Mark of the Black Arrow E-Book

Debbie Viguié

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Beschreibung

Sherwood Forest is a place of magic, and Prince John and his allies are demons bent upon ruling Britain. The solstice draws close, and Prince John and the Sheriff hold Maid Marian, whose blood sacrifice will lock the prince's hold on the kingdom and the crown. Unless Marian can reach Robin with a magic artifact coveted by the enemy and entrusted to her by the Cardinal, the ritual will occur.

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Coming Soon from Debbie Viguié and James R. Tuck

Title Page

Copyright

Epigraph

The Scent of Smoke and Dust

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

In the Shadow of the Gallows

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Merlin’s Tears

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Authors

COMING SOON FROMDEBBIE VIGUIÉ AND JAMES R. TUCK

Robin Hood: The Two Torcs (August 2016)

Robin Hood: Sovereign’s War (August 2017)

ROBIN HOOD: DEMON’S BANE

MARK OF THE BLACK ARROW

Print edition ISBN: 9781783294367E-book edition ISBN: 9781783294374

Published by Titan BooksA division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

First edition: August 20152 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

This is a work of fiction. Names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2015 by Debbie Viguié and James R. Tuck. All Rights Reserved. Visit our website: www.titanbooks.com

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

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To my husband, Scott, who will always be my hero.

–DV

To the Missus who is always on target.

–JRT

THE SCENT OF SMOKE AND DUST

PROLOGUE

Screams. The howls of dogs lusting after blood and the shouts of men wanting the same. Her own ragged breathing. All these sounds drowned out the whispers of the forest as Finna ran as fast as she could.

“Don’t let her make it into the forest,” the master of hounds shouted. “The witch knows it well!”

Aye, she knew it well. There were creatures in Sherwood that would help her, shield her. The old magic wasn’t gone from the world, just retreated and hidden from all except those who could wield it.

She was only a stone’s throw from Sherwood’s borders. A few long strides to freedom. She should have been able to hear the spirits calling to her, but there was too much noise. The baying of the hounds, the tattoo of booted feet, the huff of men’s breath, the rushing-rapid shoosh of her own blood racing through her veins. Fear pounded through her, and she wondered if the fey had abandoned her to this fate.

It couldn’t end this way.

Her work wasn’t finished.

The children were special. She had been sent to train and educate them, prepare them for their destiny. The fate of all rested upon it, and she’d had so little time with them.

One of the dogs, faster than the rest, snapped at her ankles. She should have poisoned the monster when she had the chance. Pain seared from her heel to the top of her spine as the creature bit down on her leg, sending her crashing to the ground. Rocks and twigs scratched her face. Dirt filled her eyes and mouth and she couldn’t scream as it choked her.

She kicked and clawed, trying to get away, but the beast had her in its grip, tearing at her limb, ripping into it. Her chin bounced off the ground, teeth cracking together as it shook her back and forth in its massive jaws. A gobbet of her own meat tore free in a gush of hot pain and the beast backed off a step. She could hear it choking down her flesh as though she were some animal it had brought to ground.

The monster was going to eat her alive.

Her hands closed around a dead branch and she lashed out, swinging it backward at the animal. It caught the stick in its jaws and jerked it from her grip, tearing her palms. She pushed up off the ground with bloody hands, then twisted her head, blinking rapidly to clear her eyes of the dirt and tears. She saw the monster clearly, jaws stained red, some of her skin stuck between two of its fangs, and eyes that glowed with an unholy light.

“Demon!” she spat.

Its mouth opened wider, jaws cracking apart, as though it were laughing at her.

Her mind raced. She knew no spell that would cast it hence. That it walked the earth at all was a sign.

The time of the prophecy had come.

She had failed to ready the child.

The master of hounds arrived, holding the rest of the brutes jerking and heaving at the end of a fistful of chains, a long bullwhip trailing from his other hand. Men followed him, and they circled around her. They were no better than the dumb animals that snapped at one another. They looked down at her, mouths open to reveal jagged teeth, eyes heavy-lidded in their sockets. The master handed off the pack to one of his followers and jerked his head. It took both the man’s hands to control the pack. They flailed at the end of their leashes as he dragged them away.

The master of hounds stepped toward her.

“Get her up.”

They pulled her to her feet and her stomach tried to crawl up her throat. Her left leg hung, swaying beneath her on stretched tethers of gristle, bitten almost completely off. Screams of anguish ripped out of her, something she could no more stop than the beating of her heart.

“She cannot walk,” one of the men grunted.

“Then let the witch fly,” the master sneered. “Fly, witch! Or do you need a little motivation?”

He flicked the whip against her back. It cut through her thin dress, and parted flesh from bone just as easily. She screamed again as she fell. Desperately she pulled at her center, trying to stave off the panic that threatened to obliterate her sanity, trying to find the magic inside her through the throbbing pain and the howling fear. The earth was beneath her hands, but she couldn’t feel it—not its energy, not the life it gave. All she could feel was death closing its dark hand around her while the men laughed and the air stank of her own spilled blood.

“Enough!”

It was a new voice, one laced with authority, and with something else.

“The lord wants her alive.”

She looked up and saw an older man, a soldier by his dress. The others parted before him, out of fear more than respect. She struggled to a sitting position as he approached.

“The witch cannot walk,” the master of the dogs said.

“Then you shall carry her,” the newcomer replied, “and next time you’ll know better than to let your filthy beasts feed on human flesh.” With that, the soldier turned to go.

The master of hounds stared at his broad back. The murder-eyed creature that had taken her down stood with its chest out, a rumble grinding from inside it. Its master looked down, then back at the soldier. His hand twitched, fingers twisting into a sign. The beast lowered itself, coiling to strike.

“Watch out!” she cried.

The monster leaped, and the soldier turned in mid-stride, hand pulling a sword from its scabbard. With one quick motion he plunged his blade into the beast’s chest. It fell with an inhuman scream. Black blood poured from its wound and began to smoke and sizzle along the length of steel.

“What in the name of God?” The soldier turned, eyes gone dark with anger.

“This witch has summoned forth all manner of evil,” the master cried.

“The beast was his!” she protested. The master backhanded her across the face. Four of her teeth tumbled out of her mouth as she rocked back. They rolled across the dirt like wet dice in a game of chance.

“Shut up, lying filth!”

The master grabbed her hair and raised his hand to strike her again.

“Stop,” the soldier commanded, but the master struck her in the temple with a thick calloused hand. White sparks flew across the back of her eyelids. She braced for another blow, praying to Hecate that it would send her on into darkness, away from the pain.

The blow never came.

A gurgling noise and a jerk of the hand that held her made her crack a swelling eyelid. The master of hounds still held her, but his face was splayed open in shock as he looked down nearly a foot of steel that had burst through his chest.

The steel slid backwards, rolling blood down the man’s leather jerkin. The body dropped to its knees, slumped forward, and fell next to her. Blood from the gushing chest wound sprayed across her.

The soldier bent down until he looked her in the face. He had a scar over his left eye that was familiar to her. She had seen it once in a vision.

“I will take you back to my lord, but I will not raise a hand to protect you against him.”

She spit blood on the ground.

“Blessed are you, man of the sword, for it will be your honor and duty to protect he who will one day protect all. The darkness is coming. You have seen it with your own eyes, and you cannot deny that proof.”

“I have seen enough darkness to last a hundred lifetimes,” he told her grimly.

She wanted to tell him that what he had seen was nothing, in comparison, to what was coming. Yet the pain proved too much for her, and she collapsed in his arms.

*  *  *

Finna woke screaming. Her injured leg was on fire with pain. It convulsed, and a half-dozen rats that had been feeding on it scattered—but they did not go far.

She shivered as she reached down to touch her wound. The leg was swollen, feverish. Someone had wrapped it in a filthy rag that had bonded with her blood, crusting to the wound like a scab. A leather thong cut into her flesh below her knee, cutting off the flow of blood—it was probably the only reason she was even alive. Weak from blood loss, she could feel that a poison had already started to taint what life she had left. Even if the lord decided not to burn her as a witch, she was still as good as dead.

She cast around in the darkness of her cell, looking for anything she might use to defend herself, if only against the rodents whose eyes glistened at her in the darkness. She would rather die by her own hand than allow them to eat her alive. She found nothing save the moldy straw beneath her, and the damp stone beneath that.

Footsteps sounded in the gloom. A wizened man bearing keys arrived in the company of a large man whose head nearly scraped the low ceiling. The old one opened her cell. The large one stepped in and effortlessly picked her up, slinging her over his shoulder. He knocked her head against the ceiling in the process. She struggled to hold onto consciousness even as she was bounced around like a child’s doll. Hanging upside down, her head swam as she banged against his body with each step. She retched over and over, but her stomach was empty and nothing came out.

Outside the light blinded her. The giant put her down, her back to a blackened iron pole that had been driven into the ground and surrounded by piled, pitch-soaked wood.

They were going to burn her.

“No, please!” she choked out even as she was lashed to the pole.

“You are a witch, and you will burn for it,” the old man informed her in a calm voice, as though he were discussing nothing more than the weather.

Around them were gathered people from all stations in life, come to witness the execution. She glanced around frantically, looking for a friendly face, but found none.

“You know me!” she cried.

“We know you as a witch.”

It was no use.

Once she had been sentenced to burning, none would dare speak in her defense unless they desired to share the same fate. Lord Longstride was there, his face hard. Beside him stood his oldest son, Robert, all of four years of age and yet already a miniature copy of his father. On the lord’s other side stood his wife, the lady Glynna. Their infant son was not with them, though, and Finna looked frantically for the boy.

She finally spied the child in the arms of one of the servant boys, the one they called Little John—though at nine he was already almost the size of a man full grown. The baby’s mother had refused to touch the child since the hour of his birth. A darkness had seized her mind at that moment, and she had sworn that it was a fey changeling and not her own child.

On the night of his birth, she had taken a pillow and tried to smother the child. He had been saved by his father, who had entered just in time. Nothing he could say or do would convince his lady wife to suckle the child.

He had searched for a wet nurse, and Finna had seen her chance. Though childless, she had mixed a potion that allowed her to take the child to her own breast and give him sustenance. His father had placed the boy wholly in her care, and while their mother was not well, the older boy had been her responsibility, too.

These last four months she had done what she could to relate the knowledge of the old ways to both children, telling tales and stirring within them the inborn knowledge of the magic that once held the Isle of the Mighty safe and secure against the forces of darkness. She had tried to be careful, but she had not been careful enough.

Someone must have overheard.

Someone who hated her.

Finna’s eyes drifted back to the children’s mother, and a sickness grew deep inside. A fiendish light danced in the Lady Longstride’s eyes, as though she was beholding something for which she had fervently wished.

The old man who had spoken her fate struck flint to iron, throwing sparks onto the head of a fuel-soaked torch. The tiny fires caught in the fabric, jumping to flame almost immediately. The cruel man picked it up and moved toward her.

“Listen to me, my lord,” she called to the boys’ father. “There is a great evil coming to this land. Only a Longstride can defeat it. The signs are all coming true. It will happen in your lifetime—sooner than you think.”

“Is that true, Father?” the oldest boy asked.

Lord Longstride frowned as he put his hand on the boy’s head. “Don’t believe anything a witch tells you, Rob.”

“You must protect your sons,” she begged. “Teach them both the old ways, and the ways of Christ.”

Lady Glynna leaned into her husband, whispering.

Finna strained to hear. A small incantation in her mind sharpened her ears

“We should throw the changeling onto the fire with her,” the lady said, her face twisting viciously.

“No! Don’t listen to her!” Finna shouted.

“The creature sucked at the witch’s teat,” the lady continued. “Who knows what evil she has imparted to it?”

“Woman,” the lord hissed, “I will not hear another word from you against my son.” He spat on the ground. “Let’s be done with this filthy business.” He gave a short nod to the old man who tossed the torch onto the pitch-soaked wood.

Within moments the pyre was lit and flames were engulfing Finna’s feet. The baby started to scream and it cut through the pain already climbing up her, breaking her heart. Her skin began blistering, pain eating its way up her legs and leaving nothing below them. Oily smoke from her own blackening flesh made her eyes stream tears. It all began to swamp her mind, stealing her from herself, and she held onto one thing.

Regret.

Finna regretted so many things: not having children of her own, failing in her mission to prepare the Longstride children.

Most of all she regretted not taking that Longstride bitch with her to the grave.

CHAPTER ONE

The sun did not reach the ground. It tried, pounding away at the top of the green canopy, beating against interlocked boughs of ash, oak, and birch.

The majestic forest kings held the rays at bay, allowing only the softest, verdant light to spill into the heart of the lonely wood, turning it into a permanent emerald twilight. Here and there a giant had fallen, crashing through his brothers’ embrace and leaving a gap. These small pockets bloomed and blossomed, filling with flowers and grass not found beneath the trees.

Few ever saw the beauty. Sherwood was vast and it kept its secrets well. Travelers avoided traveling its length or breadth. Indeed, they tried to skirt the mighty forest altogether. If they could not avoid it they stuck to one of the known roads, many of which were roads in name only, and actually little more than deer paths that men and horses had sought to widen. The forest constantly sought to reclaim them.

Robin crouched in the underbrush at the edge of a hidden meadow. He waited, weight over the balls of his feet, rendered invisible by stillness so complete that he barely breathed, and by the hooded hunting jerkin he wore, its thin deerskin dyed a green to match his surroundings.

Eyes narrowed, he stared across the clearing where a sleek-sided doe grazed the low-growing sweetgrass, mouth moving rhythmically as she ate. Two spotted fawns frolicked around her, leaping and nudging each other in a game of keep away. They flashed around, white tails flicking, tiny hooves digging the soft earth. Their mother ignored them, head down, enjoying the clover in her mouth.

They didn’t know he was there. If they had, they would have fled, abandoning the sweet food for safety in the wood.

His hand tightened on the bow, fingers whispering softly against the leather-wrapped yew. He could almost hear the wood whispering to him, reassuring him that its aim would be true.

He could make the shot. He could take one of them. Rise, draw, pull, and release in one smooth, fluid movement. He could pin an arrow through the doe’s chest, stopping her heart in an instant. She would drop to her knees and then slowly fall to her side, dead before she even felt the pain. Yet leaving the fawns to die without their mother’s protection and guidance would make the meat, however needed it might be, taste of guilt and shame.

No. The family for whom he hunted was not that hungry.

Not yet.

He stayed there in the itchy undergrowth, thighs burning from crouching, and he waited.

The mother led her fawns into the meadow. There was no hesitation in her step, no pause to even look for danger. She ate in total security, oblivious to the world around her and her children.

So she wasn’t alone.

His eyes scanned the forest behind the doe, trying to pierce the gloom just beyond the tree line. There, deep in a pocket of near dark, he saw a flicker—the tiniest movement of something.

He focused, teeth gritting, pouring his will into the dark.

Come out. Show yourself.

The doe raised her head.

The fawns continued to play.

I know you’re there.

The doe stepped back to the edge of the clearing.

Something massive moved in the dark.

The fawns stopped, dead still.

The largest stag he’d ever seen stepped into sight. It towered over the doe, a massive rack of antlers spreading from its skull in a crown of bone, a fortress of spikes and tines. Thick fur lay in a mantle across shoulders and a back wide enough to carry the entire world. Its bones were carved timber. It was majestic, magnificent, and primordial, the avatar of every stag that ever existed.

The Lord of the Forest.

Awe fell on Robin, like thunder across the sea.

He couldn’t take a creature such as this.

The mean spot of his humanity rose up, filling his chest with the very desire his awe denied, and splitting him like lightning. The urge to destroy such beauty, to conquer such strength, raged through him and he wrestled, wrestled hard within himself to contain it.

His fingers touched the notch of an arrow in his quiver.

The stag stepped forward, lowered its mighty head, and began to eat, trusting the doe, its mate, to watch for danger.

This was the moment.

His fingers closed on the notch and stayed, gripping tight, as he fought inside himself. His father’s voice sounded in his mind.

Kill for food, never for the pleasure of the kill itself. That is a road that leads to Hell.

He pushed away not the message, but the messenger.

Centering himself with the thought of the families who could eat through a winter with this one act, he laid the arrow across the bow.

Rise.

Breathe in.

Hold.

Draw.

And…

“Robin!”

A voice split the silence, an axe through a piece of dry firewood. The stag jolted at the sound. Almost too fast for his eye to follow, the mighty beast swept its antlers around, driving the fawns and their mother into the trees. With a snort of contempt, the Lord of the Forest disappeared like quicksilver.

Robin released the tension on the bow, and exhaled.

Another day, fine fellow.

Quivering the arrow, he turned and began making his way through the trees to find the person who had spoiled his shot.

*  *  *

I can’t see anything in this blasted place. Will Scarlet sat straighter on his horse, stretching to peer further into the gloom that bordered Merchant’s Road. The horse ignored his movements, standing between shallow ruts of dirt packed hard by countless rolling wheels, and cropping a mouthful of grass.

Will shifted his gaze from side to side, picking out shapes in the darkness. Dappled light fell around him, following the curving line of road where the tree canopy had been thinned.

“Damnation, Robin, you know you’re supposed to be back by now.” His voice was low as he grumbled. The horse’s ears twitched, but it didn’t look up from its mouthful.

Will brought his hands back to his mouth, drawing in air to bellow once again.

“I think we’ve had about enough of that.”

Will jerked in his saddle, slender hand snatching at the handle of his rapier. Seeing who had spoken, he relaxed his grip.

Robin stood at the edge of the road, bow in hand.

“Where did you come from?”

A smile pulled Robin’s face. He slung the bow across his back.

“Perhaps I’ve been here all along.”

“Sneaky bastard.” Will shifted in his saddle. “One day you’ll show me how you move so quietly.”

Robin pointed at Will’s embroidered boots made of suede calfskin, dyed a rich vermillion to match his surname.

“You can’t be stealthy in boots as loud as those.”

“So it’s a choice? Either style or stealth?”

“Not in your case.”

Will sniffed. “I’d choose style over stealth every day.”

“Perhaps one day you’ll choose substance over style.”

Will rolled his eyes. “I am a paragon of substance.”

“Perhaps,” Robin replied, sounding doubtful. “Your style is substantial, though, I’ll grant you that.”

“I’ve seen you dressed well,” Will replied. “Even then, you’re so quiet it’s spooky.”

“Ah, cousin, maybe I’m half-ghost.” Robin’s smile grew wider. “Don’t you think Sherwood is haunted?”

“Haunted by you? Almost certainly.”

“Not by me.” Robin waved his hands. “But the spirits of the wood are benign.” A serious note crept into his voice. “Mostly.”

“Tell that to Cousin Requard,” Will snorted. “He claims to have been held captive by them one night, and hasn’t been the same since.”

“Ha! Requard was held captive by too much mead from the monastery, and a briar patch he fell into while trying to catch a glimpse of the Latimer twins at their nightly bath in the river. He wasn’t even in Sherwood proper.” Robin moved closer until he stood next to the horse. “Now, why have you come out here calling my name as if it’s your own?”

“I was sent to fetch you—by Uncle Philemon.”

“Fetch me?” Robin’s face darkened. “Fetch you,” he spat, and he turned to leave, lifting the hood over his head.

“But the feast is tonight,” Will protested. “We have to attend. By order of the king.”

“Fetch him, too,” Robin said, but his voice softened slightly. “I have no use for feasts when there are families who starve.”

Will sighed. “What starving families? The Lionheart is a good king. Everyone eats.”

“Some eat better than others.”

Will shrugged. “Such is life.”

“Fetch that,” Robin said firmly. “I’ll make a difference.”

“You do make a difference. We all know you hunt for the poor. It’s why you’re allowed to hunt in Sherwood at all. Well, that and your father’s fervent support of King Richard.”

“Fetch my father most of all.” Robin’s mouth twisted into a scowl.

Will held his tongue. His Uncle Philemon was a hard man—he had to be when responsible for so many, and he tasked his sons accordingly, yoking them with the expectation that they would become copies of him. With Robert, the oldest, it had been no difficulty—the boy took after him in so many ways. With Robin, however, it was different, their relationship full of enmity. Will had been party to many of their fights, and saw that his uncle knew no other way.

He and his youngest son were much alike.

Time for a new tactic, he decided.

“Don’t eat the king’s food then,” he said. “Hell, steal your portion and give it to your poor families, but before you refuse to attend, bear in mind that she will be there.”

Robin fell silent.

“She’ll be wearing a fine dress,” Will taunted, “and she’ll be available to dance. If you aren’t there, then who knows with whom she might partner. Maybe I’ll ask her to spin around with me—” He shrugged. “—If Locksley doesn’t get there first.”

A low, animal sound came from beneath Robin’s hood. Will looked closely. Robin’s face had flushed red, jaw bulging as his teeth clamped together. He looked like a madman.

The horse balked, loosed a shrill whinny, and amble-stepped away. Will put a hand up, pulling the reins with the other. His voice dropped, switching to a melodious, soothing tone he used for dealing with injured animals.

“Ease yourself, cousin,” he said. “I jest too much. You know she has no interest in him.”

Locksley’s great-great-grandfather and Robin’s had been brothers—twins, actually. Their father had wanted to leave them each with an inheritance. In return for his service to the crown, the elder Locksley had been allowed to split his land in two, giving the first portion to his elder son and the second to the younger, along with the new title of Lord of Longstride.

While the arrangement had suited the brothers, their descendants on both sides had chafed at the division. To this day Locksley longed to have the land reunited, under his control. The same was true of Longstride. The hatred and rivalry between the two families only increased with each generation.

On more than one occasion Locksley had suggested that Sherwood should be put to the torch, its majesty and mystery destroyed for the sake of more land to be plowed, more land to be coveted. Robin took this particularly to heart.

He stared now, eyes narrow and black in their sockets. Will watched his cousin warily, feeling an itch to grab for the handle of his sword. It dug into the back of his neck, worming its way toward his spine. Teeth clenched, he ignored it. To listen would end badly.

Then something appeared in Robin’s eyes, flickering behind tightly-slitted lids. His head dropped. He drew a deep breath and held it as a tremor rolled through his wiry frame, chasing along the lean muscles of his arms and shoulders. It passed, shivering out of his fingertips. He released the breath and looked up.

His eyes were clear, face nearly back to its normal dark coloring.

“It’s true,” he said. “You do jest too much, cousin.”

Will’s body unclenched in a rush that made his head spin for a moment. He smiled and cocked an eyebrow.

“One day it’ll be the death of me,” he admitted.

“Probably,” Robin agreed. “But not today.”

“Good.” Will leaned forward, separating them from that conversation. “Now about this feast—your father was insistent, and I promised I’d bring you.”

“Well, if it means preserving the good word of Will Scarlet, then I guess I must.” Robin reached his hand up. Will grasped it, pulling to help his cousin swing up behind him.

Instead Robin leaned back, yanking the slim man from the saddle. As Will tumbled to the road, Robin smacked his hand flat on the horse’s rump. It reared and jolted forward, racing away and disappearing around a bend of the road.

Will leapt to his feet, frantically beating dirt from his linen trousers and suede boots as he listened to the diminishing sound of the beast’s hooves.

“What the hell did you do that for?” he demanded.

Robin chuckled. “If I must go, then I will walk, and get there in my own good time. Since you came to fetch me, you can keep me company.”

“But these boots aren’t made for hiking,” Will protested. “They come from the Iberians!”

Robin slung his arm over Will’s shoulders. “The Iberians make fine boots, cousin. I think you shall survive. A little fresh air and exercise won’t hurt you.” With that, he began walking.

Will scowled as he followed.

“If my boots are ruined, I will hurt you.”

Robin’s laugh echoed through the forest.

CHAPTER TWO

Much, the miller’s son, shifted the pole across his shoulders, easing the sore crease of flesh forming under its weight. The basket on each end swung with the motion, roughly scraping along the outsides of his legs. He had calluses the size of his palm on each calf—rough patches of skin with no hair.

One foot in front of the other.

Step by step he walked the Merchant’s Road, carrying loads of fruit for the family larder, a fair trade for two sacks of ground wheat. The fruit was lighter than the wheat, but still heavy enough to turn each step into hard work. Work he was used to, but work still.

His mind conjured thoughts of what his mother would make from what he carried home. Damson jelly, perhaps a quince pie. She would definitely make blackcurrant jam, since his father liked that. His eyes slid over to the basket on his left, looking at the mound of dark berries.

Hopefully his father would distill some sweet currant brandy.

That would be heavenly.

*  *  *

There was a short, stout door of thick wooden planks that stood in the back of the mill. Never had Much been allowed inside his father’s den. The old man—far old to have a son as young as Much—would often go inside and shut the door tight. What lay beyond was for his father and his father only.