didn't think you could keep it a secret after that story."
"It's no secret. It's merely a better tunic than I had before."
"I see." A teasing smile moved her lips and lit her eyes. "Just a better
tunic, eh? And that's the reason you would never tell me who you took it from."
"I did not take it, it was given to me." As much as he tried she was getting
the better of him, and he could hear the frustrated whine beginning to build in
his voice.
"As you wish," she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. "Still, if only I
had been privy to that show." Jacquelyn licked her lips.
"It was not a show," Mac snapped. He shook his head. She was not going to do
this to him as she had so often. What was at stake was far too important to let
her teasing rattle him. "The man gave me the clothes off his back," he said in
a steady heartfelt tone.
Jacquelyn nodded as if grudgingly admitting that indeed this was a marvel.
"I've never heard of such generosity from a nobleman."
"Can you even imagine?" Mac asked. "And I have never seen a man of noble birth
being grateful for a kind word from a beggar. Is that proof enough for you? He
wants to make a difference." Mac slammed his fist down on his leg. "He needs
to make a difference, and we will give him the opportunity."
"And what do you want of me?"
"A distraction."
Jacquelyn gave him the smile he had hoped for.
Victor switched the heavy saddlebags from his right shoulder to the left. The
coins inside made a muted chime as they shifted. It sounded to him like a
plaintive cry to be returned to their owners. He shook his head and tried to
chase away the thoughts that had tormented him for a fortnight. It was always
the same before he had to deliver the taxes. The phrase blood money came
too easily to mind. He took a deep breath to steady himself and secured an
errant lock of his long, dark hair behind his ear.
He squinted; the skin around his green eyes wrinkled into a network of
sun-etched fine lines. He looked about the dimly lit enclosure of the vaulted
stone chapel, hoping that his confessor would arrive soon. Despite the
morning's bright summer sun outside, the interior of the church was painted in
shadow. Light came from a single torch mounted in the wall at the back of the
nave. Three small votive candles that he had lit as he prayed for safe passage
offered a flickering pool of light from their stand by the altar rail. He
thought of lighting another just to pray for the arrival of Father Ambrose. The
old priest was always tardy lately. Victor knew his duties were becoming too
much for him, but he made excuses for the man instead of making plans to ease
him into retirement. Victor had enough to juggle in his life without adding a
new pastor and confessor to the mix.
Victor moved the saddlebags, again aware of the burden on his shoulder. He gave
a sad laugh. This wasn't a burden, it was his duty, he reminded himself. The
duty his family had performed for three generations. Then why did it weigh so
heavily upon him? He could blame his father for beating a possessive
responsibility to the family lands and their retainers into him. Victor ran a
hand over his mouth at the memory of never being able to satisfy his father's
need for perfection. He squared his shoulders. It was folly to chase excuses
outside of himself for his failings. He only had his own his soft nature to
blame.
He grasped the hilt of his sword that rested against his stomach. Why didn't
that priest get here? He hated this solitude; this time to think about
everything he hadn't done, should have done and all the mistakes he'd made
instead.
His sister, Alice, stood at the top of that list of mistakes. She was strong
willed, like both parents, and as much of a perfectionist as their father had
been. She and Victor had barely escaped the pestilence that swept through their
house six winters ago and took their parents. Victor knew from the beginning
that he was ill prepared to be a parent to Alice. He took on that duty anyway.
They fought through the resentment and fear that both felt. An uneasy truce
formed after a couple of years, and it grew into trust and mutual respect.
Victor pinched the bridge of his nose trying to rid himself of the memories of
the tribulation after his parents' death. His hand fell to his side. He looked
around as if the priest would appear if only he searched for him. There was no
priest to be seen. He vowed to send one of his men, who waited for him outside
the chapel, to find the old fool if he didn't arrive soon.
His thoughts flew back to Alice before he could stop them. A defeated sigh
escaped the bow of his lips. Of late, his thoughts chased problems like a hawk
on a hare. Alice had taken on the responsibility of running the household in
the past year. Victor was grateful for the help. He knew, though, that it was
only temporary. He also knew that he was becoming too dependent upon her
assistance. The very fact that she could be trusted to do so much meant that
she was becoming a young woman. She had grown too fast for him. He didn't want
to lose the only family he had left. Soon, though, he would need to find her a
husband. As much as he hated the idea of her going to another man's hearth he
couldn't keep her from a proper life. She should have her own family, not be
her brother's steward. She deserved a good husband. He just needed to find the
right man for her.
Only in such solitude as he endured now did he admit the truth of what he really
wanted for Alice. If only he could find someone to marry his sister, but not
take her away. Victor smiled to himself thinking of the possibilities. That
would be the ideal plan. Find a husband for his sister and a partner for
himself, one who could share his burden.
He never imagined that he would stand alone like this. There was never any
doubt, as he grew up, that his boyhood friend would be by his side. Blessed
with a quick wit, and not afraid to take chances, he was always the best counsel
Victor could have. He was not a prospect for Alice, of course. Not after all
the wild things Victor had witnessed, and at times been talked into doing. Yet
this was a man he could share his thoughts with, his fears and his hopes.
"Fool!" Victor hit himself in the chest. "Stop this idiocy." Why did he
torment himself with thoughts of what might have been? Those days of easy
camaraderie were gone forever. Mac had a price on his head, a bounty that
Victor had placed there himself. The acts he had found so daring in their youth
turned to larceny and betrayal now that they were men. Yet in the still
darkness of the empty chapel Victor's thoughts drifted so easily to the only man
he had ever trusted with his life, and the dashed hope that life could be more
than just duty.
He straightened himself, trying to think of what lay ahead of him. The leather
of his heavy belt creaked as he gripped his sword. He planted his feet,
imagining how he would stand while he intimidated the simpering toady the King
always sent to part them from their hard-earned moneys. He wore his best
leathers and black cape. The clothes were too warm for the season. He would
have to take them off during the ride. When he arrived, though, damn the heat.
If he had no real power he would adorn himself with it, and make that weasel of
a tax collector sweat at the sight of him.
He sensed the presence even before he heard the faint footfall behind him.
"What's taken you..." he said as he turned, but stopped when the man standing in
the shadows was not Father Ambrose. "Sorry. I thought you were my priest."
"Just a monk, sir." A long fingered-hand came out of the deep bell sleeves. It
swept along his homespun robe pointing to the garment as proof of his vocation.
"Who are you brother?"
The man seemed to ponder the question.
"Brother Reynard."
There was something familiar about him, but Victor could not see his face as he
stood in the shadows.
"Have you come to minister with Father Ambrose?" It was like the Archbishop,
meddling old prick, to replace their priest without any consultation.
"No. I am just a pilgrim like you."
Victor laughed at the misconception. He drew himself up and gripped his sword
hilt. "I am the Sheriff of these lands."
The monk made an elegant sweeping bow. "Forgive me. By the look of you I took
you to be a man in search of the truth."
Victor hesitated. "We all seek the truth."
"Not everyone." The monk took a step forward. Though he was no longer buried
in the shadows, his face was still obscured by his robe's voluminous hood.
"Truth leads us to make hard choices. To never start the journey makes life a
great deal simpler."
Victor raised one finger. "Yes, but then is it a life of truth or living a
lie?" It had been a long time since he'd had a conversation about life with a
man who appeared to be his own age.
"An interesting question. Especially coming from a man who seems burdened by
more than just the weight of the saddlebags on his shoulders."
The breath caught in Victor's chest. A stranger walks out of the shadows and
tells him his life. He was just unsettled at the prospect of the trip, he told
himself. His spine stiffened, and he stared down the faceless man opposite, as
he soon would do to the King's tax collector.
"This is not a burden." He hiked the bags on his shoulder making the coins
ring. "This is my duty."
"You put on an admirable show my Lord, but who are you trying to convince?"
There was a note of mirth in the man's voice.
Anger was replacing the resolve that charged Victor's body. "Who are you to
question me, brother?" He added the title in a dismissive tone.
"Obviously you wait here for someone to question you. I see a man in need of
absolution from his sins."
"I travel today." Victor shrugged off the implication. "A man should be ready
to meet God before he meets the villains on the road."
"Do you confess your sins when you return as well?"
Victor shook his head. "What is the need? I am home and safe. Besides, what
sins can one make during a journey?"
"You do not count it a sin to give away what by rights belongs to the people of
this shire?"
Victor gripped the strap of the leather bags straddling his shoulder. "Explain
what you mean."
"The tax you carry to the King."
"How do you know about that if you are really just a pilgrim in these parts?"
A soft laugh came from beneath the hood. "It is common knowledge that the time
draws near. Anyone who stops at a tavern, or accepts a bowl of food from the
kindness of a farmer will hear stories of how the shire is being parted from its
money."
Anger flared in Victor because he had no response for the veiled taunt in the
monk's tone. "It is the law of the land that we give over tax to the King."
"And what of God's law?"
"God's law does not prevent my lands from being confiscated in forfeit for the
tax. God's law does not keep my people from being chased from their homes if
the tax is not paid."
The monk raised both hands as if fending off the heat of Victor's anger. "I
meant you no offense, sir. I just wonder how long you and your people can
sustain so much leaving these lands and so little coming back in."
Victor glanced anxiously towards the gilded triptych behind the altar. Every
time he had the chance to present just that question to the King he was answered
with some gift. The elaborate depiction of the crucifixion had been presented as
a boon to the shire, yet it solved none of the people's problems. Victor would
sell it in a heartbeat if he could find a buyer who would not tell the King.
"Surely there are other great families nearby that feel the injustice of this
tax, as you do?" the monk asked.
Victor wished he could say there were. Mac's family took their share for
collecting the tax, and thought only of their own fortunes. They did whatever
they could to gain the King's favor. The only time Victor ever saw a member of
the family was when they wanted something. That usually meant a berating about
why he hadn't captured Mac and his men. When he stood face to face with the
head of the family he had no doubt why Mac was contentious about anything and
everything he stood for.
"There are none who oppose the King," Victor replied curtly.
The hooded head cocked to one side. "I have heard tell of a man and his
fellows."
Victor barked out a scoffing laugh. "The man you speak of is a thief with a
price on his head."
"Ah." The monk nodded as if agreeing. "And didn't the authorities arrest our
Lord."
Victor waved off the suggestion. "You've never met him Brother or you wouldn't
be tempted to compare him to Christ." Victor twisted his sword in its scabbard.
"Judas perhaps, but never Christ."
"You've grown so cynical."
"What?" The comment caught him up short. It seemed to have a disappointment
and intimacy that he hadn't expected from a stranger.
"It's just that I have heard many stories about what a noble man you are. It is
a pity that doing the King's work has turned you bitter."
"I do what I am charged to do." Victor squared his shoulders, but felt little
fire for the argument he presented. "I have my vows as you do."
"Yes. You have vowed to keep your family safe, and your lands and retainers
safe as well. I have heard murmurs that there are those who could help you
truly fulfill those vows. There is no need for you to stand alone in the
darkness."
Victor stared at him for a long moment. "You have met up with Mac?"
The man nodded.
"Are you one of his men come to make a proposal?" Victor's hand slashed angrily
through the air. "I will not cut a deal with that thieving sodomite. The only
arrangement I will make with him is for his surrender."
The monk raised his hands again in the same protective gesture. "Please, calm
yourself sir. I only know that when I passed near the man's camp he was
generous to me, and took me in."
"Well, if you believe him to be a good man than he indeed took you in!"
"He wants the same things that you do." The monk's voice rose to silence
Victor. "He always has. He told me of how you worked together in the past.
You can again. He says you are a good soul who is torn between duty and honor."
Victor stood silent, staring holes into the impertinent monk. His skin prickled
at the thought that Mac would talk about him to a stranger. It made him even
more uncomfortable that Mac still spoke of him at all. He had tried for years
to rid himself of the memories of his friend. It seemed now that the link
between them would haunt him to his grave.
"What does he know of honor?"
The animosity in the response seemed to surprise the monk. He withdrew into
himself, burrowing his hands inside the protection of his deep sleeves, and
forming a barrier between them as his arms crossed his chest.
Victor read the act as a retreat, and charged forward leading an attack with
weapons honed on long-held resentments. "He never stayed to make a difference
in this shire."
"Because his family cast him out," the monk said with quiet anguish.
"He brought that on himself!" Victor raised a hand when the monk tried to speak
again. "He's too hot-headed to listen, too proud to compromise. He couldn't
stand to be told no. So he runs off to be King of his own little world, and
leaves the rest of us here to deal with the consequences."
"He didn't have a choice."
Victor narrowed his eyes. "He had the same choices I had. He could be here
right now trying to run these lands, feed his people, and deal with the King."
Victor gave a scornful laugh. "Instead, he slinks off to hide with whores and
thieves. He amuses himself with delicate boys who think him a hero. While I'm
left behind to sort out the mess he's made of my life!"
"I never wanted to leave you."
"Sorry I'm late Victor, but there is the most brazen young woman in the
courtyard and..."
"Take the priest!" The monk pointed at Father Ambrose as he walked in. A man
as dark as the shadows that had hid him jumped from behind one of the thick
pillars that held up the heavy vaulted ceiling. In a step he had Father Ambrose
and pressed a knife to his throat.
Victor tried to draw his sword, but two men swept down on him from behind like
demons. The one that held a dagger next to his ear had long black hair that
framed a skeletal face, the skin drawn taut over jutting cheekbones and an
angular jaw.
"I'd think better of it," he said in a soft emotionless voice when Victor
continued to pull his sword out of the scabbard.
The other man, a pale rat faced fellow with a sneering smile of crooked teeth,
pushed Victor's hand away from the sword.
"I'll take that," he said with a thick peasant twang and grasped the
weapon's hilt. He drew the sword out of its scabbard with a song of metal
gliding over metal. "Nice balance," he noted when it was free.
"Much like the one we took from that Flemish nobleman," the skeletal man
commented.
"Ah, yes." The smile broadened with appreciation. "That was a lovely weapon."
"Save the tales for the camp fire." The monk's hand shot out, his fingers
snapping in a demanding gesture.
Victor's captors exchanged a momentary frown before the sword was given over.
When the hilt settled in his hand the monk pulled back his hood.
"Mac!" Father Ambrose sounded as shocked as he looked. "Mac do something." He
pointed in a panic at the knife still held to his throat.
"Hello Father." He waved his free hand towards the priest. "Doby won't hurt
you, unless you do something foolish." He glanced at Victor, who glared back at
him. "Really Victor, you need to get Father Ambrose some help. It's too much
for him these days."
"I've asked him about that," the priest said.
Mac nodded and pointed the sword at the old priest. "He's got sense enough to
know..."
"You bastard!" Victor struggled, trying to break free and grab the man who'd
made a fool of him. A knife bit into his throat on one side as the other man
pinned his arm behind him.
"Don't harm him," Mac ordered.
Victor felt a warm trickle of blood mark his skin and made himself stand still.
The pressure of the knife was eased, but he was still caught between the two
villains. Now, he had to stand and watch the man who had been his friend gloat
as his enemy.
"I'll have your head for this," he said despite the threat of the knife.
"Which one?" the rat-faced man asked. "He'd gladly give you one of them." Both
his captors snickered.
Mac scowled and they fell silent. He looked at the sword, resting the blade
across his open palm for a moment. The hand that cradled the blade slowly rose
from beneath it. The fingers traced over the one word, Forever,
inscribed down the length of the scabbard lock. He looked up and there was sad
hope in his brown eyes. "You still carry this?"
"Keep it." Victor spit the words back at him. "It means nothing to me."
Mac let the blade tilt towards the flagstone floor, then reached inside his
jerkin. He fished out a worn silver badge hung around his neck by a leather
cord.
"I still wear this, and it means everything to me." He held out the embossed
circle of metal as if it were the host at consecration.
It was Victor's turn to be surprised, though he wouldn't let it show. This was
the badge of office presented to his grandfather by the old King. He had given
it to Mac as a pledge that they would always stand together. That same summer
Mac had given him the sword that he now held.
"Hmm? Still a puzzlement as to what it represents," mused the rat-faced fellow.
"Yes," agreed the gaunt knife wielder. "Under the circumstances, though,
conclusions could be drawn."
Mac glared at the two men who returned sour looks, but stopped talking.
"Victor you know why I'm here," Mac said.
"Because you're a thief and a rogue," Victor said, his voice a barely controlled
hiss.
Mac shook his head. "I'm here to help you do what's right."
"What do you know about right!" He struggled and the knife burned into his skin
again.
Mac raised a hand and the knife was withdrawn.
"I have made some bad choices in my life Victor, and..."
Victor interrupted with an angry laugh. "When have you made any good choices?"
Mac's gaze blistered him. "I chose you as my friend."
"I am not your friend!" Victor shouted. "Not anymore."
"That may be true," Mac replied, glancing down at the sword and its inscription.
"Despite how you feel about me you know what I'm doing is right."
"Stealing? Stealing is right in your perverted view of the world?"
"Victor, let me do this for you. Give me the money and it will be returned to
the people who need it." He waved a hand in frustration. "I know you. I
know you want that."
Victor stood as if made of stone. There was nothing he could do, but let Mac
take the tax money. Then just like all their years growing up he would have to
be the one to try and smooth over the aftermath of Mac's prank. Only this
wasn't just a prank. This was an act that would bring a storm of trouble for
all those left behind.
Mac reached for the saddlebags. As he did Victor covered his hand with his own.
He stared at Mac. The dark eyes had lost the mirth that had always looked back
at him. Instead, there was a determination and wisdom he had never seen there
before.
"You can't do this."
"I have to. I have to do it for them." He nodded as if indicating the breadth
of the shire. "And I have to do this for you."
Victor felt the chapel shrink to just the two of them. The men who held him
seemed to vanish. Father Ambrose and his dark captor no longer existed. Just
like in his dreams the world consisted of only Mac and him. Their lips were
almost touching, and the soft warmth of Mac's breath was a kiss against his
skin.
"If that's why you do this, for me, please... don't," Victor said softly.
Mac gave a sad smile. "I have to grant you the forgiveness you seek. I owe you
that much. Duty keeps you from doing what you know is right. I can take
that responsibility from you. Let me do that much."
Victor squeezed his hand. "You don't understand. The King's vengeance will be
a horrible thing if you take this money. No one, and I mean no one, will be
safe from his wrath."
Mac slid his hand away and the saddlebags with it settling them over his
shoulder. He took a step closer and wrapped his hand around the back of
Victor's neck.
Victor stiffened for a moment, but then let Mac pull him forward until their
foreheads touched. "Join me, Victor."
It took all Victor's determination to fight past the comfort in his touch, the
need to be near him, and the thoughts of what might have been. "I can't," he
finally managed in a strangled whisper.
The kiss was brief, but as stunning and thrilling as the first time it had been
visited upon Victor's lips in those heady days of their youth. As quickly as it
had been given Mac broke off, turned and walked away.
The two men holding Victor released him and followed Mac.
The dark man, who early on had sheathed his knife and detained Father Ambrose
with only a hand on his shoulder, gave him a pat on the back. "I hope that soon
you'll get someone to help you with your duties."
"Thank you, son." They exchanged smiles.
The dark man followed the henchmen to the door.
Mac reached out as he passed and touched the old priest on the arm. "Take care,
Father."
"Bless you my boy." Father Ambrose made the sign of the cross in the air, and
Mac quickly crossed himself as he accepted the blessing. "I pray for the time
when you will be able to return to us."
Mac nodded as he continued to walk towards the back of the nave.
Victor watched him for a moment, and then shouted. "My men are outside. They
will stop you." The words sounded as hollow in the empty chapel as they felt in
his heart.
"They're distracted," Mac said as he reached the doorway. His men, who had
waited for him, went out of the church as he waved them on. Mac turned and
looked at Victor. He raised the sword he still held as if in salute. Then he
pressed his lips against the engraved word on the blade. "Join me Victor," he
said again as he lowered the sword to the floor. "I can help you find the
absolution you need."
Mac smiled, and it stirred memories that ate at Victor's heart. He could not
abide the recollection of all those other smiles that had amused, infuriated,
and told him that they had been more than mere friends. He lowered his head for
a moment. When he looked back, Mac was gone.
he firelight flickered in the darkness of the
deep forest. Mac tossed a pair of logs on the glowing embers. Sparks flew up
around him sending light gleaming off his unruly mass of brown hair and
glittering from his dark eyes. He dusted his long-fingered hands, and sat, once
more, on the leather seat of the small trestle stool positioned next to the
fire.
