Lord of Sherwood

by Laura Strickland

  Champion released Anwyn’s forearms. Swiftly, she twisted her hands and captured his fingers. Her skin tingled when it encountered his. “Wait.” She simply could not allow him to walk away from her.

  He quirked a brow. She could now clearly see the amusement, mingled with caution, in his eyes. He thought her naught but an errant lass, a naughty child escaped from her nursemaid. And why should it matter so, what this stranger thought of her?

  “So you have not come to see my father?”

  He shook his head. “To learn of him.”

  She lowered her voice. “You are an outlaw.”

  His companion seized his arm. “Come along out of it, Lew.”

  “No. I can help you. Who better than I to tell you whatever you wish to know of Mason Montfort?”

  “Come away. She is clearly mad.”

  But Champion’s gaze still held Anwyn’s. He shook himself slightly. “Why should you seek to betray your father, lass? He seems a good man.”

  “He is a very good man,” Anwyn agreed, heartfelt. “And why should it be a betrayal? You merely seek to know of your...” she suggested, “opponent.”

  “Ha.” The sound contained little humor. “I do not know what game you play at, mistress, but I assure you it is most dangerous. You concern yourself in matters you do not understand.”

  “Come, we must go in search of”—Diera caught herself up—“those we have come to see.”

  “Aye.” Firmly, Champion released himself from Anwyn’s hold. “Good day to you, mistress.” He bent his head toward hers, almost as if he meant to kiss her on the cheek, and spoke into her ear. “And if you would do aught to assist me, forget you saw me here today.”

  Then he was simply gone, melted into the crush of people around them, with the tall woman at his side.

  Only her words trailed after him. “I will.” But could she?

  Back in her quarters, she paced like the madwoman Diera had accused her of being. She trembled, raved inwardly, and spoke to herself.

  “What is this? How can he make me feel this way?” Like a river rising inside her, set to flood; like she harbored a desperate need that knew nothing of reason. She could not even be sure of his name. “Lew,” his companion had called him. But Anwyn knew to her heart that was all wrong. He should be called for some bird, one that came with the spring.

  She stopped pacing near the window and looked out at the waning crowds below, where people began to wend their ways homeward. With the autumn full on, daylight faded early. Last night, when he greeted them at their arrival, she had heard Simon de Asselacton tell her father the roads—especially those within and bordering Sherwood—were scarcely safe for travelers.

  “That is one of my priorities,” Lord Simon had said, “to wipe out the outlaws who still infest the shire and, in particular, the forest. You can help me accomplish that, Mason. I am determined the King’s laws will hold in Sherwood.”

  The man with the compelling gray eyes and the magical touch was an outlaw; Anwyn knew it. He represented the very thing her Da had been brought here to eradicate.

  Anwyn clenched her fists, threw back her head, and emitted a groan of frustration. Despite all the travail she had caused her father these years past, she loved him and had no wish to hurt him. She had no desire to spoil this place for him. But she knew to her soul she had to see Master Champion again.

  How? When? The second question might be more readily answered: naught could be soon enough. As for the first, she would go to Sherwood, if need be, and hunt him out. Yet, were he in truth an outlaw, he must be adept at hiding from pursuers—far more adept in the forest than she.

  Despair pronged through her like the point of a spear. Aye, but she could be clever if need be, and devious. She might learn what her Da learned—she could even offer to ride out with him on his patrols as she used to do when she was small, back on the borders.

  She laid the palms of both hands on the wide stone windowsill and lifted her gaze northward to the place on the horizon where the distant forest lay gathered like a dark threat, or a promise. And she spoke aloud to the aging day. “I will get myself to Sherwood, whatever it may take.”

  Chapter Five

  “And what did you learn in Nottingham?” Heron asked Curlew and Diera when they returned to the village just before nightfall. “Anything about the new man?”

  “Aye,” Curlew responded, testing his friend’s expression and emotions almost unconsciously, as he was wont to do. Through the bond that connected each of them to the guardianship—as well as the bonds of blood and friendship—he could usually tell how Heron felt about most things.

  At this moment Heron appeared serene, yet Curlew could feel a tension in him, running like a current beneath deep waters. He felt, too, a spike of emotion from the woman at his side.

  Not too surprising. He had known Diera from birth, grown up with her, played and argued. As young adults, the play had moved to something more, and it was in the safety of each other’s friendship, and arms, they had discovered what it was men and women got up to together. But the last time he had held her so—way back last winter that was—she had confessed her love for Heron.

  “Tell him,” Curlew had bidden her then, and more than once since.

  “I cannot,” she had replied. “I know the importance of the guardianship and for what he saves himself. When the woman destined to become your third appears—and I know she will—he thinks he must be free to bond with and possibly wed with her.”

  Since then, Curlew had possessed an amplified awareness whenever the three of them were together. At least, he sensed feelings on Diera’s part. Heron, for once, seemed oblivious.

  Heron wrinkled his nose now. “You must have spent the afternoon in an alehouse.”

  Diera laughed. “Nay, and that was due to another encounter altogether. A fair maid threw herself at him, and drowned him in ale, as well.”

  Heron lifted both brows. “Perhaps I should have gone to Nottingham after all. Trust Lew to find all the fun.”

  “Aye,” Diera went on, a glint in her eye, “and who did she prove to be but the daughter of the new head forester?”

  “You do not say! Come, have some supper and tell me all about it.”

  Diera hesitated. Curlew could feel her longing and saw the way her gaze lingered on Heron’s face, but she shook her head. “I will be needed at home. Thank you for the edifying day out, Lew.” She leaned in and kissed Curlew’s cheek. He turned his head so his lips brushed hers lightly and tasted only sweetness. All her desire flowed toward the man who stood beside them.

  “Good night, love,” Heron told her. “Thank you for keeping our Lew in line.”

  “No one can keep him in line,” she returned.

  Heron laughed. “Do I not know it! Thank you, then, for trying.”

  She touched his arm and moved off into the dark. Heron gazed after her, and Curlew ached to speak. But the secret was not his, and he said instead, “Are your parents about? They should hear what I have to say.”

  Heron’s father, Falcon Scarlet, might be headman of Oakham, but everyone knew he led jointly with his wife, Lark. Curlew’s Aunt Lark was a true fury, a warrior to her heart and a force in her own right. There could be no question Falcon deferred to her in matters of decision making and even battle planning. As two threads of the current triad, they made a formidable couple, and Curlew would not dream of bypassing their authority.

  But Heron answered, “Mother beat me in going off to Sherwood. One of her spiritual pilgrimages, I expect. She said she went to speak to the Old Ones.”

  By “Old Ones” Curlew knew Heron meant the spirits that dwelt in Sherwood, who inhabited its deep magic and survived beyond death. A woman with Lark’s deep faith and commitment could commune with them. Curlew himself had experienced a few magical encounters over the years. Yet Aunt Lark tended to seek such guidance mostly in time of trouble. Curlew fixed Heron with an inquiring eye. “Do you know what prompted her journey?”

 
; “I do not, for certain. She and Pa were talking in whispers. I think she senses the same things you and I do—approaching changes. And you know Ma; she will not rest until she learns all.”

  Curlew caught and held Heron’s gaze. “You do not think ’tis something dire?”

  Heron made a helpless gesture with his hands. “Either way, she will want to know. But I will fetch Pa, and you can tell us what you have heard about our new opponent.”

  That made Curlew think of the bright-faced lass again. What was it she had said? “You merely seek to know of your opponent.” How had she been able to sense so much about him? And what was it he had sensed in her when she laid hold of him—like a storm rising, unstoppable and reaching for him. He had never before encountered its like.

  Ah, but she was a bonny, wild thing, like a fox set loose in the courtyard. Alluring though, with her head covering askew, that wheaten hair spilling all down her back, and those eyes filled with green light.

  “Only let me change out of this tunic,” he told Heron, “else surely I will put you off your supper.”

  ****

  “The man is from the Welsh borders,” Curlew said around a mouthful of venison, “and you know what unrest lies there now.”

  His uncle Falcon—Heron’s father—nodded. Fair-headed, steady-eyed, and with a deep fund of gentleness, he sat with the two younger men beside their fire outside Heron’s hut just at the edge of Oakham, with the open sky and a hundred-thousand stars spread above. Curlew loved this time of night, when the new dark came down and the remembered light of the day still tinged the edges of his sight. On such evenings he felt as if he could see eternity.

  This particular night looked to prove cold. No matter that; he loved every season in Sherwood. All freedom lay here for him, and all being.

  And there was such comfort to be taken in the company of these two, especially Heron. It felt as if he found a missing part of himself when they came together. But they were both still well aware there remained a third part missing.

  “Aye, Henry pushes the Welsh hard,” Falcon mused. “There will be much more bloodshed and much grief before that business is done.”

  “At least it takes the King’s eye from us,” Heron offered wryly. “Or it had done, up until now. Why do you suppose he has decided to step up his efforts against us?”

  Falcon shrugged. “Quite possibly it is the Sheriff moving on his own, seeking Henry’s approval or just looking to give a place to a friend. You did say, Lew, this Montfort is an old acquaintance of de Asselacton’s?”

  “Aye,” Curlew affirmed, “though I can only wonder at the connection. I would say they had trained together, yet Montfort has not the feel, quite, of a noble.”

  “They may have fought together at some point,” Falcon suggested. “Such things bond men.”

  “Most of what Abery was able to tell me was rumor and talk. With the man newly arrived, few have had dealings with him yet. But there can be no doubt de Asselacton has brought him in to clear the vermin from Sherwood, as he puts it.”

  Falcon raised his gaze from the fire and narrowed his eyes speculatively. “I remember the last time a man determined to do that—Robert de Vavasour and his captain, Monteith, launched a reign of terror that saw most of the villages ’round Sherwood burnt to cinders.”

  “Aye.” That had been before Curlew and Heron were born, but they had heard the stories. No matter that the man of whom Falcon spoke—Robert de Vavasour, then Sheriff of Nottingham—was in truth Curlew’s own great-uncle. When Curlew’s father, Gareth, had thrown in his lot with the outlaws of Sherwood, he had renounced that name and taken the one Sherwood itself granted him: Champion.

  It was one of many ironies that Curlew, destined to serve as guardian, carried a measure of Norman blood.

  Aye, but he lived like no Norman, nor thought like one, either. His heart and his life were all for Sherwood. And this man beside him, whom he called uncle, had never held his Norman blood against him. Falcon Scarlet was wise and kind, and fair to a fault.

  Falcon said now, “Abery and Ronast will keep us informed, no doubt. The rest of us shall just have to sit tight until we see how this new wind blows. Though I doubt it bodes well for us.” He wrinkled his brow in a frown, and his gaze took on a faraway look. Curlew wondered if he were speaking to his wife, Lark, in his mind, an ability both they and Curlew’s own parents possessed, gifted by the magic of Sherwood.

  He felt a pang of sudden longing. Would he ever experience that form of spiritual communion with any woman? Probably not. Given Heron’s total devotion, it seemed likely that when the third member of their triad appeared, Heron would wed with her and claim that precious right.

  Falcon got to his feet. “I am away to my bed. Heron, pray your mother comes back soon with good news.” He touched each of their heads lightly, and Curlew felt the love flowing through him. “Blessings, lads.”

  “Aye”—Heron spoke softly once his father had gone—“and I fear we shall need them. Something begins, Lew.” He raised his gaze, suddenly serious, to Curlew’s face. “I can no longer put off my own journey into Sherwood. We need answers.”

  “Your mother will bring them,” Curlew assured him, trying to deny his own disquiet.

  “I do not mean that. It is time we knew the identity of our third guardian, and when she will come to us.”

  That sent a spear of emotion through Curlew. “Aye, but we have asked before.” They had, both together and separately.

  Heron’s eyes, deep gold in the firelight, took on a curious expression. “This time I mean to go to the source. I intend to lie with the Lady herself.”

  Curlew’s brows soared. The patterns governing Sherwood’s magic were complex and vastly interwoven. They were also what Curlew’s grandfather, Sparrow Little, had often called ineffable—sensed rather than known. But that magic fell under the governance of the Lord and Lady—male and female deities who caused all life to flow, brought the spring after winter’s freeze, and quickened both faith and flesh. Tradition dictated that among those who held the triad, two wed together and the third bonded with and in essence wed Sherwood itself, and even lay with the Lord or Lady.

  Over the years and generations, those details had altered but never failed. Falcon and Lark had bonded together, while Curlew’s mother, Linnet—a healer—had gone to live deep in Sherwood and bond with not only the forest but its chosen champion, Curlew’s father.

  Did Heron now volunteer to take the sometimes lonely path of the hermit, leaving their third member to Curlew, should she appear? Or did he speak in a purely speculative fashion of a spiritual body?

  As if he sensed Curlew’s question, Heron gave him a wry smile. “It is time, and past time. I intend to offer myself to her, lie with her if she will have me, and ask what is to come.”

  Curlew blinked. Had it been any other man, Curlew would have considered him raving mad. Yet he knew Heron to the heart and could doubt neither his honesty nor his devotion.

  “Then you have my blessing also,” he said.

  Chapter Six

  “Daughter, we need to speak together.”

  Anwyn turned her head as her father entered the chamber. A patient man, as she well knew, and often far more generous with her than she deserved, he now wore a serious expression, and his words were weighted.

  She sighed. A mere four days had they been in Nottingham. During that time he had ridden out every day, with or without Lord Simon, becoming acquainted with his new duties and the country all round. And Anwyn had been left to her own devices—a dangerous proposition.

  Now, as evening came on, he had returned from his day out, with the mud of Sherwood on his boots and his bow on his shoulder. He looked weary and troubled, and her heart smote her that she should be the cause, for that much she knew.

  “Father,” she said. “How went your day?”

  “Well enough, though there is work here for a thousand foresters and I have been given but eight. ’Tis not that which troubles me now. Wh
at should reach my ears upon my return this evening but tales of you?” He added deliberately, “Yet again.”

  Anwyn’s breath caught in her throat and formed a lump of pain. She did not want to vex her father, nor to hurt him—God knew he had been hurt enough by her mother’s death.

  He set aside his bow and quiver and came to the hearth where Anwyn sat. For a long moment he stood studying her, and she braced herself for what must come—an onslaught of disapproval and, worse, disappointment.

  As he sat down at her side she could not keep from asking, “What have you heard? Who has been speaking out of turn?”

  He did not answer but instead said, “You promised you would not do this, Anwyn. You vowed we would make a new beginning here at Nottingham.”

  Her shame on his behalf made her defensive. “What have I done? What, that is so terrible?”

  “Four days we have been here,” he said heavily, “and already they speak of you, the folk of the castle. The Wild Lass—that is what they call you. You lied to me, Anwyn.”

  The accusation struck deep, but she managed to raise her eyes to his, which were full of sorrow.

  Before he could continue, she lifted her hands and spoke, still defensively. “You cannot expect me to stay trapped here like an animal. I will go mad.”

  “You could not give me four days? We are barely settled in; there is much to occupy you.”

  “What? What is to occupy me? Folding away our clothing? Arranging the trinkets we brought from Shrewsbury? Nesting? I am, Father, not meant for nesting.”

  “Quite plainly, and yet, Daughter, you will need to learn. Care you nothing for your reputation, or mine?”

  Anwyn shook her head.

  Her father’s expression hardened, yet his voice remained gentle as he said, “Then I must care enough for both of us. I love you, Daughter. You are all that is left to me of your dear mother.”

  Anwyn felt her heart break. Tears filled the back of her throat. “I know.”

  “But I cannot have you behaving with such abandon, running about unescorted and with your hair loose, stealing from the market stalls—oh, aye, you were seen. Speaking to strange men in a provocative manner. Are we truly to have all that ugliness again?”