Mark of the Black Arrow (19 page)

Marian strode forward and embraced her friend.

“Thank you.”

“Och, princess, lay off.” Chastity wiped a tear from her swollen eye, and winced with the pain.

“It’s been a long day of turmoil,” Marian said, breaking the embrace. “Dark things are afoot, and the only comfort is knowing that you saved something precious to me.”

“I don’t know which other two I saved, but they’re under your bed. You can inspect them later.”

“Hopefully we will restore them to their rightful places soon.” She lowered her voice. “We must find proof of John’s villainy, before I can send word to the king.”

“How?” Chastity asked.

“We will have to be watchful, and pray that he makes a mistake. It might take a while so we must be careful, or I fear burned tapestries and bruised cheeks will be the least of our worries.”

T
he day after a feast, Will usually felt the worse for wear.

Sir Ferguson had thrown a grand fete for those who had chosen to remain behind when the king set sail. Ferguson with the large house. Ferguson with the winery. Ferguson, who had three lovely daughters of willing demeanor.

Yet the morning found Will dead sober, and it was an unwelcome state of affairs. He was at his wittiest when the mead flowed, which might explain why he had failed to charm any of the ladies the night before.

The truth was, Will had not felt much like celebrating. Not without Robin at his side.

The absence of King Richard and the men he took with him upset the status quo. The effects of it rippled through the town as people were forced to do things for which they had never planned—as in the case of Robin and Longstride Manor. It was bad. Bad for everyone, but especially for Will, who had grown accustomed to life the way it was.

He was in a sour mood as he neared the castle. He had no wish to see Prince John, but he did have need of collecting one of his father’s horses—one that had been left behind on the night of the king’s announcement.

He was still a good five minutes away when he observed smoke smudging the sky. Something burned, and for a moment he wondered if it might be the castle itself. He touched his heels to his horse’s flanks and the animal sprang forward.

The fast stride ate up the ground quickly and just a few minutes later he dismounted inside the courtyard, where the air was nearly gray. A man, stooped and shaky, stood up from a bench and came forward to take the reins of his steed.

“I’ve come to collect my father’s horse,” Will said as he dismounted. “The dappled gray—she bears our brand.”

The man nodded. “I know the one. I will prepare her.”

“What is on fire?” Will gestured, indicating the hazy air.

The man dropped his eyes to the ground, muttered something unintelligible, and moved off with Will’s horse in tow.

Will entered the castle, seeking someone who would be able to explain to him the cause of the fire. He passed through empty corridors, moving in the direction of the great hall. Bare stone hemmed him in. Large squares of the wall were discolored, lighter, and after a moment he realized that the light areas had once held tapestries and wall hangings, things that King Richard had collected and loved.

They were all gone, leaving the surfaces cold and stark. Walking past the staircase that swept from the upper level, he found a person moving quickly into the hall ahead. He recognized the lean figure and dark hair.

“Lady Marian,” he called, quickening his pace.

She hitched her step and turned, watching as he drew near.

He swept the hat from his head and bowed low.

“Why are you here?” she asked.

He straightened, startled by her brusqueness. “I’m retrieving one of my father’s horses.”

“Inside the castle proper?”

“Of course not. A man is fetching her from the stables.”

“Good day then, Will Scarlet.” She lifted her skirts from the floor and began to turn away.

“Wait,” he said. “Please.”

“Yes?”

“Why does the castle smell of burnt hair? And where are all the decorations?”

“Prince John burned them.” Her voice was flat.

“What?” The answer startled him.

Behind her the doors to the great hall stood open. He looked past her into the room, and saw that, where there should be the grandest and oldest of tapestries, there stood nothing but blank walls.

“Why?” he said.

“You would have to ask my uncle,” Marian said, “but I suggest that you don’t. Just collect your horse, and leave.”

Forgetting decorum he stepped close enough that he could lower his voice to a whisper.

“What is at work here?”

Marian looked away. “God only knows.”

“I am serious. This is an ill portent.”

Anger flashed across Marian’s face. “Watch your tongue, and how you use it.”

He stepped back. “My apologies. I did not mean to offend.”

“I’ve known you my whole life,” she snapped back. “You never say anything without intention.”

“Truly, I misspoke.”

He felt her gaze, looking through him as much as at him. Judgment fell on him as she weighed out every interaction they had ever had since being wee children. He knew her well enough to maintain silence and let her follow her own mind.

“Forgiven,” she said, her voice softer. “You still should go.”

“Milady, bear with me just a bit longer.”

She paused, then nodded.

“What does the prince intend by his actions?”

She looked him straight in the eye. “I am not in the prince’s confidence.”

“Who is?”

She looked at him.

Without speaking, she had just said quite a lot.

“I will ferret out the truth of this,” he said.

“If you do, then find me.”

He nodded and stepped away, letting her continue down the hall. She didn’t look back. Will moved to the doors of the great hall and stood between them, looking at the empty room now completely dominated by the mighty throne of England. After many minutes, a herald appeared, clearly startled to find Will standing there.

“My lord.” The man skittered up to him. “No one warned me of your coming.”

“I wish to speak with the prince,” Will answered, leaving the statement to hang there. The man blinked at him, eyelids fluttering like butterfly wings.

“Why?” he squeaked, then caught himself. “I mean, why… don’t you wait here for a moment, while I see if my master is taking visitors?”

Will nodded, turned, and walked into the hall to wait. There he studied his surroundings. The walls with their light patches bothered him. Something was desperately wrong here. Even Marian’s manner gave him pause. He knew her, not closely, but for a long time. She was the embodiment of kindness and consideration, even though a fire burned in her belly. That made her perfect for Robin, and he wished they could see that.

Long minutes passed before the herald returned.

“The prince will see you,” he said, far more poised this time. “Please follow me.”

Moments later, the man stopped on the threshold of the king’s study. Will forced a smile across his face and relaxed his posture so that he would appear as cavalier as his reputation would make him out to be.

“William of the House Scarlet,” the herald announced. Will entered the king’s study, a place he’d never been before. It was much more cluttered than he would have guessed. Shelves were crowded with objects and items, and it held a personal air. It was a room that had been lived in.

Prince John sat behind the king’s desk, the only true dark spot in the room. Will studied him closely. The prince lifted his face with an air of insolence that immediately grated across his nerves. The man’s mouth curled at the corners above the weakness of his chin. When seen from afar, the day the king had set sail, the prince seemed like most royalty, handsome enough to woo the people. Up close he was a weak imitation of Richard, but passable enough.

Will forced himself to smile even more broadly, trying to compensate with pleasantness for the extreme unpleasantness he felt.

The herald scurried from the room.

“Your reputation precedes you.” The prince swept black eyes up and down Will’s lanky frame.

“As does yours, Majesty.” Will dropped into a sweeping bow, hat in hand.

“Majesty is a word saved for the king,” John corrected. “Highness is the correct address for a prince.”

“I only say what I see before me, and surely I behold a king.” The flattery slipped easily off his tongue from years of practice.

John smiled faintly. “What is it you want from me, William of the House Scarlet?”

“Nothing more than to pledge my loyalty to you and your court,” he replied. “I gave you a few days to settle in and take care of pressing matters of state before presenting myself to you.”

“Very thoughtful of you.” The prince laced his fingers together. “Perhaps you were just waiting to see which direction the wind might blow.”

Will shook his head. “Not at all. If you know my reputation, then you know I am a most courteous courtier.”

“I understand you have a great deal of influence with the young ladies… and some of the young men.”

Will shrugged. “There is a small degree of favor that others harbor toward me.” It was an understatement. Will knew he held a great deal of sway over many in the court. His manner and his dress gave him a certain charisma to which others responded favorably. Clearly the prince was already aware of this.

John looked at him with new interest.

“I could use you, I think, as a sort of aide and counselor,” the prince said. “It is always convenient to have in pocket someone who has the hospitality of the people.”

“Indeed, the king cannot hear every conversation that takes place in his court,” Will smirked. “But with the proper people in place, he can surely know what is said.”

“So we understand the place you will occupy in
my
court?” John asked.

“I believe so, Your Majesty.”

“Then go, and gather ye rosebuds while ye may, Scarlet.”

Will bowed again, straightened, and replaced his hat upon his head.

Just before he left the room, he turned.

“Well done in your decision to redecorate. Things were getting rather… stale around here. The air is already clearer without all of those dusty cloths hanging everywhere.”

Prince John tilted his head in acknowledgment, then held up a hand.

Will stepped back into the room. “Is there anything I can do for you, my liege?”

The prince smiled. “I am so very glad you asked.”

K
ing Richard’s spy had discovered far more than he had expected. He was back on real English soil after having been in Scotland for a fortnight. There he’d found evidence that the king’s cousin, Henry, was indeed preparing to move against the crown.

Nearly a month had passed since the king’s departure, and the man chafed at the delay. He tried to school himself in patience. Soon he’d send a report, but there was more information he needed to collect first—this regarding Prince John’s activities.

He called for a horse.

*  *  *

The green forest beckoned.

Leaf-laden arms waved Robin closer. The wind through the upper branches and the fragrance of loam enticed him. The shadows beneath the oak and the hawthorn and the ash called to him.

Sherwood ringed the easternmost edge of Longstride land, great and mighty hardwoods only ten long strides from the back door where he stood.

So close.

The sun was in its downward arc, slinking toward the massive, sprawling treetops, hanging perfectly above the yard between house and wilderness, painting the grass boundary betwixt them a fervent, buttery green. The green of summer. The green of planting.

His back twisted at the thought, the sensation running through him like a bowstring with a mis-notched arrow.

So many damned fields
.

He looked at the forest and resented the flat expanses that had been cleared long before he was born, by forebears whose only use for the mighty Sherwood had been as a source of lumber and firewood. He had toiled endlessly, yet it seemed as if he had just begun the task of furrowing and planting, and he hated the sun on his neck and the stink of the ox and the ankle-twisting softness of plowed earth.

He remembered the coolness of midday beneath the trees, how it kissed the sweat of exertion off his brow as he rested wherever he stopped. Whether on the ridge or in the hollow, he would find some peaceful place to lean and close his eyes and simply become a part of the forest itself.

He closed his eyes now, sorting through a thousand memories.

Behind him, from the front of the manor, came the dull, distant sound of a door opening and closing.

“Robin!” The sound echoed through the halls, pulsating around corners to lick up to the boots on his feet like a stray cat. He turned and faced the inside of the room. Moving his eyes away from the forest made his chest feel tight. Leaning on the doorjamb of the pantry, he waited for whoever was calling his name. He’d done enough walking today, over turned dirt and exposed rocks.

Let this person come to him.

He realized that he didn’t have a weapon, not even the tiny skinning knife. In the field, everything had been shed in the heat and the sun. Yet he was almost too tired to care. His back hurt.

On the shelf to his left, a half pace away, he saw the handle of a thick knife sticking out between two jars of preserves. It would be dull, the edge round and the point blunt—a chopping knife, heavy of spine and handle. But it would be sturdy.

He could reach it if needed.

Robin stood straighter as he waited, keen ears picking up footsteps. A shadow, driven forward by the window light from the end of the hall, loomed outside the doorway. He wanted suddenly to reach over and pick up the knife, to have it in his hand as the footsteps drew nearer.

But he didn’t. Instead he took a deep breath and shook out his hands.

The dark shape looked misshapen, as if some fey creature had crossed the threshold and stalked its way toward him, lurching and bobbing through his childhood home.