Daughter of Sherwood (17 page)

Chapter Twenty-Three

“Can you hit that mark?” Rennie heard challenge in the question, as well as gentleness and love.

She stood in the forest, green light filtering down through branches high above. Motes of radiance danced around her like magic dust, and she breathed them in effortlessly. Her bow sat on her shoulder, and the man beside her made her feel inexpressibly safe.

“What target? Where?” she asked.

“Dead ahead—the beech tree with the square of fabric pinned to it.”

Wren narrowed her eyes and peered ahead; she could barely see the target, yet she slid her bow from her shoulder and eased an arrow from the quiver on her back, sighted, and shot smoothly.

“Well done. And now the next target, farther on.”

“Where?” But even as she asked, Rennie saw it and loosed her second arrow. It flew true, and found its mark.

“And the next.”

“But I cannot see that target at all.”

The man beside her laughed softly. “That is where faith comes in play. Sometimes, Daughter, we have to trust blindly.”

Rennie lowered her bow and looked at him in surprise.

“Surely you are not shocked to see me,” he smiled. “We have met here before.”

So they had, and her heart quickened with gladness. He was Robin, her father, dead before she entered the world. He was the Green Man himself, god of this place. He was Sherwood.

“And we have met in dreams. You came and spoke to me.”

His smile deepened and reached his eyes. “You are very like me, you know.”

“Am I?” Her gaze, amazed and curious, drank him in. Was this, indeed, how he had appeared at the time of his death? An ordinary-looking man, some might say, yet with nothing ordinary about him: of medium height, not so tall as Sparrow, with hair the exact color of her own streaming over his shoulders, and a narrow, clever face. Did her countenance truly echo his, with its grace and fierce beauty, the humor and wisdom? She feared not. And his eyes were nothing like her golden wild-fox eyes but held a clear sapphire serenity.

She asked, quite reasonably, “Am I dead?”

“No, Daughter.”

“But you are.”

“Am I?” He shook his head and the shaggy hair slapped his back. “I think not.”

“Can you die? Are you just my father, or the god, in truth?”

“Both.” He smiled again and light filled his face, drew her to him. Was this that which allowed him to inspire folk and lead them, sometimes to their deaths? Was it this that kept his legend always alive?

“I am not sure I understand that.”

“But you must be sure, or you will never hit the target.”

“Ah. We no longer speak of arrows, I think.”

“Wren, look around you.” He waved a leather-clad arm. “What do you see?”

“Trees.”

“No.”

“No?”

He laughed again, and the sound made Rennie’s heart rise. “Beyond the trees and inside them.”

Rennie shook her head.

“Life.” He supplied the word. “Endless life. It dwells in every tree, and it dwells in you. It dances like that light, and it cannot be defeated by so small a thing as death.”

“Death, small? How can that be? I have lost to death everyone who should have been there to care for me—”

“Daughter, do you believe in the magic of Sherwood?”

“Well I must, since I stand here speaking with you now. Is this the magic of which you speak?”

“It is. Sherwood is a repository of belief. It is strong because it is a place where old faith dwells, like the great stones to the south, or the sea that surrounds our island. Do you know at one time England was all forest? And when the first men came, it was here they found the magic of being, of life, and called it God. Daughter, you must defend Sherwood because it is so much more than trees. It is a natural fortress of belief in the right of each of us, who shares life, to flourish above oppression. I fought the Normans because of the threat they represented to what makes England—England.”

Rennie wrinkled her brow, struggling to understand. “I am but an ignorant girl, raised in a scullery.”

“Raised by Lil, you mean. Do not forget all she gave you—knowledge of herbs and spells, folk wisdom and history. You are well equipped for the role you must play.”

Rennie did not feel well equipped. Yet reassurance flowed from this man the way radiance flowed through the trees. “And what role is that to be?”

“You must take my place, that of leader, guardian, champion of right and of life.”

Panic struck at Rennie’s heart. “But I thought I was to take Lil’s place while Sparrow and Martin contested over Alric’s and Geofrey’s.”

“The balance has changed. There must be three, aye, forming a circle of power, an inviolable container for the magic that dwells here. Once it was me, your mother, and the Green Man himself, but the power was uneven, and when I died, it all fell apart.”

“My mother gave up.”

“I had carried too much of the burden, and she was ill prepared. Lil, Geofrey, and Alric did a better job of distributing the load, but Alric will not survive long now without them. You, Sparrow, and Martin must find a way to share the weight evenly, and with strength.”

“But Martin—what shall we do about him? He is so angry, and he does not want Alric’s place.”

“Then give him his own place. It is as I tell you, Daughter. With the three of you, the circle now takes new form. It does not matter where you stand, but so long as you do, my legend lives on and I continue to dwell here. Now, shoot your arrow.”

Rennie still could not see the target. She raised her bow, narrowed her eyes and used the knowing inside her to aim, blind except for faith. Loosed, the arrow flew and voices rushed in upon her.

“She wakes.”

“Nay, she only stirs, still senseless.”

“She hears us, she hears my voice.”

“Get back away from her, you great louts, and let her breathe.”

Someone took Rennie’s hand—Sparrow. She would know his touch even blind. Anyway, she could feel his thoughts battering at her—and Martin’s—both close at hand.

She squeezed Sparrow’s fingers and felt his rush of relief. “She lives.”

Rennie stirred; pain fell on her like a stone, searing across her chest. In spite of it, she opened her eyes.

Three faces hovered over her like worried moons. At that instant Rennie knew how dear to her they were—all of them. How strange that only a month ago she had known none of the three, yet now they encompassed her world.

She tried to smile.

Martin leaned closer. To Rennie’s surprise, she saw tears in his eyes. “Wren, I am so sorry. I never meant…”

She reached her free hand to him. He took it, his fingers rough and warm, and Rennie felt the bond become complete, the link forged whole.

She spoke, her voice ugly and thin. “My father says we must learn to share this burden, the three of us together.”

“Your father?” Sparrow looked startled.

“I have just been with him.”

“By the Green Man’s thorn,” Martin breathed, “did I send her over the threshold of death?”

“He is not dead. Alive, here in Sherwood.”

“Poor lass,” said Madlyn, “she is raving.”

“Is it not why we join together,” Rennie whispered, ignoring Madlyn’s opinion, “in order to keep him alive?”

“Aye,” Sparrow murmured, “aye, Wren.”

“We cannot fight amongst ourselves; that will only do the Sheriff’s work for him.” Rennie’s eyes flitted closed against the pain.

She heard Sparrow say, “Martin, give her your strength.”

“Eh?” Martin sounded startled.

“Pour it into her, man. Through your fingers. Do you not see how vitally we need her?”

Rennie tried to open her eyes and found she could not. Yet she felt strength begin to trickle into her, like warmth, through the fingers of both men. Slow at first, and uneven, it steadied until she could almost see, against her closed eyelids, the circle of power that connected them.

She knew, then, the triad had become complete, and she knew why. “Alric,” she mourned.

And Madlyn spoke softly, “I am sorry, my dear; Alric is dead.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

“We have been hunted like foxes these three days past. I have never known Lambert so persistent.”

“Perhaps the Sheriff is dead at last. Can it be Lambert acts on his own, trying to earn a high place with the King?”

Rennie lay listening as the two men spoke in low voices, while Madlyn laid yet another poultice on her chest. Comfrey it was, this time, to draw the heat from a wound that had become inflamed. Rennie closed her eyes against the pain, her endurance nearly at an end. Could she go on another day? Since being injured, she had traveled mostly on foot, despite her weakness. Sparrow and Martin shared the burden of Alric between them.

Much of their conversation centered on flight, pursuit, and on where to lay the old man to rest. On his own, in Sherwood? Back where he had kept his hermitage, among the trees? Or beside those two with whom he had been so surely linked?

The three of them understood the bond so much better now that their own had been forged. It made them hesitant to bury Alric apart. Yet a return to Oakham meant danger. Twice had they ventured near, only to run into patrols of soldiers.

“Bold,” Martin had muttered on the second occasion. “Do they fear Sherwood no more? If we could round up our own men, we could put them to the chase. But Lambert did his job too well, scattering us.”

Now Rennie opened her eyes and turned her head. Sparrow and Martin sat together like friends, both of them showing obvious signs of exhaustion. Rennie caressed Sparrow with her gaze and received a resultant jolt of pleasure. Feeling her emotions, he swung his face toward her; their gazes tangled and held.

“There, now,” Madlyn whispered, “lie still, lass, and let that do its work.”

“Will she be able to go on?” Martin asked his mother.

Rennie answered before Madlyn could give her opinion. “I will.”

Martin made a rude sound that expressed his doubt. He looked angry and aggrieved, with weariness under it all. Well, they all felt worried and tired unto death. “One thing is sure. We cannot linger here.”

“Wren needs to rest,” Madlyn protested.

“And we need to move on.” Martin’s gaze could have cut glass. “Gather your medicines, Mother, and let us go.”

Madlyn straightened, sudden tears in her eyes. “You will kill the child, Martin. Is that what you want?” She seemed to realize what she had said only after the words left her lips. Martin’s face froze, and tears flooded Madlyn’s eyes. “I am sorry, I did not mean—”

Martin got to his feet, desperation in every line of his body. “Naught to be sorry about, Mother. ’Tis the truth.” He looked at Rennie. “Do you wish to rest here a while?”

She struggled up somehow, trying not to let her agony show in her face. “No, best we move on. I have made a decision: we can wait no longer to lay Alric to rest. Perhaps, after all, he should lie apart from Lil and Geofrey, as he lived apart from them.”

“Poor bastard,” Martin muttered. “But where, then?”

Rennie lifted her chin. “We will take him to his hermitage. That was a place of peace for him, and it was there he found his own bride—the Lady herself.”

Sparrow and Martin exchanged glances and nodded.

“How far are we from the hermitage?” Rennie asked.

“Farther than you will be able to walk,” Sparrow told her. “Here with you, up on my back.”

“Eh?” Rennie returned, startled.

“I will take you pig-a-back, if your wound can stand it. Madlyn, can you make a cushion to fold over my shoulders?”

“Never mind me bearing it,” Rennie objected. “Sparrow, you cannot. We are all weary to the bones, and I am no tiny lass, nor an easy weight.”

“There is nothing to you. Just tuck your arms round my neck.”

“You expect to tote me, as well as carry Alric?”

Sparrow reached out and touched Rennie’s cheek tenderly. His gaze engulfed hers, and Martin quickly looked away. Such exchanges still troubled him.

“Love, you are no burden.”

They traveled much more swiftly with Rennie up on Sparrow’s back, hampered only by Madlyn’s ability to keep up. Rennie went with both arms and legs twined about Sparrow, so she could feel his every movement, the smooth strength in each muscle, and her cheek pressed against his hair. Unexpected desire stirred. Would they ever have another chance to be together, man and woman? Even sore and hurting, she cried out for it. But perhaps duty called them to be something more than lovers.

“Ah—” Martin, in the lead, stopped suddenly. “Someone has been here before us.”

“No.” Madlyn pushed forward. “How could anyone discover Alric’s secret place?”

Rennie peered ahead and saw a small, cleared area in the wood, hard against an outcropping of rock where the land rose. The trees here, old and massive, stood guardian, and a spring bubbled up to form a rivulet that joined a stream farther below. Alric must have kept his few belongings in the alcove, but they were now strewn about, most smashed across the remnants of his last fire, and the ground looked trampled.

It struck Rennie to the heart, having brought the old man back to refuge only to find it defiled.

She slid down Sparrow’s back and stood on her own feet. “But how could this place be discovered, so deep in Sherwood?”

“The Sheriff—or, more correctly, Lambert—must have inside information,” Sparrow said uneasily. “But, from whom?”

Martin spat, “Curse him, whoever he is, to betray Alric—and us.”

“Few knew the location of Alric’s lair,” Madlyn whispered, as if fearful someone still listened. “And he would have woven a strong spell of protection round the place.”

“No matter,” Rennie said. “They have come and gone, and snared no one. Surely they will not return soon.”

“If they do,” said Sparrow grimly, “we will hear them coming. Let us lay Alric to rest at last. But if we stay here the night, Martin, we will need keep watch, in turns.”

Martin nodded but said nothing.

Madlyn tidied away the mess, gathered shards of broken pottery, and collected what could be salvaged, while the two men dug a grave in the soft, loamy earth. They finished just as darkness began to gather beneath the trees. Solemnly, heads bowed, they stood over Alric’s mound. Madlyn started to weep.