Mark of the Black Arrow by Debbie Viguié Page A

swirled, unruly around his head, giving him the maned look of the lion after which he was named. Finally he shuddered, and blew out a long breath, releasing his thoughts into the world.
    He didn’t look at her when he spoke.
    “Our father was a hard man. I didn’t even allow John to come when your father died. I sent word by messenger after he and your mother had been interred. All because of a dead man’s insistence.”
    She didn’t know how to respond. Richard never mentioned his father, her grandfather, taken before her birth by a winter pox that had scoured the land.
    “It is a good choice.” Richard nodded, as if agreeing with himself. “My cousin Henry has long envied the throne, and I would not give him the opportunity to make mischief.”
    “There are only two choices?”
    “I’d thought, briefly, to leave England in your care.”
    The words hit her chest, echoing as they struck. Before she could speak, however, he continued.
    “But you’re young,” he said. “Too young to be burdened prematurely by such responsibility.”
    “I would do my best,” she said.
    “I know.” His hand was warm on hers. “But John is my decision. I expect you to help him where you can.”
    She nodded. “Of course.”
    “And, if the worst should happen overseas, well, then England will have had some time to adjust to its new king, and he to her.”
    Marian felt a lump in her throat. “Nothing will happen to you,” she whispered. It was more of a prayer. He smiled at her, but she could see sorrow in his eyes, and it gave her a moment of panic. It was one thing for her to fear for his safety. It was chilling to know that he, too, was fearful that he might never return.
    He cleared his throat and turned back toward the night blooms.
    “You should be in bed.”
    She had been dismissed. She curtsied and turned to go, wishing they’d had nothing more serious to discuss than how many times she had danced with Robin of Longstride.
    *  *  *
    She stepped from the porch as he leapt off, landing on flexed legs, letting his knees absorb the impact. He turned, drawing short as he caught sight of her.
    “Mother,” he said.
    She looked down on him. He nearly melded with the darkness, blending like a night creature. He was so alien, so foreign. So unlike her other children. Unlike her husband. Unlike her. The spoiled fruit of her womb.
    Her curse.
    “Mother,” he said again, his voice turning stern. “I know you heard the fight. Say what you have to say.”
    “Feel free to go with your father on the journey.”
    Robin’s face twisted. “He has made it clear that I am to stay.”
    The thought of him doing so soured her stomach. Working the land, he would be around under foot, a constant reminder, without the light of Philemon or Robert to distract her from his presence. “I do not need you here. You love him, so go with him. Fling yourself between your father and the swords of the enemy.”
    “You would like that, wouldn’t you? To send me off to be killed on a foreign land.”
    She remained silent.
    “I will remain here and I will do my duty to this household, but never fear, I will stay out of your sight.” He turned and strode away.
    She watched him go until he disappeared into the night, then went inside, making her way to the bedroom she shared with her husband.
    He stood in their room, pulling off his tunic.
    She stopped at the doorway and watched him. The soft linen shirt slid up his torso and over his head before being dropped to the floor. Philemon Longstride had thickened over the years, padded from a life as a commander of men rather than a worker beside them and cushioned with age, but he still had definition to his body that pleased her. Muscles still flexed and played beneath his skin and his head was still full of thick hair, even if some of it had turned silver here and there.
    He was leaving her soon. She did not want it, but understood he was doing what he thought was right. It wasn’t the first time