Daughter of Sherwood (8 page)

Sally, exhausted, still slept, but those gathered in a ring around the lad nodded gravely.

“What news from Nottingham?” Martin asked.

“None. Alric says if Sir Lambert or his men saw Mistress Lil beneath the oak, they gave no sign.”

Martin sneered, “And how many of the Sheriff’s men did we successfully cull?”

“Some say five, some more. ’Tis hard to tell, for they took their dead away with them.” The lad looked round at the circle of faces. “May I tell Alric and Adam you will keep Sally safe? And, Alric says, the wolfshead’s daughter, as well.”

Sparrow felt Wren stiffen, but it was Martin who answered. “You may rely on it.”

So, Sparrow thought bitterly, once the lad had gone, Martin thought to assign himself the role of Wren’s protector, did he? Had something significant happened between them last night, beneath the trees? Madlyn was right; Sparrow needed to talk to Wren and let her know it was her choice, and not Martin’s, that mattered.

He saw his opportunity not long after, when Martin once more took Wren aside and presented her with something. Nothing could have kept Sparrow from walking over to see what.

He caught but the end of Martin’s words, “—and I will instruct you in the use of it.”

Sparrow narrowed his eyes on the object lying across Wren’s extended hands: Martin’s best knife, it was, the one stolen from Sir Guy himself, a treasure.

Wren shot a look at Sparrow before she said to Martin, “I think I know how to use a knife. I lived in a kitchen.”

“Not properly, you do not. Yesterday, you saw how quickly things can happen. You may need to defend yourself at any time.”

Sparrow felt Wren’s impatience and frustration flare. “If anyone comes too near, I will stab him.” She stared at Martin meaningfully. “Anyone.”

Martin, curse him, missed the message. “Look you, a blade is a fine weapon because ’tis silent and can be kept well concealed until it bites like an adder. The best places to strike are here, in the soft flesh under the jaw, or here, at the side of the throat.” Lightly, he touched Wren in both places; she shivered.

Enough, Sparrow’s heart cried. He stepped forward. “A blade can also be turned against its user quite easily. That is dangerous. I can teach you how to throw—”

Martin snapped, immediately, “I will teach her.”

“—and how to shoot. You need a bow of your own.”

“Everyone seems to know what I need!”

“I can fashion a bow for her,” Martin declared, “and teach her—”

Sparrow strove to clamp down on his own ire, and failed. “Should she not be taught by the best shot among us?”

“For the sweet Lord’s sake,” Wren said, “do not begin with arguing again.”

Martin ignored her. “She is Robin’s daughter. Do you not suppose she will be an excellent shot?”

“No one is an excellent shot at the beginning.”

“I will fetch my bow, and show you.”

“You two will drive me mad!” The cry turned heads throughout the camp and at last served to silence Martin. “Leave me be,” Wren requested, and pushed past both of them.

Martin immediately made to follow her and Sparrow put out a hand. “Did you hear her not?”

“Aye, but she needs—”

“Why not let her decide what she needs?”

“You would like that, aye, so you can move in and sway her your way,” Martin sneered.

“
She
would like that—she demands it.” Sparrow stared into Martin’s wild eyes and tried to swallow his aggravation. “If you keep at her like a fox worrying after a hen, you will do naught but chase her off.”

“Fool. There is no time to waste. Should something happen to Lil or Alric, we need to be ready to step into their places. Already the circle is weakened.”

“And if Wren runs, we will all be doomed.”

“Where would she run? She has nothing, save us.”

“A creature escaping a trap cares not for that. Why do you not spend some of your time on Sally, who needs your comfort?”

Martin shook himself like a wet hound. “You know I am no good at holding hands and speaking soft words. That is more your ilk.”

“Yet you had time for Sal when you wanted a warm bed, this winter past, a few hours’ comfort. The lass loves you right well, and she needs you now, as you needed her then.”

“She will just have to get over her feelings, then, will she not? For what we must do here in Sherwood is far more important than the feelings of one foolish lass.”

“So Sally must weather her hurt and her father’s death as well?”

“As must we all. Because, you mark my words, Sparrow, there will be far more deaths in Oakham, and beyond, if we do not keep Sherwood strong.”

Chapter Eleven

“Does that man ever listen to any words besides his own?”

Sparrow could feel Wren’s anger even before he approached her. She had fled deep into the trees beyond the far side of the clearing and now sat on a fallen tree, looking distracted.

With some hesitation, Sparrow seated himself beside her. Right now her feelings were those of a startled hawk, wild and primed for flight, and he knew he needed to go carefully.

“No,” he replied. “Martin’s head is made of pure rock.”

“I told him last night I will not be bullied. This situation is intolerable. I feel like I have been torn up by the roots and am being battered from every side.”

“I know.”

She turned her head and looked at him. “How could you know?”

Sparrow drew a breath. “Because I feel what you feel, at least in part. ’Tis as if I pick up the echo of your emotions, just as you surely must mine, and Martin’s. We are all three linked.”

She continued to stare at him with those wild eyes. “How is it that we are linked? You and I do not even know each other.”

“I believe we are connected through Sherwood itself, by ties both of blood and devotion. Martin and I were dedicated by our fathers, soon after our births.”

“But my father was already dead when I was born, and my mother abandoned me.”

“And Lil dedicated you before she took you with her to Nottingham.”

“Well, I do not want to hear your thoughts, or Martin’s. And I do not want you to hear mine. Such intrusion is more than I can bear. I am used to the solitude of the scullery and the bustle of the kitchen beyond. No one ever cared if I lived or died, and my greatest worry was the salt biting my hands.”

“Salt?”

She made a face. “We scrub the Sheriff’s kettles with a mixture of salt, sand, and lye.” She held out her hands. “They are only now starting to heal.”

Sparrow fought the tendency to catch her fingers in his; he remembered again the taste of her, during their flight, and had to wrestle his desire. She did not need that from him, now. “It sounds like a hard and joyless existence.”

“No, this is hard! Pray, how can I get Martin to leave me alone? As it is, I want nothing so much as to stab him with his own knife.”

Sparrow’s mind groped hurriedly for the right thing to say. Wren balanced on the very edge of control. “Perhaps a wee prick might be the best solution—just here, under his jaw, you understand.”

Unexpectedly, she smiled. It transformed her face and made Sparrow think suddenly of her father. Surely Robin himself had such a smile.

“He is a wee prick,” she declared, and they laughed together.

More easily, she said, “I still cannot believe any of this is true—the forest, and the two of you, and the fact that my father was the legendary Robin of Sherwood. I went from knowing nothing of my parents to having two of the most well-known of all.”

“Aye, it must seem strange.”

“Tell me more about this triad everyone keeps talking about, the three of us and the magic.”

“’Tis four of us, verily, as it was for Alric, Geofrey, and Lil before us—three of us and Sherwood. The wards were set up at the time of Robin’s death.”

“Lil told me that, but it makes no sense. How can Sherwood play a part?”

“Sherwood is alive.” Sparrow glanced up into the trees that arched above them. “Its soul is a living thing, sacred to the Lord and Lady themselves.”

“The god and goddess, you mean. The old religion.”

“It never grew old, here. How could it? Its very roots are here, deep in the soil, carried in the light and the water, and the life that burns in the heart of the hare and the hart. The protective wards Lil, Alric, and Geofrey set in place call on that life force, that magic, but the magic itself is far older. Sometimes you can hear it whisper, in the leaves.”

“I have heard that. I find it terrifying.”

“But it is not! It must seem strange to you, aye, but you should not be afraid, because it is part of what is in you.”

“And what are we meant to do—you, me, and Martin? Please tell me, as you understand it.”

“With Geofrey’s death, the wards that keep us safe and hidden here in Sherwood—and that keep your father’s memory alive—are weakened. If the Sheriff dies before we can renew the wards, a new, vital force will be brought in to oppose us. Lil fears Sherwood’s magic could fail, then. We will all be in danger.”

“And these wards, what are they, exactly?”

“Old magic, raised and woven. They come of belief, and joining.”

“So, how do we strengthen them?”

Sparrow hesitated. “Did Lil not tell you?”

“I wish to hear it from you.”

“You must choose between us, Martin and me, where to gift your heart. The one you choose will devote himself to you and become the new headman of Oakham. The other will take Alric’s place and bond with Sherwood itself.”

“With Sherwood?”

“As a priest bonds himself to the church.”

“Oh.” Wren’s golden eyes widened.

Wryly, Sparrow told her, “Martin does not fancy the life of a hermit. Headman is far more to his taste. He will sway you any way he can.”

“And you? How do you fancy the place in the forest?”

Not sure how to answer, Sparrow danced around it. A bit roughly, he replied, “Sometimes sacrifices must be made. In Sherwood, they are demanded often. Your own father sacrificed himself, and Lil spent many years away from Geofrey, in Nottingham.”

“I see.” She gazed away from him, through the trees, and he thought she might leave it there. But she did not.

“How am I supposed to make this vital choice, then? By love? By desire? For the good of all?”

Sparrow did not reply.

“What if I feel no love or desire for either of you?”
Or for both
. Those words remained present but unspoken.

“Only you can make the choice, by the knowing within you. Do not let Martin persuade you, nor I.”

“I have no ‘knowing’ within. I have spent my life in a small stone room, given very few choices. But as for Martin, I do wish he would leave me alone until I can catch my breath.”

“Let me defend you from him.”

Her eyes narrowed. “How?”

“I will make you a bow, and instruct you in its use. He may keep away, if he sees you occupied. Anyway, archery is my one strength.”

She widened her eyes at him again. “Oh, Master Sparrow, I do think you underestimate yourself.”

****

“Hold it this way. No, with the fletchings just at your chin, a bit higher.”

As Wren raised her elbow, it brushed Sparrow’s chest, and he had to close his eyes against the sensation. Since early morn they had worked together using a light bow meant for one of the lads and, with the sun now high in the sky, his resistance wore thin. Wren stood within the curve of his arms, holding the bow in her hands. Occasionally her hair brushed his cheek and he could smell her fragrance, light and beguiling.

Across the clearing, Martin brooded, his eyes constantly upon them, but he had not yet interfered. Madlyn had sent him early to bring the last of Sally’s belongings from Oakham and help her settle, but with that done he kicked his heels and grew steadily more restive. Sparrow could feel his tension and judged they were mere moments from a fine explosion. But meanwhile...

He placed his hand beneath Wren’s wrist and let his lips brush her ear. “There now. Try again.”

He stepped back, and she let her arrow fly. It clove the air cleanly and flew true to the target, perhaps sixty paces off.

“Better!” She turned and flashed him a smile, judging herself. “But not yet good enough.”

“You come easy to this,” Sparrow said, and meant it. Her stance with the bow was elegant, her form that of someone who had worked for years before the target. Her eyes, as might be expected, were those of a hawk.

“Move the target farther off,” she requested. “I would see, can I hit it still.”

Without a word, Sparrow complied, while keeping an eye on Martin. Wren followed him into the trees and waited while he hung the target—a ragged sack daubed with markings—on a tall ash tree.

“I did not expect to enjoy this, Sparrow. Thank you for urging me to it.”

She looked happy, and he smiled.

In a murmur, she went on, “I can scarcely recall the last time I enjoyed anything so much. Lil’s lessons, no doubt. She taught me much, late in the evenings when most of the kitchen slept.”

“’Tis a fine thing, discovering a talent. In time, you may come to appreciate other things about Sherwood, as well—the sense of freedom not known in any village or, indeed, any scullery, and even the sense of connection that so worries you now.”

“You need not stand whispering! What are you doing back here among the trees? She is not yours alone, Sparrow, to keep out of sight.”

Outrage flashed in Wren’s eyes even as she turned on Martin, who stood just behind them with fists planted on his hips, primed for the promised uproar.

“I am not anyone’s,” Wren told him before Sparrow could draw a breath, “save my own.”

Mildly, Sparrow put in, “We were but moving the target.”

“And that takes the both of you, does it, off alone?”

“Not alone,” Sparrow returned. “Obviously you could still see us.”

Martin elbowed Sparrow aside and presented himself to Wren. “I will instruct you with the bow, and the sword as well, if you like. Only put yourself in my hands.”

Wren’s head came up and her eyes glittered. Sparrow suddenly remembered once seeing a look just like that on Robin’s face, before an encounter with the king’s guard. He had been a small boy, but it was not a look easily forgotten.