Mark of the Black Arrow

by Debbie Viguié

  He felt that he looked just enough the villain to turn a head or two this evening. Satisfied, he looked Robin over, head to toe.

  “What you should hope,” he commented wryly, “is that I can distract the people from your clothing.”

  “What’s wrong with my clothing?” Robin had removed his hunting hood and replaced it with a plain leather jerkin, put over the same tunic and trousers he’d been wearing when Will found him.

  “Well, it’s… nothing.” Will shook his head hopelessly. “Nothing at all.” They fell into silence as they drew closer to the castle gates.

  It was uncommon for the king to call for a feast, and this one was made all the more remarkable by the secrecy that surrounded it. It had come out of the blue, unattached to any holiday or major event. Rumors claimed the king would make some form of announcement, but no hint had been given as to what.

  Even as a young boy Will had been fascinated by the intrigues of life at court—who was coming and going, petitions for the king’s wisdom and his resources, boons granted and judgments delivered. Being from a noble family, he could hover around the throne room and the meeting halls and listen to the conversations with little fear of being rousted.

  As a young man, he’d begun plying the standing of his family—including Robin’s father—to insert himself into the machinations of sovereignty. He recognized that he possessed no power, but he did hold a certain reputation, everyone knowing him and most of them liking him.

  It was one of many ways in which he and Robin were so different that sometimes he wondered if they were related at all. Perhaps Robin really was a foundling, some strange fey child taken in and cared for by his uncle. Will’s mother had once told him that Robin’s mother believed him a changeling.

  That would explain so much.

  He watched the groups of nobles making their way into the castle.

  “Look,” he said, as he pointed ahead of them. A pair of elegant, fair-haired people were about to cross the threshold with two elegant, fair-haired girls in tow. “It’s your family, minus your brother. We should catch up so we can arrive together.”

  “Hurry on if you want,” Robin said. “I will arrive when I choose.”

  “Don’t be surly.”

  “I’ll be better with ale.”

  “You’re not going to save the ale for the poor?” Will winked. “There are thirsty families out there.”

  “Smartarse.”

  * * *

  Soon the doorway loomed in front of them, stones cut by the masons and stacked to form a double arch. Robin’s eyes traveled up the polished rock and hand-tooled mortar until they landed on the one odd stone in the group. High in the right archway hung a rough-hewn block, chiseled into the shape needed to fit the gap it filled. It was the keystone. The master mason himself, generations back, had carved and placed that stone. It alone held the pressure from all the other stones, locking them into their arch, holding them to the task of forming the doorway.

  One stone, different from the rest, the only thing maintaining the integrity of the castle gates. If someone were to remove it, the entire front facade would weaken and crumble from its own weight. He picked out the chiseled initials of the master mason, located just below the carved all-seeing eye of God. He had no idea who that long-forgotten man had been, but was fascinated by the idea that he had designed such a work with but a single weak spot.

  “Robin, beware.” Will touched his arm.

  Five men approached from inside—four guardsmen and a stoutly built noble with dark hair and hawk eyes blazing beneath pulled brows. The noble wore a double rampant lion on his tunic, the two raging beasts glaring white against the sapphire-blue cloth. The man’s dark face looked as if it had been pushed into a furnace. Rage twisted his features, and his teeth shone wetly behind snarled lips.

  Locksley.

  Robin’s shoulders tensed at the threat that stalked toward him, his body growing tight with adrenaline. Unconsciously his hands reached for a bow and quiver that were not there.

  “It is the king’s feast,” Will whispered harshly. “This is just posturing—no one would do violence here.”

  Nevertheless, Robin reached to the skinning knife hidden behind his belt. The leaf-shaped blade was only two fingers long, but sharper than a razor.

  “I’m not betting our lives on Locksley’s manners,” he muttered.

  “Don’t break the law.”

  “And if he does?”

  “Then at least don’t break the law first.” With that, Will stepped in front of him, both hands up, palms out.

  “Locksley! Imagine running into you here, at the castle, for the king’s feast, where all men are brothers and no man seeks to commit violence upon another.”

  Locksley’s chest bumped against Will’s hands.

  “Out of my way, Scarlet,” he growled. “I have business with that craven scoundrel.”

  Will dug in his feet, pushing back.

  “Let’s let cooler heads prevail,” he said.

  “You attacked my men,” Locksley said over Will’s shoulder.

  “They attacked a boy,” Robin responded.

  “One of them has disappeared, and another will never hold a sword again.”

  “Yet he will live, and that’s more than might have been said for the boy had I not arrived when I did.”

  Again Locksley pushed against Will’s hands. “You may run through the woods like a wildling, but you will not get away with assaulting my men. You will be taught your lesson.”

  Robin watched Locksley’s men as they began working their way to the left and the right, circling him. With only the skinning knife to defend himself, he’d have to kill at least one of them. The thought sat in his mind, squatting and strange, pushing up against the back side of his brain.

  I’ll need to take a man’s life.

  He had been taught that life was sacred, even the lives of simpletons who were stupid enough to swear allegiance to a man such as Locksley. Yet he would not submit himself to them, and so blood would be shed.

  A crowd gathered, people drawn by the voices raised just outside the castle gate. It wouldn’t take long for the commotion to draw the attention of the guards or, worse, his father.

  This needs to end.

  “If you have such a grievance against me, perhaps we should speak with King Richard,” Robin said, taking a deep breath. “I’m sure that when he hears that your men have been levying a tax on his road, in your name, that he will be most interested.”

  He studied Locksley’s face, looking for the moment when the other man would choose just how far he was going to push things. He kept his hand on the skinning blade, muscles tensed and ready. Whatever happened next, it was Locksley’s choice. Robin’s conscience would be clear.

  A sudden footstep sounded behind him, strong and filled with confidence. He knew it so well he did not need to turn.

  “My brother is in need of being taught many lessons,” the newcomer said. “He is stubborn. I have tried for many years to soften his hard head, and have learned the futility of my efforts. What I do not need to be taught, however, is the value of loyalty—to my blood and to my king. Speak your grievances to me, or stand aside.”

  Locksley paled. There wasn’t a man alive who had the will to challenge Robert Longstride, favorite agent of the king and deadliest sword in the land.

  “Little brother, do you have anything to add?” Robert asked.

  “Only this,” Robin said, fixing his eyes on Locksley. “From this day forth, the Millers are under my protection. Any harm occurs to them and you will answer for it tenfold.”

  Locksley turned red. He was angry and embarrassed, but he wasn’t stupid. He turned and, without another word or a backward glance, he strode into the castle. His men scurried behind him.

  “Why did you say that?” Will asked.

  “Because Locksley is a fool, and a proud one,” Robin said. “He cannot touch me, but I can see him harming the boy or his family in some sort of
childish retaliation.”

  At that moment Robert stepped up. A giant of a man, he stood nearly half a foot taller than his younger brother, and there was no one in the land with a more regal bearing—save King Richard himself. Like the rest of their family, save Robin, Robert was fair-haired.

  “I thought your threat was a nice touch,” he said, his voice jovial as he put a hand on Robin’s shoulder.

  “I’m surprised Father hasn’t already informed the king of Locksley’s activities,” Robin said. “If he had, perhaps the boy wouldn’t have needed saving.”

  “Nor you tonight, eh?” Robert added with a grin.

  Robin sighed, but said nothing. He exchanged a glance with Will. At least his cousin understood—Robin hadn’t been the one in need of saving. He didn’t have to guess what his father would believe, though. He felt his spirits darken.

  “Come now, it’s time to join the others,” Robert turned toward the gate.

  “I am no longer in the mood,” Robin said.

  Robert looked from him to Will, who shrugged. Robert sighed deeply then turned and walked away.

  Will leaned toward Robin. “Come now, be grateful, cousin. At least you didn’t have to kill anyone.” He put his hand on Robin’s arm. “Can you imagine what the splatter of blood would do to my wonderful clothes?” He smiled, attempting to liven things.

  Robin did not even try to conjure a smile.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I think it would have added a nice roguish touch. The ladies would likely have found you twice as fascinating.”

  “Well, tonight, there’s only one lady I’m thinking about, and not for my own sake. I refuse to leave this castle until I have seen you dance with the Lady Marian.”

  “Then for your sake,” Robin replied, “I hope she says yes. Otherwise you will have to spend the rest of your miserable life in this godforsaken place.”

  * * *

  A hand touched her elbow. Marian turned to find Chastity beside her.

  “What was that commotion?” she asked.

  “I don’t know, but I will find out for you.” The girl’s eyebrow twitched up at the thought of gathering information. “For now, though, it’s time.”

  “Already?”

  “The king was clear that the feast would commence at the beginning of the third watch,” Chastity replied. “That time is now.”

  “Very well. Help me with this dress.”

  Chastity moved behind her, gathering the skirt into a bustle that drew the hem from the floor so that Marian would be able to walk. As she waited, however, she watched the castle doors.

  Through the entrance strode Robin Longstride.

  Her heart caught in her chest.

  He was like a storm off the ocean, dark and full of violent potential. Fire flashed in his eyes. She was drawn to the play of muscle in his forearms as his hands clenched and unclenched. Something had happened to anger him and she could tell that he was controlling himself, but just barely.

  His eyes met hers, and he stopped.

  They stared. Unblinking. Unmoving.

  Then he took a deep breath. He held it, chest swollen, keeping the precious air caged inside for a long moment. Her own breathing locked, waiting for his. Her heart beat, hollow and rattling inside her like dice in a cup.

  With a parting of lips, he let his breath free.

  She let hers go, as well. Then, unsure, she gave a smile so barely there it might be mistaken for a trick of the light.

  Robin touched his fingers to his brow in salute to her.

  “Oi, princess. There you go.” Chastity gave a push against her now fastened bustle, forcing her to break eye contact. It was just as well. At that moment Will Scarlet—small, dark, charming Will Scarlet—hurried to Robin’s side.

  Shaking herself, she walked to the center of the room. Robin and Will moved to the side, and, even though he spoke to his cousin, his eyes were still on her.

  It bothered her not at all.

  Projecting assurance and confidence, she raised her arms and clapped her hands three times above her head. The room snapped to silence, all eyes turned to her.

  “My lords and ladies, gentle folk one and all,” she said, her voice loud, firm, and crisp, “it is time for the king’s feast to begin.”

  A cheer went up, hale and hearty and many-voiced. She turned and moved toward the doors of the main hall as they swung open.

  * * *

  The moment all were seated, servants entered from the left, where the kitchen was located. They carried platters laden with all manner of roasted meats, placing them on the tables. Fresh fruit, a particular delicacy, was present in abundance.

  Will watched as Robin reached for a leg attached to a roast pheasant, ripped it off with a twist, and pulled it onto his platter.

  His father frowned from his place down the table.

  “Wait until the entire feast has been served,” he said sternly. “It is the proper way.” His mother gave him a dark look, her mouth turned down in the way it always did when he drew her attention.

  Without listening, Robin continued to pull food onto his platter. Down the line of the table others, inspired by his brazenness, also began reaching in, plucking delicacies and putting them on platters of their own. By the time the cup bearers arrived with wine and mead, everyone had begun to eat. For the occasion the king had provided only the best, right down to drink. As people ate, they began to talk.

  “Do you know what country this is from?”

  “Why are we here?”

  “I’ll try that, I’ve never even seen it before.”

  “When will the king arrive?”

  “I’ll start with mead and end with wine.”

  “Is there trouble in the land?”

  “Perhaps he has found a wife to replace the queen, God rest her soul.”

  Will became less concerned with the reason for the feast as he heartily enjoyed all that was set before him. After several minutes—and several cups of light, dry wine from Germania—Alan-a-Dale rose from his seat next to Friar Tuck and the band of his brother monks who were responsible for providing both the ale and the mead to the feast.

  He didn’t say anything, simply walked languorously to the center of the room. A hush fell, every eye turning his way. His checkered cloak hung off one shoulder, meticulously pinned in the old Celtic way with folds and creases that made the pattern seem to swirl and shimmer as he moved. It hypnotized, charming the eye and capturing the mind.

  Will suffered a momentary pang of jealousy at the bard’s audacious style.

  Looking into the middle distance, eyes unfocused, Alan-a-Dale reached up and began unbuckling the harp that rode in its case on his left shoulder. He undid the last tiny silver buckle, and the crowd gasped as the ancient harp rolled down his chest, tumbling toward the floor.

  He caught it at the last moment and gave a deep bow, coupled with a small chuckle. The warm sound broke the tension and the gathered audience followed it with laughter of their own.

  The minstrel let them have their mirth. As Will laughed with his family, even Robin was smiling. Will studied how the bard played the crowd, taking notes in his head for anything he might use to garner attention and curry favor. As much as he strove to insert himself into court, he hated arse-kissers and refused to be one, instead relying on the art of genuine charm.

  If Will were an artist, then Alan-a-Dale was a master.

  Laughter continued to roll and pulse in the room, slowly dying down until the bard reached up and strummed slender fingers across metallic strings.

  “I recently found myself in Ireland,” he announced, “and here is a song of the Emerald Isle.”

  With that he was off, entertaining them all with songs and news of the north. Will had never met the man’s match when it came to singing or spinning a good yarn. Around the room the women—including Robin’s sisters Rebecca and Ruth—gazed at the singer in adoration. Will chuckled softly to himself. His young cousins were growing up fast, faster than
he imagined their parents wanted to admit.

  Change comes whether you seek it or not.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Movement drew their attention. Into the torchlit circle came the gray man. He dragged a burlap sack behind him. One side of his face hung, the wrinkled skin flayed open along his cheek. The thin skin swung from his jaw, brushing against his chest with each shuffling step. The meat that lay underneath was the same pallid gray as the rest of him. In the flickering light it shimmered and moved, covered with crawling maggots.

  The gray man stopped three paces away. He lifted the sack, grabbed the end of it, and turned it upside down. One sharp shake and something fell out, landing at their feet with a thump and clank.

  Both men looked down. There lay a creature the size of a child, bound in shackles. Its skin was smooth and blemish free except where the iron manacles clamped cruelly against its wrists. There the skin blistered and smoked, thin curls wisping up with each brush against the metal. Its face was fine-boned and smooth, its nose a button between plump lips and liquid eyes four times the size they should have been. Silky hair of the palest sapphire parted around a pair of feral, pointed ears. The eyes flashed with hatred and the plump lips were pulled wide to show rows of needle-thin teeth locked into a grimace.

  The smaller man crouched, staring at the creature. “What is that thing?”

  “One of the trow,” the tall man answered.

  The smaller man reached out his finger to touch the creature. He barely pulled it back in time as the trow lunged, teeth snapping where the finger had been.

  “Vicious little shite.”

  “The iron causes it pain.”

  The smaller man stood. “That why you had me bring this?” His hand disappeared under his cloak, coming out with a long, slender dagger. The metal was a dull gray that nearly disappeared in the dim light. The blade was wafer thin, both edges ground to razor sharpness. The taller man’s voice came out dry and sardonic. “I chose you for your ability to quickly grasp a situation.”