Daughter of Sherwood (13 page)

Martin gave a hard nod. Wilfred gestured at them. “Hurry. The alarm has been given.”

Martin moved off, scarcely hampered by his light burden. The former prisoners followed, crowding the passageway. Sparrow caught Wren’s hand. “Come. And be ready to fight.”

He did not like the fact that they must wend their way up from the very bowels of the castle, but he meant to defend Wren and Lil with his own life if necessary.

Wilf and Cedric had both disappeared, as had some of the prisoners. Others, seeming half dazed, lingered outside the cells without apparent direction. Sparrow and Wren, still hand in hand, ducked the intervening escapees and took the first flight of steps at a dead run behind Martin. The man had fearsome strength, Sparrow had to give him that. At the foot of the second flight he heard voices from above.

Shouting. Guards.

“Wait.” He let go of Wren’s hand and drew his sword. “Let me by.”

His weapon of choice had always been the bow. He made barely half the swordsman Martin did. For an instant, he considered relieving Martin of his burden so he could fight, but saw there was no time.

He felt Wren press in beside him, her knife in her hand.

Martin protested, “Wren—”

“Just win Lil free of here.”

A trio of guards, all heavily armed, appeared at the top of the stairs. These were men from the outer walls, intent on their duty.

Sparrow’s heart began to beat high and hard. He cared not what befell him. He feared only for Wren and Lil.

One of the guards called down, “Stay where you are, by order of the Sheriff.”

Some of the escaping prisoners ahead of Martin on the stairs obeyed the order, some did not. The guards met them with forged iron and cut them down, weaponless.

A sound very like a sob came from Wren’s throat. Sparrow whispered a prayer and charged up the steps.

The foremost of the guards met him, blade to blade.

“Wolfsheads!” cried a second. “Wolfsheads in the castle!”

An arrow silenced the man. Sparrow, striving desperately to fight upwards, imagined Martin must have put down his burden in favor of his bow, but then Martin came surging up past him with Lil still in his arms. Sparrow’s opponent moved to block him, and Sparrow’s blade took him between two ribs and through the heart.

Martin, with Lil, moved up and away, leaping around fallen bodies. Sparrow glanced behind to see Wren loose a second arrow that took the third guard in the shoulder. Her third penetrated the man’s cheek, even as he fell.

Sparrow scarcely gave her time to shoulder her bow before he seized her hand again. “There will be more soldiers on the way. Come.”

At the top of the stairs they met Wilfred, with a torch. “Sir Lambert has called up everyone on duty. Hurry—this way.”

They followed him away from the stairs and through a narrow passageway that smelled of damp. All too soon they heard more cries behind them, but no immediate sounds of pursuit.

Under her breath, Wren sobbed, “They will all die. We never should have freed them.”

“Better dead than trapped in those foul pits,” Martin growled in response. “Wilf, where are we?”

“A service passageway, rarely used. One level up is the kitchen. There is an opening to a courtyard.”

“I know it,” Wren gasped. She tugged Sparrow’s hand. “Come.”

The following moments tormented Sparrow’s heart with doubt and hope. The narrow passageway led to storage rooms strewn with rusted kettles and other cast-off kitchen trappings. They met no one and hurried still faster. Sparrow heard Martin’s breath begin to catch in his lungs.

One last flight of stairs loomed before them.

“Kitchen is up there,” Wilfred breathed. “And I cannot be seen with you.”

“Seen?” Martin questioned.

“The kitchens are rarely empty,” Wren explained. “Wilfred, we owe you so much. Come with us to Sherwood.”

“I am more useful here. I will double back and take up my place among those hunting you, if I can.” And he melted back into the narrow passageway, taking the torch with him.

“Come.” Wren started up the steps.

“Stay behind me,” Sparrow cautioned.

“Do not be a fool.”

Only a flicker of light trickled down these stairs. They followed it to the yawning doorway of the kitchen.

Sparrow had been here before, of course, to call on Lil. He knew the place made up a community of its own. But he had not fathomed the impact of their sudden appearance with the woman who ran this world—Lil—fast in Martin’s grip, her head hanging down over his arm.

Wren entered first with her knife in her hand, then Sparrow with his bloodied sword, and Martin after. Silence and a sea of stricken faces turned toward them. One or two of the kitchen wenches gasped. Some spoke Lil’s name in horrified reverence. A young boy asked, “Is she dead?”

No one answered. Their boots pattered loudly as they crossed the flagstone floor, and someone near the outer door opened it for them as they approached. The cold dark and rain rushed in and seemed to pull at them, promising safety.

Outside, Martin faltered for the first time.

Sparrow turned to him. “Let me take her.”

Martin shook his head. “We are nearly safe. Hurry.”

They made it as far as the courtyard gate, which stood ajar, before the squad of soldiers appeared. With them was a mounted man who positioned his horse to block their way. Sir Lambert.

Sparrow felt Wren flinch. She drew her hood up over her hair.

“Halt!” Lambert bellowed. And, to his own men, “Take them.”

Rapidly, Sparrow summed up the odds and his heart sank. Five armed men in addition to Lambert, a fine swordsman in his own right. He felt rather than saw Wren pocket her knife and take up her bow, and experienced a thrill of pride. Aye, that was the way of it. He sheathed his sword also, seized his bow and notched an arrow, all in one movement.

His first shot felled the man on the left, dodging inside his long shield and striking him through the jaw. At this distance, the force spun the man around before taking him down. He felt Wren shoot also but no one fell. Had she missed? But no—Lambert’s mount shied. Her shot had brushed Lambert, himself.

“Wolfsheads!” Lambert shouted, having ducked Wren’s arrow. “Do you think you can—?”

The soft twang of a bowstring heralded Wren’s second shot, which took Lambert through the shoulder. He fell from his horse, and the animal pranced in distress.

Martin pushed forward, Lil now slung over his shoulder and his sword in his hand.

Sparrow took aim at a second of the soldiers. They must get free of here before the entire guard descended upon them.

His second man fell with a loud cry. The other three rushed forward to engage Martin.

Wren shot one of them through the upper arm—his sword arm—and the man fell back. Trying to steady his aim in defiance of his pounding heart, Sparrow took out the next. That left one, crossing swords with Martin.

Wren gave a cry. Lambert was on his feet, sword drawn, with her arrow still protruding from his shoulder. Before Sparrow could blink, she rushed for the captain.

By all that was holy, was she brave or mad? Sparrow followed and was in time to land a blow across the back of Martin’s opponent. Now only Lambert stood between them and the freedom lent by darkness.

Martin moved, sword extended, and pushed past Lambert’s mount and away. Sparrow turned astonished eyes on Wren and Lambert. Wren, enraged and afire, had already marked Lambert with her blade, though Sparrow knew not how she had avoided the man’s sword. But Lambert, known far and wide for his brilliance in battle, now turned on her with a blow, aimed at her head, that nearly stopped Sparrow’s heart.

His sword intervened just in time and Wren danced back. Lambert faced Sparrow with a sneer.

“Wolfshead! You will not get away with this.” He slashed at Sparrow murderously, and Sparrow barely succeeded in turning the blow. Sparrow tossed the hair out of his eyes, surprised to feel his own rage rise. Behind them, he knew, the whole kitchen watched the drama made by one of their own, facing one of their masters.

“We shall not go down to defeat,” he grated, “for we fight in the name of Robin Hood.”

“Fool!” Lambert bared his teeth. “Robin Hood is long dead.”

“Nay, he lives,” Wren cried. “Only look.” She cast back her hood, defiant of both rain and danger.

Lambert glared at her, and his blade faltered. “You!” Rage flared in his eyes as he turned toward her and away from Sparrow. “Vile bitch—”

Sparrow swung his sword with all his might. A half-score voices cried out behind him. It might have been a fatal stroke but for the fact that Lambert’s foot slipped on the wet stones as he spun. The sword struck both flesh and armor, and Lambert went down.

Without taking time to sheath his sword, Sparrow seized Wren’s hand.

They fled and melted into the exterior darkness. Martin, with Lil, had disappeared as completely as if he had never existed. Sparrow could see no glimpse, either, of other escaped prisoners. Had they all been recaptured or killed?

He did see another squad of soldiers off to his right, all hollering. He pulled Wren in the other direction.

When they could run no farther, they stopped in the shelter of the outer wall and fought for breath. Sheets of rain washed over them, and Wren sobbed softly.

“Which way?” she gasped. “The gate—”

Sparrow no longer knew. Flight, rain, and darkness beguiled his senses. He felt Wren lift her head as if listening. She said, “This way.”

“The gate will be guarded.”

“I know. One more fight.”

“I wonder if Martin got away?”

When they reached the narrow eastern gate, they discovered the answer: dead guards lay strewn in a spattering of blood. Martin, in fighting his way out, had done their work for them.

Wren wept even as they stepped over the bodies to freedom. “Oh, thank the sweet Lady for Martin.”

Chapter Eighteen

“Sparrow, do you know where we are?” Completely out of breath and wet to the bone, Rennie dragged her companion to a halt. They had been running for what felt like half the night through dark forest, lashed by rain, raked by thorns and branches, Rennie’s only anchor the strength of Sparrow’s fingers in her own.

Now they paused for the first time, and she heard Sparrow gasp for air. Had they fled blindly, or had he led her to safety?

“We are deep in Sherwood, some distance east of where we need to be.”

“How can you tell?” Rennie tipped her face up so water filled her eyes. She heard the wind in the trees but could not actually see them.

Sparrow admitted, “I am guessing from the direction we ran.”

“We have seen nothing of Martin, with Lil. Do you think they will hunt him down, the soldiers, I mean?”

“Not until morning. They do not like venturing into Sherwood, even in daylight. And Lambert is sore wounded. Are you hurt?” His hands brushed gently over her skin.

“Scratches. You?”

“The same. We were fortunate, all round. Come daylight, I imagine Lambert will organize a search. But, come daylight, we should be able to find our way home.”

Rennie shivered. “Not until then?”

“I fear not.”

Rennie moved closer to him. Just days ago, she would have been terrified, finding herself lost among the trees. Now they had become a refuge, and she worried only about Lil.

“Do you think Martin truly did get away? And what of Alric, who was waiting for us?”

“Alric can look after himself, as can Martin. Trust him for that.”

“Lil is in a bad way.”

“Very bad.”

“I cannot lose her, Sparrow. She is all I have.” Rennie did not realize she wept until he pulled her into his arms. There, all at once, her courage—so bright when she faced Lambert—crumbled, and she sheltered against Sparrow’s shoulder.

“Lil is strong, none stronger. But you are mistaken, Wren. She is not all you have.”

Were those Sparrow’s lips she felt on her hair, moving across her brow to her temple? She could hear his heart beating a deep, strong rhythm under her cheek, and once more his arms seemed as complete a refuge as Sherwood, a place she might stay forever safe.

“Surely you know I am here for you.” His voice was a mooring place in the darkness. “And will always be.”

So great was Rennie’s need at that moment, she did not question his motives or intent, did not ask whether he spoke as had Martin, out of desire for the place at her side, or to hold strong the magical bonds that protected Sherwood. Blindly she lifted her face and his lips found hers, as naturally as a flower finds the sun.

Sensation exploded, one point of heat amid the wet and cold. She felt his emotions as intensely as her own, knew when the fire kindled and raced through his veins like life returning.

Need, pure and raw, engulfed, strengthened, and then possessed her. She pressed herself closer, desperate for his heat, for his essence. She wanted to be inside him; she wanted him inside her.

Helpless against her feelings, she did not protest when the kiss deepened. His tongue belonged in her mouth, searching and caressing. She let her own meet it, slide, and tangle delectably, suddenly wild for the taste of him. This went beyond comfort and even need to a mingling of spirit, the very reason she had been born.

She moaned, and his big hands drew her still closer. Her flesh seemed to leap for his until she barely felt the sopping leather still between them. His heat and the rain both beat on her with equal intensity.

Not until she was desperate for breath did Sparrow break the kiss. She felt his lungs draw air as if they were her own.

Raggedly, he said, “I have longed to do that since last I kissed you, wanted it every moment, both waking and sleeping.”

“Then I think we needs must do it again.”

The fire leaped still more swiftly this time. Rennie lost track of everything but the feel of his lips, his hands when they began to move over her body, exploring, then caressing and possessing. They warmed her flesh wherever they touched—the skin of her back, up inside her wet tunic and, still lower, her buttocks, which they cupped, starting a whole host of new sensations. Rennie raised both arms and wound them about his neck, tasting an abandon never before felt. She buried her fingers in his sopping hair and rode the current of her burgeoning need.