Mark of the Black Arrow

by Debbie Viguié

  The darkness behind him broke, tumbling away. As the shadows snapped back to normal, something swept through the room, not a breeze or a whisper, but just a brief brush of something that touched them all.

  The reaction followed it in a wave. Most of the practitioners in the room shuddered, a few growled like animals, two convulsed. Her sister gasped as if she were with a lover, and the Mad Monk wept, lifting ball-and-joint hands in the air.

  Adaryn swayed on her feet, legs gone to water beneath her.

  The man at the end of the room walked toward them with an easy gait. He was clad in light-drinking armor. It didn’t reflect highlights or make a sound as he walked, save for the clomp of boot on wood. The only color that relieved the sheer black lay over his chest and at the pommel tip of the bastard sword on his hip. It was almost a pentagram, the symbol of harmony among the five elements of the universe, yet inverted—its point hanging down over the place where his heart would lie.

  Ancient symbols squiggled on the edges of it and whorls cut into it, the whole creating a sigil of terrible meaning. She didn’t know it, but recognized it as part of an ancient path of workings that her father had sternly warned her away from. From a distance the symbol had looked to be painted in bright, harsh red but as he drew closer she could see it was actually carved into the armor and the color of it pulsed from within like a slow, ponderous heartbeat.

  Midway across the room a dark shape detached itself from the man’s shoulders, falling to the floor with feline grace and landing on four paws. The creature looked up, glinting eyes red in the lamplight. Lupine face on feline predator curves, its pitch-black fur stuck out in bristles and juts over a body big enough to be a threat even to a large man. Adaryn did not recognize it. It hissed at them then ran straight for the wall, where crescent claws dug in as it climbed in a streak of ebony and disappeared into the rafters of the thatched hut.

  She followed it with her eyes, but lost it in the shadows. The thought of that thing over her head, that it could drop at any moment… another shiver chased her body, and her hand moved instinctively into the protective ward.

  The man stopped, glittering eyes turned toward her.

  Her sister took a broad step away from her.

  “What have we here?” the armored man said.

  She wanted to shrink, to pull herself inside her shawl, to climb into the fetish bag around her neck and huddle beside the river stone, badger teeth, herbs, and bird-bone powder that was housed inside.

  “I’m Adaryn of Moonmist Hollow.”

  Suddenly he was there in front of her, so close the air felt tight, as if a blanket had been thrown over her head. Sweat beaded her throat and chest, and her lungs closed like fists. He loomed over her and all she could see by craning her neck was the cleft chin and the thin villainous lips… and the pearl white teeth that smiled down at her.

  “I did not ask who we have here, little bird.” The teeth clicked together, biting off the ends of the words like tails on puppies. “I ask what we have here.”

  Her mouth, her dumb mouth, moved but made no sound.

  “To illustrate—” He leaned back, allowing these words to go to the room “—I am the Sheriff of this land. I am the arm of the law and the law is given by the word of Prince John, holder of throne and crown. I am the one who called you forth. You have come by mine own will, whether you admit it or not.” He glanced at Agrona. Then his face swooped back down near Adaryn’s, mouth so close it could brush her lips in a lover’s kiss.

  “But you I did not call.” Air pulled sharply into the blade of his nose, the inhale brushing air across her cheek. “You don’t smell like the power I seek.” He sniffed again. “You were not summoned.”

  That’s not true, she thought frantically. The castle guard… Her mind had become a babbling brook, a hundred thoughts tumbling over one another in an avalanche of confusion.

  “Answer the question!” He screamed pain into her ear. “What are you?”

  “I am a witch!” she cried. “A medicine woman and a midwife.”

  He turned away from her and began to walk around the room. “You are a medicine woman. Yet I am not sick.” His hand flicked out, brushing through the dirty red hair of a man wearing a plaid kilt, wrapped in bandages from head to toe, all skin covered save his eyes and mouth. His eyelids looked as if they had stacks of ash on them, the skin dead and white and flaky, tumbling onto his lashes each time he blinked. His mouth lay wide across his teeth.

  When you have no lips you’re always smiling, she thought involuntarily. The Sheriff slid his arm over bandaged shoulders, ignoring the exposure to leprosy. The man looked up at him with moonish eyes that spun in deep sockets.

  “I am much more needful of a plague-bringer like this one,” the Sheriff said. Then he pushed the leper away, leaving his arm outstretched. It swung the room until it pointed at the Mad Monk. The tarnished priest flung himself at the Sheriff’s feet, knees banging into the floor, robe catching and pulling on splinters. The graying wool blossomed dark as blood from torn and punctured skin seeped into the coarse fibers. His fingers danced along his open jaw and his eyes rolled back in ecstasy while pouring tears down hollow cheeks.

  The Mad Monk began speaking, low and jumbled, in a language she didn’t recognize. The Sheriff reached down with a pale finger and lifted the monk’s chin up, closing off the sounds of the tongues. Then his eyes cut to her again.

  “I am born of time and judgment, come forth to walk this land and fulfill my purpose here. I have no need of a midwife.” He looked down. “This one has carved himself into a perfect Enochian vessel. That I can use.”

  Turning away from the monk, he took Agrona by the hair, fist gnarled in the tresses rooted at the back of her neck. He yanked, drawing her to her toes. Her eyes fluttered, her chest heaving as it blushed red across her cleavage.

  “I have need of the dead and those who intercourse with them. Your sister is valuable to me. A necromancer I can use.” He turned his face toward Agrona, eyes still on her. His mouth parted and a tongue, long and wide and split down the middle, licked across the throbbing artery in her throat. Her sister swooned, leaning against the armored chest of the Sheriff. “A hedgewitch I cannot.”

  He let go. Agrona stumbled across the short distance and fell against her. She grabbed her sister, keeping her from falling to the floor.

  “I did not summon you. I had you fetched, for there is one role you can fulfill for me.” The Sheriff snapped his fingers with the sound of old bones breaking. Instantly Adaryn gasped in pain as blood began pouring from her eyes. Her hands clutched like iron bands as the voice filled her ears.

  “I do need a sacrifice.”

  * * *

  The sound of the doors caused all heads to turn so fast it looked as if invisible assassins had snuck behind each man and snapped their necks.

  Prince John strode in, flanked by guards holding crossbows ratcheted and locked, all of them step-marching through the middle of the room as if they were on parade. The bang of boot heel on the parquet floor sounded like a regiment, instead of the proxy king’s personal security detail. The nobles parted and Locksley made certain he moved with Minter and his men, to ensure that he retained his hold on them.

  The prince wore the crown on his brow, a simple circle of gold adorned with rushing lions. It had been gifted by the cardinal to Richard the Lionheart when he first took the throne. It sat wobbly on Prince John’s skull, like a hat too big, and he held it in place as he stepped awkwardly up the stairs to the throne itself. There he turned, and sat. The guards fanned out to each side of the throne, like gull wings.

  In his hand he held a heavy scepter made of gold. Prince John smiled with one side of his mouth.

  “Come closer, gentlemen,” he said. “We have much to discuss.”

  Before they could look to him or, God forbid, look to Minter, Locksley strode toward the throne. Behind him he could hear the others fall into line. Stopping sharply, he inclined his head in a short bow, more an
acknowledgment of the position than of actual subservience.

  “Milord, we are here…”

  “Stop.”

  Locksley froze.

  “Milord is not proper,” Prince John continued. “Refer to me as ‘Your Majesty,’ or ‘Your Highness.’ ‘Liege’ is acceptable, but only barely.”

  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.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Marian 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.