Mark of the Black Arrow Read Online Free

slid over to the basket on his left, looking at the mound of dark berries.
    Hopefully his father would distill some sweet currant brandy.
    That would be heavenly.
    *  *  *
    There was a short, stout door of thick wooden planks that stood in the back of the mill. Never had Much been allowed inside his father’s den. The old man—far
too
old to have a son as young as Much—would often go inside and shut the door tight. What lay beyond was for his father and his father only.
    He’d asked his mum about it.
    “Men need a place to go and be themselves, to shed the skin that being social makes them wear,” she replied. “You’ll see. One day you’ll have your own place.”
    Even at that wee age, he’d already understood.
    Then last season, when his father had taken him aside, and led him to the door, Much’s stomach felt trembly-tingly, like it did when he had to climb to the top of the mill wheel and unclog the waterspout. The pipe that fed river water to the top of the mill started in a wide scoop that narrowed quickly, forcing the water to rush, squeezing it faster and faster until it had the force to drive the wheel forward. That turned the mighty gears which spun the grinding wheel, the gigantic round stone from a quarry in the north.
    Sometimes the scoop would catch something coming down the river and suck it in, blocking the flow of water. Much would have to climb then, pulling himself up hand over hand by the spokes until he reached the top. He’d cling there while he wrestled out whatever debris clogged the pipe. Pull too fast and the river would jet out of the pipe, driving into him like a hammer on a nail. If he slipped, if his balance wavered for even a second, then the mill would toss him to his doom far below.
    It made him feel as if he’d been slit across the belly and a hand inserted that juggled his innards, clumsy and without care.
    Standing in the cool air at the front of the door gave him the same feeling.
    His father grunted. “You’re tall enough to have to stoop, so you’re tall enough to enter.” With a calloused hand, he pushed the door open, ducked, and then squeezed his large frame inside, shoulders scraping either side of the door as he hunched over and passed through.
    Much followed.
    The cubby was small. Simple. Built in the style of a monk’s cell, it contained a high window covered in thin oilskin that turned the late-day sun into a warm, sallow glow. There were two chairs—one a worn wooden frame covered with a deer hide older than Much himself, its hair polished away by use save for a handsbreath that fringed it. The other was newer, the wood freshly chopped into shape and the deer hide still furred and stiff. They stood on each side of a small clay firepot which offered more than enough heat for the small space.
    A ledge circled the room, its narrow space crowded with objects. There were stones polished by the river, a small bird skull, boxes and bins of various sizes, and a series of wooden carvings—people so intricately cut free from the wood that Much could read their expressions.
    His father lifted a small box from the ledge. It was made from a dark wood Much had never seen before, such a rich brown that it looked almost black. It wasn’t until his father passed it through the light that Much saw the carvings that wrapped the sides. Some serpentine creature with scales smaller than a river trout wove in and out of itself. It reminded Much of the ancient knotwork on the door of the monastery, carved by the Celts from long ago. His father grasped a second box. This one was larger, but plain and made of dried maple, just like the boxes his mother used to store things in the larder. His father sat in the old chair, putting the plain box between his feet. His ample body completely covered the hide’s bare skin.
    He pointed at the other chair and nodded.
    Much sat. The chair creaked, green wood rubbing where it had been lashed together. He didn’t squirm, even though he was