Daughter of Sherwood (22 page)

Sparrow strained to see. The chunk so described was little more than a morsel, perhaps the size of a fist, an ugly knot of gristle and bone.

Lambert stalked, with his rooster’s walk, to where the prisoner hung suspended, and set his trophy on Martin’s head. “Do not shake it off in your trembling,” he warned. “If it falls and is not shot cleanly, your life is forfeit.”

Wren called, “That is no part of our bargain.”

Lambert gestured. “My ground—my rules. So, Master de Breche, are you satisfied with the challenge? First man to shoot the target cleanly, without putting an arrow through the wolfshead’s forehead, wins.”

The crowd inhaled as one. An impossible challenge, for Martin dangled, swaying slightly, and his head drooped in pain.

De Breche made no answer beyond a nod, and Wren called, “Who shoots first?”

“My setting, as I say—my champion shoots first.”

De Breche leaped down from the platform and took up a stance at Wren’s side. A tall man, he nevertheless topped Wren by no more than a hair, and Sparrow marveled. Aye, Wren was tall for a woman. But just who stood there beside the Norman champion?

He looked at Martin, who strained to keep his head upright, and knew that Martin’s fear was all for Wren. Wren looked at Martin also, and the current of light that linked the two of them wavered, and then strengthened.

If Wren protested the favor that allowed the Norman to shoot first, she did not say so. De Breche lifted his bow and notched his arrow in one beautiful movement.

From where Sparrow stood, the target looked impossible to hit cleanly. The shooters stood below the platform, making a difficult angle. Sparrow doubted he could make the shot, and he had been the best Sherwood had to offer since Robin’s death.

Sparrow closed his eyes and began to pray. The courtyard fell silent, so silent he heard de Breche release his shot.

The crowd roared; Sparrow’s eyes flew open.

Martin swayed slightly on his ropes. The gory lump of gristle rested still on his head.

Wren stepped forward and set her shoulder toward Sparrow. He could not see her face, but her hands looked sure, far steadier than his would have been. The onlookers hushed again. The glow around Wren that connected her to Martin brightened unbearably, and Sparrow knew it for what it was: pure magic.

Wren raised her bow, she notched her arrow, she stood posed with power in her every line. The breath caught in Sparrow’s throat—he knew he saw a legend a score of years dead.

Robin Hood
.

The legend drew back his bowstring with a grace that caught at Sparrow’s heart. The arrow flew, following the path of light that connected the shooter to the target. Martin lifted his head and his eyes went wide; the arrow seemed to aim for the very center of his forehead.

It brushed his hair instead and lifted the lump of meat from his skull, as cleanly speared as if impaled on a knife.

The crowd reacted with thunderous cries. Voices rose, wild and ragged, leaving no doubt as to where rested the sympathy of the onlookers. Did these folk know what they had just seen? Could they feel the magic now crackling through the air?

“Cut him down.” Robin Hood’s voice silenced the clamor.

Sir Lambert did not move. Still on the platform, he stood apparently frozen in disbelief.

Robin drew his bow again, his second arrow aimed at Lambert’s heart. “Is a Norman noble incapable of keeping his word? Must I end this differently?”

Lambert looked at him, and he added, “Do you doubt I will loose this shot?”

Lambert moved suddenly and gestured at the torturers. “Cut him down.”

They hurried to obey. Robin—or was it now Wren?—spoke to the rest of the Sherwood party. “Bring him.”

Martin fell to the platform with an ugly thud; Sparrow shuddered in responsive pain. Wren’s men gathered him up and brought him down from the platform onto the courtyard.

“Take your prize,” Lambert taunted, “and go, proof that I keep my word. It is not as if we do not know where to find you.”

“Go,” Wren told her men. She turned to follow the struggling party, for whom the crowd cleared still another path, and de Breche, standing beside her, reached out casually and pushed the hood back from her face. There stood Wren, indeed, her hair bundled in a knot and her golden eyes wide with sudden alarm.

“You!” Lambert seethed. “Wench!” His hand went instinctively to his cheekbone. “Impossible. You are no wolfshead. And you are no Robin Hood.”

In answer, Wren loosed her arrow. It cut so near Lambert’s ear he ducked wildly and fell from the platform. Chaos broke out then; hastily, Sparrow turned to follow Wren, who fled in the wake of the departing outlaws.

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.