Laura Strickland - The Guardians of Sherwood Trilogy (16 page)

Are you there?
Deliberately, he formed the words in his mind and sent them forth, struggling with an ability that had seemed so natural just last night, had flowed between them effortlessly. All the while they lay together, they had communicated so. He might have believed the ability needed their touch to endure, had he not heard her voice, albeit faintly, this morning.

He shaped the thoughts, clarified them, and made another attempt.
Linnet, can you hear me?

Sparrow, just ahead of him, twitched so the staff bounced on his shoulder, and Wren turned her head. Could they hear? By all that was holy, he hoped not.

Gareth, my dear love.

The breath caught inside him, and his heart clenched and then sped. Ah, but she sounded so far away, so impossibly distant. Beginning to sweat with the effort, he reached for her again.
Where are you, beloved?
There, he had said it: beloved, his love—the word that had held no meaning for him since his mother died, and that had been born in him again last night. Linnet was all about love, her touch and the warmth of her, her scent, and the tenderness of her spirit, which, like her body, he had embraced and held. He would follow that anywhere, no matter how far.

Oakham, I am in Oakham.

His joy surged. Wren’s head jerked again, but she did not glare at him this time. Yet surely Linnet felt the intensity of his gladness?
Good. We come to Oakham.

I will not see you.

What?

I cannot. I was sent ahead to prepare the party that will take you to Nottingham and ransom Falcon. But I will not see you here.

His dismay arose, strong as his previous joy. Still struggling and fumbling to reach her, he grieved,
Is it because you do not wish to see me?
Had she fled him? Had she realized, and been unable to accept, she had lain with an enemy? The thought turned him sick inside.

No, no, no, no—
She came to him more strongly, almost like a wisp of music on the breeze.
I want naught more than to be with you.

And I live only to be with you,
he told her truthfully.

But it is best this way, Gareth, my love.

Best?

’Twould hurt more for us to see each other again.

Nothing could hurt more than this.

A clean break is best.

Why must we break at all?

Because, love, you go to Nottingham. My place is in Sherwood.

We can change that, I can change it. I can be—

You can be what? You are a Norman knight, proven and sworn. You are the King’s champion.

I am sworn, now, to you.

What of your vows? What of mine? What is their worth if we do not hold to them?

I promised to be yours, always.

And you will be. For will we not always be able to touch each other in thought?

Gareth distinctly felt his heart seize in his chest and then break into jagged pieces.
It is not enough.

It must be, my love. It is all I am able to offer you.

I will find a way—
He screamed it to her, another vow. But she had slipped from his mind and he received no reply.

Chapter Twenty-Two

“I understand that you are unhappy, Daughter. But it is time to put childish things away from you and take up the burden of your life.”

The harsh words caught Linnet and spun her around. She glared into her mother’s eyes, for once wholly unbowed and defiant. She believed she had accepted her duties following her one precious night of passion with Gareth de Vavasour. Had she not already told him so along the sacred pathways between their minds? But watching the party intended to escort him to Nottingham leave Oakham this day without seeing the man at all—for he and Sparrow had waited off in the forest—had seared her soul.

Now she returned Wren’s glare in full. “Do you speak to me of duty, and accuse me of childishness, Ma? When have I ever been a child? I was forced to grow up long ago. I half raised Lark, and Fal as well.” She drew a breath. “You know what took place in the forest last night.”

Wren gave a hard nod, not liking it.

“That had little of childhood about it either. I am a woman, and I know what lies before me despite—”

Despite the fact that if she closed her eyes she could still feel Gareth’s hands upon her, the calluses on his palms abrading her flesh, setting her alight. If she let herself, she could feel him penetrating her, and catch his heady scent.

And she could feel him battering at her mind, steady and relentless. She had managed to close the door that shut him out, but the effort of keeping it closed cost her dear. She feared she would not succeed long.

“Have you, then, decided to accept Falcon upon his return?” her mother asked sharply.

“I did not say that. I am willing to take my place in the circle, since I understand the vital importance of it. Is that not enough? And have you considered what should happen if the Sheriff does not keep his word and Fal fails to return?”

Wren drew a sharp breath. “If that happens, Daughter, we are undone. It will be a slow death, aye, but sure. The magic that dwells in Sherwood will fade; the forest will shrink in upon itself and die, and our hope of freedom with it. We will lose all ability to fight, and we will become slaves indeed.”

“Some of us are slaves already,” Linnet retorted. “I do not feel free.”

Her mother’s glare softened a bit. “We are all ultimately free in Sherwood, which is why we must guard it and preserve all who dwell here in flesh or spirit. It is a holy trust.”

“That I have always understood. I have said I am willing to act as I must.” Linnet’s gaze dropped as she listened to the pain in her heart. “Just do not expect me to rejoice in it.”

****

“Lin!” The joy in Falcon’s voice caught at her and caused her to reach for him, in response. A full day and a half had they waited for the return of the party from Nottingham with the ransomed headmen. Now, at midafternoon on a day that wept rain like tears, they came at last.

She found herself gathered hard into Falcon’s arms almost before she registered his presence. Always had she been able to sense his feelings, though never so acutely as Gareth’s, and she felt in full his gladness now as he held her, and her own relief rose to meet it.

He squeezed her so hard she nearly smothered against his shoulder. Joyfully, she fought her way free.

“Thank goodness you are back! We half feared the Sheriff would not keep to the agreement. Let me look at you.”

He appeared thinner, which did not seem possible after only three days, filthy and worn. His hair formed a wild tangle, tumbled around his face. And, along with the gladness, she saw hard determination in his eyes.

“I could scarcely be happier to be here,” he admitted. “We were all released except for Godfrey of Linfield, who died of some sort of fit in the Sheriff’s dungeon.”

A crowd had begun to gather around them, folks eager to hear what Falcon had to tell. Lark, who had made one of the party that had taken Gareth to Nottingham, and who had undoubtedly already greeted Fal, nevertheless pushed through the onlookers to his side.

“And Gareth de Vavasour?” Linnet could not keep from asking. “Was his uncle glad to have him?”

It was Lark who answered. “That exalted man did not show himself then. His captain, Monteith, accepted the prize on his behalf, and had our folk fetched out from the bowels of hell.”

The villagers mumbled. The dungeons at Nottingham, legendary pest holes, had cost the lives of many a good man and woman. Someone asked, “Was it as foul there as they say, young Falcon?”

Falcon’s expression grew grim. “Aye, Macy. All shoved into one cell we were, a stinking pit with no light and very little air. After Godfrey died, we hollered for the guards, but they left him. And so we spent the rest of our confinement there with his corpse.”

Linnet’s stomach wobbled and turned over. She reached out and touched Fal’s hand, and his fingers clutched hers.

“Any sight of our Derek?” asked someone else.

Falcon shook his head regretfully. “He may be there in still another cell, or he may be held elsewhere in Nottingham. We could not tell.” He turned his eyes on a woman who stood wringing her hands—Derek’s wife, Gert. “Sorry, Gertie. I wish I brought you more hopeful news.”

Other questions came then, thick and fast, fired like arrows from all around: had Falcon or the other headmen gleaned any useful information? Had he got a good look at the castle fortifications? Would de Vavasour be satisfied with the return of his nephew, or would he move further against them?

All the while Lark stood at Falcon’s elbow, quiet save for the fierce expression in her eyes. Her gaze moved from Falcon’s hand, fast joined with Linnet’s, to Linnet’s eyes, where they held, revealing a virtual storm of anguish.

Linnet had never found it difficult to sense her sister’s feelings. Since birth they had been together, for better or worse, joined also by the bonds of the triad, that often let them hear snatches of each other’s thoughts. But she did not need to hear Lark’s thoughts now. They shone from her eyes and screamed in the mutinous set of her mouth. Had this not been Linnet’s sister, the person closest in the world to her, Linnet would have said Lark now declared open war for the love of Falcon.

I do not want him,
she attempted to tell Lark in her mind.

And Lark’s burning gaze returned to their linked hands.
Then, sister, leave go of him.

Linnet attempted to free her fingers from Falcon’s grasp, but he clasped them still more tightly even as he responded to those gathered.

“The Sheriff did have us hauled before his court when first we were taken in. Though he did not say so outright, he is desperate for the return of the money taken along with his nephew. He declared it a crime against the Crown and told us he will continue to burn our villages until it is returned.”

Falcon let his eyes roam about the ruins of Oakham, the rubble that had once been these people’s homes. “But those monies, my friends, are the coffers of war. We have hit him where it hurts, for he must make answer to his king. I say we stand strong and spit in his eye. Is it not summer? The forest will shelter us. If de Vavasour comes looking, we will vanish into its heart. Better we all fight together for justice than let him imprison and destroy us one by one for the sake of his bloody taxes.”

Linnet’s eyes widened. This sounded like a new Falcon. The grief still lingered beneath his words, and weariness with it, but he had donned a fierce certainty that carried a hint of his father’s indomitable anger.

And those around him, used to Martin Scarlet’s bold leadership, at once responded. The men nodded their heads; women tightened their holds upon their children. No strangers to want and subjugation, they understood the necessity of fighting back and what that fight might require.

The Normans always underestimated the common folk, Linnet reminded herself—those they called peasants, the farmers, craftsmen, and laborers. Men like de Vavasour forgot from whence these people had sprung—Saxon warriors at least as bloodthirsty as themselves, who had come to England behind swords and axes to claim this blessed land. Added to that was a good measure of Celtic blood, that of the mystical people whose warriors knew not the meaning of backing down and chose, so often, to fight to the death.

She felt her own blood stir, and her fingers tightened on Falcon’s. Lying with Gareth de Vavasour, even gifting him her heart, did not make her less a woman of this place. Sherwood roosted in her bones, its song echoed in her soul.

“Never fear,” Falcon declared, “we will stand strong against whatever de Vavasour throws at us.” He turned and looked directly into Linnet’s eyes. “Because we stand together, and that is all the strength we need.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

“Fool! What good are you to me if I cannot rely upon you to see a simple transport safely to Nottingham?” The blow that accompanied the words took Gareth in the side of the face and rocked him where he stood. “Nephew, I am sorely disappointed.”

The words—and no less the blow—were so reminiscent of Gareth’s father he experienced a familiar rush of rebellious anger and shame. It had never been the blows that hurt so much as the accompanying accusations of worthlessness.

He raised burning eyes to his uncle’s face now and, as ever, strove not to let his feelings show.

Robert de Vavasour, a big, powerful man, had the look of Gareth’s father, Maurice, and even more the manner: haughty, disgruntled, and impatient, as if the world and everything in it had been created for his sole benefit.

Gareth told himself he was a lad no longer, doomed to stand quaking inwardly before the figure of absolute authority. He was a knight fully—if only just—proven, a champion. His worth rested not at all upon the opinions of this man.

Yet those words “I am sorely disappointed” might have come from his father’s lips. How many times had he heard them, hurled at him like weapons?

He drew a breath to speak but, as if reading his thoughts, his uncle ranted on. “Why did I invest in your training if you are to be of no benefit to me? Did de Breese teach you nothing up north? Does being proven no longer mean anything at all?”

Albert de Breese, an old friend of Gareth’s father and the man who had fostered and schooled Gareth, had been a hard master, unsparing and rarely approving. Yet, Gareth reflected now, he had been also a just man who allowed always a chance for those in his service to defend themselves.

Nor had he possessed this streak of hard cruelty Gareth now saw in his uncle’s eyes. That, too, had been common to Gareth’s father, who had died in full rant while berating a serving girl who spilled compote on his sleeve.

“I regret you feel I failed in my duty, Uncle,” he said stonily. “The party that attacked us did so swiftly and appeared out of the trees without warning. Almost before we knew what was happening, three of your soldiers lay dead.”