Mark of the Black Arrow (22 page)

Locksley straightened. This was the acting king, with all the power of the throne behind him, backed by armed guards, but the tone of the man caused him to bristle. He swallowed and started again.

“Your Majesty… we are eager to learn why you have called us from our lands and asked us to meet with you.” He looked around. “We assumed there would be refreshments, perhaps a hospitality meal as befits a conference between a king and his nobility.”

“Ah.” Prince John raised a finger into the air. “There is your mistake. Your presumption, although I do not blame you for it. My brother ruled with a far too generous hand.”

A murmur rose around the room, swelling up behind Locksley and pushing at his back. He lifted his hand, and they fell silent.

“It sounds as if you desire to change the relationship established by King Richard,” he said.

“I do not care what my brother did on this throne.”

Locksley felt the pressure of the men behind him. He needed to say something, but to ask what Prince John planned to do would smack of weakness.

The prince did not make him ask. Shifting on the throne, twisting to the side as if the seat was too hard for comfort, John leaned forward, pointing with the scepter.

“All of you will deliver to the crown one half of your harvest and one third of your retinue, in return for my service as your king. You will acquiesce to the search of your property by crown-appointed tax collectors, so your taxes may be assessed. This will apply to the people living under your purview, as well. What is theirs belongs to you, after all.”

Silence fell on the room like a crushing hand.

The men exploded with anger.

“What is the
meaning
of this?” Minter leapt forward, his fist shaking in front of his squinted eye. He shoved past Locksley, shouldering him two steps to the side, mouth locked in a snarl. “We’ll not stand for this outrage, you, you…
substitute
.”

Shouts of “pretender” and “usurper” rang through the chamber, clanging off the bare stone walls. Fists were raised, some even holding the ceremonial daggers snatched from belts. Locksley watched the other nobles leaping as if their feet were afire. He did not move away from them, but neither did he join in their fervor.

On the throne, Prince John smiled.

He raised a limp hand, flicking the first two fingers toward Minter. In a blur the guard to the left of the throne raised his crossbow and fired. All noise cut short as the thick bolt slammed into Minter’s chest, just under his throat, with the sound of a fist smashing a hollow drum.

Everyone froze.

All but Minter, who flipped backward as if struck by a giant, feet flying from under him with the impact. First his curved shoulders slammed against the floor, followed by the dull, melon
THUNK thunk
of his skull bouncing once, then twice. Heartblood splashed up in an arc that mimicked his trajectory, splattering across Locksley’s jaw, cheek, and temple.

Minter bled out on the floor, the pool widening around him, a deep claret on the tile.

Lord Staunton leaped forward with a roar. “You have no right!”

A different guard stepped forward, unsheathed his sword, and ran Staunton through in one fluid motion. He resheathed his weapon and stepped back to his place before the lord’s body even hit the floor.

The message was clear.

Prince John sat back on the throne.

“You were saying?”

Locksley stepped over Staunton’s falling body and spoke without wiping the blood from his face.

“I will command the tax collectors for you… My Liege.”

M
arian was furious. The king had instructed John to trust her, to rely on her knowledge of the realm and how it was run.

It
burned
to be dismissed.

The prince was dining with the nobles, and she needed to find out what was occurring. She’d tasked Chastity with learning what she could, but a growing fearfulness in Marian urged her to have a care for the girl’s safety. If John was willing to threaten Marian, in no uncertain terms, then he would not hesitate to kill a serving girl. Especially one who was her friend.

No, she had to find others who were loyal to King Richard, and would be willing to spy for her. To that end she made her way to the kitchens in search of the steward who attended to the prince’s needs. When she got there, she was surprised to discover that there was no great flurry of activity, as there should have been in the case of a royal meal.

Indeed, the kitchen was almost empty.

She moved through the large square room, passing tables stacked with pots and pans. A round woman, near the shape of an apple on two sticks, scurried over, wiping red hands on an apron. Jansa was her name, Marian recalled, and she performed a rusty curtsey.

“Milady.”

“Please summon the person who schedules the kitchen staff.”

“You’d be looking at her.”

“You’ve moved up, Jansa,” Marian said. “I’m impressed.”

“Beg pardon, milady, I didn’t think you’d remember me,” the woman said with a smile.

“You fed me sweets the first time I was thrown from a horse, back when I was a child,” Marian said with a grin. “How could I ever forget?”

“I thought that arm would never heal,” the woman answered warmly. “Praise God it did.” She stood quiet after speaking, looking at Marian with her head cocked just slightly to the left.

“Why is there no activity?” Marian asked. “The prince is meeting with the lords of the kingdom.”

“I’d thought to be providing refreshment, at the very least,” Jansa shrugged. “Perhaps a full meal, but the steward said no, the king was not providing for his guests that way.”

“
Acting
king,” Marian reminded her gently. “He only rules until the Lionheart returns.”

“May it be soon, and God grant him victory over all his enemies.” The woman crossed herself, fingers moving quicker than conscious thought.

Marian nodded. “Yes, we should all pray for that.”

“What can I help you with today, milady?” Jansa said. “I don’t think you’ve come around looking for sweets. You haven’t done that since you were a little girl.”

“I’m looking for the steward.”

“I’m not sure where he is at the moment, but he’ll be back here in an hour to take some food and drink to the king… the prince.” Jansa waved her hands. “Sorry. Down here it is much the same. You might find the steward in your uncle’s study. I can send one of the girls to fetch him for you.”

“No, that won’t be necessary,” Marian said. “I shall find him myself. You may return to your duties.” She turned to go, but Jansa reached out quickly and touched her arm, then recoiled.

“I meant no disrespect, milady,” she said fearfully. “I apologize for my offense.”

“You gave none,” Marian said.

Jansa stepped so close that Marian could feel the breath on her cheek.

“Milady, please pardon me for saying so, but I would not trust the steward with anything you didn’t want the prince to know.” She glanced around, as if concerned that she might be overheard. “He might have served King Richard for years, but he has no loyalty to him.”

Marian paused, thinking carefully about how to react. This could be some trick by Prince John, to lure her into saying something against him. It grieved her, however, that she had to even consider the loyalty of the woman who stood before her.

“Are you sure the steward has become… untrustworthy?” she asked at last.

The woman nodded gravely.

“Then I thank you for your warning and discretion.”

“I’ve known you since you were a babe,” Jansa said, “and I’ve watched as you grew. You are a good woman, and we place our trust in you.”

We.
Jansa was not alone in her suspicions, or her loyalty to Marian. A chill snaked its way down her spine as she prayed the same loyalty didn’t get the woman killed.

“There is nothing more precious to me than your trust,” Marian answered. “If there is anything that you think I should know, please send word to me.”

Jansa dropped her voice even lower. “Milady should know that two of my girls saved one of the tapestries. It’s hidden away where no one will ever find it.”

Tears stung Marian’s eyes. “They will forever have my gratitude.”

“Would milady like a nice sweet?” Jansa asked suddenly. “One won’t hurt nothing.” There was a sound, and Marian turned her head. The steward entered the kitchen.

“I don’t suppose it would,” Marian said, watching him cross the room. His gait was easy, long arms swinging casually by his side.

“Milady, what are you doing here?” the man asked, eyes narrowing under beetled eyebrows.

“Can I not roam the castle at will?” she responded. “It is my home.”

“Why yes, milady, of course. I just wondered why you would wander to this particular part of your home.”

She sniffed, seeking to appear dismissive.

“I came to see about the preparations, since we have so many lords under the roof. Hospitality is one of the obligations of a king, so I anticipated that something had been planned in their regard. I was dismayed to discover there was not.”

“The ones who can be on their way will be on their way, in short time,” the steward said.

Marian sighed. “Well, then I hope they are not offended by this breach in protocol.”

He straightened, pulling at his tunic. “I can assure milady that I acted on the king’s order.”

Prince
, she thought.

Jansa handed Marian a small cake wrapped in cloth.

“Milady.”

“Thank you,” Marian said. She turned and didn’t give the steward another word as she swept out of the kitchens with her head held high. A short distance down the corridor, out of sight of the kitchen, she stopped and leaned back against the wall. The stone was cold against her back, her body heat leeching away through the linen of her gown.

The castle felt suddenly stifling to her, the bare walls of it too close, the ceilings too low. She longed for the freedom of the outdoors. She needed to clear her head and think. She wanted nothing more than to grab a horse and ride with the wind in her face until she had put all this far behind her. There was work to be done, though. She had a feeling that whatever the reason for John’s meeting with the nobles, it would be of great interest to her—and hopefully to King Richard, as well.

She turned, making her way to a hidden entrance that led to the throne room. King Richard had often made use of it, and she hoped John had not yet discovered it. When she reached the door in question she stood for a moment, and then opened it just a crack so that she could see inside.

When she did, her blood ran cold.

Two men were on the floor—dead, from the looks of it. Noblemen. Her heart started hammering in her chest.

What is happening in there?

*  *  *

Will was mostly sober by the time he and Robin reached the castle. As they dismounted, a handful of noblemen he had known since childhood exited the main building, huddled together.

“Looks like we missed all the excitement,” Will said. “I told you we’d be late.”

“And I told you I didn’t care,” Robin replied. “I only came to keep your soggy self from falling off your horse.”

As they walked up to the group, servants appeared, carrying the bodies of two men. Will blinked in astonishment as he recognized the face of old Minter. It was him, but it wasn’t. The skin had lost its color and his eyes were fixed in death. Blood covered his clothes. His shock deepened when he recognized the other as Staunton. Companions in life, they were companions still, even in death.

“What happened here?” Robin asked sharply before Will could find his tongue.

Lord Brighton stepped closer and lowered his voice. “The king had them killed because they objected to the new way of doing things.”

“And pray tell, what new way is that?” Will asked, recovering from his initial shock.

“Taxes, and lots of them. One half of our harvest and one third of our retinue.”

“He can’t do that,” Robin said. “Winter is too close.”

“I think Minter would beg to differ,” Brighton said grimly.

“It’s madness. We need our people—they are our responsibility, as well. Even if he takes some at sword point, how are we supposed to feed the rest with only half our harvest?” Robin demanded.

Will spoke up. “If the nobles stood together…”

“They won’t,” Brighton interrupted. “We won’t. Locksley has already started licking the prince’s boots. He volunteered to lead the tax collectors.”

“Like hell he will,” Robin growled, starting forward. Will grabbed his arm, knowing full well that he was endangering himself by doing so.

“Easy…” Brighton stepped in front of Robin. “Or you’ll end up like Minter. Then who will look after your people?” He paused as that sunk in. “Locksley would be only too happy to bring them into his fold. And even if you manage to kill him and escape, the prince has decreed that any who fight the tax will forfeit their family’s lands and the homes of those they protect.”

“Robin, there must be a better way than that,” Will pleaded. “Think of your mother. Think of your sisters.” For a moment, however, it seemed as if nothing he or Brighton had to say would dissuade his cousin.

Then, slowly, Robin took a step back.

“If there’s a better way, find it,” he hissed, looking from one man to the next. He paused the longest on Will. Then he turned and, in a moment, had mounted his horse. “I’ll give you a fortnight,” he growled, jerking the reins and riding away.

“Fool is going to get himself killed,” Brighton muttered. “I just hope he doesn’t take a bunch of us with him when he does.”

“From your lips to God’s ears,” Will muttered. He shook his head and took a deep breath. “Good day to you, Lord Brighton.”

“No. It’s not.”

*  *  *

Will walked inside the castle. It was the last thing he wanted to do, but someone had to keep a cool head in order to help thwart the prince’s plans, whatever they were.

It was hard to imagine what Prince John had in mind, that he would demand so much from his nobles. If he were building his own army, he would have specified that only able-bodied men be sent to him, but he hadn’t. Perhaps he was just testing the loyalty of the nobles.