She found herself gathered hard into Falcon’s arms almost before she registered his presence. Always had she been able to sense his feelings, though never so acutely as Gareth’s, and she felt in full his gladness now as he held her, and her own relief rose to meet it.
He squeezed her so hard she nearly smothered against his shoulder. Joyfully, she fought her way free.
“Thank goodness you are back! We half feared the Sheriff would not keep to the agreement. Let me look at you.”
He appeared thinner, which did not seem possible after only three days, filthy and worn. His hair formed a wild tangle, tumbled around his face. And, along with the gladness, she saw hard determination in his eyes.
“I could scarcely be happier to be here,” he admitted. “We were all released except for Godfrey of Linfield, who died of some sort of fit in the Sheriff’s dungeon.”
A crowd had begun to gather around them, folks eager to hear what Falcon had to tell. Lark, who had made one of the party that had taken Gareth to Nottingham, and who had undoubtedly already greeted Fal, nevertheless pushed through the onlookers to his side.
“And Gareth de Vavasour?” Linnet could not keep from asking. “Was his uncle glad to have him?”
It was Lark who answered. “That exalted man did not show himself then. His captain, Monteith, accepted the prize on his behalf, and had our folk fetched out from the bowels of hell.”
The villagers mumbled. The dungeons at Nottingham, legendary pest holes, had cost the lives of many a good man and woman. Someone asked, “Was it as foul there as they say, young Falcon?”
Falcon’s expression grew grim. “Aye, Macy. All shoved into one cell we were, a stinking pit with no light and very little air. After Godfrey died, we hollered for the guards, but they left him. And so we spent the rest of our confinement there with his corpse.”
Linnet’s stomach wobbled and turned over. She reached out and touched Fal’s hand, and his fingers clutched hers.
“Any sight of our Derek?” asked someone else.
Falcon shook his head regretfully. “He may be there in still another cell, or he may be held elsewhere in Nottingham. We could not tell.” He turned his eyes on a woman who stood wringing her hands—Derek’s wife, Gert. “Sorry, Gertie. I wish I brought you more hopeful news.”
Other questions came then, thick and fast, fired like arrows from all around: had Falcon or the other headmen gleaned any useful information? Had he got a good look at the castle fortifications? Would de Vavasour be satisfied with the return of his nephew, or would he move further against them?
All the while Lark stood at Falcon’s elbow, quiet save for the fierce expression in her eyes. Her gaze moved from Falcon’s hand, fast joined with Linnet’s, to Linnet’s eyes, where they held, revealing a virtual storm of anguish.
Linnet had never found it difficult to sense her sister’s feelings. Since birth they had been together, for better or worse, joined also by the bonds of the triad, that often let them hear snatches of each other’s thoughts. But she did not need to hear Lark’s thoughts now. They shone from her eyes and screamed in the mutinous set of her mouth. Had this not been Linnet’s sister, the person closest in the world to her, Linnet would have said Lark now declared open war for the love of Falcon.
I do not want him, she attempted to tell Lark in her mind.
And Lark’s burning gaze returned to their linked hands. Then, sister, leave go of him.
Linnet attempted to free her fingers from Falcon’s grasp, but he clasped them still more tightly even as he responded to those gathered.
“The Sheriff did have us hauled before his court when first we were taken in. Though he did not say so outright, he is desperate for the return of the money taken along with his nephew. He declared it a crime against the Crown and told us he will continue to burn our villages until it is returned.”
Falcon let his eyes roam about the ruins of Oakham, the rubble that had once been these people’s homes. “But those monies, my friends, are the coffers of war. We have hit him where it hurts, for he must make answer to his king. I say we stand strong and spit in his eye. Is it not summer? The forest will shelter us. If de Vavasour comes looking, we will vanish into its heart. Better we all fight together for justice than let him imprison and destroy us one by one for the sake of his bloody taxes.”
Linnet’s eyes widened. This sounded like a new Falcon. The grief still lingered beneath his words, and weariness with it, but he had donned a fierce certainty that carried a hint of his father’s indomitable anger.
And those around him, used to Martin Scarlet’s bold leadership, at once responded. The men nodded their heads; women tightened their holds upon their children. No strangers to want and subjugation, they understood the necessity of fighting back and what that fight might require.
The Normans always underestimated the common folk, Linnet reminded herself—those they called peasants, the farmers, craftsmen, and laborers. Men like de Vavasour forgot from whence these people had sprung—Saxon warriors at least as bloodthirsty as themselves, who had come to England behind swords and axes to claim this blessed land. Added to that was a good measure of Celtic blood, that of the mystical people whose warriors knew not the meaning of backing down and chose, so often, to fight to the death.
She felt her own blood stir, and her fingers tightened on Falcon’s. Lying with Gareth de Vavasour, even gifting him her heart, did not make her less a woman of this place. Sherwood roosted in her bones, its song echoed in her soul.
“Never fear,” Falcon declared, “we will stand strong against whatever de Vavasour throws at us.” He turned and looked directly into Linnet’s eyes. “Because we stand together, and that is all the strength we need.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Fool! What good are you to me if I cannot rely upon you to see a simple transport safely to Nottingham?” The blow that accompanied the words took Gareth in the side of the face and rocked him where he stood. “Nephew, I am sorely disappointed.”
The words—and no less the blow—were so reminiscent of Gareth’s father he experienced a familiar rush of rebellious anger and shame. It had never been the blows that hurt so much as the accompanying accusations of worthlessness.
He raised burning eyes to his uncle’s face now and, as ever, strove not to let his feelings show.
Robert de Vavasour, a big, powerful man, had the look of Gareth’s father, Maurice, and even more the manner: haughty, disgruntled, and impatient, as if the world and everything in it had been created for his sole benefit.
Gareth told himself he was a lad no longer, doomed to stand quaking inwardly before the figure of absolute authority. He was a knight fully—if only just—proven, a champion. His worth rested not at all upon the opinions of this man.
Yet those words “I am sorely disappointed” might have come from his father’s lips. How many times had he heard them, hurled at him like weapons?
He drew a breath to speak but, as if reading his thoughts, his uncle ranted on. “Why did I invest in your training if you are to be of no benefit to me? Did de Breese teach you nothing up north? Does being proven no longer mean anything at all?”
Albert de Breese, an old friend of Gareth’s father and the man who had fostered and schooled Gareth, had been a hard master, unsparing and rarely approving. Yet, Gareth reflected now, he had been also a just man who allowed always a chance for those in his service to defend themselves.
Nor had he possessed this streak of hard cruelty Gareth now saw in his uncle’s eyes. That, too, had been common to Gareth’s father, who had died in full rant while berating a serving girl who spilled compote on his sleeve.
“I regret you feel I failed in my duty, Uncle,” he said stonily. “The party that attacked us did so swiftly and appeared out of the trees without warning. Almost before we knew what was happening, three of your soldiers lay dead.”
Robert rounded on him. “Is that meant to be an excuse? There is no excuse. I am accountable to King
Henry for that money. What am I to say to him? It was stolen by peasants—serfs—from under the nose of one of your knights, a man of my blood?”
He raised his hand to strike Gareth again, but Gareth, well prepared this time, seized his wrist before the blow connected. “Nay, Uncle, you will not. Whatever you think of me, I did not come into your service to stand your whipping boy.”
Rage flared in Robert de Vavasour’s eyes, and his lips skewed in a sneer. “Unhand me, cur! Why did you come into my service, if not to act the part of a Norman knight? You knew the situation here in Nottingham. Everyone from King Henry to the boy who totes the piss pots knows it. I am the laughing stock of northern England because I cannot keep the rabble in line.”
He raged on. “You knew the road passed through the forest. You should have expected an attack, should have been on guard.”
“We were on guard, Uncle.” Gareth saw and felt it again—the green light slanting down through high branches, dappling the roadway, the flitting birds overhead and their songs, like a spell of peace. The attackers had materialized quite literally from nowhere, as if by magic.
“And could you not then fight them off?” Robert de Vavasour continued to roar. “A band of peasants?”
“As I have said, they shot the first of your men from cover before we knew they were there. They wounded two more who tried to flee.” In mindless panic, though Gareth would not tell his uncle that. The soldiers had been nervous from the moment they entered Sherwood and when the arrows began to fly, their terror became palpable. Aye, Gareth had heard stories of Sherwood all the way south—strange things happened there, inexplicable things.
Like men who transformed into stags. Follow your heart...
Gareth leveled his gaze on the man who stood glaring at him. Most certainly, his heart did not lie here.
“And the rest of you, were you brought to answer by the sword? What kind of master swordsmen lurk in Sherwood, that can vanquish a trained knight?”
“You would be surprised.” Gareth had been. “They hauled me off my mount and I broke my arm in the fall. I fought hard—”
“More excuses. You mewling, craven coward! Your father would be ashamed.” De Vavasour’s sneer became still more pronounced. “I suppose it is your mother’s weakness coming out in you. She was never worthy of his seed.”
Gareth experienced a surge of rage so intense everything around him went white. He growled, “Do not speak of her so.”
“What did you say to me? Mind your tongue, Nephew. You are sworn to my service, and I will speak to you as I choose. Aye, but you always were a mama’s boy, were you not? Just as well she died early and Maurice got you out from under her skirts.”
Anger stopped Gareth’s throat. He felt it run through his blood like hot tar.
“And what of the King’s tax collector, whom you were supposed to guard?” Robert renewed the attack.
“Dead.”
“Aye, dead. And what am I to tell Henry? I am disgusted with you. Get from my sight!”
Gladly, Gareth thought, and turned to leave his uncle’s presence, but Robert’s voice caught him once more, like the sting of a whip.
“I hope you intend to prove yourself to me. I do not expect you to fail me again. As for these excuses with which you have presented me”—Robert’s eyes raked Gareth—“your injuries do not look so grave. Where is evidence of this broken arm? And where the dire wounds?”
Gareth spoke through wooden lips. “Healed, Uncle.”
“Healed, in a matter of days? How?”
“The villagers possess healers of some skill.” Her tongue, sliding over his skin, her fingers wooing him to come into her yet again… “They considered me a valuable prize, so they troubled to have me tended.” Sweet, holy heaven, if only he could hold her again.
“Well, there they erred,” Robert spat. “For you are of no value at all. I would have done better having the tax money back rather than your worthless hide. For now you will make yourself busy training the younger men among my guard, understand? I trust you have the balls for that.”
Gareth nodded stiffly.
“Oh, and Gareth—” De Vavasour called him back yet again. “I trust you have it well in your mind, the location of the village where dwelt these talented healers. For you and I together will go to root them out.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
My love, hear me!
The words called Linnet from sleep, curled through her mind, and forced her eyes open. For days she had struggled to keep shut the door in her mind, closed against Gareth de Vavasour’s wooing. His voice came to her day and night, early and late, sweet and distant. She knew she could not let herself listen, tempting as it might be. The comfort of touching with his thoughts became, in reverse, the sharp pain of longing for him, and more than she could bear.
But now he came to her in sleep, when all her defenses were down. And the endearment went straight to her heart.
So early was it the first light had only begun to sift through the trees and dance upon her eyelids. Linnet slept beneath the leafy roof in the open, with a knot of children around her. For the past fortnight, the men had worked hard to rebuild what they could, but they did so on the basis of need. The sick and elderly would receive new dwellings first. Linnet knew she would remain without a roof for some time.
Now she sat up, her eyes wide and her senses straining. Had she imagined the call? No, for she knew Gareth’s inner voice as well as she knew her own heartbeat.
Ah, and she should force shut the door, slam it shut. But had she the strength?
My love. Did she think or whisper the words? No matter, for Gareth fell upon them and his gladness spilled over into her, so strong and vital it made her want to weep.
Beautiful Linnet. The words seemed distant, and they came disjointedly, the way a fitful wind blows a far-off sound. But his emotions reached her clearly, the same warmth, the same intense tenderness she had experienced in his arms. Why have you kept yourself closed to me? Why have you shut me out again and again?
It hurts so much—too much, she admitted.
I regret. I would sooner die than hurt you. “I do not wish to hurt you”—the words he had breathed into her before he entered her the first time. All at once Linnet’s body came alive with remembering. Longing blossomed inside her and, aye, it did ache unbearably.
I need to protect myself. You must understand.
But his voice in her mind strengthened as if it gained facility through his emotion. You are my one comfort.
Ah, and how could he say such a thing? Here she slept on the ground, roofless, homeless, her only clothing that on her back, while he doubtless lived in plenty at the castle, enjoying the benefit of his uncle’s board and his privileged standing.
I need to see you.
Aye, and Linnet needed to see him too, yet she gathered all her will to do as she must. No.
Please. Meet me somewhere. Anywhere. In the forest—you choose the place.
Have you a death wish? Do not come here alone. Promise me you will not.
I need to touch you, to hold you.
Linnet’s fingers curled and her nails bit into the palms of her hands. She could feel all he left unsaid, and all he wished to do—touch her everywhere with his hands and his mouth, love her so sweetly and so long it made her forget all the pain of separation.
It feels, Linnet my love, as if I have left part of myself there with you in the forest, the better part. I ache for you.
She knew, aye, she knew.
And I, she agreed. She closed her eyes an instant. But do not venture here. All the forest trails are closely watched.
It is that I need to tell you. Sheriff de Vavasour is determined to regain the King’s taxes stolen along with me. It is a matter of pride with him, and he will not rest. He wishes me to lead him to the village where I was held. He will apply what pressure he can. Our party—including him—leaves here at full light.
Aghast, Linnet remained silent.
&nb
sp; You may be sure I will not lead him to you, love. But, indeed, I must lead him somewhere. I have thought to plead confusion and take him on some merry chase. He already despises me.
Despises you? How could anyone?
Now Gareth fell silent. And Linnet demanded, Speak to me. Does he not value you?
That is neither here nor there. I would not bring his wrath down upon some other village, Linnet. And he will spend his ire wherever I do lead him. He is that kind of man.
How soon do you leave Nottingham? Linnet thought furiously; already the light grew stronger around her and the village folk began to stir. There is little left to lose here in the village and we can disappear into the forest at need. I will convince our headman—
Falcon. A world of emotion filled that one word. Linnet heard longing, jealousy, and regret.
What am I to tell him of how this knowledge came to me?
Tell him it came in a dream. Gareth bade her bitterly, It is all we are to one another now. But, my love, do not close yourself away from me again, I do so beg.
I must. I must. And, using all her will, struggling mightily, she shut the door against him. Not until she scrambled to her feet did she realize she had not even thanked him for the warning.
****
“Falcon?”
He turned his head at Linnet’s call and gladness filled his eyes. Fal had been a different man since returning from Nottingham. It seemed he had summoned up a measure of his father’s strength and headlong courage. The responsibilities they all bore clearly weighed upon him, yet Linnet still caught a hint of the old, gentle Fal in his smile.
“I was hoping for a moment with you,” he told her. “It seems there has been time for naught.” He cupped her cheek with one hand. “I have missed you sorely, Lin.”
“Aye,” she could only agree, “and I you.” She longed for the carefree times and the laughter they had so often shared.
He hurried on before she could say more. “There is much to be settled between us. Matters seem to rush betimes.” His hand remained warm against her face, the touch tender. “But it has come to me, you and I might be one another’s comfort in all this madness, and this time that seems so bleak.”
Laura Strickland - The Guardians of Sherwood Trilogy Page 13