Laura Strickland - The Guardians of Sherwood Trilogy (11 page)

Gareth turned his head sharply. His eyes found Linnet across the clearing where she bent gracefully over a bundle she assembled, her dark hair streaming down.

“Life is long,” he told Sparrow. “You cannot make such a declaration. If she and I are meant to meet again, we shall so meet.”

Sparrow’s expression turned wry. “Leave her alone, if you would do her any service. She has her place in this world as you have yours. You are a Norman knight. Linnet is even more vitally important.”

Gareth did not speak, but everything inside him cried his resistance.

Sparrow went on, still in his calm rumble. “You could do for her one thing else, if you will.”

“What is that?”

“Forget her. Forget, also, the location of her village and the names of those dear to her. Your uncle we know for a vengeful man, devoid of mercy. Protect her as you can.”

Gareth gave a hard nod. That he could do. But see her go from him... It made a harder prospect.

Sparrow met his gaze and gave a tight smile. “I do not know all of what happened in the forest last night. Like my wife, I sensed great magic. The wheel of our lives turns mightily just now. It does not go easily for me to trust a Norman. But it seems I must trust you to protect my daughter, Gareth de Vavasour.”

Chapter Fifteen

“Smell that—’tis the scent of burning on the wind.” Falcon’s head reared up like that of a wild creature sensing danger.

Lark, coming up next to him, paused with her whole body aquiver.

Linnet, who brought up the rear in their return to Oakham, struggled to gather her thoughts. Too much had happened back in the forest; she felt torn, as if the better part of her had been ripped away and left behind with Gareth de Vavasour.

That it should be so terrified her. He was the very last man upon whom she should settle her heart: Norman knight, nephew to her mortal enemy, sworn opponent to all she held dear. She barely knew him, had not yet kissed him, for all her longing. Yet her heart had leaped to him without her leave. And now she carried a part of him with her, even as she had left a measure of her soul in his hands.

“Come, hurry.” Lark, ever indefatigable, took off at a run. Falcon quickly followed. They were not far from Oakham—home—now, but the journey had been a long one, and Linnet felt a sudden weight of dread mingle with her weariness to hold her back. She suddenly knew she did not want to see. Yet she forced herself to follow her companions.

The reek of burning intensified as they went. When they burst from the trees that sheltered the village, they dragged to a halt, one by one.

Most of Oakham lay in a still-smoking heap, even though the disaster was clearly not new. Air heavy with ash hung beneath the sheltering boughs of the trees, along with a suffocating aura of oppression. Somewhere a dog barked and a child wailed, sounding tired and hungry.

Linnet stared in disbelief, unable to make sense of what she saw. The west side of the village, where her own hut had stood, lay mostly ruined. On the east side, beyond the communal gardens, some buildings still stood.

“Oh, God,” Falcon breathed: an invocation.

Lark seized his arm with both hands. “Retaliation,” she seethed, “for the robbery and capture of that accursed Norman. It must be!”

Gone, thought Linnet, stunned. All gone. Her wee hut and everything she owned inside it—precious little it might seem to some, but to her it meant independence. Herbs gathered and blended over weeks and months, her few treasures—the wooden stag her father had carved for her when she was ten, the silk charm bag Ma had passed down from the wise woman, Lil—irreplaceable keepsakes of her life.

She struggled to pick out the particular pile of rubble that was her own, and her heart ached.

Folk wandered the grounds looking as lost as Linnet suddenly felt. Catching sight of the new arrivals, they began to gather.

Linnet glanced into Falcon’s face; he looked anguished, and he breathed but one word. “Pa.”

“Surely he was safe in the ground before this happened,” Lark told him. “Surely. And if not, Fal, ’tis a hero’s funeral, as he deserved.”

“I should have been here, not off haring about the forest.” Falcon’s voice sounded rough with pain. Linnet knew him to the heart and knew that, despite his habitual easy demeanor, he felt things deeply, and never more so than now.

“What happened?” Lark addressed those who gathered to meet them. “When?”

The smith, Yancy, spoke. “Two days past, now. They came with torches at daybreak.”

“Who?”

“Soldiers from Nottingham. Said they wanted those outlaws who held up the party on the York road and took the King’s taxes.”

Lark and Falcon exchanged looks. Falcon spoke. “Did they ask after the captive?”

“Nay. And they refused to believe us when we denied all knowledge of their lost riches. We found out yesterday they burned Held as well, and most of Elderdale.”

“That means they do not know whence came the men who held them up on the road,” Lark murmured.

“And so everyone pays,” cried a woman whose shocked eyes burned in her pale face. “My home is gone.”

“We have three dead,” Yancy said gravely, “one a child who perished from the smoke, and many injured.” He looked at Linnet. “We need the skill in your hands, lass.”

She gestured helplessly. “I have lost all.” The few healing supplies she had taken with her had been left with her mother, for Gareth. “Of course I will do what I can.”

“My father,” Fal said brokenly, “had he already been buried?”

Another of the men answered, “Aye, lad. But the things of his we had saved for you, his hood and his quiver, those arrows he kept for remembrances, are all gone. The shelter where they lay is burnt to cinders. Only his sword remains, and that badly damaged.”

Grief twisted Falcon’s features. “I should have been here, to stand and fight.”

Yancy’s eyes flashed. “You think we did not stand? The worst wounded are those who tried. Well do you know, young Falcon, a man on foot is no match for one mounted, and with a sword.” He reached out and clasped Fal’s arm. “But we need you now. Oakham needs the leadership of a strong headman, more than ever with your father gone.”

Falcon seemed to shrink. “Can you not take the place, Yancy? I am not the man my father was.”

“Nor am I, lad. I daresay there will never be another like him. Come, though. You must have known the place would be yours one day. And folk are anxious to look to someone. They feel lost, and there is much work to be done.”

It seemed to Linnet the whole village stood holding its breath for Falcon’s answer. But he did not make it. Instead his face crumpled and his eyes went wide.

Lark, still holding his arm, spoke steadily. “Of course he will step into the breach. We shall all pull together as we always do. What have those without roofs been doing these two nights past?”

A woman spoke. “Sleeping outside, or with neighbors.”

“At least the weather is kind,” Lark said briskly. “We shall begin with rebuilding as suits the need. Gather all those who have lost their homes here, beside me, and those sore hurt in another group, for Linnet. We shall see to everyone. Aye, Fal?”

He nodded brokenly. The village folk, given something to do, seemed satisfied and hurried off.

Linnet, staggering emotionally under the weight of all to be done, looked at her companions. “Someone should tell Ma and Pa. Or do you think they know?”

“I think they suspected what we would find here,” Lark returned. “It is likely why they sent us.” Her golden eyes met Linnet’s. “They mean for the three of us to work together. And so we shall. Is that not right, Fal?”

He had covered his face with his hands. “All lost, gone the same way as my mother and poor wee Thrush.”

“I know how you are hurting.” Lark’s voice softened.

“I failed him.”

“If that is truly how you feel, then resolve you will not fail him again. Step up and take the place he held for you all these years.”

“You are wrong.” Fal raised an anguished face. “He held it not for me but because he was a leader to the bone. As I am not! How can I act as these folk expect? Better you take the place of headman, Lark, than I.”

“Never mind.” Lark hooked an arm about his neck and drew his head down to hers. “We shall hold the place together, eh?”

They went off and left Linnet alone, save for one child who lingered, large-eyed, with his thumb in his mouth. “Go home to your mother, Roger,” Linnet told him kindly. “She will be missing you.” Not until she had spoken the words did she realize his home, close by her own, stood no longer. “Here.” She held out her hand to him. Best she find his mother, amid all this madness, and see him safe.

She came upon the child’s mother standing with a knot of other women, gossiping, and stood to speak with them. The children, they said, were sore frightened, tired, and hungry. Linnet set them to organizing a communal cook pot and bade them bring their little ones to a cleared place where she could tend their injuries.

She could see Lark and Falcon across the way, still in tandem and giving similar directions. That was, Lark appeared to be giving instructions while Fal stood at her side, shocked and silent.

Linnet stole a moment to walk back to the rubble that had once been her home, where she looked to see what could be salvaged. Nothing. The thatch must have burned and come down, engulfing everything inside. The rubble still gave off heat. Perhaps when it cooled she would be able to search, but she could not imagine finding anything intact.

Tears flooded her eyes and she had to catch herself up, hard. No one ever said life was not difficult or that things would be just. But following so swiftly on the loss of Martin, this seemed a cruel blow indeed.

And now what? With her parents still deep in Sherwood, must she, Lark, and Falcon take the reins in their hands in order to move forward? Was that what her parents intended, to set the new triad in motion and force them to accept their places?

And would Ma and Pa now disappear into Sherwood like all those spirits who inhabited it, lose themselves in the magic that held the ancient forest? Better that, Linnet acknowledged, than to lose them as Falcon had lost Martin. Even though she did not see her parents often, they were the bedrock of her life, and her heart ached at the idea of going on without them. The prospect of trying to exist without her Pa’s smile, the steady wisdom in his eyes, the comfort he emitted, or Ma’s lightning humor and sharp wit, and the strength of her knowing, seemed impossible. How did Fal endure it?

And what of Lark? She seemed as strong and undefeatable as Ma, but in many ways Martin Scarlet had been her hero, and that part of her world had been destroyed.

How could Linnet be so selfish as to think about herself at such a time? How wonder at being able to go on in the absence of Gareth de Vavasour when others had lost so much? How let herself pine for a pair of clear, gray eyes, when Fal’s eyes were full of pain? How hunger for the taste of someone she had never even kissed…

Get hold of yourself, girl. A short while ago, you did not know he existed. But you have always known the path that lay before you. Time to set your foot upon it and forget him.

“But I cannot forget,” she said aloud into the ashes of her past life. “I cannot hope to forget.”

Chapter Sixteen

“Drink this.”

The demand roused Gareth de Vavasour from his sleep. The dawn sun was just rising, and all around him the forest lay in a deep hush. Light had begun to seep between the mighty boles of the trees and through the high canopy of leaves.

Linnet’s mother stood above him with a wooden cup in her hands.

He blinked at her and sat up. His bed had been the moss of Sherwood and he had slept surprisingly well. He remembered—and did not remember—dreaming; the remnants of sweet visions still wrapped round him.
Linnet.
Surely he had loved her, in his dreams.

And surely this woman offering him the cup knew it. She seemed so aware of everything. Three days they had been together at this new place, Gareth, Wren, and Sparrow. And Gareth had begun to develop a strange, inexplicable affinity for the magic here that he breathed like air.

Sometimes it all seemed too real, painfully vital—the light, the sounds the trees made whispering among themselves, and the twining threads of power. Sometimes nothing at all seemed real or substantial, not even the people with whom he found himself. It might all be illusion, like his vivid dreams.

He looked into Wren Little’s eyes and wondered what he saw there, besides impatience. He did not reach to take the cup from her but instead asked, “What is that?”

“A draught to make you stronger.”

So it might well be; she had dosed him with many vile potions these days past. Most tasted of dirt and sticks. But something about this offering pricked his senses.

“What have you put in it?” He always asked. Usually she did not tell; she just insisted he drink. He found the woman relentless.

“Herbs.”

Cautiously, he accepted the cup in his right hand. The contents steamed a bit, the way the trees did when the morning sun first hit them. He sniffed and the contents smelled bitter; the vessel might contain poison, or pure enchantment.

He stirred and stretched his limbs on the end of his tether. Secured to a young ash tree that persistently rattled its leaves at him, he had watched Wren each day while she secured the bond with a murmured spell.

“Drink it,” Wren repeated inexorably and folded her legs beneath her, so to sit beside him. He knew from experience she would stay until he ingested every drop.

He could not doubt her skill as a healer or that she employed some measure of magic when she treated him. He could feel that much whenever she laid her hands on him, a bright tingle that penetrated his flesh and seemed to heal his wounds from within. He found it an altogether disconcerting sensation and hoped she would not touch him now, even though her care had lent him immeasurable strength.

“We have been given signs,” she announced, “telling us you will soon be able to go home.”

“Home?” But he had none. Any such claim had been buried with the whimsical creature he had called Mother.