Mark of the Black Arrow (11 page)

She’d been young, and she’d just lost her parents to the fire.

The king continued. “Sometimes there is more to a situation than there appears. Evil lives in this world, and every day it walks the earth, growing stronger. We have an opportunity—” he shook his head, dismissing his choice of words “—a
duty
, to vanquish it now before it consumes everything. If we don’t, the world will be covered in darkness, and there will be nowhere anyone can run to be safe.”

A chill danced up her spine. “You’re talking about more than the infidels.”

“Every war is waged on three battlefields. On the earth itself, in the human heart, and in the realm of the spirits. Every so often those three battlefields merge into one.”

“I don’t understand.”

His eyes turned sad. “And I’m very glad you don’t. I pray that you never do, because if that day comes, then I will have failed to protect you and England from this great curse.”

“If the threat is that great, shouldn’t you remain here to protect the kingdom?”

“The kingdom was here before me and will remain after me.” He shook his head. “I’ve chosen another to stand in my stead.”

“Another?” she said, her eyes widening. “Who?”

“John is coming to care for the land and watch the throne.”

“John?” she said.

“My younger brother. Your uncle. Lord of Ireland.”

“Oh.” The word went dry in her throat.

Her Uncle John. She had met him only once, on a visit to Ireland when she was a wee child. Her memory of him was hazy and distorted by the passage of time.

“He has been gone so long.”

Richard shifted on the bench beside her. “So long that it’s difficult to recall why our father sent him to Ireland in the first place. He’s not the true king there, just a vassal of England living in a small holding owned by the crown.”

“You are the crown.”

He tilted his head in assent. “Owned by me then.” Richard grew quiet. She let him fade into memories for a long moment as she studied his face in profile. His hair swirled, unruly around his head, giving him the maned look of the lion after which he was named. Finally he shuddered, and blew out a long breath, releasing his thoughts into the world.

He didn’t look at her when he spoke.

“Our father was a hard man. I didn’t even allow John to come when your father died. I sent word by messenger after he and your mother had been interred. All because of a dead man’s insistence.”

She didn’t know how to respond. Richard never mentioned his father, her grandfather, taken before her birth by a winter pox that had scoured the land.

“It is a good choice.” Richard nodded, as if agreeing with himself. “My cousin Henry has long envied the throne, and I would not give him the opportunity to make mischief.”

“There are only two choices?”

“I’d thought, briefly, to leave England in your care.”

The words hit her chest, echoing as they struck. Before she could speak, however, he continued.

“But you’re young,” he said. “Too young to be burdened prematurely by such responsibility.”

“I would do my best,” she said.

“I know.” His hand was warm on hers. “But John is my decision. I expect you to help him where you can.”

She nodded. “Of course.”

“And, if the worst should happen overseas, well, then England will have had some time to adjust to its new king, and he to her.”

Marian felt a lump in her throat. “Nothing will happen to you,” she whispered. It was more of a prayer. He smiled at her, but she could see sorrow in his eyes, and it gave her a moment of panic. It was one thing for her to fear for his safety. It was chilling to know that he, too, was fearful that he might never return.

He cleared his throat and turned back toward the night blooms.

“You should be in bed.”

She had been dismissed. She curtsied and turned to go, wishing they’d had nothing more serious to discuss than how many times she had danced with Robin of Longstride.

*  *  *

She stepped from the porch as he leapt off, landing on flexed legs, letting his knees absorb the impact. He turned, drawing short as he caught sight of her.

“Mother,” he said.

She looked down on him. He nearly melded with the darkness, blending like a night creature. He was so alien, so foreign. So unlike her other children. Unlike her husband. Unlike her. The spoiled fruit of her womb.

Her curse.

“Mother,” he said again, his voice turning stern. “I know you heard the fight. Say what you have to say.”

“Feel free to go with your father on the journey.”

Robin’s face twisted. “He has made it clear that I am to stay.”

The thought of him doing so soured her stomach. Working the land, he would be around under foot, a constant reminder, without the light of Philemon or Robert to distract her from his presence. “I do not need you here. You love him, so go with him. Fling yourself between your father and the swords of the enemy.”

“You would like that, wouldn’t you? To send me off to be killed on a foreign land.”

She remained silent.

“I will remain here and I will do my duty to this household, but never fear, I will stay out of your sight.” He turned and strode away.

She watched him go until he disappeared into the night, then went inside, making her way to the bedroom she shared with her husband.

He stood in their room, pulling off his tunic.

She stopped at the doorway and watched him. The soft linen shirt slid up his torso and over his head before being dropped to the floor. Philemon Longstride had thickened over the years, padded from a life as a commander of men rather than a worker beside them and cushioned with age, but he still had definition to his body that pleased her. Muscles still flexed and played beneath his skin and his head was still full of thick hair, even if some of it had turned silver here and there.

He was leaving her soon. She did not want it, but understood he was doing what he thought was right. It wasn’t the first time he had chased after his king and left her alone. She would miss him.

His hands moved to his belt, unbuckling it.

Desire rose inside her. Tonight she would make sure he would miss her.

Her hand touched the doorjamb, brushing the ancient symbols of protection she had painted there in pigment cut with her own menstrual blood. It was old superstition, woman’s magic passed from mother to daughter. Not the right-hand path of the hedgewitches and the herbalists, but the left-hand path of darkness. It was something she had done after the birth of Robin, a ward against allowing him entrance to this room, and he never had crossed the threshold. Her husband had no use for witchery, but tolerated it for her.

He did not understand its origin.

Energy crackled under her fingers, running up her arm and into her chest. It made her head swim like too much wine. Her mouth tasted of clover.

That was new.

She stared at the symbols in wonder until her husband’s voice called her to bed.

F
riar Tuck woke feeling sticky and damp against the thin pad of his bedroll. His skull buzzed like a beehive, proof that he definitely had taken too much to drink the night before. That in itself was no mean feat. Noblemen, warriors, peasants, bishops… he had yet to meet the man who could drink as much as he, and still remain standing.

Not that he imbibed often, but when the opportunity presented he gave himself to it body and soul. There was no harm in it… well, what was the point in going to confession if you never had anything to confess?

He had missed morning prayers, and, when he presented himself to the cardinal, the man looked him over with a roll of his eyes.

“Are you aware that gluttony is a sin?” the cardinal asked.

“No greater than lying,” Friar Tuck replied. “You told me you had no idea what the king’s announcement would be.”

There were few above his station to whom he would ever speak that way, but Tuck had known Francis since his assignment to the monastery as a child. The man had been a mentor and a guide in the path to becoming a man of faith. More than that, the friar considered him a friend.

“It was an omission of necessity, I’m afraid.” The cardinal’s sigh had an edge of frustration. “The king wished it kept absolutely quiet until last night. We…
he
needed to see everyone’s reactions upon hearing the news.”

Tuck wondered at that. The king answered to no one except the pope, so fear of disapproval couldn’t have been what concerned him. The nobles had no choice but to follow his lead in this, as in all things. So, why would he need to see their reaction?

“What was he looking for?” Tuck asked. The cardinal eyed him for a long minute before answering.

“Treachery,” he said, dropping his voice. “Or signs thereof. A few of his loyal knights and servants were spread throughout the hall, observing the reactions of those who were present.”

Tuck gave this a moment to sink in.

“Did they find anything suspicious?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” the cardinal said.

The king’s announcement weighed heavily on Tuck’s mind, which was part of the reason he’d overindulged. The journey would be filled with danger, the destination even more so. He was a man who enjoyed comfort, such as it was, but here was a way to serve the church in a manner he would never before have conceived. An idea had taken hold of him, and would not let go.

“I wish to go on Crusade with the king and his men,” the friar said. “To attend to their spiritual needs, and help with the battle that awaits them.” There, he had said it. The words shimmered in the air between them.

When first he had been pressed into the service of the Lord as a child, he’d prayed almost ceaselessly that God would not send him to the corners of the earth, ministering to the heathens, but would allow him to stay in England and tend those who were already among the Lord’s flock.

How the years could change a person.

As God was his witness there had been a restlessness growing in him for several years. It came with a conviction that he wasn’t doing as much as he could for the Lord or His people. He woke in the middle of sleep, at least once a fortnight, covered in sweat and shouting part of the Lord’s Prayer—usually the section about deliverance from evil.

Suddenly things seemed so clear.

The Lord had work for him. In the Holy Land.

“I cannot allow it,” the cardinal said firmly. “I need you.”

Tuck blinked in surprise. “There are enough here in the monastery to care for God’s people.”

“And they are fine men. I would trust many of them with my very life.” Francis peered at him intently. “You I would trust with my very soul.”

“I’m flattered,” Tuck replied genuinely, “but what does that mean?”

“I want you close at hand. I believe God will reveal a way for you to be of use.”

“But the Crusade—”

The cardinal cut him off with a hand. “Is nothing with which to concern yourself.”

Friar Tuck rolled the words around in his head, wishing now that he’d shown some restraint the night before. It was hard to think and he felt ashamed at having to work so hard at concepts.

“Am I to infer that you perceive the greatest danger not to be in the Holy Land, but here on our own soil?”

“That is precisely what you are to infer,” Francis said.

“I still do not understand.”

“You know I am a believer in signs, portents, and prophecies.” Tuck nodded. The cardinal looked around suddenly, as though concerned that someone might be listening. Tuck did as well, but they appeared to be alone in the chapel.

The cardinal rose and gestured for him to follow. The two walked together down one of the corridors of the monastery. They took a left down an intersecting hallway where the walls were much narrower. Then they reached a section of the wall that appeared to be completely ordinary, and stopped.

Tuck knew what was about to occur.

The cardinal removed a torch from its wall sconce and lifted it high until the light shone on a tiny indentation in the stone, a spot worn smooth by the pressure of countless thumbs over the years. It was such a small spot that only one who knew it was there would see it. The cardinal glanced around hastily before jamming with his thumb and shoving. A narrow section of the wall about four feet tall swung away into darkness. They stooped to enter.

Friar Tuck’s chest tightened and his breath grew short. The narrowness of the passage unnerved him, as if it got narrower and narrower with each step, pressing in on him.

Yea, I say unto thee, ’tis easier for a camel to crawl through the eye of the needle than it is for a rich man’s soul to enter the gate of Heaven.

Once inside, they pushed the door shut behind them. The torch flickered in a darkness that was otherwise absolute. They proceeded for several feet and the whole time he struggled to stay hunched far enough to not bump his head on the low ceiling, even as he winced at the feeling of squeezing through the passage, the rough stone catching at his robes as though trying to stop him from continuing forward.

They came to a flight of stairs which they had to descend while bent over nearly double. It was slow, painful work and Tuck had never been sure if it was a necessity of the architecture, or a deterrent to keep out all but the most persistent.

When he actually had to traverse the passage he contemplated that it could simply have been the sadism of the masons who built the monastery.

At last they reached the bottom and were able to stand straight. Tuck began to breathe a little easier. They passed through what looked like an old storage room, long since forgotten. At the back of it the cardinal pressed his thumb to another wall and another door opened, large enough for them to walk through quite easily.

Again they closed it behind them. The cardinal set the torch in a sconce and Tuck looked around the room. Even though he had been here but yesterday, it never ceased to fill him with awe. All manner of objects were present, some of them ancient beyond reasoning. His eyes tracked over the shelves, picking out those that had fascinated him since his indoctrination into the inner circle of the Protectorate.