Daughter of Sherwood (29 page)

Sparrow stared deep into Wren’s golden eyes, seeing there the sweet coming of the dawn, the return of radiance after a storm. In Wren’s eyes lay the very light of Sherwood. He searched for an answer to the question that burned inside him. For he had been linked with her when they drew Martin back into life, and he knew what she had felt then. Aye, he knew without doubt how Wren loved Martin. And Sparrow had never succeeded in losing his fear that Wren would choose Martin after all.

Now she said she had chosen.

Sparrow trembled. He plundered her eyes and he plundered her emotions, but all that came to him was a sense of strength and resolution.

Aye, his Wren had become strong. No more the half-wild creature who had burst from Lil’s scullery but still, and ever, Sherwood’s daughter.

“Tell me,” he bade. His fingers clenched on hers.

She drew a breath. “We do need time to regain our strength. Martin needs healing, and I agree with you, Sherwood is the place for that. But when we return, it will be to a whole new fight. The King will appoint another sheriff, and we will need to be strong and sure.”

She means to choose him, Sparrow thought, pain erupting inside him. She will throw her support behind the man whose strength is his defiance. He said, woodenly, “Martin.”

“Surely you see he is the best choice for leading our fight? He has earned the place. He deserves it.”

Agonized, Sparrow asked, “And what do I deserve?”

She gazed away from him for an instant, into the trees, as if once more listening to Sherwood. Her eyes returned to Sparrow’s, but she did not reply.

He burst, on a sudden rush of bitterness, “So, it is banishment to the hermitage for me, is it? A life alone? Solitary—”

A curious smile touched her lips. “Alone, you say? In Sherwood? How can you call it so, given all we have experienced? You know what—who—dwells within Sherwood. You know the holiness at its heart. How can you say life there would be lived alone?”

“I would be alone anywhere, without you.” Sparrow no longer cared what it took to persuade her. He would bare his soul if he had to. He would make her see how he needed her, as the trees needed sunlight, as the roots needed the deep loam. Aye, perhaps Martin had been born for the place of leader of their cause. But Sparrow had been born—he lived and breathed—for the place beside this woman.

He seized both her hands, threaded his fingers through hers, assuring she felt what he felt. “What of our child,” he appealed, “that you may well carry? Am I to live apart from her, or him?”

“Ah, the children of Sherwood.” She looked back through the trees toward Sally, still bent over Martin. “The next generation of guardians, two already on their way and one no doubt yet to be conceived. You are right. They will need their parents.”

“Aye.” Sparrow’s heart leaped and trembled. “Do you forget what it is like to grow without mother and father?”

Her gaze returned to his. “I forget nothing. But I say to you, Sparrow Little—you of the speeding arrows and the true heart—things in the future need not be as they have been in the past.”

Sparrow shook his head. “I am not sure I understand.”

“Sherwood once had a lord—Robin Hood. It now has a lady—Wren Wolfshead. Why should the triad not adjust itself accordingly?” She leaned toward him, so close her lips nearly brushed his, and her eyes glowed.

“Go to Sherwood, Sparrow. Make for yourself a place deep in solitude where the rarest and truest magic may be learned, where the trees and waters speak. And I—”

“You?”

She breathed onto his lips, and into his soul, “I will come with you.”

He felt it then, the gladness rushing up through her, a mighty force of pure love that filled him where he stood and set all the trees around them to dancing.

“You will come with me?” Sparrow repeated in joy. “Live with me?”

“Why cannot the hermitage shelter two? Two, for a time.” A wise smile curved her lips. “Three, before too long. Why cannot Martin return to lead the folks here?” She added decisively, “Martin and Sally. It is time he did what is right.”

“And we?”

“We shall harbor, cherish, and grow a deeper magic along with this child. For we know the fight will go on. Yet it has become apparent our greatest weapon is not Martin’s sword, or even your arrows, but it is the magic of this place that will save us all. When we come back to fight, it will be as the lord and lady of the forest, and none shall stand against us.”

Sparrow believed her. Amazement touched him, love taller than the trees and gratitude deeper than the ancient roots. He drew her closer and gazed into her eyes, into her soul.

“You have chosen me for this?”

“I have chosen you.” Each word came punctuated by a small kiss, each burning brighter than the last. “My heart chooses. Sparrow Little, will you plight yourself to me?”

He drew a breath that contained her essence and felt magic swirl around them: blue and gold twining together into eternal green.

Ah, but that pledge had been made the first time he saw her in Lil’s kitchen. “My heart is already yours,” he told her. “I pledge my life also—pledge it new every day, every hour, so long as any part of me remains in Sherwood.”

Wren smiled. “Then come, my Sparrow, and fly with me.”

A word about the author...

Born and raised in Western New York, Laura Strickland has been an avid reader and writer since childhood. Embracing her mother's heritage, she pursues a lifelong interest in Celtic lore, legend, and music, all reflected in her writing.

She has made pilgrimages to both Newfoundland and Scotland in the company of her daughter, but is usually happiest at home not far from Lake Ontario, with her husband and her “fur” child, a rescue dog. She practices gratitude every day.

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