Laura Strickland - The Guardians of Sherwood Trilogy (2 page)

“’Twould be like marrying my own blood kin,” she protested. “You might as well wed Lark.”

“Uff!” That backed him off a step and pricked his ardor. “How can the two of you be so different, and you twins?” His eyes touched her again, and lingered. “You all woman and she more lad than lass.”

“Aye, so.” Linnet bent and began gathering broken crockery. “My father always says Sherwood blessed him twice in one blow, and in very different ways.”

“You do not even look alike, save for the color of your hair.”

True, also. Lark and Linnet had both inherited their mother’s wild locks of deep brown. Lark had Wren’s fierce eyes, as well, the golden gaze of a wolf or hawk. But Linnet had her father’s dark eyes, thickly fringed with black lashes. Lark had been a tomboy from the time she could walk. She reached instinctively for the bow and wanted none of the knowledge Linnet sought, of herbs and healing.

Falcon seized both Linnet’s hands, trapping a shard of broken pottery between them. “Why fight it, Lin? You know we are meant to be together, you and I. It is destined, ordained by the very magic of Sherwood. Why make me wait, unless you wish to drive me mad?”

“Is it ordained, though?” Linnet questioned, attempting to take a step back.

“We are members of the next triad, meant to guard Sherwood’s magic,” he said, suddenly grave, “you, Lark, and I. That is fact. And two of us will bond as only man and woman can, as did your father and mother. That you cannot deny.”

Linnet’s gaze challenged him. “What makes you think ’twill be you and I? Why not you and Lark?”

“Do not give me such nonsense.” His fingers tightened on hers. “You know I love you, Linnet. I have since we were children and your parents brought the two of you out of the forest. Must I beg?”

Linnet had to admit the idea of Falcon Scarlet on his knees at her feet held some appeal. But never in her life had she been unkind.

“What you feel, my fine lad, is lust and not love.”

“How can you say so? You do not know what is in my heart.”

“Do I not? That is just it, Fal: I know you far too well. You truly are like a brother to me.”

“If I am your brother, then my eyes should be put out for the incestuous thoughts I have of you. ’Twas difficult enough, Lin, when you were a girl and I watched you grow ever more beautiful. Now that you are a woman—” Something kindled bright in his eyes. “You must wed eventually, and you would not accept anyone else.” He added a bit wildly, “There is no one else.”

Linnet laughed and managed to pull her hands from his at last. “There are fine men in plenty, here in Oakham and all about Sherwood as well.”

“There are.” Falcon leaned close once more and whispered in her ear. “But none for you, Linnet Little. None, I say to you, but me.”

Chapter Two

“So you decided to come home at last. Where have you been?” Linnet cast the words at her sister as Lark entered the cottage, bringing with her an air of sullen rebellion.

Linnet could sense Lark’s mood most times. She did not know if that was because they were twins or because, as Falcon had said earlier, they were both members of the triad destined to one day guard the magic of Sherwood. Linnet knew her parents could sense one another’s presence, catch one another’s thoughts and, often, speak to each other mind to mind. She knew, also, they shared deep bonds with Martin Scarlet, the third member of the triad that even now held Sherwood’s magic strong.

In any case, Lark’s present mood assaulted Linnet, pricked at her senses, and virtually flooded the room.

Linnet had spent the entire afternoon in Lark’s absence—both with Fal’s assistance and without it—tidying away the mess made earlier and calculating her losses. Without question, Linnet ran the tiny dwelling the sisters shared in the village of Oakham. Never in her life had Lark tended a hearth; rarely did she prepare a meal. Thinking on it now, Linnet had to admit there was some validity in Falcon’s estimation of her sister.

Lark would have made a fine lad. A bundle of pure fierceness in a small frame, she rarely backed down from anything and fought, always, with her whole heart. She could shoot an arrow better than most young men in the village, or beyond, and was no poor hand with a sword or sling. Long had she made herself one among those who went raiding and preying upon the travelers of Nottinghamshire. She was even a favorite of Martin Scarlet, who, Linnet would have said, favored virtually no one.

Now Linnet appraised Lark with a single glance: hair escaped from its braid and tangled, bare feet filthy, burrs caught in her clothing.

“You have been in the forest.”

Lark flung herself down beside the hearth, somehow managing to display both arrogance and grace in one movement. “I had to be sure he was gone before I returned.” Her voice, husky and smoky, reminded Linnet of their father, Sparrow Little. Sudden longing to see her parents tugged at her, as it so often did.

Wren and Sparrow had bidden their daughters choose, when they became old enough: life in the peaceful depths of Sherwood or in the quickened pace of the village at Oakham. Both had chosen the village. But for many years they had spent time, summers mostly, absorbing the ancient magic that dwelt, like their parents, deep among the trees. Linnet never doubted the love that dwelt there also, but she supposed all in all it had been a strange upbringing.

Not surprising, perhaps, that it had produced an unusual pair of women.

With that thought in mind, Linnet eyed her sister again. “Perhaps it is time you visited Mother and Father. It might do you good.”

Lark gave Linnet a stare so sharp it might strip bark from a tree. “You say I should go? Why me, and not you also?”

“I have things to do here.”

“Aye, and midsummer is upon us.” Lark’s golden gaze, now directed like a weapon, increased in heat. “And so you will not leave him.”

“Him?”

“Falcon Scarlet.” Lark spoke the name like an epithet.

“I do not know why you let him get under your skin so,” Linnet said, exasperated. “Nor, quite, why you torment him so often.”

Lark’s lips twisted in a grimace. “Do you not?” She added with false sweetness, “And I thought you such an intelligent woman.”

Surprise seized Linnet an instant before understanding. She abandoned her chores and sat down at her sister’s side. “Lark, never say that you—” She found she could not quite speak the words.

Lark glared still harder. That stare said many things but screamed the truth only when it fell abruptly.

“Oh.” Bits and pieces of wondering and conviction fell into place in Linnet’s mind. “You—and Falcon?” To be sure, she had teased Fal with that very prospect but had never guessed what lay in her sister’s heart. And that made a bold testament to Lark’s skill at deception.

“No,” Lark said bitterly, “not me and Falcon—just me.” With miserable defiance, she added, “He does not see me, Lin, save as an annoyance. He has never really seen me.”

A hard and undeniable truth. Dismay washed over Linnet in a rush, for if Lark had gifted Falcon Scarlet her heart she faced an uphill battle, indeed.

“Why did you never tell me, Lark? All this time—how long?”

Lark shrugged irritably. “Forever. Does it matter? By any road, I should think you would have guessed. I would think anyone would guess, even a fool. Even
him
.”

“Falcon Scarlet is no fool.” Whatever else he might be, Fal possessed a quick mind, which, in Linnet’s estimation, numbered high among his other attributes.

She reached out and touched her sister’s arm. She could feel Lark’s tension, and the force of her spirit battling, within. “Lark, is this indeed why you are forever pestering and tormenting him? Why you plague him so mercilessly?”

“Why ask senseless questions if you already know the answers? His annoyance is better than no attention from him. And at least when we wrestle I can touch him.” An incredible expression—one Linnet had never seen before—invaded Lark’s eyes. In it combined desire and longing so intense it made Linnet catch her breath.

“Oh, Lark,” she whispered.

Lark shot her a burning, rebellious look. “There is no hope for me, and I know it. ’Tis but a matter of time before he speaks for you.” She broke off and then asked bitterly, “Or has he already? Do not try to deny it, Lin. You are a terrible bad liar. I can see everything in your eyes.”

“He thinks he wants me. I am not so sure.”

Lark raked her with another glare. “How could he fail to want you? You are everything a woman should be, soft and graceful, with healing in your hands. Not like me—a tiny, misbegotten throwback to our ancient ancestors who lived underground.”

“You have your own beauty. Someday a man will come along with the wit to see it.”

“I do not want ‘a man.’ I want Fal Scarlet.”

“Well, then, love, perhaps we could work on your appearance just a tad, do something with your hair, and put you in a dress.”

“Me, in a dress?” Lark had just forced an incredulous laugh when they both became aware of an uproar outside the house, the sound of many voices raised. A hand pushed the cottage door open and a head appeared—that of Falcon Scarlet himself.

“Come swiftly, Lin. One of our raiding parties has just returned. They have a prisoner—and a plum picking at that. He is injured, in need of tending, so my pa says.”

Both young women leaped to their feet. Linnet’s heart began to pound for reasons she could not understand.

“A prisoner?” she echoed.

Fal’s teeth flashed in a wicked smile. “A Norman, and high born, to judge by his fine clothing. ‘Norman git,’ my pa says, and no doubt worth a high ransom.”

He withdrew, and the sisters exchanged speaking glances. Lark swore and ran out ahead of Linnet, who paused to gather supplies, her hands suddenly unsteady.

This could only mean trouble of the worst kind. “May the Green Man be with me,” she muttered as she hurried out the door.

Chapter Three

“Silence, you stinking pile of Norman offal! You will speak when you are asked a question and not before, or are you too stupid to understand?”

The words came accompanied by a blow, and not the first Gareth de Vavasour had received from the man who stood above him. It knocked him sideways into the dust, and he gritted his teeth against the ensuing pain. Determinedly he fought to remain silent; he suspected his left arm must be broken—better that than his right, his sword arm. But his injuries had not kept these feral bastards from binding his wrists behind him, and the agony of any movement made him want to retch. He battled that down also. He would not give these Saxon villains the satisfaction of witnessing his pain.

His uncle, Robert de Vavasour—current Sheriff of Nottingham—was right about these serfs he said infested his domain. He had told Gareth they lived, bred, and behaved like vermin, without scruples or morals. From all Gareth had seen this afternoon, he could but agree.

And this ruffian who now stood over him seemed the worst of the lot. Tall, with a wild mop of gray-blond hair and an even wilder beard, he was head of the band that had seized Gareth on the road to Nottingham. He bore a face full of scars and the fiercest pair of eyes Gareth had ever seen. They fairly spewed hate.

Gareth wondered how many of his party now lay dead—killed by the band of outlaws who had taken him. In the company of a strong troop of soldiers, Gareth had been escorting a shipment of tax money and valuables, bound south from York, while journeying to join his uncle’s home guard at Nottingham. He had seen at least two men fall. Who would have thought mere peasants brandishing staffs and stolen swords could fight so well?

He did not doubt he now found himself in the very depths of trouble. At best, he would be held for ransom. At worst, the scarred madman looming above him would give in to the desire that shone from his eyes and cut Gareth’s throat.

Where was he? Thrown down at the center of a village, he had no way to tell. It looked a poor place of wooden houses and wandering chickens. Folk came streaming from every doorway, precisely like the rats his uncle had described, and stood staring at him. Small children with their thumbs in their mouths blinked, as at some new entertainment.

Gareth strove to keep the disdain he felt from showing on his face. He supposed a thing like his imminent murder would prove exciting to such cretins as these. Ah, but he did not want to die! He had far too much he longed to accomplish first.

Even as that conviction took form in his heart, he listened to the discussion taking place over his head.

“We took them on the York Road,” cried one of the younger men proudly. “A stout company they were, but not stout enough. We fell upon them—whack, wham! And what were they but a band toting the Sheriff’s treasure? We took a coffer filled to the brim with coin and a smaller casque crammed with jewels.”

Gareth closed his eyes briefly and choked down his humiliation. From whence had they come? The trees that bordered the road? The ground itself? He still could not tell, and he had been on watch. The peasants had seemed to materialize from the air of the dense, hot afternoon, to appear out of the green leaves overhead.

“And this prize.” The fair-haired madman kicked Gareth in the side, not gently.

“Aye, he will be worth a bit, will he not? Along with the Sheriff’s ill-gotten hoard.”

“The King’s taxes,” Gareth said in a voice like dust. He lifted his eyes and directed a stare at the evil faces that surrounded him. “You have transgressed against your king. That is treason.”

They laughed—the last reaction Gareth expected. Aye, when his uncle sent for him, he had indicated the task at hand—chasing down and eradicating the miscreants who infested Sherwood—was a fierce one. Gareth recalled how the letter had gone.

Now that you have finished your training and have some service under your belt, I beg your foster father release you. I need your assistance in Nottingham in eradicating a plague.

And so Gareth found himself in the center of the contagion and not likely to get away out of it alive.

“Aye, and what are you worth, my fine peacock?” The scarred visage came closer as its owner bent and seized Gareth by the hair. “Tell us your exalted Norman name.”