Mark of the Black Arrow by Debbie Viguié Page A

The monks stood. From under their robes and under the table several of them pulled out instruments. Quickly they gathered behind Alan-a-Dale, and the sound of music filled the hall.
    Friar Tuck walked over to Marian.
    “You, too, my dear,” he said firmly. “You should dance while you’re young.”
    She looked at him and smiled, emboldened by his display.
    “I’ll do that very thing.” She rose to her feet and moved to join the others. As she did so, however, she considered the night thus far. Clearly the king planned on keeping everyone in the dark for as long as possible. To what end, she couldn’t fathom.
    The dancers assembled in two circles, the women on the inside and the men on the outside. She saw Lord Locksley break free from the line, heading toward her with determination.
    Her stomach tightened and underneath her gown her skin turned damp and hot. There was nothing wrong with Locksley, save the fact that he was old enough to be her father. Since he was a widower of several years, it wasn’t improper for him to approach her for a dance. Yet every time they spoke, she knew that he was far more interested in her lineage than in her self and it left her cold.
    A sudden, quick movement out of the corner of her eye made her turn, only to find Robin standing close enough to touch. A smile danced on his lips and his hand extended toward her.
    “May I?”
    “You may indeed.”
    The moment their hands touched, her skin calmed and she felt grounded, connected to the earth. Robin paraded her to the formation of dancers. As they passed Locksley she could feel the other man’s jealousy.
    Robin chuckled softly. “Och, he looks a mite displeased.”
    “Does he?” She feigned ignorance.
    They stepped into position, his arm going around her waist. He stepped close, pulling her tighter than was courtly. Dark eyes flashed down at her.
    “I seem to be unable to see him any longer.”
    “Do you have something in your eye, Robin of Longstride?”
    “Only everything, Maid Marian of Lionheart.”
    The music began and they were off, laughing and spinning, weaving among other couples like frantic planets wheeling across the cosmos. The band of monks, led by the bard, played a jaunty tune that drove them to high-step and pinwheel at the change of a note. Robin moved with the assurance of a practiced dancer, leading with strength. He pulled her through the steps without being rough, allowing her to move in time with him. Her body seemed to fall away from her, becoming weightless and fluid.
    She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had quite so much fun dancing.
    As soon as the song ended another began, the notes of the first flowing into a wistful, slower melody. People scrambled, changing partners, but Robin pinned her with his eyes and didn’t let go.
    Ready to go again?
he asked with a small smirk and a cocked eyebrow.
    She replied by smiling silently.
    Yes.
    They danced again, and she kept dancing with him song after song after song. Flushed and dizzy and tingling with a kind of joy she had never known, she laughed the entire time, until she could no longer catch a breath.
    “Enough. Enough!” she said.
    Robin swung her into a dip, holding her body close to his, supported only by the strength of his arms. He smiled and the world slipped away.
    “I accept your surrender.”
    “Not a surrender,” she protested, “merely a regrouping.”
    He lifted her to her feet and gave a slight bow. “Till we meet again on the field of battle.”
    She curtsied. “’Twas a lovely war.”
    The doors to the great hall swung open with a crash against the walls. Everyone turned as one. Conversations died. The music stopped.
    King Richard the Lionheart strode into the room.
    He did not turn aside or pause. Walking with purpose, shoulders set, crowned head held high, he wore the sort of look he might in battle—a hardened gleam in his eye and sharpness to his jaw that his oiled beard could not hide. He was the Warrior King, the