Mark of the Black Arrow Read Online Free Page B

large, all cut from the same block of wood. Matching mail shirts, dull and storm-cloud gray in the shaded light of the road, contrasted sharply with sapphire blue tabards that showed double rampant lions embroidered in white thread.
    The crest of Locksley.
    Two of the men leaned on wicked halberds, long oak shafts propped against their shoulders to support their bulk. The third guard, with a thumb-sized birthmark over his left eye that stained the skin a darker red as if he’d been burnt, carried his weapon menacingly in two hands as he stepped forward.
    Much stopped walking. He didn’t like the gleam along the sharpened edge of the spear’s blade, or the matching gleam in the man’s beady, dark eyes. His whole body tensed as the armed man stopped in front of him.
    “What are you doing, boy?”
    “Returning home.”
    “Where is that?”
    “The mill on Trent.”
    Please just let me pass.
    The marked guard’s face split wide. “You’re the miller’s son!” The gleam in the man’s eyes grew sharper as he leaned in. “The dullard.”
    Much looked down again, and his ears began to burn. He knew they were blazing red. People had many words for him.
    Dullard.
    Simpleton.
    Idiot.
    Midge.
    They would say these things, even in his presence. He never responded, never spoke back, which only added to the reputation. Being quiet planted the idea, staying quiet allowed it to bloom and take root.
    The armed man stuck the end of his halberd into the dirt at his feet.
    “You must be slow-witted to travel Locksley’s road without paying the toll.”
    Much kept his head down. “This is the king’s road,” he said. “Open for all.”
    “Thieves and bandits hide in these woods. Locksley provides us to the people for protection. Thus it is Locksley’s road, and a toll is levied.”
    There were no thieves or bandits in Sherwood—everyone knew it to be true. Ghosts and ghouls and spooks, but no thieves, not for many, many years. Not since the old stories of the Hood, but Much didn’t say this. His mind desperately reached about, looking for something,
anything
, that would extract him from the situation.
    “I have no coin.”
    Locksley’s man laughed, head back, teeth out to the open air.
    “I can see that!” His fingers plucked at Much’s tunic, sewn by his mum from sackcloth. It was durable and, at a mill, plentiful. With the butt of his weapon the guard bumped the basket on Much’s left side. “But you do have a bundle of sweets.”
    The other two guards moved toward them, standing to either side of him and closing Much in a circle of menace. Anger sparked. He didn’t want to give up any of the fruit. He’d already made plans for it.
    And yet…
    “How much will the toll be?” he asked.
    “Let’s see.” The guard shoved his hand into the basket, pawing at the fruit and nearly knocking the pole from Much’s shoulders. He looked at the guard to his left, the one with a patchy beard being used to cover jowls and a double chin. “You like damsons, dontcha Bartleby?”
    Bartleby grunted. “They’s me favorites.”
    “And Quentin—” he looked at the guard on Much’s left, the one with a drunkard’s swollen nose “—just
has
to like quince.”
    Quentin smiled. “I like it just fine.”
    The guard straightened, pulling a handful of small dark berries from the basket. Leaning back, he dropped them into his mouth. It was a sloppy move and most of them spilled off his chin and down his chest to lie in the dirt of the road.
    “And me, I love a ripe currant!” He laughed, and the sound of it pounded nails into Much’s head. “Leave the entire thing and we’ll let you pass.”
    Much stood straighter, the heavy baskets driving the stout pole deep into the muscles of his shoulders.
    Three men.
    Three
armed
men.
    A basket of fruit.
    Slowly Much lowered the baskets to the ground, turning his shoulders to unhook the pole from the rope slings. The guards moved in.
    The bushels of wheat his father and mother had