Mark of the Black Arrow Read Online Free PDF Page B

It was a long walk to find you.”
    The monk returned the grip and pulled, drawing the bard into an embrace of friendship too long apart, clapping him soundly on the shoulders to make sure he was hale and hearty. Alan returned the gesture in like fashion, finding the friar as solid as ever and even more stout than the last time they had met.
    “I would not have asked if it were not necessary, my friend,” Friar Tuck said, releasing his hold and moving apart. “Of that you can be sure.”
    “Is there a need to be so secretive?”
    “There is a need to be cautious.”
    Alan raised his eyebrows. “Trouble at the monastery?”
    The priest waved his hands. “No, brother, nothing of the sort.”
    “Is it the new bishop?” Alan pressed. “Has he done something?”
    Friar Tuck moved over to one of the rough plank pews that lined the small chapel, motioning for Alan to join him. As they both sat, the priest removed a wineskin from a sack on the bench and passed it over. Alan took a long pull, thirsty from his hike through Sherwood. Inside the skin was a rich mead that coated his tongue with the taste of honey and clover.
    Then Tuck began pulling other things from the sack. A loaf of hard, brown bread, a waxy chunk of cheese, and small cooked sausages pinched together in a chain of short links. Alan’s mouth began to water as he realized how hungry he had become. A knife appeared in the priest’s hands and he began talking as he prepared the food.
    “It’s not that Bishop Montoya has proven himself untrustworthy,” he said. “It’s that he is too new to know.”
    “You monks and your secrets,” Alan replied. “You are like ravens, gathering around a corpse and driving off the magpies. You’re all blackbirds, but not all equals.” He took some bread, sausage, and cheese from the priest, pressing them together in slender fingers.
    “That’s a colorful way of putting it,” Friar Tuck smirked. “Yet I would expect no less from a bard.”
    “You know I speak the truth.”
    “You tell stories.”
    “As do you, my friend,” Alan countered. “Does that make them any less the truth?”
    Friar Tuck nodded his assent. “The fact stands that bishops come and go, but we monks remain. If things need be guarded, then they need be kept secret.”
    Alan took a mouthful of food. The bread was a day old and the cheese sharp as a knife, but the sausage was freshly made. The spices of it struck tiny fires of flavor across his mouth. He smiled. His long-time friend knew his palate, after many long meals shared in close companionship. He chased the fire away with another drink from the wineskin and tilted his head toward the door of the chapel.
    “I’ve never seen a prayer house with a bolt on the door.”
    “Again, some things require the utmost secrecy.”
    The bard leaned in. “This thing I carry—is it that important?”
    “If it is real, then yes, it is.” The priest’s eyes glittered in the candlelight.
    Alan nodded and took the last bite of his food. Wiping his hands he reached to the small pouch on the back of his belt, hidden under his cloak. With one hand he deftly untied the knot that kept it closed, then fished out an object wrapped in waxed leather. He drew it out and handed it over.
    “Take it then,” he said, “and I hope it is all you want it to be.” Friar Tuck accepted the package, staring at the twine-wrapped leather. After a long moment, he tucked it inside the sleeve of his robe, making it disappear. When he looked up again, there was concern in his expression.
    “Did you have any trouble along the way?” he asked. “Were there any inquiries as to what you carried?”
    “No, your brother monks in Glendalough apparently kept the secret of it, as well.” With that, Tuck relaxed a bit.
    “Thank you once again, Alan.”
    The bard leaned back, stretching his long body into a line of sinewy muscle.
    “It was quite the favor, traveling to the Emerald Isle and back to here. I am a bard, not a