Mark of the Black Arrow (28 page)

“Why have you called me here?”

She shook her head. “I haven’t called you.”

“Oh, I think you have,” he said, taking a step closer.

Drawn like a moth to a dark flame, she moved closer to him, until she stood nearer to him than she had been to any man but her husband in many years.

“What are you?” she asked, reaching out to touch the armor on his chest. Her fingernails clicked on the carapace. She could feel the heat in her belly begin spreading throughout her body.

“I am your new master,” he said, looking down at her. He took hold of the edges of her dressing gown and pulled it off her so that she stood before him in all her glory as a woman.

The fire spread faster and she closed the tiny distance left between them, pressing herself full against the cool surface of his armor. His hands slid down her back. The excitement that rose inside her was more intense than any she had ever felt, and she recognized it from her dreams.

“It was you, the day I created my altar. It was you who I worshipped.” She knew it, deep down, like she knew the desire that painted the inside of her skin.

“Where is your bedchamber?” he asked.

“No, take me now, do it here,” she begged.

“I want to see your altar.”

“The room is warded. You won’t be able to enter.”

“I’m already there. You’ve already let me in,” he said, his voice rough.

She took his hand and pulled him to the stairs. She made it to her bedchamber and was surprised when he crossed the threshold with her.

“Never doubt me,” he said.

She led him to the altar and he looked down on it. “Very good,” he said, picking up the black statue and holding it for a moment before placing it carefully on another table in the room. With one swift move he swept the rest of the items from the top of the altar.

He looked at her and she could feel his darkness wrapping around her, moving through her and it made her cry out in ecstasy before he lifted her in his arms. He lowered her naked form down upon the altar. She remembered that the day she had made it, it had been his hands she had imagined.

Now there was no need to imagine anything. She opened herself to him and he possessed her fully, taking her on the altar she had built to him. Her eyes rolled back and she screamed as pure darkness pulsed through her.

She didn’t care who might hear.

*  *  *

The robe pulled away with a tearing sound as it separated from the wound on his arm. It had rooted, the blood drying into a scab that locked cloth and injury together, and the division of the two burned like fire. Pain circled his arm, spiraling up and into his armpit to stab across his chest and into the organs shielded behind his sternum.

His teeth bit into the leather strap to keep him from crying out. That damn friar had opened the wound. Carefully he pulled the sleeve up and studied what lay beneath.

Dark blood, near black but thin as water, pulsed from the lines carved into his skin. The edges of the cuts puckered, drawn tight by the red heat that surrounded the wound. In deep pockets he could see little balls of yellowish-white. Tiny violet-dyed threads clung to the tacky surface. It throbbed with each beat of his heart.

The source of the wound was Prince… no,
King
John. He had placed a shard of black glass against the arm. It had felt warm against his skin, made so by the hand that held it. John had murmured something that sounded like the buzzing of a swarm of flies. Then, clearing his throat, the king had spoken in a voice that was low.

“This is the symbol inside the book you shall find,” he had said. “By this mark you shall know you have gained possession of that which we covet.” Tilting his fingers down, the king sank the shard into the bishop’s skin, causing it to disappear into his flesh.

He had tried to pull away, to tear free, but the king’s grip had become iron, trapping him there to flail at the end of his own arm as his flesh parted like a furrowed field to a plow.

There had been so much blood.

“
T
hrice-damned son of a…”

Friar Tuck caught himself before he could finish the curse, but he was furious. Searching through the gold items that belonged to the monastery, he became more and more certain that several were missing.

It had to be the bishop. The toady had stolen away the irreplaceable objects, just to have them melted down to make that scepter for Prince John. It was unthinkable, and he barely managed to hold his tongue. Everything was backward and he reeled at the realization of how quickly things could begin to fall apart.

Change most often was a slow, torturous thing. The last fortnight, though, had thrown everything into chaos. The arrogance of both the bishop and the prince took his breath away. The tax collectors had been out in force for days, and he had heard the cries of the people who did not have the ability to give what the throne was demanding.

Francis had extended his stay, instead of returning to Rome as he had planned. Since his disastrous audience with John, who now called himself king, the cardinal had spent his days and the better portion of his nights on his knees in prayer in the chapel. His devotion was admirable, and though Tuck joined him frequently, his knees could not take the hard stone floor for as long as his friend’s did.

The last time they had knelt together Francis had broken his silence for a moment. He had asked Tuck to send word to one or two whom he trusted with his life, and call them to a meeting so they might figure out God’s plan for thwarting the evil that was creeping across the land.

Tuck had agreed. He was humbled by the faith the cardinal put in him. He thought long and hard, and in the end only called one other to the meeting. The bard could be trusted with secrets.

This was a truth he knew intimately.

*  *  *

It was with a great deal of fear and trepidation that he entered the cardinal’s chambers. Most of the other monks were in the chapel, engaged in evening rituals, and the cardinal had sent the bishop to visit a monastery located a day’s journey away.

When Friar Tuck entered the room, two other figures stood with Francis and Alan. They were silent, cloaked, and their anonymity made him fearful.

“Do not worry, good friar,” the cardinal said, giving him a gentle smile. “Our guests have more to risk than we do.” Tuck nodded and took a seat. After a moment the others did, as well. The cloaked figures both reached up and pulled down their hoods. He was startled to be staring at Maid Marian…

And Will Scarlet.

Tuck lunged across the table, his stool clattering to the floor, his belly driving the furniture forward to bang into his target. Grabbing the man’s cloak, he wadded it in his fists. Scarlet cried out in pain and surprise as the big friar yanked him over the table and into his lap. Tuck’s arms wrapped around his head as he crushed the smaller man against his chest.

Marian stood quickly, a dagger appearing in her hand. She swayed over the balls of her feet, unsure of what to do.

Alan-a-Dale had both hands on his friend’s massive shoulder, trying to move him, but it was futile.

Scarlet kicked, hands pushing on the arms that held him trapped and were smothering him in wool-covered muscle.

The cardinal snatched up the bucket of water that sat by the fireplace and upended it on Friar Tuck’s head. The water doused the monk, making him cry out, then spit and sputter. He let go as he wiped dirty water from his face. Scarlet sprawled on the ground, digging in his cloak for the hilt of his sword. His face burned red, a mix of anger and skin burn from the fabric of Tuck’s rough wool robe.

Marian grabbed Scarlet by the shoulders, holding his arms while the cardinal stepped in front of the friar.

“Have you lost your mind?” he asked the drenched monk.

“He’s Prince John’s man!” Tuck replied. “He laid hands on you, and that I will not stand for.”

Scarlet snarled. “You fat idiot! I’m not the prince’s man, I’m a spy for the cardinal.”

Friar Tuck froze, and looked up at the old priest who stood above him.

“Is that true?”

Francis nodded. “It is.”

“Then damn me for a fool.” Tuck shook his head, letting his hands drop to his side. He looked directly at Will Scarlet. “I’m sorry.”

The cardinal patted him on the shoulder. “It’s fine, Son of Thunder. It’s only a misunderstanding.”

“Misunderstanding!” Will shouted. “He tried to tear my head off! That’s not a misunderstanding. A misunderstanding is when you don’t know that your cloak must be the same color as your boots. This was attempted murder!”

Marian pulled him. “Ease yourself, Will,” she said. “He knows now. He won’t attack you again.” She looked to the monk for confirmation.

Friar Tuck nodded. “I now understand your work, at least in part,” he said. “It won’t happen again, Will Scarlet.”

“If it does,” Will said with a growl, “I’ll gut you like a… well, like a thing that should be gutted.” He jerked away from Marian’s hands. “No one lays his hands on me,” he muttered, causing her eyes to widen with surprise.

Alan and Marian righted the table, pulling the stools back around. Tension sang in the room as Will sat and Friar Tuck stared. Once they each had taken a seat, the cardinal began to speak.

“We are here to stop a monstrous evil from dragging England into darkness,” he said. “A time of strife long ago prophesied is upon us, when the king is absent and demons and creatures from our darkest nightmares will walk the earth. We five have seen the handwriting on the wall, and possess the wisdom to know what it means.”

Will shifted uncomfortably and the cardinal turned his eyes on him.

“What is it you wish to say?”

“My grandmother used to speak of demons and monsters and witches,” Will responded. “I don’t believe in those things. I believe in evil, though—the killing of men and stealing of property. I have been in the king’s court for a fortnight, and I see it every time I stare into his eyes.”

“You mean the prince, not the king,” Marian said, gently yet firmly.

Will waved his hand. “Forgive me, milady,” he said. “Habit. Flattery is the one sure thing that gets me close to him.”

“And we are grateful for your courage in doing so,” Francis said.

“The point is,” Will continued, “I don’t know these prophecies you speak of. The prince is a man, a greedy, destructive man, but not a demon.”

“I mentioned similar concerns,” Marian said.

The cardinal put his hands on the table. He took a deep breath. “The signs are not to be found in the scripture. My entire life I have studied the lore of this land. Taliesin wrote a song, an epic, about a vision he had where Avalon fell to the darkness…”

“Who is Taliesin?” Will asked.

Alan-a-Dale leaned forward. “He foretold the coming of Arthur, the occupancy of Rome, the sinking of Atlantis. He was the greatest bard who ever lived, and he has never been proven wrong in his prophecies.”

The cardinal tilted his head in acknowledgment of Alan’s words. “He wrote about a series of signs and portents, a king going east and leaving his shadow behind, a black splinter that festers in the flesh of Avalon, the splitting of the mighty oak in a bed of ashes. This particular prophecy is also supported by many other sources that have varying degrees of veracity.”

Alan tapped the table. “‘The Unsingable Song.’ I know it. It is only taught to bards once.” His face lit up at the idea of new knowledge. “What sources corroborate?”

The cardinal turned to the slim man. “St. Joniesus echoes his prediction about the king leaving his shadow behind to hold his throne, and expands that it is conflict that draws him away and makes him ‘fly across the water.’ I take it to mean in a ship over the ocean.”

“Go on,” Alan smiled.

“Merlin warned about the splinter, lamenting that Arthur would not be here to pluck it free and drain the wound.”

Alan tapped the table harder. “Yes! In the letter he wrote to Morgana Le Fey before she betrayed him for Mordred. Those lines have always bothered me. It makes sense now.”

The cardinal nodded. “The pagan magi Melchior also spoke of the gathering dark and the splitting of the mighty oak. He mentions also the splinter and the shadow, but they are bare asides, unworthy of notice without the inclusion of the split oak.”

Alan shook his head. “Melchior—”

The cardinal nodded. “I know. But he cannot be ignored.”

Will Scarlet leaned forward, waving his hand between the two men. “If this is true, then what does he want?”

“If the shadow truly claims the throne, then the mighty oak of England is split asunder and laid to waste in a bed of ashes. The splinter festers, poisoning the land and destroying the people. Darkness then spreads to consume all of mankind.”

“Then you should stop discussing prophecy and listen to what I have to say.”

“What have you learned?” the cardinal asked.

“The Sheriff and the… prince… are thick as thieves, and neither of them has any love for the church. They’re planning something big, but the prince has not yet invited me that far into his confidence. More tax money pours in every day, collected by Locksley thugs, but with the exception of the scepter, very little of it is being spent. That much plunder, I would expect him to buy horses, weapons, soldiers. He’s vain enough he might even spend it to redecorate the castle more to his liking, pay some artist to paint him and that damned Sheriff as a mural in the throne room. He’s done none of that, though, as far as I can tell.

“A wastrel might squander it on elaborate parties while his subjects starve, but he has no love of entertaining himself or others. I think they’re stockpiling it for something.”

“Do you think it is the prince’s plan to usurp the crown?” the cardinal asked.

“Of that much, at least, I am certain.”

“It is as we feared then,” Friar Tuck said. In some ways it was a relief to have confirmation, even if it was of the worst possibility. He much preferred to know what he faced, than to constantly be fighting shadows. He did enough of that in his dreams.

“Do you know how they intend to accomplish it?” Alan asked.