Laura Strickland - The Guardians of Sherwood Trilogy

by Champion of Sherwood

  Yet he straightened his spine. He was a Norman knight, a champion. Could he let these Saxon dogs see him falter?

  The big man led him toward one of the village huts, the same from which Gareth had seen Linnet emerge when she tended him.

  Before they entered, Gareth heard a voice from within. “I will not! I travel nowhere in his company. Slit his accursed throat and send his corpse back to his uncle, I say.” Raw grief and rage colored the words.

  A woman’s voice, not quite calm, replied, “You cannot stay here, Fal. I know you hurt. Do you think I do not hurt also? I have had a third of my life torn away this day. But we must think what is best for the future. You, Lark, and Linnet are now doubly precious, and must be kept safe.”

  The big man—Sparrow—planted his hand between Gareth’s shoulder blades and shoved him through the doorway.

  Everyone inside the hut turned and stared. So small was the space, it seemed crowded with the four inside—the woman with the fierce, golden eyes who had just spoken, her daughters, Linnet and Lark, and Scarface’s son.

  The latter looked distraught with grief, and that answered Gareth’s wondering. Aye, Scarface must be dead. He felt a surge of satisfaction at that; the man had been a brutal savage. Yet his death undoubtedly changed the game, and not for the better, so far as Gareth was concerned.

  “Do not bring that varmint in here.” Scarface’s son leaped to his feet. “I will not breathe the same air as he.”

  “Steady,” said Sparrow. “None of us will be here long. Linnet, have you packed up all you need? Lark, you have your weapons?”

  “I always have my weapons.” The small fury leaped to her feet, a knife appearing in her hand as if by magic. Before Gareth could draw breath she was upon him and had the blade at his throat. “Fal, would you have me end it now—blood for blood?”

  The big man at Gareth’s shoulder spoke in a rumble. “He is too valuable for that. Come now, I want to be away into the forest by nightfall.”

  The forest? Surely they did not mean to drag Gareth away with them into Sherwood? To be sure, he knew that was where outlaws and peasants alike disappeared when they did not want to face justice—the Sheriff’s or the King’s. But would they take a Norman captive with them?

  Apparently so, for the girl withdrew her knife with a scowl, they gathered up their packs, and Scarface’s son spoke, his face twisted by grief.

  “Aye, Norman swine, we shall take you to Sherwood, and maybe abandon you there—see how the forest deals with you then.”

  ****

  “Come along.”

  Yet another yank on the rope around Gareth’s neck, and he stumbled forward into the darkness. He could not guess how these people could see where they were going. All around was blackness, whispering tree boughs and shadows, and silence that steadily deepened.

  But the silence was not truly silent—it rustled with the movement of small animals, fluttered with the stirring of leaves, and bristled with a sensation that felt like someone touching Gareth’s bare skin.

  His companions moved with barely a sound. The woman—Wren—led the way faultlessly and without pause. The smaller of her daughters, Lark, followed her, with Fal behind, then Linnet and, keeping Gareth on a short rein, her father. Gareth could not see them but knew they were there.

  The curious thing was it felt as if someone came behind him, as well. So real was the conviction, Gareth turned his head a few times, but glimpsed only more darkness.

  “Sit,” the man Sparrow told him, and pushed him down where he stood. Gareth tried to feel offended at being treated like a trained hound, but all his indignation had disappeared into exhaustion. His broken arm ached incessantly, and the wounds at shoulder and thigh burned like fire.

  Light flared suddenly in a shower of golden sparks, and a torch was lit. A face swam above Gareth—Sparrow again. “We will stay here the night. I will hobble you, but should you get free, ’twould be foolish to hare away into the trees. Do you understand?”

  Gareth gave a nod, his only possible response. The others began talking softly among themselves while Sparrow fashioned a line between Gareth’s ankles and two trees.

  Above him the wind rose; he could hear the swaying of branches. It sounded like other voices whispering.

  He closed his eyes and tried to pray for strength. He struggled to remember the prayers his mother had taught him. That had been so long ago, so far away. He remembered only her smile, and the softness of her eyes.

  Light flickered against his closed eyelids. He opened his eyes and looked up.

  Linnet stood there, a torch in one hand, a flask in the other. “Here.” She sank to her knees beside him. “Water.”

  Thank God. He reached his good hand for it. His fingers brushed hers and she looked away.

  He drank greedily, drained half the flask’s contents, and then made as if to hand it back to her.

  “Drink all you wish. There is a stream close by.” She hesitated. “You must be hungry.”

  He shook his head. He ached too much for hunger. He had not hurt so since he first began training, the butt of all the older lads’ cruelty.

  “There will be something to eat soon.” She arose and left him, never once having looked him in the eyes.

  Gareth tried not to feel a sense of loss. She meant nothing to him. A Saxon peasant. He could allow her to mean nothing. And the sense of connection he thought he had felt between them had been sheer fancy. A beautiful woman touching him, tending him, should stir his interest and his manhood. That was only to be expected.

  He closed his eyes again and wondered if he would ever be sent to his uncle. He wondered if he wanted to be. Aye, anything was better than this situation in which he now found himself.

  He must have fallen into a pain-wracked doze, for the next thing he knew he roused to a touch on his arm. Linnet knelt beside him once more, with her mother, straight and tall, standing over her.

  “Tend his hurts,” Wren said, “and then get away from him.” In the harsh torch light, Wren’s face bore the signs of grief. Gareth wondered just what Scarface had meant to her—something dear, plainly, for she had aged in a day.

  She added to her daughter, “Do you need my help?”

  “Nay, Mother.” Linnet gazed up at the woman. Gareth tried not to notice the graceful line of her neck or the beauty of her bosom. “You must be sorely depleted after…after—” Linnet’s voice broke. “You go rest.”

  Wren ran a disparaging look over Gareth. “You, whelp—do not give me reason to end your miserable life. Do not lay a finger on my daughter.” To Linnet she added, “I suppose you had better feed him when you are done.”

  Throw a scrap or two to the hound, Gareth could not help but think, and struggled to straighten his spine again. The woman stepped away, not far, and Gareth turned his eyes on the healer. He could not be sure what had taken place back in the village. But Linnet’s face showed the marks of tears, and her emotions pulled at him unaccountably, almost as if he could sense all she felt.

  She busied herself with her salves and bandages, her eyes upon her hands and not on him.

  He could hear the others talking—Fal on a rant, encouraged by the small sister, Lark. And he could still hear the trees whispering.

  “This will hurt,” Linnet told him. It must be what she said to everyone she tended. He shook his head; he could hardly hurt more.

  But he was wrong. The pain, when she peeled the blood-caked bandages from his shoulder, left him sweating. Her hands shook when she cleaned the raw, angry wound.

  “This looks worse than it was yesterday. It has not had a fair chance to heal. Perhaps I should consult with my mother.”

  “No.”

  “But she is far more skilled at healing than I, with powers I do not possess.”

  “She has no reason to aid me.” A foolish thing to say. Did he think Linnet had? Clearly, Scarface had meant something to her and clearly, like the others, she had translated her grief into a fiercer hatred for him, Ga
reth. She could not even bear to meet his gaze.

  A shadow moved behind her. The other lass, Lark, stood there, an ugly look on her face, the ever-present knife in her hands. “Trouble, sister?”

  “Nay, Lark. I wonder only how to keep him alive until his use to us is done.”

  Lark spat. “To my mind, he has no use. Let Fal kill him slowly, to ease his grief.”

  “Nothing can ease his grief.” The corners of Linnet’s mouth tightened.

  “I do not know how you can bear to touch that reeking pile of offal that calls itself a man.”

  Linnet shot one look into Gareth’s face and averted her gaze again.

  He lifted his chin. “I did not kill your friend’s father. That is what has happened, has it not? Your headman is dead?”

  Lark leaned down and snarled directly into his face, “Aye. And you did kill him—that’s what you do not see. ’Tis plain enough to the rest of us, who are forced to live under you: you Norman bastards are all the same, every one of you—all evil to the bone.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “Kiss me.”

  The demand curled through Linnet’s mind and senses, soft and persuasive as a sigh. It called to something inside her and caused her to part her lips receptively.

  Supple, long-fingered hands captured her face. A mouth descended on hers and all life narrowed to one sensation: the heat and delight of it, the flooding need and the answered yearning. His weight came down on her body and with it more heat. She felt her spirit expand and then open to accept him and take him in.

  She wound her arms about his neck in order to draw him closer. Her fingertips found delight in the smooth muscle of his shoulders and the softness of his hair. He tasted like warm, summer mead, and her flesh leaped for him. She could feel every part of his body now, vital and strong.

  “Linnet, wake up.”

  Her eyes flew open but the dream did not fade. She was used to waking all of a piece with no confusion, but now the vision lingered and clung to her, made unreality of the morning light that drifted down through green leaves, and her sister’s face that hovered above her.

  Oh, by all that was holy, it had been nothing but a dream.

  Lark scowled at her. “What is amiss with you? You never sleep so long. We are nearly ready to leave. Pa says tend the swine before we get to moving.”

  “Must you call him that?” Long-fingered hands, lithe strength... The heady taste of him still lingered on Linnet’s lips. Why would she dream thus of a virtual stranger? She so rarely dreamt at all.

  “What else should I call him? And why do you care?”

  A fine question, that. “He is injured, and alone.”

  “Harness your sympathies, sister. I know you are a compassionate creature—it is one of your strengths, and also your greatest weakness.”

  “So you say.” Linnet struggled to her feet as the last remnants of the powerful dream dissipated. Gareth de Vavasour sat some twenty paces distant, still hobbled between his trees. De Vavasour, she reminded herself—a hated name and that of her enemy, not her lover.

  “If anyone deserves your compassion it is Falcon.” Lark’s gaze stabbed at Linnet. “He has lost his father, all the family that remained to him.”

  “We are his family,” Linnet replied truthfully.

  “The triad is broken with Martin gone. Our parents are in danger. Try thinking on that.”

  “What makes you suppose I am not?”

  Lark gave an odd shake, a quiver of her shoulders. “Instinct. I do not like the way you look at him.” She nodded at the captive. “It is the same way Fal looks at you.”

  “Do not be daft. He will soon be sent back to Nottingham, and that will end it.”

  “Aye, perhaps, given one of us does not murder him first.”

  Lark stalked away, and Linnet followed to where her parents and Falcon stood talking. She laid a hand on Fal’s arm.

  “How are you?”

  He turned ravaged eyes on her. “I will be all right. I must be strong—it is what Pa would want.”

  True. There had been no weakness in Martin Scarlet, and he had despised others who displayed it. Fal knew that better than anyone.

  Linnet tightened her fingers on his forearm. “If there is aught I can do—”

  A faraway look came to his eyes. “We are called to service now, Lin, with the circle of three broken. We were born for this, you, Lark, and I.”

  Linnet looked to her parents, who watched quietly. “Where are we bound? Surely not to your hermitage.”

  Wren shook her head. “I will not take him there.” She nodded in the direction of Gareth de Vavasour. “But we will stay deep in Sherwood until we decide what to do next.” She fixed Linnet with a golden stare. “Go, take some food to him. I do not want him lagging behind and slowing our pace.”

  So, Linnet thought as she gathered up food last prepared at her own hearth, Gareth was to be treated like a herded animal, kept alive for his value on the hoof. Aye, and what more did he deserve?

  She closed her mind firmly to the memory of her dream and approached the hobbled man, well aware that everyone else watched them closely. When she reached Gareth he looked up, and she caught her breath at what she saw in his eyes.

  Defiance, anger, and a hint of arrogance, still. Aye, he was Norman to the bone.

  “You had best eat something,” she told him. “We will move on very soon.”

  He looked at the food and she could very nearly tell his thoughts: it gagged him to take charity, yet he knew he needed his strength. He accepted a heel of bread and his fingers touched the palm of her hand. Strong, tapered fingers capturing her face, silver eyes gazing into hers, and his mouth—

  Linnet swayed where she stood. She strove to beat back the tangled emotions.

  “How are your wounds? Better after being tended last night?”

  “I am well enough.” A rampant lie; his fine eyes looked bloodshot, the seam Martin had opened on the side of his face appeared ugly and tender, and lines of pain rode the skin beneath the new-grown, golden beard.

  “It is just as well. My mother means to set a hard pace today.” She turned to leave.

  “Wait, please.” He abandoned the bread and reached for her hand. She shrank from the memory of his touch, the intensity of feeling it had prompted in her dream. He saw her reaction and dropped his fingers abruptly.

  “When will they decide what is to be done with me?”

  “I do not know,” she told him honestly. “There are more important things, now, on everyone’s mind.”

  ****

  “Amazing what a scrap of bread can do,” Lark said. “He is keeping up better than I dared imagine.” Walking at Linnet’s side, she glanced back to where Gareth de Vavasour once more brought up the rear of their party, still led by his rope harness.

  “Likely his dignity will not let him falter,” Linnet said. Somehow she kept herself from looking back.

  “Dignity?” Lark snorted. “He does not make such a fine figure of a champion now, does he? Costly clothes in tatters, and walking on our ground—sacred ground.” She appeared to reflect. “Have you thought about what this means, Lin, the significance of Martin’s death, to us?”

  “Of course I have.” Always the threat of taking up responsibility for the triad had hung above Linnet’s head. “But Ma and Pa are still here, and Ma is not one to surrender the reins easily.”

  “True. But the old triad is shattered. The way I understand it, the woven magic will hold a short while. Last night, whilst you tended that swine, I asked Ma how long. She would not say.”

  “Do you think Fal will take up the place of headman in Oakham?”

  Lark scowled. “I am worried about him.” She lowered her voice and shot a look at the back of Fal’s fair head. “All his life he has tried to live up to what his father expected of him, even when it went against his nature.”

  Linnet blinked at her sister, surprised by the astute observation.

  “Do not look at me that
way, Lin. I know him.” Lark added simply, “I have always known him, here, inside.” She tapped her breast above her heart. “He is not like Martin, not really, though he tries hard to be. There is perhaps too much of his mother in him.”

  Linnet nodded. Sally Scarlet had been a gentle woman who loved fiercely. Her devotion to her family had been complete. Linnet saw much of that in Falcon.

  “Now,” Lark continued, “I fear he will break himself in his father’s memory, trying to live up to Martin. And possibly deny his own heart.” She turned a burning look on Linnet. “You are his heart, Lin. I would rather lose him to you than see him ruin himself over it.”

  “Oh, Lark.”

  “I love him,” Lark whispered, barely above a breath. “And he loves you.”

  “Or he thinks he does. His heart is so torn now, who knows what he truly wants? I care for him—I always have—only not in that way.”

  “Is life not a cruel mistress?” Lark’s voice sounded husky with emotion. “You will have to have him now—or soon, for the sake of the triad.”

  “Aye.” Linnet touched her sister’s arm softly. “At least, one of us will.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “How much longer will we stay here?” Gareth directed a look into the face of the woman who bent over him, and caught his breath. By heaven, she was lovely with her dark hair only half braided and streaming around her and the front of her bodice loosened against the warmth of the day.

  When she stooped to tend his shoulder, he could see—well, far more than she likely dreamed. She had perfect breasts, paler than her arms and throat, and tipped with tantalizing, rosy points. When she moved, the weight of them pressed against the fabric of her bodice, and Gareth’s groin tightened in response.

  But he could not let himself think about that, could not allow for the distraction. By his reckoning, they had been at this place nearly a seven-night. Linnet and her family had built a simple shelter for their needs here in what he could only term a forest bower. Trees taller than any he had ever seen towered above, and made a leafy roof. At night it was darker than the pit of hell, but by day Gareth had followed the path of the sun by its shed light and gleaned his direction.