Daughter of Sherwood

by Laura Strickland

  “It never grew old, here. How could it? Its very roots are here, deep in the soil, carried in the light and the water, and the life that burns in the heart of the hare and the hart. The protective wards Lil, Alric, and Geofrey set in place call on that life force, that magic, but the magic itself is far older. Sometimes you can hear it whisper, in the leaves.”

  “I have heard that. I find it terrifying.”

  “But it is not! It must seem strange to you, aye, but you should not be afraid, because it is part of what is in you.”

  “And what are we meant to do—you, me, and Martin? Please tell me, as you understand it.”

  “With Geofrey’s death, the wards that keep us safe and hidden here in Sherwood—and that keep your father’s memory alive—are weakened. If the Sheriff dies before we can renew the wards, a new, vital force will be brought in to oppose us. Lil fears Sherwood’s magic could fail, then. We will all be in danger.”

  “And these wards, what are they, exactly?”

  “Old magic, raised and woven. They come of belief, and joining.”

  “So, how do we strengthen them?”

  Sparrow hesitated. “Did Lil not tell you?”

  “I wish to hear it from you.”

  “You must choose between us, Martin and me, where to gift your heart. The one you choose will devote himself to you and become the new headman of Oakham. The other will take Alric’s place and bond with Sherwood itself.”

  “With Sherwood?”

  “As a priest bonds himself to the church.”

  “Oh.” Wren’s golden eyes widened.

  Wryly, Sparrow told her, “Martin does not fancy the life of a hermit. Headman is far more to his taste. He will sway you any way he can.”

  “And you? How do you fancy the place in the forest?”

  Not sure how to answer, Sparrow danced around it. A bit roughly, he replied, “Sometimes sacrifices must be made. In Sherwood, they are demanded often. Your own father sacrificed himself, and Lil spent many years away from Geofrey, in Nottingham.”

  “I see.” She gazed away from him, through the trees, and he thought she might leave it there. But she did not.

  “How am I supposed to make this vital choice, then? By love? By desire? For the good of all?”

  Sparrow did not reply.

  “What if I feel no love or desire for either of you?” Or for both. Those words remained present but unspoken.

  “Only you can make the choice, by the knowing within you. Do not let Martin persuade you, nor I.”

  “I have no ‘knowing’ within. I have spent my life in a small stone room, given very few choices. But as for Martin, I do wish he would leave me alone until I can catch my breath.”

  “Let me defend you from him.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “How?”

  “I will make you a bow, and instruct you in its use. He may keep away, if he sees you occupied. Anyway, archery is my one strength.”

  She widened her eyes at him again. “Oh, Master Sparrow, I do think you underestimate yourself.”

  ****

  “Hold it this way. No, with the fletchings just at your chin, a bit higher.”

  As Wren raised her elbow, it brushed Sparrow’s chest, and he had to close his eyes against the sensation. Since early morn they had worked together using a light bow meant for one of the lads and, with the sun now high in the sky, his resistance wore thin. Wren stood within the curve of his arms, holding the bow in her hands. Occasionally her hair brushed his cheek and he could smell her fragrance, light and beguiling.

  Across the clearing, Martin brooded, his eyes constantly upon them, but he had not yet interfered. Madlyn had sent him early to bring the last of Sally’s belongings from Oakham and help her settle, but with that done he kicked his heels and grew steadily more restive. Sparrow could feel his tension and judged they were mere moments from a fine explosion. But meanwhile...

  He placed his hand beneath Wren’s wrist and let his lips brush her ear. “There now. Try again.”

  He stepped back, and she let her arrow fly. It clove the air cleanly and flew true to the target, perhaps sixty paces off.

  “Better!” She turned and flashed him a smile, judging herself. “But not yet good enough.”

  “You come easy to this,” Sparrow said, and meant it. Her stance with the bow was elegant, her form that of someone who had worked for years before the target. Her eyes, as might be expected, were those of a hawk.

  “Move the target farther off,” she requested. “I would see, can I hit it still.”

  Without a word, Sparrow complied, while keeping an eye on Martin. Wren followed him into the trees and waited while he hung the target—a ragged sack daubed with markings—on a tall ash tree.

  “I did not expect to enjoy this, Sparrow. Thank you for urging me to it.”

  She looked happy, and he smiled.

  In a murmur, she went on, “I can scarcely recall the last time I enjoyed anything so much. Lil’s lessons, no doubt. She taught me much, late in the evenings when most of the kitchen slept.”

  “’Tis a fine thing, discovering a talent. In time, you may come to appreciate other things about Sherwood, as well—the sense of freedom not known in any village or, indeed, any scullery, and even the sense of connection that so worries you now.”

  “You need not stand whispering! What are you doing back here among the trees? She is not yours alone, Sparrow, to keep out of sight.”

  Outrage flashed in Wren’s eyes even as she turned on Martin, who stood just behind them with fists planted on his hips, primed for the promised uproar.

  “I am not anyone’s,” Wren told him before Sparrow could draw a breath, “save my own.”

  Mildly, Sparrow put in, “We were but moving the target.”

  “And that takes the both of you, does it, off alone?”

  “Not alone,” Sparrow returned. “Obviously you could still see us.”

  Martin elbowed Sparrow aside and presented himself to Wren. “I will instruct you with the bow, and the sword as well, if you like. Only put yourself in my hands.”

  Wren’s head came up and her eyes glittered. Sparrow suddenly remembered once seeing a look just like that on Robin’s face, before an encounter with the king’s guard. He had been a small boy, but it was not a look easily forgotten.

  “Get away from me,” Wren told Martin.

  “Eh?”

  “Did you not hear? Are you deaf as well as stupid?”

  Martin’s anger flamed. “Now, you listen—”

  “I will not! I am weary of your voice, Martin Scarlet, and I can no longer bear you watching me endlessly. You are nearly as bad as Lambert.”

  “Do not say that.” Martin reached out to touch her, but her emotions boiled over; she stepped away and raised the bow, arrow well notched.

  Something flared in Martin’s eyes—passion, mingled with admiration. “Hey, now—you will not shoot me.”

  “Are you willing to wager your life on that?”

  “Aye. Give me the bow, Wren, and do not behave like a child. There is too much at stake.”

  “I, behave like a child? It is you, brooding and sulking like an infant denied a sweet.”

  “You do not understand, Wren, how I feel.”

  “And you do not care how I feel! Now clear off before I force you to.” Golden eyes locked with blue and dared Martin to step wrong. Sparrow, caught and bombarded with the feelings of both, felt scorched. “Go back to Sally,” Wren seethed, “where you are wanted. For I do not wish for your company!”

  “You do not mean that.” Martin, frustrated at last, waved a hand at Sparrow wildly. “You cannot say you prefer him?”

  “I renounce the both of you!” And Wren cast down bow and arrows, spun on her heel, and pelted away into the forest.

  Martin and Sparrow were left staring at one another.

  “Aye, fine work, that!” Sparrow said scathingly.

  Chapter Twelve

  “The good God preserve me from arr
ogant men!” The words rumbled in Rennie’s throat as she ran blindly, heading nowhere but away. Roots caught at the toes of her soft skin boots, and branches whipped her face. Tears filled her eyes, but she ran on, deeper and deeper into the trees, trying to leave her confusion and frustration behind.

  What a relief to be away from the people in camp, with their assumptions and expectations. Her heart bounded and rose in her chest. And how free it felt to run in a lad’s clothing, no tangled or ragged skirts to hold her down, no false modesty to hamper her stride.

  She ran until the breath seared her lungs and then paused to listen for sounds of pursuit. She could not imagine Martin failing to come after her. But she heard nothing save the soughing of the wind in the branches overhead. Suddenly the stillness penetrated, and filled her with awe.

  Where was she? And how would she ever find her way back? She quieted her breathing and took stock of her position. A wild place, indeed. The ground before her sloped downward slightly, clothed in moss as green as velvet, the trees so close together they cast deep wells of shadow. The oaks, just leafing out, looked like the boles of a great cathedral, but the ash, elder, and beech trembled like live things.

  Rennie blinked. Aye, and they were live things, and though she had fled in order to be alone, she found herself far from solitary.

  Something flashed far overhead—a bird?—and a shadow moved at the corner of her vision. The trees seemed to gather still nearer, to bend and whisper her name. She could feel life moving in them, and they watched her. Surely something did.

  Solitude, amid a rush of confusion, was familiar to her. Just so had she spent all her life, alone yet not alone, in the scullery. Was anyone less visible than the slave who scrubbed and toted endless mounds of pots and platters until her hands bled? Folk thought no more of her than of the wood that warmed them. Yet this felt different. Sherwood seemed aware of her, and she remembered what Sparrow had said—the forest itself had sentience, and a spirit.

  Ah, but what nonsense. They were mad, all of them, these wolfsheads. How did they expect her to accept either Sparrow or Martin into her life—and, presumably, her bed—while the other supposedly wed himself to the essence of this place? She wanted no man. She wanted no one to have a say in her life, ever again.

  “Wren?”

  She turned her head sharply, thinking one of them had followed her after all, and saw no one. A shiver traced its way up her spine. She could not stay here, yet she needed a chance to catch her breath before returning to face them again.

  If she could even find her way back...

  She narrowed her eyes at the light sifting down through the branches and forming bars like golden ladders. How far had she fled? Days grew longer with the coming Spring, but she knew once night fell here it would fall hard and completely. She dared not let it catch her so close to Sherwood’s heart.

  Wren.

  The whisper came from behind her this time, and spun her around. A spike of terror widened her eyes.

  Wren, Wren, Wren—

  No human voice, this, nor from any mortal throat. A sudden shudder gripped her, shook her as if she had the ague. She needed to run, but which way?

  Listen.

  Her ears must be playing tricks on her. What she heard was but the rustling of the leaves. Her mind had unhinged itself and now flew off like a bird. Aye, it must be the birds she felt, watching, or a deer or a wolf. She could not allow herself to be trapped here tonight, or she would likely become prey for that last—the wolfshead’s daughter, brought to her end by wolves...

  Carefully she turned back the way she had come, trying not to hear the voices around her, expecting at any moment to hear the cries of the two young men—Martin and Sparrow, both skilled in the wood, could surely find her.

  She raised her fingers to one stinging cheek. They came away wet with blood. Would that be enough to draw whatever watched her? Fear speared her suddenly, and she ran once more.

  ****

  Distance passed in a blur of green and brown, bark and leaves, that swallowed time. Rennie suspected it swallowed her soul, as well, for when she paused again her senses tingled, so linked with the forest she could not tell where the trees ended and she began. Deer kept pace with her, and hares, foxes, other creatures unseen but felt, and birds by the score trailed in her wake.

  And the dark came down. Utterly lost, Rennie wrapped her arms about herself and began to pray.

  She had never felt much need for religion. All the castle servants were required to attend chapel, but that made a cold, colorless exercise in no way connected to worship. Now, however, awe and terror filled Rennie’s heart, and something akin to belief bloomed in her mind.

  Lil spoke often of the Green Man—her personal god—the Lord who predated Christ by countless centuries and dwelled in the earth itself, the trees, the fire. With his companion, the Lady, they begat all life. Here and now, for the first time, Rennie could sense him.

  Exhausted, she fell to her knees on the bank of a stream, cupped her hands, and drank. The water, cold and flavored with the taste of leaves, peat, and the earth itself, filled her. Above the restless trees, the sky was the color of the robes the Sheriff wore to high mass, deep blue, almost purple.

  “Wren.” The voice, just behind her, sounded almost conversational. Rennie spun around so fast she nearly fell into the stream. Breath clenched in her lungs.

  In the gathering gloom, the man looked tall and slender, a shadow seen only indistinctly. But she knew him, had seen him numerous times in both dream and imagination.

  He smiled at her, a kind smile that lit grave, intent eyes—not the color of Rennie’s, no, she must have those from the mother she never knew either. But his hair was hers, thick and rich brown, tumbling to his shoulders. And something in the structure of his face echoed Rennie’s, the slant of the cheekbones and jut of the nose.

  A sob burst from her throat. “You are dead.”

  “Aye. But I live on, here in Sherwood. That to which we give our love in life is never lost.”

  Rennie continued to examine him through narrowed eyes. This must be how he had looked at the time of his death, strong and handsome, vital as the forest itself.

  “May I sit?” he asked, gesturing to the bank beside her.

  Rennie made a futile gesture. Could she deny him?

  He wore clothing almost identical to her own and, once he sat, she might have reached out and touched him, though she was careful not to.

  “I have seen you before, in dreams.”

  “Long have I tried to reach you, Daughter, to tell you the importance of your place here.”

  There, he had said it: daughter. A chill chased its way through Rennie’s limbs.

  “Never was I successful. Lil has guided you well, but Lil’s season is nearly done.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Wren, life is a series of cycles. The flesh rises and falls, as do the stars in the sky; the spirit endures.”

  “Are you saying Lil is going to die?” Fear gripped Rennie’s heart. No, not that. Anything else.

  Her father did not answer directly. “The three of you—Sparrow, Martin, and yourself—must prepare to take your places on the wheel.”

  “The wheel?”

  “Of life.”

  “But I do not want—”

  “Daughter, do you think I wanted what I became? I had a talent for hitting a target true, and a stubborn dislike for bending my back to those who called themselves my betters, no more than that. I could have been happy tilling a plot of garden and living in obscurity. Do you think I wished to become wolfshead and legend?” His voice softened. “Do you think I wanted to die before I could see you born, or watch you grow?”

  “It is not fair,” Rennie cried, suddenly aware of how much she would have liked knowing this man.

  “It is not fair,” he agreed, “when a child is born into serfdom, an old woman bled to death for the king’s taxes, or the father of a family deprived of his hand, so those he l
oves must starve. There is but one thing fair about our world.”

  “And, what is that?”

  He smiled at her again. “That love does not die but rides the wheel and goes round until it meets again with those who love. Wren, I loved you before you were born, and I regret the place you must inhabit is so hard, but there is no help for it. You must do as you must do.”

  Rennie swallowed a lump in her throat. “And, what is that?”

  “Keep the magic strong. You three are the only ones who can.”

  “Me, Martin, and Sparrow.” Rennie linked her fingers desperately. “I am not sure I can stand it.”

  “Neither was I, when first I felt the hope of a people, like the weight of the world, on my shoulders. But, Wren, there is joy in the magic of it.”

  “They keep talking of this magic. Where is it? I see only the wishes of others, and obligation.”

  “Then you are not looking.” He gestured to the trees around them. “It is in the wild places, in the water, the wind, the soil the roots hold, deep, and the fire of the stars. The fire, here, as well.” He pressed his fist to his chest.

  Ruefully, Rennie said, “Martin has the fire, enough to scorch us all.”

  “As did his father before him. Scarlet burned very bright. Martin is right to harbor the flame and guard it well—it is sore needed. Should we let anger at injustice die? Are we not, then, dead ourselves?”

  “So you say I am to choose him? For it seems I must choose, though I desire not, or,” she added all too truthfully, “desire both.”

  Her father smiled yet again. “You must choose, aye, but only as your heart directs.”

  Stubbornly, Rennie said, “Love cannot be forced, and that is what Martin would do—force me.”

  “It is his way, to take life into his hands and grapple with it. Do not underestimate the valiant nature of his heart.”

  “What of Sparrow?”

  “A quiet heart, but no less devoted, and no less deep.”

  “I am to decide, through my choice, which of them will be headman and which holy man?”

  “Aye.”

  “On the face of it, Sparrow would make the better hermit, with the quiet in him. I cannot imagine Martin wed to Sherwood.”