Daughter of Sherwood

by Laura Strickland

  The courtyard seemed a mile long, the gates an immeasurable distance. Behind him mayhem reigned. He could hear Lambert calling orders. Would he break his word after all? If he did, Sparrow would stand in his place at the rear of the party, to fight to the death if need be. But no, they gained the gates, still struggling under Martin’s weight.

  And there, quite near the gate, a face Sparrow knew—a figure hesitating as if not sure whether to stay or go.

  Simon.

  Wren’s head spun as the name sounded in Sparrow’s mind. She must have heard him—she knew Sparrow was here. And she, too, saw Simon. Her eyes speared him and her anger flared.

  Bring him, she told Sparrow. And, by the god’s light, get yourself safe away.

  Sparrow bulled his way through the crowd to collar the lad roughly. “You—traitor, come with me.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  “You must keep strong, Martin. I know just how strong you can be.” Rennie spoke the words out loud as she walked alongside the rough litter hastily formed out of two tree boughs and borne by her men. At the same time, she plumbed the reaches of Martin’s mind. No response. He still breathed, shallowly, but his thoughts had sunk far beneath her reach.

  She felt spent, drained, utterly exhausted. Her father’s spirit had deserted her at some point after Martin’s freedom was won—even she could not be sure when. The shot that skimmed Lambert’s ear had been her own. In going, Robin seemed to have taken something of her with him.

  Now she survived on residual tension and worry. Lambert had tortured poor Thomas to death; one of the first things he would have ordered his torturers to discover was the new location of the outlaws’ camp. Lambert had also seen Rennie’s face. That meant she, and those for whom she cared so dearly, balanced on the bright blade of danger.

  And she did care for them, she who once cared for so little. During her days spent suffering in the scullery, she had loved Lil, and squandered the remainder of her energy in anger and resentment. Since coming to Sherwood, she had changed. She now loved like a tide out-flowing—loved the folk of the forest, with their courageous hearts, loved Sherwood itself.

  Loved Martin.

  Every time she thought of him, her heart faltered. A powerful bond had flowered between the two of them there in the forecourt. Her love enfolded him still.

  And, what of Sparrow? Even now he followed them through the forest. Rennie could not see but felt him. He had risked himself to follow her to Nottingham—she would worry about that later. For now, she knew only Martin’s need.

  He could not die. She could not let him. Was this what poor Alric had felt, when losing Lil? No wonder he had laid himself down and surrendered.

  The men who bore Martin muttered among themselves, as exhausted as she.

  “Camp, just ahead.”

  Home, but no refuge. Rennie groaned inwardly. She would have to mobilize everyone this night, once more send them scattering into the safety of the trees. Her heart quailed at the very thought.

  Lambert would come.

  She shivered, remembering the look in his eyes when de Breche unmasked her—the look of a man who would not rest until he had revenge. Aye, well, she was capable of seeking revenge also. And what he had done to injure her folk far surpassed any blow to Lambert’s face or his pride.

  They entered the camp and were met by waiting arms and an outcry of dismay. Madlyn came and laid both hands against her son’s cheeks, and her own turned white as milk.

  “What have they done? Oh, Martin—” She drew a breath and stared at Rennie. “I possess not the skill to mend this. We need Lil.”

  “You will do as you must, Mother, and I with you,” Rennie told her. She began calling orders. “Make for him a pallet, as quickly as possible. Bring water and bandages. Hurry, we cannot stay here long.”

  “Cannot stay?” Madlyn echoed, daunted.

  “Lambert tortured his prisoners. He knows all Thomas knew before he died.”

  “But—” Madlyn’s lips parted. “We cannot drag my son through the forest in this condition. He will surely die.”

  “It is the forest that will save him, and you. Tend him as best you can before we depart. You travel in my party.”

  But Madlyn did not move. She stood with her hands resting against Martin’s face while tears came, filled her eyes, and spilled over.

  An agonized cry sounded behind Rennie. She whirled to see Sally, who stared at the man on the litter in dawning horror.

  “No—”

  “Catch her,” Rennie said to no one in particular, “before she goes down.”

  Several hands were in time to snare Sally as she sank to the earth. Rennie’s tension ramped up another notch.

  She turned her head sharply. She could feel Sparrow coming up from behind—he had escaped safely. The knowledge was her only available comfort.

  “Send word to Oakham,” she told the nearest man, “and to the other hamlets sympathetic to us. Lambert will be coming, and when he does, he will burn them to the ground.”

  ****

  Sparrow arrived in camp only moments later, with his prisoner in tow. Rennie, bent over Martin’s pallet, watching Madlyn bathe his wounds, heard the furor of raised voices and sharp exclamations. She got to her feet.

  Seldom had she seen Sparrow look so grim. And the young man caught in his relentless grasp—Simon—the lad looked like a trapped animal, paralyzed by terror. Rennie’s anger flared when she saw him. She leaped forward and met the pair beside the fire, with half the camp looking on.

  “You! Traitor!” Her fingers moved of their own volition and struck the lad hard enough to sway him in Sparrow’s grasp. “Do you know what you have done? Do you see what you have cost us?” She pointed at Martin. “The deaths of many good men—and him!”

  “Wren,” Sparrow said softly.

  “I know. Forgive me—I had no choice.” Simon choked on the words.

  “Lambert has his mother.” Sparrow spoke in sorrow. “He threatened to throw her to his guards, like a bone.”

  “She is lost now. Better dead!” Simon began to sob.

  The anger left Rennie in a rush, to be replaced by grief. For an instant she saw it all so clearly—the injustice and pain, endless wrong and suffering. As if, for an instant, she looked with her father’s eyes, she viewed the cause and the need, knew why he had chosen this fight at any cost.

  “Oh, lad,” she said to Simon.

  “I tried to save her, I did. I told Sir Lambert whatever he wanted. But it did not matter, in the end.” He broke down completely and wept in Sparrow’s arms. Those watching drifted away, and Rennie fought to control her own emotions.

  Sparrow’s eyes met hers over Simon’s head.

  What to do now? he asked her silently.

  Aloud, she said, “We must flee this place. Best take him with you.”

  “With us, you mean. I go where you go, Wren.”

  Rennie felt Sparrow’s emotions so clearly, his love and determination—the same feelings that had drawn him to Nottingham in her wake. But she shook her head. “I go with Martin.”

  “But—”

  “He needs me, Sparrow, to give him my strength.”

  Sparrow’s face grew tight. “And your love?”

  Rennie realized Sparrow had felt what took place there in the forecourt. She could not help that now. “If need be. I will give him whatever he needs to survive, whatever I have.”

  “Including yourself?”

  “I cannot let him die. You cannot, for all that. He is part of us, part of this—of Sherwood.” She gestured wildly to their surroundings.

  “Fine, then.” Sparrow’s voice turned brittle. “But I come with you.”

  “No.”

  He opened his lips to speak, and Rennie rushed on. “We dare not be taken all together, the three of us. Do you not see that?”

  “If two of us be lost, the spell is destroyed anyway,” he answered gravely.

  “Or one of us, for all that.” She glanced over her
shoulder at Martin. “I do not know if he will live.” Terror touched her at the thought of the alternative. “My strength is nearly gone.”

  “Then take me with you,” Sparrow told her, “and let me give you mine.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  “She chose me.” Sparrow despised his own selfishness even as he reminded himself of that fact once again. He did not feel chosen. Instead, it seemed Wren had virtually dropped him from her awareness.

  She thought only of Martin.

  A full day had passed since they broke camp and fled, in groups, deeper into Sherwood. Their group was larger than Sparrow liked and consisted of Wren and himself, Martin, Madlyn, and Simon, with the unfortunate inclusion of Sally. When they moved, Sparrow and Simon toted the litter. Sally wept.

  She wept silently and without ceasing. Sparrow could not say he blamed her. There were moments in plenty when he felt like joining her.

  Such as now, when evening came down and Wren sat, devoted, at Martin’s side and held his hand. They dared not have so much as a whisper of fire, even here in the trackless reaches of the forest, and already the night damp crept in.

  Sparrow knew Martin wallowed in pain and his life hung by a thread. He could feel Martin’s weakness, virtually taste his agony; Sparrow knew how he flickered in and out of consciousness.

  To Sparrow’s misfortune, he could also feel Wren’s emotions—he did not even have to touch her to do so. They poured off her in tangible waves: warmth, caring, strength—love. It was as if part of her reached inside Martin to call him back from the dark place he had gone, and then held him.

  Sparrow shivered, feeling his own chill at the edge of the circle, even as he paced their stopping place on watch. He glanced over his shoulder at the scene.

  The three of them made a changeless tableau—Martin stretched on his litter, looking like a dead god with his fair hair all tousled and his wounded arms thrown out; Madlyn with her simples and her visible fear that her skills would not suffice; Wren—

  Sparrow’s heart faltered within him as he observed her. She glowed. The same light he had seen around her in the forecourt at Nottingham now surrounded her and burned steadily, extending to and fully enfolding Martin.

  Ah, so that was what love looked like to eyes that could see it. And Sparrow, linked closely to the two of them as he was, could see.

  By the god’s horns, how could he be so selfish as to mind? But he did—he did, for he loved her with a depth that terrified him. It surpassed the mere physical, though that did not keep him from aching for her moment after moment. He longed for her touch even in passing, and suffered from being deprived of it. He perished for the taste of her. It might have been better had he never known her at all.

  No, not that. He cherished every memory of what they had shared together, alone in the forest—that which he feared he might never know again. For he could not rid himself of the belief that Wren had now given herself, in some inexplicable, incomprehensible way, to Martin instead.

  But she chose me, he whined to himself piteously, yet again. Could it happen? Could Wren choose him and then change her heart? Could it be changed by Martin’s need?

  Disgusted with himself, he spun on his heel and nearly collided with Sally, who stood at his elbow.

  “What is it, love?” As if he need ask. Sally’s grief and desperation nearly matched his own.

  “Sparrow, I think I should tell him.”

  “Eh?” Fully distracted, Sparrow did not at once grasp her meaning.

  “I wish to tell Martin I carry his child. He should know, in case—” Sally’s throat spasmed and her voice died.

  “Lass, I do not know that he can hear you, or will understand. He is far beyond our reach.” But not beyond Wren’s—for she held him fast. Kindly, he added to Sally, “And just as well. It shelters him from some of the pain.”

  And such pain it must be. Sparrow’s very spirit flinched from it. He had to admit only Martin’s great strength could so endure.

  Two more tears coursed down Sally’s face. “Will he die, Sparrow?”

  “Not if Wren has aught to say about it.”

  Sally gazed at the group of three. Sparrow wondered if she could sense what he felt, if she minded, but then she burst, “I would do anything for her—anything—could she but save him.”

  And there, Sparrow thought, was love at its finest—no selfish emotion. He caught Sally’s hand. “Come.”

  They approached the threesome quietly. Wren glanced up, and Sparrow felt her attention slide over him and away again.

  “How fares he?” Sparrow addressed Madlyn instead of Wren.

  New, deep lines furrowed Madlyn’s face. She looked exhausted. “He weakens.” She waved her hands helplessly. “So many wounds.”

  “He will endure, Mother—you know how strong he is.”

  Madlyn’s head drooped, her only reply.

  Sparrow spoke. “Might we have a moment alone with him, Sally and I?”

  Wren’s head lifted sharply. Her nostrils flared, and her fingers, clasped around Martin’s, turned white. “Why?” Her voice sounded rough, that of a defensive she-wolf. Mine, it said.

  Sparrow summoned a painful smile. “We would give him something to live for.” A child was that, at least to Sparrow’s mind. What would he not give for one of his own? If the news could reach Martin—

  Wren’s eyes narrowed with caution. “I do not know that he will hear anything you say. I have been calling him. It becomes more difficult.” She considered Sally, and her demeanor softened almost imperceptibly. “But if you think you can tell him aught that will help—”

  Sally sank to her knees beside Martin, and Wren surrendered Martin’s hand to her. Sally would not have her moment alone, but it seemed she cared little for any listening ears.

  “Oh, my love, my dear love,” she began. “Can you ever forgive me? This is my fault, all of it. You went seeking revenge because of what I said, the lie I told.”

  Wren’s face once more tightened. Sparrow ached to touch her but dared not—she, like Sally, fought hard for control.

  Sally’s agony continued to pour off her. “Perhaps I do not deserve your forgiveness. But should my lie cost your life, should you pass from this world, you need to go knowing the truth: I do not carry Lambert’s child. He never waylaid me nor touched me. That was a tale I told. My child is yours, my love—yours.”

  She collapsed in tears, Martin’s hand clutched to her cheek.

  Sparrow felt Wren recoil from the display. She got to her feet and stepped to his side. Her eyes, merciless as those of a hawk, raked his face. “She blames herself, but this is your fault as much as hers. You knew the truth, Sparrow. You knew, and yet you let him go seeking his revenge. You could have kept him from spending himself for a lie.”

  Sparrow sucked in a breath and winced as if she had slapped him. “No one in this world can keep Martin from spending himself, once his mind is set.”

  Her eyes narrowed, “Yet you could have said—”

  “No.” Sparrow clenched his jaw. “The secret was not mine. Had it been, I say to you again, it would surely have been told. But not even my feelings for you, Wren, will make me break my word given in good faith.”

  Her brows flew up and her look cooled still further. “So, for the sake of a foolish girl’s secret, you have risked everything.”

  “No, Wren—for the sake of my honor.”

  “Your honor?” she burst. “And what is that, if we lose him? What happens to the cause, if the circle shatters? You might at least have confided in me. I thought we shared everything.”

  “As did I.” His gaze touched Martin. “But I perceive I was wrong.” He moved to turn away, and Wren seized his shoulder, her touch far from gentle. He had longed so for her to touch him, even a simple brush of her hand, but now the contact only served to emphasize the distance between them.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  Sparrow stared at her, mute. A muscle jumped in his cheek.

&
nbsp; Her eyes widened suddenly. “You do not begrudge my time with him? He lies dying!”

  The hard honesty inside Sparrow made him reply, “I begrudge not your time nor even your caring. But I saw—felt—what happened between the two of you at Nottingham—”

  “What? I upheld him. I sustained him!”

  “You love him.” Sparrow was ashamed of the words that followed but could no more hold them than stop his breath. “More than me?”

  She, in turn, looked as if he had struck her. She actually reared back, and her hand fell from his shoulder. He saw the thoughts move in her beautiful eyes: doubt, anger, scorn.

  She seethed. “I was not aware that we meted out amounts of love the way Lil once measured her simples. And I did not know I had lain with a mere boy. I thought you a man full grown, wise and deep of spirit.”

  Sparrow felt her barb enter him, an arrow to the heart.

  “Is this, then, your love?” she challenged. “This narrow, ugly, and spiteful thing?”

  Sparrow’s throat worked before he spoke. Never had he been accused of selfishness. All the years of his growing, he had been the giver who considered the feelings of others, even while Martin did as he chose without regard. Aye, he felt jealousy now, but for Wren to denounce him for it went beyond bearing. Hoarsely, he said, “You do not understand.”

  “You are right. I do not.”

  “I need you.”

  Her eyes flashed. “He needs me. Be gone from my sight.”

  “By the god’s mercy, Wren, do not ask that.”

  “I do not want to look at you—I cannot bear it.”

  Sparrow shrank into himself as her disdain found its deeper mark. He stood, frozen, as she began to turn away from him, back toward Martin. Only then did he call, not with his voice but with his mind, Wren, I love you.

  She made no reply.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  “I fear we are being trailed,” Sparrow told Rennie, a new, guarded expression on his face. “I think we need to break camp and move on once more.”