Rennie looked up at the man she loved, who stood grave and still, and at the others who ringed them—outlaws and outcasts, true hearts. Then she turned back and tore open Martin’s tunic with hands that shook. The garment fell away and revealed the wound, a grievous thing.
Ragged and gaping, it leered at her, the mark of Lambert’s hatred. Rennie placed her hands, one to either side of it, on Martin’s skin, as if she could expunge, mend, heal.
“Wren,” Sparrow breathed again.
Above Rennie’s head, a bird sang. The trees stirred, and Sherwood whispered. It sounded like Lil’s voice, like Robin’s voice. Under her knees, she felt life flowing, and under her hands—
“He is not gone yet. Here, Sparrow, here to me.”
Sparrow stood as if frozen, his eyes wide with shock.
She reached up reddened fingers and seized his hand. “I need you. This will require both of us. Call him, Sparrow. Call him back!”
“Wren, he is dead.” Sparrow had landed on his knees, across from her. Martin’s body lay between them.
She stared into his eyes. “He is still here. He is here! They are all here, in Sherwood.”
She pressed Sparrow’s hands to Martin’s naked bloodied chest. His eyes widened still farther as he felt what she felt.
“Call him,” she bade. “Tell him how we need him.”
Sparrow gasped and bent his head. Rennie saw the blue light begin to gather around him, pure as water or the sky at night. She felt his strength begin to flow into Martin’s body.
She pressed her own hands tight, fingertips just touching Sparrow’s, closing the wound, and began to spin golden light, drawing it from the air around her, from the trees, from the very soil of Sherwood and its waters. She breathed it in with the air, and sent it in a current into Martin’s stilled flesh.
Fine job, that, said Lil, beside her, with a smile in her voice. Rennie had always been able to hear Lil smile.
Will Scarlet knelt at Martin’s head, his eyes burning silver fire. Son, arise. Your work is not done.
Blue sparks erupted from Sparrow’s hands, gold streamed from beneath Rennie’s fingers. They sifted together, and the world turned green.
Arise! Will Scarlet shouted.
Martin jerked beneath Rennie’s hands. His eyelids twitched and he drew a deep, shuddering breath.
Sparrow opened his eyes. Rennie raised her head. They, and their band, were alone, both Lil and Will Scarlet gone. The green light died away gently. Beneath her hands, Martin’s heart beat strong and even.
“He lives.” Sparrow breathed the words and lifted his hands in disbelief. His eyes met Rennie’s. “He lives.”
Rennie began to weep again, this time with joy. “Aye, by all that is holy, he is with us still.”
Chapter Forty-One
“A number of our people intend to go to ground, deeper into Sherwood,” Sparrow told Rennie in an even voice which revealed none of his true emotion. He stood before her in the dawn light, seeming calm and quiet. But Rennie could feel that something within him had focused, intensified. Simply, he added, “I would make one of them. Will you come?”
Rennie raised her eyes, considering him. All around her, Sherwood hummed with energy that sounded like music. She could feel it now without effort, just as she could feel her connection to Martin and to this man before her in near-visible trails of magic.
Gently she asked, “Would you have me abandon the rest of my people?” Abandonment, as she knew, was the hardest of things.
Sparrow shook his head. “Nay. But I believe everyone will scatter for a time, until we see how matters stand in Nottingham. ’Tis a good enough season for it, with summer coming on. Before autumn, folk will move back to rebuild Oakham and take up their lives.”
Rennie nodded. “Under the guidance of their staunch headman, Martin Scarlet.”
“And with hope of a better life.”
“And, pray,” Rennie tipped her head, “who has decided how all this will be?”
“Martin and I, together, whilst you slept.”
“Together?” Rennie’s eyebrows twitched. “And does Martin also mean to avail himself of the bosom of Sherwood before taking up his place in Oakham?”
Sparrow shrugged. “He needs healing. That is the place for it—I do not think any among us can deny that, now.”
“No.” Rennie drew a breath. “Walk with me.”
She reached for his hand, and a small shower of sparks erupted between their fingers. This had happened every time she touched him, all the night. She glanced behind as they moved off into the trees: the rough camp looked deceptively peaceful and quiet with the golden light arcing overhead. She could see that most folk had bundled up their few belongings. All spoke in hushed tones.
Martin lay with two women bending over him—Madlyn, with a mother’s grace, and Sally, who had not once left his side since he was carried in. Rennie narrowed her eyes. A slight haze of crimson light danced over and about Martin.
Sparrow said, “I can barely get my head around what happened yesterday. Martin, I mean. I do not think I realized, until that moment, how surely the three of us are connected.”
“The three of us, and Sherwood,” Rennie corrected. “You and I called him back, but ’twas Sherwood did the giving.”
“Aye,” Sparrow agreed gravely. “And the three of us are now its stewards and guardians, our lives long.”
Above and around them, the trees stirred and spoke in their own language; Rennie cocked her head to listen. “Yet,” she said thoughtfully, “we cannot stay all together, can we?” She turned to face Sparrow. “’Tis what I need to tell you. I have made up my mind.”
****
Sparrow stared deep into Wren’s golden eyes, seeing there the sweet coming of the dawn, the return of radiance after a storm. In Wren’s eyes lay the very light of Sherwood. He searched for an answer to the question that burned inside him. For he had been linked with her when they drew Martin back into life, and he knew what she had felt then. Aye, he knew without doubt how Wren loved Martin. And Sparrow had never succeeded in losing his fear that Wren would choose Martin after all.
Now she said she had chosen.
Sparrow trembled. He plundered her eyes and he plundered her emotions, but all that came to him was a sense of strength and resolution.
Aye, his Wren had become strong. No more the half-wild creature who had burst from Lil’s scullery but still, and ever, Sherwood’s daughter.
“Tell me,” he bade. His fingers clenched on hers.
She drew a breath. “We do need time to regain our strength. Martin needs healing, and I agree with you, Sherwood is the place for that. But when we return, it will be to a whole new fight. The King will appoint another sheriff, and we will need to be strong and sure.”
She means to choose him, Sparrow thought, pain erupting inside him. She will throw her support behind the man whose strength is his defiance. He said, woodenly, “Martin.”
“Surely you see he is the best choice for leading our fight? He has earned the place. He deserves it.”
Agonized, Sparrow asked, “And what do I deserve?”
She gazed away from him for an instant, into the trees, as if once more listening to Sherwood. Her eyes returned to Sparrow’s, but she did not reply.
He burst, on a sudden rush of bitterness, “So, it is banishment to the hermitage for me, is it? A life alone? Solitary—”
A curious smile touched her lips. “Alone, you say? In Sherwood? How can you call it so, given all we have experienced? You know what—who—dwells within Sherwood. You know the holiness at its heart. How can you say life there would be lived alone?”
“I would be alone anywhere, without you.” Sparrow no longer cared what it took to persuade her. He would bare his soul if he had to. He would make her see how he needed her, as the trees needed sunlight, as the roots needed the deep loam. Aye, perhaps Martin had been born for the place of leader of their cause. But Sparrow had been born—he lived and breathe
d—for the place beside this woman.
He seized both her hands, threaded his fingers through hers, assuring she felt what he felt. “What of our child,” he appealed, “that you may well carry? Am I to live apart from her, or him?”
“Ah, the children of Sherwood.” She looked back through the trees toward Sally, still bent over Martin. “The next generation of guardians, two already on their way and one no doubt yet to be conceived. You are right. They will need their parents.”
“Aye.” Sparrow’s heart leaped and trembled. “Do you forget what it is like to grow without mother and father?”
Her gaze returned to his. “I forget nothing. But I say to you, Sparrow Little—you of the speeding arrows and the true heart—things in the future need not be as they have been in the past.”
Sparrow shook his head. “I am not sure I understand.”
“Sherwood once had a lord—Robin Hood. It now has a lady—Wren Wolfshead. Why should the triad not adjust itself accordingly?” She leaned toward him, so close her lips nearly brushed his, and her eyes glowed.
“Go to Sherwood, Sparrow. Make for yourself a place deep in solitude where the rarest and truest magic may be learned, where the trees and waters speak. And I—”
“You?”
She breathed onto his lips, and into his soul, “I will come with you.”
He felt it then, the gladness rushing up through her, a mighty force of pure love that filled him where he stood and set all the trees around them to dancing.
“You will come with me?” Sparrow repeated in joy. “Live with me?”
“Why cannot the hermitage shelter two? Two, for a time.” A wise smile curved her lips. “Three, before too long. Why cannot Martin return to lead the folks here?” She added decisively, “Martin and Sally. It is time he did what is right.”
“And we?”
“We shall harbor, cherish, and grow a deeper magic along with this child. For we know the fight will go on. Yet it has become apparent our greatest weapon is not Martin’s sword, or even your arrows, but it is the magic of this place that will save us all. When we come back to fight, it will be as the lord and lady of the forest, and none shall stand against us.”
Sparrow believed her. Amazement touched him, love taller than the trees and gratitude deeper than the ancient roots. He drew her closer and gazed into her eyes, into her soul.
“You have chosen me for this?”
“I have chosen you.” Each word came punctuated by a small kiss, each burning brighter than the last. “My heart chooses. Sparrow Little, will you plight yourself to me?”
He drew a breath that contained her essence and felt magic swirl around them: blue and gold twining together into eternal green.
Ah, but that pledge had been made the first time he saw her in Lil’s kitchen. “My heart is already yours,” he told her. “I pledge my life also—pledge it new every day, every hour, so long as any part of me remains in Sherwood.”
Wren smiled. “Then come, my Sparrow, and fly with me.”
A word about the author...
Born and raised in Western New York, Laura Strickland has been an avid reader and writer since childhood. Embracing her mother's heritage, she pursues a lifelong interest in Celtic lore, legend, and music, all reflected in her writing.
She has made pilgrimages to both Newfoundland and Scotland in the company of her daughter, but is usually happiest at home not far from Lake Ontario, with her husband and her “fur” child, a rescue dog. She practices gratitude every day.
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