Lord of Sherwood

by Laura Strickland

  “She said to never doubt that love lasts forever.”

  Gareth gave a hard laugh. “I knew that already. It does not keep my heart from breaking each time I look at her.”

  Still more awkwardly, Curlew said, “You are strong, Pa. None stronger. You can endure this.”

  Slowly, Gareth shook his head. He spread his hands. “I cannot.”

  “Do not despair, for she lives yet.”

  “Aye, son, so she does.”

  “Let us carry her back to Oakham. You stay there with us. I do not like to think of you here on your own.”

  Gareth’s gray eyes met Curlew’s. “That is what your aunt suggested. She and Falcon must go back to deal with this new threat from Nottingham. But if I come…” Gareth corrected softly, “If we come, then my choices will not be my own.”

  “Choices? Of what do you speak?”

  His father did not answer.

  “Pa?”

  “I must be free to choose, Lew, to not go on without her.”

  Horror twisted through Curlew’s heart. He thought of the woman in his vision—Marian, his own great-grandmother and wife to Robin Hood—and her despair as her husband lay dying. She had not grasped how Robin’s essence had become part of the air itself, so that as long as she kept breathing he remained with her.

  He bade his father, “Do not make the mistake others have made in the past.” Surely he had received that vision just so he could bring this warning. “What of the rest of us, should both of you perish? Please come back to Oakham with me.”

  “You are a good son.” Gareth’s hand, scarred from many battles, came out and cupped the side of Curlew’s face. “But I am where I need to be.”

  “Can you not speak to her?” Curlew knew his parents communicated by thought far more frequently than in words.

  Gareth shook his head. “I speak. I do not know if she hears.”

  “She hears you, Pa, always.”

  “Sherwood gives,” Gareth said heavily, “and it takes much. Go home, son, and leave me to my vigil.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Where is your headman? I would speak with him.”

  Anwyn recognized the voice even through the wattle wall of the hut in which she sat sorting berries for Diera, the young woman she had met with Curlew Champion at Nottingham market. As well she should, for that was her father calling out firm and steady in the golden afternoon.

  “He is not here,” someone spoke in reply. “Called away, my lord.”

  “When will he return?”

  “We do not know, my lord.”

  Anwyn, alone in the hut—for Diera had gone out a short while ago and her grandmother, with whom she lived, was at a neighbor’s—crept to the window opening and sneaked a look out. She did not want her father to see her, yet her curiosity refused to be denied.

  And what she saw chased the breath from her lungs. Her father, aye, dressed all in his hunting leathers with his bow on his shoulder and a small troop of foresters at his back. They made an impressive show wearing the Sheriff of Nottingham’s insignia, but that was not what made her duck back down and crouch on the dirt floor. The man on her father’s right was Roderick Havers, ugly as sin and twice as large.

  What if he should spy her with those little, piggy eyes that seemed to see so much? He would draw her father’s attention to her, and they would come crashing in here to haul her away. Her heart smote her over the worry she must be causing her Da, gone last night and, now, most of this day. It showed his mettle that he carried on regardless, and performed his duty in spite of it.

  She heard him raise his voice again. “Hear me, good people of Oakham. In the absence of your headman, I will speak to you all. Already this day we have visited four other villages and found stolen game in each—the King’s deer, taken out of hand. I am here to tell you the King’s writ regarding poaching will be upheld. Four men have been sent to Nottingham to stand trial for their crimes against their King.”

  Could this truly be her Da speaking? He knew what it meant to live in want, had been friendly with folk in the borders who did whatever they must to survive. She believed he sympathized with men and women struggling to feed their children. How could he be so harsh now?

  “Know that my men mean to search this village. Have you anything to hide? If so, speak up now. It will go easier with you.”

  No one spoke. A child began to wail but not loudly enough to keep Anwyn from hearing her father tell his men in a low voice, “Spread out and search.”

  “What goes on here?” A new voice, one Anwyn did not recognize. She slid back to the window opening and peered out cautiously.

  A group of three people had entered the village from the north. Her heart leaped momentarily, but none of them was Curlew. The first two, a man and woman of middle years, she knew not, but the third she did—Heron.

  Diera had told her earlier in the day, when she asked, that Heron and Curlew had gone off into the forest to see Curlew’s mother, who lay gravely ill. Even when Anwyn pressed the girl, she would say no more.

  Could these be Heron’s parents, who headed this village? The man had a look of Heron, and a mane of wild, fair hair. The woman, small and dark, wore a bow on her shoulder like a man.

  Anwyn’s father turned toward them, and the man said, “I am Falcon Scarlet, headman here. What is your business in Oakham?”

  “We come by the authority of Sheriff Simon de Asselacton to enforce the King’s writ. I am Mason Montfort, my lord de Asselacton’s head forester. We search for stolen venison and will take into custody anyone responsible for its theft.”

  Falcon Scarlet tossed his head. He wore his dignity like a cloak and stood straight and tall. “Search as you will. You shall find nothing here.”

  Anwyn’s fingers grew white on the window opening. Had Curlew not promised to feed her the King’s venison when he brought her here only this morning? True, Heron had given her bread and ale—had Curlew merely been taunting her then? Curlew spoke as if he believed he had full right to take the King’s deer. What if venison were found?

  Her father’s men moved out and scattered. She heard Havers say, “There, master, on that wall—antlers.”

  “Antlers, not venison.” Falcon Scarlet said softly. “Those are old, from my father’s time.”

  Havers growled in reply, “Then, headman, your father must have been a stinking thief.”

  “Never mind that now.” Mason Montfort spoke quickly. “Go help the others search.”

  Aye, Anwyn thought in sudden panic, and what if Havers or her father came here to look? The door stood open to the bright afternoon. By heaven, was there somewhere she could hide herself?

  She gazed about and saw nothing except the cot leaned up against one wall during the day to afford more floor space. Swiftly, she made herself small and hid behind it, immediately losing most of her ability to hear and struggling not to sneeze from the smell of dust and old wool.

  She waited what seemed an age, holding her breath, before somebody entered the hut with a heavy tread and began knocking things about. She trembled behind her screen, praying the man would not decide to shift the upturned cot.

  A loud cry sounded from outside, and the searcher abandoned the hut. Slowly, but avid to hear what transpired, Anwyn crawled back out.

  “—deer hide!” she heard through the open doorway. “And fresh.”

  Falcon Scarlet’s voice was heard once more. “A hide, Master Montfort, is not venison.”

  “Aye, but it argues misdeed.” Her father’s voice held a new note, heavy with intent. “Where is the venison, save in your bellies?”

  “You have no proof,” Scarlet argued.

  “A bloodied hide is evidence.” Anwyn’s father insisted. “Enough, I think, for you to stand trial. That is”—his tone became a suggestion—“unless someone else would confess.”

  “No.” Another voice, that of a woman and flinty as rock. Was that Heron’s mother, then?

  But someone called from the crow
d of villagers, “I confess to the crime.”

  “Nay, I confess.”

  “Nay, I!”

  Anwyn simply ached to see. She slid forward across the beaten floor until she could peer around the door post.

  Two of her father’s men held a fresh deer hide. Her Da wore a curious look on his face—mostly consternation. The villagers stood in a ring and continued to call out, claiming ownership of the deed.

  And the small woman who stood between Heron and Falcon Scarlet virtually glowed with anger. Indeed, if Anwyn narrowed her eyes she could see a faint haze of reddish light shimmering all around her.

  Even as the chorus from the villagers died, the woman stepped forward and looked Mason Montfort in the eye. “’Twas I shot that deer.”

  “You?” Montfort questioned.

  “Do you doubt my skill?” Before anyone could blink, the woman had her bow down off her shoulder and an arrow notched. She drew and released in a blur of speed. Her arrow flew past Montfort’s face and Havers’ nose and passed through the deer hide.

  The men holding it jumped. Anwyn’s father directed an astonished look at the woman.

  “Ruined, that,” she snapped, “and worthless. It has a great hole in it. Surely, Forester, you will not drag someone away to Nottingham over such a pitiful prize?”

  Montfort’s lips tightened. He signaled his men, who threw the hide to the ground. He gave the woman another hard look.

  “Consider yourselves warned. We will return, and we will continue to enforce the King’s laws.”

  He signaled to his men once more, and they all began to move off.

  The fierce, small woman called, “You will be careful, Forester, that you do not catch an arrow in the back.”

  Montfort’s head jerked round. Had she not just demonstrated the skill needed to accomplish the deed? Anwyn’s heart trembled anew; she certainly did not want her Da to die.

  The woman smiled dangerously. “’Tis just that you foresters are so few, and Sherwood is such a perilous place.”

  Anwyn could feel the woman’s anger—and hate—from across the clearing. Her father had to be bombarded with it. But she knew her Da for a clever, canny man. He merely nodded. “And you, my good woman, play at a treacherous game. The murder of a King’s forester is punishable by death, and a man’s—or indeed a woman’s—arrow is an accurate marker.”

  Anwyn saw Falcon Scarlet reach for the woman’s hand; their fingers curled together in an unspoken gesture of unity.

  But the woman said, “And dead, Forester, is dead, despite the price paid for the deed.”

  Mason Montfort gestured yet again. His band of men assembled and, with invisible targets on their backs, moved away.

  ****

  “’Twas Curlew shot that deer, as you know full well.” The small woman glared into the faces that surrounded her. “Who was careless enough to leave the hide where it could be found?”

  None of the villagers answered. They still stood about, grave faced, but with the immediate danger past, mothers had released their children from their arms and men had eased their stances.

  Anwyn ventured from Diera’s hut and out into the dying light of the golden day. She could see Diera now, standing beside Heron with her hand on his arm.

  “And who is this?” The small woman’s gaze found Anwyn the way a hard slap finds a cheek.

  Heron spoke wryly, “She, Ma, is daughter to the Sheriff’s new head forester, that man you just met. She has come here seeking refuge.”

  Both the woman’s brows rose. “And is her father not likely to hurry back looking for her? She cannot stay.”

  Should that decision not belong to the headman? Anwyn wondered. But the man with the wild mane did not gainsay the woman and merely stood quiet as she beckoned to Anwyn. “Come here, lass.”

  Anwyn started forward. Those gathered stayed where they were and stared. A show upon a show, this was, and they were nothing loath.

  As Anwyn approached she tried to read Heron’s expression and that of the headman, who seemed to hold his opinion in abeyance. She had no trouble discerning the look on the small woman’s face, clearly outraged and furious.

  “How do you come here? And who let you stay?”

  “That would be me, Ma,” Heron said. “Since she sought refuge, I thought she should wait and speak with you and Pa.”

  Heron’s mother waved a hand. “Permission to stay denied.”

  “Nay.” The word burst from Anwyn’s lips without her volition. She did not like to defy this woman, but she would not be sent back to Nottingham. “You must let me remain.”

  “I must?” Heron’s mother threw her head back and her face froze.

  “Or—or he must,” Anwyn quickly amended, gesturing at Falcon Scarlet, “he being headman here.”

  The woman glared into Anwyn’s eyes. “I am his wife, Lark Scarlet. I speak for him and he for me, always.”

  Anwyn shot a startled look at the man. Rather than offended, he appeared slightly amused. “We speak as one.”

  “Ah,” Anwyn managed. She could almost feel the ties that existed between them, tangible and strong. What would it be like to share such a connection with someone else, say Curlew Champion? Envy stirred in her heart.

  “Your presence here is not required,” Mistress Scarlet said shortly. “It is a complication, and we have enough of those right now. Heron, pray escort her clear of the forest.”

  “But I cannot go.” Not, at least, until she saw Curlew again. Where was he? Diera said he had gone away with Heron, yet Heron stood here without him. Had he remained with his ailing mother?

  “You cannot stay.” Lark Scarlet’s tone turned vicious.

  “Mother.” Heron spoke before Anwyn could. “I think you will want to hear my opinion before you send her off.”

  “Oh, aye?” Lark turned those fierce eyes on him. “You give me one good reason to keep that devil’s offspring here amongst us.”

  “Because, Ma, I think she is the woman we have sought so long.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  “We cannot leave those who were seized to stand trial,” Falcon Scarlet said heavily. “We will need to mount a rescue.”

  Curlew turned his head and looked into his uncle’s face. Since his return from his parents’ hermitage at midmorning, he seemed able to sense the emotions of those around him far too clearly. Indeed, they came at him like arrows shot fast and hard, broke upon him and heightened his own feelings of distress.

  He had hated leaving his father and mother alone in the forest, for he could taste his father’s despair and feared what he might do. Curlew could not, he simply could not endure losing both of them.

  Yet Gareth had sent him off without reservation. “You have a task to perform, son, new duties to take up. You can help her best by doing them well.”

  Now he sat with his aunt, his uncle, and Heron, sharing information and a mug of Aunt Lark’s vile bark tea. She had taken one look at him and thrust it into his hands.

  “Drink, lad. You look shattered.”

  Aye, and he felt it. He drank the bitter stuff and sat quietly while the others talked over the matter of rescuing the four headmen hauled away from the surrounding villages for poaching. All, if found guilty, would lose their hands or their lives.

  And how could they fail to be found guilty? De Asselacton would not have begun this campaign did he not mean to prove ruthless in it.

  Lark waved a hand. “They are as good as lost.” She turned sharp eyes on Heron. “And what is this nonsense you spout about the forester’s daughter? You said to wait and speak with Curlew. Well, he is here.”

  Heron seared Curlew with a single glance and looked away. “’Twas he who brought her here. ’Tis he who knows.”

  “Nay.” Curlew spoke quickly before he lost the will. “I know nothing.”

  Because he remained so attuned to others’ emotions, he felt Heron’s immediate protest. Heron rarely grew angry, but when he did he burned with righteous heat, and surely his
anger built now.

  But Falcon spoke kindly, before Heron could. “Curlew, lad, Heron has said something remarkable of this lass—that she is the woman you have sought this long while, the missing guardian.”

  Curlew shook his head and did not look at Heron.

  “Then,” Lark demanded, “Why has he said so?”

  Curlew shifted uncomfortably. He did not wish to discuss this with his aunt and uncle. At this point he did not even want to think about what he and Anwyn had done in Sherwood. Yet the images would not be gone from his mind. And, of all people, these two guardians needed to know. For everyone hung from threads of uncertainty until the third of their number was found.

  “The manner of our meeting,” he admitted, “was passing strange.”

  “What was the manner of your meeting?”

  Curlew raised his gaze to Falcon’s. “I went into Sherwood to await the arrival of the Lady. This lass came to me instead.”

  Falcon’s lips parted in surprise.

  Lark spoke, “So you met with the wench in the forest—sheer chance and much nonsense. How could she be your third, she of foreign blood and not even Sherwood born?”

  “You always doubt, wife. You doubted our Gareth when first he came. Does he—does Curlew—not carry Norman blood?”

  Lark made a face as if she tasted something unpleasant. “Aye, well, and Gareth eventually proved himself. Besides, he never held a part in the sacred trust of guardianship. Always has that gone to one of us.”

  “You are wrong, Ma.” Heron said it softly, but Curlew could still feel the anger coming off him. “What of Marian?”

  “Eh?” Lark looked startled. “That was long ago.”

  “How long does not matter, for in one way or another we all carry her blood. Was she not a Norman ward when she ran away to Sherwood for the love of Robin?”

  Marian. The memory of Curlew’s vision slammed through him once more. Tears splashing hot on his face, terror in amber eyes. My love, my love, my love.

  “Curlew?” He realized Lark had spoken to him; he had not heard.

  “I am sorry, Aunt?”

  “It is clear Heron, with his mad notions, would have the chit stay. Will you not give us your opinion?”