XXII. Passelewe
Little John came alert at the sound of the pull lock being disengaged. The door swung open, but he remained still in the putrid straw as if unconscious. His only concern was saving his strength for when the sheriff returned. He’d every intention of making one final effort to kill the man, if “man” even described Passelewe. This might be his chance: Minutes earlier he’d felt the queer ache in his head, same as he’d done with the prelate and soldiers on the King’s Way, same as with the Queen of Faeries. Same as while he’d been tortured by that Norman bastard.
Instead he found himself squinting at two guards, one of them the bearded one who’d forced that horrible eel down his throat. He shuddered at the memory. His fists closed tighter. But then that guard turned to the other one and told him to “go let out the other Wait.”
He knew that voice. The other withdrew, and the guard came and knelt beside him. The guard’s form changed exactly the way those two soldiers on the King’s Way had done—mail became shiny black skin like a sheath but hard like a shell. The wide toadish face became slim, dark-bearded and blue-eyed. A face he knew, too!
“Are you alive, John?” Thomas had a key and was unlocking each of the cuffs from neck to ankle.
Finally freed, Little John grabbed the clanking bar and used it to lean himself up and rest his back against the wall. “Woodwose,” he said, “No denying this time. What are tha?”
“Someone who hates these villains at least as much as you do.”
“I doubt right now tha can match me.” As if to prove it, he flung the torturous bar across the cell and chipped a piece of stone from the wall where it hit.
The Woodwose grinned. “Let’s plan to test each other on that point as soon as possible,” he said, then clasped John by the hand and helped him to his feet. Glanced at the raw flesh on Little John’s wrist and around his throat. “Fitted you up, did they?”
“And fed me something alive. Wet and awful it were. I think it maybe made me tell them things. Lots of things.” He glanced down, ashamed. “Everything.”
The Woodwose nodded as if that confirmed something for him. He gave the ceiling of the cell a once-over.
At that point Benedict of the Waits and one of the sheriff’s guards emerged from the cell opposite. They had to step over a corpse lying in the middle of the tunnel. John smiled. Woodwose had been busy, same as he planned to be.
Looking up from the body, Benedict blinked at them both. “Robyn Hoode?” he said. “How are you here, and in Passelewe’s colors?”
“John,” said the Woodwose. “This is Ernald, a well-meaning member of Passelewe’s retinue. So, don’t kill him.”
Ernald was gaping at him in disbelief. “How did you do that?”
Thomas answered Benedict. “Necessary to penetrate the castle’s defenses. The sheriff will be on his way up. Your compeers have probably stalled him as long as they can down in the gaol.”
“Passelewe a lich—like the bishop was?” asked John.
“Exactly like the bishop. He’s expecting his man to deliver the things you stole.” He patted the bag.
“The dights.” Seeing the surprised look the Woodwose gave him at hearing the word, he added, “Was all the bastard could blather about while he tortured me. ‘Where are me dights?’ So what do we do then?”
“You won’t enjoy it.”
John guessed. “You want us locked up back in our cells.”
“At least in this cell, along with him.” Thomas nodded back at the body in the tunnel. “After all, there can’t be two of me. Everything should look as normal as possible.”
“Wait now,” said Ernald. “What are you gettin’ me into?”
John clapped him on the shoulder. “More like what we’re getting thee out of. Or if tha prefer we could finish you.” Ernald blanched, but John didn’t mean it. He said, “Benedict, help me with this bastard,” and stepped over to the dead Yvag.
Benedict stood over the gray-green body, looking disinclined to touch it. He met John’s determined gaze, and finally, muttering, “Elves and fairies, just as I told ’em,” he bent to the task.
They dragged the body by the ankles into Little John’s cell and dumped it in a corner. John thought about it a moment, then leaned over for the creature’s sword, saw that it had the same sheen as those that had guarded the prelate, and decided he would get along just fine without it. He took a few handfuls of rancid straw and threw them atop the corpse. Then he smiled at the Woodwose.
“I’m ready for him,” he said.
The Woodwose nodded, then headed out of the cell. By the time he’d crossed the threshold, his armor had turned into mail again.
Sheriff Passelewe and his glamoured personal guard, Kunastur, climbed the steps to the cells with a kind of determined ferocity. The meddling Waits had continued to take up Passelewe’s time after the call from the cells had reached him. It was troubling: Simforax had been placed here to ensure that nobody and nothing interfered with that outlaw from whom he intended to extract every scrap of information before executing him. There was much about the goings-on in Sherwood that Passelewe wanted to hear. It was as if someone with far too much knowledge of the Yvag agenda was at work.
On the way up the steps he awakened the hob that lived in the stairwell—the one he hadn’t dropped down the throat of Little John—hanging like a sleeping bat, and sent it ahead. But by the time he reached the level of the cells it hadn’t reported back yet.
He rounded the stairwell, anticipating trouble of some sort. And there stood Simforax in his bearded glamour, on duty as if nothing out of the ordinary were occurring. Then Passelewe realized Simforax was patting the bag containing the dights, slung over his shoulder. No wonder he had called out so urgently. This was a triumph. But where was Tozesđin, whom he’d sent to the Saxon gaol to retrieve the bag? Nowhere in sight. They hadn’t passed him on the way up, so he must have returned to the castle. Why he’d left the bag with Simforax was something to hear about later. For now Passelewe wouldn’t even reprimand him. This was all working out splendidly.
Simforax nodded at the rear cell door, then turned and strode into the cell. Perhaps they would use one of the dights on Little John instead of its attuned victim—such readjustments were easily made—and send the outlaw back into Sherwood Forest as a spy. Although the means of creating the devices was limited, dependent upon the efforts of the mercurial Þagalwood creatures, it would be worth sacrificing one to learn these mortals’ plans while also embedding a spy in their midst. The remaining two would still be used to core out their original targets. He would need to confer with Zhanedd on this, get the changeling’s approval, but the Queen had placed the two of them in charge of recovering the dights and now they had done it. It was up to them both to allocate those dights. At least one Yvagvoja was waiting impatiently and impotently in a Felley Priory crypt even now as a result of the theft on the road. The sooner that one was embedded in a human, the better.
From below came the sound of the Waits calling for him to, of all things, wait. They were coming up the steps after him! There was no time. Kunastur and Passelewe hurried past the nervous human guard, who started to say something even before the sheriff turned and clutched onto him. “Tell the Waits we went on up the steps, Ernald,” he ordered. “Do not let them past you here, whatever you do.” He started to leave, but turned back. “You’ll find yourself well rewarded.” The guard looked positively terrified, and glanced around at the cell doors. They would likely need to dispose of him once all plans were carried out. That would be his final reward. Ah, well.