Daughter of Sherwood

by Laura Strickland

  Wryly, Rennie said, “I barely understand my place, or what I am meant to do in it. It will be hard enough just going on without Lil.”

  “And Geofrey, and Alric,” Sparrow conceded. “I would have given you more time, Wren, to get used to what lies before us.”

  “Decisions must be made,” Martin declared hotly, “and one in particular. Until that is done, we cannot move forward.”

  That decision had been made, Rennie acknowledged in her own mind. But how would Martin react when he learned of her choice? She could feel his emotions now, barely controlled. What if he could not accept her choice of Sparrow? What if he could not bring himself to replace the man who even now lay dying?

  ****

  The moon rose slowly through a wattle-work of tree branches, shedding an indistinct light. Alric never stirred, and Madlyn tended him as best she could before curling up beside him and falling asleep.

  Weariness pulled at Rennie also, yet something else pulled still more strongly. She took her turn at watch even though the wood seemed almost uncannily quiet. And she awaited but one thing: for Martin to sleep.

  Wren? The call penetrated her light doze and roused her instantly. Need flared brightly at the sound of Sparrow’s voice in her mind. She sat up and looked at him.

  He stood with his sword in his hand and his bow on his shoulder, his dark hair streaming down his back. Though he made a fine enough picture to make her catch her breath, his eyes were what held her, captured her heart like a bird in his hand.

  Magic seemed to swirl around him, and Rennie’s heart began to pound. Was this what she had always been meant to find?

  She rose silently and went to him. His arms opened to welcome her, and she felt herself engulfed in protection.

  Oh, Sparrow, oh god, oh god—

  Aye, Wren, I know. I expected love, but not this burning need.

  Need, yes. How did Lil and Geofrey ever stand it? She was so often away from him.

  Sparrow stirred and sheathed his sword. His big hands claimed her and drew her still closer. Alric and I spoke of that. I am not sure the feelings were so intense for them—or perhaps just as intense, yet less physical.

  Martin—

  Hush, do not speak his name, else it might call him from sleep. Wren—

  Rennie lifted her face, and he kissed her. It began gently, a mere brush of lips against lips, but then hunger came rushing. Rennie’s heart, body, and spirit all cried out for him, and his answered.

  “Wren.” When the kiss ended at last, they both shook helplessly. Sparrow rested his forehead against hers. Barely aloud, he whispered, “I need—”

  “As do I. Come with me.”

  “We cannot. I am on watch.”

  “Let Sherwood keep the watch.”

  “But there is Martin. And Alric lies dying.”

  “Surely Alric would understand.”

  For an instant only, Sparrow hesitated. Then he caught Rennie up in his arms and carried her away into the trees.

  They coupled silently, passionately, two souls starving for one another. The spell of moonlight found them where they lay, washed silver over Sparrow’s skin, made mystery of his eyes. Yet Rennie did not need to see what lay there. She held him, and filled him, even as he filled her.

  “I cannot live without this,” she whispered when they once more lay joined, her legs holding him tight, “without you.”

  “Beautiful Wren.” His rough fingers caressed her naked breast and, as easily as that, brought her to life again. She gasped as desire speared through her and wild hunger for him quickened.

  Yet she said, “Me, beautiful? My fine wolfshead, you are mistaken. I am but a scullery wench, over-tall and often awkward.”

  “Beautiful scullery wench.” Laughter and desire tangled in his deep voice. Both went straight to Rennie’s head. “Shall I number the things that make you beautiful? These perfect breasts that just fill my hands, your hair that smells of Sherwood, and the eyes of a wild hawk, legs such as I never hoped to see, dangerously long.” His lips brushed hers and coerced them open. She thrilled as his warmth, words, and breath all poured into her. “You are irresistible.”

  Only the moment existed, and Rennie wanted it to last an eternity. “Then, my fine wolfshead, do not try to resist.”

  His weapon, still inside her, had once more readied itself. He flexed his muscular body and began to move slowly. Every part of Rennie roused and gloried in the joining. So this is happiness, she thought. This is why I was born.

  Out of the darkness, hard words came cutting through the euphoria that enfolded her. Martin’s voice.

  “Betrayer! On your feet, Sparrow, and face me!”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “So this is what it comes to—lying and deception and sneaking behind my back!” Sparrow had never heard such rage in Martin’s voice, and that said something. Over the years they had engaged in countless quarrels and contests, but this threat sounded deadly.

  “Have you no shame? The rest of us sleeping within reach, and Alric dying? Did you have to take her now?”

  Sparrow did not know when he had been caught at such a disadvantage—Wren in his arms, himself still inside her and flagrantly hard, both of them half undressed. His back was to Martin, and he wondered if the man had drawn his sword. His own lay, with the belt he had shed, on the ground, barely within reach.

  Wren moved, slipped from him and out of his arms, scampered up on those long legs. Her loosened hair swirled around her as she faced Martin, half naked.

  “He did not ‘take’ me. I gave myself to him, full well.”

  The curse of their connection, Sparrow thought ruefully, was that he could feel her emotions and, to a lesser extent, Martin’s. Sparrow felt the shock spear through Martin, followed swiftly by increased rage.

  Sparrow got to his feet, snagging his sword on his way up. Martin did, indeed, grip his own blade, fiercely. But all his attention focused on Wren. “What? What did you say? But you are to be mine.”

  At that moment, Sparrow almost felt sorry for the poor blighter. For in the welter of emotions assailing Sparrow, Wren’s love for him screamed aloud.

  “Do not be a fool,” he said huskily. “She chooses.”

  “Does she? Does she!” Martin’s gaze raked him. “She is an untried maiden. How do I know what wiles you used upon her, to make your claim?”

  “I was an untried maiden,” Wren corrected.

  Martin’s jaw dropped. “This is not the first? Ah—when the two of you fled together, after Lil’s rescue.” He answered his own question.

  Gravely, Wren inclined her head. She looked a queen standing there with her tunic gaping and her hair streaming about her—a goddess, strong with the essence of Sherwood. A breath escaped Sparrow; surely she would command the moment and prevent bloodshed.

  But Martin waved his sword in a wild gesture. “Out of the way, Wren. I will face him as he deserves.”

  “No.” She stood firm. “You will not.”

  “It is for him to answer, not you. Have you chosen a coward?”

  “Should I let you kill each other? I need you both.”

  Martin used his blade to point behind him. “You expect me to take his place? I will not! Now, move aside, Wren. He and I will settle this between us.”

  “With me as prize? I think not. Go back to Alric and Madlyn, and wait for us. We shall speak together sanely.”

  “Oh, and should I go so he can finish rutting with you like a stinking boar?”

  “What goes on here? What is all this shouting?” Madlyn appeared behind her son; her voice held concern.

  “Go back to bed, Mother.”

  “I will not. Do you want to summon every soldier in the district to us? Oh.” Her eyes must have deciphered the scene despite the gloom. She laid her hand on her son’s arm. “Come away out of it, love.”

  He shook her off violently. “Get you gone, Mother. I mean to settle this.”

  “What is to settle?” Madlyn asked. “If she has
chosen—”

  “She has not chosen fairly. He has beguiled her.”

  “Sparrow, a beguiler? I think you have it wrong.”

  “Be gone, Mother. Go watch over the old man ’til he dies.”

  Madlyn recoiled slightly from the harsh words. Martin edged her aside and stepped forward aggressively. “Well, Sparrow, are you afraid to face me like a man?”

  “Never.” Sparrow’s anger rose rampant. Perhaps Martin needed a lesson: the sun neither rose nor set on him, and his arrogance could not always blaze his trail through life.

  But Wren objected. “No, I will not be snarled over like a—”

  Martin’s sword flashed round her and reached for Sparrow’s. The contact made a sound like a chime there in the quiet wood. Sparrow knew Madlyn had spoken true; any of Lambert’s men searching for them would come swiftly to that sound. But then he thought no more about it; he found himself in a fight for his life.

  Martin’s anger screamed in his every stroke, and he came swift and hard, his face set in a grim mask of bitter determination. Even in the dim light, his blade flashed silver. At once, Sparrow knew he had no hope of matching such skill, yet his own emotions lifted him and let him keep pace at the start. He, son of shepherds and woodsmen, was not the man for the sword. Give him axe or bow and he did better. Martin, himself descended from a soldier turned wolfshead, possessed true ability.

  Lightning fast, Martin made the first touch on Sparrow’s shoulder. Wren cried out then, as did Madlyn, saying, “That is enough.” The two men fought on, grimly now on Sparrow’s part. Did Martin mean to kill him? He shook the hair out of his eyes and fought for breath. And did Martin’s rage permit him to wonder what, then, would happen to the triad?

  Martin struck again, a blow to Sparrow’s left thigh, and Sparrow felt the warm blood begin to flow. Emotions battered at him, Martin’s anger, his own tangled caution and determination—for his anger had flown—Wren’s love and growing alarm.

  Martin bared his teeth in a grimace and Sparrow felt he faced a stranger, not his lifelong companion and sometime friend.

  He remembered Will Scarlet spending hours drilling at the sword with his son. Aye, and now it would pay off.

  Martin raised his sword in a skillful, murderous stroke. Sparrow saw death coming on it—or at least, maiming. His own weapon came up just a tick too slowly.

  Yet Wren moved swiftly enough. Before Sparrow could blink—or flinch—she leaped before him and stood, a shield of love and defense. And her flesh took the impact of Martin’s blade.

  Everything froze and sudden silence rushed in. Wren wavered where she stood, and Martin’s emotions turned to horror. Sparrow’s heart seemed to crumple in his chest. His sword dropped from his hand.

  Wren fell in bits, folding in upon herself; Sparrow caught her as she went down, denial screaming a protest in his mind. Bright blood sprang out against Wren’s pale skin, from collar bone to breast. Her gaze reached for him.

  “Fool!” He shouted at Martin as he sank with Wren across his knees, her back resting against him. He cradled her. “Look what you have done.”

  “I did not mean— She stepped in!”

  Wren’s lips moved but no sound came.

  “How grave a wound? Let me see.” Madlyn pushed in. Sparrow had not seen such a look on her face since the day Will Scarlet died.

  Blood now streamed down Wren’s breast. Murder flared in Sparrow’s soul. He wanted to lay her down, to get up and kill Martin with his bare hands, but he could not, because Wren needed him. He could feel her love and need, reaching.

  He could also feel Martin’s extreme dismay and regret, but he cared little for that. He raised his eyes to Martin’s face. “Get out of my sight.”

  “Do not speak to me that way.”

  “Look what you have done! You have killed her.” Even as Sparrow spoke, Wren’s eyes drifted closed. His arms tightened around her. “If we lose her, we lose everything.”

  Martin’s lips tightened. He gave a hard nod and then, miraculously, withdrew.

  Madlyn’s hands trembled as she inspected the wound. “I have not the skill for this. We need Lil.”

  “She is Lil, now.” Sparrow barely recognized his own voice. “If she follows Lil into the grave, our world is undone.” And his life would be over. Sparrow knew that now, to the very root of his soul. He could not hope to live a day without Wren. Yet she lay senseless in his arms.

  “Bring her.” Madlyn scrambled to her feet. “I have bandaging and medicines in my pack. Please the god, it will be enough.”

  Sparrow began to pray as he swung Wren up into his arms and returned the few paces to where Alric lay. He spoke to the god he always addressed, the only god he had been raised to know—the Green Man, lord of the trees. The god represented life, here in Sherwood; to his heart, Sparrow believed that. Yet the god had not kept his father alive, nor his mother. Nor Robin. Why should he save Wren now?

  Please, he beseeched even as he stretched Wren out beside the motionless Alric. I will do anything, give anything you ask.

  The trees tossed restlessly overhead, even though mere moments ago there had been no wind. A voice seemed to speak from nowhere and everywhere, to seep through Sparrow’s skin and sound within his mind.

  Anything?

  Anything, Sparrow confirmed. Only save her, please.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “Can you hit that mark?” Rennie heard challenge in the question, as well as gentleness and love.

  She stood in the forest, green light filtering down through branches high above. Motes of radiance danced around her like magic dust, and she breathed them in effortlessly. Her bow sat on her shoulder, and the man beside her made her feel inexpressibly safe.

  “What target? Where?” she asked.

  “Dead ahead—the beech tree with the square of fabric pinned to it.”

  Wren narrowed her eyes and peered ahead; she could barely see the target, yet she slid her bow from her shoulder and eased an arrow from the quiver on her back, sighted, and shot smoothly.

  “Well done. And now the next target, farther on.”

  “Where?” But even as she asked, Rennie saw it and loosed her second arrow. It flew true, and found its mark.

  “And the next.”

  “But I cannot see that target at all.”

  The man beside her laughed softly. “That is where faith comes in play. Sometimes, Daughter, we have to trust blindly.”

  Rennie lowered her bow and looked at him in surprise.

  “Surely you are not shocked to see me,” he smiled. “We have met here before.”

  So they had, and her heart quickened with gladness. He was Robin, her father, dead before she entered the world. He was the Green Man himself, god of this place. He was Sherwood.

  “And we have met in dreams. You came and spoke to me.”

  His smile deepened and reached his eyes. “You are very like me, you know.”

  “Am I?” Her gaze, amazed and curious, drank him in. Was this, indeed, how he had appeared at the time of his death? An ordinary-looking man, some might say, yet with nothing ordinary about him: of medium height, not so tall as Sparrow, with hair the exact color of her own streaming over his shoulders, and a narrow, clever face. Did her countenance truly echo his, with its grace and fierce beauty, the humor and wisdom? She feared not. And his eyes were nothing like her golden wild-fox eyes but held a clear sapphire serenity.

  She asked, quite reasonably, “Am I dead?”

  “No, Daughter.”

  “But you are.”

  “Am I?” He shook his head and the shaggy hair slapped his back. “I think not.”

  “Can you die? Are you just my father, or the god, in truth?”

  “Both.” He smiled again and light filled his face, drew her to him. Was this that which allowed him to inspire folk and lead them, sometimes to their deaths? Was it this that kept his legend always alive?

  “I am not sure I understand that.”

  “But you
must be sure, or you will never hit the target.”

  “Ah. We no longer speak of arrows, I think.”

  “Wren, look around you.” He waved a leather-clad arm. “What do you see?”

  “Trees.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  He laughed again, and the sound made Rennie’s heart rise. “Beyond the trees and inside them.”

  Rennie shook her head.

  “Life.” He supplied the word. “Endless life. It dwells in every tree, and it dwells in you. It dances like that light, and it cannot be defeated by so small a thing as death.”

  “Death, small? How can that be? I have lost to death everyone who should have been there to care for me—”

  “Daughter, do you believe in the magic of Sherwood?”

  “Well I must, since I stand here speaking with you now. Is this the magic of which you speak?”

  “It is. Sherwood is a repository of belief. It is strong because it is a place where old faith dwells, like the great stones to the south, or the sea that surrounds our island. Do you know at one time England was all forest? And when the first men came, it was here they found the magic of being, of life, and called it God. Daughter, you must defend Sherwood because it is so much more than trees. It is a natural fortress of belief in the right of each of us, who shares life, to flourish above oppression. I fought the Normans because of the threat they represented to what makes England—England.”

  Rennie wrinkled her brow, struggling to understand. “I am but an ignorant girl, raised in a scullery.”

  “Raised by Lil, you mean. Do not forget all she gave you—knowledge of herbs and spells, folk wisdom and history. You are well equipped for the role you must play.”

  Rennie did not feel well equipped. Yet reassurance flowed from this man the way radiance flowed through the trees. “And what role is that to be?”

  “You must take my place, that of leader, guardian, champion of right and of life.”

  Panic struck at Rennie’s heart. “But I thought I was to take Lil’s place while Sparrow and Martin contested over Alric’s and Geofrey’s.”

  “The balance has changed. There must be three, aye, forming a circle of power, an inviolable container for the magic that dwells here. Once it was me, your mother, and the Green Man himself, but the power was uneven, and when I died, it all fell apart.”