Daughter of Sherwood

by Laura Strickland

“Hsst! Softly.” The oaken gate opened with a creak, and Wilf’s anxious face welcomed them in. Sparrow’s tension ramped up another notch. His arm brushed Wren’s shoulder and he received her feelings in a flash—razor-edged fear, and determination.

  The guard room into which they were admitted was empty and steeped in gloom. Their wet boots made a disturbingly loud patter on the floor, and Wilf led them on.

  “Not a word.”

  They entered a corridor, and Sparrow’s heart began to beat up in his throat. Now they must be prepared at any moment for discovery, and combat.

  Yet all Nottingham castle seemed to sleep under enchantment. They traversed passage after passage, Sparrow bringing up the rear and keeping watch behind, and descended more than one flight of stone steps. At the foot of the last, they met Cedric, who waited to conduct them on.

  Another few shadowy corridors and they paused while Wilf conferred in whispers with Cedric. “There,” Cedric said then. “The cells are just ahead. Can you find your way out, should I fall?”

  Martin and Wilf nodded.

  “I could not get duty, but wait while I see who did.”

  Cedric left them standing and disappeared around a bend in the passage. Sparrow’s nerves tightened still further; Martin looked tight also, like a bow string, and Wren stood shivering. Sparrow longed to put his arms around her.

  After an interminable wait, Cedric returned, his expression grim. They all drew close and heard him whisper, “Bad luck. Two men on duty, and one is a right bastard. Wren, I hoped we would not need to use you, but—”

  Without a word, Wren turned to Sparrow and handed him her bow and quiver. She pushed back her hood and shook out her sopping hair, tugged open the laces of her tunic to reveal a glimpse of pale flesh. As she did, Sparrow received a flash of her emotions, and caught his breath.

  “Go carefully,” he told her.

  Her eyes met his, full of resolve and terror.

  Cedric breathed into her ear, “Your target is the big brute on the left. Use any means you can to distract him.”

  She nodded and moved off, soundless. Sparrow, unbearably tense, listened to what followed.

  A clank as of a mug being set down, the scrape of a chair being pushed back, then gruff voices expressing surprise. Martin turned his head and his eyes met Sparrow’s, reflecting his agony.

  They should never have brought her here, important though Lil’s safety might be. Wren was too precious, and the risk too great.

  Martin eased his sword from its scabbard. Ahead, Sparrow heard one of the guards say, “What ho! How did you get here, wench? No one is permitted below stairs. Get you off now, before there is hell to pay.”

  A second, rougher voice objected, “Just a moment, Rolf. Not so fast.”

  Wren spoke, her voice unrecognizable, low and seductive. “A friend led me in. I come, sirs, to ask of you a favor. I have learned my poor husband is held here and sentenced to die on the May Day. I pray you, let me see him for but a moment.”

  “You are mad.” Rolf’s voice. “Clear off before you get us all in trouble.”

  The second man spoke over him, an insolent drawl. “Your husband, you say?”

  “Aye. He is accused of felling one of the king’s deer. Falsely accused, at that. It was not he but Robin Hood’s men who committed the crime. I have two small children at home.”

  “Why do you not apply to Robin Hood’s men for succor?”

  “Hsst, Albert,” the first man warned. “Robin Hood is but a legend, as you know full well.”

  “And the arrows our men take in their backs every time they venture into Sherwood, are those legends, as well? Why are you clad that way, wench? You look like a wolfshead.”

  “How are my children and I to survive, if we do not take shelter in the forest? Our cottage was burned.”

  “I am going to fetch Sir Lambert,” Rolf decided, and every man waiting in the corridor braced for action.

  “Aye, Rolf, all in good time.” Albert’s voice dropped to a gravely growl. “’Tis a cold and lonely night, and who knows what the wench might do in return for seeing her husband? What will you do, woman?”

  “Anything you ask. Anything you want.”

  Sparrow closed his eyes and leaned his head against the rough stone wall.

  “Is that so? Well now, Rolf, is that an offer we should refuse?”

  Rolf made no answer.

  “Go you, Rolf, and make sure no one is coming. I will take her first. You, wench, come here.”

  Wilfred nudged Sparrow, and Martin raised his sword.

  Wren spoke. “If I oblige you, sir, do you promise I will see my husband?”

  “Aye, so long as you do all I ask. Rolf, I told you, keep watch lest that bastard, Lambert, comes. If he does, he will want her for himself, and me, I do not like another man’s leavings. On your knees, wench.”

  Rolf appeared round the bend in the passage, still looking over his shoulder to see what happened behind him. Wilf met him with open arms and smashed a palm over his mouth to still any outcry. Martin’s sword made one smooth movement and gutted the man as neatly as a trout.

  Sparrow pushed past both of them to peer around the corner. The guard room was no more than a wide place in the corridor, about which squat doors were set. A table and two chairs made bleak comfort, in light shed by a half-shuttered lantern. Sparrow saw a great brute—Albert—standing with his breeches open and his manhood exposed, and Wren forced to her knees before him. The cretin’s hands were in her hair.

  Sparrow’s bow came up without conscious thought. He never remembered notching the arrow but noted the whispered twang as it flew true and took Albert through the throat. The man fell with a violent rumble that pushed the table aside.

  Wren gave a cry and shied back. Sparrow reached her in three strides and took her in his arms.

  “Did he harm you?”

  “Never mind me.” Instantly, she freed herself. “Where is Lil? Which cell?”

  The doors were waist high, built from thick oak, none with slots or other openings. No less than six of them ringed the alcove.

  Cedric spoke hurriedly, “She is in the last cell on the right. Albert has the keys.” He shoved Albert over onto his back with the toe of one boot and fished inside his tunic.

  “Get her out quickly,” Wren begged.

  “Not so fast.” Martin put out a hand and touched Wren’s shoulder. “Cedric, how many prisoners are here?”

  “I am not certain. Could be nearly a score.”

  Martin’s eyes burned. “Open them all. I will not leave any of our folk in the hands of these Norman bastards. Unlock all the doors.”

  Wilfred scowled. “But you have yet to get away.”

  “Confusion makes a fine cover. Do it, man!”

  Sparrow objected, “A horde of prisoners will surely draw the guards’ attention.”

  “Aye, away from us.” Martin stepped up to Sparrow, his temper evident. “Robin would not leave them here. Besides, it is not up to you.”

  “Nor you,” Sparrow retorted.

  They both looked at Wren. Her eyes filled with tears. “I wish only to get Lil free of this terrible place. Open them all, Cedric—hurry.”

  “She is here. I made sure of it this morning.” Cedric had to stoop to the lock and bend double to enter the cell. Wren followed him, and Sparrow went close after.

  A vile stench rolled out to meet them. The cell, half subterranean, had no windows, light or ventilation. Even though he had expected the worst conditions, Sparrow nearly gagged.

  Faint light trickled in from the guard room and showed a space about eight by eight paces, not tall enough to allow a man to stand upright. Rotting straw dusted the floor, and four figures stirred. The fifth did not.

  “Lil!” Wren dropped to her knees and crawled forward. She hesitated before touching the woman curled into a motionless ball. When she did, she stiffened and looked over her shoulder at Sparrow.

  “Oh, Sparrow, we are too late. I fear she is dead!
”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “You are freed. Go now, off out of here and away.” Wilf’s voice encouraged the occupants of the cell to scatter, but Sparrow spared them no glance. All his attention centered on Lil’s motionless form.

  Aye, and she did look dead—frail and, for the first time in his memory, old. He could feel Wren’s emotions; she teetered on the very edge of devastation.

  He reached out to touch Lil’s cheek, but Martin pushed in and shoved him aside.

  “No time,” Martin gasped. “We need to move.”

  Without awaiting a reply, Martin gathered Lil’s body into his arms and, hunched awkwardly, barreled out of the cell.

  Out in the guards’ alcove, confusion reigned. Freed prisoners milled about, spoke in hushed voices and grappled with their sudden liberty. One man kicked Albert’s lifeless body viciously. A woman who had emerged from Lil’s cell stared into Sparrow’s eyes and begged, “Where are we to go? What to do?”

  “Go home, Mother,” he told her.

  “I have no home. The Sheriff burned it, burned it all, and killed my man.”

  “Come,” Martin interrupted the exchange. “Let us—”

  “Wait.” Wren put out a hand and stopped him. “Tell me, does Lil yet live?”

  In the dim light shed by the lantern, they all peered at the woman in Martin’s arms. Wren groaned. “What have they done to her? So many wounds!”

  Lil’s skin showed a livid mass of raw and angry injuries, some old and half crusted over, many still oozing puss and blood.

  Martin swore viciously. “These are cuts, and burns. The bastards tortured her.”

  For days, by the look of it, Sparrow acknowledged. His stomach turned over, and he had to fight nausea. He placed a careful hand at the side of Lil’s neck.

  “Aye, but she lives.”

  Wren stared at him with a dawning of hope. “You are certain?”

  “I am.”

  “Oh, thank heaven! Martin, get her away—at any cost, understand?”

  Martin gave a hard nod. Wilfred gestured at them. “Hurry. The alarm has been given.”

  Martin moved off, scarcely hampered by his light burden. The former prisoners followed, crowding the passageway. Sparrow caught Wren’s hand. “Come. And be ready to fight.”

  He did not like the fact that they must wend their way up from the very bowels of the castle, but he meant to defend Wren and Lil with his own life if necessary.

  Wilf and Cedric had both disappeared, as had some of the prisoners. Others, seeming half dazed, lingered outside the cells without apparent direction. Sparrow and Wren, still hand in hand, ducked the intervening escapees and took the first flight of steps at a dead run behind Martin. The man had fearsome strength, Sparrow had to give him that. At the foot of the second flight he heard voices from above.

  Shouting. Guards.

  “Wait.” He let go of Wren’s hand and drew his sword. “Let me by.”

  His weapon of choice had always been the bow. He made barely half the swordsman Martin did. For an instant, he considered relieving Martin of his burden so he could fight, but saw there was no time.

  He felt Wren press in beside him, her knife in her hand.

  Martin protested, “Wren—”

  “Just win Lil free of here.”

  A trio of guards, all heavily armed, appeared at the top of the stairs. These were men from the outer walls, intent on their duty.

  Sparrow’s heart began to beat high and hard. He cared not what befell him. He feared only for Wren and Lil.

  One of the guards called down, “Stay where you are, by order of the Sheriff.”

  Some of the escaping prisoners ahead of Martin on the stairs obeyed the order, some did not. The guards met them with forged iron and cut them down, weaponless.

  A sound very like a sob came from Wren’s throat. Sparrow whispered a prayer and charged up the steps.

  The foremost of the guards met him, blade to blade.

  “Wolfsheads!” cried a second. “Wolfsheads in the castle!”

  An arrow silenced the man. Sparrow, striving desperately to fight upwards, imagined Martin must have put down his burden in favor of his bow, but then Martin came surging up past him with Lil still in his arms. Sparrow’s opponent moved to block him, and Sparrow’s blade took him between two ribs and through the heart.

  Martin, with Lil, moved up and away, leaping around fallen bodies. Sparrow glanced behind to see Wren loose a second arrow that took the third guard in the shoulder. Her third penetrated the man’s cheek, even as he fell.

  Sparrow scarcely gave her time to shoulder her bow before he seized her hand again. “There will be more soldiers on the way. Come.”

  At the top of the stairs they met Wilfred, with a torch. “Sir Lambert has called up everyone on duty. Hurry—this way.”

  They followed him away from the stairs and through a narrow passageway that smelled of damp. All too soon they heard more cries behind them, but no immediate sounds of pursuit.

  Under her breath, Wren sobbed, “They will all die. We never should have freed them.”

  “Better dead than trapped in those foul pits,” Martin growled in response. “Wilf, where are we?”

  “A service passageway, rarely used. One level up is the kitchen. There is an opening to a courtyard.”

  “I know it,” Wren gasped. She tugged Sparrow’s hand. “Come.”

  The following moments tormented Sparrow’s heart with doubt and hope. The narrow passageway led to storage rooms strewn with rusted kettles and other cast-off kitchen trappings. They met no one and hurried still faster. Sparrow heard Martin’s breath begin to catch in his lungs.

  One last flight of stairs loomed before them.

  “Kitchen is up there,” Wilfred breathed. “And I cannot be seen with you.”

  “Seen?” Martin questioned.

  “The kitchens are rarely empty,” Wren explained. “Wilfred, we owe you so much. Come with us to Sherwood.”

  “I am more useful here. I will double back and take up my place among those hunting you, if I can.” And he melted back into the narrow passageway, taking the torch with him.

  “Come.” Wren started up the steps.

  “Stay behind me,” Sparrow cautioned.

  “Do not be a fool.”

  Only a flicker of light trickled down these stairs. They followed it to the yawning doorway of the kitchen.

  Sparrow had been here before, of course, to call on Lil. He knew the place made up a community of its own. But he had not fathomed the impact of their sudden appearance with the woman who ran this world—Lil—fast in Martin’s grip, her head hanging down over his arm.

  Wren entered first with her knife in her hand, then Sparrow with his bloodied sword, and Martin after. Silence and a sea of stricken faces turned toward them. One or two of the kitchen wenches gasped. Some spoke Lil’s name in horrified reverence. A young boy asked, “Is she dead?”

  No one answered. Their boots pattered loudly as they crossed the flagstone floor, and someone near the outer door opened it for them as they approached. The cold dark and rain rushed in and seemed to pull at them, promising safety.

  Outside, Martin faltered for the first time.

  Sparrow turned to him. “Let me take her.”

  Martin shook his head. “We are nearly safe. Hurry.”

  They made it as far as the courtyard gate, which stood ajar, before the squad of soldiers appeared. With them was a mounted man who positioned his horse to block their way. Sir Lambert.

  Sparrow felt Wren flinch. She drew her hood up over her hair.

  “Halt!” Lambert bellowed. And, to his own men, “Take them.”

  Rapidly, Sparrow summed up the odds and his heart sank. Five armed men in addition to Lambert, a fine swordsman in his own right. He felt rather than saw Wren pocket her knife and take up her bow, and experienced a thrill of pride. Aye, that was the way of it. He sheathed his sword also, seized his bow and notched an arrow, all in one movemen
t.

  His first shot felled the man on the left, dodging inside his long shield and striking him through the jaw. At this distance, the force spun the man around before taking him down. He felt Wren shoot also but no one fell. Had she missed? But no—Lambert’s mount shied. Her shot had brushed Lambert, himself.

  “Wolfsheads!” Lambert shouted, having ducked Wren’s arrow. “Do you think you can—?”

  The soft twang of a bowstring heralded Wren’s second shot, which took Lambert through the shoulder. He fell from his horse, and the animal pranced in distress.

  Martin pushed forward, Lil now slung over his shoulder and his sword in his hand.

  Sparrow took aim at a second of the soldiers. They must get free of here before the entire guard descended upon them.

  His second man fell with a loud cry. The other three rushed forward to engage Martin.

  Wren shot one of them through the upper arm—his sword arm—and the man fell back. Trying to steady his aim in defiance of his pounding heart, Sparrow took out the next. That left one, crossing swords with Martin.

  Wren gave a cry. Lambert was on his feet, sword drawn, with her arrow still protruding from his shoulder. Before Sparrow could blink, she rushed for the captain.

  By all that was holy, was she brave or mad? Sparrow followed and was in time to land a blow across the back of Martin’s opponent. Now only Lambert stood between them and the freedom lent by darkness.

  Martin moved, sword extended, and pushed past Lambert’s mount and away. Sparrow turned astonished eyes on Wren and Lambert. Wren, enraged and afire, had already marked Lambert with her blade, though Sparrow knew not how she had avoided the man’s sword. But Lambert, known far and wide for his brilliance in battle, now turned on her with a blow, aimed at her head, that nearly stopped Sparrow’s heart.

  His sword intervened just in time and Wren danced back. Lambert faced Sparrow with a sneer.

  “Wolfshead! You will not get away with this.” He slashed at Sparrow murderously, and Sparrow barely succeeded in turning the blow. Sparrow tossed the hair out of his eyes, surprised to feel his own rage rise. Behind them, he knew, the whole kitchen watched the drama made by one of their own, facing one of their masters.