Lord of Sherwood

by Laura Strickland

  Diera shook her head. “That has not yet been afforded us. But Curlew will hear you, or Heron will, through your connection.”

  “Not if I guard myself from them. Come swiftly, if you are to come, before they see.”

  Diera stole one look at the men on the far side of the encampment. Then she hiked up her skirts, and together they ran.

  No sooner were they away into the trees than the rain came. Weeping, weeping. Bright blue eyes reaching for her through the tears.

  Breathlessly, Diera asked, “Just what do you mean to do?”

  “Trade myself to Havers for his promise to cease with harrying the folk of Sherwood.”

  “Do you think you can trust any promise he may give?”

  Better, she hoped, than Curlew could rely on her own. She had promised, aye, never to leave him. Surely in the purest sense she did not, even now.

  Marianwyn! As if her errant thought summoned it, his voice sounded clear and bright in her mind. She skidded to a halt, and Diera faltered also, staring.

  “His thoughts pursue me.” Anwyn’s heart clenched. “That did not take long.”

  “Let us turn back.”

  Anwyn ignored that plea. “Heron instructed the men to take my father by the east road out of Sherwood, did he not?”

  “Aye, and Curlew sent archers ahead to guard the way.” At Anwyn’s look of surprise she said, “You did not know that? Curlew rarely leaves things to chance.”

  “So, others of our folk are out there?”

  “Aye. Let us turn back,” Diera urged again.

  “Nay, for you heard what Heron said: Havers may well fly the banner of my father’s rescue, but what he truly wants is my return. I see no hope but to give it to him.”

  “You would endure his anger, his vengeance?”

  “For Curlew’s sake, I would endure most anything.”

  Diera studied her long. “Then come.”

  They ran on, Diera now leading the way through the trackless forest on a tangent that Anwyn guessed would intercept the east road. Tension grew inside her as they went, and awareness of a great event approaching. The rain pounded down so loud she could not hear her own footsteps, could barely hear Curlew’s voice still calling in her mind.

  He came. But he would not catch her in time.

  Anything would be better, she told herself again as she ran, than to fail him. Nay, it had not been her fault he fell, last time. But afterwards she had crumbled, shattered, turned from all he loved, and ended her days in the desert of the nunnery, away from the place he rested and away from Sherwood’s green light.

  Anything would be better than that slow starvation, even pain at Havers’ hands.

  Marianwyn, return to me.

  She closed her thoughts to the desperate voice in her mind. Just ahead through the trees she could see the road, and caught a glimpse of the party bent on leading her father back to Nottingham. She reached out and caught Diera’s hand, dragged her to a halt.

  Was it better to join her father’s party now or follow them to Nottingham? Would the Sherwood group try to send her back to Curlew? They knew how he felt for her—by now most everyone did. But they had little reason to value her of themselves. Still, she would not risk being turned away.

  Even as she stood hesitating, the decision was taken from her. She heard a cry ahead, voices raised in challenge and one voice she knew and hated most well.

  Havers. Here, now. No.

  Diera sucked in a great breath and freed herself from Anwyn’s grip. “Trouble. We had better turn back.”

  For an instant Anwyn stood while everything teetered in the balance. Turn back or go forward? Reach for safety or resolution? Dare or fail? The very forest seemed to whirl around her, a wheel on its axis, and Curlew coming, bringing with him a past she needed so desperately to outrun. The future, bright with danger, sweeping in.

  One thought only tipped the scale for her: if she did not move forward, how could she protect him? She must protect him.

  She darted forward so swiftly she eluded Diera’s grasp and headed like an arrow for the clamor of sudden battle, the screams and the peril.

  Behind, Diera called even as Curlew cried to her, in her mind.

  She burst onto the roadway and into a scene of carnage. The party from Sherwood had halted in the pounding rain to face Havers, who had both foresters and soldiers at his back. Three men already lay dead or wounded to death—two of Havers’ and one from Sherwood. Her Da stood with his hands still bound, unable to defend himself. That alone was enough to take Anwyn forward.

  Her father saw her at once and called her name, which snagged Havers’ attention. The squat forester—her husband—loosed a shot from his bow and turned to face her, maddened as a boar on the attack.

  He roared, “So there you are, misbegotten wench!”

  Marianwyn! Curlew called at almost the same moment.

  What happened next would stand forever in Anwyn’s mind. Havers started toward her even as the Sherwood party fell back, still battling the soldiers. Curlew Champion appeared from the forest and leaped into the road.

  Faster spun the circle in which Anwyn seemed so surely trapped. It did so jerkily, and in a garish light, every detail standing out too strong. Curlew skidded to a halt in the road. To her horror, she saw he had come away without his bow, no doubt determined to catch up with her and thinking of nothing else.

  Even now he parted his lips and called her name. “Anwyn!”

  The cry diverted Havers’ attention from Anwyn for one terrible moment—one that proved long enough. She saw the heavy hatred fill his mean, little eyes. “Is this your captor then, bitch? Aye, and I can answer the bastard as he deserves!”

  Anwyn did not see Havers notch his arrow. It was simply there at the ready when he raised the bow and sighted. Everything within Anwyn roared in protest and she launched herself at him—a few short steps were all it would take to place her body between Curlew and that arrow. But Curlew leaped also and rushed into the shot in an equally thoughtless effort to protect her.

  Everything halted. The terrible, merciless circle ground to a stop and all the players stood pinioned. Only the arrow moved, flying, as inevitable as the past, and buried itself deep in Curlew’s chest.

  Anwyn clutched her own breast precisely as if the wound had taken her, instead. And it had, oh, it had! Then the circle shuddered into motion. The rain pounded down—like tears, endless—and Curlew crumpled to the ground, his eyes already closed.

  No, no, no, no, no, no—

  A few short steps separated her from her heart, which now lay in the road like something slain. She was not permitted to take them. Cruel hands caught her even as she stumbled forward, and a hated voice grated in her ear, “Ah, no! Your lover is he, that outlaw? Dirty slut that you are. But you will not go to him. Nay, Wife—you will come away with me.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  “Does he yet live?” Anwyn asked the question piteously of her father, who tramped at her side, but got no answer. He merely shook his head as he had the all other times she had implored him.

  Despite his denial she said, “Surely he lives. ’Twas but a single wound, and he is so strong.” He carried the very strength of Sherwood.

  But that had not saved him last time. And there had been so much blood. She had seen that even as Havers dragged her away.

  Her last glimpse of her love had come when the road turned, and it had the power to chill her to the heart: Curlew sprawled in the road with the others gathered round—both Heron, who must have followed him even as Curlew had followed Anwyn, and Diera kneeling over him. And the rain falling down, weeping.

  It had all come round again, her worst terror and her deepest fear.

  “It is my fault,” she murmured to herself. “I brought this on him even as I strove to prevent it, the very thing I—”

  “Be silent!” Havers whirled and ordered her viciously.

  She raised burning eyes to him. He had unbound Mason Montfort’s hands
and tied Anwyn’s with the same straps, even over her father’s protests.

  “We cannot trust her, Master Montfort. Surely you see that. ’Tis worse than we thought. She is in league with those outlaws back there, and has no doubt given herself to that rogue I cut down.”

  “I do not like this, not any of it,” Montfort had declared even as Havers organized his men and moved off, leaving the Sherwood party in confusion behind him, scattered and focused only on their great loss.

  And Havers told him, “Let us get out of this accursed forest and safe back to Nottingham, and we shall sort it.”

  Nottingham, Anwyn thought; no safety lay there nor anywhere else for her now. She did not care what Havers did to her. She would scarcely notice for the weight of her agony.

  Did Curlew live? She needed to master her emotions and quiet herself enough to listen for him through the ties that connected them, and those of the triad—him, or Heron. But she could not calm herself. Pain pounded through her like a second heartbeat, grief arose and threatened to unhinge her mind. Words chased one another through her head.

  My fault. Brought this upon him. Led him straight into it. Failed him.

  Again.

  A sob caught in her throat. Had she learned nothing through all the past heartache? Did she not believe their love eternal? Did she not know life rose and fell and rose again, undefeatable as the seasons?

  Aye, but still all she could see was him lying there in his blood.

  Would she be so weak as to fail him now?

  No. Not that.

  She eyed Havers’ squat back, and the other men who accompanied them. What were her chances of escape, of making it back to that place Curlew lay, of discovering if he yet lived?

  Six men—two foresters, neither of them known to her, and the surviving soldiers. Some went before and some came behind. She would not make it twenty strides before they caught her.

  She tipped her face up to the sky, to the rain, and sought for strength. Sherwood must lend that to her; she was of the forest now, a part of it, a guardian. Sherwood, she knew, dealt in both magic and stark reality—it gave and it took.

  I will give you anything. Only let me reach him.

  She thought she saw something from the corner of her eye, a flicker of movement away through the trees that bordered the road. She fought for breath and strove once more to calm her mind. Help me.

  A stillness came. Through it she reached with her mind, seeking out the pathways that linked her with Curlew—with Robin—battling even as she had failed to do last time to reach him, to find him.

  To sense him.

  Whispers. Flickering flashes of light. Did he live? If so he could not hear her, and he could not respond. But by the very light of the forest, she felt something.

  What was it Curlew had told her? Love made up the strength of Sherwood—the love that bound souls one to another, that which lit the flame of giving, and sacrifice.

  Last time fear had made her weak. This time, love would make her strong.

  She stopped walking, threw her head back and screamed aloud. She called to the air, the rain, the deep soil and the eternal fire. “Help me!”

  Havers faltered and spun, an ugly look distorting his face. The first arrow came almost simultaneously and thudded into the back of one of the foresters as if in answer to her call.

  A hail of others followed. Havers’ party sprang into motion. The soldiers drew their swords and raised their shields. The one remaining forester readied his bow. Anwyn’s father, having no way to defend himself, dropped to the road and bellowed at Anwyn, “Get down!”

  She ignored him and stood where she was, joy pounding up through her. Whatever came now to her aid would not harm her, even though arrows shivered through the air like hard drops of rain. Who had come to her aid? Surely it must be the bowmen Diera said Curlew, in his caution, had sent on ahead.

  “Can you see them?” Havers demanded of his men, enraged. And louder, “Show yourselves, cowards!”

  His sole response was an arrow that flew with beautiful precision and pierced the top edge of his shield.

  “Drive them off!” he hollered then. “Fall in!”

  Another arrow streaked in upon him. Anwyn saw it take him in the shoulder just beneath his throat, and her battered heart exulted. But he roared like the boar he resembled, seized the shaft, and pulled the arrow from his flesh.

  Anwyn nearly fell down where she stood. Havers stomped forward and caught hold of her even as her knees began to buckle; his merciless grip trapped her as he drew her against him. The iron tip of his knife bit her throat.

  “Stop firing,” he called into the trees, “or I slay her where she stands.”

  Go ahead, Anwyn thought fiercely. If Curlew passed into death, she would go even there with him. Inner knowing told her they would then be together in spirit.

  But she had a destiny to fulfill. She needed to fight, not crumble and run. She needed to stand strong.

  The arrows from the forest desisted. Her father scrambled to his feet.

  “Ah,” Havers growled in satisfaction, his breath scorching Anwyn’s ear, “so they value you, do they? You mean something to them.”

  “Let me go,” she told him, “else you will not leave the forest alive.”

  “Ah no, wench. You come with me. And you will have your discipline, full earned, in pain.”

  Her father glared at Havers. “Is this how you think to treat my daughter? It is enough!”

  “Peace, Master Montfort. Did you not ask for my help with her? The next time you see your daughter, I assure you she will prove obedient.”

  Montfort stared, aghast.

  Havers called to his men, “You get Master Montfort back to Nottingham safely. These wolfsheads want the woman, and I doubt there are enough of them to follow all of us. We will meet you there.” He growled for Anwyn’s ears alone, “And we have a score to settle, you and I.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  “You will regret this,” Anwyn promised Havers bitterly.

  Even as she spoke the words, she strained back for a last glimpse of her father’s party. She could still hear them and the sounds of a fight, for no sooner had she and Havers left than the Sheriff’s men had once more come under fire from the forest. Did Curlew’s bowmen mean to settle with them, then, rather than follow along with her and Havers? Much as she hoped for her father’s safety, she longed also for a chance to break free.

  But Havers gripped her hard by the neck and dragged her along, heedless of twigs and branches, ever deeper into the trees. Sherwood’s fingers raked her face and stung tears from her eyes. She did not care. She willed them to hurt her, if it meant they might harm Havers as well.

  Be my defense, she thought with all her will and all her heart, come to my call, all those who love. As if in answer, an arrow came from nowhere and seared past Havers’ head in a shaft of pure magic. Awareness erupted within Anwyn, perilous and bright. All at once she could feel everything intensely—the distress of her father, now far behind her, Havers’ extreme anger, even the force inherent in the falling rain. She could feel the sentience of the trees, and threads of power rising.

  That power was for her. She had only to seize and use it.

  “Down.” Havers shoved her to her knees behind a fallen tree even as more arrows streaked in upon them. The tree, an ancient giant, lay like a corpse covered with green moss. She placed her hands on it and power surged up into her palms, strong enough to widen her eyes.

  Havers ducked as an arrow came close enough to kiss his nose. Another streaked from behind and he cast himself onto the ground. The archers were now all around them.

  Trapped. Havers was quite surely caught and surrounded. But how could Curlew’s archers be here, if they remained behind at the road, fighting the balance of Havers’ men?

  “Get down, stupid wench,” Havers growled, “or do you wish to be killed?” He sneered, “Just like your outlaw lover. ’Tis what he was to you, is it not? You were never c
aptured or held against your will. You went off catting around with him. Admit it.”

  “I admit it. He is worth a thousand of you.”

  “A serf? A dirty wolfshead? You fool! I have earned importance and a good place. How could you choose him over me?”

  “He, too, has a place. He is Lord of Sherwood.”

  Havers laughed harshly. “Whatever that may mean, it is his place no longer, for he lies dead. No man could survive such a strike from one of my good arrows.”

  As if to emphasize his words, an arrow thudded into the tree close beside his head.

  “Aye,” Anwyn asked softly, angrily, “and just what do you suppose you are likely to survive?”

  Before he could answer, she sprang to her feet and lifted her hands. Curlew might well lie dead, she knew not. But she refused to lie down with him, not this time. She would take the power Sherwood offered, revenge him, and fight on. A cowering child, a grieving widow no more, she knew her place in the circle, and meant to accept, uphold, and glory in it.

  “Come and get him,” she called to the forest.

  She knew not precisely whom she summoned. The remnants of Curlew’s archers? Others of his folk from Oakham? When they began moving closer, those who had been busily firing upon Havers, she saw the truth.

  A crowd of shadowy figures, they blended with the forest itself, slid and shifted with infinite grace and seemed to materialize, all with bows in their hands. The flick of a leaf became a lock of hair here, the glint of a raindrop the gleam in an eye there. The burr on an oak resolved itself into the curve of an ear, a limb an arm, a leg.

  The power came with them, even as Anwyn looked into the eyes of the nearest, a woman—those fierce, golden eyes so like Lark’s, set in a strong, beautiful face beneath a flowing mane of brown. Anwyn knew her. Had this woman not led her to Curlew the night after her wedding, when she fled Havers? Grandmother Wren.

  Beside her stood a great, tall man in a sheepskin cloak holding a bow even taller than he. His name appeared in Anwyn’s mind: Sparrow. On the far side of the circle Anwyn caught sight of his counterpart in size—a veritable giant with a great, brown beard: John Little. Beside him stood another man with an untamed, yellow mane and a scarred face: Martin Scarlet.