Lord of Sherwood

by Laura Strickland

  Earned it, aye. Suddenly, despite his pain, Curlew wanted to shout with joy. He had not earned this prize alone—rather had it been won through the sacrifice of many, through loss and blood and agony.

  Sherwood gives, he whispered to all of them, and Sherwood does not always take.

  “Master Champion?” de Asselacton stood suddenly before him, acceptance in his face. “I hear your father hailed from the north—Leeds, is it?—of a good Norman family.”

  “Aye, my lord, so he did.”

  “He would be proud of you, I do not doubt. That was some of the finest marksmanship I have ever seen. I trust you will prove just as skilled and steadfast a steward to Sherwood, look after our interests there, and see to the welfare of all.”

  Curlew felt the weight that had rested always on his back lighten until it made no burden at all. “Upon that, my lord, you can rely.”

  ****

  “’Twill be a sacrifice, you know,” Anwyn murmured. “We will no longer be able to live in Sherwood. Da says we are to have a house of our own near Oakham, just as soon as it may be built.”

  “I deem that no sacrifice,” Curlew replied.

  They found themselves alone at last at the end of this day that had brought him so much, and outside the walls of Nottingham. There they had paused at Anwyn’s insistence so she might change his bandaging before heading back to the forest. Only a few more nights would be spent there, yet he felt no lack, for Sherwood dwelt always inside him.

  Anwyn refastened his tunic and looked into his face. He got to his feet, and her hands slid tenderly up his chest to lodge in his hair. “It is as I feared, my husband; you have injured yourself much.”

  “And gained much. Sherwood now rests in my hands—something of which my grandmother Wren, those who fought at her side, and all those since could but dream.”

  Gladness flared in Anwyn’s eyes. “’Twas a shot in a thousand—nay, in ten thousand, my lord. And I felt the magic of it. You were not alone.”

  He shook his head. “I flew in that arrow and all of them with me.”

  “Do you think you will heal quickly enough to take up this wondrous position?”

  He smiled gently. She had nearly wept when she saw the mess beneath his tunic. “’Tis naught Sherwood cannot heal.”

  “Then, my lord, are you able to kiss me?”

  “My lady, I am.”

  He bent his head and her sweetness rushed at him like magic, like light, curled through him and flowed in a stream of warmth to his ravaged flesh. Ah, and it would not take Sherwood, for her love made him whole.

  He drank from her until the breath came more easily in his lungs, until the pain faded and joy filled him, making him heady with it. Only then did she release his lips and give him her matchless smile.

  “It is well, my lord. I need you whole and hale, not only as steward of Sherwood, but for the coming of our child.”

  “Child?” Sudden gladness arose and shouted inside him, along with a sense of rightness, strong and deep. Another chance this was, another turn of the wheel, and an arrow shot into the future.

  He cradled her between his hands, the most precious light of his world. “There is no mistake? You are certain?”

  “Oh, aye, I am very certain.” His Marianwyn tossed her head. “Just as I am sure to my heart this child will be a girl—another blessed daughter of Sherwood.”

  A word about the author...

  Born and raised in western New York, Laura Strickland has been an avid reader and writer since childhood. Embracing her mother's heritage, she has pursued a lifelong interest in Celtic lore, legend, and music, all reflected in her writing.

  She has made pilgrimages to both Newfoundland and Scotland in the company of her daughter, but is usually happiest at home, not far from Lake Ontario, with her husband and her "fur" child, a rescue dog. She practices gratitude every day.

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  this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.