Mark of the Black Arrow

by Debbie Viguié

  John laughed. Not a hale, hearty laugh, like King Richard used to give, but a thin, cruel laugh that made Will’s flesh crawl.

  “Not here,” John explained. “This particular gathering is being held in the forecourt.” Together they walked outside, where music met them. The courtyard was filled with people speaking to one another in hushed tones. There were enough of them that their voices still formed a cacophony. The band wasn’t very good, more a clashing of instruments, but they tried, playing with gusto if not talent. In the courtyard a dais had been erected with three chairs placed upon it and guards all around.

  Twenty feet from the dais stood a wooden platform. On it stood a group of posts with long ropes attached to them.

  It was a gallows.

  A sick feeling came over him as he realized that John hadn’t yet had his fill of killing.

  “So, it’s to be a hanging?” he barely managed to ask through lips that were squeezed tightly together.

  “Very astute of you,” John said, in a teasing, playful manner that contrasted terribly with the fear of the crowd. For a terrible moment Will thought the prince might intend to hang him. John steered him toward the dais, though, and indicated that he should take the seat on the right, while John sat in the middle.

  Moments later guards emerged from the castle, escorting Marian, who looked even less eager to be there than he was. She soon mounted the dais and took her seat on John’s other side.

  “You look lovely today, niece,” John told her, a smile twisting his lips.

  “Thank you,” Marian said, although Will heard the strain it took to get the words out.

  John clapped his hands together twice. The musicians ceased and a hush fell over the crowd. The courtyard was silent save for a distant sound of summer birds and the creaking of rope on raw wood. Will looked out, seeing so many faces he knew, both noble and freemen. He did not see Robin.

  There were only a couple of women in the entire group. It didn’t seem likely that John had done the decent thing by dictating that they remain at home so they didn’t have to witness what was about to happen. No, he was sure their absence was deliberate, and likely malicious. He just didn’t know why yet.

  “By now you are all aware of the new way of things,” John said to the hushed crowd. “The tax collectors will begin their work in the morning. Today, though, I wanted to give you a spectacle. One that will greatly entertain me… and hopefully educate you.”

  He signaled and a door was opened by a guard. Will found himself craning his neck along with everyone else to catch a glimpse of who might be coming out. He could see the flicker of movement, bodies huddled together. Then at last they stepped into the light.

  A collective gasp went up from the audience. Three armed guards led out Lady Minter and her two nearly grown daughters. Following behind them, another phalanx of guards herded Lady Staunton, her two young sons—neither over the age of ten—and her daughter, who was the youngest.

  Will blinked in disbelief. Surely this was some kind of cruel jest. He couldn’t seriously mean to execute children. He turned to look at the prince. The man was still smiling, and there was a gleam in his eye.

  Will dared not look at Marian, knowing that seeing her expression would only make it impossible for him to continue to play his part in this sick, twisted little game. As the guards led the seven up onto the gallows, Will leaned over.

  “An excellent jest, Majesty,” he said, his voice low. “Surely it’s gone far enough, though.”

  “On the contrary, Will, I’m not taking it nearly far enough,” he said, as nooses were fitted around the necks of the women and children.

  A ripple of outrage ran through the crowd and Will felt a spark of hope. There were many of them—far more than John had soldiers. If the people rose up together they might forever rid themselves of this evil creature. He licked his lips, wishing he knew what to say to focus the crowd’s energies in the right direction. Before he could say anything, however, John stood and held up a hand.

  The crowd fell silent again.

  “I am touched by the concern you show for the families of two traitors to the crown,” he said. “I can assure you, however, that your sympathies are misplaced. These are dangerous times in which we find ourselves. In the absence of my brother, enemies to the throne have become brazen, attacking your very king. They hide behind children to perform their evil tasks. Well, I say, no more!

  “While you traveled here today, my soldiers have visited your homes and have taken the youngest child in each. They have brought them here for safekeeping.” He pointed up and to the left. “If you will notice the tower, you might recognize some of the faces there. Now, they shall remain safe within my care, and any man loyal to the crown has no reason to fear.”

  All heads turned. There, on a balcony halfway up the westernmost tower, stood a crowd of children, all young, none of them more than a head and a hand taller than the stone railing. Now that he saw them, Will realized that what he thought was the sound of birds actually had been the cries of the children, far above.

  The prince sat down and Will regarded him with horror. The man was a monster. He was also brilliant. With one swift move he had quashed any thoughts of rebellion that might have been forming. He had lured the men here so he could kidnap their family members. Brilliant. Decisive. Evil.

  His thoughts flew to his young nieces. Had Ruth been taken? Was that why Robin wasn’t here—because he had intercepted the guards?

  Or possibly even been killed by them.

  Will struggled to catch his breath, though it felt as if his throat and chest were constricting. He had never thanked God so vehemently that he had yet to father children.

  * * *

  “Don’t do it like that.” Becca Longstride had her hands on her hips, looking down at her younger sister Ruth. They were only two years apart, but Becca had begun growing rapidly, stretching into the willowy height she would inherit from her parents, whereas Ruth still had the height of a normal child.

  Ruth didn’t look up at her sister, she simply continued twisting the hair on her doll. The hair was made of yarn.

  “Don’t be so bossy,” she said.

  Becca huffed. “But you are doing it wrong.”

  “It’s my doll—there is no wrong.”

  “There is, too. You are supposed to be learning how to braid your own hair, not tangling it into a mess.” Becca plopped down on the bench beside Ruth, bumping her with a hip. She reached out. “Here, let me show you.”

  Ruth jerked the doll to her chest and pushed off the seat. She walked toward the house several meters away from where they were playing, then turned toward her sister. Still walking backward, she thrust her chin out.

  “I don’t want you to show me the ‘proper’ way. I don’t care. I’m a Longstride lady—” She shook her head to make her own thick locks of hair whip around her shoulders “—and I can wear my hair however I want.”

  Becca stood, meaning to chase her down and forcibly take the doll from her smartarse little hands.

  Two soldiers came around the corner of the house.

  Ruth didn’t see them, still walking backward and waving the doll at Becca in defiance. Becca froze, and her heart skipped at their appearance. Both men walked with determination, their mail coats gleaming in the sun, and both had great swords hanging from their hips.

  Then she saw the royal seal on their tabards, and relaxed. An eagerness sparked inside her. It wasn’t uncommon for soldiers to come to Longstride manor, since her father was the king’s friend. Maybe they came with news of her father’s return. She missed him terribly.

  She was about to call out a welcome to the soldiers when they both reached down. Each grabbed one of Ruth’s arms in their wide hands. The little girl screamed as they jerked her from her feet. Becca watched her sister struggle, the doll falling into the dirt. Ruth kicked and flailed and screamed as she hung between the two men.

  “Shut her up,” the soldier on the left growled. />
  The one on the right pulled a burlap sack from his belt and jerked it over Ruth’s head. She still screamed, but it was muffled by the heavy fabric.

  “Better,” the left soldier grunted, and he looked at Becca. “We’re taking her to the castle fer safekeepin’. Tell yer ma. Order of the king.” With that they turned to go.

  Ruth’s struggles slowed and she stopped screaming. Becca didn’t know if it was exhaustion or a lack of breath that made her quit. The men lowered her to the ground and the left guard released, letting the other man drag her sister away.

  Confusion that had boiled in her mind since the men appeared suddenly vanished and Becca was left with a cold, clear thought that came to her in her father’s voice.

  They are stealing my sister. Becca ran toward the men without thinking. Tucking her head into her shoulder she plowed into the left soldier, knocking him sideways. She bounced away, reeling but still standing, while he dropped to one knee, catching himself on his hands before he could eat dirt. Steadying herself she spun toward the soldier who still held her sister by the arm. She jumped, launching herself at him with her fingernails bared like claws.

  His free hand snatched her up by the back of her hair before she could hurt him. Fiery pain washed over her scalp as he held her in one hand and Ruth in the other. Tears spilled from her eyes, blurring everything. She blinked them away and watched the left soldier stalk over, face knotted in a scowl.

  “Little bitch,” he said. His big hand swung back, and then came down on her head. Her vision went dark in a wash of agony that swept through her. The blow drove her to the ground, tearing some of her hair out in the other soldier’s hand.

  The left soldier stood over her, pointing down.

  “Get up again and I’ll really hurt you.”

  He turned away from her. Her head dropped, partially in pain, partially in shame that she was going to let her sister be taken. Then a weird animal noise made her look up.

  Her brother Robin burst from the edge of Sherwood, running like a man possessed. He was filthy, covered in dirt from working the field. His always-dark face had gone even darker, veins bulging from his temples and cords standing out on his neck. He looked swollen to nearly twice his normal size, and colored night-dark by rage. His eyes bulged and his teeth shone wet in his mouth.

  He had a shovel in his hand.

  The left soldier raised his arm, yelling for Robin to stop. His other hand pulled on the handle of the sword that hung by his side. The blade was halfway free when Robin struck him across the face with the blade of the shovel. Becca watched as the dull edge sank into the soldier’s face, caving it in on itself. There was no blood, no gore, the shovel blade simply fell into the space where the soldier’s face had been and the man fell backward, Robin pulled along by his grip on the tool until he knelt on the dead soldier’s chest.

  A cry of triumph was wrested out of her and her chest felt hot and tight. Robin had killed the man who had struck her, and she was fiercely glad.

  Ruth gave a muffled cry as the soldier who held her threw her to the ground and pulled his sword. Before Becca could shout a warning Robin’s head jerked around, feral quick, as the soldier swung back his weapon to cleave him in two. Robin leapt to his feet, jerking on the shovel. The blade came out, painted red from mid-width to blade point, in a scattering of loose teeth and lumpy gore.

  The soldier’s sword flashed down, aimed to separate Robin’s head from his shoulders, but her brother drove the tool forward, shoving it at the soldier’s chest. The dull spade head didn’t penetrate the mail shirt—it was too well made, the links of good English steel, but the impact jarred the soldier enough to halt his swing. The shovel slid up the slick mail, skimming metal on metal as Robin drove forward until it struck the soldier under his chin.

  This time there was blood, so much of it that it sprayed Robin from brow to belt, painting him red like a demon. Becca turned her head from the sight just as giant hands circled round her.

  * * *

  The women and children on the platform stood with their heads bowed in their nooses. They didn’t cry or wail, not the children, not the mothers of the children.

  They’ve been drugged.

  It was the only thing that made sense. Childless, Marian still had that maternal instinct nestled in her heart like a seed waiting for its season to bloom. It was there, the knowledge of the love one had for one’s own child. She knew if it had been her on that gallows, and her children beside her, she would have screamed for mercy until her dying breath.

  Her uncle sat beside her, leaning back in his chair and smiling—grinning. Will Scarlet sat on the other side of him and wore a sour face. She couldn’t believe this was going to happen. She was going to watch people die. Innocent people.

  She wanted to run to them.

  She wanted to cut them free.

  She stood, and the dagger in her skirts hung heavy against her thigh. It took all her willpower to keep from touching it through the slit cut in the seam that would allow her to draw it free.

  “This can’t happen.”

  Her uncle turned. “Oh, it will happen,” he said. “These traitors will dance in the air for us.”

  “There are children.”

  “Do you know how old Cain was when he slew his brother Abel?”

  The question drew her short. “What?”

  Prince John waved his hand at her. “You are familiar with the story from your Bible, are you not?” She nodded. He leaned close, bringing his face near hers. “So then, how old was Cain when he first drew blood?”

  Is this a trick?

  Will leaned forward in his chair, looking intently at the gallows. Sweat ran down his face.

  “Where did he come from?”

  She threw a glance at where he looked. The Sheriff stood on the platform by the women and children there. They all looked at him, eyes wide and docile. His black armored hand rested on the lever that jutted from the stage, the lever that would release the trapdoor beneath the nooses.

  The world slid sideways. It was all happening so fast.

  “Niece of mine, answer the question.”

  The prince was so close to her, she could feel his breath on her cheek. Her face turned toward him but her eyes remained on the gallows, on the black-armored Sheriff with his hand on the lever.

  “It doesn’t say.”

  “Precisely!” Prince John cried.

  The Sheriff jerked the lever.

  The trap fell with a clap of wood and all seven of the people on the stage, two mothers and five children, dropped as if they’d stepped off a ledge. The ropes yanked, jerking them short. The wet crunch of separated vertebrae rolled across her, loud in her ears. The mothers and children bounced and dangled, swaying with their heads cocked to the side and their jaws crushed closed in the grimace of strangulation.

  Will Scarlet turned away, fist to his mouth, struggling to hold back vomit.

  Marian was numb, scrubbed raw by the short sudden violence of the hanging.

  Prince John touched her face with his fingertips. She dragged her eyes from the swaying bodies to peer straight at him. His bottom lip hung out in a pout, and his eyebrows drew low over his eyes.

  “The point of the question, young Marian, is that he could have been a child.”

  * * *

  The dirt was packed tight, stomped down by all three of them. Robin knelt beside the unmarked grave. He’d sweated away the blood on his face and arms, but his shirt had turned black with it. Flies buzzed around him. He didn’t brush them away.

  “You gotta get up.”

  Robin didn’t look at the man who loomed over him like a mighty oak. “Leave me be for a moment.”

  “I’ve done that, Lord Longstride,” the fellow replied. “Time for you to be up and moving.”

  “That’s my father.”

  The giant of a man pushed forward. “It’s you, too. Now get up or I’ll haul you to your feet.”

  “Dammit, Little John, leave me be.”<
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  John Little, known as Little John from the moment he became the biggest man in the realm, began to reach down for Robin. Then a spotted hand, still strong as steel, closed on his arm. Little John looked over. Old Soldier shook his head and removed his hand from the bigger man’s arm.

  He had a sword in his hand.

  Little John stepped back, and Old Soldier knelt in front of Robin.

  “First time?”

  Robin’s voice was dull, flat, when he spoke. “I don’t know what came over me. I’ve been mad, but never before felt such… such anger.”

  “You’ve never before had two men try to kidnap your sister.”

  Robin looked up sharply. “Are you making fun of me?”

  Old Soldier frowned. “No, son, I’m not. I’m explaining why you lost control, so you don’t feel bad.”

  “I didn’t lose control. I knew exactly what I was doing when I did it.”

  Little John drew in a sharp breath. “Jesus, Mary, an’ all the saints.”

  Old Soldier cut him off with a sharp chop of his hand.

  His eyes stayed on Robin. “Doesn’t change the reason you did what you did.”

  “The world is falling apart. Why were the king’s men trying to steal my sister?”

  “I think this may have something to do with it.” Old Soldier held the sword out, pommel first. He’d stripped the bodies of their mail and their weapons before burial. “This is new.”

  Robin looked. The pommel weight had been ground flat and inscribed with a symbol. Lines and whorls intersected, crossing each other in geometric eddies that his eye wanted to trace, but couldn’t.

  He shook his head. “The man personalized his sword. I’ve done the same to my bow.”

  “It’s on both swords. Those men didn’t look to be brothers, so not a family symbol.”

  “What is it?”

  Old Soldier shrugged, his ever-present mail shirt shushed under the linen tunic he wore over it, steel links rubbing softly on the fibers. “It feels like there’s something to it, some power. I’m old, but this is not a symbol used by any part of the Lionheart service.” He ran a calloused finger over the symbol. Traces of color followed the lines where he touched it. “It’s not natural. I’d guess magic.”