Daughter of Sherwood (12 page)

“That is where you are wrong.” He leaped up also, quick as lightning. “Stupid lass—what you do affects us all.”

Chapter Sixteen

“This is a doomed enterprise. I am surprised you are willing to condone it,” Sparrow told Alric in a grim undertone.

“I cannot count the doomed enterprises in which I have participated during the course of my life. Some of them, I dare say, even kept me alive. Besides, my son, it is only doomed if you declare it so.”

“That is a fine sentiment for a sunny day, which this is not.”

True enough. Rain pissed down, soaking their small party as they tramped toward Nottingham. The weather, or so claimed Martin and Wilfred, who had hatched the plan, would prove a benefit rather than an obstacle. Heavy rain tended to render the guard careless, and provided cover. Folk wished to be in out of the wet.

“Why do you accompany us,” Alric asked, “if you think so little of the venture?”

Sparrow raised his eyes to Wren’s back, some distance ahead of him. She looked less like a woman than a lad near-grown, tall and long of limb, walking with her bow on her shoulder and her hood raised against the wet. She strode beside Martin and yet, somehow, not with him. Between the two of them something ineffable had changed.

Sparrow could not place his finger on it.

“You know why,” he said, gloomily.

“I think I do.” Alric shot him another look. “You do not want my place.”

“Your—? Oh, no, it is not that.”

“Ah, then,” Alric laughed softly, “it must be love.”

“’Tis certainly no laughing matter.”

“Forgive me. To be sure, it is not. I know that right well, having myself suffered its pangs in the past.”

“You?”

Alric grinned ruefully. “Aye, lad. You look at me now, white-haired and with age in my limbs, and cannot imagine it, eh? But I have stood where you stand.”

“Lil?”

“Ah, likely you do not remember her when she was young, either, but she was a woman to beguile a man’s heart, full of wisdom, strength, and kindness—magic, too.”

“And you loved her then.”

“I love her yet. And now I must think on her languishing in some vile cell, shut away from the light she requires, awaiting pain and death. So, my lad, do not tell me what mad plan you would undertake until you need face that.”

“I only wish Wren were not involved. Why must she go back into Nottingham? It is too risky. We cannot stand to lose her.”

“Or yourself, or Martin. It is the three of you together that hold the magic, you see. That is something I learned long ago, when Lil chose Geofrey over me. I was equally important to her, only in a different way.”

“You have powers of prophecy, do you not, Father?”

“Sometimes, when the gods let me see.”

“Then tell me how this will turn out.”

“If I did not think we had a chance of success, I would not be here. Yet”—for the first time the old man frowned—“there is something...”

“Danger to Wren?” Sparrow nodded at her back.

“Danger—aye, to someone we love.”

****

“The weather could scarcely be more vile,” Wilfred said earnestly. “And I know what happens on such nights when the dark comes down. Despite Sir Lambert’s orders, the guards stay under cover and neglect their posts. I will part from you here, and go to admit you at the west gate.”

Everyone in the little group nodded. Grim and silent, already wet to the bone, they made a miserable cluster of four after Wilfred slipped away: Sparrow, Wren, Martin and Alric—who would not enter Nottingham but meant to await them outside. Cedric, a man Wilfred swore was friendly to their cause, would meet them near the dungeons and lead them on to the cells and Lil herself. With luck and the right timing, they might not need to do so much as strike a blow.

The dungeon master rarely stayed on after his shift, and the guards who remained on duty suffered the woes of boredom. It would be Wren’s job to distract them long enough for her companions to gain access to Lil’s cell. And that was the part of the plan Sparrow did not like.

Now, standing in a close group and waiting for Wilf to open the west gate from within, he could feel her tension, and Martin’s. Once again, he wondered what had happened between them. Just a day ago, they had been thick as thieves; now they scarcely looked at one another. Despite the perilous conditions, Sparrow’s heart rose. Was there hope for him? Perhaps, if they got out of this alive.

“Hsst! Softly.” The oaken gate opened with a creak, and Wilf’s anxious face welcomed them in. Sparrow’s tension ramped up another notch. His arm brushed Wren’s shoulder and he received her feelings in a flash—razor-edged fear, and determination.

The guard room into which they were admitted was empty and steeped in gloom. Their wet boots made a disturbingly loud patter on the floor, and Wilf led them on.

“Not a word.”

They entered a corridor, and Sparrow’s heart began to beat up in his throat. Now they must be prepared at any moment for discovery, and combat.

Yet all Nottingham castle seemed to sleep under enchantment. They traversed passage after passage, Sparrow bringing up the rear and keeping watch behind, and descended more than one flight of stone steps. At the foot of the last, they met Cedric, who waited to conduct them on.

Another few shadowy corridors and they paused while Wilf conferred in whispers with Cedric. “There,” Cedric said then. “The cells are just ahead. Can you find your way out, should I fall?”

Martin and Wilf nodded.

“I could not get duty, but wait while I see who did.”

Cedric left them standing and disappeared around a bend in the passage. Sparrow’s nerves tightened still further; Martin looked tight also, like a bow string, and Wren stood shivering. Sparrow longed to put his arms around her.

After an interminable wait, Cedric returned, his expression grim. They all drew close and heard him whisper, “Bad luck. Two men on duty, and one is a right bastard. Wren, I hoped we would not need to use you, but—”

Without a word, Wren turned to Sparrow and handed him her bow and quiver. She pushed back her hood and shook out her sopping hair, tugged open the laces of her tunic to reveal a glimpse of pale flesh. As she did, Sparrow received a flash of her emotions, and caught his breath.

“Go carefully,” he told her.

Her eyes met his, full of resolve and terror.

Cedric breathed into her ear, “Your target is the big brute on the left. Use any means you can to distract him.”

She nodded and moved off, soundless. Sparrow, unbearably tense, listened to what followed.

A clank as of a mug being set down, the scrape of a chair being pushed back, then gruff voices expressing surprise. Martin turned his head and his eyes met Sparrow’s, reflecting his agony.

They should never have brought her here, important though Lil’s safety might be. Wren was too precious, and the risk too great.

Martin eased his sword from its scabbard. Ahead, Sparrow heard one of the guards say, “What ho! How did you get here, wench? No one is permitted below stairs. Get you off now, before there is hell to pay.”

A second, rougher voice objected, “Just a moment, Rolf. Not so fast.”

Wren spoke, her voice unrecognizable, low and seductive. “A friend led me in. I come, sirs, to ask of you a favor. I have learned my poor husband is held here and sentenced to die on the May Day. I pray you, let me see him for but a moment.”

“You are mad.” Rolf’s voice. “Clear off before you get us all in trouble.”

The second man spoke over him, an insolent drawl. “Your husband, you say?”

“Aye. He is accused of felling one of the king’s deer. Falsely accused, at that. It was not he but Robin Hood’s men who committed the crime. I have two small children at home.”

“Why do you not apply to Robin Hood’s men for succor?”

“Hsst, Albert,” the first man warned. “Robin Hood is but a legend, as you know full well.”

“And the arrows our men take in their backs every time they venture into Sherwood, are those legends, as well? Why are you clad that way, wench? You look like a wolfshead.”

“How are my children and I to survive, if we do not take shelter in the forest? Our cottage was burned.”

“I am going to fetch Sir Lambert,” Rolf decided, and every man waiting in the corridor braced for action.

“Aye, Rolf, all in good time.” Albert’s voice dropped to a gravely growl. “’Tis a cold and lonely night, and who knows what the wench might do in return for seeing her husband? What will you do, woman?”

“Anything you ask. Anything you want.”

Sparrow closed his eyes and leaned his head against the rough stone wall.

“Is that so? Well now, Rolf, is that an offer we should refuse?”

Rolf made no answer.

“Go you, Rolf, and make sure no one is coming. I will take her first. You, wench, come here.”

Wilfred nudged Sparrow, and Martin raised his sword.

Wren spoke. “If I oblige you, sir, do you promise I will see my husband?”

“Aye, so long as you do all I ask. Rolf, I told you, keep watch lest that bastard, Lambert, comes. If he does, he will want her for himself, and me, I do not like another man’s leavings. On your knees, wench.”

Rolf appeared round the bend in the passage, still looking over his shoulder to see what happened behind him. Wilf met him with open arms and smashed a palm over his mouth to still any outcry. Martin’s sword made one smooth movement and gutted the man as neatly as a trout.

Sparrow pushed past both of them to peer around the corner. The guard room was no more than a wide place in the corridor, about which squat doors were set. A table and two chairs made bleak comfort, in light shed by a half-shuttered lantern. Sparrow saw a great brute—Albert—standing with his breeches open and his manhood exposed, and Wren forced to her knees before him. The cretin’s hands were in her hair.

Sparrow’s bow came up without conscious thought. He never remembered notching the arrow but noted the whispered twang as it flew true and took Albert through the throat. The man fell with a violent rumble that pushed the table aside.

Wren gave a cry and shied back. Sparrow reached her in three strides and took her in his arms.

“Did he harm you?”

“Never mind me.” Instantly, she freed herself. “Where is Lil? Which cell?”

The doors were waist high, built from thick oak, none with slots or other openings. No less than six of them ringed the alcove.

Cedric spoke hurriedly, “She is in the last cell on the right. Albert has the keys.” He shoved Albert over onto his back with the toe of one boot and fished inside his tunic.

“Get her out quickly,” Wren begged.

“Not so fast.” Martin put out a hand and touched Wren’s shoulder. “Cedric, how many prisoners are here?”

“I am not certain. Could be nearly a score.”

Martin’s eyes burned. “Open them all. I will not leave any of our folk in the hands of these Norman bastards. Unlock all the doors.”

Wilfred scowled. “But you have yet to get away.”

“Confusion makes a fine cover. Do it, man!”

Sparrow objected, “A horde of prisoners will surely draw the guards’ attention.”

“Aye, away from us.” Martin stepped up to Sparrow, his temper evident. “Robin would not leave them here. Besides, it is not up to you.”

“Nor you,” Sparrow retorted.

They both looked at Wren. Her eyes filled with tears. “I wish only to get Lil free of this terrible place. Open them all, Cedric—hurry.”

“She is here. I made sure of it this morning.” Cedric had to stoop to the lock and bend double to enter the cell. Wren followed him, and Sparrow went close after.

A vile stench rolled out to meet them. The cell, half subterranean, had no windows, light or ventilation. Even though he had expected the worst conditions, Sparrow nearly gagged.

Faint light trickled in from the guard room and showed a space about eight by eight paces, not tall enough to allow a man to stand upright. Rotting straw dusted the floor, and four figures stirred. The fifth did not.

“Lil!” Wren dropped to her knees and crawled forward. She hesitated before touching the woman curled into a motionless ball. When she did, she stiffened and looked over her shoulder at Sparrow.

“Oh, Sparrow, we are too late. I fear she is dead!”

Chapter Seventeen

“You are freed. Go now, off out of here and away.” Wilf’s voice encouraged the occupants of the cell to scatter, but Sparrow spared them no glance. All his attention centered on Lil’s motionless form.

Aye, and she did look dead—frail and, for the first time in his memory, old. He could feel Wren’s emotions; she teetered on the very edge of devastation.

He reached out to touch Lil’s cheek, but Martin pushed in and shoved him aside.

“No time,” Martin gasped. “We need to move.”

Without awaiting a reply, Martin gathered Lil’s body into his arms and, hunched awkwardly, barreled out of the cell.

Out in the guards’ alcove, confusion reigned. Freed prisoners milled about, spoke in hushed voices and grappled with their sudden liberty. One man kicked Albert’s lifeless body viciously. A woman who had emerged from Lil’s cell stared into Sparrow’s eyes and begged, “Where are we to go? What to do?”

“Go home, Mother,” he told her.

“I have no home. The Sheriff burned it, burned it all, and killed my man.”

“Come,” Martin interrupted the exchange. “Let us—”

“Wait.” Wren put out a hand and stopped him. “Tell me, does Lil yet live?”

In the dim light shed by the lantern, they all peered at the woman in Martin’s arms. Wren groaned. “What have they done to her? So many wounds!”

Lil’s skin showed a livid mass of raw and angry injuries, some old and half crusted over, many still oozing puss and blood.

Martin swore viciously. “These are cuts, and burns. The bastards tortured her.”

For days, by the look of it, Sparrow acknowledged. His stomach turned over, and he had to fight nausea. He placed a careful hand at the side of Lil’s neck.

“Aye, but she lives.”

Wren stared at him with a dawning of hope. “You are certain?”

“I am.”

“Oh, thank heaven! Martin, get her away—at any cost, understand?”