Mark of the Black Arrow

by Debbie Viguié

  “Again, some things require the utmost secrecy.”

  The bard leaned in. “This thing I carry—is it that important?”

  “If it is real, then yes, it is.” The priest’s eyes glittered in the candlelight.

  Alan nodded and took the last bite of his food. Wiping his hands he reached to the small pouch on the back of his belt, hidden under his cloak. With one hand he deftly untied the knot that kept it closed, then fished out an object wrapped in waxed leather. He drew it out and handed it over.

  “Take it then,” he said, “and I hope it is all you want it to be.” Friar Tuck accepted the package, staring at the twine-wrapped leather. After a long moment, he tucked it inside the sleeve of his robe, making it disappear. When he looked up again, there was concern in his expression.

  “Did you have any trouble along the way?” he asked. “Were there any inquiries as to what you carried?”

  “No, your brother monks in Glendalough apparently kept the secret of it, as well.” With that, Tuck relaxed a bit.

  “Thank you once again, Alan.”

  The bard leaned back, stretching his long body into a line of sinewy muscle.

  “It was quite the favor, traveling to the Emerald Isle and back to here. I am a bard, not a hewer of wood nor a fetcher of water.”

  The monk chuckled. “Only you could have made the trip without suspicion.”

  “A king’s messenger could have done it.”

  “True enough,” Tuck said. “But I didn’t have one of those lying around.”

  “Well, someone did,” Alan said. “I met one in a tiny village inn, eight nights ago.”

  Tuck sat up straight. “A messenger from King Richard?”

  Alan nodded. “He didn’t identify himself as such, but I saw the king’s seal on a parchment he kept tucked in his tunic.”

  “Did you get him to reveal his business?”

  “No, he wasn’t enough of a drunkard for that. Very wary, he was.”

  Friar Tuck considered this silently for a long moment. Finally, he waved it away.

  “I’ll speak with Cardinal Francis about it after the feast,” he said. “He sends his gratitude for your effort on the part of the church.”

  “I didn’t mind so much,” Alan admitted. “The brothers in Ireland brew a nice dark beer, and they have some lovely manuscripts they allowed me to memorize.”

  “If only they could cook worth a piss.”

  Alan sniffed. “I had some delightful meals on my trip.”

  It was true. Anywhere Alan stopped the families would gather, bringing the finest food and drink they had to offer in exchange for the news of the land, as well as the chance to hear him sing the ancient songs of heroes and gods—to awaken the ancient Celtic blood that flowed through their veins and remind them of the glory they once had, the magic that still resided deep in their bones and nestled in their hearts. Old men would smile, remembering the tales of glory, and children would sit at his feet, rapt with the visions his lyrics sparked in their young minds. Every stop became a feast, a holiday, a celebration of the fact that he had come to their village or town.

  “Everyone brings their best for a bard.” Friar Tuck swept his hand toward the leftovers of the food he’d brought.

  “Truly the best meals are flavored by the company in which they are shared.”

  “And did you share some lovely company on your travels?” The friar avoided looking him in the eye, and his voice was quiet.

  Alan waved it away. “You know as well as I do that the life of a bard is like the life of the monk, in that respect.”

  “It doesn’t have to be, my friend. You’ve taken no oath.” Friar Tuck began gathering up the remains of their food.

  “It is still the way of it… my friend,” Alan said softly.

  “You will need to father a child one day, to carry on after you.”

  “Times are different. It’s hard to find a woman of character willing to raise a child by herself, or nearly so for seven years, only to lose him to his training and wandering the earth with his father. Even then, the last two bards I knew of who managed to find such women could only father daughters.” Alan shook his head. “I’m not inclined.”

  Silence filled the space between them as the moments spun themselves out. Finally Friar Tuck stood.

  “There is a feast tonight,” he said, “called by the king himself.”

  “So I have been told, and I am to sing. It was my given reason for traveling back so directly.” Alan rose. “Do we know the purpose of it?”

  “I’ve asked the cardinal, but he’s keeping the knowledge to himself.”

  “That must infuriate your Bishop Montoya.”

  Friar Tuck chuckled. “To no end,” he agreed. “Secrets kept drive him mad.”

  “Then you must have become his favorite, given how forthcoming you are with your clandestine meetings in the dark of Sherwood.”

  “You know me.” Sarcasm dripped from the monk’s voice. “I am a people-pleaser and an arse-kisser by nature.”

  Alan snorted. “Truly they are your most endearing traits, along with your famed temperance.”

  Friar Tuck chuckled as he leaned over the candle. “You know me well, my friend.”

  He blew out the flame, leaving them both in the dark.

  * * *

  The blow never came.

  Instead a dull thunk and an animal howl split the air above him. Much looked up just in time for something to drip on his face in fat gobbets of wet.

  His nose filled with the tang of iron.

  The marked soldier spun away, screaming and batting at a feathered shaft that now pinned his hand to the wood of the halberd. Much reached up to his face, touching the moisture there. His fingers came away red.

  The other two guards jerked around, Bartleby with his spear up and at the ready, Quentin nearly dropping his weapon as his fingers went lax like the jaw that hung down in shock.

  Much looked where they did. Two figures moved down the road toward them, one a slender whip of a man, the other rangy and lean, built of sinew and bone, all shoulders and arm. Both men were darkly cast, but the taller one—the one in the green hunting hood—was the one that drew his eyes. He carried a stout bow with another wicked arrow already notched.

  Recognition sparked in Much’s mind.

  Robin Longstride and Will Scarlet.

  He scrambled back as the marked guard’s halberd clattered to the road, the arrow shaft having snapped from the weight of it and pulled through his palm. The man dropped to his knees, moaning in pain and cradling his injured, bleeding hand.

  “Move back!” the hooded archer barked, swinging the arrow point from one guard to the other.

  Will Scarlet ambled onto the scene, hand casually draped on his rapier hilt. He waved languorously toward the three men-at-arms.

  “I’d do what he says, fellows. He’s strung tighter than that bow he holds.”

  Quentin immediately began moving, stumbling toward the side of the road, putting as much distance between himself and the other guards as he could. Much stood up and took a single step back. Before he could take another, Bartleby reached out, snagging his tunic with a meaty hand. The spear in his other hand swung down, the sharp edge hovering by Much’s face.

  “Walk away, little Longstride,” he said, panic clear in his voice. “This be no concern of yours.”

  Robin stepped forward, bow still drawn. His jaw bulged as he spoke through clenched teeth.

  “Let. Him. Go.” It came out almost like a growl.

  “He won’t tell you again,” Will Scarlet said. “I know him, and you’ve soured his mood.” He held up his hand, fingers loosely pointing at Bartleby. “No doubt you made your move with haste, but our good fellow Much here is a poor shield for someone of your… girth. The good Lord Longstride is a fairly decent shot.”

  The spear in front of Much’s face wavered as the guard tried to figure out how to extricate himself from the situation. Taking the opportunity, Much
grabbed the haft and shoved back with all of his considerable strength. Bartleby jerked, his halberd torn from his grip. Much spun, almost toppling over from the pulling weight of the wide-bladed spear, but he kept his feet and swung the blade up to point it back in Bartleby’s face.

  Will Scarlet cocked an eyebrow and smirked under his thin mustache.

  “And now you’ve been bested by the least of us.”

  The guard raised his hands into the air.

  Robin stepped forward to stand beside Much and released the tension on his string. With one deft move, he un-notched the arrow, dropped it back in the quiver, and slung the bow around his shoulders. His hand fell on Much’s shoulder.

  “Are you unharmed?” He didn’t call him boy, or lad, or son. He spoke to Much as he would another man, simple and direct. Much nodded, throat too tight to speak.

  “May I?” Robin reached toward the halberd.

  Much gulped, then nodded and handed over the weapon.

  Robin twirled the spear in his hands, fingers running along the hardwood haft to a wicked hook that curled up from a band of steel a hand span beneath the wide metal blade. Much watched him, mind working hard.

  Why would there be a hook…? And then it dawned on him. The hook stopped the spear when it had been driven through the body of an enemy.

  He fought to hide the shudder that swept through him.

  Will stepped close to Robin, his brow furrowed. “What are you going to do with them now, Robin?”

  Robin continued his examination of the weapon as Much glanced around. The marked guard knelt on the road, still cradling his hand. He’d wrapped it in the tabard he wore. The blood stained the blue to almost black, but glared out bright pink where it wicked into the white thread of the Locksley crest embroidered there.

  Quentin stood ten paces away on the side of the road, arms still in the air, watching Robin with his jaw hung open. One of the baskets of fruit Much had carried lay on its side, apples and root vegetables spilling onto the road.

  He’d have to pick those up.

  “What are you going to do?” Bartleby demanded. He shifted from one foot to the next. His chainmail whispered against itself like conspiring snakes. “Locksley will be none too happy with any o’ this.”

  “Do you know how I feel about your Lord Locksley?” Robin still gazed at the weapon as he asked the question.

  “Everyone does,” Bartleby said. “I’ve heard him rant oft enough to know it be a mutual thing.”

  “Then you will understand the compliment when I tell you this…” Robin spun the halberd in his hands, the blade whistling in an arc. “He does buy the finest of weapons.”

  The hardwood shaft blurred through the air, swung at the end of long arms and powered by archer’s shoulders, faster than Much could see. It kerranged off Bartleby’s helmet. The guard’s eyes glazed over, then closed as he tipped forward and crashed facedown into the dirt.

  Casually, Robin swung the halberd around, pointing the blade at Quentin.

  “You.” His voice was a dangerous growl. “Run away.”

  Quentin bolted.

  Much chuckled as the guard ran, arms and legs flying every which way like the limbs of a disjointed chicken. He didn’t look back or side to side, just ran pell-mell down the road until he disappeared around a curve.

  Will Scarlet sniffed. “You could’ve had the decency to remind him that Locksley’s land is that way.” A slim finger pointed in the opposite direction.

  Robin shrugged. “I’d wager he’s done working for Arse-ley.”

  Will waved toward the guards on the ground. “What do you want to do with these two?”

  Robin looked over. “Leave them to themselves.” He nudged Bartleby with his toe. “This one will live, although his head will ring for a few days.” He lifted his chin in the direction of the marked guard. “And he won’t bleed out, I used a birding arrow without a broadhead, so before long he’ll stop being sorry, and make his way back to Locksley for care.”

  “He’ll hate you for the scar he’ll have.”

  “Let him hate, that’s his price for being an arsehole to our friend here.” His hand clapped Much on the shoulder again.

  Friend?

  Robin’s hand didn’t move.

  Friend.

  Robin held out the halberd. “Would you like to keep it?” he asked. “You bested the original owner, so it’s yours by right.”

  Much reached for it, then saw the hook on the haft and stopped himself. Pulling his hands back, he shook his head.

  “I… I don’t need it.”

  Robin nodded then looked back at the spear. “It is a fine weapon.”

  “Isn’t it too big to fit your bow?” Will asked.

  Robin’s eyes lit up. “Now that would be an invention! A bow that could shoot halberds.”

  “We are at peace, cousin. Why on earth would we ever need something so terrible?”

  The humor and delight fell from Robin’s face.

  “Things can change in the blink of an eye and the terrible becomes simple necessity. I’ve had dreams of late…” Robin drifted off without finishing his sentence.

  “Dour talk on such a fine day.” Will shook his head, blinked, and then threw out his best rapscallion grin. “We have a feast to attend, and you have just guaranteed us an exciting evening when Locksley learns of this.”

  Robin stared for a moment, then slowly smiled.

  “You know, I am suddenly looking forward to the festivities.”

  Much looked from one man to the other. They might well be a bit mad, but he was glad to be in their company.

  * * *

  Quentin didn’t get paid nearly enough to deal with the likes of Longstride’s youngest son. Wet-nursed by a witch! The boy had been strange his whole life, known as a black-haired firebrand, prone to violence when provoked. And a lord’s son at that. You couldn’t win up against something like that. It was why he ran. It wasn’t cowardice, it was good sense. He wasn’t about to come under a curse, just because Locksley wanted to collect more taxes.

  None of that money went in Quentin’s purse.

  None that Locksley knew about anyway.

  He stopped running when his lungs burned and the muscles in his legs twitched and jerked. He wasn’t far enough away for peace of mind, though, so he kept looking behind him, sure that he would turn and see an arrow coming his way.

  He left the road and cut across a field, so scattered he couldn’t even think where he was and whose field he was in. The sun had sunk behind the trees, the gloom of twilight falling fast. He looked around to get his bearings. The field was full of dead wheat, the shafts of grass hollow and yellow and brittle. No green or color of flower broke the expanse. Then he saw a pillar of stone in the center of the field. It jutted from the ground, leaning slightly to the east.

  Dread crept up his legs and settled in his bowels. He knew that stone. It was ancient, placed there long ago by some race of man long gone from England. Maybe the Celts, maybe the Picts, maybe the Fey. Legend had it that Morgana of the Fey, born with the curse of witch blood in her veins, had trapped the mighty Merlin beneath that very rock.

  Nevertheless, he’d played around it as a child, he and his friends. It was a game to creep to the stone and touch it, then run like the devil was on your heels. Their parents had chided them, warning them that it was evil, forbidding the game.

  They hadn’t listened, continuing to play, growing bolder and bolder until one of the older boys took a dare to spend the night beside the stone.

  He was never seen again.

  Bastion. Bastion had been his name.

  People said he’d run off, left to make his way in the world, to escape the hard life of a field hand.

  The children never played by the witch stone again.

  Quentin heard a step behind him and turned with a shout.

  There was nothing. He turned back around and nearly jumped out of his skin. An old man stood in his way. His skin was gray like the stone and so
wrinkled it was hard to make out any of his features. Something gleamed in the folds where his eyes should be, but Quentin had never seen eyes like those of this man. He stared at Quentin, looking deep into his meat, deeper into his bone. The old man’s mouth opened impossibly large, as if his jaw dropped down forever and left just a gaping black hole in its place. He closed it rapidly, smacking his lips together.

  Quentin shuddered and took a step back.

  “What the hell are you doing, old timer?”

  “Master is coming,” the old man said.

  “Who is your master?” Quentin asked, praying that the answer wasn’t Longstride.

  “Master over all this earth. Nearly here.”

  “You’re crazy, old man,” Quentin said, backing up further as the hair on the back of his neck lifted. Something deep in his gut told him it would be safer to deal with Longstride than with the ancient creature before him.

  Off in the distance he heard a baying, as of hounds.

  “Herald his arrival,” the old man cackled, lifting hands that were gnarled, gray, and tipped with razorlike claws where fingernails ought to be.

  “What does your master want?” Quentin continued to back away, terrified to turn.

  “The red.”

  The old man’s face contorted even further and his body jerked as though something were trying to crawl out of it. Black gore seeped from the creature’s eyes and mouth, trailing through the folds of flesh, staining tracks along the wrinkled ridges. Quentin turned and ran back in the direction he’d come, back to young Longstride. He had to go back, throw himself on the ground and beg for mercy.

  A roar shook the air behind him. He was jerked up off his feet and thrown through the air. He landed hard, bones breaking down the left side of his body from shoulder to ankle in a firestorm of agony. Pushing with his right leg he tried to move, to push through the pain, to keep going. He wheezed once into lungs lacerated by broken ribs, and blood spilled out of his mouth.

  Above him, something monstrous and dark appeared against the twilight sky. Then all he could see in his own fading vision were eyes that glowed red.

  “And when he comes, we feast,” a booming voice said. The creature fell upon him, ripping at his chest with jagged teeth. It stunk of rotting meat as it gnawed into his breastbone, and, with his dying breath, Quentin cursed Locksley and Longstride both.