Daughter of Sherwood (7 page)

At least her terrible trembling had ceased. Maybe Sparrow had charmed it from her, for they walked with their hands linked and emotions flowed easily between them. She could feel how badly his injured arm pained him, how he craved water and rest. She knew how he craved her.

Ever since that kiss—but, it had been no mere kiss. A power lurked in it, and a terrifying current of desire, maybe even belonging. But Rennie could not be sure about that. She had never belonged anywhere, save the scullery, and to no one but Lil.

She stole another look at Sparrow. In the soft light of encroaching evening he appeared mysterious, a mere shadow moving at her side, with the brown hair lying sleek against his shoulders and his eyes veiled. He had a fine profile, a strong nose, and those lips... Remembering the feel of them, desire stirred deep in her belly, and he turned his head to look at her again.

His gaze was that of a hart, dark and secretive, holding wisdom deep enough to inspire awe in her heart. Mating with him, she thought, would be like mating with the forest itself.

She spoke, in an effort to deny what she felt. “I would not like to stay out here all night.”

“Here, or back at camp, it is all the same. The forest looks out for us. But we are not far from camp. What I am wondering is whether camp will still be safe, or if soldiers have already discovered it.”

“How many of our folk died, do you think?”

“Ours? Villagers and forest folk, all? I saw at least four go down.”

Her fingers spasmed in his. “Lil—”

“I did not see what befell her, but I thought I saw Sally’s father, Edgar, fall.”

“No.”

“And old John. Two others of the villagers—”

“Why would Lambert’s men attack at a burial? You do not suppose they were looking for me?”

Sparrow shook his head. “I much doubt it. Lambert had no way of knowing you were there.”

“I think he saw me, though.” Remembering, Rennie shivered. “He looked right at me. What if he saw Lil, also? Will she be able to return to Nottingham?”

“Lil can look after herself.”

“By using magic, you mean?” Rennie stopped walking and dragged at Sparrow’s hand.

He looked at her. “If need be. Now come and let us see if camp is where we left it.”

It was. Night just kissed the tops of the trees as Sparrow and Rennie entered the clearing to find a cold fire, and folk gathered in grim silence.

The first to catch sight of them was Martin. He leaped up and rushed over, anger and relief both in his eyes.

“About time you showed yourself, Sparrow. We thought her dead!” His gaze dropped to their hands, still linked, and his jaw grew tight. “What do you think you are about?”

“We were followed and had to take the long way round. I waited for things to grow quiet.”

“I will just wager you did.” Martin’s eyes turned wild. He planted the flat of his hand on Sparrow’s chest and pushed. “Get away from her.”

Sparrow stumbled back and then stood his ground. It would take more muscle than that, Rennie knew, to shift him.

She released his fingers and glared into Martin’s face. “Why are you so angry?”

“He is a fool, worrying us, when he should know how dear you are to us all!”

“This is no time for your mad accusations.” The authority in Rennie’s voice surprised her. “Where is Lil? Is she all right?”

“Bruised from being knocked about a bit. She and Alric made off; she means to return to Nottingham.” Martin tossed the words at Rennie and then, still aggressive, stepped up to Sparrow. “I do not know why Lil gave you leave to guard Wren, anyway. She should have been left in my charge.”

Sparrow’s head came up. “So you could protect her as you did Sally’s father?”

Martin flared like a torch igniting. Before Rennie could draw breath he flew at Sparrow, and all at once the two of them grappled together, muscle against muscle, straining mightily before they went down, thrashing.

Everyone else in the clearing came to his or her feet as the two men rolled, grunting wordless snarls, a flurry of blows landing so fast and hard Rennie could not tell who got the worst of it.

She ran to Madlyn, who stood with her arm around Sally. “Stop them!”

Madlyn shook her head. “No stopping it now.”

“But he is your son. He will listen to you.”

“If that is what you think, you do not know him.”

“But Sparrow is sore injured—”

“As is Martin. Do you think he faced those soldiers and came out of it unscathed?”

“Then I say to you again, stop him. Sally—” Rennie looked into the girl’s eyes. They were red and swollen from weeping, and she did not react to what Rennie said.

“Then I shall stop them myself.” Rennie started forward, but Madlyn caught her arm.

“Nay, let them work it out. This has been days coming. I am only surprised it took so long.”

But Rennie could not stand and watch blow after blow given and received, much less endure the onslaught of anger and ugliness she could feel flying off the pair. She turned and fled.

The two men came off the ground as if hauled by ropes.

“Wren!” Sparrow hollered, and started after her. Martin pushed him aside, and it was he who caught Rennie before she had taken ten steps into the shadowed forest.

“Little fool!” As soon as he touched her, she felt his anger and raw panic. They broke over her like a sea.

She turned on him. “Get away from me.”

“What?”

“Leave me alone. It is too much. Can you not see that?”

He stared at her. Blood trickled from one corner of his mouth, and already one eye had begun to swell. “I only wish to protect you.”

“Oh, and is this truly about what you want? What he wants? What I want, for all that?” Rennie sensed that the vortex in which she found herself might be bigger than any mere desire or intention. Her eyes stabbed the dark behind Martin; Sparrow did not appear.

Why did he not come?

“Listen to me, Wren. You and I together could make a difference for the folk of Sherwood, of Nottingham, and beyond. ’Tis time we threw off the yoke laid on us by our Norman overlords. We have been stagnant and compliant far too long, ever since your father’s dream fractured with his death. But I can feel what is inside you—the fire and the magic. We can turn the tide.”

“And, what?” Rennie challenged. “Overthrow Lambert? The Sheriff? The King?”

“Why not?” His voice flicked like a whip. “Do we not have right on our side? Your father believed in the power of right. My father taught me so! He told me justice is won a battle at a time—one man at a time.”

“Very admirable. But as one raised in the scullery on the Sheriff’s crumbs and leavings, I can tell you there is much injustice, and great distance between us and the King.”

“You think I do not know it?” He leaned toward her and widened his eyes. “There is a long score to settle. You and I together, though—” His fingers tightened on her arm. “Can you not feel what lies between us?”

Rennie could. She also knew the potential of what lay between her and Sparrow. She stole another look past Martin’s shoulder.

Martin stepped closer. “Stop looking for him—he is not coming. Do you know why? He is weak. He speaks of peace and compromise, the promise in this document the barons forced King John to sign.”

“The Magna Carta?”

“That is it. But I will tell you something, Wren. That grand document assures the rights of those very barons and lords, most of them Norman. It does nothing for the likes of you and me, serfs with no more liberty than a hound. They will live, still, off the efforts of our hands and the strain of our backs, if we let them. They must be made to reckon with us.”

Rennie challenged him back. “How?”

“Wage war on them from Sherwood. Since your father—and mine—died, we have done no more than exist and protect ourselves. That must change. Let the King himself come here and deal with us, and our success will spread. There are more serfs in this land than lords—let us all rise at once!”

“You are mad.”

“Am I? All it will take is the right leaders. Once I declare myself Lord of Sherwood and you my lady—”

He bent his head and kissed her. All his fire and enthusiasm flooded into her from the place his lips met hers.

Rennie promptly caught light in response, the wild streak in her responding to that in him. His spirit called to her, and the power of the call both thrilled and daunted her.

No sweet inquiry, this. Martin drew her close against him and explored the interior of her mouth in a manner that left no question as to his intent. His body, pressed hard to hers, kept no secrets.

Both his spirit and his body inflamed and battered Rennie with equal impact.

A wind came up and stirred the trees overhead, and in the distance thunder rumbled, its promised lightning matching the heat of Martin’s embrace.

He broke the kiss suddenly to say, “Give yourself to me, Wren, and nothing will stop us.”

“I need time.” Her fingers had anchored themselves in the soft leather of his jerkin. She discovered she wanted his mouth on hers again—the taste of him might well be addictive, like strong wine.

“Nay, Wren, come with me now. I will ask Alric to join us.”

“Join?”

“Handfast. Wed.”

“I scarcely know you.”

“You do—you can feel me, Wren, even as I feel you.”

She could certainly feel something, a hot power surging at her from between his thighs. Rennie remembered the girls in the kitchens talking about one suitor or another, comparing their endowments.
My lad Cedric is a regular bull in the hay, he gored me right well last night—twice!
She recalled how Lambert had reached for his fly.

Rennie struggled to draw breath, fighting the force of Martin’s desire which, somehow, seemed to have become her own.

“I am ready to wed with no one,” she declared, and freed herself from the hot grasp of his hands. “And one thing I will tell you, Master Scarlet—you shall never bully me.”

Chapter Ten

“I cannot believe my father is dead, gone.” Sally repeated the words for the third or fourth time, brokenly.

They wrenched at Sparrow’s heart. He had no comfort for the lass, who had wept most of the night. Now the chill of morning had come creeping, and the forest camp felt as barren and sere as Sparrow’s own emotions.

A thin spire of smoke curled up from the fire, and all the trees drooped. Last night’s storm had passed, but the clouds hung low, and it felt more like winter than spring.

Sally clung to Madlyn, who possessed far more patience than her son. Martin, to whom Sally had first looked for a shoulder on which to weep, remained distracted by Wren.

That knowledge was a knife in Sparrow’s gut. The curse of feeling what Wren felt, even in part, told him she had been inflamed when she and Martin returned last night from the dark under the trees—angered, but stirred, as well.

Now Sparrow’s arm ached with a raw, biting pain, the damp seemed to seep into his bones, and the future looked hopelessly bleak. If Wren chose Martin...

Even now the two of them spoke together, huddled on one side of the clearing, their heads far too close for Sparrow’s liking. He did not know of what they could be speaking, but he caught spikes of emotion from both of them, uncertainty and then enthusiasm from Wren, and from Martin, jubilation.

Sparrow forced his fingers through his hair. Yesterday, when he kissed Wren, he had been so sure he had won. Not that Wren’s love was a contest, like the countless others between himself and Martin all these years past. But he had been able to feel Wren respond to him even as his heart came alive at her touch.

“Come, lamb, lie down a while. You have had no rest.” Dimly he saw Madlyn lead Sally off to one of the sheltered bowers. When Madlyn returned, she sat beside Sparrow and elbowed him.

“If you want her, fight for her, lad.”

“Eh?”

Madlyn nodded at the couple across the way. “Will you sit with your head in your hands while Martin works his wiles? Oh, do not look so surprised. Do you suppose, just because he is my son, I do not know what he is like?”

Sparrow said nothing.

“I love both of you,” Madlyn went on. “You have been a second son to me, since your mother died.”

The pain inside Sparrow eased a little. “I know, and I am grateful.”

“Martin is like his father, whom I loved despite knowing better. Will was heedless, hotheaded, and started more fights than he had pots of ale, and that is saying something. Martin—well, he bred true.”

“He thinks me weak.”

Madlyn snorted. “He thinks everyone weak. It is one of his greatest faults. Ruthlessness and wisdom seldom travel together. She will not think you weak, lad, if you show her otherwise.”

“Easy to say, when he has already won all her attention.”

“There is naught easy about love, or life, for all that. But, you know, we would not be here if not to learn hard lessons.”

Sparrow shot her a sidelong glance. Her blue eyes looked thoughtful.

“Here, Madlyn?”

“In the world. I once heard Alric say ’tis all life is, a place to learn and shape our spirits. I believe that. Otherwise, I do not think I could go on, for there is too much loss, and far too much pain.”

Impulsively, Sparrow touched the woman’s hand. “You are very wise, Madlyn.”

Madlyn shrugged. “I have made mistakes in plenty, and I have lived with them. Benefit from my knowledge, lad, and do not let something go by, if you want it very badly. Failing, and even feeling the fool, is better than sharp regret.”

Ruefully, Sparrow asked, “Do you not want your son to become headman of Oakham rather than a humble hermit, wed to the forest?”

“Well, that is just it, Sparrow. I am not sure but it is the place he wants, rather than the lass. And I am not about to claim I know what he needs.”

Later that morning, a young lad brought news from Oakham. No less than five of their own had perished in yesterday’s encounter, including Sally’s father and John, the senior member of their band. Alric sent word urging the outlaws to stay away from the hamlet for a time.

“He also asked that you keep Sal here for now,” the lad reported. “’Tis not safe, with her father gone.”