Mark of the Black Arrow (2 page)

Outside the light blinded her. The giant put her down, her back to a blackened iron pole that had been driven into the ground and surrounded by piled, pitch-soaked wood.

They were going to burn her.

“No, please!” she choked out even as she was lashed to the pole.

“You are a witch, and you will burn for it,” the old man informed her in a calm voice, as though he were discussing nothing more than the weather.

Around them were gathered people from all stations in life, come to witness the execution. She glanced around frantically, looking for a friendly face, but found none.

“You know me!” she cried.

“We know you as a witch.”

It was no use.

Once she had been sentenced to burning, none would dare speak in her defense unless they desired to share the same fate. Lord Longstride was there, his face hard. Beside him stood his oldest son, Robert, all of four years of age and yet already a miniature copy of his father. On the lord’s other side stood his wife, the lady Glynna. Their infant son was not with them, though, and Finna looked frantically for the boy.

She finally spied the child in the arms of one of the servant boys, the one they called Little John—though at nine he was already almost the size of a man full grown. The baby’s mother had refused to touch the child since the hour of his birth. A darkness had seized her mind at that moment, and she had sworn that it was a fey changeling and not her own child.

On the night of his birth, she had taken a pillow and tried to smother the child. He had been saved by his father, who had entered just in time. Nothing he could say or do would convince his lady wife to suckle the child.

He had searched for a wet nurse, and Finna had seen her chance. Though childless, she had mixed a potion that allowed her to take the child to her own breast and give him sustenance. His father had placed the boy wholly in her care, and while their mother was not well, the older boy had been her responsibility, too.

These last four months she had done what she could to relate the knowledge of the old ways to both children, telling tales and stirring within them the inborn knowledge of the magic that once held the Isle of the Mighty safe and secure against the forces of darkness. She had tried to be careful, but she had not been careful enough.

Someone must have overheard.

Someone who hated her.

Finna’s eyes drifted back to the children’s mother, and a sickness grew deep inside. A fiendish light danced in the Lady Longstride’s eyes, as though she was beholding something for which she had fervently wished.

The old man who had spoken her fate struck flint to iron, throwing sparks onto the head of a fuel-soaked torch. The tiny fires caught in the fabric, jumping to flame almost immediately. The cruel man picked it up and moved toward her.

“Listen to me, my lord,” she called to the boys’ father. “There is a great evil coming to this land. Only a Longstride can defeat it. The signs are all coming true. It will happen in your lifetime—sooner than you think.”

“Is that true, Father?” the oldest boy asked.

Lord Longstride frowned as he put his hand on the boy’s head. “Don’t believe anything a witch tells you, Rob.”

“You must protect your sons,” she begged. “Teach them both the old ways, and the ways of Christ.”

Lady Glynna leaned into her husband, whispering.

Finna strained to hear. A small incantation in her mind sharpened her ears

“We should throw the changeling onto the fire with her,” the lady said, her face twisting viciously.

“No! Don’t listen to her!” Finna shouted.

“The creature sucked at the witch’s teat,” the lady continued. “Who knows what evil she has imparted to it?”

“Woman,” the lord hissed, “I will not hear another word from you against my son.” He spat on the ground. “Let’s be done with this filthy business.” He gave a short nod to the old man who tossed the torch onto the pitch-soaked wood.

Within moments the pyre was lit and flames were engulfing Finna’s feet. The baby started to scream and it cut through the pain already climbing up her, breaking her heart. Her skin began blistering, pain eating its way up her legs and leaving nothing below them. Oily smoke from her own blackening flesh made her eyes stream tears. It all began to swamp her mind, stealing her from herself, and she held onto one thing.

Regret.

Finna regretted so many things: not having children of her own, failing in her mission to prepare the Longstride children.

Most of all she regretted not taking that Longstride bitch with her to the grave.

T
he sun did not reach the ground. It tried, pounding away at the top of the green canopy, beating against interlocked boughs of ash, oak, and birch.

The majestic forest kings held the rays at bay, allowing only the softest, verdant light to spill into the heart of the lonely wood, turning it into a permanent emerald twilight. Here and there a giant had fallen, crashing through his brothers’ embrace and leaving a gap. These small pockets bloomed and blossomed, filling with flowers and grass not found beneath the trees.

Few ever saw the beauty. Sherwood was vast and it kept its secrets well. Travelers avoided traveling its length or breadth. Indeed, they tried to skirt the mighty forest altogether. If they could not avoid it they stuck to one of the known roads, many of which were roads in name only, and actually little more than deer paths that men and horses had sought to widen. The forest constantly sought to reclaim them.

Robin crouched in the underbrush at the edge of a hidden meadow. He waited, weight over the balls of his feet, rendered invisible by stillness so complete that he barely breathed, and by the hooded hunting jerkin he wore, its thin deerskin dyed a green to match his surroundings.

Eyes narrowed, he stared across the clearing where a sleek-sided doe grazed the low-growing sweetgrass, mouth moving rhythmically as she ate. Two spotted fawns frolicked around her, leaping and nudging each other in a game of keep away. They flashed around, white tails flicking, tiny hooves digging the soft earth. Their mother ignored them, head down, enjoying the clover in her mouth.

They didn’t know he was there. If they had, they would have fled, abandoning the sweet food for safety in the wood.

His hand tightened on the bow, fingers whispering softly against the leather-wrapped yew. He could almost hear the wood whispering to him, reassuring him that its aim would be true.

He could make the shot. He could take one of them. Rise, draw, pull, and release in one smooth, fluid movement. He could pin an arrow through the doe’s chest, stopping her heart in an instant. She would drop to her knees and then slowly fall to her side, dead before she even felt the pain. Yet leaving the fawns to die without their mother’s protection and guidance would make the meat, however needed it might be, taste of guilt and shame.

No. The family for whom he hunted was not that hungry.

Not yet.

He stayed there in the itchy undergrowth, thighs burning from crouching, and he waited.

The mother led her fawns into the meadow. There was no hesitation in her step, no pause to even look for danger. She ate in total security, oblivious to the world around her and her children.

So she wasn’t alone.

His eyes scanned the forest behind the doe, trying to pierce the gloom just beyond the tree line. There, deep in a pocket of near dark, he saw a flicker—the tiniest movement of something.

He focused, teeth gritting, pouring his will into the dark.

Come out. Show yourself.

The doe raised her head.

The fawns continued to play.

I know you’re there.

The doe stepped back to the edge of the clearing.

Something massive moved in the dark.

The fawns stopped, dead still.

The largest stag he’d ever seen stepped into sight. It towered over the doe, a massive rack of antlers spreading from its skull in a crown of bone, a fortress of spikes and tines. Thick fur lay in a mantle across shoulders and a back wide enough to carry the entire world. Its bones were carved timber. It was majestic, magnificent, and primordial, the avatar of every stag that ever existed.

The Lord of the Forest.

Awe fell on Robin, like thunder across the sea.

He couldn’t take a creature such as this.

The mean spot of his humanity rose up, filling his chest with the very desire his awe denied, and splitting him like lightning. The urge to destroy such beauty, to conquer such strength, raged through him and he wrestled, wrestled
hard
within himself to contain it.

His fingers touched the notch of an arrow in his quiver.

The stag stepped forward, lowered its mighty head, and began to eat, trusting the doe, its mate, to watch for danger.

This
was the moment.

His fingers closed on the notch and stayed, gripping tight, as he fought inside himself. His father’s voice sounded in his mind.

Kill for food, never for the pleasure of the kill itself. That is a road that leads to Hell.

He pushed away not the message, but the messenger.

Centering himself with the thought of the families who could eat through a winter with this one act, he laid the arrow across the bow.

Rise.

Breathe in.

Hold.

Draw.

And…

“Robin!”

A voice split the silence, an axe through a piece of dry firewood. The stag jolted at the sound. Almost too fast for his eye to follow, the mighty beast swept its antlers around, driving the fawns and their mother into the trees. With a snort of contempt, the Lord of the Forest disappeared like quicksilver.

Robin released the tension on the bow, and exhaled.

Another day, fine fellow.

Quivering the arrow, he turned and began making his way through the trees to find the person who had spoiled his shot.

*  *  *

I can’t see anything in this blasted place.
Will Scarlet sat straighter on his horse, stretching to peer further into the gloom that bordered Merchant’s Road. The horse ignored his movements, standing between shallow ruts of dirt packed hard by countless rolling wheels, and cropping a mouthful of grass.

Will shifted his gaze from side to side, picking out shapes in the darkness. Dappled light fell around him, following the curving line of road where the tree canopy had been thinned.

“Damnation, Robin, you know you’re supposed to be back by now.” His voice was low as he grumbled. The horse’s ears twitched, but it didn’t look up from its mouthful.

Will brought his hands back to his mouth, drawing in air to bellow once again.

“I think we’ve had about enough of that.”

Will jerked in his saddle, slender hand snatching at the handle of his rapier. Seeing who had spoken, he relaxed his grip.

Robin stood at the edge of the road, bow in hand.

“Where did you come from?”

A smile pulled Robin’s face. He slung the bow across his back.

“Perhaps I’ve been here all along.”

“Sneaky bastard.” Will shifted in his saddle. “One day you’ll show me how you move so quietly.”

Robin pointed at Will’s embroidered boots made of suede calfskin, dyed a rich vermillion to match his surname.

“You can’t be stealthy in boots as loud as those.”

“So it’s a choice? Either style or stealth?”

“Not in your case.”

Will sniffed. “I’d choose style over stealth every day.”

“Perhaps one day you’ll choose substance over style.”

Will rolled his eyes. “I am a
paragon
of substance.”

“Perhaps,” Robin replied, sounding doubtful. “Your style is substantial, though, I’ll grant you that.”

“I’ve seen you dressed well,” Will replied. “Even then, you’re so quiet it’s spooky.”

“Ah, cousin, maybe I’m half-ghost.” Robin’s smile grew wider. “Don’t you think Sherwood is haunted?”

“Haunted by you? Almost certainly.”

“Not by me.” Robin waved his hands. “But the spirits of the wood are benign.” A serious note crept into his voice. “Mostly.”

“Tell that to Cousin Requard,” Will snorted. “He claims to have been held captive by them one night, and hasn’t been the same since.”

“Ha! Requard was held captive by too much mead from the monastery, and a briar patch he fell into while trying to catch a glimpse of the Latimer twins at their nightly bath in the river. He wasn’t even in Sherwood proper.” Robin moved closer until he stood next to the horse. “Now, why have you come out here calling my name as if it’s your own?”

“I was sent to fetch you—by Uncle Philemon.”

“Fetch me?” Robin’s face darkened. “Fetch
you
,” he spat, and he turned to leave, lifting the hood over his head.

“But the feast is tonight,” Will protested. “We have to attend. By order of the king.”

“Fetch him, too,” Robin said, but his voice softened slightly. “I have no use for feasts when there are families who starve.”

Will sighed. “What starving families? The Lionheart is a good king. Everyone eats.”

“Some eat better than others.”

Will shrugged. “Such is life.”

“Fetch
that
,” Robin said firmly. “I’ll make a difference.”

“You
do
make a difference. We all know you hunt for the poor. It’s why you’re allowed to hunt in Sherwood at all. Well, that and your father’s fervent support of King Richard.”

“Fetch my father most of all.” Robin’s mouth twisted into a scowl.

Will held his tongue. His Uncle Philemon was a hard man—he had to be when responsible for so many, and he tasked his sons accordingly, yoking them with the expectation that they would become copies of him. With Robert, the oldest, it had been no difficulty—the boy took after him in so many ways. With Robin, however, it was different, their relationship full of enmity. Will had been party to many of their fights, and saw that his uncle knew no other way.

He and his youngest son were much alike.

Time for a new tactic
, he decided.

“Don’t eat the king’s food then,” he said. “Hell, steal your portion and give it to your poor families, but before you refuse to attend, bear in mind that
she
will be there.”