Lord of Sherwood

by Laura Strickland

  Anwyn met his gaze with a combination of shame and defiance. “I have done naught I should not.”

  “By the grace of God! Do you not know what would have happened at the hands of that soldier back on the borders, and likely all his companions, had you not been discovered? You promised me, Anwyn, it would not happen again.”

  “It has not.”

  “It begins! You play a dangerous game, as I have told you. Not every man will allow himself to be put off at your whim.”

  “I know that.” Anwyn got to her feet, no longer able to sit still. “How can you expect me to remain here endlessly? Let me ride out into the forest with you, Da, as we used to do. Let me be of some service.”

  “I cannot.”

  She ignored him and hurried on, “You know you have taught me to shoot almost as well as you do, and I have a good eye.”

  “Nay, Daughter—it would merely cause more scandal. What served on the uncivilized Welsh borders will not do here.”

  “Is Sherwood not uncivilized?”

  He raked her with a troubled look. “You are a child no longer, but a woman full grown. That is what makes your disobedience all the more dangerous. It is time you made your mind up to live the life available to you.”

  “And what is that?”

  “Marriage.” He raised a hand. “Now, Daughter, before you fly at me, only listen. There is a man among my foresters—”

  “The one we met in Sherwood?” Fierce hope rose in Anwyn’s heart. Was it possible he might be part of her father’s company after all?

  “Nay.” Her father’s eyes took on a rueful look. “That blackguard must rather have been one of the very miscreants we are set to hunt down—he lied to me also, it seems. There is none such among my band. But there is a man who has impressed me right well.”

  Anwyn began to tremble. “In four short days?”

  “Aye, indeed, for he is foremost among my men, one Roderick Havers, by name, a widower with two children half grown. I believe he would suit very well.”

  Anwyn stared in horror and repeated, “Two children?”

  “A son of about ten years and a daughter eight.”

  “I can scarcely imagine anything that would suit me less.”

  “Yet he needs someone to take them in hand and thus may be willing to overlook your...past transgressions. Anwyn, lass, you have left me little choice. I need to be able to devote myself to my work here. And you have said yourself you need an occupation.”

  “Not two no doubt troublesome waifs.”

  “You think too often of yourself, Daughter, your wants and needs.” His mouth tightened. “Since your mother’s death I have indulged you too much. But it ends now.”

  Anwyn stared at him, mutinous.

  “I want you to meet Roderick tomorrow evening. I have invited him and his children, so you will prepare a meal here in our quarters and you will make yourself pleasant and accommodating. Do you understand?”

  “Father.” Anwyn laid her hand on his arm. “This is misguided. It will never suit.”

  “You do not know that until you meet him. He is strong and steady—”

  “Hard, you mean.”

  “It becomes apparent you need someone far more firm than I. In the days to come, Anwyn, I will be much away from Nottingham. We begin a campaign to reclaim Sherwood and search out every man thieving the King’s deer. I cannot be worrying about what you will do in my absence.”

  “You would rather fob me off onto a stranger?”

  “Have you left me any choice?”

  “There is always a choice,” Anwyn answered defiantly, though she knew choices were few enough for women. Contracted, traded, even sold—it was a miracle she had remained unwed so long, and she acknowledged her father had indulged her much. Now it seemed she might have pushed him too far.

  “Only meet the man,” her father urged. “’Tis a simple enough thing and, for now, all I ask.”

  Chapter Seven

  “This new man tries us sorely,” said Falcon Scarlet with bitterness. “He certainly makes his presence known in Sherwood.”

  “Aye.” Curlew could not help but agree. Night had fallen; the dark came ever earlier now they were well into autumn. He and his uncle sat together in Oakham, sharing a meal and a fire. It should have been a peaceful time, yet for the last four days stories had filtered in about a party of foresters moving hither and yon through the villages that bordered the great forest, searching out evidence of what the Sheriff liked to call the King’s property.

  So far, only warnings had been issued—no one had been hauled away for sentencing or punishment. Yet they all felt the new hand descending heavily upon them. No one could doubt it was merely a matter of time before arrests were made.

  “I do wish your aunt would return from Sherwood—or Heron,” Scarlet said.

  Curlew nodded. Falcon seldom found any ease when Lark was away from him. Yet she still had not returned from her pilgrimage.

  Heron’s absence troubled Curlew more. When last Curlew spoke with him, he had said he meant to seek the Lady and a measure of enlightenment. But that had been fully two days ago.

  “This is the time when the deer run,” Falcon added. “If this man, Montfort, begins looking in earnest, he will find venison in plenty. And so a new reign of terror begins.”

  “I think—” Curlew had just begun to speak when he caught movement from the corner of his eye. A shadow materialized from the darkness, took form, and joined them at their fire. He felt his uncle’s emotions rise in instant gladness.

  Aunt Lark. Aye, and there was much of the spirit about her. She often moved soundlessly, and her emotions changed as quickly as the weather. Now she stood for a moment with her hands on her husband’s shoulders—a small woman, but fierce with it—before she bent to kiss his cheek.

  But Falcon turned his face so his lips met hers instead in a moment of blinding sweetness. Curlew blinked. As two parts of the guardianship, these souls were linked on a score of levels, not least the physical.

  “Love,” Falcon said in joy and claiming.

  “Love,” she returned, and added with amusement, “you wished for me; I came.”

  “I always wish for you,” Falcon admitted ruefully.

  Curlew wondered if they said even more to one another between their minds, words not meant for his ears. Aye, Sherwood gave much. He wondered again if he would ever know this kind of close bond for himself. Having witnessed it all his life, could he hope to be satisfied with less?

  “What news do you bring?” Falcon asked his wife even as she seated herself at his side.

  “Naught good.” Lark’s bright, golden gaze touched Curlew. “This concerns you, lad, as well as the rest of us. Where is Heron?”

  “Not here, but gone into Sherwood on a pilgrimage of his own. Why, Aunt? What is amiss?”

  She did not answer at once but instead took the cup from Falcon’s hand and drank deep. Curlew felt the stir of her emotions—he could often glean the edges of feelings from those close to him. Yet he was ill prepared when she settled her gaze on his face and said, “’Tis your mother, lad. I bring grave news.”

  ****

  “I knew something was amiss.” Lark spoke low and steadily so only the two of them might hear. “’Tis what took me to Sherwood, withal. But I did not expect what I found.”

  She stopped abruptly and Falcon seized her hand. He had gone pale and sober like a man who had received a blow to the heart.

  “What has befallen my mother?” Curlew demanded.

  “That I cannot say.”

  “She lives?”

  Lark nodded. “Oh, aye, she lives, lad. But she has been...stricken. Three days ago, your father said it was. She arose as usual, spoke her prayers, and then went down like a young tree riven by lightning. She lives, she breathes, she shows no sign of pain, but he has been unable to rouse her.” Lark’s lips tightened. “Nor could I.”

  Falcon stared in horror. “Gareth did not send us word?”

>   “He wanted to, but he refused to leave her. You know what he is.”

  Aye, Curlew thought, shock and pain curling through him, they all knew of his father’s attachment to his mother. Gareth Champion lived for his Linnet, unsparing. Curlew could scarcely imagine his devastation now.

  Sherwood gave, but when it took, it took much.

  “What does it mean?” Falcon appealed to his wife.

  “I confess, Fal, I do not know. She is there, yet not there. Gareth has tried calling her through his mind, as did I. Both of us can sense her thoughts—they move yet. But she does not respond.”

  “Poor Pa,” Curlew murmured, and Lark looked at him.

  “He does not do well, Lew. It is as if both his arms have been struck off—he founders in a dark, angry sea. Fal, I came to fetch you. I thought the two of us together might call upon the powers of our bond and so draw her from this dire sleep.”

  Such, Curlew knew, had been done before. Members of former triads had been called back even from death. Aye, surely that was the solution.

  Falcon asked softly, “What does this mean for the guardianship, for Sherwood?”

  Lark made a helpless gesture with her hands. A forceful woman, Curlew saw her so seldom at a loss it shocked him now. “Linnet yet lives, and thus the triad still holds.” Her eyes returned to Curlew’s face. “But I think we must be prepared for anything.”

  A shudder moved through Curlew. Anyone raised on the magic of Sherwood—and by its three guardians—learned early of life and death. He knew to his soul that death was an illusion, a mere altering of form, and that all that lived came again. Had he not met with and conversed with the spirits who dwelt in Sherwood? Yet these three, who held the power of the current guardianship, had always seemed unchangeable to him. And his mother—

  Memories of her rushed upon him—the warmth of her smile, the otherworldly wisdom in her dark eyes. The gentle touch of her hands that seemed to shed mercy and healing wherever they reached. The constancy of her love for his father, for the members of the family they had created together, for the greater family that included the folk of Sherwood and beyond. She had given so much to others. How might she best be repaid now?

  “This will wound us all,” he said. His two sisters, Dove and Petrel, both born after him, were already wed and moved away to neighboring villages.

  “You will need to carry the word to your sisters,” Lark told him.

  He nodded. Dove lived in Ravenshead, where her husband was smith, and Petrel, who would soon give birth to her first child, in nearby Little Wold. He could not duck the duty of informing them of this tragedy. But what he wanted was to go to the forest and see his mother.

  Lark rose and her fingers twitched on Falcon’s. “I go now to my prayers. Come with me?”

  He nodded, still looking as if someone had punched him hard in the gut, which was very much how Curlew felt.

  “But tomorrow,” Falcon said, “we go to the forest.” He looked at Curlew and vowed, “We will bring her out of this, lad, if anyone can.”

  Chapter Eight

  “Cousin, I have just heard the news. How do you fare?”

  A hand dropped onto Curlew’s shoulder while he sat with his head lowered into his hands, locked in a fog of despair. He had spent the day tramping to the nearby villages and meeting with his sisters, advising them of what had come to pass. Neither of them had taken it well. Petrel had clung to him, and Dove had wept in his arms.

  All the while, his heart had journeyed with Falcon and Lark, into Sherwood. He longed to see his mother so badly he ached. But when he looked up now into Heron’s face, he found himself somewhat comforted.

  “By the Green Man’s horns, I am glad you are back,” he said. “Who told you the news?”

  Heron made a wry face and seated himself at Curlew’s side. “Who did not tell, would be a better question. I was swarmed as soon as I stepped into the village.” He lowered his pack and bow from his shoulder. “Not but I knew something was amiss—there is an imbalance. It haunted me the whole time I was gone.”

  “You had no glimpse of your parents in the forest?”

  “Nay, but I went nowhere near the hermitage. My business was nothing I wished to have observed.”

  “They have gone to try and bring Ma out of this sleep, or whatever it is that holds her.”

  “Peace then, Curlew. If anyone can, they can.”

  “I know that.” Curlew believed it to his very soul. “But what if she cannot be brought?”

  Heron smiled quietly. “If they cannot call her with the power of Sherwood, surely your father’s love can. It is at least as strong.”

  True enough. Curlew had never seen a love to rival his parents’, not even that of Lark and Falcon, who were bonded on an inestimable level. His parents quite plainly lived for one another.

  “What will happen if she never comes out of it?” he asked of Heron, and the night. “What, to him?”

  Heron looked thoughtful. He poured a draught of ale from the flagon that stood at Curlew’s knee and placed it in his hand. “Drink that.”

  “I do not want it.”

  “Drink, Cousin. Your father is a strong man—none stronger.”

  True also, and yet… “He is strong because of her.”

  Heron’s golden gaze grew serious. “We are all strong because of each other, especially here in Sherwood. The magic will save her, lad. And if it does not—”

  “Aye?”

  “Your father will either go on without her or lie down and follow her wherever she has gone.”

  “I cannot bear it.”

  Heron let those words hang in the dark air for several moments before he said, “But you will have to bear it, lad. ’Tis what we were meant for—born for—is it not? To take their places when the time comes.”

  “But it is too soon. We are not ready. We have not even found the third guardian.”

  “Then have faith in Sherwood, Lew. Your mother will not surrender her place just yet.”

  Aye, comforting words—or they would be, did Curlew not know the history of past guardians so well. Many had held the power of Sherwood over the years, and for all, change had come too soon.

  The first triad had been made up of his great-grandfather, Robin Hood, who had held the power shared with his wife, Marian, and the living sentience of Sherwood itself. That circle, though, had been uneven, and when Robin fell, cut down by the Normans, both Marian and the circle had broken. Unwilling to surrender Sherwood’s magic to their overlords, another three had stepped up—the healer Lil, the village headman Geofrey, and the mystic Alric. Upon their deaths, the circle had wavered perilously again, only to be taken up by Robin and Marian’s daughter, Wren, along with the sons of those who had worked so hard to keep Robin’s legend alive—Sparrow Little, son of Little John, and Martin Scarlet, son of Will Scarlet the renegade soldier.

  And when Martin died, when Wren and Sparrow, together, disappeared into the mystical depths of Sherwood, Curlew’s mother and Heron’s parents had stepped in.

  And held strong until now.

  “We can do nothing without the third of our number.” Curlew spoke the words aloud and yearned with them. He turned his gaze on his cousin. “Tell me your pilgrimage to Sherwood was successful.”

  Heron met his gaze with one that glowed. “It was successful.”

  Curlew’s heart rose. “You know who she is? Where she is?” A woman in one of the nearby villages, perhaps, who had somehow escaped their attention all this while.

  Heron leaned forward and his tawny hair slid over his shoulders. “Not that, Lew. You forget I knew not the urgency of the need, when I left. Yet,” he drew a breath and finished, his words full of wonder, “I lay with the Lady, Lew. She came to me on my third night out, while I lay sleepless and aching. She gave herself to me even as a flesh-and-blood woman might, as a lover might.”

  Curlew stared. Always had he known the thread of mystical belief ran deep through Heron’s being. But this made a powerful
magic indeed, the sort that might have been experienced by Robin Hood himself. A rush of wonder, like an echo of Heron’s own but touched with envy, arose in his heart. He could sense Heron’s jubilance, catch its reverberations. If anyone deserved such an honor, aye, it was this man. But why could such an experience never find him, Curlew? Aye, he was the ordinary one, the one who must walk the path of hard work and struggle. Sherwood, it seemed, had chosen Heron for great things.

  “I am glad for you,” he said softly, and he was. Heron deserved this honor. He walked half the time clothed in magic. Why should this come as a surprise? He asked, because he felt he could ask his cousin anything, “What was it like?”

  A smile came to Heron’s face, unlike any other Curlew had seen. Half bliss and half devotion, it seemed to elevate Heron’s very spirit. “Far more than I had anticipated, though I believe I waited for it all my life long. She formed out of the very air, Lew; I felt her arise from the elements of Sherwood itself. She came into my arms and loved me. It was—ah, but words fail.” Heron lifted his hands in a speaking gesture.

  Curlew’s mouth went dry. “How did she look?” As lads, they had speculated over it—how beautiful might be the spirit of all womanhood?

  But now Heron smiled and shook his head. “I do not know; I could not see her. She came to me in darkness. There was naught but sensation. I could feel everything about her—her skin, and the softness of her hair that wrapped around us as we—” He stopped abruptly and an incredible look invaded his eyes. “Forgive me, Lew. I cannot speak of that even to you.”

  Curlew struggled with his feelings, which seemed predominately jealousy and longing. “What said she to you?”

  “All manner of things. She whispered to me—and through me—all the while, Lew, of how blessed we are to carry Sherwood’s magic, how favored we are with both her and her Lord. She told me I took his place on this night—that I was him, whilst I lay with her.”

  “Said she aught of the missing guardian?” Curlew’s voice sounded hoarse, and Heron gave him a sympathetic look, as if he could feel Curlew’s desire.