Mark of the Black Arrow

by Debbie Viguié

  Robin crouched in the underbrush at the edge of a hidden meadow. He waited, weight over the balls of his feet, rendered invisible by stillness so complete that he barely breathed, and by the hooded hunting jerkin he wore, its thin deerskin dyed a green to match his surroundings.

  Eyes narrowed, he stared across the clearing where a sleek-sided doe grazed the low-growing sweetgrass, mouth moving rhythmically as she ate. Two spotted fawns frolicked around her, leaping and nudging each other in a game of keep away. They flashed around, white tails flicking, tiny hooves digging the soft earth. Their mother ignored them, head down, enjoying the clover in her mouth.

  They didn’t know he was there. If they had, they would have fled, abandoning the sweet food for safety in the wood.

  His hand tightened on the bow, fingers whispering softly against the leather-wrapped yew. He could almost hear the wood whispering to him, reassuring him that its aim would be true.

  He could make the shot. He could take one of them. Rise, draw, pull, and release in one smooth, fluid movement. He could pin an arrow through the doe’s chest, stopping her heart in an instant. She would drop to her knees and then slowly fall to her side, dead before she even felt the pain. Yet leaving the fawns to die without their mother’s protection and guidance would make the meat, however needed it might be, taste of guilt and shame.

  No. The family for whom he hunted was not that hungry.

  Not yet.

  He stayed there in the itchy undergrowth, thighs burning from crouching, and he waited.

  The mother led her fawns into the meadow. There was no hesitation in her step, no pause to even look for danger. She ate in total security, oblivious to the world around her and her children.

  So she wasn’t alone.

  His eyes scanned the forest behind the doe, trying to pierce the gloom just beyond the tree line. There, deep in a pocket of near dark, he saw a flicker—the tiniest movement of something.

  He focused, teeth gritting, pouring his will into the dark.

  Come out. Show yourself.

  The doe raised her head.

  The fawns continued to play.

  I know you’re there.

  The doe stepped back to the edge of the clearing.

  Something massive moved in the dark.

  The fawns stopped, dead still.

  The largest stag he’d ever seen stepped into sight. It towered over the doe, a massive rack of antlers spreading from its skull in a crown of bone, a fortress of spikes and tines. Thick fur lay in a mantle across shoulders and a back wide enough to carry the entire world. Its bones were carved timber. It was majestic, magnificent, and primordial, the avatar of every stag that ever existed.

  The Lord of the Forest.

  Awe fell on Robin, like thunder across the sea.

  He couldn’t take a creature such as this.

  The mean spot of his humanity rose up, filling his chest with the very desire his awe denied, and splitting him like lightning. The urge to destroy such beauty, to conquer such strength, raged through him and he wrestled, wrestled hard within himself to contain it.

  His fingers touched the notch of an arrow in his quiver.

  The stag stepped forward, lowered its mighty head, and began to eat, trusting the doe, its mate, to watch for danger.

  This was the moment.

  His fingers closed on the notch and stayed, gripping tight, as he fought inside himself. His father’s voice sounded in his mind.

  Kill for food, never for the pleasure of the kill itself. That is a road that leads to Hell.

  He pushed away not the message, but the messenger.

  Centering himself with the thought of the families who could eat through a winter with this one act, he laid the arrow across the bow.

  Rise.

  Breathe in.

  Hold.

  Draw.

  And…

  “Robin!”

  A voice split the silence, an axe through a piece of dry firewood. The stag jolted at the sound. Almost too fast for his eye to follow, the mighty beast swept its antlers around, driving the fawns and their mother into the trees. With a snort of contempt, the Lord of the Forest disappeared like quicksilver.

  Robin released the tension on the bow, and exhaled.

  Another day, fine fellow.

  Quivering the arrow, he turned and began making his way through the trees to find the person who had spoiled his shot.

  * * *

  I can’t see anything in this blasted place. Will Scarlet sat straighter on his horse, stretching to peer further into the gloom that bordered Merchant’s Road. The horse ignored his movements, standing between shallow ruts of dirt packed hard by countless rolling wheels, and cropping a mouthful of grass.

  Will shifted his gaze from side to side, picking out shapes in the darkness. Dappled light fell around him, following the curving line of road where the tree canopy had been thinned.

  “Damnation, Robin, you know you’re supposed to be back by now.” His voice was low as he grumbled. The horse’s ears twitched, but it didn’t look up from its mouthful.

  Will brought his hands back to his mouth, drawing in air to bellow once again.

  “I think we’ve had about enough of that.”

  Will jerked in his saddle, slender hand snatching at the handle of his rapier. Seeing who had spoken, he relaxed his grip.

  Robin stood at the edge of the road, bow in hand.

  “Where did you come from?”

  A smile pulled Robin’s face. He slung the bow across his back.

  “Perhaps I’ve been here all along.”

  “Sneaky bastard.” Will shifted in his saddle. “One day you’ll show me how you move so quietly.”

  Robin pointed at Will’s embroidered boots made of suede calfskin, dyed a rich vermillion to match his surname.

  “You can’t be stealthy in boots as loud as those.”

  “So it’s a choice? Either style or stealth?”

  “Not in your case.”

  Will sniffed. “I’d choose style over stealth every day.”

  “Perhaps one day you’ll choose substance over style.”

  Will rolled his eyes. “I am a paragon of substance.”

  “Perhaps,” Robin replied, sounding doubtful. “Your style is substantial, though, I’ll grant you that.”

  “I’ve seen you dressed well,” Will replied. “Even then, you’re so quiet it’s spooky.”

  “Ah, cousin, maybe I’m half-ghost.” Robin’s smile grew wider. “Don’t you think Sherwood is haunted?”

  “Haunted by you? Almost certainly.”

  “Not by me.” Robin waved his hands. “But the spirits of the wood are benign.” A serious note crept into his voice. “Mostly.”

  “Tell that to Cousin Requard,” Will snorted. “He claims to have been held captive by them one night, and hasn’t been the same since.”

  “Ha! Requard was held captive by too much mead from the monastery, and a briar patch he fell into while trying to catch a glimpse of the Latimer twins at their nightly bath in the river. He wasn’t even in Sherwood proper.” Robin moved closer until he stood next to the horse. “Now, why have you come out here calling my name as if it’s your own?”

  “I was sent to fetch you—by Uncle Philemon.”

  “Fetch me?” Robin’s face darkened. “Fetch you,” he spat, and he turned to leave, lifting the hood over his head.

  “But the feast is tonight,” Will protested. “We have to attend. By order of the king.”

  “Fetch him, too,” Robin said, but his voice softened slightly. “I have no use for feasts when there are families who starve.”

  Will sighed. “What starving families? The Lionheart is a good king. Everyone eats.”

  “Some eat better than others.”

  Will shrugged. “Such is life.”

  “Fetch that,” Robin said firmly. “I’ll make a difference.”

  “You do make a difference. We all know you hunt for the poor. It’s why you’re
allowed to hunt in Sherwood at all. Well, that and your father’s fervent support of King Richard.”

  “Fetch my father most of all.” Robin’s mouth twisted into a scowl.

  Will held his tongue. His Uncle Philemon was a hard man—he had to be when responsible for so many, and he tasked his sons accordingly, yoking them with the expectation that they would become copies of him. With Robert, the oldest, it had been no difficulty—the boy took after him in so many ways. With Robin, however, it was different, their relationship full of enmity. Will had been party to many of their fights, and saw that his uncle knew no other way.

  He and his youngest son were much alike.

  Time for a new tactic, he decided.

  “Don’t eat the king’s food then,” he said. “Hell, steal your portion and give it to your poor families, but before you refuse to attend, bear in mind that she will be there.”

  Robin fell silent.

  “She’ll be wearing a fine dress,” Will taunted, “and she’ll be available to dance. If you aren’t there, then who knows with whom she might partner. Maybe I’ll ask her to spin around with me—” He shrugged. “—If Locksley doesn’t get there first.”

  A low, animal sound came from beneath Robin’s hood. Will looked closely. Robin’s face had flushed red, jaw bulging as his teeth clamped together. He looked like a madman.

  The horse balked, loosed a shrill whinny, and amble-stepped away. Will put a hand up, pulling the reins with the other. His voice dropped, switching to a melodious, soothing tone he used for dealing with injured animals.

  “Ease yourself, cousin,” he said. “I jest too much. You know she has no interest in him.”

  Locksley’s great-great-grandfather and Robin’s had been brothers—twins, actually. Their father had wanted to leave them each with an inheritance. In return for his service to the crown, the elder Locksley had been allowed to split his land in two, giving the first portion to his elder son and the second to the younger, along with the new title of Lord of Longstride.

  While the arrangement had suited the brothers, their descendants on both sides had chafed at the division. To this day Locksley longed to have the land reunited, under his control. The same was true of Longstride. The hatred and rivalry between the two families only increased with each generation.

  On more than one occasion Locksley had suggested that Sherwood should be put to the torch, its majesty and mystery destroyed for the sake of more land to be plowed, more land to be coveted. Robin took this particularly to heart.

  He stared now, eyes narrow and black in their sockets. Will watched his cousin warily, feeling an itch to grab for the handle of his sword. It dug into the back of his neck, worming its way toward his spine. Teeth clenched, he ignored it. To listen would end badly.

  Then something appeared in Robin’s eyes, flickering behind tightly-slitted lids. His head dropped. He drew a deep breath and held it as a tremor rolled through his wiry frame, chasing along the lean muscles of his arms and shoulders. It passed, shivering out of his fingertips. He released the breath and looked up.

  His eyes were clear, face nearly back to its normal dark coloring.

  “It’s true,” he said. “You do jest too much, cousin.”

  Will’s body unclenched in a rush that made his head spin for a moment. He smiled and cocked an eyebrow.

  “One day it’ll be the death of me,” he admitted.

  “Probably,” Robin agreed. “But not today.”

  “Good.” Will leaned forward, separating them from that conversation. “Now about this feast—your father was insistent, and I promised I’d bring you.”

  “Well, if it means preserving the good word of Will Scarlet, then I guess I must.” Robin reached his hand up. Will grasped it, pulling to help his cousin swing up behind him.

  Instead Robin leaned back, yanking the slim man from the saddle. As Will tumbled to the road, Robin smacked his hand flat on the horse’s rump. It reared and jolted forward, racing away and disappearing around a bend of the road.

  Will leapt to his feet, frantically beating dirt from his linen trousers and suede boots as he listened to the diminishing sound of the beast’s hooves.

  “What the hell did you do that for?” he demanded.

  Robin chuckled. “If I must go, then I will walk, and get there in my own good time. Since you came to fetch me, you can keep me company.”

  “But these boots aren’t made for hiking,” Will protested. “They come from the Iberians!”

  Robin slung his arm over Will’s shoulders. “The Iberians make fine boots, cousin. I think you shall survive. A little fresh air and exercise won’t hurt you.” With that, he began walking.

  Will scowled as he followed.

  “If my boots are ruined, I will hurt you.”

  Robin’s laugh echoed through the forest.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Much, the miller’s son, shifted the pole across his shoulders, easing the sore crease of flesh forming under its weight. The basket on each end swung with the motion, roughly scraping along the outsides of his legs. He had calluses the size of his palm on each calf—rough patches of skin with no hair.

  One foot in front of the other.

  Step by step he walked the Merchant’s Road, carrying loads of fruit for the family larder, a fair trade for two sacks of ground wheat. The fruit was lighter than the wheat, but still heavy enough to turn each step into hard work. Work he was used to, but work still.

  His mind conjured thoughts of what his mother would make from what he carried home. Damson jelly, perhaps a quince pie. She would definitely make blackcurrant jam, since his father liked that. His eyes slid over to the basket on his left, looking at the mound of dark berries.

  Hopefully his father would distill some sweet currant brandy.

  That would be heavenly.

  * * *

  There was a short, stout door of thick wooden planks that stood in the back of the mill. Never had Much been allowed inside his father’s den. The old man—far too old to have a son as young as Much—would often go inside and shut the door tight. What lay beyond was for his father and his father only.

  He’d asked his mum about it.

  “Men need a place to go and be themselves, to shed the skin that being social makes them wear,” she replied. “You’ll see. One day you’ll have your own place.”

  Even at that wee age, he’d already understood.

  Then last season, when his father had taken him aside, and led him to the door, Much’s stomach felt trembly-tingly, like it did when he had to climb to the top of the mill wheel and unclog the waterspout. The pipe that fed river water to the top of the mill started in a wide scoop that narrowed quickly, forcing the water to rush, squeezing it faster and faster until it had the force to drive the wheel forward. That turned the mighty gears which spun the grinding wheel, the gigantic round stone from a quarry in the north.

  Sometimes the scoop would catch something coming down the river and suck it in, blocking the flow of water. Much would have to climb then, pulling himself up hand over hand by the spokes until he reached the top. He’d cling there while he wrestled out whatever debris clogged the pipe. Pull too fast and the river would jet out of the pipe, driving into him like a hammer on a nail. If he slipped, if his balance wavered for even a second, then the mill would toss him to his doom far below.

  It made him feel as if he’d been slit across the belly and a hand inserted that juggled his innards, clumsy and without care.

  Standing in the cool air at the front of the door gave him the same feeling.

  His father grunted. “You’re tall enough to have to stoop, so you’re tall enough to enter.” With a calloused hand, he pushed the door open, ducked, and then squeezed his large frame inside, shoulders scraping either side of the door as he hunched over and passed through.

  Much followed.

  The cubby was small. Simple. Built in the style of a monk’s cell, it contained a high window covered in thin oilskin that turned the
late-day sun into a warm, sallow glow. There were two chairs—one a worn wooden frame covered with a deer hide older than Much himself, its hair polished away by use save for a handsbreath that fringed it. The other was newer, the wood freshly chopped into shape and the deer hide still furred and stiff. They stood on each side of a small clay firepot which offered more than enough heat for the small space.

  A ledge circled the room, its narrow space crowded with objects. There were stones polished by the river, a small bird skull, boxes and bins of various sizes, and a series of wooden carvings—people so intricately cut free from the wood that Much could read their expressions.

  His father lifted a small box from the ledge. It was made from a dark wood Much had never seen before, such a rich brown that it looked almost black. It wasn’t until his father passed it through the light that Much saw the carvings that wrapped the sides. Some serpentine creature with scales smaller than a river trout wove in and out of itself. It reminded Much of the ancient knotwork on the door of the monastery, carved by the Celts from long ago. His father grasped a second box. This one was larger, but plain and made of dried maple, just like the boxes his mother used to store things in the larder. His father sat in the old chair, putting the plain box between his feet. His ample body completely covered the hide’s bare skin.

  He pointed at the other chair and nodded.

  Much sat. The chair creaked, green wood rubbing where it had been lashed together. He didn’t squirm, even though he was uncomfortable, the chair under him as stiff as he felt. The sensation of being atop the wheel ran through him again, like he was on the verge of something new.

  Reaching inside his tunic, Much’s father drew out a small bronze container with holes in its lid. Lifting the lid he revealed a coal from the hearth fire, still glowing dully orange. Balancing the box on his knee, he reached into a pocket in the deer hide and produced a long wooden pipe. He opened the intricate box and a dark aroma of spice and something heady filled the small space. Without speaking he pulled out a pinch of tobacco, dark and shredded, then used both hands to pack the bowl of the pipe, tamping down and adding more until he was satisfied.

  Much just watched.

  Lifting the small bronze box his father tipped it forward, catching the coal between lip and lid before it could spill out onto his lap. He blew on it and the coal burned bright, heating to a near yellow before cooling back into sunset orange. Touching it to the tobacco he had so carefully arranged, he brought the pipe stem to his mouth, inhaled three sharp times, and blew smoke on a long exhale. Satisfied, he flipped the coal box up and shut it with a snap.