Mark of the Black Arrow (3 page)

Robin fell silent.

“She’ll be wearing a fine dress,” Will taunted, “and she’ll be available to dance. If you aren’t there, then who knows with whom she might partner. Maybe I’ll ask her to spin around with me—” He shrugged. “—If Locksley doesn’t get there first.”

A low, animal sound came from beneath Robin’s hood. Will looked closely. Robin’s face had flushed red, jaw bulging as his teeth clamped together. He looked like a madman.

The horse balked, loosed a shrill whinny, and amble-stepped away. Will put a hand up, pulling the reins with the other. His voice dropped, switching to a melodious, soothing tone he used for dealing with injured animals.

“Ease yourself, cousin,” he said. “I jest too much. You know she has no interest in him.”

Locksley’s great-great-grandfather and Robin’s had been brothers—twins, actually. Their father had wanted to leave them each with an inheritance. In return for his service to the crown, the elder Locksley had been allowed to split his land in two, giving the first portion to his elder son and the second to the younger, along with the new title of Lord of Longstride.

While the arrangement had suited the brothers, their descendants on both sides had chafed at the division. To this day Locksley longed to have the land reunited, under his control. The same was true of Longstride. The hatred and rivalry between the two families only increased with each generation.

On more than one occasion Locksley had suggested that Sherwood should be put to the torch, its majesty and mystery destroyed for the sake of more land to be plowed, more land to be coveted. Robin took this particularly to heart.

He stared now, eyes narrow and black in their sockets. Will watched his cousin warily, feeling an itch to grab for the handle of his sword. It dug into the back of his neck, worming its way toward his spine. Teeth clenched, he ignored it. To listen would end badly.

Then something appeared in Robin’s eyes, flickering behind tightly-slitted lids. His head dropped. He drew a deep breath and held it as a tremor rolled through his wiry frame, chasing along the lean muscles of his arms and shoulders. It passed, shivering out of his fingertips. He released the breath and looked up.

His eyes were clear, face nearly back to its normal dark coloring.

“It’s true,” he said. “You do jest too much, cousin.”

Will’s body unclenched in a rush that made his head spin for a moment. He smiled and cocked an eyebrow.

“One day it’ll be the death of me,” he admitted.

“Probably,” Robin agreed. “But not today.”

“Good.” Will leaned forward, separating them from that conversation. “Now about this feast—your father was insistent, and I promised I’d bring you.”

“Well, if it means preserving the good word of Will Scarlet, then I guess I must.” Robin reached his hand up. Will grasped it, pulling to help his cousin swing up behind him.

Instead Robin leaned back, yanking the slim man from the saddle. As Will tumbled to the road, Robin smacked his hand flat on the horse’s rump. It reared and jolted forward, racing away and disappearing around a bend of the road.

Will leapt to his feet, frantically beating dirt from his linen trousers and suede boots as he listened to the diminishing sound of the beast’s hooves.

“What the hell did you do that for?” he demanded.

Robin chuckled. “If I must go, then I will walk, and get there in my own good time. Since you came to fetch me, you can keep me company.”

“But these boots aren’t made for hiking,” Will protested. “They come from the Iberians!”

Robin slung his arm over Will’s shoulders. “The Iberians make fine boots, cousin. I think you shall survive. A little fresh air and exercise won’t hurt you.” With that, he began walking.

Will scowled as he followed.

“If my boots are ruined, I will hurt
you
.”

Robin’s laugh echoed through the forest.

M
uch, the miller’s son, shifted the pole across his shoulders, easing the sore crease of flesh forming under its weight. The basket on each end swung with the motion, roughly scraping along the outsides of his legs. He had calluses the size of his palm on each calf—rough patches of skin with no hair.

One foot in front of the other
.

Step by step he walked the Merchant’s Road, carrying loads of fruit for the family larder, a fair trade for two sacks of ground wheat. The fruit was lighter than the wheat, but still heavy enough to turn each step into hard work. Work he was used to, but work still.

His mind conjured thoughts of what his mother would make from what he carried home. Damson jelly, perhaps a quince pie. She would
definitely
make blackcurrant jam, since his father liked that. His eyes slid over to the basket on his left, looking at the mound of dark berries.

Hopefully his father would distill some sweet currant brandy.

That would be heavenly.

*  *  *

There was a short, stout door of thick wooden planks that stood in the back of the mill. Never had Much been allowed inside his father’s den. The old man—far
too
old to have a son as young as Much—would often go inside and shut the door tight. What lay beyond was for his father and his father only.

He’d asked his mum about it.

“Men need a place to go and be themselves, to shed the skin that being social makes them wear,” she replied. “You’ll see. One day you’ll have your own place.”

Even at that wee age, he’d already understood.

Then last season, when his father had taken him aside, and led him to the door, Much’s stomach felt trembly-tingly, like it did when he had to climb to the top of the mill wheel and unclog the waterspout. The pipe that fed river water to the top of the mill started in a wide scoop that narrowed quickly, forcing the water to rush, squeezing it faster and faster until it had the force to drive the wheel forward. That turned the mighty gears which spun the grinding wheel, the gigantic round stone from a quarry in the north.

Sometimes the scoop would catch something coming down the river and suck it in, blocking the flow of water. Much would have to climb then, pulling himself up hand over hand by the spokes until he reached the top. He’d cling there while he wrestled out whatever debris clogged the pipe. Pull too fast and the river would jet out of the pipe, driving into him like a hammer on a nail. If he slipped, if his balance wavered for even a second, then the mill would toss him to his doom far below.

It made him feel as if he’d been slit across the belly and a hand inserted that juggled his innards, clumsy and without care.

Standing in the cool air at the front of the door gave him the same feeling.

His father grunted. “You’re tall enough to have to stoop, so you’re tall enough to enter.” With a calloused hand, he pushed the door open, ducked, and then squeezed his large frame inside, shoulders scraping either side of the door as he hunched over and passed through.

Much followed.

The cubby was small. Simple. Built in the style of a monk’s cell, it contained a high window covered in thin oilskin that turned the late-day sun into a warm, sallow glow. There were two chairs—one a worn wooden frame covered with a deer hide older than Much himself, its hair polished away by use save for a handsbreath that fringed it. The other was newer, the wood freshly chopped into shape and the deer hide still furred and stiff. They stood on each side of a small clay firepot which offered more than enough heat for the small space.

A ledge circled the room, its narrow space crowded with objects. There were stones polished by the river, a small bird skull, boxes and bins of various sizes, and a series of wooden carvings—people so intricately cut free from the wood that Much could read their expressions.

His father lifted a small box from the ledge. It was made from a dark wood Much had never seen before, such a rich brown that it looked almost black. It wasn’t until his father passed it through the light that Much saw the carvings that wrapped the sides. Some serpentine creature with scales smaller than a river trout wove in and out of itself. It reminded Much of the ancient knotwork on the door of the monastery, carved by the Celts from long ago. His father grasped a second box. This one was larger, but plain and made of dried maple, just like the boxes his mother used to store things in the larder. His father sat in the old chair, putting the plain box between his feet. His ample body completely covered the hide’s bare skin.

He pointed at the other chair and nodded.

Much sat. The chair creaked, green wood rubbing where it had been lashed together. He didn’t squirm, even though he was uncomfortable, the chair under him as stiff as he felt. The sensation of being atop the wheel ran through him again, like he was on the verge of something new.

Reaching inside his tunic, Much’s father drew out a small bronze container with holes in its lid. Lifting the lid he revealed a coal from the hearth fire, still glowing dully orange. Balancing the box on his knee, he reached into a pocket in the deer hide and produced a long wooden pipe. He opened the intricate box and a dark aroma of spice and something heady filled the small space. Without speaking he pulled out a pinch of tobacco, dark and shredded, then used both hands to pack the bowl of the pipe, tamping down and adding more until he was satisfied.

Much just watched.

Lifting the small bronze box his father tipped it forward, catching the coal between lip and lid before it could spill out onto his lap. He blew on it and the coal burned bright, heating to a near yellow before cooling back into sunset orange. Touching it to the tobacco he had so carefully arranged, he brought the pipe stem to his mouth, inhaled three sharp times, and blew smoke on a long exhale. Satisfied, he flipped the coal box up and shut it with a snap.

He smoked for a long moment, eyes half-lidded as he stared at Much.

“You’re a good son.”

His voice was a shock. Much didn’t know what to say.

So he said nothing.

His father leaned forward and opened the plain box. Inside sat a corked jug. A long dead spider had built a web from the box’s corners to the neck of the jug, its work covered in a fur of dust. The jug had been there for a good while.

Pulling it out, his father wiped the spider web away. He shook the jug, causing a liquid to slosh, before pulling the cork and lifting it to his nose. Much could smell it from where he sat—a sweet smell so pungent that it cut over the tobacco. The two things combined, mingling and complementing each other until his head swam just a bit. His father lifted the jug to his lips, took a long pull, and swallowed.

Then he held the jug out to Much.

The question of what it was, what elixir he was being given, sat heavy on his tongue. But he didn’t ask—he just took the gift he was given.

It was heavier than it looked, made from a thick pottery like chipped stone. The smell was stronger up close, clawing into his breath and threatening to take it. His father looked at him, but didn’t say anything.

Much lifted the jug and took a long drink.

The liquid burned sweetly across his entire mouth and made all the air in his lungs go shimmery. He coughed, barking into his sleeve. The room turned wavy and indistinct as his eyes teared up.

Still his father said nothing, letting him work through it.

Much breathed deep, clearing his throat.

“First one takes you by surprise,” his father said finally. “Try another, but sip it.”

Much tentatively brought the bottle back to his lips. The burn had passed and his mouth still tasted sweet and felt strange. He took a smaller drink this time, prepared for the same burn, only to find his tongue numb. This time he tasted the currant, fermented into a pungent sweetness.

It was
delicious
.

He raised the bottle a third time.

His father chuckled, a sound foreign to Much’s ears, and reached out before he could drink.

“We still have work to do, son.”

Dutifully, Much handed it over.

His father took a long drink, swallowed, and sighed as he corked it. He held up the jug and gave Much the same look he had when he told him to be careful around the big grinding stone.

“Only when I give it to you,” he said.

Much nodded, his head full of the camaraderie of father and son, and his mouth filled with the hot-sweet taste of currant brandy.

*  *  *

Much smiled at the memory and kept walking, peering at the ground.

One foot in front of the other.

“What do we have here?”

The deep voice jerked him out of his thoughts. His head shot up.

Three men-at-arms were blocking the road. They were large, all cut from the same block of wood. Matching mail shirts, dull and storm-cloud gray in the shaded light of the road, contrasted sharply with sapphire blue tabards that showed double rampant lions embroidered in white thread.

The crest of Locksley.

Two of the men leaned on wicked halberds, long oak shafts propped against their shoulders to support their bulk. The third guard, with a thumb-sized birthmark over his left eye that stained the skin a darker red as if he’d been burnt, carried his weapon menacingly in two hands as he stepped forward.

Much stopped walking. He didn’t like the gleam along the sharpened edge of the spear’s blade, or the matching gleam in the man’s beady, dark eyes. His whole body tensed as the armed man stopped in front of him.

“What are you doing, boy?”

“Returning home.”

“Where is that?”

“The mill on Trent.”

Please just let me pass.

The marked guard’s face split wide. “You’re the miller’s son!” The gleam in the man’s eyes grew sharper as he leaned in. “The dullard.”

Much looked down again, and his ears began to burn. He knew they were blazing red. People had many words for him.

Dullard.

Simpleton.

Idiot.

Midge.

They would say these things, even in his presence. He never responded, never spoke back, which only added to the reputation. Being quiet planted the idea, staying quiet allowed it to bloom and take root.