Mark of the Black Arrow (17 page)

“We want the same thing,” John insisted. “I swear it on my soul.”

“You did that back in Ireland.”

The prince fell silent, desperate to change the subject. “What are we going to do about the girl?”

The Sheriff said nothing, simply touched his fingers to the fur collar around his neck and blew air from his lips. The push of his breath made the long, black hair wave and trill. Two eyes opened between his long, pale fingers, glowing yellow and feral. The collar shifted, unwinding itself from the Sheriff’s throat.

As John watched with eyes grown wide, legs with claw-tipped paws broke free from the dark shape and pulled it up to stand, where it shook and stretched, expanding with each movement until an animal that may have been a cat, may have been a dog, and may have been something else altogether, crouched on the Sheriff’s shoulder. The Sheriff turned his face toward it and it lowered a triangular head.

“Find and watch her,” the Sheriff murmured. The animal peered at him, comprehension clear in its eyes. It batted his face with a paw, and leapt into the shadow from which its master had stepped.

The Sheriff waved his hand in a motion that John recognized. It had been diagrammed in an ancient Egyptian text for which he’d traded two pounds of gold and two pounds of black goat flesh. His eyes burned as he followed the twisting fingers, and began to water uncontrollably.

When his vision cleared, he could hear the servants shuffling past outside the door.

And he was alone in the room.

*  *  *

The stone was cool under its feet, much cooler than its home. It slinked down the hallway, moving through the ever-present shadow at the base of the wall. Windows were high. The light only dipped so low.

Fat ankles passed by. They puffed out of leather shoes too small for the feet and became stout calves that rose up into a skirt. Tempted it was to swipe out, to let out the tang of the blood trapped in those swollen joints.

It kept moving. It would obey.

The girl. The one that smelled of innocence and lean flesh. The one with narrow ankles. Her it would find.

It stayed near the inside wall, where her smell soaked into the stone. She crackled in its nose.

It moved faster.

*  *  *

“Your Highness.” The boy bowed so deeply she feared his hair would brush through the dirty hay. He straightened, looking at her feet instead of her eyes. “How may I serve you today?”

Marian glanced around the stable. She loved riding, and came here often to try different horses, depending on her mood. Today people moved with purpose from one end to the other. It was noisy in the long barn. Of course, there was always a sound of horses, and of people talking and laughing.

This was different.

The clamor inside the stable had a brittle edge to it. Head cocked to the side, she tried to figure out what was unusual. Looking down the line of stalls, she noted that about half were occupied, each with a horse hanging its head over the gate. Ears flat, the majestic beasts nickered and neighed at each other. Hooves clopped and bodies bashed against the walls as stable hands moved from one to the other with sugar cubes and apples, using them to try to calm the beasts.

Her nose filled with a harsh, bitter smell of fire and dust. Glancing up she found traces of smoke curling along the thatch roof.

“Highness?” the boy said again.

“I’m sorry.” She smiled down at him. “I need a horse.”

The stable boy looked around, eyes wide.

“Um…”

“Do not worry,” she said. “I can see that things are not normal here today.”

“It is an odd one, Highness,” he agreed.

“Then let us follow the simple course,” she suggested. “Go to Merryweather’s stall and bridle her, but don’t bother with a saddle. I’ll take her from there in a few moments.”

He nodded, touching two fingers to his forehead in salute, and moved off to do as she bid.

Moving over to the tack room, she entered and locked the door. Briskly she moved to the locker where her riding gear was stored, including a small stack of clothing. Opening the wooden door she was greeted by a waft of cedar and horse sweat. She needed to wash her kit, but it would have to wait.

Glancing back at the door to make sure she’d bolted it, she shimmied out of her castle gown, letting the simple cotton shift fall to the ground. Kicking off her sandals as she unfastened her undergarment, she found herself unencumbered. The air in the tack room was warm, but she still felt a chill. She shook it off, telling herself that it was just in her mind, an aftereffect of being naked.

She looked again, and found the door still bolted.

Pulling a linen shirt off the top of the stack of clothes, she jerked it over her body. It lay close to her skin, soft from dozens of washing, and hung to mid-thigh. Snatching up her trousers, she slipped them over her legs, the wool stiff from her last ride and scratchy across the slick scars that criss-crossed her shins, calves, and thighs. She tucked in the shirt and buckled her belt. Next came the leather jerkin that supported her spine during a ride, and covered her breasts for modesty’s sake, holding them steady for comfort. Finally she slipped her feet into matching well-worn boots that made her ready to ride.

*  *  *

Dirt did not hold the girl scent like the stone. And the hated sun hung overhead. It darted around the open door, so fast it was a blur as it streaked under the tapestry being carried by the solid men who smelled like dust and sour milk. Their smell helped it separate the girl from the dirt until it found her trail.

She crossed the courtyard. It circled, keeping low around the flowers and bushes as it chased the smell left behind.

*  *  *

Exiting the tack room, she lost no time and went straight to Merryweather’s stall at the end of the stable. Inside she found the small chestnut mare with a leather bridle in place and the stable boy holding the reins.

On sight of her, the horse pushed forward, nuzzling her face along Marian’s shoulder and neck. She smiled and stroked the sleek muscles along the creature’s withers. Merryweather was firm and solid, full of power despite her smaller stature. Marian loved her, always stopping at the stall to give the gentle creature a treat of carrot or apple, choosing her most of the times she rode.

“You are sure no saddle for you today?” the boy asked.

She shook her head. “Not for my girl. We ride better without a barrier.”

“Then she is ready for you, Highness.” The stable boy bowed his head again.

She reached out and touched him on the shoulder. He wasn’t much younger than her, perhaps five years separating them. She was tall for a girl, and he hadn’t reached that bone-stretching growth spurt boys seem to get, so he was shorter than her by more than two handspans. It made him look younger than he was. That and his wide brown eyes.

“What is your name?”

“Murther, ma’am.”

“Good name. It’s distinctive.”

He blushed. “Thank you, Highness.”

“Murther, I need something more from you today.”

“If I am able, I will.”

“I would not ask you to lie, but if you are not asked directly, I would prefer you to not speak of me here today. No mention of it as gossip or news.”

Murther passed his fingers over his lips, indicating that they were sealed.

*  *  *

The warm smell of rat urine filled its nose. A rat had crossed this space moments before it arrived. The scent made it waver, tempting it to track and kill and eat. Instead it coiled its body tighter, drawing deeper into the shadow, and flicked its eyes up to watch.

The horse lived here.

The girl had taken the horse.

The girl would return here.

It would wait.

*  *  *

Marian and Merryweather broke free of the forest’s shadow on a ridge above the Church Road. The sun washed over her, bathing the world in bright yellow and warming her immediately. Underneath her legs, the horse shook and snorted, also feeling the effect of the high summer sun.

Marian had taken her up the narrow trail through the wood, trying to get ahead of the bishop. Looking down the long slope of the ridge she saw a carriage pull from the forest into the same sunlight she enjoyed. The driver wore the brown robe of a monk, and the team of horses trailed purple streamers from their harnesses.

Leaning over Merryweather’s withers, she clucked her tongue and tapped her heels into the horse’s flanks. Merryweather took her lead and began to trot down the other side of the ridge, heading across the open pass toward the monastery that stood solid and wide, surrounded by sunlit fields of monks working their crops.

By the time she reached the gate of the monastery’s corral, she needed a long drink of water. Merryweather agreed, walking straight up to the trough and dropping her muzzle into it. Marian tossed her leg over the horse’s neck and slid down her side. She considered scooping some of the water for herself, but decided against it.

A monk jogged along the track she’d just ridden, one hand holding up his long monk’s habit. He stumbled to a stop beside her, dropping forward to put his hands on his knees as he gulped air in great draughts. She looked down on the top of his head. His tonsure had plastered thickly to the shaved portion, held down by sweat and turned ruddy brown instead of what she believed would be a bright ginger when dry.

“Are you alright, Father?” she asked.

He nodded, sweat flinging off his scalp. He took a deep breath and straightened, blowing it out before looking at her. His eyes rolled from her face down to her ankles, and then jerked violently away.

“What brings you here this day, milady?” he asked.

“I need to see the cardinal.”

“Ummmmm…” The monk scratched his neck where the robe had rubbed a thin red crease. He paused as if to gather words, but only repeated the humming sound from his chest.

Anger flared inside her. “What is the trouble?” she demanded. “Is the cardinal here?”

“Yes, milady,” the man responded. “He is.”

“Then take me to him.”

Still the monk hesitated, glancing at her, then the ground, then back at her before motioning for her to follow him. He led her in through a door to a small room. It contained a bench, and not another stick of furniture. A single window, covered in oilskin, let in the sunlight.

“Stay here please,” he said. “I will return with the cardinal.”

Before she could agree, he darted out the door, shutting it firmly behind him.

T
he room was narrow, but Marian found the bench uncomfortable, and so she paced back and forth, leaving tracks in the dirt floor. As each moment passed anxiety gnawed at her stomach. She stopped moving, and jumbled thoughts rattled through her head

Will I be turned away like a fool?

Dismissed as a child?

Ignored as a woman?

Just as she began to pace again, the door opened. The cardinal stepped inside, his face creased with worry. To her surprise, Friar Tuck squeezed in behind him.

She knelt and crossed herself.

“Enough of that, child,” the cardinal said. She rose and he indicated the bench. Dutifully she sat on the end of the hard seat, giving him plenty of room to sit beside her.

“Your Eminence, I apologize for coming unannounced,” she said, “and demanding this audience.”

“I can only assume that it is urgent,” he replied.

“It is.”

“Then it is good that I am here.”

“I was afraid the father I spoke with wasn’t going to allow me to see you.”

The cardinal chuckled. “Well, you did cause a bit of a stir. The good brothers here are unused to seeing a woman wearing such attire.”

Marian looked down and blushed. Her clothes covered her, but they also clung to her like a second skin. Good for riding, yet inappropriate for a monastery. Before she could speak to apologize, the cardinal seemed to read her mind, and held up his hand.

“All is well,” he assured her. “Tell me, to what do I owe this visit, milady?”

She glanced at Friar Tuck. The cardinal followed her gaze, then looked back at her.

“Do not concern yourself,” he said. “The good friar has my full trust. You should regard him as you do myself.” Looking back at Tuck, he added, “Plus he makes an excellent doorstop, should anyone feel the need to join us.”

Friar Tuck rolled his eyes, but he did it with a small smile. Moving to the closed door, he leaned heavily against it.

Marian nodded slowly, then cleared her throat.

“Your Eminence, Prince John has ordered that all of the religious tapestries at the castle be torn down,” she said, the words tumbling out. “When I confronted him about it, he… well, he threatened me.”

Friar Tuck crossed himself. The cardinal’s mouth formed a hard line.

“There’s more,” she said.

“There always is,” the cardinal responded.

“When I entered the king’s study, I found the prince reading a parchment. He tried to hide it from me, but I did get a glimpse of it. It was written in a language unknown to me, but I managed to memorize a few symbols that appeared on the page.”

“Could you describe them?” the cardinal asked.

“It would be easier to draw them.” Kneeling beside the bench, Marian began to draw the first symbol in the dirt. With each drag of her finger, it felt as if a band tightened around her skull, cinching with each stroke. She had nearly finished the symbol when the cardinal reached out and seized her hand hard enough to grind her knuckles together.

Startled, she let out a little cry and glanced up at him.

“I’m not finished,” she said.

“Were you about to draw a line through the middle of it?” he asked.

“Yes, that would complete the symbol.”

He pulled her back up onto the bench, kicking the symbol clear in the dirt. “Then thank Christ that I stopped you. That symbol is unholy. It is used by those who practice black magic.”

A chill raced up her spine. “Does such magic truly exist?” She had heard of such things, but had never seen evidence of them with her own eyes.

The cardinal nodded solemnly.

“And you are certain that this symbol relates to it?”