Mark of the Black Arrow (41 page)

Then suddenly something he had heard pierced through the fog that seemed to be enveloping his brain.

“What did you say?” he asked, turning to look at the large monk.

“Much, the miller’s son, brought in a servant girl he’d found on the road. She had been sent looking for help.” Tuck paused, as if struggling to find the words. “The pox has reached Longstride Manor. She said that your mother and sisters were infected. I’m sorry, Robin.”

Everything seemed to stop.

His mother. His sisters. Will. Friar Tuck. All of them had just days, maybe only hours to live, unless this thing could be stopped. Alan had said there was no cure, but he had to be wrong. If the curse was brought on by dark magic, then surely there was a way to break it.

“There has to be something we can do,” Robin said. “I will not stand by and watch all of Nottingham wither and die because of this monster.”

“I know you’re a fighter, Robin,” Marian said, “but what we need right now is a healer, or someone who can manipulate magic in order to fight back.” Her voice was soft and her eyes shimmering with unspent tears.

“Then let’s find someone who can do that,” he said. “It’s either that, or learn to wield magic ourselves.” He waited for a word of admonishment from either the cardinal or the friar. Instead the two men exchanged curious glances.

“Indeed, gentlemen, I believe you are right,” Alan said.

What?
Robin thought, and he turned to look at the bard. “What are you talking about? They didn’t say anything.”

“No, but they were thinking it.” Alan leaned forward. “We have long been discussing whether or not to use magic to fight back. The problem is with magic there is often a terrible price to pay, and we have not been certain until this moment that it was worth it.” He paused as if reluctant, and then continued. “Legends speak of all sorts of powerful magics, most lost to us today.”

“Most,” the cardinal said, “but not all.”

“What do you know?” Robin demanded, leaning forward in the chair. Shifting his weight made the wound in his side howl in agony. The pain was good, however, since it helped him focus. “What have you been keeping from us?”

“There are many relics of the old world that have been guarded by Sherwood and, indeed, by this very monastery,” the cardinal said. “These are things of power, infused with different types of mysticism.”

“Since the pox struck, we’ve been focused on seeking the answer to a single question,” Friar Tuck said. “Is there something that can combat this terrible assault on the realm?”

“We think there is,” the cardinal interjected.

Alan nodded. “There are stories about an elixir that can turn ordinary water into a powerful healing potion. But it can also be used as the deadliest of poisons.”

“It was once used by the druid Merlin to fell Mordred, the wizard king who had begun enslaving the land,” the cardinal added.

“Like Prince John,” Robin said.

“We can only assume that there are similarities, but we don’t know the extent of Mordred’s evil and his crimes,” the cardinal replied. “What we have of the story focuses more on Merlin and the elixir.”

“Where would I find this elixir?” Robin asked.

“We have been trying to discern that very thing,” Friar Tuck said, and he struggled to speak, sweat pouring off of him. “It was hidden. Lost. Deep in the heart of Sherwood.”

“If it fell into the wrong hands,” the cardinal explained, “it would be a potent weapon. Thus it is protected by the fey spirits and guardians of the forest. They will not surrender it easily.”

“Have you not heard?” Robin said, knowing full well the irony in his words. “I am one of the guardians of the forest.”

“Yes, you have taken on the role,” Alan said, “but I’m not sure your brother spirits will recognize you as such.”

“Then I will force them to do so.”

“Robin, your wounds are severe,” Marian protested. “You are too weak to go.”

“Who else can do this?” he asked. “No one knows the forest as I do. I grew up in the shadows of its roots and boughs, and I have traveled within its bounds every day of my life.”

“That is truth,” Alan said, “but you will need more than your skills as a woodsman and a hunter. You will need to persuade the fey to help you, and not kill you. These are creatures well outside of your life’s experience.”

“Tell me.”

“I don’t know what you may wind up facing, if you can find them at all, but the fey are not like us. They do not understand how fragile we are compared to them. They are rule-bound, but by their rules, not ours. They view us as children… no, as toys to be played with and discarded when broken.”

“Perhaps Alan, as a keeper of the old ways, would be better suited,” Marian suggested, but Robin shook his head.

“Alan isn’t a fighter,” he said, “and if the fey cannot be persuaded, then we will need to fight to retrieve the elixir. And—no offense—the bard has nothing personal at stake. I stand to lose my entire family.”

“Lord Longstride is right,” the cardinal said. “We need a champion, a warrior. Besides, Alan has already tried and failed at persuading the fey to help him retrieve the elixir.”

“Just tell me whatever else you know,” Robin said. “And Lord Longstride is my father.”

“
T
here is a chapel in the woods, a safe place where items can be dropped off and picked up,” Friar Tuck told Robin, his voice quavering.

“I will take you to it,” Alan added, “but farther than that I cannot go. Even though I am a bard of the old ways it would seem there are places in this forest where even I am not welcome.”

Robin nodded, and pushed himself to his feet with a grunt. It took determination not to collapse, but he managed it.

“I’d like to have a word with Robin,” the cardinal said. “Alone.”

Marian hesitated, but then she nodded, and Alan followed suit. Together they left the room.

“I’m going to need a little help,” Friar Tuck said.

“You can stay where you are,” the cardinal said. He moved forward and placed his hands on Robin’s shoulders. “You are taking upon yourself the mantel of savior,” he said solemnly. “It is a burden I would wish for no man to carry, but prophecy has indicated that one man must.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Robin said, not knowing what else to say. He had never seen himself as anyone’s savior.

“No, you must do better than you can,” the cardinal answered. “I know you, Robin Longstride, and despite your faults—many though they may be—you are a
good
man. I need you,
we
need you, to become a great man. That means maturing and taking responsibility, not just for your own actions, but those of the others you command.”

“Yet I command no one,” Robin said.

“That is where you are wrong. Though you may not see it, others follow you without question, look to you for leadership and confidence. You must accept that, embrace your destiny, or we shall all fall into darkness.”

Robin swallowed hard. Even standing was difficult. He didn’t know about prophecies, and he certainly didn’t see himself as a leader of men. Something had to be done, though, and time was running out.

“I will do what I can to live up to your expectations,” he said. He wanted to call the older man insane, yet he had too much respect for him to do that. What was more, every moment wasted meant more needless deaths, and brought his family closer to doom.

“I will bless you before you go,” the cardinal said. Robin bowed and accepted the ritual. The cardinal uncapped a vial of oil. Placing some on his finger he touched it to Robin’s forehead, murmuring a prayer. When the holy man had finished Robin dipped his head in thanks. As he turned and walked to the door, it felt as if his steps were steadier than they had been when he’d arrived.

Marian and Alan waited just outside the room. He gave Marian a slight smile, afraid to say or do anything more.

“I will keep watch for you at the edge of the forest, by the crossing of the King’s Road and Church Road,” she said.

He nodded, his throat tight with emotion. Then he turned to Alan.

“Let us make haste.”

*  *  *

Scant minutes later the two men were on horses and headed away from the monastery. It was dark, but the moon was out and full, transforming the path into a silvery ribbon that they could follow. Robin realized that it was the first time he’d ever seen the bard astride one of the animals, instead of on foot.

“You can ride a horse,” Robin said. Normally he would have preferred to travel in silence, but the pain and the exhaustion were threatening him again, and he needed something on which to focus, so his mind didn’t drift away.

“I can, but I don’t often choose to.”

“Why? It’s faster.”

“Faster is not always better. My feet know the roads I travel, but my eyes do not.”

“Then can we trust your eyes tonight, to get us to the chapel?” Robin asked.

“Once we reach the forest, I will proceed on foot,” Alan said.

“Then what are we waiting for?” Robin asked, kicking his mount into a gallop. Beside him Alan did the same. The wind whipping his face felt good, invigorating, but after a time even that sensation dulled. So Robin dug his fingernails into his palm, the pricking pain breaking through the numbness that surrounded him.

*  *  *

She was cold.

She had been so hot when she lay down. Like a fire had been stoked inside her skin. She’d been a furnace, burning away the dross. She had lain down and offered all that fire to him, pouring it into the darkness that came for her.

Then she sat up. The little statue was still in her hand. Lines from its edges had been pressed into her palm.

The cold still touched her thighs. She looked left and right to the small forms next to her. They’d been so hot when they crawled in the bed beside her. They looked peaceful, sleeping, their skin closed from the pox marks. She looked at them and felt nothing. No sorrow, no pain, no joy.

She only felt one thing.

Her hand drifted, pressing against the slight swell of her stomach.

*  *  *

They finally arrived at the edge of the forest. There Alan dismounted and tied his horse to one of the trees at the very edge.

“Sorry, my friend,” the bard said to the beast. “I need you to be here when I get back.” He stroked the animal’s face.

The forest itself was massive. Robin had explored so much of it in his life, yet he knew that he had seen but a small portion of it. And he had never come across a chapel. Neither had he encountered any fey or guardians, with the exception of the magnificent stag.

There had only been so far that he could go without risking his father’s wrath. The older man had not approved of the amount of time Robin spent in the woods, and had forbidden him to stay away from home for more than two consecutive nights.

“Is the path wide enough for this beast?” he asked, as he patted his animal’s neck.

“It is, and it’s best you take him and conserve your strength,” Alan offered.

That was precisely what Robin intended.

Alan took a torch from his saddle and lit it using a fire pot. Both men were apprehensive about taking fire into the forest, but there was no help for it. Robin was in no condition to make his way in the dark. The moonlight would not pierce through the many branches of the trees, and they could not wait for the coming of the dawn.

The bard led the way and Robin urged his horse to follow behind. Once the creature had placed all four feet squarely beneath the canopy, Robin felt something, as though the air itself were crackling around him. His horse clearly felt it, too, for the animal stopped, startled.

Alan turned and looked at him questioningly, then slowly nodded.

“Demons are not permitted here,” he said. “The forest is tending to your wounds.”

“Then why do we not bring the people with the pox here?” Robin asked. “Would Sherwood not heal them, as well?” Indeed, already his pain was easing, particularly over his ribs.

Alan shook his head. “The pox is a curse that has spread, but it is still a disease and it acts like one. Your wounds were inflicted by supernatural creatures, and while the wounds themselves are not evil, their makers have left their trace on you. That is what the forest is burning away—the taint of the demonic magic that harmed you. You will not be healed, but any residual presence will be removed, making the wounds less bothersome.”

Even more important, Robin felt his mind becoming clearer, his thoughts sharper. This was a vast relief, because if the things he had been told were true, he’d need all his wits about him. When the crackling at last faded he was able to nudge his horse forward, and the animal went willingly.

The torch in Alan’s hand cast intense light in front of them, but also caused shadows to leap and weave about in some sort of macabre dance. When Alan would look back, the light playing off his face made it look like a skull.

Robin paid careful attention to where they were going, so that he could return the same way. The monastery was just to the south of the great forest. The paths they followed had been familiar to him. However, where he would have turned to the right to travel toward his home, they instead turned left and very swiftly entered a section of the woods he did not know. He was grateful that the bard was leading the way.

They wound several more miles into the forest, going deeper and deeper. Twice Alan had to replace his torch with a fresh branch he’d found on the ground. When the last one finally began to die out, light was beginning to appear. He carefully stamped out the last of the embers.

“We are almost there,” he said. Robin nodded, relieved to hear it.

A handful of minutes later, the chapel came into view. To Robin’s surprise, while it was overgrown, it looked like a plain chapel of the sort that could have been plucked from anywhere else in the region. Vines were twisting over it and tree roots snarled the stone path that led to the door.

“What is it doing here?” Robin asked, hard pressed to imagine who would have come all this way to pray.

“It is acting as a safe harbor,” Alan replied.

Robin dismounted and tied his horse to a tree near the entrance. His hand was on the door when he turned to look at Alan.