Mark of the Black Arrow (35 page)

“So much has happened,” Robin said.

“More than you know. The Sheriff gathers witches and beasts that obey his command.” Another cough brought dark blood to Robert’s mouth. “Not like any creatures I’ve seen before.” He coughed violently, and blood trickled out of his mouth. When he spoke again his voice was weaker still. “He’s not human. I escaped. He couldn’t chase me into the forest… don’t know why.”

“I’ll kill him,” Robin vowed, his throat constricting tight. His brother was the best warrior alive, but Robin was a hunter, and he would stalk the Sheriff as he would a beast of prey. Then he would put an arrow through his throat.

Robert grabbed Robin’s shirt. “Stay away, he’s dangerous. John, too, though he doesn’t look it.” He coughed again, bringing up more blood. The end was near. Robin had seen too much death in his life to pretend that the gray creeping into Robert’s pallid face was anything else.

“I thought him a… spoilt little prince but he’s… dangerous and…”

Robert drifted to a stop, his eyes closing. Robin shook him lightly.

“No, no, no, no… stay with me.”

Robert opened his eyes again. “Love you, little brother.”

“I love you, too.” Tears ran hot down Robin’s face.

“Mother was wrong… to treat you as she did. Sorry… didn’t stand up… to her.”

“That was never your place.”

Robert’s head lolled, and then he seemed to gather his strength. His grip on Robin’s hand tightened slightly. His words slurred, barely a whisper.

“There’s more. Henry… in Scotland, drawing nobles to himself… amassing… a conscripted army, preparing… to make an assault on the throne.”

“Better he sit on it than John,” Robin said fervently. An invasion by Henry would almost be welcome, if for no other reason than it would occupy John’s time and take his focus away from whatever schemes of his own he was hatching.

“It will destroy England,” Robert wheezed. He coughed, and still more blood came up, covering his chin as it dribbled from his lips. Tears began to roll down his cheeks.

“Brother, England is all but destroyed,” Robin said. “I think only a war could save her.”

“You, Robin,” Robert’s voice was only a breath now. Robin bent close, his ear practically to Robert’s lips. “You will save,” Robert whispered.

“Save what, brother? Save what?”

Robert’s hand went slack, and Robin turned to look him in the face. His brother was gone. His eyes were fixed on something he alone could see. As Robin reached up to close them, bitter sobs wracked his body.

There would be no saving. He had failed.

*  *  *

Robin was like a man possessed. No matter how many armed guards entered Sherwood with a cash box, they always ended up fleeing in terror. When Locksley finally ordered his men to ride far out of their way to avoid the forest, the Hood still managed to ambush them on the road.

The legend of the guardian had so taken hold in the minds of those guarding the gold that more often than not they turned and fled without a fight. The only ones who stood their ground were soldiers of the king’s guard, and he had learned to kill them quickly. Fortunately they did not accompany every shipment.

He had taken to leaving his comrades behind, stalking the tax brigades, hoping to find the Sheriff escorting one of them. Thus far he had been unlucky.

*  *  *

One by one the soldiers had fallen, dropped in quick succession by noose, stone, and arrow that had come from the dark of Sherwood. He was the only one left, and the wagon under him rocked violently as he whipped the horses until their skin flayed open in red lines that opened and closed in rhythm with their mad gallop.

He drove them like the devil, praying neither of the animals would turn a hoof and fall. Suddenly something heavy landed beside him on the bench. He turned his head. A man in a hood stared at him, face lost in the shadow. All he could see were the whites of the eyes and a mad snarl of a smile—the grinning visage of the Angel Of Death.

A booted foot lashed out, kicking him in the face and driving him backward. He tumbled off the wagon that roared down the king’s road. He screamed both times the wagon’s wheels ran over his arm, crushing it into uselessness. The hooded man dropped down behind the wagon, his bow in hand.

The soldier didn’t see the arrow that killed him.

*  *  *

“’Tis not a man.”

Locksley turned to his right. “Shut up, fool.”

“It’s not our fault,” the man responded. He shook his head, beady eyes as wide as they could get in their deep sockets. “One way or another, he knows.”

“I said, be
quiet
.” Locksley struck fast, the back of his fist lashing out across the nose. The man dropped to one knee, and Locksley drew back his hand to deliver another blow.

“Hold.”

The command came from behind. Locksley forced himself to remain stock still as his man slumped to the ground.

“Lift him up, and let him speak,” Prince John said from his chair. “I love a good ghost story.”

Locksley stepped away, returning to his original position, looking straight ahead. Prince John lounged on a curved settee, sinking into the cushions there. Beside him on a matching divan sat Will Scarlet. Both men wore velveteen robes patterned through with gold thread. Locksley couldn’t tell, but they appeared to be a matched set.

Perhaps it was merely a coincidence.

The prince shifted, looking up at a man who stood to the left in a shadow of his own making, all light subdued by the black armor that encased him.

“I’m not the only one who wants a ghost story,” John said with amusement. “Am I right?”

The Sheriff of Nottingham inclined his head in agreement, and there was no humor in his gaze. So the prince indicated that Locksley’s man should stand.

“Rise and finish your tale of horror and ghouls.”

From the corner of his eye, Locksley saw the man climb to his feet. He held fingers over the place where the blow had split the skin. It leaked thin blood along each side of his nose, and it ran down like thin streams of red tears. His voice was thick when he spoke.

“You cannot blame us for the loss of the taxes,” he said. “The spirit of Sherwood keeps taking it. We’ve all seen him—just ask anyone. You cannot fight a ghost.”

The prince glanced at Locksley.

“You disagree with his assessment?”

“It is a man—it has to be,” Locksley replied. “A tricky bastard for sure, but he isn’t the stuff of legend. Such a creature doesn’t exist. No, he’s flesh and blood, like you or me.”

“Then why haven’t you stopped him?” John demanded. “He’s been disrupting your efforts for a month, and yet you’re no closer to apprehending him.”

Locksley had nothing to say.

“What makes you so certain this highwayman is a ghost?” the prince said to the bleeding man.

“Like I said, I seen it with my own eyes.”

“Well, that settles it.” The prince lifted a goblet from the table beside him and took a long swallow. “Clearly you are an expert in the matters of spirits, able to discern the truth about them.”

The man looked belligerent, and stuck his chin out.

“I know what I know,” he said stubbornly. “Me mum were a bit of a witch.”

At that the prince leapt to his feet, flinging the lead goblet at the man. It flashed across the room, striking him in the face almost exactly where Locksley had split his nose. The man cried out in pain and dropped to his knee again. This time he did not rise.

“
There are no ghosts in Sherwood!
” the prince screamed.

The Sheriff was there, standing next to the man. Locksley had not seen him move. The armored man’s hand flashed once, driving against the sobbing man’s chest. When he pulled away he held no knife, yet blood gushed from a wound. Feebly the man raised his hands, reaching for something he could not see. His eyes had gone blind.

The Sheriff stepped back, and the man fell over, and a puddle of his own blood began to appear around the still form.

The prince sat back on his chair, and the Sheriff strolled back across the room to again lean against the wall. Locksley looked over at Will Scarlet. The man looked down at the threads of his robe, as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. No emotion could be seen in his expression.

“What is the current bounty placed on the outlaw?” Prince John asked.

“One hundred gold pieces,” Scarlet answered, picking at a loose thread near the cuff.

“Double it,” the prince instructed. “Two hundred gold pieces to the man who brings me the head of this… ghost.”

Locksley did not move.

“Did you not hear me?” the prince said.

“I beg your pardon, Your Majesty,” Locksley responded, “but gold doesn’t buy what it used to.”

The prince raised an eyebrow. Locksley knew instantly that he was perhaps half a moment from tasting the Sheriff’s wrath, as well.

The prince sighed heavily. “Very well, make a note. The man who brings me the ghost’s head will receive two hundred gold pieces, and he will be granted immunity from further taxation.”

“As you wish,” Locksley said, bowing deeply. The truth was, for two hundred gold pieces he’d do almost anything to bring the hooded outlaw in himself. As the chief tax collector, he’d done much to hide the majority of his own wealth, knowing he would need it to feed the people in his care when the winter struck hard.

Besides, there had to be
some
reward for doing the crown’s dirty work.

“And what of the book?” the Sheriff asked, his eyes piercing.

Locksley shook his head. “It has not been found.”

“Are you certain it has not been taken by this hooded outlaw?”

“Absolutely,” Locksley replied. “There has been no sign of it.” The symbol on his arm burned under his sleeve.

“Then you will continue looking—search every nook and cranny for it,” Prince John said, his displeasure obvious. “You
will
find it, or there will be consequences.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Locksley said, bowing his head and reminding himself to be grateful that he was being allowed to continue looking, instead of lying beside his fallen man. That could just as easily be his blood spilling onto the floor.

“Go,” the prince said, with a dismissive wave of his hand.

At last, an order he was happy to obey.

*  *  *

Will watched Locksley go. It had not been easy, worming his way further into Prince John’s confidence. The Sheriff didn’t entirely trust him, but even he was beginning to overlook Will’s presence, more and more.

“Locksley hasn’t found the book, and neither has the bishop,” the usurper said, rubbing his forehead and glowering in frustration. This was the third time he had mentioned the missing tome, but Will knew no more about it than he had before.

He debated about whether or not to speak up boldly and ask about its nature, or to just sit quietly and hope to be ignored. Before he could make a decision, the Sheriff looked in his direction.

“These words aren’t for other ears,” he said to his master.

“You’re right,” John sighed. “You may go, Will.” The prince waved him away.

Will stood and bowed. Skirting wide of the body that was cooling on the floor, he moved to leave. Halfway to the door he turned.

“If there is something you’re looking for, perhaps I could be of help?” It was a calculated risk, but as the prince’s “right-hand man,” then it might seem stranger for him
not
to offer his assistance in the search.

The prince looked at him for a long moment.

“That will be all.”

Will bowed again and left the room, letting the door shut of its own accord. There was an imperfection on the frame that he knew would prevent it from closing completely. On the other side he held his breath, listening, hoping he could overhear whatever they said next.

*  *  *

“Human agents are worthless.”

Prince John shrugged. “I wouldn’t agree with that.”

“That is because you are one.”

“An agent?”

“A… human.” The Sheriff moved to the table that held the wine. He lifted a crystal glass and filled it halfway with a dark whiskey poured from a decanter. “We need the grimoire that is bound in that book.” He strolled over to the dead man who lay on the floor, and stared down at him with abstract interest.

“Your wizards and witches have turned up nothing?”

“They are human, as well.”

“No one knows where the cursed thing is,” the prince said.

“Someone does.” The Sheriff squatted beside the corpse. Long, pale fingers grabbed the tunic and lifted, raising the dead man up to his knees. “The monastery is the storehouse for such things, is it not?” The hand switched from the back of the corpse to the front, holding it steady.

“The bishop has searched its library, and failed to find anything.”

“He needs more motivation.” The hand squeezed the blood-soaked tunic over the half-full glass. Crimson trickled out, plopping into the whiskey in fat droplets. They, in turn, swirled in delicate patterns, the mixture filling the glass to the lip. The Sheriff stood.

The corpse fell forward with a wet smack against the marble.

“He’s devoted to our cause,” John said, “or at least what he thinks is our cause.”

The Sheriff took a sip. “I’ve heard rumors that this ghost who steals the tax money is finding a way to give it back to the people. Village children see him as a good fairy who brings food and treats and protects them.”

“This ghost is tightening the noose around his own neck, and those of any who may be protecting him,” John said, anger growing in his voice. “The people are stubborn enough as it is, without having someone to give them hope. They need to be taught a lesson.”

“You have something in mind?” The Sheriff took another sip, the mixture leaving his lips with a trace of color they normally didn’t have.

“Give me a moment.”

The silence was broken only by the sound of the man in black taking the occasional sip from his glass. Finally he spoke.

“The tax scheme was your idea. It was supposed to be a cover for finding the Grimoire of Relics, to strip away the hope of the people, and to pull them from the protection of the church.”