Lord of Sherwood

by Laura Strickland

  “Who is the man?”

  “The foremost of my father’s foresters, so Da says, though I can scarcely warrant it. I have told your cousin all my objections to him.” She glanced at Curlew, and away.

  “Why would your father settle on such a man for your husband?”

  “To tell true, I have not made things easy for my Da since my mother’s death. This is a fine place my lord de Asselacton has granted him, and he wants to keep it.”

  Heron’s eyes flashed. “A fine place hunting down my good neighbors, who seek only to keep themselves and their families fed?”

  “I know little of such matters, only that if I prove disobedient I shame him, and if I shame him it does not sit well.”

  “And are you so disobedient?” Heron asked, looking suddenly amused.

  “Aye.” Again, Anwyn glanced at Curlew. Did she think he would bring forth what had happened last night? Did she suppose him such a man? Aye, but she knew little more of him than of the trials of life in Oakham.

  Heron looked at him also. “What say you, Lew? Shall we offer her sanctuary?”

  Curlew took a deep draught of ale and shook his head. “A dangerous proposition. Her father will no doubt come looking for her. What father would not? And when he does come, he may well find other things.” He tried to ignore the stricken look in the eyes Anwyn turned on him. Aye, but she feared returning to her monstrous forester rather than parting from him, Curlew. Just because they had shared one mistaken night of passion did not mean she harbored genuine feelings for him.

  She asked him softly, “Would you truly send me back to a man who has promised to beat me?”

  Implacably, he said, “Tell your father what you have told me and Heron. You say he is a good man. I do not doubt he will take your part.”

  An accusing look came to her eyes. Curlew could almost hear her thinking, “But you promised never to send me from you.”

  Aye, he had promised in the heat and beauty of the moment. But he had to think of his people, and of his mother lying near death. Could he allow this woman’s presence to bring more risk upon them?

  He spoke in a voice that did not sound like his own. “I do not see how we can allow you to stay.”

  She looked like he had slapped her. All the light fled her eyes, and she clenched her hands together.

  “Aye, well,” Heron said comfortably, “’tis just as well for you, Mistress Anwyn, the decision does not lie with Lew. You will need to ask my father, and he is away just now.” He gave a curious smile. “It seems you will have to stay long enough to await his return.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “A word with you, Heron,” Curlew requested irritably.

  His cousin turned to him, his face calm in the golden afternoon light. Almost a full day had the lass, Anwyn, been in Oakham. Curlew could not help but think of her as a trap waiting to spring upon them all.

  The urgency inside him increased, making him edgy and impatient. His inner desires and his practical sense warred with one another. He did not like being at odds with Heron, but he felt very much so now.

  “Come and sit,” Heron bade. He waved Curlew to the fallen log from which they often watched target practice. The life of Oakham bustled all around them: children laughed and cried, women gossiped together, men hauled in the last of the harvest. The rhythm of it should have comforted Curlew, but it did not.

  Heron, on the other hand, looked very much at ease. He met Curlew’s gaze and lifted both brows in query. “Something troubles you, cousin?”

  “What have you done with the lass?”

  “I? Nothing.”

  “Then where is she?” Annoyance stirred in Curlew’s heart.

  “With Diera, who has agreed to give her a bed for the night.”

  Aye, and Diera would agree to whatever Heron asked.

  “I think ’tis a bad idea for her to remain here.”

  “That, Lew, is more than plain.”

  “Then why would you go behind my back and arrange for her to stay?”

  “I have not. I meant what I said—the decision to let her stay or send her to Nottingham lies with my father, or, more precisely, with my parents, for you can be sure Ma will have a say.”

  “And where are they but struggling with the possible collapse of their triad? Surely they have enough to juggle now. We all have. Why trouble them at such a dire time with the fate of one errant maid?”

  Heron drew a breath and gave Curlew a thoughtful look. “You feel very strongly about it.”

  “I do.” Curlew’s emotions were tangled impossibly between the desire that still kicked him hard every time he so much as glanced at the woman and his conviction that her presence promised to change everything.

  Heron settled himself more comfortably. “Why not tell me how you came to meet her in the forest? I thought you went to await the ministrations of the Lady.”

  Curlew frowned. Could he explain to Heron what had happened? Could he even explain it to himself? “You will scarce believe it.”

  “Only try me.”

  “I did, indeed, go into Sherwood as you bade, deep into its heart. I bathed myself, invoked the Lady’s presence, and waited.”

  “Aye?”

  “Dark it was, dark as if I lay blind. And then,” a thread of wonderment crept into Curlew’s voice, “she came. And I took her into my arms and loved her well.” That made a vast understatement. Curlew had never dreamed of coupling with anyone as they had.

  Heron’s eyebrow twitched. “And so?”

  “At the height of things, she extracted a promise from me that I would never send her away. I thought her the Lady, Heron—I supposed it some kind of mystical binding to do with the guardianship. I agreed.”

  “Aye, so? I would have done the same.”

  “Only, she who extracted this promise was not the Lady. It proved, in the end, to be this lass, Anwyn, in my arms—a mortal woman, and I could not tell. I know not how she came there, to the heart of Sherwood in the dark.”

  “Do you not?”

  “Nay. She has some mad tale of being led by a glimmer of light.”

  “Does she!”

  “But it can only be a vile trick, Heron. I was misled into giving that promise, and now she seeks to hold me to it.”

  “Ah.” Heron’s golden eyes turned thoughtful. “Quite the tale, that.”

  “Aye, if someone else brought it to me, I would not believe it.”

  “That is plain.” A hint of irony colored Heron’s voice. “For you do not believe it now, even though it has happened to you.”

  “Eh?” Curlew scowled.

  “Do you, lad, remember none of the old stories? Have you forgotten their meaning?”

  “Of which stories do you speak?”

  “Many they are. Take the one your father tells of how he found himself led through the depths of Sherwood by the glint of a bird’s wing, a spark of light.”

  “Our parents tell many tales. You know I am not one for living in the past. ’Tis the present that concerns me, and the future of the guardianship.”

  “And it is just that I believe confronts us now. Why did you go to Sherwood last night?”

  “Because you sent me,” Curlew said, not without resentment.

  “Nay, because you sought an answer, among other things, about our missing companion. I think you have received it.”

  For the space of several heartbeats, Curlew failed to take his cousin’s meaning. The look in Heron’s eyes directed him to it.

  “Nay,” he breathed then. “You are mad.”

  Both Heron’s eyebrows rose. “No doubt of that. Yet I am surprised you did not tumble to this conclusion.”

  “What conclusion?”

  “You went to the heart of Sherwood seeking. Sherwood gave.”

  “Not this. Not her.”

  “You lay with someone you believed to be the Lady, did you not?”

  He had, indeed. Every moment of the encounter remained burned into his flesh and spirit. “Aye.�
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  “Why is it difficult to believe Sherwood placed into your arms the woman we seek?”

  “Because,” Curlew sputtered, “because she is all wrong.”

  “What is right, then? You tell me how she must appear, this woman we seek.”

  “Not like that. Not like her!” Curlew insisted again. “She is naught like I imagined.”

  “Must we always receive what we imagine? Or sometimes more—what we need?”

  “How can this wayward lass be what we need to complete our circle?” Curlew scowled. It irked him that Heron sat there so smug and calm. “She is not even born of Sherwood but comes from the west—part Welsh, and with that unwieldy name.”

  Heron began to laugh softly. Curlew fought the desire—heretofore unheard of—to slap the smirk from his cousin’s face.

  “What is there to make you laugh?”

  “You denounce her name, and us a flock of birds!”

  Curlew managed to damp down his irritation. “Aye, make light as you will. You are wrong about her. You have no real cause to say she is the one we have awaited so long. As she pointed out to me herself, many folk flee into Sherwood.”

  “And she just happened to flee into your arms.”

  “Heron, listen to me. This is no time for fancy or uncertainty.”

  “It is all uncertainty.”

  “Do you think her father will fail to come looking for her? She will have him and his foresters down upon us like a pack of hounds. Send her back.”

  “That is not up to me, Lew. I say again, it is a decision for the members of the current triad.”

  “Which is broken.”

  “Not yet. You and I need to go together and attempt to rouse your mother from her sleep. I am thinking we can bring my parents back with us and let them make the decision about Anwyn. Meanwhile, she will do well enough in Diera’s hands.”

  “And if Asslicker’s men come looking for her while we are away?”

  Heron shrugged. “They are bound to come. Something has been set in motion by the arrival of this lass and her father in Nottingham. The wheel begins to turn again. I believe, Lew, we face our challenges even as did those who came before us.”

  “The risk is high.”

  “And has always been so. We would not be worthy guardians were we not able to face the dangers and stand strong.”

  Aye, bold words for Heron to say, Curlew thought bitterly. It was not his mother lying still as death and holding the welfare of all they loved in her slender hands. He did not have to face the heartbreak in his father’s eyes.

  Yet he could not allow Heron to become his opponent. And anger would benefit them not at all.

  He drew a deep breath, looked Heron in the eyes, and nodded. Heron reached out wordlessly and they clasped arms as they had done a thousand times.

  “Aye,” Curlew said then, “together we shall go and make our bid for my mother’s life.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “I did manage to reach her when last I came,” Curlew said hoarsely. “I felt her where she lies, held by many spirits. Her flame burns low and steady. But I could not bring her forth.”

  Heron nodded, his face tensed in concentration. They sat one on either side of Linnet’s still form, with their hands linked.

  Not far from them Heron’s father, Falcon Scarlet, paced. He looked tired, aged in a matter of days, his eyes wild and his hair mussed as if he had pulled at it.

  Curlew could almost taste his pain. The first thing he had said upon their arrival was, “We cannot bring her; she still will not come back with us.”

  “We have tried everything we may,” Lark added. She did not look quite as distressed as her husband, but pain shone in her golden eyes. Twin to Curlew’s mother and doubly bonded with Linnet through the ties of the guardianship, she must feel this loss full well. But Lark Scarlet had fierce hold of her emotions.

  And Curlew’s father? He sat, even now, not four feet away from his wife, his head bent and his hair, golden-silver, spilling over his knees. Curlew could not tell but thought he might be praying.

  “Come”—Heron’s eyes caught at Curlew’s—“let us do our best.”

  Curlew’s heart struggled and then rose. Heron possessed a deep affinity for magic and had the strongest ties to Sherwood of anyone he knew, including his Aunt Lark. If anyone could return Ma to their arms, surely ’twould be Heron, with Curlew’s own assistance.

  Heron bowed his head and Curlew closed his eyes. Heron whispered a prayer, the ancient words flowing from him, invoking the powers that ruled life and all things it contained: air that moved the spirit of man, fire that burned in his heart, water that washed through him in eternal renewal, and earth that anchored him and gave him strength. Curlew felt the power come in response to Heron’s call, felt it twine and swirl and begin to rise.

  Ah, and by all that was holy, it came strong. Curlew rejoiced as it possessed him and danced against his closed eyelids—the amber gold that seemed always to stream from Heron and, a bit more slowly, the deep hunter green that seemed to reflect his own light. They met and fountained up into a blinding glow of bright green.

  Curlew fell—or, nay, he flew, weightless—his only anchor the hard grip of Heron’s hands. Together they rose, and he strove to make sense of what he saw. Sherwood lay spread beneath him, not green, no, but a pattern of autumn brown and gold. A tunnel of light closed round him and he saw a succession of things, so quick they flickered: his grandfather Sparrow and his grandmother Wren, who touched his hand with hers. A man covered in a welter of blood, swinging from a wooden frame in what looked like the forecourt of Nottingham Castle. His father looking young and strong, facing a youthful Falcon Scarlet in a green field, both with bright swords in their hands. A hart with steaming flanks—but nay, it was a man with a tumble of brown hair and blue eyes so bright they burned. The man’s lips moved—he spoke—but Curlew could not hear what he said.

  And then everything abruptly stopped and centered upon one scene. Curlew blinked rapidly, trying to make sense of what he saw.

  He lay on his back very much the way his mother did now, with the eternal, beloved green of Sherwood arching above him. He burned with pain that reached down into his soul—he knew he had taken mortal wounds, many of them. He was dying. Yet Sherwood held out her arms to him and he would rest there, as enduring as the forest itself.

  But someone wept. As if her heart broke she sobbed, and he knew it was for him. Against the weight of eternity, he opened his eyes, for she had the ability to call him from anywhere—even hold him a few precious moments from death.

  She bent above him, her auburn hair loosed and hanging down. Her face, beloved to him, had showed him many moods during their time together: love, merriment, mischief, desire, devotion—even the light of worship. He had never seen an expression such as he now beheld: sheer, desperate need and terror so stark it left her white as bone.

  “Do not leave me. Robin, you cannot.”

  He tried to speak, but the flowing blood had stolen the ability. His blood covered her hands that clutched at him in demand and supplication. He knew his blood would flow back into the soil of Sherwood where it belonged.

  “Please.” Hot tears struck his face. “You must stay with me. You must stay and see your child.”

  Aye, and she was great with the love they shared—she carried the future. His heart struggled to beat for her, for both of them.

  So beautiful, you are so beautiful, he tried to tell her, and knew she heard in her mind. And she was, despite her visible agony—all amber like the light he loved. From the first moment I saw you. Stay strong. Stay strong for me, Marian.

  She gasped like a drowning woman. I cannot. My love, my love, my love, you are my strength! You are all my world. I need you to keep my heart beating.

  I do not go far. Watch for me, listen for me. I do not leave you. Inevitable as the setting sun, his eyes closed.

  She wailed. He felt her pain rise up in a wall of agony and protest. He knew it
kept her from understanding what he said: that they could not truly be parted, that his love would surround her every day of her life, and that one day they would be together again.

  I need you, Robin! I need your touch, your warmth, your presence. I need your strength. Oh, please, my love, do not go from me.

  He sank and flowed away from her with his blood, into the earth of Sherwood and thence into its waters below and then burning, burning up through the trees themselves and, like radiance, into the holy air.

  But she did not see. In her vast pain, she could not see him.

  All the radiance behind Curlew’s eyelids died to a small, steady flame—his mother’s essence still burning. And he heard her voice in his blood and bones.

  I cannot come with you. But do not doubt all love lasts forever. Go to her, son—she needs you now even as she did then.

  At once he flew backwards through darkness. His mother’s flame grew more distant. He felt only the grip of Heron’s tensed hands.

  Grief accompanied him from the vision, both that felt by she whom he had seen weeping and his own, caused by the knowledge he would not be able to fulfill his father’s greatest wish. He came to himself with a sob in his throat and tears blurring his eyes. Heron’s face swam before him, as did that of his mother, so still.

  Heron released Curlew’s hands. Curlew did not know if Heron had seen the same terrible vision as he. Blinking rapidly, he observed that his cousin’s expression looked grave and grim. Gracefully, Heron arose, turned to Curlew’s father, and placed both hands on his head.

  “Uncle, I am sorry.”

  ****

  “I did reach her you know, Pa,” Curlew said awkwardly. He and his father sat together beside the fire, not far from his mother’s quiet form. Gareth fretted about keeping her warm enough, with the chill night coming on. How to explain that his mother would not return to the man she loved and who loved her so well? “She gave a message.”

  His father raised his ravaged face. A handsome man, save for the old, thin scar that snaked down his left cheek, he now showed his age for the first time.

  “What message?”