Lord of Sherwood

by Laura Strickland

  “Run,” the man told her then.

  She did, into the gathering autumn dark, shocked to see it was not yet really night. Havers had not wished to wait long for his cruel pleasure. But the rain and the early dusk lent their own cover in which she would gladly lose herself.

  Where to run? Not home. Her Da might well send her back to Havers. What she wanted was away to Sherwood. As she had ascertained earlier, the foresters’ huts lay outside the gates. Yet, disoriented by reaction and the rain, she could not begin to tell her way.

  Come along with me, child, said the voice that had already sounded in her head, inside the hut.

  She lifted her face like a startled hind. “Who are you? Where?”

  Here.

  A woman took form beside her, barely visible through the driving rain. Tall she was, with dark hair woven into a braid that flowed down her back. Eyebrows like wings marked a face at once severe and full of beautiful strength.

  Anwyn gasped. From whence had she come?

  Do not fear, child. Rain streaked the woman’s face, though she heeded it not. Would you not go to my grandson?

  “Your grandson?”

  Curlew.

  Another spear of surprise pierced Anwyn. This woman did not look old enough to be Curlew’s grandmother. But she breathed in ready response, “Aye.” Oh, aye, it made the one desire of her heart.

  Then I will lead you to him. Fear not, for I assure you I will not get lost in Sherwood.

  “I believe you,” Anwyn said. And so she did.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Curlew!

  The word—his name—screamed in Curlew’s mind and turned him around where he stood. He peered through the rain.

  Anwyn’s voice. He knew it to the core of his soul, remembered the sweetness of it twining through him when they lay together, claiming him. Had she come at last? His heart leaped impossibly, and he glanced at his aunt and uncle, who sat behind him.

  “Did you hear that?”

  He would far rather ask Heron, but Heron had gone off to his hut with Diera, ostensibly to speak. Curlew could only hope they were not in fact speaking.

  Lark and Falcon exchanged glances, and probably words between their minds. Since Falcon’s return they had refused to be parted, and—

  Wait. Words between their minds.

  He knew what this meant, then, and that Anwyn’s call had sounded only for him. Emotions poured through him—gratitude, awe, and glad rejoicing. All his life he had longed for this, the miracle and intimacy of someone’s voice in his mind, the deep belonging. And aye, if he could hear her, then truly she belonged to him and he to her forever—no end.

  But where was she? How far? And why did he glean fear from her as well as longing? Aye, the longing he shared, by the Green Man’s blood he did. Was she somewhere he might find her?

  “Curlew, what is it?” Falcon asked, but Curlew barely heard.

  Come, meet us. Another voice, one he felt he knew but could not at this moment identify, one of those that so frequently sighed like a wind through Sherwood.

  “I must go,” he tossed over his shoulder, and moved off even as Lark began to protest.

  He stopped only to gather his bow and arrows, without which he seldom went anywhere, and to glance at the door of Heron’s hut. Assaulted by the driving rain, it stood firmly shut and revealed no crack of light.

  Come.

  He abandoned Heron to his fate and followed the call.

  Could he lose his way in Sherwood, even in the dark? Surely not now, for he tracked Anwyn’s awareness as he might a beacon. Glimmers of light seemed to flash and dance in his mind. The rain crashed down with its own rhythm and music. Secret things moved along with him and memories—not just of him and Anwyn together—stirred in his mind, strange things full of grief and magic.

  None of that held him. When he reached her now he meant to never let her go.

  Nay, lord, for are the two of you not destined to be together? still another voice asked.

  Someone strode beside him, a large man only dimly seen and mostly made of shadow. Like Curlew, he wore a bow and a quiver across his back, along with a great sheepskin cloak.

  Curlew did not need to see him. He would know that rumble anywhere. “Grandfather Sparrow.”

  Aye, lord, and honored as ever to walk at your side.

  “’Tis I who should feel honored, Grandfather, not you. For, there is scarcely a more ordinary man in all England than I.”

  Sparrow laughed, a deep chuckle that seemed to rustle the trees. Is that what you think? But are you not lord of all Sherwood?

  “Am I?” Curlew returned.

  ’Twas said of you, before your birth, that you would be the most important person ever born in Sherwood. Surely, by now, you know why.

  Curlew shrugged, still not entirely comfortable with that implication. “It was said. Yet, Grandfather, I have not yet lived up to that prediction.”

  Well, humility is a fine thing. Sparrow grinned to himself. And you were ever a humble man, my lord.

  “Why do you keep on calling me that?”

  You are about to take the place that was always meant to be yours, in service to Sherwood. Surely that warrants some respect. Or is it truly Sherwood that stands in service to you?

  What was the man on about? Curlew could but wonder. Man or spirit—for Curlew could not mistake this presence. Sparrow had been gone since before Curlew’s birth. Madness, all of it.

  Your grandmother and I have watched you all these years of your growing.

  Aye, and seen little enough to inspire them, Curlew would be bound. He had done his duty, tried to prove kind to others, and waited somehow for his life to begin. As it had now, with the arrival of Anwyn.

  This way. Sparrow turned him with a touch on the arm. The man felt real. Aye, and so, Heron said, had the Lady when he lay with her.

  Awe struck him suddenly at the depth of Sherwood’s magic. How he longed to lose himself in it.

  Not yet, Sparrow told him. There is work to be done. But aye, that reward awaits us always at the end.

  “And she? Anwyn? Does she wait also?”

  She has been waiting for you a terrible, long time. Women and men, my lord, make two halves of the whole, and no one likes living half a life. I go now to meet my wife even as you go to meet yours. And Heron, bless him, also has business to finish. She will choose him, this time.

  “She?”

  Diera. She made her decision last time, and chose the leader, the headman. This time, out of love and justice, she has chosen the priest.

  “I am not sure I understand.”

  Nay? Do you believe, my lord, in the eternal nature of life? That the essence of what we are—not the flesh but the spirit—cannot be destroyed?

  Curlew wished the man would stop calling him my lord, yet he returned patiently, “I must, since I have encountered countless spirits here in Sherwood, and since I find myself conversing now with you.”

  It is as my wife told you in the forest. It should not be impossible to believe that having put on one suit of clothes for a time a spirit may lay it aside and don another.

  “That is not impossible to believe,” Curlew could but agree.

  Sparrow told him comfortably, So Diera and Heron have donned new clothes to finish old business.

  “As have I,” Curlew said with both wonder and trepidation. He and Anwyn—whose clothing had they laid down? Dared he believe the truth that whispered ever more strongly to him?

  Even though he did not really speak to his grandfather, Sparrow answered. Have faith in the depth of the magic, my lord. It exists for you.

  Curlew stopped walking and directed a hard look at his companion. Sparrow seemed to waver through the rain, a product of mere belief. Conviction suddenly flooded Curlew; he dared not doubt.

  Your lady, my lord. Sparrow inclined his head. She is there, just ahead. Go to her.

  The rain stilled abruptly. With its passing went the man who had paced by Curlew’s side
. He stood filled with wonder for one breathless moment while the trees dropped their moisture all around him, like an echo of the rain.

  Believe.

  The very trees, the air of Sherwood seemed to breathe the word. It pounded up through him from the ground, wrapped him round, and tingled in his awareness.

  Ahead of him appeared a vision, aglow in the darkness. From head to toe she shed radiance toward which his heart leaped. He knew her, yet he did not.

  Ah, by all the holiness of Sherwood, he knew her.

  Her mind reached for him even before her feet carried her forward at a run. He moved toward her also, and years seemed to fly away with every step, so that time tumbled about them like the water dripping from the trees.

  Like tears.

  She thudded into his arms at last, the way an arrow finds its target. He took hold of her like memory, like relief, and his mind—or was it hers?—cried words of claiming.

  My love, at last, at last. I have waited so long. Let us never be parted again.

  Chapter Thirty

  “My love, why must you go from me?” Marian asked plaintively. She never felt at rest without Robin at her side and especially now, so near her time. She laid her hands on the great swell of her belly as if to caress the babe within. His child, lad or lass—blessed child. But she wanted him with her for this birth.

  She wanted him with her always.

  Robin turned his head and looked at her with a smile in his eyes. By the Lady’s light, but she lived for his smiles. They echoed through her being, and allowed her to breathe.

  But he straightened and slung his quiver over his shoulder, where he settled it with an unconscious, practiced movement. His brown hair slapped his back, and the morning light flowed over him like a benediction.

  “You know I must. We have but one chance to rescue those men before they are hauled away to Nottingham.” His expression clouded. “I would leave no one in the Sheriff’s hands.”

  “I do know that.” And he, along with his men, had made so many rescues in the past. “Yet, love, I feel a great uneasiness and dread.”

  He came to her where she stood in the May dawn—Beltane light, that should have brought nothing but joy. He smoothed his hands down her arms with infinite gentleness, and the love inside her stirred, almost like pain.

  “’Tis just that you are so near your time, Marian. It makes you anxious, but fear not—Lil will be here with you, and I will not be away long. I will be with you again this afternoon.”

  “See that you are. I am not prepared to birth this child alone.”

  “And I am not prepared to miss his or her arrival.” He leaned forward and kissed her; the sweetness of it poured through her like light, like need answered.

  She curled her fingers around his wrists and spoke into his mind, You carry me with you always.

  And he responded, as ever, Always, you carry my heart.

  ****

  “Geofrey! Lillith! Marian, come!”

  The cry pierced the quiet afternoon the way a hail of arrows pierced armor. All day long, ever since Robin’s departure, Marian had waited for it as she often waited for a storm to break over Sherwood, with an ache of distress. Now it came—the end of everything.

  Suddenly a party of men burst into the village, carrying another between them. A litany broke out in Marian’s mind.

  No, no, no, no, no, no—

  People streamed from everywhere, wailing and exclaiming. Lil was there, her black hair hanging loose down her back, and the headman, Geofrey, with his great air of calm authority.

  Marian stumbled to her feet and strove to see through all the backs in her way. She wanted to see. She did not want to see. She counted heads: Will Scarlet she saw—he turned and shot her a look, his face full of fear and agony. The front of his tunic matched his name. And John, the gentle giant, he cradled someone in his arms the way he might a child.

  No, no, no, no, no, no—

  She moved forward like someone caught in a dream, in a nightmare. They parted to let her through, and she floated up as if made of air.

  “He lives.” Who spoke the words? Lil, who knelt, her hands already stained red and trembling visibly. “But it is bad.”

  “Soldiers are after us.” The warning tore from Scarlet’s throat. “We cannot stay here.”

  “I do not think we dare move him.”

  “If we stay here—if they take him—he will die for sure.”

  The voices came and went in Marian’s ears, pounded like her pulse. She stared down at the man sprawled on the ground. His eyes were closed, his face still, his body awash with blood. But she could feel him, feel him still.

  Robin!

  I am sorry, my love. I did not know. Or he would never have left her. She could not bear for him to leave her.

  You must remain with me. Robin, come awake now!

  “—must go into Sherwood. The magic there may well save him.” Another voice—Alric, their holy man.

  Aye, Marian thought, finding hope for the first time. Sherwood would not let Robin go from her, not when he had given so much. Sherwood would hold him, protect him.

  “Aye, let us take him to Sherwood,” she declared.

  They gathered him up without further debate, the six of them together, his bearers crimson with his blood, and carried him to the magic. Marian walked holding his hand, so cold in hers, and the child inside her kicked wildly as if in protest.

  “How did this happen?” Geofrey asked as they went.

  “’Twas a trap,” Scarlet gasped. “The prisoners we sought were not even there. But the clearing was surrounded by soldiers. They aimed straight for him.”

  John rumbled, “Two of our men, Seth and Michael, gave their lives so we could get Robin away.”

  “How many wounds?” Marian told herself she did not hear despair in Lil’s voice.

  “Six.” John’s voice faltered. “I counted six.”

  No, no, no, no, no, no—

  “He is strong.” Alric. “And he belongs to Sherwood. He is Lord of Sherwood.”

  Sherwood gives. And Sherwood takes.

  “Put him down. Lay him down here. We are losing him.”

  Tenderly, Robin’s bearers stretched him on the ground. Marian sank with him, his hand still caught in hers. She could no longer see his clothing for the blood. It burgeoned up from him the way a spring might bring forth water.

  John’s big hands, already stained red, came out and touched Robin’s head.

  Robin opened his eyes, deep blue and glowing. Marian knew her world lay there, everything she wanted, everything she was. No hardship could be too great if it brought her to him. He could not leave her. She could not face such terror.

  Robin, I cannot live without you. Do not ask it of me. Anything but that.

  You must, love. You are strong.

  I am only strong because of you. Tears fell from her eyes, unstoppable. She could feel him still, feel his spirit, yet his hand grew ever colder in hers.

  I will always be here in Sherwood.

  “Too many wounds,” Lil murmured. “Too much blood.”

  Robin’s eyes fluttered closed.

  No! Marian screamed at him.

  The others worked over him desperately. Lil’s eyes met Marian’s for a terrible moment; the healer shook her head.

  Marian cried aloud, “Do not leave me, Robin—you cannot!”

  His eyes opened, their light not yet dimmed. Surely her love, great as it was, could hold him even from death.

  “Please.” Her hot tears fell down on him one by one like rain. “You must stay with me. You must stay for your child.”

  So beautiful, you are so beautiful. He spoke only into her mind, his lips waxen and still. I have loved you 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 all my strength. 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. Her pain rose up in a cry of maddened and uncomprehending protest.

  “But I need you, Robin. I need your warmth. I need your touch. I need your light!”

  You have them all.

  The words sounded, strong and bright, in Anwyn’s mind. She could feel Robin’s arms around her, holding her so tight against him. She could feel his spirit wrapped around her, real and vital. Her cheek pressed to his chest, and there she could hear his heart.

  His heart.

  He stood before her, he lived, he breathed. Again.

  Drops of water fell like tears from the trees that surrounded them. But there were no tears now, and no pain—only renewal, only relief, only promise.

  Sherwood took. But oh, Sherwood gave.

  They drew apart far enough to gaze into one another’s eyes. The face Anwyn saw was not Robin’s face but Curlew’s. She did not mind that, for the same beautiful light shone at her, the same great love.

  Joy flowed through her, touched every part of her, eased all the restlessness and answered all the pain.

  “’Tis you,” she breathed.

  “Aye. I told you I would not go far.”

  “It seemed an insurmountable distance. It seemed an age.” Regret arose, sudden and sickening. “But I failed you. I failed you and our daughter.”

  “Your love never failed.”

  He kissed her, and the last of the chains binding her heart fell away. She clung to him, knowing what she held in her hands—not just the man she loved, but a second chance. One thing is certain, she spoke into his mind, I will never fail you again.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  “No auburn hair,” Curlew said lazily. “I do confess I loved your auburn hair.”

  “Do you complain, my lord?” Anwyn rolled on top of him, flesh against naked flesh, and everything in him came alive with desire. He felt rather than saw her smile, and the teasing note in her voice speared right through him.

  “Do you hear any complaints?” he asked, and ran his fingers through her wheaten tresses, relishing the heady sense of possession.