Lord of Sherwood

by Laura Strickland

  Curlew glanced into Anwyn’s face before he said, “Aye, sir, so it must be. But I am not sure I follow your thoughts.”

  “I wondered, only, if you and I might strike an agreement to benefit all.” Now Mason Montfort drew a breath. “Lord Simon and I have determined there is need of a steward for Sherwood. I swore I would give that place to the man who wed my daughter. You, it seems, are he.”

  For an instant everything stilled, as if even the forest itself awaited Curlew’s reply. The leaves overhead ceased to rustle; folks’ voices died away, and the flames of their fire flickered low. Anwyn once more felt the wheel of life pause on its great axis before it began to turn again.

  “You would grant this place to me?”

  “I would, but do not misunderstand: I have not full authority to do so. With Havers dead and so many others with him, there are many places to fill. Lord Simon will take the opportunity to bring in those to whom he owes favors, and many will be Norman. If you want this place, you will have to earn it.”

  “How?”

  “The most reasonable means would be in competition at the butts. If I propose it, I do not believe Lord Simon will refuse. Can you shoot a bow?”

  Curlew began to laugh softly, in wonder. His grip on Anwyn’s fingers tightened, and the light inside him intensified. “I can. Indeed, Master Montfort, ’tis the one thing I have ever been able to do well.”

  “I warn you, ’twill not be easy. If Lord Simon brings in his favorites, they will be eager for the place, and some of the Norman bowmen are very good indeed.”

  “He is better,” Anwyn said.

  “You have great faith in the man you have chosen, Daughter.”

  “I have.” Carefully, she asked, “And you will give him leave to compete for this place?” The one for which his heart had reached always, through not one but two lifetimes, and that would at last afford his people a measure of autonomy. “Despite all that has passed between us?”

  Her father smiled at her, a real smile this time. “Because of it, Anwyn. You will always be my daughter. But you, lad, can you give up your role of outlaw to deal with Lord Simon and, perhaps, a whole pack of Normans? Can you take on a new identity? For Lord Simon had better not discover who you are. We shall need to say you are newly arrived, perhaps from the north.”

  “My father came from Leeds, and his sire was Norman.”

  “Is it so? A useful thing! We shall say, then, you hail from Leeds. If you are willing, that is, to give up all you are.”

  Curlew smiled wryly and lifted his hands. “And what am I, Master Montfort? Is it not possible to lay aside appearance as easily as a suit of flesh, one life for another? The spirit endures. And I would do far more, for Sherwood.” His voice assumed weight, and portent. “For I believe it is time. Look around you, Master. What do you see? Serfs? Saxons? Very few of us can claim that name anymore. We are Saxon, aye, but we also carry Celtic, Briton, and even Norman blood. I think, do you not, ’tis time for us to be one thing—English.”

  Anwyn’s heart rose in gladness, as her father reached out and seized Curlew’s hand. The power that hummed between them stirred and reached out also, to embrace them all.

  “A worthy goal,” said Mason Montfort. “Aye, then, let us begin.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  “It is far too soon,” Anwyn fretted. “Your wound has barely closed over. You remember how long it took Heron to heal—how will you ever draw a bow in competition?”

  Curlew smiled into her eyes. He could see all she felt there—concern, ownership, and passion. “Do not fear, love. Sherwood sends me to this. I was born for it; those who came before us have battled and bled for it.” A measure of authority, a chance to speak fairly for all he loved. “I cannot fail.”

  She bit her lip and somehow kept from saying what she feared, but he knew. He heard her thoughts so clearly now, both hers and Heron’s, when he chose. She knew he should not even be up on his feet after three short days, and she was right—the deep wound so near his heart, mended by magic, might not endure the strain.

  But she had returned with word from Nottingham last night, having gone thence with her father in order to convince Simon de Asselacton to call off his search for them and to allay any suspicions he might hold. The competition for the position of steward would take place this very day. If he failed to participate, he lost all hope of winning the appointment. And so he would not count the cost.

  Aye, and he had already won one prize, that of Anwyn returned to him. Their separation had been a fierce drain on his spirit, a thing she no doubt sensed as well. Could he hide from her his weakness?

  “I still cannot believe Lord Simon has gathered his champions so quickly,” she fretted on. “I confess, I hoped for more time—weeks rather than days. What are the odds of a famed Norman archer being so near, in Grimsby? It seems events still conspire against us.”

  Curlew reached out and drew her into his arms. Not without mischief, he asked, “And, Lady, did I lack for strength last night, when you required it?” He could still taste her on his lips, and fairly vibrated with the bliss of completeness. “You give me everything I need.”

  She stared into his eyes, mutinous. She wanted so badly to bar him from this, and knew she could not.

  He ducked his head and reached for her lips, a potent temptation. Kiss me once for luck, he spoke into her mind, twice for strength, and thrice just because you love me.

  Gladly she gave the required kisses, but told him, I only wish I could do this for you. Da says Lord Simon has conjured not just the one, but five competitors—all Norman. You will need to draw that bow many times before it is done.

  He stepped away from her, just far enough to settle his quiver across his back. She adjusted the strap over again, easing it against the bandages beneath his tunic, and with reluctance handed him his bow.

  Believe in me, he beseeched. Can you not believe?

  That calmed her fears just a bit. I have never stopped believing.

  Heron stepped up, with Diera as ever at his side. “So, Cousin, you go to do this thing so many years in the making. Curlew Champion, son of a northern Norman squire, is it?”

  Curlew smiled. “True enough, the tale. My father was squire before he was knight.”

  “I need not tell you my hope goes with you. All Sherwood goes with you.”

  “I have just been busy assuring Anwyn I was born for this.”

  “So you were.” Heron smiled, but Curlew could see the concern in Diera’s eyes. She had scrutinized his wound when she changed the dressing this morning. And Heron, as well as Anwyn, must be able to feel the pain that still dogged him.

  No matter: if he were, indeed, the most important person ever born in Sherwood, then surely this must be the most important day of his life.

  ****

  It looked like a fair day at Nottingham. Pennants flew in the autumn breeze, and a pavilion had been set up for the comfort of those privileged observers that included Lord Simon and several of his knights. Less exalted folk, many from Sherwood, milled about. Curlew knew Anwyn numbered one among them, for he could feel if not see her. Presenting himself at the field where the butts had been set, he struggled to ignore the many distractions and measure his competition.

  No trouble identifying them. They stood already out where the targets were set in a row, some conversing and some fiddling with their bows, all Norman. Most, he imagined, would be well known to Lord Simon, and some favorites brought in with haste, even as Mason Montfort had previously been brought.

  Aye, and he saw then just how clever Anwyn’s father had been, granting him an identity virtually unknown and unquestionably Norman. And had not Sherwood assured he did carry a measure of Norman blood?

  As if conjured, he saw Montfort approach across the green sward.

  “Good day to you, Master Champion. I am that glad you have come.” Without giving Curlew time to reply, he lowered his voice. “Are you fit? I did not mean for this to take place so soon, but after l
osing most of his foresters as well as a slew of soldiers, Lord Simon has a fire under him. What of your wound? I have been worrying over it.”

  “You and Anwyn, both. She is here somewhere, and fretting enough for all of us.”

  Montfort nodded and turned to survey the gathered archers. “’Twill not be easy, lad. They are all very good. The man with the yellow hair and the greedy eyes is Lord Simon’s cousin, Le Blanc, in England on a visit from Normandy. The fellow beside him is head forester at Telligate. I have seen them all shoot. If they measure up to their abilities, you will need to prove faultless.”

  Curlew nodded. He doubted not his aim; if anything proved wanting, it would be his strength.

  “Then come along.”

  Curlew followed Montfort across the damp green grass, his hide boots seeming to float somewhere above it. They paused directly in front of the pavilion, and Montfort called, “My lord, the last of our competitors has arrived. This is Master Champion of Leeds.”

  “Ah, the man of whom you spoke.” Lord Simon’s dark eyes appraised Curlew closely. “You shoot with a longbow, my good man?”

  “Aye, my lord,” said Curlew in a clear voice. “My father’s bowmaster was Saxon.”

  “Interesting. Then let us begin.”

  The other competitors eyed Curlew also as he moved to his place at the end of the line. The men took up their bows and composed themselves; he slid his off his shoulder and shook the hair back from his face, assessing the targets and the light as he did so: sun nearly at its height but situated enough to the south at this season to cause some glare. The distance would, aye, be challenging, but nothing he could not manage.

  His bow, the best Sherwood had to offer, was cut from yew grown at the heart of the forest, with its living essence in the wood. Polished by the touch of his hands, it now came to him easily, without conscious thought, a part of him. But he knew it had a mighty draw, suited for shooting great distances from under cover, ordinarily no trouble for him.

  Lord Simon rose to his feet and spoke. “This is a competition for the place of Steward of Sherwood Forest. The man who wins it will assume great responsibility. He will manage the resources therein, interact with the folk who dwell nearest that great expanse, and act as liaison between them and Master Montfort, here, and thus me.”

  About fricking time, said a voice beside Curlew. He turned his head and saw a man standing there, one with a mane of fair hair, bright blue eyes, and a deeply scarred face. Martin Scarlet. I have waited long for some measure of authority in Sherwood. My lord, do not miss your mark.

  Have I ever? Curlew returned.

  Martin turned those dangerous eyes on him. Nay, but you and I know just how deep that wound of yours goes.

  Aye, Curlew agreed, and we both know also how to endure pain.

  Martin grinned at him with warlike assent.

  Steady on, my lord, said another voice, this one at Curlew’s other elbow, and deeper. The man there wore a sheepskin cloak and had eyes as dark as Sherwood’s mysterious heart—Sparrow Little. He offered the great bow in his hands. Would you not rather shoot with this?

  Curlew shook his head. I could not hope to draw that, he told Sparrow.

  You do not need to, said his grandmother—his daughter—Wren, at his back. You need only be who and what you are. A shower of gold magic erupted all around them. The Lord of Sherwood.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  “Competition will continue among these candidates for the place of steward,” Mason Montfort intoned, “until all but one has been eliminated. Begin!”

  Curlew drew a hard breath. Last to join the line, he would also be last to shoot, a difficult enough position. He knew himself surrounded by a trio of past guardians, and he could feel Anwyn’s presence somewhere in the crowd, along with others from Sherwood who stood out in his consciousness like shards of light. And he could feel power simmering, balanced among Wren, Sparrow, and Martin.

  The rest, he knew, teetered not on his skill but, as Martin said, on his endurance.

  He looked at the targets—six of them—each with five concentric rings and a center of black, small yet relatively easy to hit at this distance. But the distance, he well knew, would increase with every round and extend clear across the sward.

  “Each competitor,” Montfort concluded, “must hit in the black, or he is eliminated.”

  Martin snorted rudely. They call that a competition?

  Hush, Wren scolded. They begin.

  So they did. Montfort nodded to the man from Normandy, first in line. “Monsieur Le Blanc.”

  Le Blanc raised his bow and sighted in one elegant movement. He shot quickly, and his arrow clove the black at the center of the target.

  Amid applause, the next man, called Doucette, followed. A breeze came up as he released his shot; his arrow landed barely within the black, but was allowed.

  Nerves, that, Sparrow muttered.

  The next three, Masters Etienne, de Langarde, and de Rouen, followed suit. Curlew raised his yew bow and sighted.

  Curlew—Curl-yew, his mother’s voice, full of love, tumbled into his ear. You are in that bow, lad, as you are in everything.

  He drew and pain—far worse than he expected—blossomed in his chest and bit hard. Had his wound torn open? Surely not so soon.

  But his arrow found its mark true. Hastily, the targets were moved back some fifty paces. Still an easy shot for him.

  The second round passed without any elimination, and the targets hurtled back again. Curlew, fearing his wound had indeed opened, thought only of keeping it from distracting him. Two of the competitors were very highly skilled—the fellow from Normandy and the man beside Curlew, called de Rouen. He, the eldest among them, had a hard eye and wore a cruel sneer.

  No fit master for Sherwood, as Sparrow opined.

  There is but one master for Sherwood, Wren pronounced. We have all worked tirelessly for this moment. My lord Curlew, shoot!

  Shoot he did, when his turn came—aim still true, but now he could feel blood well up against his bandages and begin to trickle down his chest. No matter: Doucette, the man prey to his nerves, was eliminated.

  One down.

  Pain speared deeper when he drew and released his next shot. His arrow hit, but barely within the mark; Montfort gave him a concerned look and de Rouen, beside him, made a rude sound.

  Curlew barely noticed. The pain now possessed his chest and reached for his lung; he could hear the wheeze in his own breath. Pray no one else could.

  When he shot next, his fifth round, the pain nearly blinded him. But his arrow still found its mark, which was more than could be said for Etienne’s.

  Two down.

  The targets were now distant, indeed. The wind, cold as the kiss of winter, gusted over the field and snapped the pennants on the pavilion. Curlew’s eyes could no longer perceive the black at the center of his target. He would need to rely on another ability and sense for it.

  Anwyn’s voice bloomed in his mind. How bad is it, love? I feel your pain.

  Peace, he told her even as his strength wavered.

  Lean on me, take my strength, she bade. From nowhere, a rush of warmth came to buoy him up. He steadied where he stood.

  “Shoot!” Montfort cried.

  The Norman, curse him, made his mark. De Langarde’s shot was spoiled as a barely-visible blur of magic shook his arm.

  Three down.

  Curlew could now feel blood soaking the sark beneath his leather tunic. The breath rasped in his lungs and de Rouen, only an arm’s reach away, looked at him askance. “This becomes perhaps too difficult for you, Master Longbow?”

  Curlew shook his head and drew still more heavily on Anwyn’s strength. Where was she? Truly, it did not matter, for she was always inside him.

  As was Sherwood.

  De Rouen missed his next shot. He protested it even while Curlew stood swaying slightly on his feet. De Rouen, Montfort, and the men toting the butts all inspected the target before the man agreed
to retire.

  Four down, and the targets—only two of them now—moved back again and blurred before Curlew’s eyes.

  It is about faith, Martin Scarlet said. You do not need to see the target.

  Aye, for he must become the arrow even as he was the yew tree, and the fire in the heart of the stag who fell, and the water that beat in the blood, the breeze that caressed all, and the mighty, enduring rock of this place called England. He was the arrow, the bow, and the target as well.

  Le Blanc, his only remaining competitor, shot at a target now so distant no one save the men who toted the butts could see the mark. They hollered—the arrow had hit.

  Curlew raised his bow, blind now to everything save the pain. The bright, cold afternoon wavered around him and a mist floated before his eyes. Anwyn’s strength, inside him, pounded like his heartbeat and magic whispered, it whispered—

  Green leaves, golden light, the presence of the god and men who worshipped, all one.

  He released his shot in a shower of pure magic. It glowed around him, obscuring everything else, even the pain, and he flew. He was the arrow, and the wind rushed past him, ruffled his fletchings even as certainty burned in his heart like the light of Sherwood that could never die.

  And reaching the target he became that also, and thudded into its heart.

  The circle that was the wheel of existence shuddered on its axis, flamed with brightness, and turned ever more swiftly. Curlew found himself back on his feet with the two men from the butts running toward him, and Anwyn at his side. How did she come to be at his side? Aye, but so she had always been.

  And Montfort, also there, shook his hand.

  “Have I won? Did Le Blanc not make his mark?” he asked Anwyn’s father.

  Satisfaction filled Montfort’s eyes. “He touched the black, but your arrow is dead center. They are displaying the targets now. Congratulations, Master Champion, you have earned your place.”