Daughter of Sherwood (27 page)

“Look, pet,” the man next to Sparrow spoke to his child again. “Look your fill, for this is something you may never in your lifetime see again.”

Chapter Thirty-Eight

“There, take that, and go carefully.”

A platter of sweetmeats was placed in Rennie’s hands: stuffed and sugared figs, they were, and pastries overflowing with compote. Each made a small, perfect treasure, but Rennie’s hands trembled so violently she feared she would drop the tray.

Ahead of her, two other servants went with varied platters. One held bowls of spiced wine and toast, the other stewed pears aromatic with nutmeg. The richness of the meal that had just passed before Rennie’s eyes—and nose—fairly made her senses swim after weeks of Sherwood’s plain fare.

Yet could anything be richer than the clear, cold air and the sunlight sifting through branches in shafts of pure gold? Was it deprivation to live on only what the forest gave?

Would she see that place, for which her heart now yearned, ever again? Aye, well, she had not come here to worry about herself.

Moll glared into her eyes. “Steady, girl. If you drop those, I shall kill you myself.”

Rennie nodded and sucked in a breath. Feeling as if her feet floated some distance above the floor, she followed the server ahead of her out from the kitchen, along the lengthy flagged hallway and thence to the great hall, which roared with sound.

Servants gathered at the entryway from which every prepared dish had issued, and to the left, beyond the yawning doors, Rennie could see a press of humanity, all come to gaze upon one man. Looking to the dais, her eyes found him without difficulty; he sat at his ease, speaking to the noble who claimed the place of honor beside him, ignoring those onlookers and, indeed, his servers, as if they did not exist.

Terror flashed through her. She would have to stand and gain that man’s attention, speak and persuade him that the laws he offered his nobles were deserved by all. Ah, but her knees trembled so badly she could no longer be sure she could climb the two steps to the dais, and the ability to speak seemed to have flown.

She looked up and saw Simon staring at her, hard. He stood already on the dais, a cloth over his arm, and the sight of him reassured her somehow. Were Sparrow and Martin here, also?

She looked farther and saw Lambert. Head turned away, he stood at some distance, beyond the King. Dismay seized her heart. The attempt was doomed before it began, for the moment Lambert noticed her she would be seized and would never have the chance to speak.

Even as those thoughts claimed her, she saw Simon lean forward and speak earnestly into Lambert’s ear. The man looked at Simon sharply and spoke in return; Simon nodded. Lambert then spoke to King John before hurrying from the dais and from the room.

And Simon smiled at Rennie. Making up for any past betrayal, he had just given her a chance.

Her only chance.

The server ahead of her climbed the dais, and Rennie followed. Her heart pounded in her ears so hard it was deafening, and her mouth had gone dry. Her courage, hard won, threatened to desert her.

And so, with each step, she thought of Martin, whose courage burned ever bright, and of Madlyn, whose courage was love. She thought of Sparrow, whose courage made up the bedrock beneath her feet, and of her father, Robin of Sherwood, and the fact that she, too, was of Sherwood, and Sherwood could never die.

The King’s table gleamed with riches, covered in snowy linen and more food than any man could ever hope to eat. In his place of honor, John looked bored, chin resting on one bent arm, staring at nothing.

Rennie bent toward him and offered her platter. “Sire—My Lord King—I would speak.”

****

Sparrow stiffened like a pony with the whip laid on when he saw Wren enter the hall and climb the dais. She looked impossibly distant from him, a sea of people and tables between. How would he ever reach her in time if she needed him?

Beside him Martin also tensed. His arm bumped Sparrow’s and lent a flash of emotion: protectiveness, rage, and determination. “Where has Lambert gone,” he seethed, “the bastard?”

A sudden cry went up from the dais. A number of men started up, and the unseen musicians in the corner ceased to play. Both chambers went silent.

Into the sudden hush spoke the noble beside the King, who had leaped to his feet. “You insist? Get the wench out of here and have her whipped. Where is Lambert?”

Sparrow’s heart spasmed. Would it end so quickly? He supposed a whipping was the least for which Wren could hope. At least she would probably survive that, and they might hope to get her away again.

There was always a price to be paid.

He saw Wren set her platter on the King’s table and bow her brown head. Her voice came, too faint to hear the words, but John made a gesture, and then another, to the offended man beside him.

In a carrying, high whine he said, “Nay, but let her speak. She is a pretty thing, and may amuse us.”

“Bored,” Martin muttered under his breath. “He is frigging bored and wants to relieve his tedium.”

Sparrow tensed still further, though he would not have thought it possible. He watched, disbelieving, as Wren lifted her head and stood before the King, holding herself now like a queen.

When she spoke again, her voice came strong and echoed around the room. Aye, she had found her courage. The faint glimmer of hope in his heart died, however, when he heard her words.

“Great lord and king, I come to you on behalf of my father’s people, who are also your own.”

“Your father, child? And who might he be?”

“A high lord indeed, sire—the Lord of Sherwood. They call him Robin Hood.”

There came a general outcry, and John stiffened where he sat. “What?” His whine turned into a roar. “We have been told that Robin Hood—wolfshead, outlaw—is dead.”

“No, sire, he lives yet, a good steward to his people, and seeking your wise justice for them.”

“If he lives, why does he not appear here before us himself? Why send his daughter, however lovely?”

“He comes not, precisely because the name ‘outlaw’ has been settled upon him—unfairly, sire, since he has never done aught but be a good guardian to those who rely upon him.”

“He has done naught save kill our deer and steal our gold!” John sneered. “Aye, we have heard what goes on in Sherwood. If your father be so faultless, lass, why is the price of a wolf’s head settled upon him?”

“Unjustly, sire! Would you not do whatever you must for the sake of your subjects? No less he. Like a good father, he provides how he may.”

The crowd around Sparrow stirred, feeling the weight of those words. He and Martin were pressed forward a few steps as the onlookers strained to hear.

“We are not here to debate morality.” The whine had returned to John’s voice, but he no longer looked bored. “Speak as you will, and do not waste our time.”

“Aye, sire. In Sherwood, we have heard of the great charter you have ordained, that which honors you above all men and, indeed, above all kings who have ever reigned in this land.”

“Have you, by God?”

“Sire, men down the ages will sing praises of your wisdom and the fairness of your heart.”

“Our heart, is it?”

Beside Sparrow, Martin swore. Sparrow could feel his hate. But he began to think Wren might just get away with this madness.

“Sire, your laws will be declared peerless for their fairness and mercy. But I say they should be available to all men—the noble in his castle, aye, but also the woodsman in his hut, the shepherd in his wold, the landsman in his village. For are they not all born of this great land? And are you not King of all England?”

Mutters erupted all around Sparrow, a low-voiced current of approval. The crowd pressed forward yet again.

But John came to his feet as if drawn by reins. “Do you ask us for justice—for serfs?”

And Wren answered, her voice vibrating, “Sire, it must be available to all, or it is nothing.”

“Do you dare tell us what to do?” John’s question became a screech, but the damage had been done. Everyone there, from the high to the low, had heard the words spoken, and the idea Wren presented trembled in the air and glowed bright.

Beside Sparrow, the jubilant father had gone silent, his eyes wide with awe. And all around, Sparrow felt emotions surge like wonder. They had heard and seen the impossible take place. The lowest of the low, a server from the castle kitchens who also, somehow, claimed the place of a forest lord’s daughter, had declared that they mattered. Robin Hood’s own child gave them leave to own their worth.

The pure courage of it flared and infected everyone present. Sparrow’s spine stiffened, and he wondered if this single moment might not be worth Wren’s life and his own. Because this idea, now unleashed, would never fit back into the Normans’ sack of repression.

“Nay, sire,” Wren answered the King. “I pray only that you will extend your justice to one and all—”

“The Sheriff of Nottingham is dead!” The words burst onto the scene and cut the air between John and Wren like a sharpened sword. They turned every head toward the speaker and had the effect of silencing even the King.

Lambert, the bearer of said tidings, stood white as a ghost, his eyes fixed on his King. For an instant everything froze, and then, belatedly, Lambert bent his head.

“Forgive me interrupting, sire, but I have just come from the Sheriff’s chamber, where he has breathed his last.”

John parted his lips to speak. But before he could, Lambert’s gaze moved to Wren and narrowed. Emotions chased one another across his face.

“You!” he shouted. “Guards, here to me. Seize that wench!”

Chapter Thirty-Nine

“Move!” barked Martin, at Sparrow’s side. “Do not let them seize her.”

The fear in his voice matched that in Sparrow’s heart. Every protective instinct Sparrow had ever possessed rose up, howling. Should Lambert succeed in hauling Wren away to the dungeons or elsewhere, he might visit upon her any vile punishment he chose.

But an impossible barrier of humanity prevented their movement forward. The guards at the double doors had been engulfed, and strained at their places. The tableau on the dais remained mercilessly displayed.

He saw the King speak to Lambert, who now gestured wildly at Wren. He saw Lambert speak forcefully in reply, but he could no longer hear their words because the crowds in both chambers had become restive, their muttering grown into babble.

Wren stood as if pinned in place by Lambert’s glare, her back straight as a spear, displaying no emotion. But Sparrow could feel her terror and dismay; even from here he could. As must Martin; somehow, despite the press of bodies around him, he drew his sword, and Sparrow felt his courage flare.

“Let me through. Out of the way!” And, like magic, the crowd in front of Martin rippled, folk pushed and crumpled, and Martin moved forward.

Just as quickly as that, he and Sparrow were separated. A glance behind gave Sparrow no glimpse of the rest of their band. Nor could he now see anything of Simon, just Martin’s hood, well up to shield his face, migrating steadily to where the guards attempted to hold the doorway.

Sparrow pushed forward, but a solid wall of backs and shoulders prevented him. The gap Martin had formed was gone. Frustration raced through Sparrow, and sweat broke out all over his body. He could not stand here and watch the woman he loved far more than his own life die.

The crowd at the doorway rippled violently, and another outcry arose. The little girl beside Sparrow, still in her father’s arms, began to wail.

One of the guards went down. No one on the dais even noticed—they still argued loudly. The disturbance that was Martin moved forward. Would he be in time?

“Guards! Guards!” King John’s voice rang above the general rubble of sound. Sparrow saw Wren take a step backward as if to leave the dais. No guards had responded to John’s call, but the nobles around him, all armed in their own right, rose up.

He saw Wren take up the platter of sweetmeats from the table and swing it wildly at the nearest baron. Figs flew everywhere, and the platter broke across the man’s nose. General chaos broke out: John shrieked, Lambert bellowed, and half a score of voices demanded Wren’s seizure.

“I challenge you! I challenge you for her freedom.”

Martin’s demand cut across the thunderous noise like a clean wind. For an instant, everything fell silent. Each face on the dais turned, and Wren spun about.

Miraculously, Martin had won the steps to the dais. He raised his sword, and scarlet dust seemed to spark off the length of it and dance about his form. The breath caught, hard, in Sparrow’s throat.

Quite possibly, Martin Scarlet had been born for this one moment, all his anger, all his courage stored and sharpened like the blade in his hand, allowing no refusal. He climbed onto the dais, and no one prevented him. He took the place at Wren’s side to face Lambert, and no one questioned his right.

This, Sparrow knew, had been Robin’s dream: that all men might stand equal on blessed English ground.

From what seemed an incredible distance, he heard Martin’s words. “Show me your sword, Lambert, if you be man enough.”

Lambert snarled. His blade came to his hand as if by magic, and he leaped the table, overturning it as he went.

A thousand thoughts now poured through Sparrow’s head. Wren should take advantage of the distraction and get away, disappear into the seething crowd below. But she stood as if rooted, far too close to the fight which, as soon as the two swords crossed, turned so vicious it once more silenced the onlookers.

All his life Sparrow had watched Martin fight, seen him work countless hours at the blade, both with and without his father’s instruction. But Martin had not yet recovered from his dire injuries. Even now, as he flung the mop of fair hair out of his eyes, and his hood with it, his wounds stood out, vivid, upon him. They were wounds laid at the order of the man he now fought so desperately, and Lambert’s furious expression left no doubt he recognized his opponent.

But whose hate might prove stronger? Lambert, a knight and a noble, possessed skill honed by every advantage. No one, however, could match Martin Scarlet’s capacity for sustained rage.