“I am no servant to any Norman.”
“Just empty it, pray. And bring a light.”
Lark grunted and went. Linnet and the Norman were alone save for the guard outside, and the quiet gloom.
“How do you feel?” she asked.
“I have rarely been better.” His voice sounded thin, worn with strain and probably pain, as well. Linnet told herself not to feel sympathetic. He was, after all, her enemy.
Still softly, she went on, “I am told your name is Gareth de Vavasour.” Enemy, indeed. “And that you will soon be offered in exchange.”
“For what, do you know? Will they ask ransom?”
“Perhaps.” Linnet set her bundle on the floor. “And, I believe, the release of some folk who are being held unjustly.”
“And if my uncle refuses to make the trade?”
“Surely that will not happen.” Linnet could not imagine it. Who would leave his blood kin in enemy hands? And how desperately she wanted him gone, for he played havoc with her good sense. In his proximity, she found herself wanting all sorts of things she should not.
A flare of light erupted behind her and Lark came in carrying a torch and the empty bucket, which she tossed into the corner.
“Still stinks in here,” she said. “Must be the occupant.”
Linnet barely heard her sister. She was busy examining the patient with dismay. He looked much the worse for wear, his long limbs obviously cramped and the bandages at his shoulder once more stained. But it was not that which made her catch her breath. A thin, oozing cut marred his left cheek from the corner of his eye nearly to the corner of his mouth.
“Who did this to you?” Linnet felt her anger ignite and with it protectiveness, so strong it frightened her. No wound taken fairly in battle, this had been inflicted on a man already injured and tied and, as such, qualified in her eyes as base torture.
He did not answer, merely looked at her with those clear, gray eyes now flooded by light.
“Hold that torch steady, Lark.” Linnet reached for her bundle and unrolled it with suddenly tense hands. She did not lose herself to anger often. When she did, it burned bright.
Lark swore and thrust the torch through a bracket just inside the door. “If you mean to mother him, I will not stay.”
“I care not whether you stay or go.”
Lark leaned against the doorpost. “On the other hand, I should remain on hand to make sure he does not wring your neck.”
Gareth de Vavasour shot Lark a glare that indicated he would rather throttle her.
“Stop with your bluster,” Linnet told her sister. “Cut him loose so I can see to that shoulder.”
Lark did not argue it. She stepped forward and cut the tether with a slash of her knife.
“Looks like someone has already been at him with a blade.”
“Hush, and let me think.” Linnet found that curiously hard to do within reach of the Norman. Being near him worked to scatter her thoughts, like a spell of bad magic. Her fingers began to tingle; she found herself focusing not on his shoulder wound but that at his thigh, and the rent in his leggings that offered such an excellent view of what lay beneath.
She had seen naked men before. To be sure, she had seen Falcon Scarlet naked, which was naught to scoff at. During the heady days of other Midsummers, when the lads went skinny dipping in the village pond, she and the other maids spied, shameless, on all they had to offer. It had been impossible not to admire Fal’s long, lean body with all its fascinating appendages.
But not so fascinating as the reactions stirred by this man now under her hands, nor the spear of titillation, almost like pain, that stabbed through her at the sight of his male perfection.
Nay, not so perfect, now—even as she peeled the dressing away from his shoulder, her eyes returned to his face. She supposed many a knight bore such scars—some, like the village men, probably even wore them like badges of courage.
So why did this anger her so?
Her hands shook as she poured unguent onto a soft cloth. “This will hurt,” she told him.
Behind her, Lark snorted. “Better pour salt into it,” she advised. “Pain him all you can.”
Gareth drew a hard breath when she applied the unguent but made no other sound. Linnet’s heightened senses seemed able to feel him, though—so intensely she fancied she could guess his thoughts. He held on hard to his few remaining shreds of dignity, one of which came of silence. He detested Lark and no doubt Linnet, as well. And he was not about to lower his guard before them.
She redressed the shoulder as carefully as she could. Despite his ill-treatment, it showed some signs of scabbing.
“Lie down,” she bade him then.
He questioned her with those incredible eyes.
“’Twill be easier for me to see to your leg if you are stretched out.”
Lark snorted again, in derision. Linnet, who lost her temper but rarely, and with her sister more than anyone else, rounded on her. “If you mean to jeer at me, you can take yourself off.”
“Need you coddle him like a week-old infant? He is a demon, like all his kind, lest you forget.”
“I forget nothing, including the fact that I am a healer. How I practice my craft is dictated only by myself and the one who gives the skill to my hands.”
“No need to make a great mystery of it. Just do the work and get away out of this reek.”
Linnet resisted the urge to hurl the bucket at her sister. She turned her shoulder. “Run and bring me more bandaging, will you? I did not bring enough.”
Lark flicked her gaze over the supplies, and did not unprop herself from the doorway. “It looks sufficient.”
“Just go.” Difficult enough to tend her patient without the added burden of Lark’s discerning gaze. Linnet felt as if the walls of the tiny place closed in on her. She shot Lark another look and added more gently, “Please.”
Lark went. Gareth de Vavasour stretched his long limbs in the limited space allowed. Linnet, focusing on the wound at his thigh, told herself he might be anyone: the smith with yet another nasty burn, a child with a skinned knee, not this man with his beautiful body. But her unsteady hands proved she did not believe it.
“This will hurt,” she said again, and pulled off the dressing.
The wound looked angrier than the one at his shoulder and showed red and swollen in the torch light. She spoke a small prayer under her breath for guidance and felt his eyes return to her face. The muscles of his thigh quivered under her hands.
Did he feel what she felt? Was he, too, touched by this wild, unaccountable attraction? Or was she just a peasant to him, a Saxon and beneath his notice?
She had once seen a troop of Norman knights ride over a flock of Saxon children who did not move out of their way quickly enough, scattering and crushing them like leaves, and with as little regard. Of course this man, a Norman champion, held no regard for her. Why should he?
Yet her thoughts leaped like flames as she cleaned and dressed this wound, her fingers working at the rent in his leggings, the back of her hand actually brushing up against his manhood at one point. He caught his breath then and she told herself it was against the pain. But when the dressing had been placed, they were both breathing hard.
Lark was taking an unaccountably long time fetching that bandaging. Linnet found herself glad. She slid up beside Gareth de Vavasour’s shoulder and touched his cheek with one finger.
“Who did this to you?”
“Does it matter?” His voice sounded hoarse. She must have hurt him much, even though she had tried to be gentle.
She said nothing, merely poured more unguent onto a pad and pressed it to his face. The motion brought her close above where he lay. They might almost be lovers, she thought, he sprawled upon a cot and she bending in to bestow a long and luxuriant kiss. How she would delight in the chance to taste him, trace those lips with her tongue and test the flavor of his skin.
By the Green Man’s horns! She never entertained su
ch thoughts. Anyway, there was no bed, only this filthy dirt floor, and his pain.
His free hand, untethered, came up and caught her wrist. It made the first time he had touched her voluntarily, and the impact of it made her eyes fly to his.
Did he mean to harm her? But no, for his touch was gentle, and rather than fear she felt— Best not put a name to that surge of emotion.
“What did she mean,” he whispered, “the woman with the fierce eyes? What, when she said you need not make a mystery out of healing me? And you—who is this ‘one’ you say gives healing to your hands?”
Linnet gazed into his eyes and answered simply, “The giver of all life, the power, the magic that dwells in Sherwood. The Green Man.”
“I do not understand.”
“She speaks of the living being that is Sherwood itself,” said Lark’s voice from the doorway, “that we guard so well from your ruinous kind. Now leave go of my sister, if you would live to breathe another day.”
Chapter Seven
“Haul him out here into the daylight. There is someone who wishes to take a look at him.”
Hard hands seized Gareth de Vavasour from where he leaned against the wattle wall. A blade cut his tether and he was dragged, for the first time since his capture, from the foul-smelling enclosure.
How many days had he been here? He thought it must be three, but he might be mistaken. Time blurred when he slipped in and out of consciousness. Almost no food and precious little water had been provided during that time. But the woman with the beautiful dark eyes had come to tend him thrice.
He had dreamed of her last night, a disturbing dream that came in pieces and then refused to release him. She had bent over him, her dark hair loosed from its cap, flowing down. The front of her bodice had been loosened also, an offering of the soft temptations within. She had laid her lips upon his, fused her mouth to his, called up something within him so powerful it scorched his soul. She had summoned his spirit to her bidding with magical ease.
From this vision had the cruel hands torn him. Now he stumbled out into the summer dawning and confronted a ring of faces. Mist rose all around, nearly obscuring the huts that clustered beneath the trees. It seemed as if the forest breathed visibly, and all else wavered amidst it.
Gareth shook his head. The dream had addled his wits. Clearly, this was no fit time for fancy. He scanned the circle for danger and for a single face among the many—Linnet’s face—and found only the danger. Scarface was there, and he wore an odd expression that resembled gloating. His accursed and ever-present son stood at his side, and there was the lass with the fierce, yellow eyes, the one who was the healer’s sister, though they did not look much alike.
They had the same, rich dark brown hair, aye, but there all similarity ended. No one could ever mistake Linnet for anything other than a woman. Her narrow, gentle hands, her graceful form, even the scent of her, all declared it.
The sister clad herself like a boy and went about bedecked with enough weapons to stock a small arsenal. Tiny and with that fearsome gaze, she seemed to harbor enough hate for both sisters.
Gareth dismissed her now with an arrogant lift of his chin. His head might well swim with weakness, he might ache to his toes, his injured leg might threaten to go out from under him, but he would be damned if he would let these dogs see any of it.
“He looks young for a proven knight,” a man said. Something about the voice, deep and husky, made Gareth’s eyes fly to him. He stood front and center beside a tall woman, the mist curling around them both like the vestiges of enchantment.
Ah, but Gareth did not believe in enchantment. At least, he never had.
The speaker had height and breadth of shoulders both, a head of brown hair liberally streaked with silver and what, in other circumstances, might be termed a kind face. He must have made a daunting opponent in his youth. He wore rough leathers covered over with what looked like a ram’s skin for a cloak. The woman at his side...
Gareth met her gaze and received a jolt. Her fierce, yellow eyes marked her as kin of that other, the one called Lark. As if Gareth needed further proof, this one went clad like a male also, her long legs encased in leggings and with a tunic disguising her femininity. She carried a tall staff, headed by a curious, twisted form, and she emanated an aura of power.
Scarface replied to her companion’s comment. “They start them young, these Norman bastards. They breed hate into their whelps from the cradle. Never doubt it.”
The woman with the golden eyes spoke. “Ah, but you have done a foolish thing, Martin. I do not see how you can send him back. He will know us—he will lead his uncle back to this village. De Vavasour will retaliate and we shall be at war again.”
Scarface smiled slowly. “Let it come. We have been too long betraying ourselves for the sake of peace.”
The crowd stirred uneasily and the woman shot Scarface a hard look. “Have you forgotten the cost? Would you have others die as did Sally and Thrush?”
“They will slaughter us by any road, the accursed Sheriff and his ilk—that much we have learned. What if we alter him before we send him back, so he cannot speak? Cut the tongue from his head, for starters.”
Gareth caught movement from the corner of his eye. Someone pushed to the front of the crowd: Linnet, disheveled and out of breath. Her gaze fixed on Gareth and did not waver.
“Aye, so you would return de Vavasour’s blood kin maimed and thus further anger him,” said the woman with the staff.
“I care nothing for his anger,” Scarface spat. “Get him on his knees,” he added to the men holding Gareth. “You, Norman, will kneel before your betters.”
Rage unfurled inside Gareth, red hot. He would be damned before he bowed to these savages. But the two men holding his arms were joined by a third. They grappled with him viciously and he felt the bones in his broken arm grind together. One of them kicked his bad leg and it went out from under him so he fell rather than knelt.
Scarface’s expression of satisfaction argued he cared little for the means, so long as Gareth was on the ground before him. “Do you not know you are in the presence of royalty?” he barked fiercely. “The royalty of Sherwood! Aye, you would abase yourself before your damned liege lord, Henry, would you not? You are on our ground, now.”
“He knows naught of who we are,” said the man with the ram’s skin, “or of the powers of Sherwood.”
“He will learn. Aye, Sparrow, he will be sent back to Nottingham in pieces or whole—it matters not to me. But while here, he will learn a thing or two.”
Gareth, suffused with pain, fought to keep his head up and his gaze level. Surrounded by wolves he might be, and his strength in shreds, but he would be damned if he would surrender the last remnants of his dignity.
He turned his head, defying the staring crowd, until his eyes met Linnet’s. There alone did he see any measure of compassion. He straightened his spine.
“Come,” said Scarface to the other two. “We will discuss the terms of his exchange.” He tossed additional orders at the men who held Gareth. “Peg him there where everyone can get a gander at just how a Norman may be forced to crawl.”
The three moved off in the direction of one of the larger huts. Gareth found himself booted to the ground. He fell hard and his broken arm shrieked with pain. For an instant his surroundings—people, mist, and buildings—swam around him. Hard hands fastened a rope to his neck. The other end of the short line was fixed to a metal stake in the ground. His handlers, chuckling among themselves, moved away.
The onlookers, most of them, did not. They stood in a rough circle gaping at Gareth like the dolts they were, as if they had never before seen a man tied up like a hound.
Gareth struggled up, hampered by his broken arm. He could not move far, so short was his tether. He was barely able to sit upright without straining at it. A deep shudder seized him, and he tasted hate.
A few souls abandoned the crowd. A parcel of children, ragged and solemn eyed, pressed forward. O
ne threw a stone that hit Gareth in the side of the head. A second tossed a half-bitten turnip. A third picked up a still larger stone.
“Away! Away out of this,” a soft voice scolded. A hand shooed the children and a face appeared in Gareth’s line of vision: oval, lovely, and troubled. Linnet.
“Here,” she said. She held a cup of water, which she raised to his lips. He drank greedily, though he hated being forced to accept charity before all those watching eyes, even from her. He shot one look into her face and turned away.
She knelt down in the dirt beside him, which partially shielded him from the gazes of the onlookers. “Have faith,” she whispered. “My parents will speak sense to Martin. You will be sent back to your uncle whole.”
“Your parents?” He realized she spoke of the couple wreathed in magic. Aye, for the tall woman had her sister’s fierce eyes.
“They have arrived unexpectedly to celebrate Midsummer with us. Just as well—they will argue it out, the three of them.” Earnestly she added, “There is great power in the number three.”
“Linnet!” A hard hand came down, seized her shoulder, and pulled her to her feet. “Leave him to his ordeal.” The wild-headed young man, son to Scarface, shot Gareth a look of pure loathing.
Linnet freed herself from his grip with alacrity. “He is under my care.”
“And you have provided that care. You will not coddle him here for all to see—better try to coddle a rabid hound. Do not be so soft.”
“And you, Falcon,” she glared into his eyes, “do not be so harsh. Where is your compassion?”
“For that?” Falcon flicked Gareth with another look. “It burned to death with Ma and Thrush. Or have you forgotten all his kind have done? Dead or sent to Nottingham, I care not. I only want him gone.”
Chapter Eight
“We have much for which to be thankful this Midsummer: no illness in the villages, a good crop in the fields, and firm weapons to our hands. We should, and will, celebrate.”
Linnet shot a look into her mother’s face and tried to gauge her mood. One could not always do so from her words. Wren Little—wife of Sparrow Little, son to Robin Hood’s companion, John Little, or Little John—lived her days surrounded by magic. No less might be expected of the guardian of Sherwood, keeper of its secrets and its strength.
Laura Strickland - The Guardians of Sherwood Trilogy Page 4