Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Praise for Laura Strickland and…
Dedication
Also by Laura Strickland
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Thank you for purchasing
Lord of Sherwood
by
Laura Strickland
The Guardians of Sherwood Trilogy
Book Three
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Lord of Sherwood
COPYRIGHT © 2014 by Laura Strickland
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Diana Carlile
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First English Tea Rose Edition, 2014
Print ISBN 978-1-62830-348-3
Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-349-0
The Guardians of Sherwood Trilogy, Book Three
Published in the United States of America
Praise for Laura Strickland and…
DAUGHTER OF SHERWOOD:
“The imagery is beautiful, the world building is phenomenal, and the descriptions of the spiritual qualities of Sherwood are extraordinary. You will undoubtedly wish you could walk barefoot through her rejuvenating soil for just a moment and feel the connection to the beautiful repertoire of souls she harbors within her midst.”
~Daysie W. at My Book Addiction and More
“Laura Strickland creates a world that not only draws you in, but she incorporates it so seamlessly that Sherwood is every bit as much a character in this story as Wren and Sparrow. Throw in a love triangle that has you flipping the pages, and you have the kind of book that keeps you awake well into the wee hours, and sighing with satisfaction when you've finished the very last page.”
~Nicole McCaffrey, author
CHAMPION OF SHERWOOD:
“As I read I became so involved with the story, I found it difficult to put down the book. How they fight to protect the village, and how they resolve the situation, if only temporarily, is done so well, you have no doubts as to the magic surrounding them. I really loved this story and would highly recommend it. I plan on finding book one in the trilogy and then the next ones as they are written. Definitely a series and an author to watch.”
~Dandelion at Long & Short Reviews, (5 Stars)
Dedication
For my sisters, Joanne and Dorothy—
with me, another circle of three.
Also by Laura Strickland
DEVIL BLACK
The GUARDIANS OF SHERWOOD Trilogy
DAUGHTER OF SHERWOOD
CHAMPION OF SHERWOOD
LORD OF SHERWOOD
And for the holiday season:
MRS. CLAUS AND THE VIKING SHIP
All available from The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
Chapter One
Sherwood Forest, Autumn 1260
“Hie, my good man! Can you tell me how far it may be to Nottingham?”
Curlew Champion cursed to himself when he heard the call, and did his best to look as if he had not just run half way across Sherwood pursuing one of the King’s deer. His prey, a well-grown hart, had taken his arrow some leagues back, and he had been loath to let the beast go to ground somewhere only to die a slow death from the wound. The hart had fallen at last in the middle of the old road that cut southeast through the forest, and Curlew had ended its misery but an instant before his ear caught the jingle of harness and the creak of wheels that told him someone approached.
The worst of luck, he thought wryly even as he hastily heaved the deer, along with his quiver and bow, into the tangled brush that lined the road. He had time only to wipe his bloodied hands in the grass and turn with a grimace to face whoever approached.
His chest still rose and fell rapidly from his effort as he stood and gazed with narrowed eyes down the road. Naught like getting caught red-handed. Such evidence of guilt might well lose a man his hand or his life. For no Saxon—serf or freeman—was allowed to hunt deer in Sherwood. The Sheriff held the King’s authority over all Nottinghamshire, and had no patience for any excuses Curlew might give. The next few moments could cost him dear.
Yet the voice sounded friendly enough, and he saw at once the party looked like a family on the move. In the lead came a man of middle years, only lightly armed, with four outriders and another fellow driving the small wagon with a young woman at his side. All were dressed well. He cursed under his breath again—Normans. Who else would go mounted in Sherwood?
He drew a deep breath and spoke with marked courtesy. “Good day to you, my lord.” Respectfully, he touched his brow. He well knew how to play the part of the dutiful underling, even though his heart held the conviction that he owned this place—every tree, stone, and deer of it. “You are not far at all from Nottingham. Be there by midday, my lord, if you keep on steady.”
The rider reined his horse and eyed Curlew curiously. Deeply tanned, as if he spent the majority of his days outdoors, with plentiful lines carved into his face and a balding dome, the man went clad less like a noble than a retired knight, all in leathers. He wore a serviceable sword and had a bow strapped across his back as well, the shorter type the Normans favored.
After measuring Curlew for a moment the traveler asked, “And what do you here, my good fellow? Not out hunting, I hope. This is King Henry’s hunting ground.”
What is it to you? Curlew asked inwardly, while striving mightily to conceal his rising ire. No one ever stopped a Norman going about his business with a demand for him to explain himself. “Aye, my lord. And I know that right well—everyone hereabouts knows it. I am only out on an errand for my old mother, taking herbs to a friend of hers in Haversage.” But half a lie, that. Curlew’s mother, Linnet, did use herbs aplenty in her healing. But she was far from old, and easily the most beautiful woman of Curlew’s acquaint
ance.
The Norman looked at Curlew’s hands. “And, have you hurt yourself? Surely that is blood I see.”
Curlew glanced at his fingers ruefully while his thoughts flew. “Ah, just a slip of my knife, my lord, while cutting the yarrow.” By the Green Man’s horns, how could he have let himself be caught out this way? It would go hard for him, indeed, if this man decided to act upon his obvious suspicions.
Best perhaps to bluster it out now that he was more than half snared. He tossed his head. “Might I offer my services, my lord, in seeing you the rest of your way to Nottingham? ’Tis not as if I am unfamiliar with the forest, though it can be a dangerous enough place for strangers passing through.”
As he spoke, his eyes wandered to the face of the young woman on the bench of the cart, and widened. She gazed at him frankly, as surely no well-bred Norman maiden should, out of a face alive with amusement. A curious countenance it was, arresting rather than beautiful, wide of brow, narrow of chin, and well-freckled. Curlew drew a breath, almost convinced she knew he lied, and that she might well point to the saplings that bordered the road and cry, “He is guilty! Look there!”
“Aye,” said the balding man, “and we have heard about the dangers of Sherwood—who has not? Infested with churls and outlaws, ’tis said to be. And, my fellow, are you sure you do not number one of those?”
That made Curlew’s eyes snap back to the man’s face, reluctant as he might be to look away from hers.
“Far from it, my lord,” some inner impulse urged Curlew to say, “for am I not one of my lord Sheriff’s own foresters?”
“Are you, by God?” The Norman looked well interested. “And is it not a remarkable thing, that I should meet you here on the road? For I journey even now to Nottingham to take up my new post there as head forester to my old friend the Sheriff, Simon de Asselacton.”
Dismay hit Curlew like a hard blow to the gut. Aye, and what were the chances? Usually he had the very best of luck, scraping through ill-judged exploits by the skin of his teeth. Not this time.
And so this man with the steady eyes and the likeable manner was friend to de Asselacton—or old Asslicker, as the peasantry invariably called him. Ill met, indeed.
The balding man smiled with quiet amusement. “Allow me to introduce myself.” He gave a stiff bow from the saddle. “Mason Montfort, late of Shrewsbury. And whom might I be addressing?”
Curlew straightened and gave an excellent bow in return. He knew how to play this game. His father had once lived the life of a Norman knight, though he had surrendered it along with his hated Norman surname long ago.
“The name is Champion,” he said.
“Is it, then? Champion the forester?” He could not tell whether Montfort believed him or not. “And so, Champion, what is the true state of things in Sherwood? Is it as overrun with miscreants and murderers as my good friend de Asselacton describes?”
For some reason Curlew’s gaze drifted back to the face of the young woman. He wished suddenly he could see the color of her hair beneath her head covering. As it was, he stood too far from her to tell even the color of her eyes.
“My lord, Sherwood stands in good stead.” Magical place, holy place, filled with the light of belief and the spirits of those gone. “The peasants know better than to hunt here, and the outlaws have decreased in number from what they once were.”
“Entirely accepting of the King’s justice, eh?” Montfort crooked an eyebrow. “Then I wonder of what my old friend complains so bitterly. Ah, we shall soon see. No doubt with the aid of good men such as you, Champion, I shall be able to provide the vigilance required to keep Sherwood well-guarded.” Montfort smiled again and the lines of his face creased into a good-tempered mask.
“Aye, my lord,” Curlew replied with a bland expression that hid a flurry of inner alarm. This man was sharp as an iron nail, and would require careful watching. “And,” he offered once more, boldly, “shall I escort you the rest of the way to Nottingham?”
Montfort’s gaze raked him, still with what appeared to be a measure of amusement. “No need. Just give us our direction”—the eyebrow twitched again—“and be about your tasks for your old mother.”
“Aye, my lord. Thank you, my lord. You keep to this road, straight on. Once you leave the forest you will almost be able to see the castle in the distance, on a rise. God’s speed to you.”
“Thank you, my man.” Montfort urged his mount forward, using his knees. The party started up again, and the cart jerked into motion with a creak. “Oh, and Champion—be sure and report to me on the morrow, eh? At Nottingham.”
Curlew bowed again. When the man reached Nottingham and inquired after an under-forester called Champion, he would know this meeting for a farce. But Curlew would be well away by then.
A small, wicked smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. He straightened from his bow just as the young woman’s cart reached him. Any well-behaved Saxon underling, as Curlew well knew, would avert his eyes respectfully as she passed. Instead, he lifted them to hers.
And, shockingly, she returned his stare, bold and unswerving as any lad. Nay, not like a lad, though—for she was all woman, this one, her face brimming with character, interest, and mischief. A smile twitched her lips as their eyes met and held—it said many things: that she knew he had just spun a fabrication, that she applauded him for it, and that she found him just as fascinating to look upon as he found her.
His blood leaped at that look, and he condemned himself silently. This, a well-bred Norman miss, was surely no proper object for his admiration. Only, she did not appear particularly well-bred nor well-disciplined. Who was she?
And would he ever see her again?
Curlew stood there with the blood drying on his hands as the small train lumbered past, grateful for his escape, and utterly scorched by her gaze.
Not until they were well past did he draw a deep breath and strive to shake off the spell that held him. A new head forester was not good news for Sherwood or the villages close by. Would Montfort prove a difficult man? And why had de Asselacton decided to bring him here now? The last man to hold the position, Sylvan de Troupe, was not as young as he used to be, and rumor said he had been ill. And true, autumn was when a good forester looked to manage the herds. But Curlew considered Sherwood his own domain, and the last thing he needed was some sharp-nosed git deciding to do an assiduous job of enforcing the King’s blighted laws.
Aye, and he would need to take word of this to Oakham and the other villages, let folk know they must set themselves for still another fight. His uncle, Falcon Scarlet, who stood as headman of Oakham and leader of the Saxon resistance, both, would want to know.
But as Curlew retrieved the bow, quiver, and hart from cover and shouldered the last with a grunt, he thought not of the fight against tyranny or even his narrow escape. It was to the trees and the essence of the forest he spoke when he said the words, “Green. Her eyes are green like the holy light of Sherwood. By Robin’s heart, I will need to see her again.”
Chapter Two
“I do not know when I have been caught so fairly,” Curlew said ruefully to his cousin and friend, Heron Scarlet. “To be nabbed red-handed by Asslicker’s new man—I should be struck down for the sheer stupidity of it.”
“Aye,” Heron replied. “You were fortunate to get clean away. But then you always do have the Green Man’s own luck in the forest.”
“Luck, and a crooked tongue.” Curlew eyed the hart he had just laid down near the center of the village. A holy sacrifice it was, like everything he took from Sherwood. Part of him, deep inside, hated to kill, even though he knew he must. Gratitude balanced the scales for him; between the bow and the hoof there existed a constant dance of life and sacrifice.
Heron swept him with a glance, as if he sensed and measured Curlew’s stirred emotions. Almost of an age, and with mothers born twin sisters, the bond between them went deep.
Curlew relied upon Heron for the benefit of his intelligence, wisdo
m, and sound instincts. Heron possessed an almost other-worldly ability to see beyond the apparent. A born shaman, most folk said he was, and sometimes gifted with the Sight.
Now Curlew searched Heron’s face for signs of distress. He feared the encounter in the forest, just past, held some particular significance. Should Heron sense that as well... But Heron demonstrated only his customary mild alarm at his cousin’s behavior. Curlew knew Heron had long ago given up denouncing him for incaution.
“You will get yourself killed for Sherwood,” he had said many a time.
And Curlew invariably replied, “Not until my work is done, and not before we find the third of our number.” He had always felt he was meant to accomplish some unnamed task left half done. His birth, as everyone assured him, had been destined. His mother Linnet, her sister Lark, and Lark’s husband Falcon Scarlet—those last two Heron’s parents—were guardians of Sherwood, members of the triad that held and defended the forest’s ancient magic. Four generations, now, had members of their families held those places. The legendary Robin Hood had been great-grandfather to both Curlew and Heron, and they knew themselves destined for a future of guardianship.
Yet the third member of their triad proved elusive. Their families teemed with offspring—Curlew had two younger siblings and Heron had four. Yet none had proved to carry the threads of magic needed to weave the last third of the spell.
It made no great difficulty now. The triad in place stood strong, yet despite appearances Curlew’s mother and Heron’s parents aged. Life in Sherwood often proved hard and dangerous, and disaster lay only a battle or an illness away.
It would take but one member of the present triad to fall in order for the magic to waver and eventually fail. Curlew had lived all his life in the knowledge of that. But wishing for the third of their number to appear had not made it so.
He looked now into his cousin’s face, which he knew better than his own. Heron had inherited his mother’s golden eyes—those of a hawk—and the yellow mane of his father, Falcon. He carried almost visibly his knowledge of the other world, a potent combination that made the lasses of Oakham and many other Saxon villages follow him like helpless thralls.
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