Laura Strickland - The Guardians of Sherwood Trilogy (13 page)

Linnet eyed her sister with misgiving but said nothing. She could feel Lark’s terror and disquiet and knew she had been shaken to the core by Falcon’s seizure. No doubt she found some relief in her bold declarations. In Linnet’s opinion, Lark should not even be up on her feet, but so far Linnet had been unsuccessful in keeping her down.

Most of the fires had been put out. A few piles of thatch still smoldered, and village folk milled about wearing devastated expressions. Some of them, elders who had been Martin Scarlet’s cronies, along with friends of Falcon, as well as Lark and Linnet, had gathered to discuss what should next be done.

“We must get Falcon back,” Lark declared, unswerving.

“But how best to answer the Sheriff’s demand?” wondered Adam Wright. “The young prisoner he wants is here no longer.”

“Your parents have him?” asked Yancy, the smith, of Linnet.

“Aye,” Linnet confirmed unhappily.

“I say we fetch the bastard out of Sherwood and send him to Nottingham in pieces,” Lark growled.

“A message will need to be sent,” said Eldwin, who was Fal’s friend. “The lord Sparrow and the lady Wren must be told what has happened. We were hoping to use the Norman lordlet to ransom Derek and the other prisoners. Instead, now the Sheriff has still more of our men.”

“I will go into Sherwood,” Lark declared, “bring the cur out, as I say, and prepare his stinking hide for Nottingham.”

“You are fit to go nowhere,” Linnet told her sister. She lifted her eyes to the smoke-heavy air. “But Ma and Pa must be told, aye. I will go.”

“You are needed here, young Linnet,” said Yancy, “for tending the wounded.”

“I will see to everyone’s hurts before I go, including yours, Lark.” Linnet looked at the men. “The rest of you try and organize shelter for the wounded, if you can, and bury our dead.” Three had perished in the skirmish, one a small child trampled beneath the hooves of the horses.

Lark drew herself up and spoke fiercely. “I want to go.”

“Nay, it should be me.” Linnet did not wish to admit to herself that, much as she needed to see her parents, she hoped as well for the sight of Gareth de Vavasour, maybe even for the touch of his hand.

Ah, and how could she even think of him with favor when his kind had done this to her village, her people?

Lark glared at her. “You must act swiftly, Lin. What if that bastard Sheriff does not keep his word? What if he decides to kill Fal at once, as an example, today or tomorrow? Promise me you will do all you can to save him.”

Linnet looked into her sister’s eyes, wild with terror and defiance, and answered the only way she could. “Aye, Lark, and I do so promise.”

Chapter Eighteen

“Falcon has been taken prisoner. So far as we know, he is being held in the dungeons at Nottingham. We have been given a fortnight to ransom him, and the headmen of the other villages with him, before he is put to the death.”

Breathless, Linnet spilled the words into her parents’ ears. She spared but one glance for Gareth de Vavasour, tethered to his tree at some distance, even though his presence pulled at her the way the sea pulls at a shore. Even the expression in her mother’s eyes failed to distract her completely.

“I knew ’twas something dire.” Wren threw her hands in the air and exchanged looks with her husband. “We knew. It has been like a cloud hanging over us. When did this happen?”

“Early this morning, at first light.” Refusing to look again at the captive, Linnet added, “The Sheriff himself came with soldiers and two mounted knights. De Vavasour demands the return of his nephew in exchange for Fal’s life.”

Her mother scowled. “It is ill news—the new triad at risk before it is even fairly founded! We must think carefully about what is to be done.”

“There seems but one thing can be done,” Linnet’s father put in. “De Vavasour must be returned. We cannot wager Falcon’s life.”

Pain bit deep into Linnet’s heart at hearing the words, even though she had more than half expected them. Falcon, the triad, and the protection of Sherwood were far more important than her feelings for a man she barely knew.

Gravely, she said, “Oakham is burned to the ground. Folk will need all the help we can muster. They may well need you to return out of the forest. Lark is acting as headman now,” Linnet added fairly, “and doing a fine job of it, I must say. But following so soon on Martin’s death this is a hard loss to bear, and folk look for a guiding star.”

“Then you must be that for them.” Wren reached out and touched Linnet’s hair in an uncharacteristic gesture of tenderness. “Your father and I must step back now and give the three of you a chance to find your feet. In truth, we cannot carry the leadership much longer, with our circle broken.” Her eyes filled with unexpected tears. “You, Lark, and Falcon need to forge your own bonds and follow your own light.”

“But I am not ready.” Again, Linnet cast a look towards Gareth. Too distant to hear their conversation, he nevertheless turned his head precisely as if he sensed her attention upon him. Their eyes met and Linnet’s pulse sped.

Kindly, Sparrow said, “Aye, Daughter, but events will not wait for you. You must take up your places now.”

“I know.” Linnet had always understood this day must come, but had supposed it would be far in the future, at a time distant and unseen.

“Come.” Without waiting for her to follow, Wren stalked to the prisoner, who huddled staked to a young ash tree. He got to his feet as they approached, his tether not so cruelly short as to prohibit ample movement, and Linnet lost all the breath in her lungs.

Gareth de Vavasour no longer looked even remotely like a Norman noble. Clothed in the leather garments of a woodsman or peasant, he stood quietly, most of his cuts and bruises faded and nearly healed. Wounds at shoulder and thigh lay hidden beneath the clothing, but the cut on his cheek now made no more than a thin, red line.

He had not shaved since Linnet had last seen him, and his beard had grown in golden brown, like the hair Linnet had glimpsed on his chest when she tended him.

How could he be altered so greatly in but a few short days?

Wren spoke to him before Linnet could. “You told us your uncle would not stir himself to ransom you.”

“So I did believe.” Gareth’s eyes lingered on Linnet’s face before moving to Wren’s. “Has he done?”

“My daughter brings word that he has burnt the village and taken our Falcon prisoner in an effort to force your return. What say you to that?”

Gareth’s surprise appeared genuine. “It can only be a matter of pride with him.”

“Of course it is a matter of pride,” Wren tossed back. “His sort are all about pride, and very little sense or mercy.”

“I doubt much he knows anything of mercy,” Gareth agreed.

A curious thing to say, yet Wren allowed him no time to expand on it. “We need Falcon back. Thus something will have to be done. My question to you is can we trust Robert de Vavasour? Will he keep his word and hold to the bargain should we send you to him?”

“I cannot fairly say; I barely know him. From what I do know, I would suppose he might believe that any means are justified in pursuit of the end he seeks. I doubt he will find much need to deal honorably with folk he considers traitors in their own right.”

“My estimation, as well.” Wren glanced at Sparrow. “We shall need to study on this, seek wisdom from a higher source.” She touched Sparrow’s arm and they walked off together, leaving Linnet staring into Gareth’s eyes.

“You look well,” she told him, knowing it for a vast understatement. Without his torn and filthy clothing, clear-eyed and hale, he made a dangerous temptation. Oh, why could he not have been a wright’s son, a farmer’s or a fletcher’s son, born in some neighboring village? And why could she not be just some ordinary lass without a heavy claim on her future?

“Your mother has been busy healing me,” he replied. “Look, she has removed your splint, and already I can move my fingers.” He wiggled his left hand and then raised rueful eyes to Linnet’s. “I believe she used magic. A month ago I would have scoffed at such a suggestion. But this was like naught I have ever experienced, and I mended very quickly indeed.”

Linnet nodded.

“Can you tell me why she would do such a thing?” he pressed. “Why would she heal me, only to send me off to Nottingham?”

“She will have her reasons. She always does, though they are rarely easy to understand. I dare say she did not expect to have to trade you away for Falcon. But we must get him back at any cost.”

Gareth eyed his tether, only loosely secured to the ash tree, and then shot a look after Linnet’s parents who had disappeared into the trees as completely as if they had never existed. Did he weigh his chances, even now, of escape?

But no, for he gave another wry smile and gestured to the bond.

“It is secured with a spell of words as well as a knot. Believe me, I have tried to break it.”

What must this be like for him, Linnet wondered suddenly, this privileged lord, young champion, now bidden to go or come and subjected to disciplines he did not comprehend?

The nobles she had encountered in the past would have raged at it, but Gareth de Vavasour stood before her calm and composed. In some curious way, he appeared to have accepted the edicts of this strange world into which he had been thrown.

And everything about him called to her: he drew her with his eyes, with the promised touch of his hands, with his every breath. Even his thoughts seemed to speak to her, as if they vibrated in harmony with her own.

Unable to help herself, she stepped nearer.

“With whom will they consult in order to seek this wisdom?” he asked.

“The spirits of this place, those who dwell here and who have passed from this life, as well as the one who is lord of this wood.”

“Has that lord a name?”

“He has many names, and many guises. The villagers call him the Green Man, Herne, the Old One, Cernunnos—or simply God. He can appear as a stag.” Watching his reaction carefully, she added, “Or as my grandfather, Robin Hood.”

Gareth caught his breath. “He whom I saw the night I tried to escape.”

Linnet lifted a brow. “You do not sneer and call it superstition, you who were raised in the tenets of the high Church?”

“How can I? I know what I saw that night. Yet to my understanding, Robin Hood was a real man who died. How can he then be a god?”

“My grandfather may have died in a hail of arrows rather than on a cross, yet in so doing he became holy, as did the Church’s Christ. Who can explain the boundaries of faith, Master de Vavasour, or the ultimate godliness of men?”

“Do not call me that.” Emotion flashed in his eyes. “I pray you will call me Gareth.”

She lifted her chin. “Gareth, then, do you find no reason to scoff at our beliefs?”

“Have you seen me do so? I would be a fool if I denied there exists something here, when I have felt—and seen—it.” He reached out and touched her arm softly. His warm fingers started a tingle that raced through her body like summer lightning. “Please, while you await your parents’ decision, will you sit and talk with me, before I must away to Nottingham? I am hungry to learn everything about you, Linnet. I would carry what you know with me.”

Aye, and this might well be their last chance to talk together of anything at all.

His hand brushed her arm in a deliberate caress before he captured her fingers and tugged her down onto the moss.

“Pray, can you tell me of these beliefs that mean so much to you?”

Amazed, she searched his eyes but saw there no deception. “If you wish. How best to begin? Our faith is all about life,” she told him softly. “That which stirs in the rabbit’s heart in spring, that which causes the sapling to bud, and which quickens in a new mother’s womb with her child.” She laid her hand lightly against his scarred cheek. “It is what makes the flesh knit anew and what sleeps beneath the winter snow. It is about everything always and always coming again, an eternal circle with no end in death. It is about claiming, and belonging.” She drew a breath and her eyes met his. “It is about love.”

His fingers came up and covered hers, which rested still against his face. “And all that is founded here, in Sherwood?”

“Sherwood is a haven for it. Since the first folk came here, long ago, when all of England was forest, strong magic has gathered at this place, born of their belief. It gave them identity and worth, as it does us, still. So long as the forest is protected, so is our strength and our freedom.” She added deliberately, “Freedom even in the face of Norman tyranny, for there are things that cannot reach here—at least so long as the guardianship holds and endures.”

“Guardianship,” he repeated doubtfully, and his clear eyes met hers. “Aye, you spoke of that before. And you say you are one of these guardians—you, with your sister and Falcon.”

“We are the next three—four, if you count the forest itself, for it is a living being—to take up the burden and the privilege. It cannot be denied, you see, not for any cost.” Her eyes filled with tears. “No matter how I might wish.”

“And do you so wish?” He bent his head towards hers. For an instant she was sure he would kiss her and all her being strained toward him. But instead he spoke, his warm breath coursing across her lips. “Am I to leave you here to your privilege and your duty? You expect me to walk away?”

“Surely you always knew you must. There is no other hope for it.” Despite appearances, he was still a Norman knight. “Do you not long to be away out of your captivity?”

“Aye, so a part of me does. But part of me—” He closed his eyes and turned his face into her hand. “Part of me longs even so to stay, if that be my only means, ever, of seeing you.”

Linnet’s heart—treacherous heart!—bounded in perilous victory. Overhead, the trees swayed softly. High up in a bough, a bird sang a song so sweet it fell on her ear like pain. Life was all pain, it suddenly seemed, and all impossible beauty.

“You will soon forget about me, in Nottingham,” she proposed softly. “No doubt your stay here will seem no more than a dream.”

“You are a dream,” he whispered. “But…I to forget you? Never!” Gently, he took her hand from his face and pressed a kiss into her palm. An act of devotion it might have been, did she not know better. She shivered with longing.