Mark of the Black Arrow (18 page)

“Yes.” He stroked his chin, silent for a long moment. “Can you describe the other symbols? Drawing them is too much risk.”

She did her best, and the cardinal’s jaw tightened with each word. So did the pressure in her head.

Finally her memory was exhausted, and the pressure softened.

“What are they used for?” she asked.

“They are symbols used to conjure and control,” he replied. “Most often the object of their use is some sort of dark entity, something monstrous. Some such creatures have been known to poison the very earth beneath their feet.”

“Surely the prince would not call upon such a thing,” she exclaimed. She didn’t like or trust her uncle, but what the cardinal suggested was incomprehensible.

“I would be certain of nothing at this moment,” the cardinal said, “except that danger has come upon us all, and there are very few who remain to stand and fight.” He shared a significant look with Friar Tuck. “I must think and pray and plan.”

“There is still one thing you don’t know,” Marian said.

“Tell me, child.”

“The king has left his fastest ship at my disposal, to summon him home in the event of an emergency.”

The cardinal frowned, saying nothing.

Tuck pushed off the door. “He is still at sea, traveling in heavily-laden vessels,” the friar offered. “He could be caught by a lighter ship.”

The cardinal shook his head. “We don’t have anything that we can show him as proof, other than a few missing tapestries. I warned him of the dangers of leaving the land unprotected, that a darkness approached, but he chose to go anyway. I’m afraid we’ll need much more damning evidence than we have of John’s wickedness.”

Marian knew he was right, even if she wasn’t happy about it. Richard had placed John in control, and she knew him well enough to trust that the decision had not been made lightly. They needed proof that evil was taking root in the heart of the kingdom. She only prayed that they found it before it was too late.

Friar Tuck looked at her thoughtfully. “When the time does come, choose carefully the messenger you send. This might be the one chance we have to undo our fate.”

The cardinal nodded. “Wise advice.”

The words of both men weighed heavily on Marian. “What are you not telling me?” she asked. “Do not dare to hold back. King Richard kept me privy to his court and I have proven myself capable. Grant me the same respect you would any man.”

“It is not a lack of respect, Marian, but a fear for your safety.”

The cardinal sighed and fell silent, studying her.

Finally he answered.

“There are prophecies that tell of a time of darkness, when evil will be unleashed upon England,” he said. “This malicious force, if left unchecked, will spread across the land, and then the world. The prophetess, Bernadette of Avignon, had a vision regarding it. She said in her writings, ‘The lion of the north will range from his home and the jackals of the devil will be free to ravage at their leisure until nothing is left of the land or the people.’ She continued in more detail, but you can see what she meant.”

“You believe this is that time?” she asked.

“Prophecy is tricky,” he said. “But yes, all the signs and portents lead me to believe it is true.”

Marian’s mouth turned down.

“What is wrong?” he asked.

“I mean no disrespect, Your Eminence—you are far more learned than I—but I have studied the scripture and the writings of the church fathers, including the Revelation of St. John, and even St. Irenaeus.”

Friar Tuck started, his wide shoulders jerking. “You’ve read Irenaeus?”

Her mouth pursed and her eyes narrowed. “Yes I have, and I understood it, as well.”

The monk raised his large hands. “I meant it not like that. I thought the only copy of his writings was held here.”

“The king had one in his private library, purchased from a convent somewhere in the land of Gaul.” A thought pinged through her mind.
If John seeks to harm those, I shall
…

No appropriate punishment occurred to her.

The cardinal raised his hand, gaining their attention once more. “There are words written by mystics of the church that very few have read. Their prophecies are considered controversial, sometimes even heresy. The Holy See keeps them only for their own records. I have spent my life chasing these—I am fascinated and I do not pretend otherwise. It is frowned upon by my brethren, and yet I still search.” He put his hand on her arm lightly. “I have lived three times and ten your lifetime. I have read prophecy from saints and heretics, madmen and scholars, pagan and Christian alike. I have found threads that weave a disturbing tapestry, and I think we are on the cusp of a massive attempt by the dark to overtake the light.”

She stood. “Then we must not waste another minute. We must find proof of what we suspect and quickly, for all our sakes.”

*  *  *

Glynna Longstride stood in her kitchen alone. The girls were at the market with some of the servants and the men who were left were all out in the field. She could finally fulfill a goal she had long pursued in secret. Her trip to Adaryn had given her the final piece of the puzzle she needed.

She had sought out Adaryn when trying to get pregnant for the first time. It had been Lila’s suggestion, though she knew not how Lila was connected to the hedgewitch. Adaryn had given her some herbs to put in her wine and her husband’s on the next full moon. Nine months later Robert had been born, a male child and a blessing. Years later she had used herb potions to conceive both Rebecca and Ruth.

Robin had been a surprise, the only child conceived without use of any potions. It was a difficult pregnancy, far more painful than any of the other three. When he was born she had seen light pouring out of his eyes and mouth, and it had terrified her. If not for the intervention of her husband she would have killed the creature then and there.

After that she had carved the symbols into her bedchamber door and mixed the paint to be smeared into the wood, preventing the boy from crossing the threshold. When it worked she went back to Adaryn, seeking to learn more of the woman’s magic, to add to the cache her own mother had left within her.

Adaryn had been clear that she did not take students.

Glynna had been so furious she’d almost outed the woman as a witch, the way she had done with the whore who had been wet nurse to Robin as a babe. Fortunately she had thought the better of it. Adaryn had her uses, after all.

Then her mother died, having survived her father by several years, and Glynna discovered her grimoire. Buried in a trunk, it was hidden inside an old woolen cloak that was musty and molded. She did not know if her mother had ever used it, or if it was an antique passed down through the family. Glynna, though, had studied it thoroughly. Much of it was written in other languages, but there was enough that she could read and comprehend to prove to her that what she held was a true relic, a thing of power.

With her husband absent Glynna was able to do something she had long wanted to do. She had come straight home and carved the new symbols into the doorposts. She had mixed herbs in a bowl and sliced deep into the hollow below her wrist, bleeding into the mixture, using it to paint the doorposts on top and both sides. As she did so she was reminded of the Bible story of the Israelites getting ready to leave Egypt, and painting their door frames with lamb’s blood to keep out the Angel of Death. She wondered if her blood would only work on humans, or if it would even stop St. Azrael should he come to call. It was a comforting thought as she watched the red blood soak into the faded wood until it couldn’t be seen.

When that was done she walked inside and closed the door behind her. An excitement burned in her belly, not unlike the one she felt from time to time when her husband would take her in some room of the house other than their bedchambers. The risk of being caught always made the excitement exquisite. She quivered all over now, in the same type of anticipation.

She stripped naked and allowed herself a moment to revel in how freeing it was to be skyclad, even inside. She had cleared the top of a large, low table and knelt before it. Slowly, reverently, she began to place objects on top of it. Two candles flanked each end. In the center she put a bowl, the same one in which she’d mixed her blood with the herbs. Beside it she placed the dagger with which she’d opened her own vein. It was still stained with her blood, and just looking at it caused a surge of dark joy.

On the other side of the bowl she placed a small, carved figure that she had also found in her mother’s things. It was black as the night and had a twisted face that both attracted and repelled her. She found herself staring at it sometimes for hours at a time, and it was as though her mind went elsewhere when she did.

Next to the dagger she placed the sacred book with the spells she had been learning. Turning the hidebound cover, she opened the book and fingered through the parchment pages. Her fingertips tingled as they slid over the symbols and words. She left it open to an incantation that had long fascinated her—the shape of the words, the ink with which they were writ. It sank into the fiber of the paper, bonding with it. It was a reddish brown on the cream-colored parchment, and her eyes found the combination of the two pleasing.

Now she had a proper altar, one that was just for her. Now she could finally attempt some of the things of which she had only been able to dream.

The spell was simple, the words written to spell out the sounds. They were not English, not even similar. She had recited the syllables over and over in her mind, the noises of them rubbing along the inside of her soul.

She began rolling through the summoning without thinking about it, her lips moving just enough to mouth the words. As the spell rolled off her lips she peered at the carved figure and for a moment she swore that she could feel the lightest of touches, like hands caressing her naked body. She closed her eyes and let the feeling wash over her, the touch increasingly more intimate, like some dark entity wanting to take her and make her its own.

Let me in.

She felt herself spreading in welcome as she threw her head back.

“Yes,” she whispered.

And with that, she was gone over the edge.

*  *  *

Adaryn arrived home just before sunset. As she stood for a moment, staring back toward Barnabas’ home, she fought back her own tears.

A sudden hoot from above her head caused her to jump. She looked upward. A large owl was perched on her roof, staring down at her with cold eyes. A shiver danced down her spine and she hurried into the house.

*  *  *

When Marian returned, it was with a renewed determination to watch her uncle like a hawk. She was convinced that he was up to something more than just destroying the tapestries. Without proof, though, Cardinal Francis was right—there was no use sending a messenger to Richard.

Murther was waiting when she pulled the horse to a stop outside the stable.

“Did you have a nice ride, Highness?” He held the mare’s head while Marian dismounted.

“Yes, thank you.”

She followed him inside the stable and watched as he opened Merryweather’s stall. Something dark flashed at the edge of her vision, causing her to take a hasty step backward. When she took a closer look, however, there was nothing there. She scanned the stable, but caught no other glimpse of it. Black on black, it had seemed.

Just a shadow
, she thought, though she felt a shudder. Dismissing it, she hurried out of the stable without bothering to change back to her gown, her thoughts turning to Chastity and what might have happened in her absence.

She slipped into the castle through a side entrance used by the butcher and headed straight to her chamber, hoping the girl would be waiting for her there. When she walked in, however, she discovered Chastity on hands and knees, shoving something beneath Marian’s bed. A distinct scent of smoke filled the room.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

Chastity jumped and gave out a yelp. She twisted, her face pale except for a bruise that spread on her left cheekbone under her eye. She stayed on her knees, and her hand fluttered over her generous chest.

“By the saints, you scared me,” she said, struggling to regain her breath, but Marian scarcely heard her as she stepped quickly closer, standing over the girl, her eyes flashing with anger.

“Chastity, what has happened?” Her voice sounded harsh even to her own ears. “Who
dared
to strike you?”

“A knave of a guard did this.” Chastity winced and touched her cheek. “I gave better than I got, though.”

“Why did he lay hands on you?” Fury burned in her chest. She shook free of it for a moment. “Wait, are you injured? Do you need assistance?”

“Other than this love tap, I’m fine. Him, on the other hand…” Chastity shrugged.

“Tell me everything.”

Chastity took a moment, and Marian could see that she was struggling to maintain her composure. Finally she took a deep breath, and spoke.

“All the tapestries from the castle.” She stood. “He was burning them… in a pit behind the castle proper.”

“No.” Marian reeled at the thought. “Surely not.”

“By my virtue, it’s true,” Chastity declared vehemently. “I tried to stop him, and he struck me to the ground. When he turned his back I crowned him with a stone.” She sniffed. “Some men just can’t deal with a strong woman.”

“Did you kill him?”

“No, but he’ll wish I had. His skull was already goose-egged by the time he started to get up,” Chastity said. “I managed to save three tapestries. They’re a bit singed at the edges, but they’re intact. One of them is the suffering of Samson. The others were lost.”

Marian gasped, for the story of Samson was her favorite. Many an afternoon Chastity had found her staring at that tableau when she was supposed to be elsewhere. The tragedy of the man spoke to her—given all the strength of God, felled to his knees, and finding redemption in the loss of his own life. There was honor, hard-won and learned too late. She often contemplated why such a masculine story would resonate so surely inside her.