Mark of the Black Arrow (7 page)

Chastity stepped back, moving from in front of the mirror that stood beside the wardrobe.

“What do you think, princess?”

Marian saw herself, a slender stick of a girl in a mound of mossy green fabric that seemed twice as wide as she could stretch out her arms. Scallops of cloth layered the dress in a scaled formation from the ground to her waist. A jewel, polished and sparkling, nestled on the edge of each upturned, petal-like section of cloth. They looked like limp dragon scales. This pattern continued up her waist and ribcage, ending at the edge of a laced bodice that drove her small breasts upward to sit just below her shoulders.

The sun coming through the window fell on her in a light haze, catching in each jewel and shining through them as if they were liquid drops of fire. The green fabric threw off the light, glowing but cut through with a pattern of shadow under each scallop. Dark and light caused her skin to glow like ivory and where the bodice straightened her posture and lifted her breasts she suddenly had the form of a queen, with her hair a mess from pulling the dress on perhaps a somewhat wanton queen, but one with power and agency to use it.

Her eyes widened.

“This dress is utterly…
ridiculous
.”

“Ridiculously amazing!” Chastity chimed with glee.

Marian smiled in spite of herself.

*  *  *

True to her word, Marian was dressed and downstairs before the guests began to enter. The housemarm stood by the doors to the great hall as Marian descended the staircase, walking carefully, placing each foot deliberately on the step below her since she could not see them beneath the skirt. The woman’s mouth pulled into a hard line as she bowed her head and walked stiffly away.

Marian felt the pang of distance between them. Sara meant no harm, she simply didn’t take Marian as more than a girl, even though she was indeed old enough to marry and run a house herself.

Something that’s
not
going to happen anytime soon.
She wrinkled her nose at the thought. Her station as the king’s niece and ward meant that her suitors chased not her, but proximity to the throne.

It made her tired.

Was it too much to ask for the old story to come true? Too much to want love, instead of security? Too much to ask for what her parents had possessed before…

No, it isn’t
, she thought fiercely, and she was stubborn enough to believe it. Besides, she was more than content to assist in the affairs of the court. Her work with and for the king gave her a satisfaction she would be loathe to let go.

The right man would never ask me to.

With that she swept into position, her skirts flaring around her as they were meant to. The gown hung heavily from her frame, but she had seen with her own eyes how beautifully it complemented her skin. Chastity had chosen well again. Once in place in the foyer, she gave the doormen a sharp nod to open the castle doors.

Outside stood a press of people—noble born, landowners, and craftsmen all heeding the call of King Richard. Shuffling into a line they moved toward her, the first stop of hospitality.

Plastering a smile on her face, she began. As the nobles arrived, each one announced by the herald, she read the opinions in their eyes and their polite murmurs.

Child.

Girl.

Breasts.

Illegitimate.

Looks of lust, looks of dismissal, looks of jealousy, and occasionally looks of genuine admiration. She kept her eyes and ears open, seeking information that could be of use to her uncle. It was amazing what some would say when the person who was listening was
just
a woman. Richard had recognized the advantage long ago. It was part of the reason he always held her in his confidence.

Always… until today.

The initial rush of guests became a blur of touchings, kisses into the air, and fluttering fans.

“How are you this evening?”

“Lovely to see you.”

“Thank you for joining us.”

“No, I do not know when he will arrive.”

“Thank you, my servant chose it for me.”

On and on and on. Just as she thought it would be forever, the line ended. There would be a short respite before the herald spoke again, and another guest would stride through to be greeted.

Her brow furrowed as she looked for a particular face.

Chastity appeared at her side.

“Who is it you keep hoping to see?” the girl asked.

“What makes you think I’m hoping to see someone?” Marian countered.

“The excitement on your face every time the herald begins to announce a new arrival, followed by the look of disappointment when another person walks past.”

Marian shook her head. Chastity was forever paying attention to the smallest details, yet she was right. There was one face Marian was hoping to see among the arrivals. He’d been in her thoughts increasingly of late, although she hadn’t shared that with Chastity.

Then she thought of King Richard.

It seemed as if there were a lot of secrets being kept.

*  *  *

A circle of torches guttered in the night, pushing back the dark and flinging ruddy highlights up the edges of the standing stone. The dead wheat grass had been trampled flat inside the circle. The gray man knelt before two men, his wrinkled head bowed low.

“I serve,” he said.

“You have done well,” the taller of the two replied. Torchlight glittered on the edges of his armor and painted his hair red. “One more task, and you may find your burrow again.”

“Anything to bring master.”

“Bring to me an oblation tied to this land, a thread of the fabric.”

The gray man tilted his head as if in thought, face turned toward the night sky. After a long moment he nodded and stood, then walked out of the circle of light and into the surrounding darkness.

“So you are that thing’s master?”

The armored man turned. “No, princeling, it serves the same master as I.”

The shorter man sniffed. “So it is your equal.”

“It is a principality. It is tied to this land.”

“That’s not a denial.”

The tall man turned. His eyes reflected the torchlight as small infernos in pools of basalt. “Watch your tongue, or I shall show it to you.”

The smaller man stepped back, raising his hands. “Mere curiosity. Nothing more, Sheriff.” He sniffed again. “I like this place better than the hovel I was in. It smells better.”

When the tall man did not speak he fell silent and waited, listening to the crackle and hiss of the guttering torches.

“
Y
our outfit is ridiculous.”

Will looked down at his finest clothes, worn for the occasion. The shirt and leggings had been dip-dyed a rich black that patterned from midnight to blue-black in a subtle motif that tricked the eye in the warm yellow of the lanterns lining the walkway. The same tallowed light turned his shagreen vest, dyed a bright cardinal red, into a color more akin to virgin’s blood. His Iberian boots had been replaced by low, slouchy, short-heeled shoes from France.

He felt that he looked just enough the villain to turn a head or two this evening. Satisfied, he looked Robin over, head to toe.

“What you should hope,” he commented wryly, “is that I can distract the people from
your
clothing.”

“What’s wrong with my clothing?” Robin had removed his hunting hood and replaced it with a plain leather jerkin, put over the same tunic and trousers he’d been wearing when Will found him.

“Well, it’s… nothing.” Will shook his head hopelessly. “Nothing at all.” They fell into silence as they drew closer to the castle gates.

It was uncommon for the king to call for a feast, and this one was made all the more remarkable by the secrecy that surrounded it. It had come out of the blue, unattached to any holiday or major event. Rumors claimed the king would make some form of announcement, but no hint had been given as to what.

Even as a young boy Will had been fascinated by the intrigues of life at court—who was coming and going, petitions for the king’s wisdom and his resources, boons granted and judgments delivered. Being from a noble family, he could hover around the throne room and the meeting halls and listen to the conversations with little fear of being rousted.

As a young man, he’d begun plying the standing of his family—including Robin’s father—to insert himself into the machinations of sovereignty. He recognized that he possessed no power, but he did hold a certain reputation, everyone knowing him and most of them liking him.

It was one of many ways in which he and Robin were so different that sometimes he wondered if they were related at all. Perhaps Robin really was a foundling, some strange fey child taken in and cared for by his uncle. Will’s mother had once told him that Robin’s mother believed him a changeling.

That would explain so much.

He watched the groups of nobles making their way into the castle.

“Look,” he said, as he pointed ahead of them. A pair of elegant, fair-haired people were about to cross the threshold with two elegant, fair-haired girls in tow. “It’s your family, minus your brother. We should catch up so we can arrive together.”

“Hurry on if you want,” Robin said. “I will arrive when I choose.”

“Don’t be surly.”

“I’ll be better with ale.”

“You’re not going to save the ale for the poor?” Will winked. “There are thirsty families out there.”

“Smartarse.”

*  *  *

Soon the doorway loomed in front of them, stones cut by the masons and stacked to form a double arch. Robin’s eyes traveled up the polished rock and hand-tooled mortar until they landed on the one odd stone in the group. High in the right archway hung a rough-hewn block, chiseled into the shape needed to fit the gap it filled. It was the keystone. The master mason himself, generations back, had carved and placed that stone. It alone held the pressure from all the other stones, locking them into their arch, holding them to the task of forming the doorway.

One stone, different from the rest, the only thing maintaining the integrity of the castle gates. If someone were to remove it, the entire front facade would weaken and crumble from its own weight. He picked out the chiseled initials of the master mason, located just below the carved all-seeing eye of God. He had no idea who that long-forgotten man had been, but was fascinated by the idea that he had designed such a work with but a single weak spot.

“Robin, beware.” Will touched his arm.

Five men approached from inside—four guardsmen and a stoutly built noble with dark hair and hawk eyes blazing beneath pulled brows. The noble wore a double rampant lion on his tunic, the two raging beasts glaring white against the sapphire-blue cloth. The man’s dark face looked as if it had been pushed into a furnace. Rage twisted his features, and his teeth shone wetly behind snarled lips.

Locksley.

Robin’s shoulders tensed at the threat that stalked toward him, his body growing tight with adrenaline. Unconsciously his hands reached for a bow and quiver that were not there.

“It is the king’s feast,” Will whispered harshly. “This is just posturing—no one would do violence here.”

Nevertheless, Robin reached to the skinning knife hidden behind his belt. The leaf-shaped blade was only two fingers long, but sharper than a razor.

“I’m not betting our lives on Locksley’s manners,” he muttered.

“Don’t break the law.”

“And if he does?”

“Then at least don’t break the law
first
.” With that, Will stepped in front of him, both hands up, palms out.

“Locksley! Imagine running into you here, at the castle, for the king’s feast, where all men are brothers and no man seeks to commit violence upon another.”

Locksley’s chest bumped against Will’s hands.

“Out of my way, Scarlet,” he growled. “I have business with that craven scoundrel.”

Will dug in his feet, pushing back.

“Let’s let cooler heads prevail,” he said.

“You attacked my men,” Locksley said over Will’s shoulder.

“They attacked a boy,” Robin responded.

“One of them has disappeared, and another will never hold a sword again.”

“Yet he will live, and that’s more than might have been said for the boy had I not arrived when I did.”

Again Locksley pushed against Will’s hands. “You may run through the woods like a wildling, but you will not get away with assaulting my men. You will be taught your lesson.”

Robin watched Locksley’s men as they began working their way to the left and the right, circling him. With only the skinning knife to defend himself, he’d have to kill at least one of them. The thought sat in his mind, squatting and strange, pushing up against the back side of his brain.

I’ll need to take a man’s life.

He had been taught that life was sacred, even the lives of simpletons who were stupid enough to swear allegiance to a man such as Locksley. Yet he would not submit himself to them, and so blood would be shed.

A crowd gathered, people drawn by the voices raised just outside the castle gate. It wouldn’t take long for the commotion to draw the attention of the guards or, worse, his father.

This needs to end.

“If you have such a grievance against me, perhaps we should speak with King Richard,” Robin said, taking a deep breath. “I’m sure that when he hears that your men have been levying a tax on
his
road, in
your
name, that he will be most interested.”

He studied Locksley’s face, looking for the moment when the other man would choose just how far he was going to push things. He kept his hand on the skinning blade, muscles tensed and ready. Whatever happened next, it was Locksley’s choice. Robin’s conscience would be clear.

A sudden footstep sounded behind him, strong and filled with confidence. He knew it so well he did not need to turn.

“My brother is in need of being taught many lessons,” the newcomer said. “He is stubborn. I have tried for many years to soften his hard head, and have learned the futility of my efforts. What I do not need to be taught, however, is the value of loyalty—to my blood and to my king. Speak your grievances to me, or stand aside.”