Mark of the Black Arrow

by Debbie Viguié

  “Hold.”

  The command came from behind. Locksley forced himself to remain stock still as his man slumped to the ground.

  “Lift him up, and let him speak,” Prince John said from his chair. “I love a good ghost story.”

  Locksley stepped away, returning to his original position, looking straight ahead. Prince John lounged on a curved settee, sinking into the cushions there. Beside him on a matching divan sat Will Scarlet. Both men wore velveteen robes patterned through with gold thread. Locksley couldn’t tell, but they appeared to be a matched set.

  Perhaps it was merely a coincidence.

  The prince shifted, looking up at a man who stood to the left in a shadow of his own making, all light subdued by the black armor that encased him.

  “I’m not the only one who wants a ghost story,” John said with amusement. “Am I right?”

  The Sheriff of Nottingham inclined his head in agreement, and there was no humor in his gaze. So the prince indicated that Locksley’s man should stand.

  “Rise and finish your tale of horror and ghouls.”

  From the corner of his eye, Locksley saw the man climb to his feet. He held fingers over the place where the blow had split the skin. It leaked thin blood along each side of his nose, and it ran down like thin streams of red tears. His voice was thick when he spoke.

  “You cannot blame us for the loss of the taxes,” he said. “The spirit of Sherwood keeps taking it. We’ve all seen him—just ask anyone. You cannot fight a ghost.”

  The prince glanced at Locksley.

  “You disagree with his assessment?”

  “It is a man—it has to be,” Locksley replied. “A tricky bastard for sure, but he isn’t the stuff of legend. Such a creature doesn’t exist. No, he’s flesh and blood, like you or me.”

  “Then why haven’t you stopped him?” John demanded. “He’s been disrupting your efforts for a month, and yet you’re no closer to apprehending him.”

  Locksley had nothing to say.

  “What makes you so certain this highwayman is a ghost?” the prince said to the bleeding man.

  “Like I said, I seen it with my own eyes.”

  “Well, that settles it.” The prince lifted a goblet from the table beside him and took a long swallow. “Clearly you are an expert in the matters of spirits, able to discern the truth about them.”

  The man looked belligerent, and stuck his chin out.

  “I know what I know,” he said stubbornly. “Me mum were a bit of a witch.”

  At that the prince leapt to his feet, flinging the lead goblet at the man. It flashed across the room, striking him in the face almost exactly where Locksley had split his nose. The man cried out in pain and dropped to his knee again. This time he did not rise.

  “There are no ghosts in Sherwood!” the prince screamed.

  The Sheriff was there, standing next to the man. Locksley had not seen him move. The armored man’s hand flashed once, driving against the sobbing man’s chest. When he pulled away he held no knife, yet blood gushed from a wound. Feebly the man raised his hands, reaching for something he could not see. His eyes had gone blind.

  The Sheriff stepped back, and the man fell over, and a puddle of his own blood began to appear around the still form.

  The prince sat back on his chair, and the Sheriff strolled back across the room to again lean against the wall. Locksley looked over at Will Scarlet. The man looked down at the threads of his robe, as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. No emotion could be seen in his expression.

  “What is the current bounty placed on the outlaw?” Prince John asked.

  “One hundred gold pieces,” Scarlet answered, picking at a loose thread near the cuff.

  “Double it,” the prince instructed. “Two hundred gold pieces to the man who brings me the head of this… ghost.”

  Locksley did not move.

  “Did you not hear me?” the prince said.

  “I beg your pardon, Your Majesty,” Locksley responded, “but gold doesn’t buy what it used to.”

  The prince raised an eyebrow. Locksley knew instantly that he was perhaps half a moment from tasting the Sheriff’s wrath, as well.

  The prince sighed heavily. “Very well, make a note. The man who brings me the ghost’s head will receive two hundred gold pieces, and he will be granted immunity from further taxation.”

  “As you wish,” Locksley said, bowing deeply. The truth was, for two hundred gold pieces he’d do almost anything to bring the hooded outlaw in himself. As the chief tax collector, he’d done much to hide the majority of his own wealth, knowing he would need it to feed the people in his care when the winter struck hard.

  Besides, there had to be some reward for doing the crown’s dirty work.

  “And what of the book?” the Sheriff asked, his eyes piercing.

  Locksley shook his head. “It has not been found.”

  “Are you certain it has not been taken by this hooded outlaw?”

  “Absolutely,” Locksley replied. “There has been no sign of it.” The symbol on his arm burned under his sleeve.

  “Then you will continue looking—search every nook and cranny for it,” Prince John said, his displeasure obvious. “You will find it, or there will be consequences.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” Locksley said, bowing his head and reminding himself to be grateful that he was being allowed to continue looking, instead of lying beside his fallen man. That could just as easily be his blood spilling onto the floor.

  “Go,” the prince said, with a dismissive wave of his hand.

  At last, an order he was happy to obey.

  * * *

  Will watched Locksley go. It had not been easy, worming his way further into Prince John’s confidence. The Sheriff didn’t entirely trust him, but even he was beginning to overlook Will’s presence, more and more.

  “Locksley hasn’t found the book, and neither has the bishop,” the usurper said, rubbing his forehead and glowering in frustration. This was the third time he had mentioned the missing tome, but Will knew no more about it than he had before.

  He debated about whether or not to speak up boldly and ask about its nature, or to just sit quietly and hope to be ignored. Before he could make a decision, the Sheriff looked in his direction.

  “These words aren’t for other ears,” he said to his master.

  “You’re right,” John sighed. “You may go, Will.” The prince waved him away.

  Will stood and bowed. Skirting wide of the body that was cooling on the floor, he moved to leave. Halfway to the door he turned.

  “If there is something you’re looking for, perhaps I could be of help?” It was a calculated risk, but as the prince’s “right-hand man,” then it might seem stranger for him not to offer his assistance in the search.

  The prince looked at him for a long moment.

  “That will be all.”

  Will bowed again and left the room, letting the door shut of its own accord. There was an imperfection on the frame that he knew would prevent it from closing completely. On the other side he held his breath, listening, hoping he could overhear whatever they said next.

  * * *

  “Human agents are worthless.”

  Prince John shrugged. “I wouldn’t agree with that.”

  “That is because you are one.”

  “An agent?”

  “A… human.” The Sheriff moved to the table that held the wine. He lifted a crystal glass and filled it halfway with a dark whiskey poured from a decanter. “We need the grimoire that is bound in that book.” He strolled over to the dead man who lay on the floor, and stared down at him with abstract interest.

  “Your wizards and witches have turned up nothing?”

  “They are human, as well.”

  “No one knows where the cursed thing is,” the prince said.

  “Someone does.” The Sheriff squatted beside the corpse. Long, pale fingers grabbed the tunic and lifted, raising the dead man up
to his knees. “The monastery is the storehouse for such things, is it not?” The hand switched from the back of the corpse to the front, holding it steady.

  “The bishop has searched its library, and failed to find anything.”

  “He needs more motivation.” The hand squeezed the blood-soaked tunic over the half-full glass. Crimson trickled out, plopping into the whiskey in fat droplets. They, in turn, swirled in delicate patterns, the mixture filling the glass to the lip. The Sheriff stood.

  The corpse fell forward with a wet smack against the marble.

  “He’s devoted to our cause,” John said, “or at least what he thinks is our cause.”

  The Sheriff took a sip. “I’ve heard rumors that this ghost who steals the tax money is finding a way to give it back to the people. Village children see him as a good fairy who brings food and treats and protects them.”

  “This ghost is tightening the noose around his own neck, and those of any who may be protecting him,” John said, anger growing in his voice. “The people are stubborn enough as it is, without having someone to give them hope. They need to be taught a lesson.”

  “You have something in mind?” The Sheriff took another sip, the mixture leaving his lips with a trace of color they normally didn’t have.

  “Give me a moment.”

  The silence was broken only by the sound of the man in black taking the occasional sip from his glass. Finally he spoke.

  “The tax scheme was your idea. It was supposed to be a cover for finding the Grimoire of Relics, to strip away the hope of the people, and to pull them from the protection of the church.”

  “It would work, save for the Hood,” John muttered.

  “Regardless, it has failed,” the Sheriff responded. “Whether it is because of this outlaw, or because it was a flawed idea to begin with, we cannot know for certain.”

  Prince John rose to his feet, feeling his face burning.

  “Do not blame this on me,” he said. “If you have a better plan, then do not withhold it.”

  The Sheriff smiled, his teeth stained red. “Need I remind you of my role in this?”

  John fell back on his seat. “No,” he said. “No. I remember.”

  “Then think of a new scheme, one that the Hood cannot spoil, and let us be done with it. I have waited long enough.”

  Prince John put his chin in his hand.

  Something the outlaw cannot affect.

  He sat up straight.

  “I have it.”

  The Sheriff rolled his hand, indicating that John should continue.

  “They say if a man doesn’t have his health, he doesn’t have anything. Disease is what we need, to thin the herd and break those who remain.” To John’s surprise, the Sheriff’s black eyes widened.

  “Why, little prince, it may be that humans aren’t worthless after all. That is truly an inspired suggestion.”

  “Thank you,” John replied, careful to hold in his delight.

  “You should have started with it,” the Sheriff added wryly, “and saved us all these weeks of labor.”

  Prince John waved away the insult. “Can you do such a working, on such short notice?”

  “Harnessing the sorcerers in my care, we can conjure up something suitably effective.”

  “Good,” John said. “Make certain we have just enough potion to keep a handful of us safe,” he said. “It will thoroughly demoralize our enemies more than anything we’ve done to date.”

  “I will begin preparations tonight,” the Sheriff said. “Are you sure, though, that you have the stomach for this? That you feel not a whit for these people?”

  John snorted. “Father banished me from England years ago. I have no love for anything here, and I’m happy to see its people dragged to Hell.”

  The Sheriff smiled. “Soon enough, little prince.”

  * * *

  Will heard footsteps drawing close, and he moved away swiftly, losing himself in another part of the castle. His heart pounded in his chest.

  What they were talking about… it was impossible, wasn’t it? He had never believed in magic or curses or the fairy folk who supposedly still lived in Sherwood. He had thought all the stories his grandmother told were nothing more than that. Fairy tales. Yet he himself had seen the burns inflicted on Marian by a cursed sword, that night of the first raid. Since then he had begun to doubt, to think that maybe magic could exist.

  But a plague? That was something entirely different—so much bigger than a burning sword. Could Prince John and the Sheriff really conjure such a thing? They seemed to think so. So, either they were both insane, or it was possible.

  Yet how?

  A hand landed on his shoulder and he spun, startled.

  Marian jerked back, hands up at his reaction.

  “Damnation, Marian,” he swore. “You startled me.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No, it was not your fault,” he said, waving aside her apology. The truth was it was good that she was able to sneak up on him again. That meant her leg was healed, or nearly so. Until now she had been walking with a limp, favoring the burned limb. He took a deep breath, grateful that she seemed better. Then he looked her in the eye.

  “I need to talk to you, and the others. Something is happening.”

  * * *

  Marian had known that both the prince and the Sheriff were evil men, but she had not dreamed they would contemplate something so profane. She prayed that such magic was beyond their reach.

  After Will told her, he left the castle to warn the cardinal. She didn’t go with him. It wouldn’t be good for them to be seen together.

  That night she stayed up praying until the dawn that God would deliver them from the hand of darkness that was closing around them. Champion had curled up in her lap, keeping her company, but was falling asleep on the watch. Still, stroking his fur brought her some comfort as she agonized through the long night.

  * * *

  With shaking fingers, Agrona lifted the lid to the black oak box beside her pallet. The dry must of bone wafted out, filling her nostrils, calming her immediately. It was joined by the sickly-sweet carrion scent of rotting meat. She’d only been able to save the shin of her sister and it lay inside, nestled with her mother’s bones as the meat attached to it broke down and began to fall away.

  She shut the lid as the Mad Monk folded himself to a sitting position beside her. He bowed his shaved head toward her. Slick patches of scar tissue glimmered in the torchlight. His voice was a low tenor.

  “Necromancer.”

  “Sorcerer.”

  He smiled. “I would love to have a morsel from your collection.”

  They had done this dance for weeks.

  Every day.

  “No.”

  “You have not heard my offer.”

  “Nothing you have is worth what I possess.”

  His hand slid into the sleeve of his robe. When it slid out it held a white feather with a red tip. In the center of the feather blinked an eyeball. It looked mostly human. The folds of the lid were wrong, and it was inserted into a feather, but it was an eyeball nonetheless.

  She could feel the power of it pulling at her. Her nipples hardened.

  “Is that…?”

  “It is.”

  She gaped at him in awe. “So the stories are true. You succeeded.”

  He shook his head. The skin in the center of his tonsure was waxy. “Had I succeeded I would not be here right now. I did not catch the angel, but I did manage to pluck two of these.”

  The eyeball blinked, and it jerked something inside her.

  “Why would you trade that for bones, when you aren’t a necromancer?”

  He smiled crookedly. “I… knew your mother when she was alive. I would like a keepsake of her.”

  Agrona didn’t know what to say. The implication of his tone struck her. She would be sure to ask her mother about it later. She would never parcel her out in such a way, no matter what was being offered.

&nbs
p; But now she had to find a way to acquire that feather. Before she could speak, however, the magic in the room shifted. It rolled across her.

  The Mad Monk was on his feet, feather tucked away and out of sight.

  She stood in one fluid motion and found the Sheriff in the center of the room. All the practitioners who were present had turned, and now watched him. He smiled at them and stroked the fur collar around his neck.

  “My children, I have a task for you.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  After three weeks, the monastery had run out of sheets.

  Bodies were being wrapped in blankets, and soon those would be in scarce supply. Before long the dead would lay in the clothes in which they fell. They would no longer be faceless.

  Friar Tuck laid a hand on the young man’s shoulders. The man’s neck twisted as he turned his face up, while his form stayed draped over the small body that lay perfectly still on the woolen blanket in which she would be wrapped.

  The young man’s face had been sucked tight to his skull, made hollow by a lack of food, a lack of sleep, and a lack of hope. His eyes had sunk into his cheeks, the lids red and chafed from tears being rubbed out of them. He was a candle whose wick had been snuffed out.

  The friar knelt beside him. His hand crossed his body and the young man mimicked him out of a lifetime of habit.

  “What was her name, son?” he asked, keeping his voice low.

  “Tessa.”

  Friar Tuck looked down. Tessa’s face was serene, beautiful in her final rest. The pox had only marked her throat and just under her hairline. This close to her, he could see that the sores had closed, fading to the waxy pallor once the body ceased generating the fever that turned them angry and red. Dried sweat left a glistening of miniscule salt crystals that made her skin shine.

  He prayed she’d been too young to be a mother.

  “I need to perform the benediction, son.”

  The young man didn’t move.

  “Could you come back, Father?” he asked, his voice cracking a bit. “I know it needs doing, but if you don’t then it means she’s not really gone, and I need her to not be gone just yet.”