He eased, and Heron tipped his head almost as if he caught the echo of the exchange. “Ah, so that is the way of it. The circle is barely formed, and already the two of you have bonded.”
“Well before that,” Curlew said.
Heron smiled. “I am glad for you. Comfort him well, lass. He has lost much. And now even you must go from him for a time. But surely you know you cannot, in truth, be parted from him? Never again.”
“I am beginning to find my way through these new waters,” Anwyn admitted. “It is all strange and, it seems, navigated mainly by faith.”
“Very true. And so it seems,” Heron added almost wistfully, “it is me for Sherwood, and the hermitage.”
“You need not go alone,” Curlew told him. “Only think on my parents.”
“Aye, but who would go to live in oblivion with me?”
Anwyn nearly spoke. The merest twitch of Curlew’s fingers and a slight whisper in her mind kept her from it.
“So, cousin,” Heron said in his rough whisper, “your parents have gained eternity in Sherwood. It seems the three of us must take up our duty in earnest. First of all, I wish to thank you both for saving my life. Strong magic, that was. I do not believe I have ever felt any stronger.”
“Nor I,” Curlew agreed, to Anwyn’s surprise.
“I do not know, quite, how we managed that, the two of us and a novice. But it seems, gifted with such power, we must accomplish great things.”
Heron reached out and raised both his hands to Anwyn’s face. He did not touch her, quite, yet she could feel the magic hum in his hands, see it in his eyes as they caught hold of hers.
“And that means, young Anwyn, you must be sure to come back to us, whatever that requires.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
“So you can tell us naught of these vile dogs who stole you away, Mistress Montfort?” Simon de Asselacton asked Anwyn with a frown.
De Asselacton—or the Asslicker, as the folk of Sherwood invariably called him—had shown Anwyn only kindness and forbearance since her return to Nottingham, but he quite clearly did not believe her story, at least not all of it.
“We must identify these men so that those guilty may be brought to justice, and others who are not guilty released.” Like Falcon Scarlet, who had been set free that very afternoon. Though Anwyn had not seen him she could imagine Lark’s joy, and that of Heron and Curlew, at his return to Sherwood.
And was she now also part of Sherwood, since she had bonded with Curlew, with Heron? Had her heart at last found a home?
She only knew she would do anything for them—for him—whatever that meant.
She looked de Asselacton in the eye. “I did not see their faces, my lord. They kept my eyes covered. As I have said, I heard their voices only, and so do not see how I can hope to identify them.”
“Tell me again how it was you were captured.”
She drew a breath. “I was disobedient, my lord, and did not listen to my father, who bade me remain in our quarters. ’Twas already growing dark when I ventured out. I wanted an adventure and thought to walk to the edge of Sherwood and see if I could catch a glimpse of any outlaws. After all the stories I had heard, well, my lord, it was foolish, as I now know, but my father will tell you sometimes such urges get the better of me.”
“Your father has no need to tell me,” de Asselacton said. “Where were you when these villains fell upon you?”
“No more than half way to the wood. I heard a noise behind, and then I felt hands seize me, and a sack came down over my head. It smelt of onions. Someone said, ‘It is the forester’s daughter.’ ”
Lord Simon glanced at Anwyn’s father, who stood beside her, poker straight and silent. De Asselacton’s ruddy face looked sour. “The provision of the sack would argue a planned capture. You have not been here long enough, Mason, to earn such enemies.”
Anwyn’s father remained silent.
“On the other hand,” de Asselacton went on, “you push the peasants hard and have made a number of arrests. These men who seized you were peasants, aye, lass?”
Anwyn hesitated. She had no wish to turn suspicion on the innocent. “How to tell? Their voices might have belonged to anyone.”
“Describe again the place where you were held.”
“’Twas but a hut, old and not well kept, outlying, I think. I do know we turned eastward and headed some distance before we arrived.”
“Not into Sherwood, then? Passing strange, that. Mason, we need sufficient information to track down these miscreants. We cannot have blackguards snatching our daughters from beneath the walls—no matter their disobedience,” he added with disapproval.
“Aye, my lord. But we will do well not to apprehend the wrong men. The folk are already up in arms over us hauling in the headman of Oakham without what they call just cause.”
De Asselacton waved his hand. “He has been released, has he not? And he is but a peasant, after all.”
“Highly regarded, though,” said Anwyn’s father, who was rarely anything but fair.
Lord Simon snorted. “He is probably a wolfshead. I hope I have not made a mistake in letting him go. But I gave my word, and I am a man who keeps his word, as you well know.”
Anwyn’s father nodded his head. “Indeed, my lord.”
De Asselacton fixed Anwyn with another hard stare. “These men who held you, mistress, they did not defile you in any way?”
Again Anwyn hesitated. Her sole defense against Havers lay in claiming to be ruined. Yet how could she send Lord Simon or even her father on a vengeful hunt for men who did not exist? They were bound to seize someone and he—or they—would suffer needlessly. Her thoughts flew madly: how might she best aid Curlew?
She dropped her eyes. “My lord, I would rather not say.”
“Aye but, child, you must, if we are to seek for justice.”
“Is it not enough if I confide the truth to my father?”
De Asselacton shot another look at Anwyn’s father and then relented. “Very well. You will bring word to me, Mason, if measures need to be taken. Meanwhile”—his words grew weightier—“you must curb your lass’s tendency to roam. Whatever has happened in the past, we cannot have that here at Nottingham, do you understand? Only look at the trouble it has caused. You will wed her at once to this man of yours, the one you said is willing to have her. Within the next two days.” No question but it was an order issued. Anwyn’s father bowed his head.
She drew a breath. “But, my lord—”
He fixed her with a glare. “I did not ask you. You may choose marriage to your father’s man or the nunnery. Do you understand?”
A chill chased its way down Anwyn’s spine. The very thought of a nunnery lent feelings of suffocation, guilt, sorrow, and death. Anything but that.
Almost anything. The memory of Havers’ piggy eyes assailed her. How could she endure his touch after lying with Curlew?
Ah, but surely she could dissuade her father when she had him alone. Yet de Asselacton gave him one last glare and said, “I want this settled, Mason, and ’tis my final word upon it.”
****
“So tell me, Daughter, were you harmed during your ordeal?”
They were alone in their quarters with night coming on. Anwyn’s heart struggled in her breast. She wanted away to Sherwood so badly she ached. She wanted to lie this night long in Curlew’s arms.
Everything she did, she reminded herself, she did for him.
“Nay, Da,” she answered, “they were not unkind.”
“Then tell me,” he sat down beside her, “that I might send you to Roderick with an easy mind, and that you are virgin yet.”
In his eyes she saw desperation, shredded patience, and a measure of forbearance. Aye, she had tried him much. He did not know what to expect from her answer, yet he hoped.
She shook her head and his face fell; pain flooded his eyes.
“Who is the man?” He faltered. “There is but one?”
Shame touched he
r then, that he should think otherwise of her. But aye, she had been running wild, and stories of her behavior had not been gentle.
She said with certainty, “There is but one.” One man for her, now and forever.
His face flushed dark. “Are you with child?”
The very idea convulsed her heart.
Before she could answer, her father rushed on, “For Roderick will not have you if you carry another man’s brat.”
She sat up straighter. “He will not have me anyway, now that I am ruined. He told me as much.”
“He and I have a bargain. I have pledged to him that, as the man wed to my daughter, I will elevate him among my foresters as soon as the opportunity presents itself. I have spoken with Lord Simon about it, and he agrees. Measures must be taken to protect Sherwood. We both believe that requires placing it in the hands of a strong overseer. Roderick is not without ambition, Daughter.” He paused and wetted his lips. “He has agreed to take you in any condition we found you, upon your return.”
The blood drained from Anwyn’s face. “No.”
“Oh, aye, and I do not mean to let you out of my sight until the marriage takes place. This nonsense we have had from you is surely and truly done.”
Anwyn’s mind flapped and fluttered against the idea like a bird in a cage. There must be a way out; her father was basically a kind man. Yet she had used up all his kindness and then some. Should she tell him she could not accept Havers because she loved another? But she would sooner die than place Curlew at risk.
“Father, please reconsider.”
“Nay, Anwyn. You heard Lord Simon: he wants the matter settled. And ’tis clear you need a stronger hand than mine. I have failed in my duty to your mother. You are not the young woman she hoped you would become.”
“Do not say that.” A blow, indeed. Tears flooded Anwyn’s eyes.
“I pray this match will benefit us all. You will learn to obey your husband and Roderick will earn a fine place once our battle with the rabble infesting Sherwood is done.”
“’Tis no battle, Father. I do not doubt folk in Sherwood, as elsewhere, are only trying to survive.”
“It has gone on too long. Lord Simon would send word to King Henry that order has been established here, and thus take at least one worry from him, in light of all the unrest westward.”
Lord Simon would, rather, curry favor.
“None of that concerns you,” her father told her. “You must prepare yourself for your wedding.”
“I will not!”
“I have never raised a hand to you, Anwyn. Perhaps that was my great mistake, but your sainted mother would not have it. Now, though, I do not doubt you require firm guidance.”
What she required was the sound of Curlew’s voice in her ears, the feel of his arms around her, the scent of him as he filled her, the touch of his mind on hers, and the glint of humor in his silver eyes.
She lifted her head. “Would you send me to a man who has promised to beat me? It will not happen, Father. I swear to you, no man will touch me.” None but Curlew Champion.
And her father told her grimly, “We shall see about that.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
“I received a visit from our grandmother, Wren, while Anwyn and I were in the forest.”
Heron’s head came up at Curlew’s words, and their gazes met. Interest glinted in Heron’s eyes and his agile mind leaped ahead with ease.
“Whatever she told you has troubled you. Or are you just missing Anwyn?”
Curlew shook his head. They sat together beside a smoldering fire in Heron’s hut. Outside, an autumn rain poured down, its chill matching the bleak cold in Curlew’s heart.
Only two things gladdened him—Heron’s swift and steady recovery from his dire wound and Falcon’s return from Nottingham earlier that day. Asslicker had kept his word, at least. Now Curlew had but to get Anwyn back with him where she belonged.
“Both,” he admitted.
“She is for you, then,” Heron confirmed without bitterness, “and me for the forest, as I said before. I do not mind. She is a lovely, willful thing, but one only has to see how she looks at you to tell what is in her heart. You will have your hands full there, Lew, but I do not doubt ’twill be worth it.”
Anwyn’s presence in his life was worth anything, Curlew knew that. Yet he could scarcely get his mind around the wonder of it all.
He searched Heron’s eyes, rueful and tentative. “You know me, Heron. I think I can safely call myself a humble man. There is naught special about me, save certain pronouncements made before my birth and my place in our triad. You are the one who carries the magic about with you, visible as a cloak. So—why me?”
The amusement in Heron’s eyes deepened. He made a graceful gesture with his hands. Gently ironic, he said, “Indeed, there must be something we can none of us see.”
“So it would seem, if I can believe what Grandmother Wren implied.”
Heron shifted where he sat. The dim light of the room washed over his hair and made a stark line of the wound at his throat, now uncovered to the air. Curlew’s heart trembled within him; he had nearly lost Heron. Or had he? Could it be, as Wren had said, that all loss was a lie, an illusion?
“You had better share with me what she told you.”
“It sounds mad, and as if I think too much of myself.”
“Cousin, I know you. As you just said, you are a humble man. As for madness, well, I think we are all of us a bit mad, in a good way.”
“Very well.” Curlew drew a breath. “What do you know about those who have lived in the past returning to live again?” At Heron’s look of surprise he added hastily, “No, I do not mean resurrection, but rather a spirit finding a home in new flesh. I explain it badly.”
Emotions chased one another through Heron’s eyes: astonishment, realization, and understanding. “Is that what Grandmother Wren said to you?”
“In part.” Curlew’s heart quailed within him. “And I have been catching glimpses of a past not my own. Or perhaps my own, after all...”
Heron drew a breath. “Aye well, Lew, you know there is no end in death. We have encountered spirits enough in Sherwood to believe the truth of that. All life is circular and as such has no beginning and no end. The ancients who first came here believed we don many cloaks of flesh over many lifetimes.”
“If such a thing might be so—and I am not saying it is—then how could we fail to remember?” Beyond brief flashes—hot tears raining down onto his face—and familiar feelings.
Heron smiled wryly. “You speak of madness. Surely it would lie that way, indeed. Only think of the memories of several, or many, lifetimes crowding our minds, the pain of old wounds and losses, the crippling fear. If such a thing be true, our failure to remember must be a mercy.”
“That is what Grandmother said, more or less.” Curlew frowned. “Yet if two souls who knew one another before, and meant much to each other, should don new flesh and come back into this world from that other to meet again—could they fail to know each other by feel, by longing?”
Interest flickered still more brightly in Heron’s eyes, but he did not ask the question Curlew half expected. Instead he offered kindly, “I believe they could not fail to so know each other, Cousin.”
Gladness surged in Curlew’s heart, along with doubt and another, stronger rush of humility. If what Wren suggested were true, he, Curlew, did not deserve this shocking and miraculous identity.
Moreover, he was not sure he wanted it. Yet he wanted her. And he wished a chance to heal her pain even if it meant reliving all the loss and terror over again.
“Lew…” Heron touched his arm lightly. “I know what was said of you before your birth, what the spirits whispered—that you would be the most important person ever born in Sherwood.”
“Yet I am scarcely that, Heron. Look at me! Four and twenty, and I have done nothing of note. I have merely lived my life, tried to look after those around me, and searched for the missing third
of our triad.”
“And spoken always for justice, and been a loving steward of Sherwood. And”—Heron smiled like sunshine in the dim room—“saved my life, you and she together.”
Together. So he must believe they were meant to be. “I want her back with me, Heron.”
“Aye.”
Would she come tomorrow? He wished he could find her with his mind, but he had searched and caught only the barest whispers, which he attributed to imagining. How could he know what was dream and what truth? How tell reality from the product of pure wishing?
“Miracles surround us,” Heron told him in his new, husky voice. “Your parents now exist together in Sherwood’s sanctity. Mine speak even when apart, between their minds. Should we doubt that those who lived and died for this place should be given the gift of living for it again?”
“You are a wise man, Heron Scarlet.”
“Wise enough to wed myself to Sherwood and lie with the Lady always?”
“It need not be that way. Not since Alric, who shared the power taken up when Robin died, has there been any among the triad who lived the life of the hermit.”
“Alric—aye, an intriguing figure, is he not? A deeply holy man.”
“Like you.”
“Who by all accounts lost out when Lillith chose the warrior-headman Geofrey over him. Sounds familiar, does it not?”
“There is no need for you to be alone.”
“Even though Anwyn has chosen you?”
“Nay, but it is all about keeping the balance. For the last three generations it has seemed to poise between the leader, the warrior, and the healer, though they came in many guises. Your parents—warrior and leader—bonded together, but my mother was not left to live alone. Sherwood proved kinder than that.”
Heron said ruefully, “Aye, Sherwood handpicked Gareth. And he had only to prove himself under threat of death.”
“I am trying to tell you there is one who would take you to her heart even as the Green Man’s Lady has done.”
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