Mark of the Black Arrow (27 page)

As one they jerked around, puppets on the same string. Brother Dobbson moved close. He spoke low, his voice thready with anxiety, his words as halting as a newborn colt.

“Friar… I don’t know… I…”

“Spit it out, man!”

Impacts sounded from inside the room.

Brother Dobbson’s mouth opened, then closed, then dropped and hung open. Finally he could take it no longer.

“Move aside and let me see.” Friar Tuck’s wide hand fell on the man’s arm, pushing to the left. Shoving forward he barreled through the group. As the last one stepped aside, he saw what had them in an uproar.

The library was in shambles. The handcrafted shelves were near empty, the floor littered with books and scrolls and parchments in oilskin sleeves. All of them were ancient. His eyes found pages torn from their bindings, leather older than the monastery itself cracked and broken from being dragged off the shelves and hastily tossed aside like garbage. These were the collective written knowledge of the order, each book meticulously scribed and bound. Many of them were singular, the only copy of that text anywhere in the world.

They were irreplaceable.

In the center of the room the bishop pulled another book from the shelf, flipped its pages through his fingers, and tossed it unceremoniously to the floor with the rest of them. At the sight of him treating the books so callously rage boiled inside Friar Tuck, and his guts went all greasy and hot. Before he could think he was across the room and his hands were curled around the lapels of the purple robes. Spittle flew from his mouth as he lifted the bishop off his feet and shook him. Fabric tore under his grip.

“What do you think you are
doing
?” he roared.

“Unhand me, barbarian!” The bishop kicked out, feet bouncing off the friar’s thick midsection. Tuck shoved the man against an empty bookshelf. The wood cracked under the impact.

“Some of these books are priceless,” he growled. “What gives you the right?”

The bishop’s fists hammered down on Tuck’s arms, striking a nerve on the left. Pain mixed with numbness and shot to the end of the monk’s fingers. The bishop’s feet touched the ground, and he swung his head forward.

Tuck jerked back, avoiding the impact of the bishop’s head against his mouth, but catching some of it on his chin. Stars flared across his eyes, sending the room dark for a moment.

He dropped the man altogether.

Landing on his feet, the bishop lunged forward. Hands up and ready to fight, he tried to punch Friar Tuck in the face. The monk stepped back and the bishop stumbled over a small pile of books on the floor. Tuck winced as the sound of tearing cloth rose up from the man’s feet. His hand snarled in the bishop’s purple robe, pulling it tight.

The bishop cried out in pain as Friar Tuck swung back a meaty fist with every intention of trying to separate his opponent’s head from his shoulders.

“Enough!”

The voice rang into the room. They turned to see the cardinal filling the doorway, lit from behind and radiating righteous anger. The other monks peered in from the doorframe, each struggling for a better view. He strode forward, cassock whipping around his legs as if it were driving him. Tuck’s heart surged. Here he had an ally, someone of higher authority who wouldn’t be afraid to challenge the bishop’s position.

The cardinal glared at Friar Tuck.

“Have you lost your mind?”

The words were a dash of cold water against his face.

“Let him go,” the cardinal growled.
“Now.”

Tuck opened his hand. The bishop fell, stumbling back. He caught himself on the wall. Pushing off, he pointed at Friar Tuck.

“The scourge!” he cried. “I want him scourged for daring to lay his hands on me.”

The cardinal ignored his words, peering around at the destruction of the library. Then he fixed the bishop with his eyes.

“What are you looking for?”

“That’s nothing with which you should concern yourself.”

“My family donated the vast majority of these works,” the cardinal replied. “I am
very
concerned.”

“This is a library, and I am looking for a book,” the bishop said, refusing to give ground. “That is enough for you to know.”

Behind the cardinal’s back Friar Tuck seethed. He glared at the bishop. What sort of a book could he be looking for that would warrant such destruction? Then a sudden sick feeling twisted his innards. He thought of the artifact brought by Alan-a-Dale. Surely he was wrong, though. How would the bishop even know of its existence?

As he stared at the man, his eyes caught a slowly spreading patch of darkness on the bishop’s garish, purple robe. It was a mark, a series of lines that intersected in a weird way. His eyes began to water as he watched the purple linen turn dark, fiber by fiber. Then he glanced down at his left hand.

Wet red slicked his fingertips, already drying into a dark rust color.

He looked closer.

The symbol grew and his head began to pound, an incessant marching of soldiers inside his skull as the symbol grew solid. It lay on the bishop’s forearm. Anger leeched away as he studied it, committing each line of it to memory even as his eyes began to feel as though they would leap from his skull.

“…I said,
to your chamber
.”

The cardinal’s voice jolted him from his reverie. He looked up at his mentor. Francis’s face had gone gray, the crow’s feet by his eyes now carved deep as if by knife point.

With one last glance at the symbol, Tuck turned and left.

*  *  *

Alan-a-Dale followed the path, feet moving but his eyes not watching, traveling with a mind that churned like a river flowing over falls. His time with the blacksmith and his wife had marked his soul, mostly because it echoed what he had seen in other people who’d been visited by Locksley’s tax brigade.

Brigands, more like.

He thought of the grimness that had settled on the land, starting first with the people who had been victimized, and spreading like a pox to their neighbors who simply waited with the dread of when they would receive the knock on their door. The hearts of the people had been bruised and left bleeding.

He pushed the thoughts from his mind, unable to dwell on them any longer, and focused on the one thing brought up over and over again by the homes he’d visited.

They were looking for a book.

No one knew what kind of book, but the thought of it made his shoulders tense. He’d not long ago brought a book into the care and keeping of Friar Tuck. Prince John arrived directly after, and now with force of arms he sought a mysterious tome. Alan was no believer in coincidence.

His dear friend Tuck had much to explain.

*  *  *

Friar Tuck couldn’t sit still. He tried to lie down. He tried praying. He tried drinking from a bottle of brandy. Nothing took the edge off the anger that shimmy-jolted under his skin. So instead he paced the small chamber. Four strides from one side to the other, back and forth, again and again and again, each step a nail pounded into his rage.

The bolt on his door bounced against the wood door as someone tried to enter. He turned and reached out, yanking it open. It slammed against the wall.

“
What?
” he bellowed.

Cardinal Francis pushed in, barreling the stout man back.

“Shut your mouth,” he said firmly.

Friar Tuck looked up at the taller priest, breath pounding out of flared nostrils and clenched jaw.

“Or what?” he said. “You would strike me, Francis? Be prepared for me to respond in kind.”

“Then get it over with, if it will calm you,” the cardinal said and he leaned back, arms stretched wide. “If not, then stick your head in a bucket.”

For one blind moment Tuck almost did strike out. He could feel the impact of his fist on his friend’s chest, feel the ribs compress inward, giving way under the force of his blow, collapsing from his strength. For one long moment temptation dragged at his very bones.

Then he looked at Francis’s face.

The cardinal’s eyes held no anger, no reproach. Instead they were filled with a simple sympathy, a love that made them soft around their edges as they peered into his soul and understood him.

The eyes of Christ.

He was forgiven before he could strike a blow.

Exhaustion fell on him like an avalanche, all the rage and anger crumbled into dust inside him. The cardinal put his hands on Tuck’s shoulders.

“It’s all right, my son.”

“I’m sorry.”

The cardinal chuckled. “No, you are angry and noble, and the two drive you to the same end. One is the horse, the other is the carriage.”

“I try to pray it down,” Tuck protested. “I truly do.”

The cardinal leaned in, his voice a whisper so soft it was almost just a breath. “Don’t,” he said. “The prayers of a righteous man availeth much, but we may have need of the anger of a righteous man before we finish our time here.” He stepped back. His finger moved up, pointing at his own eye, then reaching out to point at Tuck’s. “You know you did wrong.”

Friar Tuck touched his ears, and the cardinal nodded. Someone could be listening—the small monk’s cell wasn’t big enough to keep the sound of their voices from carrying.

“It’s true,” he admitted. “He was destroying things that were irreplaceable. I lost my head.”

“He wasn’t doing that.” The cardinal’s voice was stern. “He was searching for a book, for Prince John. You should not have interfered.”

“I know. I am truly contrite of heart.” Friar Tuck reached to a shelf, pulling down a parchment scrap and a thin piece of charcoal. Placing the parchment on his bench, he wrote,
Did you see the symbol?
Then he held it out. The cardinal shook his head, and Friar Tuck nodded.

“You will have to be punished,” the cardinal said.

“I submit to your judgment in this.” He quickly sketched the symbol on the parchment. As his fingers moved the charcoal they began to tingle. The lines wavered, squiggling on the thin sheet as he pulled them. His bowels churned, threatening to let go as he pulled the last line and thrust it toward his mentor, wanting it away from him, wanting the foul taste gone from his mouth.

“You will scourge yourself for five Our Fathers.” The cardinal’s eyes dropped to the scrap in his hand. His face paled, blood draining down his skin and leaving a chalk-white pallor, and he looked as if he was about to retch. He swallowed hard, folded the scrap, and buried it in his pocket.

He crossed himself with a shaking hand.

Are you alright?
Friar Tuck mouthed.

Francis nodded and moved his lips.
We’ll talk later.
He turned toward the door. Over his shoulder he spoke.

“Scourge yourself, my son. Scourge yourself and offer it up to the Lord as sacrifice for His wisdom and guidance in the coming days.”

The door shut firmly behind him.

Tuck stood alone in the small room. After a long moment he untied the belt around his waist and let it drop from his hands. Pulling the hood of his robe he dragged it over his head and allowed it to fall to the floor as well. He stood in his braies, the cool air washing over him, raising gooseflesh across his body.

Head bowed, he reached out, grasping the knotted prayer cord from its peg on his wall. The rope was stiff and dyed dark with his blood, and there was a stain on the wall beneath the peg.

Wrapping the end of it around his fingers, he fell to his knees.

*  *  *

Glynna woke from a deep sleep full of tempestuous dreams. She panted, left that way by a dream lover who had fled back into the mist. The bed beneath her was damp, the sheets in disarray. Her body was tight, swollen and lush, but she felt hollow inside, carved out by unfulfilled desire. She lay for a moment, wondering why she had awakened before she could finish the dream.

Her mind drifted outward.

Someone was coming. Her ability to sense things had grown, becoming stronger each passing day and with each night she spent in front of her altar.

She’d heard no knock, not that she would have from her room. She rose and wrapped a dressing gown around her long, lean frame. Without bothering to light a candle, she made it downstairs and through the darkness to the front door. She leaned against it for a moment and imagined she could feel someone on the other side doing the same. She heard a whispering in her mind, soft, seductive.

Let me in.

She threw back the bolt and opened the door.

A man stood there. No, not a man, more than that—a demigod carved from the night itself. A crown of hair that shone white like the moonlight stood in stark contrast. She knew him from descriptions she had heard.

“Good eve to you, Sheriff of Nottingham,” she said.

His mouth twitched at the corner. “And to you, my lady and witch,” he said.

She took a deep breath. If it had been anyone else she would have denied it with her last breath, but something about him drew her. She wanted to tell him everything.

“Let me in,” he said.

She moved back and he stepped over the threshold. She closed the door behind him. The man turned to her, then closed his eyes for a moment as if listening for something.

“Your son is away and your daughters are asleep.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Both my sons are away, as is my husband. I gave the girls something to help them sleep. They haven’t rested without aid since one of your men tried to steal my youngest.”

He snorted. “Not one of mine. The king’s men.”

“Is that not the same thing?”

“Was your daughter taken? If you still have her, then it is not the same thing at all.” He walked around the room, looking at the furniture and the decorations. His fingers trailed over the table where she kept a bowl of moonwater. The surface of the bowl shimmered as his fingers slid by. She watched him move, examining the items of her family’s life. He was completely deliberate, every motion coiled with potential.

The sight of him caused something low in her stomach to clench, and suddenly she was warm and wet beneath her thin gown. The Sheriff turned to face her, closed his eyes and leaned his head back. He took a deep breath through his nose, held it, then exhaled and opened his eyes, pinning her with the intensity of his stare.