Mark of the Black Arrow (33 page)

It was near the end of sunlight. Here, in the depths of the mighty forest, even just off the road, it left them enveloped in deep dusk, near night.

I’ll never be able to shoot this thing straight.
He picked up the crossbow and pulled it into his lap. Carefully, he laid a wooden bolt along its track, notching the string into the fletching. The tip was wrapped in boiled leather.

Not that it matters with no arrowhead.

A rattling sound jolted him, coming down the road, growing louder and louder. He rolled up on one knee and sighted down the bolt, centering it on the spot between the two leaning hawthorns.

The rattling came closer, accompanied by the sound of horses at a gallop.

From the gloom of the forest stepped a figure, lean but broad of shoulder and carrying a rag-wrapped stick and a wooden pail. He set down the pail. Will recognized the person, despite the fact that a dark green tunic and hood obscured his face. If nothing else, he would know him by the bow slung around his shoulders.

I hope you know what you’re doing, cousin.

Robin’s plan called for both stealth and brash arrogance. Five against an entire brigade of armed men. Overpower them, take back the things they had collected from the people, and honor the cardinal’s admonition that as little blood be spilled as possible. Hence the headless crossbow bolts. The elder priest wasn’t there but his man Friar Tuck hid in the forest down the road, along with the lanky bard.

It all had seemed impossible, ready to collapse even before they had begun, and Alan had said so. Then Robin proposed a plan. An insane just-might-work-because-it-was-Robin type of plan.

Leaning against the base of the bush, he watched the road. The tax brigade broke around the curve, horses at full speed to beat the fall of dark. Even with the road, it was dangerous to be caught in Sherwood at night, and
very
dangerous to ride without light.

Twenty men rode forward, surrounding a cart pulled by a team. Sleek and low, the wagon rumbled with no sway, sitting heavy over the leaf springs on each axle, the iron box in the center full of something heavy.

Heavy like gold.

Leaning forward, Robin swirled the rag-wrapped end of the stick through the oil and pitch in the bucket. He straightened and shook off the excess. His left hand pulled out a coal box, flipped it open, and brought it to his face. Will saw the hot ember flare orange along the edges of the hood that was pulled down over his face.

The brigade drew closer.

Touching the ember to the rag caught it on fire, bursting in a flash to run up the oil-soaked cloth. It crackled and popped with greasy orange flame, black smoke from the pitch billowing into the gathering darkness as he raised the torch over his head. The harsh light cast his face completely in the shadow of his hood, hiding his identity.

At the sight of a man with a torch, standing firm in the center of the road, the tax brigade drew up short, pulling reins to halt their mounts. Mud churning under hooves, they halted ten paces from Robin. Locksley sat on the lead horse, and he looked down.

“Move off the road, you idiot,” he bellowed, “and count your blessings that we stopped, instead of running you down as you deserve.”

Will expected Robin to speak, to demand the gold, but his cousin made no noise, didn’t even move—simply stood with his head down and the torch guttering over his head.

One by one the men behind Locksley began looking around, glancing at one another. Some laughed, short chokes of uncomfortable humor coming from a place of fear. The rest watched closely, waiting for Locksley to lead.

Horses began to shuffle, lifting their feet and moving their heads. They felt the nervousness of their riders, and reacted in kind. Ears pinned back, their eyes showed white and they snorted, teeth chiming as they chewed the bits in their mouths.

Still Robin did not move.

One by one the men began putting hands on hilts.

Will leaned forward into the screen of brush that hid him. He felt heavy in the center, as the number of their opponents weighed upon him.

This might’ve been a terrible idea.

*  *  *

Friar Tuck didn’t have enough hands.

He needed one to hold onto the rope that tied him to the tree, another to hold the basket that vibrated in his grip, another to hold the tree because he didn’t trust the rope to keep him in place, another to hold the burlap sack closed around the basket, and yet another to scratch the itch that had set up home under the edge of his belly.

It had been burrowing into his gullet for the last hour. Was it some insect, trapped between skin and cloth? Some creepy-crawly that would not stop until it reached his insides, where it would set up home and unleash a horde of baby insects who would scurry and skrim through his intestines until they burst from him in a flood of tiny legs and wriggly, segmented bodies?

No, it was probably just an itch.

An itch made worse because he could not spare a hand to scratch. So he shifted, rubbing his stomach against the rough bark. The leaves shook around him, brushing against one another and sounding like a hundred voices shushing him.

His nose burned from the sooty smoke that filled the branches around him. He looked down in the haze at the men gathered beneath the tree he clutched so dearly. Their horses began to shimmy and sway. None of them looked up to where he hung. All of their eyes focused forward on the man with the torch.

A knot of tension in his thigh began to squinge in on itself, building in intensity and spreading. Soon it would morph into a full-blown cramp.

I hope I can get down out of this blasted tree before that.

He tried to not think about the pain.

*  *  *

The hood blocked the top of his vision, cutting across it in a wavy line. He wanted to toss it back, but fought the urge. Anonymity was of the utmost importance—for Becca and Ruth. For the safety of the people left at Longstride Manor. Even for his mother.

He could see part of Locksley on his wide-chested white stallion, and he fought the urge to plant an arrow in the man’s throat. Longstride Manor had been ransacked by this tax brigade, these very men. Some of them were neighbors, some even friends of his father, and they’d followed Locksley’s orders and destroyed Longstride property. Some of the things smashed had been new, some had been in his family for generations.

The memories crackled inside him like ice on a warm winter day—of his mother, stooping wearily to clean, and the sounds of his sisters sniffling to keep their sobs muffled. And worst of all was Lila, poor Lila, who couldn’t cook anything without burning it. Some ruffian had choked the life out of her. Heaven only knew why. He had told his mother to get everyone out. Maybe Lila had just been too slow. His mother had discovered the body of her lifelong servant when they returned to the home. Anger burned in his breast for Lila, for all of them.

This is more than simple revenge.
Now he had a plan. It was
his
plan.

He took a deep breath and began to speak.

*  *  *

At the sound of Robin’s voice, Marian stopped moving, hand in mid-air, about to push away the branch in front of her. The words boomed out, rolling across the road like thunder. She was so used to him speaking in low tones that the sheer volume of it froze her in place.

“You men are thieves, stealing from the poor what little they have,” he said, his voice disguised. “Sherwood has seen your actions, and the forest is angered by your very presence. You have been shaken, pressed down, measured in the balances, and found wanting.”

As he spoke, Robin waved the torch slowly, back and forth, from one side of him to the other. Several of the men in the brigade crossed themselves and one cried out.

He spoke again.

“The weight of stolen gold is a millstone tied to your necks. It drags your souls to Hell. Cut yourselves free from this burden, turn your faces and repent, and ye may yet be spared this night.”

His voice dropped, and she had to strain to hear it.

“Refuse, and suffer the judgment of Sherwood.”

Marian tensed, raising her crossbow and aiming.

*  *  *

The cramp in Tuck’s leg cinched down on itself.

*  *  *

Will braced himself to keep the crossbow steady.

*  *  *

Smoke from the torch curled around Locksley’s head.

It worked into his eyes, making them water. The horse under him vibrated, staying put but ready to break if he loosed the reins at all. It kept snorting, the sooty stench irritating its nostrils. Behind him came the sounds of jingling bridles and shuffling hooves. And murmurs.

Murmurs were disastrous to leadership.

He drew his sword, lifting the blade in the air.

“Step aside or I will ride you down,” he demanded. “We are on king’s business.”

Then he was startled by a new sound. From under the hood came a sharp whistle. The man in shadows swung his arms with a flourish, flinging his free hand toward the mounted men and loosing an animal roar.

Noise leapfrogged from both sides of the road and two men behind him cried out as they were knocked from their horses by some invisible force. He jerked around as they tumbled to the ground. One man’s animal reared, hooves kicking out and striking the face of the beast beside him. Chaos rolled through the group, men cursing and yanking at the reins of horses that danced and churned.

“Did you see that?”

“He knocked them off their horses!”

“Just a wave of his hand!”

This cannot continue
, Locksley thought frantically. Then the man in the hood roared a command.

“Leave your ill-gotten gains and run, run for your miserable lives,” he bellowed.

Locksley turned in the saddle, jerking his head back and forth, seeking a way to salvage the situation. In the dirt, broken by crushing hooves, he spied a slender object.

A crossbow bolt.

Waving his sword around in the air he began to shout at the men.

*  *  *

Tuck’s leg jerked, pain ripping through his thigh and drawing it up into a fisted slab. His hand slipped on the smooth bark and he teetered left, his weight dragging him around. Letting go of the burlap-wrapped basket, he scrabbled to stop his rotation and wound up hanging by his waist, the safety rope cutting into the very spot where the itch had been.

He watched the turmoil below him and saw the basket fall, spinning free of the burlap as it turned. It smashed to pieces between the two horses that were teamed together on the wagon.

*  *  *

Marian stood, swinging her crossbow up in an arc. As she watched, a black cloud swarmed up between the harnessed team.

She could barely see it in the failing light, but she’d watched the basket fall and knew what it held, even though it was meant to wait for a signal from Robin. Black hornets in the gloom of the darkening forest, meant to be dropped behind the tax brigade to drive them forward and away while Robin remained safe in the smoke that would surge up from the bucket at his feet.

Something has gone wrong.

The horses began leaping and dancing in their stays, the wagon of gold bouncing on its wheels as the animals tried to get away from the insects now free from their imprisonment, ready for war with any flesh they could find. The beasts fought each other, jerking in opposite directions.

The hornets spread like wildfire, driving their stingers into the men and mounts surrounding the gold wagon. Already shoved to the edge of panic, the horses bolted, some losing their riders, others carrying them away.

She swung her crossbow back and forth, looking for a target that would make a difference in the riot. In addition to Locksley’s men, there were two of the king’s guards present, one on either side of the treasure wagon. Both men’s mounts plunged and twisted uncontrollably, screaming in fear as the hornets attacked them, as well. The man on the right unsheathed his sword and plunged it into his own mount’s neck.

The animal screamed for a second, the sound strangling off as it tumbled to the ground and the man jumped off. He landed in a crouch and began to walk toward Robin. Horrified, Marian released her shaft, catching him right in the chest. It knocked him backward, but then he gathered himself and kept moving.

As though he didn’t even notice it.

She drew her dagger, fear coursing through her. She had never heard of a soldier killing his own mount to keep it from carrying him away from a fight. Soldiers cared for their horses, knowing that they entrusted their lives to the beasts. She had never met the man who would willingly strike down his own animal.

Robin had foreseen this. When he had outlined this plan, he had warned them to be careful if any of the king’s guard were present. The men who were kidnapping children were carrying swords with dark symbols forged into them. The blacksmith had told Alan that he’d been forced to forge weapons with strange symbols on them. Cardinal Francis had speculated that the weapons were infused with some sort of magic, forcing otherwise honorable men to commit atrocities—such as kidnapping children.

And killing their own warhorses.

Her stomach churned and bile rose up in her throat. Such a monster would not be stopped by anything but a deathblow, regardless of what the cardinal wanted.

On the other side of the wagon the other member of the king’s guard struck down his horse, as well, and hit the ground with sword dripping blood. Both of them drew abreast of Locksley, unfazed by the chaos around them and the air of mystery around the man in the hood.

Marian glanced around frantically. Tuck was in the tree, and she couldn’t see Alan or Will. Even if they had witnessed what was occurring, she didn’t know if they would understand in time, or could respond fast enough.

As she lunged out of the darkness, she realized that it was up to her. Those who were running away might see her and realize that the Hood had help, but that was a chance she would have to take.

*  *  *

Robin stood his ground, watching and waiting to see what opportunity might present itself. He saw two of the king’s guard, now on foot, advancing toward him, but he had a more immediate concern.