Mark of the Black Arrow

by Debbie Viguié

  Finally, after what felt like a lifetime, his skin began to warm and he stopped muttering. His limbs ceased twitching and he fell into a deep sleep. She looked up and saw that the sky outside her window was beginning to lighten with the coming of the dawn. They had made it through the long, dark night.

  She hoped that was a sign.

  * * *

  Much was worried. Everywhere his father sent him to make deliveries, the pox had been before him.

  The family of masons was his latest delivery and as he walked slowly up to the stone house a sinking sensation curled in the pit of his stomach. It was quiet, far too quiet for mid-afternoon.

  He stopped a little way from the house, hesitant to go any further.

  “Hello?” he called out, hoping to hear a friendly voice.

  Only silence greeted him.

  Carefully he set down his grain. He walked forward. The door hung partway open. He leaned forward, careful not to touch anything, but still trying to get a glance inside. What he saw turned his stomach. He ran a few feet away before retching.

  When he’d finished he stood, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. They were dead. All six of them were dead, their bodies in a pile in the middle of the floor. Who could have, no, who would have piled them that way, he had no idea. They were covered in open sores and flies.

  It was best to get away from the place, and quickly. He picked up his grain, wondering who was left to take it. He turned and began to walk, not going anywhere in particular, just getting away as fast as his feet could carry him. He had gone nearly a mile down the road when he heard someone calling for help.

  It sounded like a girl. He hurried on and found her just around a bend. It was a servant and she lay on her side just off the road, up against the embankment. He stopped well away from her when he saw that she had the sores on her, as well.

  “Please,” she begged him. “I was sent to get help. They’re sick. They’re all very sick, and I can’t find my master to tell him.”

  “Who is sick?” he asked.

  “My lady and her daughters.”

  “I know it hurts,” he said. “I will go get help. Tell me the names.”

  “Lady Glynna of Longstride.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Friar Tuck barely held in a curse when he saw the Miller’s boy walking toward the monastery, a girl draped in his arms. He held open a door so the boy could pass inside the building, and then led them to the dining hall. All around the room the sick lay on what thin pieces of cloth were left. The boy found an empty spot on the floor and set her down.

  Then he stood and gazed solemnly at the friar.

  “She came from Longstride Manor. She said that the ladies of the manor are all sick, and that no one knows where Robin is.”

  A chill touched Friar Tuck’s heart. Was the cursed pox going to claim all of England before it was through? He and the others who called the monastery home had been taking turns tending to the sick and praying for God to lift the blight from the land. All except the bishop.

  “Thank you for bringing her,” he told the boy.

  Much nodded gravely. “There’s something else. When I went to the Mason’s villa, they were all dead.”

  “God rest their souls,” Friar Tuck murmured. More good people struck down. He was beyond anger, too exhausted for it. Instead he was just deeply grieved.

  “Someone had stacked their bodies in a pile, like firewood, in the middle of their home.”

  Friar Tuck frowned. “Are you sure?”

  “I saw them with my own eyes,” Much insisted. “Who would do that?”

  “I don’t know, but it doesn’t sound good,” Tuck admitted. Actually, it sounded like the devil’s own handiwork, but he didn’t say so out loud. There was no need to scare the lad. He cleared his throat.

  “Well, you’d best be off.”

  The boy hesitated, staring intently at him.

  Friar Tuck pulled at the collar of his robe. It was getting hot inside. Stuffy, as well. Sweat had been pouring off him in tiny rivulets all day. The one that had found its way down his spine was especially irritating.

  “Where am I to go?” Much said.

  “Go home, lad, that is the best thing you can do at this point,” Tuck advised him.

  “Friar?”

  “Yes?”

  “You don’t look well.”

  “It’s this heat,” he said, wishing he had something with which to mop his brow. “I never do well with the heat, and it’s sweltering in here. It’s a wonder I don’t melt like snow in the summer.”

  “Friar, it’s not hot in here at all.”

  Tuck stared at the boy as he wondered which one of them had lost his mind. It had to be the boy, he concluded, because anyone with any wits at all could tell that it was hellfire hot.

  “Honestly, boy, are you alright?” he asked, as he swatted at a fly that buzzed around his face. Sweat had rolled down his forehead, and now a bead of it hung off the tip of his nose. He was getting dizzy. He was too tired. He’d been working too hard with no sleep. He needed to rest himself a little while. Maybe just an hour or two would help.

  The cardinal appeared in the doorway. “Friar Tuck, I need to see you in my study.”

  Tuck nodded, took three steps, and fell down face-first.

  * * *

  Much jumped backward with a cry as Friar Tuck landed on the floor near him. The large man had fallen so swiftly that the boy hadn’t a prayer of catching him. One moment he was standing, and the next he was not. For a terrible second he wondered if the man had been struck down by God.

  The cardinal rushed over and Much backed up, bowing his head to show respect. His father had told him that a cardinal was second only to the pope.

  “What’s your name, son?” the holy man asked, his voice sounding rough.

  “I’m Much, the Miller’s son.”

  “Help me roll him over, good Much.”

  Much dropped down and grasped the friar’s thick shoulders. He pulled and the cardinal pushed, and together they rolled the friar onto his back. Once they had done so, Much stood up quickly and backed away.

  “His face!”

  The cardinal had also seen the red blotches springing up on Friar Tuck’s skin. He looked grimly at Much.

  “He’s been stricken,” he confirmed.

  “Is he going to die?” Much asked as he stepped back a couple more feet. He didn’t want Friar Tuck to die, but in his mind he kept imagining his body piled on top of the bodies of his family. He didn’t want to think it, but he couldn’t help it.

  “No,” the cardinal said. “He will not.”

  That made Much feel a little better. The cardinal was a wise man and a good one. Maybe God would listen to him.

  “Help me move him some more,” the cardinal instructed.

  After a moment’s hesitation, Much complied. He thought they were going to place the friar next to the others, but instead they moved him into the cardinal’s study, which was covered in books and scraps of parchment. The smell of old leather and new ink made him wrinkle his nose.

  Once they had the friar on the floor in a position that was as comfortable as it could be, the cardinal looked at him.

  “Thank you, young Much. I think it’s best if you went home to your family now.”

  He nodded and scurried out of the room. Outside the monastery he noticed the sun sinking low toward the horizon. He hurried, moving faster. He wanted to make it home before it was dark. The tiny village below the monastery looked peaceful in the fading light. He hoped it didn’t mean everyone was dead.

  * * *

  Lenore ran up the road to her house, slingshot in hand. She had been targeting some rats down by the woodpile when she’d seen the soldiers coming up the road, headed for her home. Her father was there—he’d know what to do.

  She was out of breath when she made it in the door and both her parents turned to look at her. They had been sitting at the table and she could tell from the looks on their faces t
hat they’d been having one of their serious talks, the kind they didn’t like her to hear.

  “What is it, Lenore?” her mother asked, voice tense.

  “Soldiers, coming this way.”

  “It’s time,” her father said, voice and face hardening as he stood to his feet. He looked at her. “Lenore, hide yourself.”

  When he used that tone of voice she knew better than to ask why. She ran toward the back of the house. There were barrels stacked by the back door. They contained food supplies, but also some of the goods that her father would sell on his journeys. She crouched behind them, straining to listen.

  She heard raised voices. Then, clearly, “I’m surprised to see you both alive.”

  “The pox has not hit us, thank God,” she heard her father say.

  “Just as well, merchant, someone has to be left to pay the king’s tax.”

  “He’s no king of ours,” her mother said, voice ringing, defiant.

  Lenore felt her heart begin to pound.

  “He is,” the strange man said, “and he will have his due. Half of everything you have.”

  “The devil take him,” her father said. “We have nothing that can be spared.”

  She heard something, the sound of a fist striking flesh. Then scuffling as of a struggle. Her heart pounded harder in her chest. Then she heard her mother cry out, a loud, wailing sound that turned wicked at the end. More scuffling, a thud.

  Lenore risked peering over the edge of a barrel.

  Her parents lay on the ground, unmoving. A man stood above them, sword drawn and dripping with blood. She bit back a cry as she realized he had killed both her parents.

  Her head spun as rage vied with her grief. She clutched the slingshot tighter, wishing that she was David from the Bible stories and that she had a stone big enough to kill a man with.

  She didn’t, though, and she knew instinctively that if she made her presence known she’d be swiftly joining her parents in death. Or worse. Her father had warned her about being taken unawares by strange men.

  Lenore knew what she had to do. She had to run. Get as far away as fast as she could. She could go to the monastery. Her father had always told her that it was a safe place.

  She kept low as she moved to the back door. The men were all starting to go through the kitchen, greedy hands grabbing at her parents’ things. None were looking her way as she seized the knob and twisted. She eased the door open, made it outside and shut it.

  Then she ran for all she was worth.

  * * *

  Alan-a-Dale was on his way to the home of the blacksmith and his wife. It would be his last stop for the day. At the moment he was the only one free to deliver food, medicine, and a little money to the people. Friar Tuck and the cardinal were busy tending the sick. Will and Marian were at the castle attending a gathering—one at which he had not been invited to play.

  He was relieved, rather than offended. He was not in the mood to make merry in front of the prince. Not while so many suffered. The songs in his heart that day were only dirges. Of Robin’s whereabouts he had no idea. That was often the case, though, with Lord Longstride.

  It had been a dark day. By his calculations at least one in three people had been infected by the plague. There wasn’t even a logic to the sickness. Sometimes only one person in a home was infected, and other times the entire family. A home might have been spared entirely, yet be surrounded by death on all sides. He struggled to make sense of it.

  If the prince had truly cursed them, then it seemed as if there would be a method to the situation, but so far he’d discovered only madness. Young and old, male and female, rich and poor… all were at risk. The lack of a pattern frightened him the most.

  The food in the sack on his back weighed him down. He was used to traveling much lighter than this. His feet were weary, and that was the state of his soul, as well. The mind and body were connected in all creatures, but he had long ago realized that he felt the connection more strongly than others. It was part of his calling, his gift.

  Days like this, it felt more like a curse.

  He rounded a bend and the blacksmith’s house came into view. He stopped abruptly. There were a dozen horses outside, including two that were laden with various packs and objects. Three guards stood outside. Two more came out, carrying items from the house that they fastened on the beasts.

  Alan found himself in the rare position of being speechless. The guards were robbing the family of everything that could possibly be melted down or sold. Not a sign could be seen of the victims of this heinous act.

  Another guard came out of the house, followed by Locksley, and Alan felt the anger rising within him. He stepped back out of sight, though, before any of the brigands could spy him, but not before noticing that the brand new flowers the woman had planted were being trampled underfoot.

  Locksley began barking orders at his men. A minute later Alan heard the horses heading down the road. Leaving his hiding place, he walked slowly toward the house, wondering what words of comfort he could possibly bring to the family in such an hour of anguish. Suddenly the scant few items in the sack on his back felt as if they weighed next to nothing, far too humble a gift for those who had just lost everything.

  He tried not to look down at the ruined flowers as he stepped up to the door.

  “Hello?” he called softly.

  There was no response.

  He walked inside, expecting to find the family devastated.

  Instead he found them dead.

  He gasped and froze in place. Their pox-marked bodies were stacked one on top of the other in the middle of the room, their unseeing eyes no longer able to witness the atrocities committed against them and their home.

  Alan backed slowly out of the house. The prince’s tax collectors had committed their greatest atrocity to date. They had stolen from the dead.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Marian didn’t know which angered her more—the fact that in the midst of the people’s suffering, the prince chose to host a ball, or the fact that nobles from all over England, those who hadn’t been taken by the pox, had actually come to attend it. The very act seemed like the ultimate in cruel jests.

  She knew why they did it, though. After the hangings most had fallen in line, terrified of crossing John in the slightest. They did as they were told. So they came to the ball, and she could see more than one concerned parent cast their eyes toward the upstairs where they believed their children were still being held captive.

  The truth was Marian had no idea where the children were kept. Chastity had learned that they had been moved in the night, though no one seemed to know where.

  Marian herself was given no choice but to attend. The prince had commanded it, and these days she needed to be very careful about choosing her battles. Yet she was participating in one small act of rebellion. Instead of being downstairs in time to play hostess and greet all the guests, as she always had for King Richard, she tarried in her room until she was sure most people had already arrived.

  The usurper’s insult provided an unexpected opportunity, as well. With so many people milling about, Will would be able to smuggle Robin to safety. The Lord of Longstride had spent the last day in his cousin’s room. While he was stable enough to travel, he was still a long way from healed. Will had made arrangements for him to be taken from the castle, but he had not shared the details.

  When she finally descended to the great hall, she did so with a smile frozen on her face. She wore a burgundy gown shot through with gold threads, and small gold rosettes tied up extra bits of fabric all around. She wore her hair meticulously coiled atop her head, going out of her way to look her best, hoping that it would portray strength and confidence. With a small twinge of regret she wished Robin had been well enough to attend. She was sure he would have said something very flattering.

  There were more in attendance than she would have guessed, although a few faces seemed to be notably absent as she strolled through the room. She
passed a small cluster of women and nodded to them. None of them returned her greeting, instead dropping their eyes or looking suddenly away as though they hadn’t seen her. It was odd, but Marian kept walking. She saw a few more women glance her way then hurriedly turn to start whispering among themselves. She glanced down at her dress, just to make certain nothing was amiss, but everything seemed to be in place.

  Finally she approached another cluster of women and stopped next to them.

  “Good evening, ladies.” She tried to sound pleasant.

  A couple ducked their heads. The woman in the group who usually held the most sway addressed her in return.

  “Good evening to you, Maid Marian,” the woman said. And there it was. They were mocking her. Word had spread that Will Scarlet had been found in her bedroom. Once loosed, nothing could be done to recapture it.

  She should brush it off, think of something witty to say, or ignore it completely. One girl leaned in and whispered something to another, and they both began to giggle. Marian felt anger tracing its way through her body, and she spun on her heel, eyes searching for Will.

  Spotting him, she crossed the room to where he chatted with a lord. Marian walked up and before she could stop herself she slapped him across the face.

  The lord hastily excused himself.

  Marian pulled back her hand to slap him again, but Will caught her arm with a lazy smile.

  “My dear friend, one strike is proof that you have been offended,” he said glibly. “Two strikes is evidence of shame.” His grip was surprisingly strong, and she swallowed a whimper of pain. Seeing it in her eyes, he eased the pressure, then released her.

  She lowered her hand, but anger still smoldered within her. It wasn’t Will’s fault, she knew that, but he was the only one to whom she could express it. More than that, it would be expected. Given the circumstances under which they had been forced to create the charade, they had to carry it to its logical conclusion.

  “I never wished to be romantically linked with you either,” Will added with a sigh, his eyes flashing.