Lord of Sherwood

by Laura Strickland

  Heron quirked an eyebrow. “What is this you say?”

  “Well, and I am not at liberty to say, but your quick and clever mind should be able to tumble to it. She is close at hand and she loves you more than her own breath.”

  As if conjured by magic, a knock sounded on the door. Diera’s voice called, and an instant later her dark head poked in.

  “I just wanted to say good night, lads,” she told them.

  Curlew shot Heron a look before he gave Diera a mischievous smile. “You braved this foul rain for that?”

  “So I did—I cannot imagine why.” Her gaze moved to Heron. “I wished, also, to be sure you have all you need before I go to bed.”

  Heron’s eyes seemed to appraise her. “Come, sit and warm yourself.”

  “I suppose I might stay a moment or two; Grandmother is asleep and likely to remain so.”

  She chose a place at Curlew’s side, which surprised him until he realized it afforded her a fine view of Heron with the firelight awash over him.

  “You know, lass,” Heron said to her gently, “you need not keep on fussing over me. I am well enough now. Even the bandages are gone.”

  She gave him an uncertain look and tears flooded her eyes. A strong woman and one who battled hard, she did not give in to tears easily, Curlew knew.

  In a broken voice she said, “I nearly lost you. Had that strike taken you a hair higher—or a hair deeper—you would not be here now.”

  Heron’s expression softened. Compassion came readily to him, always. “I am not so easy to kill as that, Diera. But aye, I am grateful for the tender care you gave me. And,” he added, as if teasing, “all the attention since.”

  Diera’s gaze, still locked on his, remained serious. “Can I help but come just to see you? To assure myself you breathe yet?”

  “Peace, love. I am not going anywhere, not for a long while. There is too much work to be done.”

  Fool, Curlew thought. Could he not see? Was Heron so close to Diera he could not interpret what shone even now from her eyes, when he had no difficulty picking up on other signs and portents?

  “Aye, well,” he said weightily, “the heart cannot help but worry when it cares so deeply.”

  Heron’s eyes flew to his and thence to Diera’s face, where they lingered in sudden, rapt attention. At last, Curlew gloried inwardly.

  Diera did not seem to notice; her gaze was fixed on her hands, which twisted together in her lap as she strove to keep Heron from seeing what she believed he did not welcome.

  Foolish children, Curlew thought with deep affection. He loved them both, and in that moment almost thought he could see the ties that linked them all, like threads of glowing light, heart to heart: Diera to Heron, all of them to each other, the faithful to Sherwood itself. He even thought he could catch echoes of beauty, like music, coming from the now-darkened hut where Lark and Falcon lay together, she taking him to her once again following his return.

  In that moment Curlew saw it all as a pattern, and each of them distinct pieces making up the whole, the very heart of Sherwood. If only, he thought, he could protect it all forever.

  Aye, and he would give his very life to do so, without reservation, even though among the many trails of light he could see one leading away from his own heart, straight to Nottingham.

  He came back to himself and realized Heron and Diera spoke together in hushed voices, their heads bent, no longer aware of him. Ah, and he did not belong here; better to leave them alone.

  And if he did, would Diera have her heart’s desire at last? Was there also an old magic linking these two, an ancient question long asked and now answered?

  He got to his feet and bade them good night; they barely heard.

  He stepped out into the pounding rain and lifted his face to the sky.

  Come to me please, he begged her in his mind. But the only answer he heard was the voice of the rain.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “Please, Father, I beg you do not force me to this.”

  Anwyn extended both hands to her father in supplication. She would get on her knees and weep, if need be. All night long had she lain awake, her thoughts beating against the cage of her mind, seeking a way out. She had even risen in the darkest hours and crept to the door, planning escape, only to find her father sleeping there, his body a barrier stretched across the opening.

  Now, with morning come, they had mere moments before they went to meet Havers at the chapel, and she argued the only way she might.

  Her father avoided her eyes and his hard expression did not relent.

  She seized both his hands. “Da, please!” She used the name she had employed for him since earliest childhood. “Do not be so cruel.”

  “That is just it, Anwyn: I am at last being kind. Lord Simon has convinced me I did you no service by indulging you so long.”

  Asslicker, Anwyn thought irreverently.

  Her father went on, “Only look to what it has brought us. You ruined! Your mother would never forgive me.”

  “She would,” Anwyn avowed passionately. “Mother understood about love, for she loved you. That I saw my whole life long.”

  That did make her father look at her. “What part plays love in what you have done, Daughter? Running like a wanton, giving yourself to some man you will not name. Or was your virtue taken?” he appeared almost hopeful at the possibility, and Anwyn’s heart sank. Was she truly such a disgrace he would prefer to think her the victim of violence?

  “Da!” Desperate, she squeezed his hands. “Do not make me wed Havers. I am in love with someone else.”

  “With whom?” Her father’s eyes narrowed. His quick mind made a leap. “Never say you became enamored of one of your captors?” His hands smoothed her hair. “Daughter, such things happen. Why, even in the Holy Land men have thought to become friends with their jailers.”

  “Not that, Da. He of whom I spoke is a good man, an honorable man.”

  “Honorable? And was it he who defiled you? What sort of honor is that? Nay, Anwyn, I have harmed you too much with my overindulgence. I do take most of the blame. But you shall go to Havers now.”

  “No, please!” She sank to her knees and her fingers twisted in his. “Would you have seen my mother go to another when she loved you?”

  He hesitated, and for an instant Anwyn believed she had won. Only let him cry off on the wedding and all would be right. She would find a way to return to Curlew, to Sherwood, where she belonged.

  But then regret filled her father’s eyes and he shook his head. “We are fortunate, Anwyn, that Roderick is still willing to take you, and you so sorely damaged.”

  “He wants not me but a place in your favor. He wishes to elevate himself in your esteem.”

  “Is that so terrible? Ambition is a fine thing in a man, and what benefits him will benefit you as well. Together, Lord Simon and I have worked out the plans for appointing an overseer for Sherwood, a man with authority in his own right. He will carry Lord Simon’s business and demands to the folk in and around Sherwood. I think Havers is the right choice.”

  “He would be a disastrous choice! His harshness and cruelty would only make more enemies and spread hatred.”

  “Child, you know little about the workings of the world. Strong men often seem harsh. It is how they enforce their will.”

  Nay, Anwyn thought, Curlew was both strong and kind. He led with humor, wisdom, and an eye to the good of all. In that instant she longed for him so intensely her heart convulsed in her chest. Surely she had been born for the touch of his hand, the kiss of his lips, and to watch the light move in his eyes. Aye, and she would journey through any pain or darkness to reach him. But how? Could she survive her treatment at the hands of Havers, if she knew she might eventually be away to Curlew and Sherwood?

  “Father, please,” she breathed once again, and pressed her forehead against his hands.

  “Do not weep.” Very gently, he raised her up. She could feel his love; her Da did care for her
still. And he believed he acted for the best of reasons. But oh, he dealt her a dire blow! “Courage, Daughter. ’Tis time you put your fancies from you and took up the duties of a wife.”

  ****

  The rain poured down like hard tears all through the wedding rite. The chapel felt cold and damp, and the priest rushed through his words, no doubt eager to get back to his fire.

  Anwyn, not in the least anxious to go home with Roderick Havers, clung to her father when it was done. She could not believe such frail things as muttered vows, spoken unwillingly on her part, could place her in this man’s possession. She would never belong to anyone but Curlew, not so long as she lived.

  “Da,” she whispered in her father’s ear at the end, “is there time to change my mind? I would choose the nunnery after all.”

  He merely shook his head and went out into the rain. Done—it was done. No glad tidings, no celebration. Only home with this man she detested.

  According to her Da, they would move to larger quarters soon. For now Havers and his two children lived in nothing more than a room with a sleeping alcove, half a hut partitioned from space occupied by two other foresters.

  Anwyn’s heart struggled to rise with hope even as they tramped to it through the rain. Outside the castle proper, it did not seem so impossibly far from Sherwood. Yet, she quickly realized, it offered no such thing as privacy. The two men who occupied the other half of it were away on their rounds when she arrived, but Havers’ children were there. And he quickly made it clear Anwyn would be expected to care for all.

  “Put your things away and begin making the supper. When the lads come back they can join us to eat. Might as well make use of you, eh? And you will keep their room tidy as well as ours. Do as you are told and you need not feel the back of my hand.”

  Anwyn merely nodded. Nothing but a wattle-work wall divided the two halves of the hut, and she told herself Havers would not think to exercise his marital rights this night, with both his children and those men listening. She could endure his hard words and his cruel stares until tomorrow. Then, while he was away about his duties, she would flee to the forest.

  Curlew’s face swam in her mind as she struggled to prepare a meal on the poor hearth, with some assistance from Havers’ daughter, Agnes. The girl flinched each time Havers spoke, making Anwyn certain she had more than a passing acquaintance with the back of her father’s hand.

  The meal passed in tense silence. When Havers heard the men next door, he hollered for them to come in. They hovered in the small room, dripping with wet and with mud still upon them.

  Agnes leaped to her feet and fetched a rag, with which she began to swab the floor. Anwyn’s lip curled—if Havers expected her to scurry round like a trained hound, he had another think coming.

  “This is my new wife. She might as well do for you until we move to our new quarters.”

  Havers did not even pay her the courtesy of telling her their names. Both were rough men, one older and one younger, with leathered skin, like her father’s, that bespoke a life spent outdoors.

  “Mistress,” the younger murmured and avoided her gaze. She saw what might be sympathy in the elder’s eyes.

  “Well,” Havers barked in his hated voice, “are you stupid? Get you up, Wife, and serve them.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  “We took two men found with a deer near Ravenshead,” said the elder of the two foresters seated by Havers’ fire. “Tried to deny they had felled it, of course, but the arrow through its shoulder matched those in the one’s quiver. They will stand trial, one or both of them.”

  Anwyn’s heart, already fully battered by the events of the day, trembled even as she pushed in beside the men to serve bowls of the stew she had made. They discussed their day precisely as if she were invisible.

  “And lose their hands, or their lives,” the younger threw in.

  Havers nodded grimly. “No mercy can be shown. These peasants are like undisciplined children or”—his gaze moved to Anwyn—“a wife who has not felt her husband’s anger. They need to learn.”

  He gestured at her roughly. “Do not just stand there gawping, woman. Refill their mugs of ale.”

  “The thing is…” The younger man spoke again. “We cannot arrest every peasant we encounter in the forest. And they are all poaching, I am convinced of that.”

  “To be sure, they are,” Havers denounced. “But you see, ’tis difficult for a man with one hand to draw a bow. So you cut off his hand and let his family starve. These serfs resemble rats, in that way. You have to destroy one generation to curb the next.” He drank deeply from his mug. “Lord Simon is a careful man, and far too lenient. Were I in a position of authority, it would be hard dealing until these folk, who seem to feel themselves so privileged, stop stealing from their betters.”

  Anwyn’s lip curled again. To Havers, everything was a matter of discipline. And was this the man her father wished to see made overseer of Sherwood?

  The conversation and the meal limped on. Anwyn told herself she should be grateful, for at least the presence of these men kept her safe from her husband’s attentions.

  But they left at last and, almost at once, Havers ordered both children to bed. He bent a look on Anwyn. “I am off to my bed also.” He gestured to the alcove. “You will join me as soon as your work is done.”

  She nodded. She could still hear the voices of the other two men, now on the far side of the dividing wall, which told her they could hear everything she said, as well. Would she let them hear her beg and cry for mercy from this misbegotten troll?

  Could she bend her pride enough to ask mercy from him? Could she bear to let him touch her? No.

  Her eyes stole toward the door even as she kept her hands busy. Outside, the pounding of the rain matched that of her heart. It sounded welcoming, in light of what awaited her in the alcove.

  But Havers had barred the door when the other men left. She might have time to dash out, otherwise, but he would surely catch her when she had to pause and lift that bar.

  She glanced at the two children, gone to their pallets against the opposite wall. Agnes’s worried gaze caught hers, and she whispered to the child, “Stay in your bed, and do not listen.”

  The girl ducked her head down beneath her blanket. Anwyn shot still another look of longing at the door. When she turned back, Havers stood at the opening of the alcove, stark naked.

  Horror suffused her and stopped the breath in her throat. The fire, which shed the only light in the room, allowed her to see his body: broad and squat, thick with muscle and bristled as a boar. Shadows danced over arms knotted with bulk and sinew, legs like the broken, bandy stumps of trees. Aye, and he stood ready for her, as well, the length of him jutting like an engorged, obscene weapon.

  Somehow she dragged her gaze to his face. It wore a look of lordly demand, his little eyes narrowed and mean. “Enough, Wife. Here, to your duty.”

  Anwyn did not move; she no longer could. As well to toss herself into the jaws of a ravening wolf.

  “Come,” he insisted, “or will you feel the weight of my hand?”

  Somehow Anwyn forced her voice through frozen lips. “You will have to beat me before I consent to let you touch me.”

  “Aye, well, wench,” he advanced on her, “I will take pleasure in that, and what comes after also.”

  Anwyn’s paralysis broke and she fled to the door. But the room, only a few paces across, did not allow distance enough for her to elude him. He caught her, even as her fingers brushed the bar, and spun her about by the shoulder. Before she could blink, he struck her, a smashing blow that took her across the face and knocked her down. Her head hit the door as she fell and she lay stunned for the instant it took him to haul her up and strike her again.

  This time her ears rang. He held on to her so she could not tumble down, and bellowed into her face, “Now get you to your bed, and be the whore your father sold to me.”

  Having never been struck in such a way, Anwyn did not ex
pect her primary response to be one of anger. She felt surprised by it now, but the rage streamed up through her, obscuring fear and even her pain.

  “I will not,” she spat into his face.

  Not a sound came from the other side of the wall, nor from the children’s pallets, though she knew they listened. She could expect no help; the children were too frightened and the men considered her Havers’ property.

  Havers’ small, piggy eyes widened in surprise. She doubted many people defied him. “You will,” he vowed, “over and over again.”

  He began to drag her away from the door, but she reached out and seized the bar with desperate hands. With a grunt he slapped her once more, and her fingers bit into the cold iron as if it could grant her freedom. But the only freedom lay in—

  Curlew!

  She screamed his name in her mind, a cry born of need and longing. Help me, my love.

  Havers grunted and raised one beefy arm to strike. Anwyn saw the blow coming and cocked her foot to fend him off. A desperate kick, it took him in the stomach and rocked him back so he let go of her.

  She lifted the bar from the door. A power not her own helped her, so it seemed weightless in her hands. She felt strength flood and steady her so she was ready when Havers bellowed and came for her again.

  She swung the bar with both hands and met his lunge. Not the chest, no, said the voice now inside her, or he will seize the bar with his hands.

  But Anwyn’s first strike, clumsy and badly directed, took Havers in his left shoulder and—by all that was holy—knocked him down.

  She swung again even as he fell—once, twice—and battered his naked flesh. Then, the bar still in her hands, she opened the door and fled into the rain.

  The door on the other side of the hut opened and a head emerged—the elder of the two foresters, he was. Did he mean to stop her and send her back inside? She glanced over her shoulder. Havers would be coming, unless she had killed him, and she doubted she had. Hurt him, aye, maybe.

  She returned her gaze to the forester’s face. For an eternal, breathless moment, they stared at one another.