Mark of the Black Arrow

by Debbie Viguié

  “But I summoned you.”

  The tall man’s thin lips twitched in what could be mistaken for a smile.

  Drawing their attention, the gray man knelt beside the struggling creature.

  “Good enough?”

  The tall man nodded. “Near perfect.” He passed his hand over the gray man’s head and his voice took on a cadence of power. “You may return to your barrow, return to your hole, return to the loam that covers you, return to the effluvium and decay. Lie in wait until root becomes branch and branch becomes root and the worm that dieth not walks free among the tombstones.”

  The gray man raised his wide, shovel-like hands to his face, covering it completely. He spoke three words in a language that had not been uttered by humans since the Tower of Babel. His hands lifted to the sky and his face turned with them. He stood in supplication for a long moment and everything paused—both men, the creature in its bonds, even the torches ceased their sputtering and burned with steady, still flame.

  Finally, the gray man dropped his hands and turned away, shuffling off into the dark without a glance back.

  The creature on the ground began to howl, a long, plaintive drawl of noise full of sorrow and threaded through with fear.

  The tall man kicked it lightly with a booted foot.

  “Stop that.”

  The creature’s mouth shut, cutting off the noise.

  “What is your name?”

  “So you can use it in your working?” The creature’s voice was smooth and melodious, the sound of rain on a leafy bough, of a sparrow’s flight. “Not in this world or the next.”

  The tall man chuckled. “I don’t need your name to do what I plan to do.” He turned to the smaller man, who still held the iron blade. “Gut him.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. Stick that knife in his gullet and split him open.”

  The smaller man held out the knife.

  The tall man shook his head. “It is to be by your hand, princeling.”

  The smaller man looked at the creature on the ground, then at the knife in his hand, then back.

  “This is necessary?”

  The tall man said nothing.

  The smaller man knelt beside the creature, who watched him with impossible eyes. He took a deep breath and put his hand on the creature’s chest.

  “Wait!” the creature cried. “You don’t have to do this. Not this. I can give you what you seek without it.”

  “You don’t know what we seek.”

  “Two men in a dead field by the witch stone, consorting with a principality… I’d wager that you want power.”

  The tall man touched the creature’s shoulder and spoke. “What power can you give us? You are our captive.”

  “I am the land here. Me and mine are the guardians. I can give you the strength of the earth, if you take off these blasted chains.”

  “You would give us your dominion, in return for your life?”

  “Dominion’s no good if I’m not alive to exercise it.”

  “Stay true to your nature,” the tall man said. “You were asked a question, speak the truth.”

  “I would trade my power for my life.”

  The tall man nodded. “The gray man chose well.” He lifted his hand and nodded. “Do it.”

  “Wait, no…”

  Leaning his weight on the arm that held the creature flat to the ground, the smaller man pushed the blade into its stomach. The knife slid in with a hiss, and he pushed it around the bottom of the creature’s stomach, twisting his wrist to keep it moving until it had carved a great furrow from the creature’s ribcage on one side, down and around the stomach, and back up again to slide out when it struck the creature’s breastbone.

  A thin liquid the color of peat moss spilled and gushed from the wound. It smelled musty like swamp water as it washed up the man’s arm, soaking his tunic sleeve.

  The creature screamed into the night like an animal.

  The tall man stepped on the creature’s throat, choking off the cries. “Pull it open. Quickly, before the power is gone,” he said.

  The smaller man lay down the knife. The creature writhed weakly, held by the hand on its chest and the boot on its throat. Each twist of its body made the cut gape and pull. The small man reached with two fingers and gingerly grasped the edge of the flap he’d carved across the creature’s midsection. He pulled and it lifted a few inches before it caught on something inside. His fingers curled around the skin and he yanked, pulling it free with a tearing sound.

  Inside the body lay organs in strange shapes and configurations. They were not like any animal or human he had seen. There was a coil of something that looked very like a long worm the thickness of his wrist. Above that lay a mass the shape of two fists twined together. Nestled inside a ribcage made of thin, curving bones that wove together in a mesh, lay what he presumed to be the creature’s heart, still beating. It looked like the nest of a seabird, a mottled clump of wet weed and broken sticks. He reached for it instinctively.

  “No, you fool!” the tall man hissed. “Take the viscera. Hurry, before the life fades.”

  The prince dug his hands into the coil. It was hard, like boiled leather, and slippery. Fingers clamped around it, he pulled it from the cavity with a sucking sound, one end still trailing back into the twitching body.

  “Drape it around your neck.”

  He did as instructed. The thing lay heavy across the back of his neck, cool where it touched his skin. The tall man held out his hands, fingers twisting into forms that looked to require more than three joints.

  “We stand in the blood of this land and lean into the embrace of its flesh,” the tall man intoned. “We sain ourselves to this place by this sacrifice and stake our claim to it.”

  Something changed in the air. The warm trickle of magic crackled along the prince’s skin. It raised the hairs on the back of his neck and he found himself erect and throbbing in a push-pull of pain and pleasure. His eyes rolled back in his head as the tall man continued to speak.

  “…bend to our will, bow to our desires, we invade thee. We penetrate thy defenses and lay this land bare to us. We cannot be denied. There is no protection against us, no binding of our power, no sanctuary to this land. We are free to work our will and to seek our destiny.

  “We declare it in the name of the Three Below, in accordance with the prophecy told and untold, as we speak it to power we will it to become. This sacrifice, this moment, these words, this ritual.”

  He clapped his hands and lightning from the clear night sky struck the witch stone. The smaller man jumped. The air in the circle swirled, superheated by the blast. The stone glowed, red hot, and the dead wheat grass sparked to fire, tiny flames licking their way across the circle. The prince felt it, felt the tightness break. Since setting foot on this shore he had been bound, his magic shuttered within him.

  Now he understood that the land itself had been protected from him, and from the Sheriff. With the sacrifice of the creature, that protection had been broken.

  Their plan could now begin.

  The Sheriff lowered his hands, face stark in the light of the glowing witch stone.

  “So it is spoken, so mote it be.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  After several songs, Friar Tuck rose to his feet and walked toward Marian. He leaned a little to the left and walked with the gait of someone determined not to stagger under the load of the enormous amount of ale they had consumed.

  He leaned down, moving his mouth by her ear. His warm, moist breath smelled like unbaked bread dough, confirming her assessment.

  “Milady, I would like to say something to the people,” he said, his voice low. “As hostess, do you mind?”

  She nodded her assent and held her breath for a moment, wondering what his announcement was going to be.

  While the bard still sang, the monk stalked to the center of the room, big feet slapping hard on the marbled floor. He stood, swaying to the rhythm of the song. Droopy
eyelids closed and his mouth turned up in a smile of pure joy. People began watching him, nudging their tablemates and pointing. The priest seemed not to care, lost to the melody of the harp and the bard’s voice. His hands rose, hanging limply at the wrist as he waved them in time with the music, shoulders bouncing in a rhythm that didn’t quite match.

  Paying him no heed, the bard drove on, pushing his voice and his fingers to make the music a rolling thing. His face glowed, his mouth lively and laughing through the song, fingers a blur on the harp strings. Friar Tuck rolled and swayed, bending at the waist and turning at the knee as his hands and arms swirled along with the tune, possessed by the music to move in ways seemingly too fluid for his girth.

  The people around the tables were all caught up, the music driving and driving and driving, pulling listeners to the edge of their seats. Everyone leaned together and held their breath, the feast forgotten, the world outside forgotten. Everything that had been, was, and would be swirled into that very moment.

  The song ended with a crash of notes and the two men standing close enough to touch. For a long moment no one moved.

  Or breathed.

  Friar Tuck opened his eyes, his smile growing larger as he found his dear friend standing beside him, harp still vibrating from the last note struck.

  “Thank you,” he said. His voice was a whisper, but the silence in the room let everyone hear it.

  Alan-a-Dale nodded, just once. Slowly he turned, his gaze sweeping the crowd. As his eyes fell on the gathered people, it released them from the hold that gripped them, breaking the spell of the moment. One by one they sat back and breathed again, smiling and still feeling the ebb of rapture in their hearts.

  His eye fell to her last, and Marian felt that break.

  “That is the power of a true bard,” she said, commending the singer.

  People raised their glasses, and murmurs of “hear hear!” and “amen!” rang out. Alan waved them away and stepped back to his place at the table.

  Friar Tuck shook his head.

  “I had something to say, but it seems almost silly now. That was a moment given by the Most High, and I am humbled to quietude by being a part of it.”

  “Not that humble!” someone cried. Laughter broke among the people and Friar Tuck bowed his head at the jest, taking the jab with grace.

  “No, I suppose not,” he said. “Well, no more proclamations until the king arrives.” He clapped his hands together, the noise like a crack of thunder so loud it made Marian jump in her seat. “However, let us have some dancing!”

  All around, people came to their feet and moved to a cleared space of floor. The monks stood. From under their robes and under the table several of them pulled out instruments. Quickly they gathered behind Alan-a-Dale, and the sound of music filled the hall.

  Friar Tuck walked over to Marian.

  “You, too, my dear,” he said firmly. “You should dance while you’re young.”

  She looked at him and smiled, emboldened by his display.

  “I’ll do that very thing.” She rose to her feet and moved to join the others. As she did so, however, she considered the night thus far. Clearly the king planned on keeping everyone in the dark for as long as possible. To what end, she couldn’t fathom.

  The dancers assembled in two circles, the women on the inside and the men on the outside. She saw Lord Locksley break free from the line, heading toward her with determination.

  Her stomach tightened and underneath her gown her skin turned damp and hot. There was nothing wrong with Locksley, save the fact that he was old enough to be her father. Since he was a widower of several years, it wasn’t improper for him to approach her for a dance. Yet every time they spoke, she knew that he was far more interested in her lineage than in her self and it left her cold.

  A sudden, quick movement out of the corner of her eye made her turn, only to find Robin standing close enough to touch. A smile danced on his lips and his hand extended toward her.

  “May I?”

  “You may indeed.”

  The moment their hands touched, her skin calmed and she felt grounded, connected to the earth. Robin paraded her to the formation of dancers. As they passed Locksley she could feel the other man’s jealousy.

  Robin chuckled softly. “Och, he looks a mite displeased.”

  “Does he?” She feigned ignorance.

  They stepped into position, his arm going around her waist. He stepped close, pulling her tighter than was courtly. Dark eyes flashed down at her.

  “I seem to be unable to see him any longer.”

  “Do you have something in your eye, Robin of Longstride?”

  “Only everything, Maid Marian of Lionheart.”

  The music began and they were off, laughing and spinning, weaving among other couples like frantic planets wheeling across the cosmos. The band of monks, led by the bard, played a jaunty tune that drove them to high-step and pinwheel at the change of a note. Robin moved with the assurance of a practiced dancer, leading with strength. He pulled her through the steps without being rough, allowing her to move in time with him. Her body seemed to fall away from her, becoming weightless and fluid.

  She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had quite so much fun dancing.

  As soon as the song ended another began, the notes of the first flowing into a wistful, slower melody. People scrambled, changing partners, but Robin pinned her with his eyes and didn’t let go.

  Ready to go again? he asked with a small smirk and a cocked eyebrow.

  She replied by smiling silently.

  Yes.

  They danced again, and she kept dancing with him song after song after song. Flushed and dizzy and tingling with a kind of joy she had never known, she laughed the entire time, until she could no longer catch a breath.

  “Enough. Enough!” she said.

  Robin swung her into a dip, holding her body close to his, supported only by the strength of his arms. He smiled and the world slipped away.

  “I accept your surrender.”

  “Not a surrender,” she protested, “merely a regrouping.”

  He lifted her to her feet and gave a slight bow. “Till we meet again on the field of battle.”

  She curtsied. “’Twas a lovely war.”

  The doors to the great hall swung open with a crash against the walls. Everyone turned as one. Conversations died. The music stopped.

  King Richard the Lionheart strode into the room.

  He did not turn aside or pause. Walking with purpose, shoulders set, crowned head held high, he wore the sort of look he might in battle—a hardened gleam in his eye and sharpness to his jaw that his oiled beard could not hide. He was the Warrior King, the Unblemished Blade, the Lion of England. The gathered dancers parted before him as he walked to the raised area at the back of the hall, set for the king’s table.

  It wasn’t until he passed that Marian noticed the cardinal walking several paces behind her uncle, his shoulders stooped, his head bowed. It seemed to her as if he walked like a man who had lost something dear.

  Richard climbed to the stage. Honey-brown eyes swept the crowd until they found her. He gave her a strange little smile. She returned it through her confusion. Turning away, he raised his arm, even though he already had everyone’s rapt attention.

  “I have one announcement,” he said. His voice boomed across the now silent hall. Everyone held his or her breath again, as they waited to find out the true reason they had been summoned that night.

  “There is danger in the Holy Land,” the king continued. “The Holy See is calling for men to free the precious city of Jerusalem from a darkness that threatens to overtake it.” His hand dropped. “I will heed his call. Within the fortnight I set sail east. Tonight I call upon every lord and free man to join me in this Holy Crusade for the sanctity of our very faith.”

  The crowd remained silent, stunned now. Marian looked around, noting the surprise on all the different faces. No one moved. No one spoke.


  Slowly Robin’s father climbed to his feet and raised his cup.

  “Let me be the first to pledge a hundred men, all the resources of Longstride Manor, and my own sword, your Majesty.”

  Across the room Robert Longstride leaped upon the bench he shared with his friends. “I go with my father! Two Longstride swords for the king!”

  Richard smiled. “Thank you, old friend.”

  Robin stepped forward. “But the both of you can’t go…”

  “Don’t prattle.” Lord Longstride cut him off with a sharp gesture and a glare. “Sit down. Now.”

  Robin’s eyes, so full of merriment moments before, turned dark again with anger. Without another word he turned and strode out of the hall. As he did so, Marian’s heart skipped a beat. To leave an official announcement by the king, without Richard’s permission, was unthinkable. She glanced quickly at her uncle, hoping that he wouldn’t mete out a swift and terrible punishment.

  To her surprise, Richard didn’t seem the least fazed by the insult. Instead he continued scanning the faces of all the others present. One by one, several other lords stood and pledged their services to his Crusade. Within moments half the room was promised to board the boats and cross the ocean.

  Locksley climbed to his feet, making a show as if the effort cost him dearly.

  “Sire, this is madness,” he said, his voice strained. “You must turn from this path.”

  “I will not.” Richard’s face hardened.

  “But what occurs half a world away is not the concern of Englishmen,” Locksley pressed. Murmurs of assent rose around the room. None loud, nor clear, but a buzz of agreement.

  “Do you think evil stops unchecked?” Richard replied. “Do you believe that once the sacred relics of our faith have been despoiled, ransacked, and blasphemed, that the infidels will be sated?” His voice was a rumble of thunder now. “No! They will continue to spread, destroying any holy place they can find. Evil knows no bounds, lest righteous men find a way to constrain it.”