Daughter of Sherwood

by Laura Strickland

  This one had no secrecy about him, and his aura preceded him the way a wind precedes a storm. Indeed, his impact reared Rennie back on her heels and made her stare.

  Broad in the shoulders and tall, he scorned the hood cast back from his face to reveal a straw-colored mane and a tracery of beard. Iron-blue eyes raked Rennie the way Lil sometimes raked the kitchen fire, and stirred her the way the embers always stirred in response to the raking. She sensed in this man great energy and an anger almost as intense as her own.

  “You have brought her!” he crowed. “It is well.”

  “It is anything but well, Martin. We need to speak.”

  “But this is the answer to prayers.”

  Did he pray? He did not look a man willing to rely on anyone but himself.

  “I have come to confer with you and Sparrow and Alric.”

  “Fine, then. Alric is here.”

  He stepped to Rennie’s side as they moved off once more, the younger man in the lead. His presence assaulted Rennie’s senses and contained a thread of what she always felt from Lambert. Lust? But why should this stranger desire her?

  “So, you are Wren.”

  She glared at him. “I know not who I am.” All too true, at the moment. “Leave me be.”

  To her astonishment, he grinned. It changed him as had the smile Sparrow gave her in the kitchen, but in a far different way. Rennie felt something flare, within.

  “No meek miss, this,” he murmured, but he did not move from her side.

  Rennie’s nose caught the faint scent of wood smoke before they reached the camp. A small fire breathed a trickle of gray into the leaf-green enclosure, and a quick eye might catch signs of habitation—a wooden cup here, a pack tossed there, an ashwood bow leaned against a tree. Rennie’s group halted and people began to appear as if by magic. One of them, a very old man with white hair, came forward leaning on a staff and clasped Lil’s hand.

  “How are you, Lillith? It has been far too long.”

  She leaned forward and embraced him. For an instant, light seemed to shimmer around their joined forms. Overhead, the leaves whispered.

  Martin stepped forward from Rennie’s side. “Alric, it is Wren—she is come!”

  Alric released Lil and enfolded Rennie with his gaze. She had never seen the like of his eyes, serene as a bottomless pool and warm as pease pudding. A sense of peace poured off him, underlain by a current of worry. “Wren, my child.” He reached for her hands. “Long have I imagined seeing you again.”

  “You have seen me before?”

  “Aye, soon after you were born—here, in Sherwood.” He shot Lil a look. “You have told her?”

  Lil nodded. “Events have moved beyond us, and made it necessary.”

  Alric nodded also and gazed again into Rennie’s eyes, so deep she felt he might see her soul. Rennie flinched, for she knew her soul contained dire imperfections.

  “Ah, well,” he said. “Let us sit and decide what is to be done.”

  ****

  The man called Martin stuck to Rennie’s side the way treacle pudding sticks to the bottom of a pot, and Rennie continued to feel the eagerness flowing off him—eagerness and confidence. Martin did not lack for confidence! So strong was his aura Rennie scarcely noticed Sparrow had also joined them until she caught sight of him sitting on the far side of the fire.

  Other folk came and went, moving about like spirits. Curious faces swam just beyond the reach of Rennie’s acuity—men mostly, and young rather than old, and one woman with a kind expression. Mostly Rennie was taken with those who made up their circle—Lil and Alric who sat side by side, the lad who had brought them in, Sparrow, Martin, and Rennie herself.

  Rennie’s senses, overwhelmed, struggled to keep up. The place itself sang to her; her heart beat fast, and the emotions coming off everyone pulled at her.

  In a soft voice, Lil informed them what had happened at Nottingham Castle, which prompted still more emotions. Anger flared in Martin, along with fierce protectiveness. Alric felt mild distress. Sparrow had his emotions wrapped tight, but he watched Rennie steadily with those eyes so dark and wild.

  “So,” Lil concluded, “she will need take refuge here, else her life will not be worth the crook of Lambert’s finger.”

  “Just as well,” Martin voiced before Alric could speak. “She needs to be here with us anyway, given what’s passed.”

  “’Tis terrible sudden,” Lil objected. “I would have had her better prepared.”

  “Why not ask the woman herself what she thinks?” Sparrow suggested.

  Everyone looked at Rennie. She shrugged uncomfortably and lifted her hands. “I scarcely know. All this—it is far too fanciful. Lil would have me believe my father—” She could not speak the words.

  Alric’s expression softened. “I assure you, lass, all Lil has told you is true. Your mother was great with child when your father died. She near went mad with the loss of him. We feared for her mind. ’Twas a difficult time for all. You see, when your father lay sore wounded, we realized we could not let the outside world learn of his death. His presence in Sherwood meant too much to those of our world, lit their hope and salved their hearts. So long as Robin lived, their will to fight their oppressors lived also.”

  Lil took up the tale. “After Robin’s death, we put out word that he had recovered, and those close to him took up the fight—Sparrow’s father, John Little, Martin’s father, Will Scarlet, the bard Adale, the rogue friar Tuck—all those who came to Sherwood with missing limbs or stripes on their backs, who had fled Norman tyranny. The three of us—Alric, Geofrey of Oakham, and myself—wove a threefold spell to keep Sherwood protected and preserve your father’s magic.”

  “Magic?” Rennie could not help but repeat the word.

  “Oh, aye, he had magic,” Alric said softly. “How could a mere serf’s son accomplish all he did, without? Some say his forefathers carried the blood of the Green Man himself, that one of the maids of Loxley, from whence he hailed, had once lain with the horned god. Who knows if ’tis true?”

  Rennie’s head spun in slow, sickening circles. “So you pretended he had not died, but he had?”

  “Aye,” Lil assented, “and your mother’s will to live was buried with him. When you were born, I had to beg her to nurse you. After three days, she refused. I had no choice but to take you myself. I found a wet nurse at the castle.”

  Lil smiled ruefully. “Rumors swept the district that Marian had borne a child and so Robin had a son. We let them fly as they might.”

  “Why a son?” Rennie asked.

  Sparrow spoke. “It makes a better tale than a daughter.”

  “Eh?” Rennie questioned.

  “Those who followed Robin did so with their hearts. What better than him having a son to walk in his footsteps?”

  “It suited my purpose,” Lil said, “when I ‘found’ a girl babe in an abandoned dwelling. I meant to keep you with me at Nottingham only until I could secure a better place for you. Then I thought what cleverer hiding place than right under the Sheriff’s nose? He and Sir Guy did search for you, you know. No one suspected the sickly scrap of life in my kitchen was the treasure they sought.”

  “Scrap?”

  “You were a pallid, squalling thing and near did not survive.”

  “But,” Alric said softly, “you were too important to die.”

  “So we kept the legend alive, and you hidden, all these years, the three of us,” Lil concluded.

  A brief silence fell while the fire seethed heat and the trees swayed overhead, like breath.

  “Now you will have to stay,” Martin said then, “and take your place with us.”

  Rennie turned to stare into his gray-blue eyes. “And if I choose not to?”

  It was Sparrow who answered. “I am afraid, Wren, you have no such choice.”

  Chapter Five

  “She will choose me, you know.” Martin dropped the words into Sparrow’s ear in passing and accompanied them with a taunting grin
. “Just see if she does not.”

  A familiar feeling of mingled frustration and irritated impatience flared in Sparrow’s heart. Martin never could resist sinking a barb into his flesh. The gloom of the evening now gathered over the forest. Wren’s first day in Sherwood was nearly done. And Sparrow felt no nearer to her than he had in Nottingham’s kitchen.

  He stole another look at her now, even though it seemed to be all he had done that day. As out of place as she should have looked, with her shabby apron and pallid skin, she did not. She carried a kind of wildness that suited the place. Her brown hair, far darker than his own, hung down her back in a tangle, and her eyes were everywhere; they carried an uncanny light.

  He shrugged for Martin’s benefit, feigning indifference. “We shall see.”

  “Aye, that we shall, for she needs must choose one of us. Just as Lil chose Geofrey.”

  “Perhaps not.”

  “Do not be a fool! Once she chooses me, I will lead just as Geofrey did. I am tired of talk and contemplation. We have become like an arrow with no head. I will change all that.”

  “Are you saying Geofrey did not lead us well, and him not yet in his grave?”

  “I do not say that.”

  “Good, because I will not hear you speak a word against him. He kept us strong all these years, since the death of your father, and mine. He kept the legend of Robin alive.”

  “As we continue to keep it alive now. It was not Geofrey stopping lords and barons on the roadways, nor helping folk pay their taxes.” Before Sparrow could speak, Martin held up a hand. “Peace! I pay Geofrey the respect he is due. I say only, the next headman of Oakham better have some fire about him.”

  “And you think that will be you?”

  Martin raked Sparrow with a barbed glare. “You will surely make a better hermit, following in Alric’s footsteps, than I.”

  “Damned if I will!” Sparrow muttered, even as Martin walked away. Martin was an arrogant braggart, just like his father before him. Sparrow well remembered Will Scarlet—sharp and dangerous as a honed sword, grizzled and soured by the time he died. Sparrow still recalled how Scarlet had railed over falling victim to a winter ague—no warrior’s death, that. Martin and Sparrow had both been about fifteen, and Scarlet had taken Martin’s face between his hands like that of a child and shouted, “Be fierce! Be all I was, and more. Give those Norman bastards hell!”

  Sparrow’s own father, John Little, had perished by then, dead of an infected sword wound. Men did not live long in Sherwood. Sparrow barely remembered his own mother, a lass from the hamlet of Great Barrow, who had coupled with John Little and lived with him until Sparrow was six or seven. But Martin’s mother, Madlyn, lived here in Sherwood yet, a surprisingly gentle influence who more or less, like Lil, played mother to them all.

  At the thought of Lil, Sparrow looked for her. She stood taking her leave from Wren before returning to Nottingham. He wondered how badly she grieved for Geofrey; she displayed no outward signs of it, had not lived with him as a wife nor even seen him very often. Yet, according to all Sparrow had ever been told, they had been closely bonded.

  Three held the spell—two bonded to each other, the third to the spirit of the greenwood. That kept Sherwood safe and enfolded in magic.

  Aye, and Martin had already spoken for his place in that triad. He always went at everything with his sword flashing. Sparrow smiled quietly; it was he, though, whose arrow always found its mark.

  Moving softly, he joined the two women. “Mother, can I see you home?” he asked Lil.

  “No, lad. Alric means to accompany me. We have things to discuss. You make my girl feel welcome.” She stroked Wren’s hair. “I fear she will find her first night in Sherwood strange.”

  Wren shivered. Her eyes were large in her face, and her hands clung to Lil’s.

  “Let me come with you,” she begged.

  “Nay, child. You have burnt that bridge. Anyway, this day had to come. I only regret I could not have told you more gently.”

  Wren cast a look into the darkening forest. “I cannot imagine sleeping here. Everything is alive and moving, and there are so many sensations.”

  “I will look after you.” The voice came from Sparrow’s shoulder as Martin stepped to Wren’s side. “You need not fear.”

  She glared at him, her eyes those of a trapped fox, wary and golden. “I fear nothing,” she declared, and Sparrow knew she lied.

  He felt Martin’s surge of emotion as he responded to her courageous defiance. Martin was in danger of overstepping himself; this woman would not appreciate bullying or blatant persuasion. Martin, though, had great confidence in his charm, which had seduced many a lass in Oakham and beyond. Did not poor, bonny Sally virtually haunt their camp for the love of him?

  “I will come back soon,” Lil promised Wren. “Meanwhile, Rennie, do not return to Nottingham for any reason. Understand?”

  Wren frowned. “Not until the furor over Lambert dies down, you mean? Then I will be able to come home?”

  “This is your home now,” Lil caressed the girl’s cheek. “Best grow accustomed to it.”

  “Lil—”

  “Hush, Rennie. Look after her, lads—both of you.” Lil walked away quickly and did not look back. She joined Alric at the edge of the clearing, where they linked hands before disappearing into the trees.

  “Here,” Martin said to Wren, “will you have some supper?”

  “I wish I could say no, but I am ravenous. I do not know why.”

  “Come, then.” Martin offered her his arm, but she put both hands behind her back and shied from him. Summoning manners from some unknown source, Martin bowed slightly and led her away to the fire.

  So it begins, Sparrow thought. He refused to fight over the lass like a hart contesting another for a hind. Wren was much more—a woman of spirit, with her own mind and her own lessons to learn. He smiled to himself again. Let Martin toss himself for a while against the stone wall of her resistance. When he grew spent, he, Sparrow, would still be here.

  ****

  “You watch her the way a priest watches the holy Lady, but you do not approach, Sparrow. Will you let my son do all the courting?”

  Madlyn spoke softly as she bent to fill Sparrow’s cup with ale. Night lay like a soft shawl over Sherwood, and Sparrow waited for his turn at watch. Across the clearing, Martin and Wren sat with their heads together, even though Wren should have been abed long since.

  Sparrow looked up into Madlyn’s face. Her hair, as fair as her son’s, was covered by a rough wimple, and her face looked serene. A hint of a smile pulled at her lips.

  “’Tis no mere matter of courting,” he replied.

  “Is it not? Martin seems to feel otherwise.”

  “This is far more important than any needs of the heart. And she, I am thinking, will not be easy to win.”

  “You are right. I myself tried to speak with her, words of comfort and reassurance, but she held me off most fiercely.” Madlyn sighed. “Well, my Martin ever did love a challenge.”

  “She must make the choice freely, if one is to be made. Do you remember how it was between Lil, Geofrey, and Alric?”

  “Oh, aye.” Madlyn eased herself down at Sparrow’s side. “Lil was a healer then. She had not yet taken her place in the castle kitchen. We all thought she would choose Alric. In the end, she surprised everyone.”

  “Geofrey was a good man.”

  “There was justice in him. All his strength was wrapped up in doing what was right, no matter the cost.” Again Madlyn glanced at the couple beside the fire. “My Martin is not like that. He carries his father’s rage, I am not sure why. I think this Wren harbors anger also. I do not know how they would suit.”

  Sparrow’s heart clenched at the thought, but he said, “She has barely arrived. Let her find her feet. Most women I have known have no trouble making up their own minds.”

  Madlyn smiled. “True. Yet you know how persuasive Martin can be.” For an instant, she frowned. “Sa
lly will not be happy with all this, I am thinking.”

  “And does Martin care for Sally’s happiness?” It did not seem so. Martin dallied with Sal because she was available and willing. Aye, this would set the poor lass on her heels.

  “I think he does, in his way. Ah—” Madlyn nudged Sparrow as Martin got to his feet. “Here is your chance.”

  “What makes you think I desire a chance?”

  Madlyn gazed into Sparrow’s eyes. “Get you over there, lad. You have not been able to fool me since you were six years old.”

  Chapter Six

  “You must be weary. Will you not take your rest?”

  Rennie tipped her head up and up to take in the man standing over her, the one called Sparrow. Her emotions stirred within, making her feel restless. Already she felt bruised and bombarded, barely able to think. Too many sensations assaulted her. She was tense enough to break.

  Yet Sparrow had a kind face, and she could feel waves of reassurance rolling off him, the opposite of the man who had just left her—Martin.

  “I shall not be able to sleep,” she told Sparrow, and waved her hand. “Not with all this.”

  “It must seem strange, indeed.”

  “I am used to being in my scullery, alone. I do not know when I have talked with so many different people.”

  “And some of us no doubt seem daunting.” He smiled, and Rennie felt the warmth of it, clear through.

  “If you refer to Martin, he is like a flock of crows, pecking. He shreds my composure.” She frowned. “He should have been called ‘Crow’ instead of ‘Martin.’” She shot Sparrow a considering look. “Perhaps you can tell me something: why are we three named after birds?”

  “Mind if I sit?”

  She shook her head. Sparrow folded his legs under him and dropped down by her side. Rennie had the immediate and powerful impulse to reach out and touch his hand but fought it back hastily. Sitting so near, she could catch his scent—wood smoke, leather, and a tang of male underlying it all. He wore his hood back on his shoulders, and she could see his hair, long, glossy brown, not so shaggy as Martin’s. He wore no beard.