Daughter of Sherwood

by Laura Strickland

  “Then I shall stop them myself.” Rennie started forward, but Madlyn caught her arm.

  “Nay, let them work it out. This has been days coming. I am only surprised it took so long.”

  But Rennie could not stand and watch blow after blow given and received, much less endure the onslaught of anger and ugliness she could feel flying off the pair. She turned and fled.

  The two men came off the ground as if hauled by ropes.

  “Wren!” Sparrow hollered, and started after her. Martin pushed him aside, and it was he who caught Rennie before she had taken ten steps into the shadowed forest.

  “Little fool!” As soon as he touched her, she felt his anger and raw panic. They broke over her like a sea.

  She turned on him. “Get away from me.”

  “What?”

  “Leave me alone. It is too much. Can you not see that?”

  He stared at her. Blood trickled from one corner of his mouth, and already one eye had begun to swell. “I only wish to protect you.”

  “Oh, and is this truly about what you want? What he wants? What I want, for all that?” Rennie sensed that the vortex in which she found herself might be bigger than any mere desire or intention. Her eyes stabbed the dark behind Martin; Sparrow did not appear.

  Why did he not come?

  “Listen to me, Wren. You and I together could make a difference for the folk of Sherwood, of Nottingham, and beyond. ’Tis time we threw off the yoke laid on us by our Norman overlords. We have been stagnant and compliant far too long, ever since your father’s dream fractured with his death. But I can feel what is inside you—the fire and the magic. We can turn the tide.”

  “And, what?” Rennie challenged. “Overthrow Lambert? The Sheriff? The King?”

  “Why not?” His voice flicked like a whip. “Do we not have right on our side? Your father believed in the power of right. My father taught me so! He told me justice is won a battle at a time—one man at a time.”

  “Very admirable. But as one raised in the scullery on the Sheriff’s crumbs and leavings, I can tell you there is much injustice, and great distance between us and the King.”

  “You think I do not know it?” He leaned toward her and widened his eyes. “There is a long score to settle. You and I together, though—” His fingers tightened on her arm. “Can you not feel what lies between us?”

  Rennie could. She also knew the potential of what lay between her and Sparrow. She stole another look past Martin’s shoulder.

  Martin stepped closer. “Stop looking for him—he is not coming. Do you know why? He is weak. He speaks of peace and compromise, the promise in this document the barons forced King John to sign.”

  “The Magna Carta?”

  “That is it. But I will tell you something, Wren. That grand document assures the rights of those very barons and lords, most of them Norman. It does nothing for the likes of you and me, serfs with no more liberty than a hound. They will live, still, off the efforts of our hands and the strain of our backs, if we let them. They must be made to reckon with us.”

  Rennie challenged him back. “How?”

  “Wage war on them from Sherwood. Since your father—and mine—died, we have done no more than exist and protect ourselves. That must change. Let the King himself come here and deal with us, and our success will spread. There are more serfs in this land than lords—let us all rise at once!”

  “You are mad.”

  “Am I? All it will take is the right leaders. Once I declare myself Lord of Sherwood and you my lady—”

  He bent his head and kissed her. All his fire and enthusiasm flooded into her from the place his lips met hers.

  Rennie promptly caught light in response, the wild streak in her responding to that in him. His spirit called to her, and the power of the call both thrilled and daunted her.

  No sweet inquiry, this. Martin drew her close against him and explored the interior of her mouth in a manner that left no question as to his intent. His body, pressed hard to hers, kept no secrets.

  Both his spirit and his body inflamed and battered Rennie with equal impact.

  A wind came up and stirred the trees overhead, and in the distance thunder rumbled, its promised lightning matching the heat of Martin’s embrace.

  He broke the kiss suddenly to say, “Give yourself to me, Wren, and nothing will stop us.”

  “I need time.” Her fingers had anchored themselves in the soft leather of his jerkin. She discovered she wanted his mouth on hers again—the taste of him might well be addictive, like strong wine.

  “Nay, Wren, come with me now. I will ask Alric to join us.”

  “Join?”

  “Handfast. Wed.”

  “I scarcely know you.”

  “You do—you can feel me, Wren, even as I feel you.”

  She could certainly feel something, a hot power surging at her from between his thighs. Rennie remembered the girls in the kitchens talking about one suitor or another, comparing their endowments. My lad Cedric is a regular bull in the hay, he gored me right well last night—twice! She recalled how Lambert had reached for his fly.

  Rennie struggled to draw breath, fighting the force of Martin’s desire which, somehow, seemed to have become her own.

  “I am ready to wed with no one,” she declared, and freed herself from the hot grasp of his hands. “And one thing I will tell you, Master Scarlet—you shall never bully me.”

  Chapter Ten

  “I cannot believe my father is dead, gone.” Sally repeated the words for the third or fourth time, brokenly.

  They wrenched at Sparrow’s heart. He had no comfort for the lass, who had wept most of the night. Now the chill of morning had come creeping, and the forest camp felt as barren and sere as Sparrow’s own emotions.

  A thin spire of smoke curled up from the fire, and all the trees drooped. Last night’s storm had passed, but the clouds hung low, and it felt more like winter than spring.

  Sally clung to Madlyn, who possessed far more patience than her son. Martin, to whom Sally had first looked for a shoulder on which to weep, remained distracted by Wren.

  That knowledge was a knife in Sparrow’s gut. The curse of feeling what Wren felt, even in part, told him she had been inflamed when she and Martin returned last night from the dark under the trees—angered, but stirred, as well.

  Now Sparrow’s arm ached with a raw, biting pain, the damp seemed to seep into his bones, and the future looked hopelessly bleak. If Wren chose Martin...

  Even now the two of them spoke together, huddled on one side of the clearing, their heads far too close for Sparrow’s liking. He did not know of what they could be speaking, but he caught spikes of emotion from both of them, uncertainty and then enthusiasm from Wren, and from Martin, jubilation.

  Sparrow forced his fingers through his hair. Yesterday, when he kissed Wren, he had been so sure he had won. Not that Wren’s love was a contest, like the countless others between himself and Martin all these years past. But he had been able to feel Wren respond to him even as his heart came alive at her touch.

  “Come, lamb, lie down a while. You have had no rest.” Dimly he saw Madlyn lead Sally off to one of the sheltered bowers. When Madlyn returned, she sat beside Sparrow and elbowed him.

  “If you want her, fight for her, lad.”

  “Eh?”

  Madlyn nodded at the couple across the way. “Will you sit with your head in your hands while Martin works his wiles? Oh, do not look so surprised. Do you suppose, just because he is my son, I do not know what he is like?”

  Sparrow said nothing.

  “I love both of you,” Madlyn went on. “You have been a second son to me, since your mother died.”

  The pain inside Sparrow eased a little. “I know, and I am grateful.”

  “Martin is like his father, whom I loved despite knowing better. Will was heedless, hotheaded, and started more fights than he had pots of ale, and that is saying something. Martin—well, he bred true.”

 
; “He thinks me weak.”

  Madlyn snorted. “He thinks everyone weak. It is one of his greatest faults. Ruthlessness and wisdom seldom travel together. She will not think you weak, lad, if you show her otherwise.”

  “Easy to say, when he has already won all her attention.”

  “There is naught easy about love, or life, for all that. But, you know, we would not be here if not to learn hard lessons.”

  Sparrow shot her a sidelong glance. Her blue eyes looked thoughtful.

  “Here, Madlyn?”

  “In the world. I once heard Alric say ’tis all life is, a place to learn and shape our spirits. I believe that. Otherwise, I do not think I could go on, for there is too much loss, and far too much pain.”

  Impulsively, Sparrow touched the woman’s hand. “You are very wise, Madlyn.”

  Madlyn shrugged. “I have made mistakes in plenty, and I have lived with them. Benefit from my knowledge, lad, and do not let something go by, if you want it very badly. Failing, and even feeling the fool, is better than sharp regret.”

  Ruefully, Sparrow asked, “Do you not want your son to become headman of Oakham rather than a humble hermit, wed to the forest?”

  “Well, that is just it, Sparrow. I am not sure but it is the place he wants, rather than the lass. And I am not about to claim I know what he needs.”

  Later that morning, a young lad brought news from Oakham. No less than five of their own had perished in yesterday’s encounter, including Sally’s father and John, the senior member of their band. Alric sent word urging the outlaws to stay away from the hamlet for a time.

  “He also asked that you keep Sal here for now,” the lad reported. “’Tis not safe, with her father gone.”

  Sally, exhausted, still slept, but those gathered in a ring around the lad nodded gravely.

  “What news from Nottingham?” Martin asked.

  “None. Alric says if Sir Lambert or his men saw Mistress Lil beneath the oak, they gave no sign.”

  Martin sneered, “And how many of the Sheriff’s men did we successfully cull?”

  “Some say five, some more. ’Tis hard to tell, for they took their dead away with them.” The lad looked round at the circle of faces. “May I tell Alric and Adam you will keep Sally safe? And, Alric says, the wolfshead’s daughter, as well.”

  Sparrow felt Wren stiffen, but it was Martin who answered. “You may rely on it.”

  So, Sparrow thought bitterly, once the lad had gone, Martin thought to assign himself the role of Wren’s protector, did he? Had something significant happened between them last night, beneath the trees? Madlyn was right; Sparrow needed to talk to Wren and let her know it was her choice, and not Martin’s, that mattered.

  He saw his opportunity not long after, when Martin once more took Wren aside and presented her with something. Nothing could have kept Sparrow from walking over to see what.

  He caught but the end of Martin’s words, “—and I will instruct you in the use of it.”

  Sparrow narrowed his eyes on the object lying across Wren’s extended hands: Martin’s best knife, it was, the one stolen from Sir Guy himself, a treasure.

  Wren shot a look at Sparrow before she said to Martin, “I think I know how to use a knife. I lived in a kitchen.”

  “Not properly, you do not. Yesterday, you saw how quickly things can happen. You may need to defend yourself at any time.”

  Sparrow felt Wren’s impatience and frustration flare. “If anyone comes too near, I will stab him.” She stared at Martin meaningfully. “Anyone.”

  Martin, curse him, missed the message. “Look you, a blade is a fine weapon because ’tis silent and can be kept well concealed until it bites like an adder. The best places to strike are here, in the soft flesh under the jaw, or here, at the side of the throat.” Lightly, he touched Wren in both places; she shivered.

  Enough, Sparrow’s heart cried. He stepped forward. “A blade can also be turned against its user quite easily. That is dangerous. I can teach you how to throw—”

  Martin snapped, immediately, “I will teach her.”

  “—and how to shoot. You need a bow of your own.”

  “Everyone seems to know what I need!”

  “I can fashion a bow for her,” Martin declared, “and teach her—”

  Sparrow strove to clamp down on his own ire, and failed. “Should she not be taught by the best shot among us?”

  “For the sweet Lord’s sake,” Wren said, “do not begin with arguing again.”

  Martin ignored her. “She is Robin’s daughter. Do you not suppose she will be an excellent shot?”

  “No one is an excellent shot at the beginning.”

  “I will fetch my bow, and show you.”

  “You two will drive me mad!” The cry turned heads throughout the camp and at last served to silence Martin. “Leave me be,” Wren requested, and pushed past both of them.

  Martin immediately made to follow her and Sparrow put out a hand. “Did you hear her not?”

  “Aye, but she needs—”

  “Why not let her decide what she needs?”

  “You would like that, aye, so you can move in and sway her your way,” Martin sneered.

  “She would like that—she demands it.” Sparrow stared into Martin’s wild eyes and tried to swallow his aggravation. “If you keep at her like a fox worrying after a hen, you will do naught but chase her off.”

  “Fool. There is no time to waste. Should something happen to Lil or Alric, we need to be ready to step into their places. Already the circle is weakened.”

  “And if Wren runs, we will all be doomed.”

  “Where would she run? She has nothing, save us.”

  “A creature escaping a trap cares not for that. Why do you not spend some of your time on Sally, who needs your comfort?”

  Martin shook himself like a wet hound. “You know I am no good at holding hands and speaking soft words. That is more your ilk.”

  “Yet you had time for Sal when you wanted a warm bed, this winter past, a few hours’ comfort. The lass loves you right well, and she needs you now, as you needed her then.”

  “She will just have to get over her feelings, then, will she not? For what we must do here in Sherwood is far more important than the feelings of one foolish lass.”

  “So Sally must weather her hurt and her father’s death as well?”

  “As must we all. Because, you mark my words, Sparrow, there will be far more deaths in Oakham, and beyond, if we do not keep Sherwood strong.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “Does that man ever listen to any words besides his own?”

  Sparrow could feel Wren’s anger even before he approached her. She had fled deep into the trees beyond the far side of the clearing and now sat on a fallen tree, looking distracted.

  With some hesitation, Sparrow seated himself beside her. Right now her feelings were those of a startled hawk, wild and primed for flight, and he knew he needed to go carefully.

  “No,” he replied. “Martin’s head is made of pure rock.”

  “I told him last night I will not be bullied. This situation is intolerable. I feel like I have been torn up by the roots and am being battered from every side.”

  “I know.”

  She turned her head and looked at him. “How could you know?”

  Sparrow drew a breath. “Because I feel what you feel, at least in part. ’Tis as if I pick up the echo of your emotions, just as you surely must mine, and Martin’s. We are all three linked.”

  She continued to stare at him with those wild eyes. “How is it that we are linked? You and I do not even know each other.”

  “I believe we are connected through Sherwood itself, by ties both of blood and devotion. Martin and I were dedicated by our fathers, soon after our births.”

  “But my father was already dead when I was born, and my mother abandoned me.”

  “And Lil dedicated you before she took you with her to Nottingham.”

  “Well, I d
o not want to hear your thoughts, or Martin’s. And I do not want you to hear mine. Such intrusion is more than I can bear. I am used to the solitude of the scullery and the bustle of the kitchen beyond. No one ever cared if I lived or died, and my greatest worry was the salt biting my hands.”

  “Salt?”

  She made a face. “We scrub the Sheriff’s kettles with a mixture of salt, sand, and lye.” She held out her hands. “They are only now starting to heal.”

  Sparrow fought the tendency to catch her fingers in his; he remembered again the taste of her, during their flight, and had to wrestle his desire. She did not need that from him, now. “It sounds like a hard and joyless existence.”

  “No, this is hard! Pray, how can I get Martin to leave me alone? As it is, I want nothing so much as to stab him with his own knife.”

  Sparrow’s mind groped hurriedly for the right thing to say. Wren balanced on the very edge of control. “Perhaps a wee prick might be the best solution—just here, under his jaw, you understand.”

  Unexpectedly, she smiled. It transformed her face and made Sparrow think suddenly of her father. Surely Robin himself had such a smile.

  “He is a wee prick,” she declared, and they laughed together.

  More easily, she said, “I still cannot believe any of this is true—the forest, and the two of you, and the fact that my father was the legendary Robin of Sherwood. I went from knowing nothing of my parents to having two of the most well-known of all.”

  “Aye, it must seem strange.”

  “Tell me more about this triad everyone keeps talking about, the three of us and the magic.”

  “’Tis four of us, verily, as it was for Alric, Geofrey, and Lil before us—three of us and Sherwood. The wards were set up at the time of Robin’s death.”

  “Lil told me that, but it makes no sense. How can Sherwood play a part?”

  “Sherwood is alive.” Sparrow glanced up into the trees that arched above them. “Its soul is a living thing, sacred to the Lord and Lady themselves.”

  “The god and goddess, you mean. The old religion.”