"Thanks, Father," he muttered. "I abjure the throne. I will unseat the sorcerer if I can, even as I've sworn—but I will seek to place the rightful monarch on the throne, not myself."
"It is well." Tuck sketched the Sign of the Cross in the air. "Go in peace, my son—and in hope, for she may yet be yours. I assure you, I shall search without rest, to seek a way to justify the marriage of a lord born a commoner, with a monarch reigning. But though you may be a consort, you shall never be a king."
"All I want is to be her husband," Matt muttered. "Put the titles on the shelf, Friar. I'll read them later."
The field was empty of foemen, except for the dead. There were no enemies wounded or dying—their own knights had slain them as they retreated.
"But wherefore?" Sauvignon's agony of soul was written in his face. "Why would they slay their own men?"
"Wherefore not?" the sergeant said dryly. "These were of no more use to the sorcerer, after all."
"But they might have escaped! They might have gone back to the sorcerer's army!"
"None go willingly to Gordogrosso's armies, I think," Alisande said slowly. "Belike they would choose to stay and fight for us, if they could surrender."
"Would they slay these men for treachery that they might commit?"
"They would," the sergeant confirmed. "Wherefore give strength to the enemy? Yet I think 'tis more than that, milord."
Sauvignon turned to him, scowling. "What should it be?"
But the sergeant only glanced at him, then glanced away.
" 'Tis their souls, Marquis," Alisande said gently. "If they had not slain them, these men might have repented on their deathbeds and have cheated Hell of a few more souls."
Sauvignon only stared at her, then turned away. The sight of bloody entrails and torn limbs hadn't sickened him, but this did.
"Peace, milord," Ortho murmured. " 'Tis not the speaking that matters, nor e'en the unvoiced words in the mind, but the thought itself, the upwelling of repentance in the single sharp surge that takes but a moment; and such could have come to each of these, in the moment of their deaths."
"And if it did not?" Sauvignon grated.
"If it did not, they have gone where they chose."
"But how if they did not so choose?" Sauvignon rounded on him. "How if many among them would have repented, if they'd known of their deaths—but did not, for the blow that laid them low came from behind! As, look you, it did, for most among them."
Ortho didn't bat an eyelash. "How if they would have repented, if they could have? Ah, my lord!" He heaved a sigh. "Were not most of these constrained to fight, whether they would or no? How many among them did already repent, and secretly asked forgiveness of God for not having courage enough to face the death by torture that would have come of saying no to the sorcerer's press-gang?"
Sauvignon stared at him for a moment, then said, "Well asked. How then?"
But, "I know not," was all Ortho could answer. "These are questions for a priest, my lord, not for a poor sexton whose soul was too wild to stay in cloister long enough to become so much as a deacon."
Sauvignon held his gaze, then nodded with gruff apology. "'Tis even so. I thank you for this much hope, at least." He turned to the queen. "Majesty, may we summon the chaplain?"
"We may, my lord, when he is done with the work of his office." Alisande gestured down-slope, and Sauvignon turned, surprised, to see the priest who had accompanied the expedition on his knees in the mud, his vial of blessed oil in his hand, marking the Sign of the Cross on each dead soldier, reciting the words of the last annointing in a quick mutter before he rose and went on to the next corpse.
"They may be damned," Alisande said, "but he, at least, finds room for doubt."
Sauvignon saw, and his eyes gleamed. He straightened, and she could almost see his spirit rise.
Ortho saw, too, and smiled. "The sorcerer may have dominion in this world, my lord, but not in the next."
"Why, then, let us reave him of even that!" Sauvignon clapped a hand to his sword hilt and looked up at Alisande with the lust for battle in his eyes. "Let us march, Majesty! Unleash us 'gainst the tyrant!"
Alisande decided that even the ugliest man might have a beautiful soul.
CHAPTER 27
Submarine Raid
They came back into the great hall, Friar Tuck folding his stole and putting it away, Matt trying to straighten his shoulders and put something resembling a smile on his face.
He didn't do too well, of course.
"Be of good heart, Wizard," Maid Marian murmured, stepping close. "She may yet be thine."
Matt looked up at her, startled. How had she known?
Marian smiled and gave him a gentle punch on the arm. "I have seen your face when you have spoken of the queen of Merovence—and you have told us why you have embarked on this quest. Nay, if a man is a-love, what else can make him so glum?"
Quite a few things that Matt could think of—but he couldn't knock it; the lady had read him rightly. The shock did help pull him out of himself, though. He straightened his shoulders and smiled at the stalwart woman. "Thank you, milady. Let's see about setting a siege now, shall we?"
"No," Robin Hood said. "This venture is mine, with my merry men. We must undertake the risk. You must wait until we have, at the least, begun to take up our positions before the castle, before you go below the waves. Only when the sorcerer is assured that we mean to front him outright, may we hope to surprise him from within."
"But while I'm submerging, you'll be dying! He'll haul out his mightiest spells and pulverize you!"
"We shall place our faith in Tuck, and God," Robin answered. "Be of good cheer, Wizard—and be quick. If you strike swiftly, most of us will live."
"'Most' includes some dead bodies," Matt grumbled.
"How did you say?"
"Nothing—just grumbling."
"He is envious, in that he may not join you in the assault." Yverne laid a hand on Matt's arm. "Go, my lord Earl, and may you prevail."
Robin doffed his hat and gave her his most gallant bow, then turned on his heel and strode out of the tower room.
Marian stared after him, her eyes glistening. "He cannot die!"
"Right." Matt nodded. "He can't. He always rises again, doesn't he?"
"He ever has before..."
"Then he will again." Matt turned away to the window, trying to hide his feelings. "Come, ladies, gentlemen. Let's watch for our cue."
They looked on in trepidation, waiting, almost breathless, but there was nothing to see—their tower faced the mainland and the castle, and the fishermen were smuggling Robin Hood and his band around behind the forest on the point. They waited, the minutes trickling away until, finally, some spots of green separated themselves from the darker gray-green of the somber forest—Lincoln green, a dozen, a score, a hundred, filing out to take up stands before the castle. They were just a little too far from the walls for crossbow or mangonel to reach them—but not, Matt suspected, too far for Robin Hood's clothyard shafts to strike, driven by longbows.
They were scarcely in position before a fireball lofted from the castle wall. and roared toward them.
Force of habit—Matt started to mutter a fire-quenching spell.
"Nay," Fadecourt rumbled at his elbow. "They shall have to hold off the sorcerer without your aid, Wizard. At the least, wait until you are sure your help is needed."
Matt held the final line on the tip of his tongue in an agony of suspense, aching to say it.
Suddenly, the fireball darkened and slowed. Its flames died, and it crashed into the sere grass of the dusty meadow, well short of Robin's lines.
Matt stared.
"What spell was that?" de la Luce asked.
"One I don't know." Matt didn't blame the old don—anything that could quench fire put de la Luce in danger.