Laura Strickland - The Guardians of Sherwood Trilogy (26 page)

“These are your loyal subjects, my agents, who have been working on my behalf among the forest folk.”

“What?” Monteith straightened at that, and Robert de Vavasour looked taken aback.

Gareth spared a look for neither of them. “My liege,” he said again, “there are folk who work on your behalf, always.”

“Well!” Henry sat up straighter, and a smile curved his lips. “We are impressed by your devotion, Sir Gareth.” He waved a hand at Linnet and her companions. “And by that of these faithful subjects. Not everyone in Sherwood has forsaken his King, eh, de Vavasour? And it seems your young nephew has succeeded where you failed. We are pleased, indeed. Not only a fine entertainment provided us this day, but the return of what is our due.”

Beside Linnet, Lark twitched violently. Linnet prayed she would control her indignation; she knew very well how many weapons Lark carried about her person and just how quickly she could draw that bow on her shoulder. They stood, here, in the very heart of danger. If Lark gave in to her impulses, they would never leave the pavilion.

Robert de Vavasour grunted, “My nephew should have come to me with this information.”

“Or me,” Monteith put in.

“My agents,” Gareth made a sweeping gesture toward the party from Sherwood, “have only just succeeded in finding what they sought.”

“Well, where is this prize?” Henry asked.

Edward Fletcher, who made one of Linnet’s party, stepped forward and set the heavy casket at Gareth’s feet. A big man, Edward, brawny and usually fearless, he now appeared struck dumb. But then, none of them had expected to be hauled before the Sheriff and the King.

Gareth lifted the lid of the small chest. Everyone gathered in the pavilion strained forward to see, and Robert de Vavasour spoke incredulously. “How did you manage that, Nephew, when the captain of my guard could not?”

Again Gareth gestured to Linnet’s group. “My lord, I made some useful connections while captive in the forest.”

Lark twitched again, and Linnet almost tasted her fear. Her sister believed Gareth used them to his own glory, in this moment. Yet, miraculously, she held her tongue.

“A true champion, eh?” Henry cocked an eye at de Vavasour. “Working for his King even in captivity. We are well pleased. And I trust you will put on another fine show for us this afternoon?”

“I hope to, my liege, finer than you can imagine.”

“Then go.” Henry waved a dismissive hand, the casket of riches that could have fed the poor of Sherwood indefinitely already forgotten. For an instant Linnet experienced, in full, Lark’s anger and resentment. Then Gareth turned, and she saw the look in his eyes.

Magnanimously, Henry added, “You have my thanks. And perhaps ale all ’round for your stalwart helpers.”

“Thank you, my liege.” Another bow and Gareth led them away down from the sheltered pavilion and back into the sunlight. It made a halo of his hair and burnished his deeply tanned shoulders.

At his left shoulder, though, Linnet could see the ugly, puckered scar from the wound she had tended. Her mother had healed that—or had she? Linnet sensed something in Gareth, a hesitancy or possibly pain. But so many sensations rushed upon her here, including Lark’s suspicion and anger, her senses were nearly overwhelmed.

“You had better be dealing in good faith with us, de Vavasour,” Lark spat. “Else, as I have promised, I shall make you pay.”

Gareth gave her a long stare. “Best leave that to Scarlet, eh?” His mouth tightened. “You have a long afternoon ahead of you before I can wrangle his appearance. Choose for yourselves a place from whence you can see everything yet still get him away when the time comes.”

Lark tossed her head and tried to scoff. “As if I believe you truly will deliver him to us.”

“If you did not believe it, you would not be here. Whatever happens, when your opportunity comes you must get him out through the gates and back to Sherwood. Understand?”

Lark nodded once, and Gareth turned to Linnet.

Her heart seemed to lift and then shatter into pieces at the tangled love and resolve she saw in his eyes. He spoke not aloud, but into her mind.
What I go to do, my love, I do for you, and for Sherwood.

I know.

You have brought me joy, more than ever I dreamed.

She reached out and grasped his wrist. Warm from the sun, the feel of him beneath her fingers seemed, in that moment, to hold all life and all hope.
I bid you return—to me, and your child.

His eyes grew wide with amazement. She felt the joy and the pain of it engulf him, all one emotion. And in that moment she knew for certain he did not expect to survive this afternoon’s work.

By God! That makes all the more reason for me to act as I do, my love, in the hope that our child may someday live free.

“Sir Gareth!” Someone called him from across the field. Linnet felt his pain as he turned—the physical kind, this time—raw and hot at shoulder and thigh, bone deep in the arm that had been broken. Sheer terror engulfed her. He was not whole, and he went to fight to the death.

She drew a breath and almost—almost—called him back. But Falcon’s life hung in the balance, and the triad, and Sherwood, all things she had been bred and born to defend.

I love you. Fight well
. They were her last words to him as he stalked away from her across the bright green grass.

****

“Your man—Norman or not—can fight, I will say that for him.” The words came from Lark, uttered almost beneath her breath, honest and grudging. She stood as she had for the last interminable stretch of time, taut as a bowstring, watching every move on the field before them, completely enthralled. She had not missed a blow or sword stroke, and her eyes glowed.

At her back the others of their party muttered. Linnet could hear them, and Lark, and the cries and cheers of the crowd, but she could no longer look at the center of the arena where Gareth de Vavasour—her love, her heart—fought for the name of supreme champion. She only knew he had agreed to take on all comers and had fought, already, six members of the Sheriff’s guard and taken them all down with wounds that rendered them incapable of fighting on.

“A costly proposition for the dog de Vavasour,” Lark had grunted at one point. “These must be his best men, and now all hampered.”

And what of Gareth? He must be hampered, as well. Linnet knew his beautiful body, so graceful beneath the sun, was now streaked and spattered with blood, some of it his own. She could feel his weariness, ever-increasing, and the unbearable ache in his left arm. Facing the last opponent, that arm had nearly failed him and he had almost lost his grip on his shield. The whole crowd—now entirely behind him—had cried out in anguish before he had managed to disarm his adversary.

Even the King, still undeniably enjoying himself, was on Gareth’s side. Linnet had heard Henry call out, as well. But she could not look. She could no longer watch her love endure.

“He is earning his title, no doubt of it,” Lark ground out now.

“No more takers,” said one of their men, also completely engrossed.

And Lark breathed, “What of Fal?”

What, indeed? Against her better judgment, Linnet gazed through the haze of afternoon sunlight and watched as her man—
her man
—lowered his sword at last and stalked toward the pavilion where sat the Sheriff and the King.

“My lord and liege,” he called. Was she the only one who could hear the exhaustion in his voice? “It seems I am fresh out of opponents.”

“You have fought well,” Henry returned most graciously, “and earned the title of Champion.”

Gareth bowed, and Linnet received another taste of his pain. “Thank you, my liege. But I confess I would fight on.”

Even from where she stood, Linnet saw Henry raise his hands. “How, when you have answered all comers?”

“There is one more I would face, sire. He languishes in your dungeons.”

Lark’s breath caught hard. She reached out and caught Linnet’s forearm strongly enough to leave bruises. “Fal! Ah, but surely your brute will kill him.”

“Hush. He keeps his promise.”

“What is this?” Henry called, and glanced at Robert de Vavasour.

“My liege, one of the miscreants who took part in thieving that which my nephew has this day returned to you has been captured and awaits trial. It seems your champion would choose to face him.”

Gareth bowed again. “I would, my liege. I say let his trial take place here and now, before your eyes. Should he defeat me, he may win his freedom. Should I defeat him, my blade shall deliver your justice.”

And Henry called, “As if he could defeat you, and he an untrained peasant! Aye, Champion, let the rogue be brought, and do well my work for me!”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Go carefully, love.

Gareth heard Linnet’s voice in his mind even as he stood awaiting the arrival of Falcon from the dungeons. He dared not look at her, though his entire being longed for it and he could have pinpointed her effortlessly in the crowd.

He felt her fear for him, even as she must be able to feel his weariness, which now went bone deep. He ached, and a buzzing filled his head the way it sometimes had after his father had beaten him and he was forced to walk back to his chamber on his own two feet. Pride had kept him upright then. Devotion kept him on his feet now. One more opponent to face, and this time he did not have to win.

The pain in his left arm was a blinding thing, so raw it felt as if the bone had given way again. Yet the limb still served. The new cuts and abrasions merely stung; he would spare them no heed now. But both his healed wounds, at thigh and shoulder, burned, and the scene blurred intermittently before his eyes.

Not enough to keep him from seeing Falcon, though, when he appeared flanked by two guards. Falcon looked much the worse for wear—he would have been questioned about the whereabouts of the tax money—but he was still on his feet and moving with his usual lithe strength. Gareth tried to imagine the shock of being hauled from one of those stinking cells without warning and brought out into the bright sunlight before this great, eager throng. Falcon came with his head up, his wild, fair hair alight and haloed, and his eyes everywhere.

Gareth felt the emotion coming from Linnet’s direction spike.
For you, love,
he told her,
I do all for you.

Helpless, loving, her feelings tumbled through him.
Beloved.

The guards brought Falcon to the center of the field, where Gareth waited. Gareth had to credit the man—he did not look half as frightened as he should.

In the pavilion, Robert de Vavasour got to his feet. “Wolfshead,” he addressed Falcon, “you are accused of crimes against your King.” Beside him, Henry leaned forward eagerly. “Your trial will now commence. Give him a sword.”

Falcon shot the Sheriff one long, disdainful look before his gaze swept the crowd. He fixed his blue-green eyes on Gareth, and his lips curled in a grimace of hate.

“So,” he said for Gareth’s ears alone, “you are to have your wish after all, the chance to face me with a sword in your hand.”

“I do this for Linnet, and for Sherwood. Fight well.”

Robert de Vavasour’s voice overrode Gareth’s. “Wolfshead, you fight for your life and freedom. Should you defeat the King’s champion, you may walk free from this place. If you go down to his blade, your life will be forfeit. Do you accept the challenge?”

In answer, Falcon spat in the direction of the pavilion. The crowd muttered and stirred, and Robert made a haughty gesture with his hand. “Let the contest begin.”

One of the armorers standing near placed a sword in Falcon’s hand. The onlookers drew an expectant breath. After the day’s events, they thought to see this opponent felled, and quickly. How else should it be, between a peasant and a trained knight?

But Gareth had faced Falcon in the clearing near Ravenshead and knew too well the man was no stranger to the sword. And by the way Falcon reacted now, head up, back straight, eyes full of hate, Gareth could tell that, of all the men in the world, Falcon would choose to face him, Gareth.

So it would be a fight to the death, then. Deep regret touched him that he would never kiss Linnet’s lips again, nor see the green light sifting down through Sherwood like magic, nor hold his child in his arms.

The armorer handed Falcon a shield. Gareth took up his own, and his abused left arm screamed at him in agony.

“Come on, then, Norman cur,” Falcon growled. “Have at it!”

Beloved.
Linnet’s voice whispered once more in Gareth’s mind. But he could not let himself be distracted now. His entire world narrowed to Falcon’s green-blue eyes and the hatred that reached for him. He could not afford to make a mistake.

His sword met Falcon’s with a clang that shook him to the roots of his teeth. Aye, and he had not remembered the Saxon’s power wrong—even fresh out of captivity, Falcon showed his training. No wild blow this, but one measured and delivered with deliberate intent.

Gareth turned swiftly and set his feet in the grass. Falcon Scarlet was no man to underestimate. As a member of the three that included Linnet, he might well be invested with a measure of Sherwood’s magic.

Falcon raised his shield and brandished his sword in a flurry that ended in another crashing blow. Gareth met and turned it with difficulty, and shook the hair out of his eyes. The crowd gasped. Aye, Falcon had good training behind him. But Gareth had drilled countless afternoons under brutal scrutiny. And even hurting and half spent he could put on a proper show here today before he let Falcon win.

He braced himself and began dealing blow for blow, enough to rattle Falcon’s bones but always directed at the man’s shield rather than behind or beneath it. Falcon met him with bright eyes narrowed and mane flying in a glorious nimbus. They paced before all those eyes in a deadly dance while the breath began to come short in their lungs and Gareth’s body protested in earnest. Falcon’s sword was far quicker than Gareth liked, and the pain in his left arm had progressed into borderline numbness.