Free Mark of the Black Arrow by Debbie Viguié

platter.
    His father frowned from his place down the table.
    “Wait until the entire feast has been served,” he said sternly. “It is the proper way.” His mother gave him a dark look, her mouth turned down in the way it always did when he drew her attention.
    Without listening, Robin continued to pull food onto his platter. Down the line of the table others, inspired by his brazenness, also began reaching in, plucking delicacies and putting them on platters of their own. By the time the cup bearers arrived with wine and mead, everyone had begun to eat. For the occasion the king had provided only the best, right down to drink. As people ate, they began to talk.
    “Do you know what country this is from?”
    “Why are we here?”
    “I’ll try that, I’ve never even seen it before.”
    “When will the king arrive?”
    “I’ll start with mead and end with wine.”
    “Is there trouble in the land?”
    “Perhaps he has found a wife to replace the queen, God rest her soul.”
    Will became less concerned with the reason for the feast as he heartily enjoyed all that was set before him. After several minutes—and several cups of light, dry wine from Germania—Alan-a-Dale rose from his seat next to Friar Tuck and the band of his brother monks who were responsible for providing both the ale and the mead to the feast.
    He didn’t say anything, simply walked languorously to the center of the room. A hush fell, every eye turning his way. His checkered cloak hung off one shoulder, meticulously pinned in the old Celtic way with folds and creases that made the pattern seem to swirl and shimmer as he moved. It hypnotized, charming the eye and capturing the mind.
    Will suffered a momentary pang of jealousy at the bard’s audacious style.
    Looking into the middle distance, eyes unfocused, Alan-a-Dale reached up and began unbuckling the harp that rode in its case on his left shoulder. He undid the last tiny silver buckle, and the crowd gasped as the ancient harp rolled down his chest, tumbling toward the floor.
    He caught it at the last moment and gave a deep bow, coupled with a small chuckle. The warm sound broke the tension and the gathered audience followed it with laughter of their own.
    The minstrel let them have their mirth. As Will laughed with his family, even Robin was smiling. Will studied how the bard played the crowd, taking notes in his head for anything he might use to garner attention and curry favor. As much as he strove to insert himself into court, he hated arse-kissers and refused to be one, instead relying on the art of genuine charm.
    If Will were an artist, then Alan-a-Dale was a master.
    Laughter continued to roll and pulse in the room, slowly dying down until the bard reached up and strummed slender fingers across metallic strings.
    “I recently found myself in Ireland,” he announced, “and here is a song of the Emerald Isle.”
    With that he was off, entertaining them all with songs and news of the north. Will had never met the man’s match when it came to singing or spinning a good yarn. Around the room the women—including Robin’s sisters Rebecca and Ruth—gazed at the singer in adoration. Will chuckled softly to himself. His young cousins were growing up fast, faster than he imagined their parents wanted to admit.
    Change comes whether you seek it or not.

CHAPTER SIX
    M ovement drew their attention. Into the torchlit circle came the gray man. He dragged a burlap sack behind him. One side of his face hung, the wrinkled skin flayed open along his cheek. The thin skin swung from his jaw, brushing against his chest with each shuffling step. The meat that lay underneath was the same pallid gray as the rest of him. In the flickering light it shimmered and moved, covered with crawling maggots.
    The gray man stopped three paces away. He lifted the sack, grabbed the end of it, and turned it upside down. One sharp shake and something fell out, landing at their feet with a thump and clank.
    Both men