Laura Strickland - The Guardians of Sherwood Trilogy

by Champion of Sherwood

  She remembered her mother telling her many times how life shaped individuals to be what they must. Events only defeated a woman if she failed to learn from them.

  Quite possibly this day’s events would shatter her. She faced the possibility of going into the future without the man she loved more than her own life. Yet if the worst did happen, she would need to walk on, for Sherwood.

  “Thank you, Lark,” she said softly.

  “Do not thank me. I do naught for you—all for him.”

  Gently Linnet replied, “Anything done for the three of us is done for Falcon. I only pray he lives still.”

  “He does.” Again Lark’s eyes flashed. “I have spoken with him; I have been with him where he lies and upheld him, even as he endured the questioning. Nay—they have not tried him too sorely yet, but I have felt what he feels.” Wonder touched her, strong and visible. “In his time of need, I have lent him my strength.” Her chin tipped up. “If he survives this day, he will be mine.”

  The fierceness of the declaration explained much, including the chest at Linnet’s feet. She nodded. “Then let us assemble our band of men and make haste to Nottingham.”

  ****

  My love, we come. We have the casket you sought. Will it be enough to buy Falcon free?

  Gareth straightened where he stood, sword in hand, when the words entered his mind. Already was the contest, which had begun at sunup, well advanced. The lads Gareth had spent weeks training had put on a fine show. The day—one of deep azure skies and white clouds streaming before a strong breeze that unfurled also the pennants on the royal pavilion—could not be more perfect. Robert de Vavasour, seated with the King, appeared pleased, and even from where he stood at the edge of the field Gareth could see that Henry looked content.

  Now, with the sun high in the sky and the hour nearing noonday, came time for the major events. Gareth drew a deep breath and thought of the woman who spoke to him, and not whether this bright day might be his last.

  Where are you, Linnet?

  We are at the outer gate—myself, Lark, and four of our men. Where is Falcon?

  He has not yet been brought forth. Gareth pictured her passing through the gate. Virtue survives death—he must believe all higher emotions did so survive, especially love. He will be here when the moment comes.

  First, he knew, he must do his part, defeat all comers in order to win the privilege of facing the man he meant to name Nottingham’s worst enemy. For he must face Falcon as the champion in order to claim that right.

  He flexed his left arm. Already it pained him. The bone Wren had fused by magic, in Sherwood, had perhaps mended too quickly. How many men could say they had a broken arm that healed in a matter of days?

  True, it was not his sword arm. But with his shield upon it, he needs must take the brunt of every blow meant to fell him, in defense of his life—at least until he could face his last opponent of all.

  What is it, my love—what is amiss with you?

  Ah, and she could feel his disquiet. Could he hide anything from her, including the desperation in his heart? He answered, I would play my part carefully, and true.

  We all take our lives into our hands and do as we must. Her strength touched him a mere instant before her love came rushing, filling and uplifting him like light. Despite the circumstances, it brought him fierce joy.

  But I wish to see you, she said, all her hope and longing in the words.

  If all followed his plan, she might see him die. He would spare her that if he could, but did not know how. Aye, love. I come to meet you now, at the gate.

  Then I can keep breathing.

  With a nod in the direction of the pavilion, Gareth hurried off, after sheathing his sword in one swift movement. People thronged the grassy area just west of the castle proper, where the contest was being held. Moving against the stream that contained peasants, tradesmen, and nobles alike, he searched for the party from Sherwood.

  And found them by feel.

  They looked no more than another group of woodsmen. Even Linnet went clothed as a male, and they all wore their bows on their shoulders. Gareth did not think he had ever before seen Linnet with a weapon.

  She wore leggings and a leather hood with a wide-brimmed leather hat that shadowed her face. But he need not see her face to know her, for her spirit reached for him, a stark contrast to the hostility of Lark, at her side.

  Even as he approached, Lark stepped forward. “Well, Norman, you had better intend to deal with us in good faith, or I swear you shall live to regret it. If Falcon does not survive this day, I will find and kill you myself.”

  Gareth met her fierce, golden stare and spoke the truth. “Should your Falcon survive this day, my life may well be forfeit.”

  Her eyes widened, and he went on, “If you would give him a chance to be away out of here, you needs must be clever in it, and we shall have to work together—no matter how much you hate me.”

  That took her aback. For one of the few times since he had met her, she looked less than certain. “It is a matter of trust, Norman. How am I supposed to believe you willing to sacrifice yourself for Falcon?”

  “Not for Falcon.” Gareth moved his gaze to Linnet’s face. All his being, as he now knew, lay with her. And he would do all he must for her sake.

  Her eyes met his and, again, the love came rushing upon him, a sense of claiming so strong it steadied his resolve and his heartbeat.

  Her voice sounded in his mind, a caress. Forever, beloved.

  Lark twitched, almost as if she heard.

  Gareth looked at her again and then swept the grim-faced men who accompanied her with a glance. “Listen to me. Falcon will need to fight for his life. I can wrest for him that chance, and I can try to tip the scale—little more. Follow my lead, and above all else get Falcon away after the contest ends, no matter what condition he may be in.”

  Lark’s chin tipped up. “If you can imagine I will not—”

  “I can imagine you losing your temper and spoiling our chances.”

  “ ‘Our’?” she sneered.

  “Were I not with you, Mistress Lark, I would not make this attempt. Look around you. Do you think I can do more than sway these events? Now hold your tongue and come to meet the King.”

  All six of them stiffened.

  “You do mean to betray us,” Lark hissed.

  “He does not.” Linnet laid her hand on Gareth’s bare arm. The last time ever she would touch him? Ah, but his whole body strained to her even as her love flooded through him again.

  I will be with you, she whispered in his mind, in the sunlight, the breeze, and the grass beneath your feet—in the strength of your heart. It was so like the blessing his mother had bestowed upon him, he caught his breath.

  He nodded at her once. “Come,” he said again. “And, all of you, be as strong and wise as ever you have been.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  “Sire, I have grand news. I bring the return of your stolen taxes, lost here in Nottingham some weeks ago.”

  The words caught the attention of the mild-faced, sandy-haired man seated in comfort in the pavilion, and brought the Sheriff of Nottingham to his feet.

  Linnet had never before been quite so close to the dreaded Robert de Vavasour, and had never before laid eyes on the King. Now she stood under a silk canopy surrounded by guards and nobles, one of whom was the Sheriff’s captain, Monteith.

  Would Monteith recognize them from the encounter near Ravenshead? But no, his gaze slid off both her and Lark, no doubt dismissing them as unimportant peasants.

  King Henry crooked an eyebrow. “What is this you say, Sir Gareth? And are these varlets the fellows who stole it?”

  “Nay, my liege.” Gareth bowed deeply, and his golden-brown hair spilled over his brow like liquid sunlight. So handsome did he look, stripped down to fighting trim in his leggings and boots, he nearly distracted Linnet from the situation at hand.

  Nearly.

  “These are your loyal subj
ects, my agents, who have been working on my behalf among the forest folk.”

  “What?” Monteith straightened at that, and Robert de Vavasour looked taken aback.

  Gareth spared a look for neither of them. “My liege,” he said again, “there are folk who work on your behalf, always.”

  “Well!” Henry sat up straighter, and a smile curved his lips. “We are impressed by your devotion, Sir Gareth.” He waved a hand at Linnet and her companions. “And by that of these faithful subjects. Not everyone in Sherwood has forsaken his King, eh, de Vavasour? And it seems your young nephew has succeeded where you failed. We are pleased, indeed. Not only a fine entertainment provided us this day, but the return of what is our due.”

  Beside Linnet, Lark twitched violently. Linnet prayed she would control her indignation; she knew very well how many weapons Lark carried about her person and just how quickly she could draw that bow on her shoulder. They stood, here, in the very heart of danger. If Lark gave in to her impulses, they would never leave the pavilion.

  Robert de Vavasour grunted, “My nephew should have come to me with this information.”

  “Or me,” Monteith put in.

  “My agents,” Gareth made a sweeping gesture toward the party from Sherwood, “have only just succeeded in finding what they sought.”

  “Well, where is this prize?” Henry asked.

  Edward Fletcher, who made one of Linnet’s party, stepped forward and set the heavy casket at Gareth’s feet. A big man, Edward, brawny and usually fearless, he now appeared struck dumb. But then, none of them had expected to be hauled before the Sheriff and the King.

  Gareth lifted the lid of the small chest. Everyone gathered in the pavilion strained forward to see, and Robert de Vavasour spoke incredulously. “How did you manage that, Nephew, when the captain of my guard could not?”

  Again Gareth gestured to Linnet’s group. “My lord, I made some useful connections while captive in the forest.”

  Lark twitched again, and Linnet almost tasted her fear. Her sister believed Gareth used them to his own glory, in this moment. Yet, miraculously, she held her tongue.

  “A true champion, eh?” Henry cocked an eye at de Vavasour. “Working for his King even in captivity. We are well pleased. And I trust you will put on another fine show for us this afternoon?”

  “I hope to, my liege, finer than you can imagine.”

  “Then go.” Henry waved a dismissive hand, the casket of riches that could have fed the poor of Sherwood indefinitely already forgotten. For an instant Linnet experienced, in full, Lark’s anger and resentment. Then Gareth turned, and she saw the look in his eyes.

  Magnanimously, Henry added, “You have my thanks. And perhaps ale all ’round for your stalwart helpers.”

  “Thank you, my liege.” Another bow and Gareth led them away down from the sheltered pavilion and back into the sunlight. It made a halo of his hair and burnished his deeply tanned shoulders.

  At his left shoulder, though, Linnet could see the ugly, puckered scar from the wound she had tended. Her mother had healed that—or had she? Linnet sensed something in Gareth, a hesitancy or possibly pain. But so many sensations rushed upon her here, including Lark’s suspicion and anger, her senses were nearly overwhelmed.

  “You had better be dealing in good faith with us, de Vavasour,” Lark spat. “Else, as I have promised, I shall make you pay.”

  Gareth gave her a long stare. “Best leave that to Scarlet, eh?” His mouth tightened. “You have a long afternoon ahead of you before I can wrangle his appearance. Choose for yourselves a place from whence you can see everything yet still get him away when the time comes.”

  Lark tossed her head and tried to scoff. “As if I believe you truly will deliver him to us.”

  “If you did not believe it, you would not be here. Whatever happens, when your opportunity comes you must get him out through the gates and back to Sherwood. Understand?”

  Lark nodded once, and Gareth turned to Linnet.

  Her heart seemed to lift and then shatter into pieces at the tangled love and resolve she saw in his eyes. He spoke not aloud, but into her mind. What I go to do, my love, I do for you, and for Sherwood.

  I know.

  You have brought me joy, more than ever I dreamed.

  She reached out and grasped his wrist. Warm from the sun, the feel of him beneath her fingers seemed, in that moment, to hold all life and all hope. I bid you return—to me, and your child.

  His eyes grew wide with amazement. She felt the joy and the pain of it engulf him, all one emotion. And in that moment she knew for certain he did not expect to survive this afternoon’s work.

  By God! That makes all the more reason for me to act as I do, my love, in the hope that our child may someday live free.

  “Sir Gareth!” Someone called him from across the field. Linnet felt his pain as he turned—the physical kind, this time—raw and hot at shoulder and thigh, bone deep in the arm that had been broken. Sheer terror engulfed her. He was not whole, and he went to fight to the death.

  She drew a breath and almost—almost—called him back. But Falcon’s life hung in the balance, and the triad, and Sherwood, all things she had been bred and born to defend.

  I love you. Fight well. They were her last words to him as he stalked away from her across the bright green grass.

  ****

  “Your man—Norman or not—can fight, I will say that for him.” The words came from Lark, uttered almost beneath her breath, honest and grudging. She stood as she had for the last interminable stretch of time, taut as a bowstring, watching every move on the field before them, completely enthralled. She had not missed a blow or sword stroke, and her eyes glowed.

  At her back the others of their party muttered. Linnet could hear them, and Lark, and the cries and cheers of the crowd, but she could no longer look at the center of the arena where Gareth de Vavasour—her love, her heart—fought for the name of supreme champion. She only knew he had agreed to take on all comers and had fought, already, six members of the Sheriff’s guard and taken them all down with wounds that rendered them incapable of fighting on.

  “A costly proposition for the dog de Vavasour,” Lark had grunted at one point. “These must be his best men, and now all hampered.”

  And what of Gareth? He must be hampered, as well. Linnet knew his beautiful body, so graceful beneath the sun, was now streaked and spattered with blood, some of it his own. She could feel his weariness, ever-increasing, and the unbearable ache in his left arm. Facing the last opponent, that arm had nearly failed him and he had almost lost his grip on his shield. The whole crowd—now entirely behind him—had cried out in anguish before he had managed to disarm his adversary.

  Even the King, still undeniably enjoying himself, was on Gareth’s side. Linnet had heard Henry call out, as well. But she could not look. She could no longer watch her love endure.

  “He is earning his title, no doubt of it,” Lark ground out now.

  “No more takers,” said one of their men, also completely engrossed.

  And Lark breathed, “What of Fal?”

  What, indeed? Against her better judgment, Linnet gazed through the haze of afternoon sunlight and watched as her man—her man—lowered his sword at last and stalked toward the pavilion where sat the Sheriff and the King.

  “My lord and liege,” he called. Was she the only one who could hear the exhaustion in his voice? “It seems I am fresh out of opponents.”

  “You have fought well,” Henry returned most graciously, “and earned the title of Champion.”

  Gareth bowed, and Linnet received another taste of his pain. “Thank you, my liege. But I confess I would fight on.”

  Even from where she stood, Linnet saw Henry raise his hands. “How, when you have answered all comers?”

  “There is one more I would face, sire. He languishes in your dungeons.”

  Lark’s breath caught hard. She reached out and caught Linnet’s forearm strongly enough to leave bruis
es. “Fal! Ah, but surely your brute will kill him.”

  “Hush. He keeps his promise.”

  “What is this?” Henry called, and glanced at Robert de Vavasour.

  “My liege, one of the miscreants who took part in thieving that which my nephew has this day returned to you has been captured and awaits trial. It seems your champion would choose to face him.”

  Gareth bowed again. “I would, my liege. I say let his trial take place here and now, before your eyes. Should he defeat me, he may win his freedom. Should I defeat him, my blade shall deliver your justice.”

  And Henry called, “As if he could defeat you, and he an untrained peasant! Aye, Champion, let the rogue be brought, and do well my work for me!”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Go carefully, love.

  Gareth heard Linnet’s voice in his mind even as he stood awaiting the arrival of Falcon from the dungeons. He dared not look at her, though his entire being longed for it and he could have pinpointed her effortlessly in the crowd.

  He felt her fear for him, even as she must be able to feel his weariness, which now went bone deep. He ached, and a buzzing filled his head the way it sometimes had after his father had beaten him and he was forced to walk back to his chamber on his own two feet. Pride had kept him upright then. Devotion kept him on his feet now. One more opponent to face, and this time he did not have to win.

  The pain in his left arm was a blinding thing, so raw it felt as if the bone had given way again. Yet the limb still served. The new cuts and abrasions merely stung; he would spare them no heed now. But both his healed wounds, at thigh and shoulder, burned, and the scene blurred intermittently before his eyes.

  Not enough to keep him from seeing Falcon, though, when he appeared flanked by two guards. Falcon looked much the worse for wear—he would have been questioned about the whereabouts of the tax money—but he was still on his feet and moving with his usual lithe strength. Gareth tried to imagine the shock of being hauled from one of those stinking cells without warning and brought out into the bright sunlight before this great, eager throng. Falcon came with his head up, his wild, fair hair alight and haloed, and his eyes everywhere.