Mark of the Black Arrow (15 page)

The thought of all those tiny sacrifices, just so his robe of office could be the correct color, thrilled him somewhere deep inside.

He held a crozier, and, when he passed it through the river of light, motes of dust swirled and eddied. The sun, coming through the sole window in the antechamber, glimmered dully along the surface of the golden staff, rimming along the curl of precious metal at the head. There in the light, it looked like a rod of molten sunshine, the power of the universe formed to his shepherdic symbol of office and rank.

Called to a private audience with Prince John… no… called to a private discussion with the
king.

Bishop Montoya ran his fingertips down the thirty-three buttons of his cassock, one for every year Christ had walked the earth. They were made from ivory that came from a trader who had confessed to some heinous sins. He’d been forgiven, but at a price.

Noise made him step quickly from the sunbeam, stand straight, and drop his errant hand.

The doors to the throne room opened wide, swinging apart as the back of a man jostled through. His bandy arms wrapped around several rolls of embroidered fabric. Montoya couldn’t see the subject of the tapestries, lost in patches of colored thread, a riot of bean stitching, bird nesting, and buckram.

“Uhf! Where are we taking these again?” The servant was tall, hunched over the bundles.

“Around back to the burn,” a voice replied from inside the room. A second man appeared, and Montoya watched the two of them shuffle under their load, moving across the foyer.

“The king will see you now.”

At the sound of the voice, the bishop turned. A young servant stood there, looking at him expectantly with wide eyes and high cheekbones. Montoya’s hands ran down the front of his cassock, smoothing the material. He stepped sharply toward the boy and followed him into the throne room. His footsteps echoed across the marble flagstone floor and rolled up the carved block walls.

The throne room was nearly bare.

Along the walls, long tubes of rolled fabric lay on the floor, like the ones carried out by the men who had left before he’d entered. He knew immediately what they were. Behind the throne, four servants struggled to pull down the last remaining tapestry. Fixed high above and behind the seat of power, it clung stubbornly to the wall, set there by ancient iron spikes driven deep in the granite and cemented in by mortar. It was massive, stretching two men tall and near forty feet across, and depicted a scene from John’s Revelation.

Thousands upon tens of thousands of threads wove together to depict Christ seated on the throne of Heaven as the Judge of all men. The entire tapestry was symbolic. The Savior, anglicized for the region, held a scale in one hand, a sword in the other, and the Book of Life across his knees. At his feet knelt the lamb and the lion, both of them with peaceful expressions on their faces. To the right of Him stood men and angels, hands raised in supplication. On the left side were men and angels bent in agony, surrounded by flames.

Bishop Montoya did not know how to feel as he continued to walk toward the throne, where waited the king-in-standing. This was a religious tapestry, depicting the Christ Himself in Glory, and Montoya’s office demanded that he be outraged at its removal.

Yet the tapestry was ancient. Thick threads of embroidery hung loosely along its edges and one area, low by the lion, was worn and threadbare. It long ago had lost its luster, age and time leeching the pigments out until the entire cloth looked tarnished to his eyes.

It was shabby.

It was a disgrace.

And it had intimidated him the last time he’d been in its presence. When he’d first arrived, King Richard had summoned him to a meeting.

It had not gone well.

The king had been warm at the beginning of the audience, smiling and speaking broadly of the good work of the brothers in Christ at the monastery. His mood had turned, however, as Bishop Montoya shared his observances that the monks were undisciplined. He’d confessed that the monastery was near shameful in its shabbiness, the monks too concerned with the poor and needful of the village to maintain a proper place of worship.

“God is great and greatly to be praised,”
he’d said, and He deserved a worthy house. For that matter the bishop himself, as Christ’s ambassador in the land, should not be assigned to a hovel, with the barest of creature comforts, a near-blind old maid as a house servant, and a hump-backed gardener.

Pursuing his ideas for rectifying the situation, Montoya had broached the concept of indulgences and tithe. To his utter surprise, the king had ended the audience by standing and leaving the room without another word.

He remembered it well, and it still stung.

Now he arrived at the foot of the dais, following the lead of his escort and stopping at the first step of four that led up to the great throne of England. Prince John stood beside the throne, watching the laborers struggle with the mighty tapestry, his face pulled into hard planes. Montoya couldn’t help but compare the man before him to the former occupant of the throne.

Prince John and King Richard had little in common. He could see the family resemblance—the same broad forehead, the same lowered brow, the same jutting chin, all signs of shared blood. On the Lionheart those features, combined with a broad frame and a mass of tawny curls, had lent him the leonine look that became his namesake.

On John those same features gave his eyes a hooded, secretive look, and the jutting chin lent a feral cast to his jawline. His frame was far leaner than Richard’s, coiled under a rich brocade tunic and packed with violent potential. He was his brother’s shadow.

A dark reflection.

“Cut the mangy thing down if you have to,” Prince John ordered. His voice didn’t boom across the room like Richard’s, but it carried, slithering toward the ear sure and steady. It was the voice of someone used to being obeyed.

One of the servants reached down and pulled a small knife from his boot, the kind used to cut an apple for eating. He handed it up to the man perched high on the unsteady ladder. Taking it from his fellow worker, that man laid the knife’s edge against the tapestry and began to saw back and forth with it. Ancient threads parted with small puffs of dust, and the tapestry jerked downward in tiny increments, pulled by its own cumbersome weight.

Prince John nodded sharply to himself, spun on his heel, and dropped into the seat of the wide throne. He leaned back against the arms and propped his knee up.

“What the hell can I do for you?” he demanded in a surly tone.

Montoya bristled. “You called me for an audience.”

Prince John’s head lolled on its neck, turning to the servant who’d escorted Montoya.

“Who is this?” he demanded. Before the servant could speak, however, Montoya inched forward, his toes touching the front edge of the first step.

“Bishop Donel Montoya, Christ’s ambassador to the Isle of England, appointed by the Holy See.” He tilted his head just slightly. “At your service.”

Prince John regarded him for a long moment, dark eyes taking in every inch of finery wrapped around the bishop. He grunted, then spoke.

“Nice stick.”

Bishop Montoya stroked the crozier with his fingertips.

“I am surprised you don’t have one, Your Highness.”

“I have no lambs that are gone astray.”

“But you do have subjects to rule.”

“They wouldn’t respond to the crook.”

“They recognize the rod,” Montoya persisted. “A ruler should have a scepter.”

Prince John didn’t reply, but studied him, most likely trying to determine if he was being mocked.

“And where would I find a suitable scepter?” he said at last.

“Surely Your Highness could have one made by the finest goldsmith in the land.”

At that moment the servants succeeded in cutting free one corner of the tapestry. It slid down the wall, fabric hissing against stone like a trapped snake, and then it
tharumped
hollowly on the floor. The servants began moving to the next corner, ready to cut it free as well.

Prince John didn’t react, just continued to stare at the bishop. Montoya’s eyes remained locked on him.

“Where would I get enough gold to create a scepter fit for me to wield?” Prince John asked.

Eagerness to please the royalty rode Montoya hard, and he said the words before thinking.

“The church will provide.” As soon as the words had left his mouth, he wished desperately that he could recall them, but it was too late.

An eyebrow arched.

“The church has gold?”

In for a pinch, in for a pound
, the bishop decided, his heart pounding now. “We have some… items in storage that can be procured. We will…
I
will gladly contribute them so my king can be properly attired.” He smiled. “As God would want.”

Prince John leaned forward, feral mouth stretched to show teeth.

“Then I will accept your
tithe
to me.” The words struck like a cobra. Suddenly Montoya felt as if he were falling backward—as if a rug had been pulled from under his feet.

“I… I…” he stammered, but words would not come.

Prince John shifted his body, leaning back again.

“And since the church is so amicable toward helping the throne, there is something I need you to find for me.” He fell silent, watching the clergyman intently.

After a long moment, Montoya broke the silence.

“What is it you are seeking?” he asked.

“A book,” Prince John replied. “Ancient in origin. Pagan.”

“Why would you look to
me
for such a thing?”

“I have reason to believe that at least one of your monks might know where it is.”

“Such a thing should have been sent to Rome,” the bishop said, stopping himself before he mentioned the secret archives held by the Church at the Holy See.

“Let us hope it has not been,” John said. “It is an artifact of this land, and therefore it belongs here. In fact, it should be turned over to the throne. Immediately.”

“Yes, of course,” he said. Montoya felt himself nodding before he realized he was going to agree. “If you will give me the particulars, I will search for it, and bring it to you as soon as it can be found.”

“Excellent,” the prince said, a smile twisting his features. “Approach the throne and I will…
impress
upon you the sign of what I seek.”

*  *  *

“You’ve been awfully quiet since the king left,” Chastity remarked, breaking the stillness of the room. Marian glanced up from the beautifully illuminated manuscript she’d been perusing, but not truly reading.

“He has scarce gone, but I feel his absence already,” Marian admitted.

“I have been wondering if it’s that which weighs on your mind, or thoughts of a certain handsome noble, instead.”

“I’m sure I don’t know who you’re talking about,” Marian said.

“You know
exactly
who I am talking about,” the girl replied. “The one you made such a lovely sight dancing with.”

“Oh,” Marian waved her hand, feigning surprise. “Robin.”

Chastity rolled her eyes.

“You might be able to fool everyone else in this castle, but not me,” she said, leaning closer. “I see right through you. You fancy him—I know you do—and any fool could see that he fancies you.”

Marian felt her cheeks grow warm.

“Do you think when the king returns he’ll ask for your hand?”

“Chastity, I’d thank you to employ your matchmaking skills on someone else,” Marian said, returning her attention to the book.

“I grow weary of matching stable boys to servant girls. I desire a challenge.”

“Well, then look to finding yourself a husband, and not one for me.”

Chastity grimaced. “I have yet to spend more than five minutes talking with a man that doesn’t bore me.”

Marian could sympathize. Not all men were Robin.

“What have you been reading?” Chastity said, seeming eager now to change the subject, once it was focused on her.

“The cardinal was good enough to loan me a manuscript detailing the life of Saint George,” Marian said. “I’ve been most curious about him since his last feast day, and have found myself more and more drawn to his story.”

Chastity squinted, as if trying to think. “He’s one of them that refused to renounce his faith, and wouldn’t make a sacrifice to the pagan gods, wasn’t he?”

“Yes, he’s also renowned for slaying a dragon, and saving a lady in the process.”

“We could use more of his type around here, especially lately, now that all the good ones have gone off to war.” She paused, and then added slyly, “Well, most of them that is.”

Marian knew what she meant, but she couldn’t help but recall what the king had told her. She pointed to a picture of Saint George.

“Some battles are waged closer to home, and we might have need of men such as this,” she said.

“We will if that sorry excuse for a French king isn’t doing his duty, to the same extent as our own Lionheart,” Chastity responded. “We’d be in a fine mess then.”

“Don’t let it burden you, Chastity,” Marian said. “I worry enough about that for the both of us.”

Suddenly there was a shout from another room. Both Marian and Chastity leapt to their feet.

“That sounds like it was coming from the main hall,” Chastity guessed. “Best stay here, princess. I’ll discover the source.” Before Marian could respond two guards entered the room. Their uniforms were covered in dust and rolled up at the sleeves. Dirty leather gloves covered their hands.

“What is happening?” Marian asked, though she didn’t recognize either man.

Neither of them looked at her, much less answered. With matching strides they moved toward a large tapestry that hung on her wall, depicting the crucifixion. Each seized a corner of it, and then tore it from the wall with a mighty yank.

“Stop!” Marian screamed, striding forward quickly as they dropped the tapestry and turned to lay hands on another one. The taller of the two looked at her, and she froze in her tracks. His eyes shone, glassy and lifeless. A sick feeling settled in the pit of her stomach. She felt rooted to the spot, as though she couldn’t move while pinned by his gaze.