Mark of the Black Arrow (12 page)

A cup, plain pottery with a worn seal of the House of Arimathea stamped on its side, used at the Last Supper. Not the Sangreal—no, not the Holy Grail—but a cup from which the Christ and his disciples, the first church fathers, had drunk.

A small tin whistle that had belonged to St. Brigid.

A basket with a swaddle of crumbling cloth that wrapped what were supposed to be the shards of mighty Excalibur.

The axe used to take the head of the apostle Paul, its bronze edge still stained with saint’s blood.

An arrow removed from St. Sebastian, also stained to the fletching.

The shelves were littered with mundane objects as well. The shoe of St. Simeon, and the diary of St. Boedwyn. His eyes simply passed over them. As had always been the case, the relics that drew him were deadly in their own right. From the first moment he’d been entrusted with the knowledge of the chamber’s existence, he’d been fascinated by weapons and objects of war, stained by the spilt blood of the holy. That something meant to kill could be a vessel of God’s power and might—it pulled at a place, a small hollow, nestled deep behind his heart.

On a table sat the book the bard had carried from Ireland.

The cardinal turned to look at him, his face awash with moving shadows. He reached out to a low shelf and removed a book bound in black. He held it up.

“Do you know what this is?”

Tuck didn’t have to look closely. The binding gave it away.

“The Black Book of Carmarthen,” he said quietly. Written in Welsh, the tome contained centuries’ worth of poetry and writings both secular and divine, with quite a bit of early history thrown in, as well—particularly when it came to Arthur and the wizard who had always attended him.

“There are more than sonnets recorded in these pages,” Francis said. “The book contains prophecies of a time when the king will be absent, and the land has been rendered barren.”

Tuck nodded, listening intently.

“I have studied the prophecies, here and elsewhere,” Francis said. “Many come from saints, some were made by the druids, and some even by the lost race who first occupied these lands. All point to the same event.”

“And that is?” Tuck asked, fear gnawing at the edges of his mind.

“That an age of darkness shall fall upon England, and if nothing is done to counter it, that darkness will soon take the rest of the world. Evil will walk free on the earth, roaming where it wills and killing whomever it wishes.”

“How do you know that the prophesied time is upon us?”

“There have been many signs, omens,” he replied, “but the final piece of the puzzle fell into place last night. Yes, I knew the king was planning for England to join the Crusade. Until last night, though, I had no idea that he was planning on leading the army himself. He told me shortly before we joined the feast.” He looked down, his eyes hidden. “I did my best, argued until I couldn’t speak anymore, but I could not dissuade him. The prophecies all indicate that the time of darkness will take root on the day the king sets sail, abandoning his people to their fate.”

“But the king leaves in but a matter of days.”

“Yes, which gives us scarce time to prepare.”

“What is it you want me to do?”

“Pray that I’m wrong, and watch for me. Be my eyes and ears wherever you go. Finally, I need you to protect these relics,” he said, gesturing around them. “None of them can fall into the hands of the enemy. The king may be going off to war in the Holy Land, but the real battle will take place here.”

“Do the prophecies tell us how to oppose this evil?”

“No, not as such. There are hints, but I’ve yet to uncover their meaning. There is one thing all of the prophecies speak of, however. A man who will rise and accept the mantle of leadership, to fight a war while the infirm can only watch. But for him Sovereignty itself may be overturned.”

“Who is he?”

“If only it were that easy.” The cardinal shook his head. “All I’ve been able to glean about this man is that he will be of Sherwood.”

Friar Tuck blinked. “He’ll be a ghost then. That’s all that lives in the forest.”

“I understand no more than you, but I have faith that in time the truth will be revealed to us. Until then, can I count on you to help me?”

“Absolutely,” Tuck answered.

*  *  *

He awakened in the grave he’d been buried in for centuries, trapped there by the damned wizard. The creature thrashed, straining at his bonds inside the iron box that encased him. He opened his mouth to hiss and howl in alternating patterns. Black fur flared out, a sign of rage. He howled again, and heard his sister-mate answer.

He redoubled his efforts, wicked claws clacking against the metal as he sought to wiggle his jaws free from the iron band that kept his mouth clamped shut. He had been sleeping long, too long, but at last had heard his master’s call, and knew it was time to walk the earth at his side. Together they would rain down destruction and feast on the flesh of the living.

With a terrible screaming sound the metal band around his jaw gave way. Above the prison he could smell dirt. So many smells, so many sins. He thrashed harder, gaining strength as he took in the aromas of human desperation and depravity. Greed, hunger, lust all fed him until he was strong enough to claw his way through the box, then upward through the dirt to finally emerge in the pale moonlight, a monstrous black shadow.

Nearby the ground heaved and a moment later his sister-mate raised her head to the moon and let out a howl. With a final thrusting of her body she was free of her grave, as well. Together they wove in and out of tombstones as they made their way east. They had been called, and it was time to go to work.

The first thing they had to do was find the prince.

H
e sat with his back against one of the hawthorns, the ground dry beneath him. It was a tall one, reaching to its height to try and wrest some sunlight from the oaks above. He nibbled absently on one of the small red pommes, not noticing its dull sweetness.

He’d spent the night in the forest, a place that normally calmed the anger he kept inside himself, an anger that was his oldest companion, but his mind had been in too much turmoil for sleep. Instead he had wandered the glens and ridges of the mighty forest and listened as the spirits of the wood danced around him.

Some of the noises in the night were surely animals, nocturnal and on the prowl, but some were unnatural. Voices that sang snatches of melodies and the patter of feet that were not normal creatures. He spent hours chasing them into the depth of Sherwood, but always they stayed out of his sight and just beyond his reach. Finally exhausted, he declared the game over and sat at the foot of the hawthorn.

His body rested, but not his mind. That ran along, faster than even the feet of the fey.

He thought about his father, a man who on many occasions had proven himself more loyal to the king than to his family. Not a full two harvests would pass before he was off with Richard settling some dispute between lords, or riding the land to survey the borders. Lately he’d taken Robert with him. He was never gone long enough to force Robin into the role of housemaster, but he’d also never gone overseas.

Robin did his part on the land—at least the part he was allowed to do—but it seemed as if neither of his parents wanted him around for very long. His father always preferred the elder son, the two of them so much alike it was almost eerie. His mother had never been anything more than distant toward him and, at times, looked at him with an animosity that chilled him to the bone. She spent all of her time doting on the girls or ignoring everything in favor of her own private studies.

Now he would be trapped working the farm under her watchful eye.

Jesu, take me now.

The brush rustled to his left. It was a huge bramble, a thick tangle of thin vines with knuckle-length barbed thorns. In the dim light of dawn filtering through the forest he could only see a wall of darkness.

The bramble shook violently.

His hand closed on his bow, lifting it to his lap while he pulled free an arrow.

A sound rose up, rolling from the bramble. It was like the tearing of cloth in his ears. Loud chuffs of air bellowed toward him, then the vines split asunder, curling in on themselves and sending broken thorns flying through the air.

Out stepped the Lord of the Forest.

The majestic beast walked from the thorny knot with its head held high, the massive rack of antlers spreading like the branches of an oak. Its chest heaved under a thick pelt of fur. It stepped forward, moving until it was only a few paces away. Black eyes the size of Robin’s fists stared at him, through him, as the ancient stag turned and presented its shoulder and flank to him. Instantly his eyes picked out the spot half a handbreadth behind the front shoulder. The spot where the ribs opened wider than anywhere else as they pressed against the shoulder joint. The spot that led directly to the heart.

The death spot.

He could do it. He could draw and place his arrow feather deep into that chest. He could put the broadhead into the muscle of that mighty, beating heart and still it forever.

He could take this creature down.

The Forest Lord turned its head to look over its shoulder. Robin stared into that eye, the eye of a creature who may very well have walked this forest from the time of creation, a creature who had lived through all the changes wrought by the years and had been unaffected by any of them. This king of wood and glen was the protector of Sherwood and as long as he lived he would keep this sacred land whole.

The knowledge seeped into him, and suddenly the world seemed right. His father could leave, his brother could follow, his mother could hate him and somehow, as long as this stag walked this wood, then all would be well.

“Thank you,” he said, as he came to his feet.

The stag watched him.

He felt its ancient eyes on him the entire way as he walked home to begin his duty.

*  *  *

As morning dawned and pale sunlight kissed the water, Marian stood looking around at the encampment by the sea. The days had flown by, consumed by preparations. Prince John had made landfall and would be meeting them there, at the ships that would carry King Richard and many of his noblemen away to war.

Tents flying colorful coats-of-arms stretched as far as the eye could see. Some of the men had arrived days before and waited, ready to accompany their sovereign on his great journey. The flag with the Longstride coat-of-arms flapped atop a pole. The sight of it caused a lump to form in her throat.

Will Robin be going?

After his display at the feast, she knew he wouldn’t want to, but Robin had always been unpredictable. He’d had time to think about this and discuss it with his father. He might have changed his mind, or been given no choice.

She couldn’t help but worry that, with so many of their finest warriors leaving, England would be vulnerable to attack. The peace with France was uneasy at best, often preserved by virtue of Richard’s strength and the waters that separated the two countries. They wouldn’t hesitate to attack if they felt England had become weak. So she said a prayer that the French king had pledged troops to the Holy Crusade, as well, and in such numbers that an attacking force would be impossible to muster.

Noise made her turn, a crunching of boot against graveled rock. King Richard walked up the hill to stand beside her. He took a deep breath of morning air and swung his hand out toward the tents, the ships, and the men bustling with weapons and supplies.

“Magnificent, isn’t it?” His voice boomed out in the morning chill.

She smiled at his uplifting spirit. “I cannot deny that.”

“I’ve given the order to break camp,” he told her. “We’ll be sailing soon.”

“But Prince John has not arrived at camp,” she protested.

“He has. He came in the night.”

Like a thief.

She shook her head to clear away the thought.

*  *  *

Less than an hour later the sun hung a short distance above the horizon, sending a blinding glare off the water. The ships were loaded with supplies and men, the last of them leading blindfolded horses up gangplanks. The war beasts, bred to obey their riders in the chaos of battle, still shivered and whinnied as they swayed up the long, bending boards that took them onto the ships. The salt in their noses unsettled them, and one went off the edge between the ship and dock. It screamed like a woman, floundering blindly in the water.

Two men dove in, managed to secure ropes around the beast, and had it hauled on board. Its flailing hooves struck one of the men and he was dragged onto the ship, unconscious and bleeding.

Blood stained the hull in a wide streak of crimson.

Marian shivered and turned away. Then she stopped abruptly, her eyes going wide.

A man stood there, too close and looking down at her with dark eyes. His arms hung long by his sides and he slouched inside his cloak. The royal crest of England blazed out from a patch that covered his left breast.

“Prince John.” Her hand fluttered to her chest. “I didn’t see you there.”

His lips pulled up in what she thought was meant to be a smile. However, it didn’t reach his eyes or move any other part of his face—not his narrow chin or the fleshy pockets at the top of his cheeks.

“Perhaps I came from the shadows, niece,” he said. His voice had a slippery quality, slick-sided and like an oily echo of her uncle’s. It soothed her and pulled at her.

“I heard you came from Ireland,” she replied.

He chuckled, dry and raspy. “They are one and the same, in truth.”

“I always found the Emerald Isle to be entirely enchanting.” She tried to make her voice sound light, breezy.

“It is a magical place.” His eyes shifted and he looked over her shoulder. She turned, following his gaze to the wide bloodstain on the side of Richard’s ship. He hummed. “I wonder, is that a sign of how the trip may go?”

She took a step back. “How… what… how could you say something like that?”

Prince John chuckled. “I merely meant that my brother will shed much blood in his Crusade against the forces of evil.” Pudgy fingers touched his forehead as he dipped his head toward her in a half-bow. “Some ancient practices actually use blood sacrifice to seal the fate of a voyage, beseeching the gods to shine on them with favor.”