Daughter of Sherwood (26 page)

“Aye,” he had told Martin, there in the darkness, “you or I—not Wren.” And they had clasped hands on it, almost like brothers. Just so long as Wren remained safe.

****

Time for leave taking. The last that he and Wren might ever share? Sparrow could not but wonder. He stood ready with his bow on his shoulder and his quiver across his back. He had blessed every one of his arrows as he slid them into place and, somewhat to his surprise, had both felt and seen the magic that crackled around them.

Sparrow: the arrow. It was as if he could hear his father’s voice again, full of warmth, love, and laughter for the young child Sparrow had been.
Look at him. He grows straight and long as an arrow. May he always fly as true.

Aye, he had flown true—straight for Wren’s heart. From that first moment when she came bursting into Lil’s kitchen with her wild eyes and wilder spirit, igniting both the night and something within him, her heart had been the one place he wanted to dwell. And now he must bid goodbye to her, possibly forever.

All around them, other leave-takings echoed theirs. Both parties—Wren with Simon and Sparrow with Martin and their small band—were to set out at the same time.

Husbands parted from wives. Madlyn wept. Not far off, Martin and Sally stood together with their hands clasped. Of what did they speak? Did Sally tell Martin all he needed to know?

“Do not look like that,” Wren chided Sparrow. “I need you strong and sure.”

“’Tis difficult.” He had never spoken truer words. “You walk into the lion’s den. I still call it madness. Will you not reconsider?”

“Sparrow, we are lost indeed if you cannot believe in me. I need your belief now more than anything.”

Sparrow knew that. Yet letting her endanger herself was the hardest thing he had ever done.

“What can you say to John that will make him listen? Why should he even agree to give you audience?”

“Why, indeed? He must be made to see that if he heard the demands of the barons, he owes as much to the rest of his subjects.”

“You are no baron.” Sparrow reached out and touched her cheek. “You are the woman against whom Lambert has sworn vengeance, a serf, the one I love.”

“I am the daughter of Robin Hood. Shall he have spent his life in vain? Shall all the others have wasted their hearts’ blood? What did they buy, if not my right to hold my head high and speak to my king?”

“Do you think John cares for your pleas, against a tyranny that has brought him all he holds?”

She clasped his hand, and green light flickered between them. “Believe for me, Sparrow. Believe in me. I cannot survive if you fail in that.”

“I do believe in you.” As in nothing else.

“Then kiss me once, for luck.” She leaned in to him and her lips reached for his, greedily. The magic leaped between them, bright and strong. “Once, twice, thrice,” she breathed, following suit and blessing him with kisses. “Believe in the power of three.”

****

The two groups departed in separate directions not long after. Martin walked at Sparrow’s side, silent, and Sparrow concentrated on catching his last glimpse of Wren’s brown head as she disappeared into the trees. He started when Martin spoke, his voice rough.

“Did you know?”

“Eh?”

“That the child Sal carries is mine.”

Sparrow turned his head sharply. Martin went with his hood thrown back onto his shoulders, at least here among the trees, with every half-healed wound on display. Twin furrows marked the sides of his face and traced his hands, like red worms. He looked a different man, yet his eyes were the same, fierce and iron-blue, demanding.

“She told you, then?” Sparrow asked.

Martin grimaced. “She claims she told me before, when I lay dying. I do not remember. That is not a thing a woman wishes to hear—that a man does not recall such a telling.” Once more he raked Sparrow with his eyes. “You should have told me. You might have kept me from flying off after Lambert—not that the bastard did not deserve it.”

“It was not my secret to tell,” Sparrow said yet again. “And I would have thought any sensible man might have guessed. You bedded Sal all winter.”

“Aye, but I was not sensible, was I? I was taken entirely with Wren and this thing between us.” He waved a hand and corrected himself. “Among us.”

“So what will you do then? About Sally, I mean.”

“Do? What can I do?”

A bit uncomfortably, Sparrow said, “She loves you, man. She sickens herself with it. Surely that is worth something?”

Martin gave him an odd, measuring look. “You would have me give her my heart in return? It is not worth much, Sparrow. It is blackened and twisted, and consumed by old anger—and better than half of it belongs to Wren.”

Sparrow swallowed hard and Martin laughed ruefully. “No, you do not like that answer, do you? You do not want to share her, even in my heart. But I ask you, how can I fail to love her?” He widened his eyes and leaned toward Sparrow. “Or she fail to love me? ’Tis the nature of what we are, is it not?”

Sparrow rued the bitter feelings that stirred inside him, and that Martin could doubtless feel. He did not want to go into this day with any darkness on his soul. But even now he could not help himself. He asked, “Why can you not just love Sally with whatever part is left?”

“I do. I care for her as well as I am able. But you cannot expect me to make Sally promises.”

“Why not?” Sparrow demanded.

“Because”—Martin gave him a long, hard stare—“I go away to die.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

“Rennie, is it you? I scarcely believe it!”

The words cut across the bustle of the kitchen with the effectiveness of a scream and put a stop to all chatter and movement. Rennie, who had paused just inside the doorway that led from the courtyard—scene of her original encounter with Lambert—saw every head turn in her direction as silence fell.

Mistress Moll had spoken, she who had trained as first assistant under Lil and now looked to be in charge. With her elbows cocked and her round cheeks red as apples, she stood at the center of the large room, apparently directing the chaos that extended from the lads turning the spits to whoever now inhabited Rennie’s old place in the scullery.

Her eyes met Rennie’s and narrowed. “Why have you come back? You know Lil is gone.”

“I do.” Rennie’s voice came hard. Being here again stirred up a lot of conflicting feelings, despair and longing. She was no longer used to the organized racket, after the whispering susurrations of Sherwood, not even used to the skirts she now wore for the first time in so many days, borrowed from poor Sal. This place had once made up the extent of her life; no more.

“You do not wish to be found here,” Moll informed her a bit uneasily. “Sir Lambert has been after you these many weeks.”

“I know that, also.” Rennie turned her head and peered into the scullery. Two maids blinked at her from its dim doorway. One, she knew—the daughter of a kitchen worker, and fatherless. The younger girl she did not recognize.

“Your replacements,” said Moll, seeing her look. Her expression softened a bit. “We needed two to do the same work you managed.”

So that place was only Rennie’s in memory, now. Much as she hated the dank room with its constant drudgery, much as her heart now reached for Sherwood, she trembled inwardly. Truly she could not go back again. Everything she had been was gone.

Moll stepped toward her and lowered her voice. “Why are you here? It is dangerous to us, as well as you. And we are too busy for nonsense. I prepare a feast for the King.”

Aye, Rennie thought, a sore responsibility, especially with Lil gone. She nodded. “I seek only shelter for a time, a place to wait. Because that is why I have come—to see the King.”

Moll stared, and what little activity had picked up in the room ceased again. “You are mad,” Moll breathed. “’Twas always rumored about you; now I believe it.”

“I must get near him, for I seek audience. I thought you might let me help serve.”

“’Twould be worth my head. What, when Sir Lambert sees you? When he accuses us of helping you?”

“He will not. Any blame will fall on me. Moll, I would not ask were it not of vital importance.”

Moll tossed her head. “If you wish to see the King, the great doors will be open. You may peer in at him, like the rest of the peasantry.”

“I must get close to him, near enough to speak.”

“Why?”

Rennie lifted her chin. “I would appeal to him for justice not only for earls and barons but for all who claim this land of England.”

A ripple of amazement and awe ran around the kitchen. Folk drew breath and gaped.

Moll cast a look about and then said, “Fine words, those. But all here know there is one England for the gentry and another for the likes of us. Our places in this kitchen keep the wolf from the door. Why should we risk them?”

Rennie returned swiftly, “For those who have no place, and no door from whence to shoo the wolf. For those who huddle in ditches after their huts are burned, who lose their hands after stealing a crust for their starving babes, whose daughters are taken against their will by those they must still call ‘sir.’ I would speak to King John for them.”

Another current of emotion ran around the room, of a different nature this time.

“Let her, Moll,” someone whispered.

“Let her.”

“Help her.”

“Stand with her.”

Moll stiffened her round frame, and her cheeks took on a still-redder hue. She did not look, Rennie acknowledged, much the heroine. Yet Rennie had learned, at last, not to judge by appearances.

“You will lose your head,” Moll declared. “But you can carry in the sweetmeats at the end—the King will want those. He always does.”

****

The crowd bustled unbearably, a crush of peasantry seeking to catch a glimpse of their betters, including that great man who held the power of life and death over them.

Sparrow and Martin, hoods raised and jockeying for position, had become separated from the rest of their group but managed to keep together, so close their shoulders often collided. Every time they touched, Sparrow received a flash of Martin’s emotions, bright, edgy, and barely contained. He knew that, beneath his leather cloak, Martin’s fingers clutched his sword. The guards outside had shouted at Sparrow, telling him he must leave his bow if he wanted to go within. But then the press of people had distracted them, and Sparrow had merely allowed himself to be pushed by the tide of humanity. He stood, now, with his bow on his shoulder, but damned if he could imagine how it would do him any good.

At their backs was the forecourt where Martin had been tortured. Ahead, through double doors tall as two men together and thrown wide, they could see the great hall set for the King’s reception and feast. This area between, measuring perhaps three hundred paces by three hundred, was so packed with people Sparrow could barely breathe.

Just ahead of him stood a group of squat farmers who smelt so redolent of manure it stung Sparrow’s nose. Ahead of them he saw what looked like tradesmen. Beside Sparrow on the right stood a couple with a young child held high in the father’s arms. The tot had dimpled cheeks, shining curls, and large, solemn brown eyes that made Sparrow wonder about his own child—his and Wren’s. Did Wren carry that child even now into danger? Would Sparrow live to see it born?

By the god, why had he not stopped this madness?

Because Wren was Wren, made in her father’s image. He could not change her and love her, both. He could only hope the magic that encircled her would be strong enough. For it was difficult to imagine her getting into that room up ahead and away safely again.

Much easier to believe they would all die within the next hours.

Sparrow fought to draw a breath and calm himself. Martin shot him a crosswise glance. Did Martin feel what he felt? And Wren—where was she now? Where was Simon?

“Pray,” he growled at his companion, and Martin’s eyes widened before he nodded.

Up ahead something was happening. Two guards stood at the entrance to the great hall, a supposed barrier against the encroaching humanity. Now they braced themselves as a clarion played and a voice rang out clear and true.

“His Majesty King John!”

The crowd around Sparrow stirred. Inside, far too distant for Sparrow’s liking, a party appeared.

“Look, pet,” said the man beside him, lifting the child still higher, “there—the man with the fair hair—it is the King.”

John traveled with his own dignitaries yet was not difficult to recognize. No knight, this, like his brother, Lionheart. He wore his sand-colored hair loose upon his shoulders under a circlet of rich gold, and his body looked spare and thin. Truth was, Sparrow thought, had John been plucked from his fine raiment and put into a sark and leather jerkin, with a hoe in his hands, he would be indistinguishable from those clustered here for the privilege of glimpsing him.

Beside Sparrow, Martin twitched, and Sparrow, tearing his eyes from John, saw why. Lambert had just entered the hall. Clad in finery that rivaled the King’s yet still with his sword at his side, Lambert moved like the undisputed lord of the place.

Music struck up in one corner of the hall, beyond Sparrow’s sight, almost drowning out Martin’s muttered curses. Sparrow could feel Martin’s anger burning so bright he feared everyone around them would sense it also. They must remain under cover for a time.

He nudged Martin with his elbow. “Careful.”

The King, surrounded by select of his nobles, had seated himself at the center of the head table, which sat on a dais directly ahead of the double doors. Lambert hovered at the King’s elbow, and a swarm of servants milled about. Without further fanfare, service began.

So, Sparrow thought bitterly, the King’s humble subjects—many of them starving, yet supposed to feel themselves fortunate in gaining entry here—were now expected to stand and watch their betters stuff themselves on fatted piglet and roasted swan, were they? An echo of Martin’s anger touched him, and for the first time he understood in full why Wren had come.

But where was she?

Raising his eyes, he suddenly saw Simon. The lad was employed in running after the servants with a cloth over his arm, a dogsbody, no doubt prepared to swab any vile spills. For naught could be allowed to mar the overlords’ bright perfection.