Lord of Sherwood Read online

  The truly maddening thing was Heron neither invited nor welcomed such attention. It merely trailed him like radiance.

  Curlew knew himself to be dull and ordinary compared with Heron’s brilliance. Aye, he had caught glimpses of his own reflection in pools and in the village pond—he had even seen himself, quite startlingly, in the fire once whilst Heron sat in a trance. A blend of both his parents, he had his father’s height and gray eyes and his mother’s deep brown hair. Folk said he had her grace as well, but what was that worth? He cared far more that he had inherited both his Grandfather Sparrow’s and his great-grandfather Robin’s skill with the bow. Aye, that was a talent to have, and he rarely missed a target.

  But something in the Norman maid’s bold gaze as she passed had dubbed him attractive enough. Ah, he had to stop thinking of her. It made a futile occupation, and a distraction he did not need.

  Curlew knew very well how the triad worked: three held the magic; two bonded together as man and wife. Wherever the missing woman was, she would need to wed with either Curlew or Heron.

  On the chance it would be he, Heron turned a shoulder to the bevy of winsome lasses who pursued him, and kept himself always for the unnamed woman. But by the age of four-and-twenty, Curlew felt the strain, as Heron must also. Not that Curlew had saved himself completely—far from it. But Heron had, and he quested like a walking arrow for their missing third.

  “Do you think this new man, Montfort, will be a problem?” Curlew asked Heron now.

  Heron narrowed his eyes. Curlew knew that expression: it meant Heron looked beyond the apparent, a thing he could do almost effortlessly.

  His brow wrinkled. “I cannot tell, Lew. There is something—a quickening.”

  “Change,” Curlew supplied. He had felt it too, from the party in the forest. “Maybe for good, maybe not.”

  “Not, I fear,” Heron decided. “’Tis always so when something new is thrown into our lives, even a new forester.”

  “The last thing we need is someone nosing his way into what occurs in Sherwood.” Since their parents’ time there had existed what amounted to a running war between the outlaws and peasantry of Sherwood and their Norman overlords. Thanks in part to the skill of the present triad who balanced duty and magic, things had lately been peaceful. But Curlew would be a fool, indeed, if he believed such a state would last.

  Heron nodded. “True.” He gestured to the hart stretched at their feet. “If the good de Asselacton finds out just what we are taking from Sherwood, there will be a heavy price to pay.”

  Curlew’s head came up like that of a pony scenting water. “Sherwood is ours,” he declared. “It sticks in my craw that anyone else should tell us how to manage it.” He gave a crooked smile. “I told Montfort I was one of his lord’s foresters.”

  “Eh? What daft thing is this?”

  Curlew’s grin widened and mischief flooded his eyes. “When he stumbled upon me, it just came out—that I was one of the men who would be working under him and thus had a perfect right to be in Sherwood.” He sobered suddenly. “As I have. Who better at liberty here, Heron, than you and I, whose blood is the same as flows through this earth?”

  “Aye, but it is a dangerous game, that.”

  “’Tis a dangerous way of life,” Curlew agreed.

  “What did you think of the man? You are usually good at measuring people.”

  “Aye.” Curlew could not deny he had a talent for it, as for shooting an arrow. “A clever man and not unkind, so I think. But he says he is a personal friend of Asslicker’s. So I do not doubt he will seek to do his duty completely and well.”

  “We had better learn all we can of him. Will you go to Nottingham? Ask Diera to go with you—’twill look less suspicious that way. And tomorrow is market day. Search out Ronast or Abery and discover what you might.” They had more than a few contacts in Nottingham proper. And Diera, Curlew’s friend, would be willing to go. In truth, she had been more than friend to him on several occasions, but she knew all too well the situation and the ties that held Curlew fast.

  He protested, “And what if Montfort should see me? ’Twill be all too obvious I am no underling of his.”

  “You will spin some lie—you always do.”

  Curlew grunted, half an acknowledgement. “Why do you not go instead, and give the wenches of Nottingham a treat?”

  Heron gave Curlew a cool stare. “Because I am preparing for a pilgrimage into Sherwood.”

  “Oh, aye?”

  “I think it time.” Heron’s expression turned serious. “I mean to sue the Lady’s favor, and ask her for the answer to the puzzle that beleaguers our days—just where we are to find our third, our missing guardian.”

  Chapter Three

  “Daughter, I trust you will keep out of trouble whilst I am off seeing to my duties this day.”

  Anwyn turned from the window and the bustling activities below to regard her father. She loved the man dearly—he had been everything to her since the passing of her beloved Winifred, the companion hired after her mother’s death. But he vexed her at times, if only because she knew how sorely her waywardness vexed him.

  And now what had she done but exchange one prison for another? When they left Shrewsbury, she had dared hope—heaven knew why—things would be better in Nottingham. But she found herself in yet another set of rooms with little to occupy her besides needlework. And the saints knew she would as soon plunge the needle into her own eye as sit and ply it.

  She saw real concern now in her father’s gaze. Her willful and headstrong disobedience truly distressed him; he had been more than glad to leave behind the whispers and disgrace she brought him in Shrewsbury.

  But how could she assure him that the restlessness which pulled at her unceasingly these last months would not cause her to break free of these rooms and all his careful restrictions?

  His lips twisted at what he saw in her eyes. “Anwyn, dear…” He spoke again before she could. “I know how hard it has been for you, losing your mother and then Winifred, who was so dear to you. I thought it best to wait until we reached our new post to find a replacement for Winifred, but I promise I will do so as soon as possible. Likely my lord Simon will be able to suggest someone, possibly a younger woman. You would like that, eh?”

  “Aye, Father.” The words might be obedient, but there was little compliance in Anwyn’s voice or in her demeanor. Her fingers clenched on the stone window embrasure. Could she hope to tell this man, who loved her, how she felt driven to the wild acts that so dismayed him?

  “Anwyn, please.” His voice dropped. “Do not spoil this chance for me—for us. ’Tis too fine an opportunity for us to squander.”

  “Is it?” Anwyn Montfort tipped her head, and her mane of shining, wheaten hair slid over her shoulder. She knew her hair for her one glory; she had been told so by many a man, the words usually whispered into her ear at a heated moment. She had also been told she had fine breasts. The rest of her warranted little remark—a freckled face and green eyes spiked by dark brown lashes. But men cared little for a woman’s face whilst thinking to take their pleasure in the dark.

  Her father’s expression tightened. “It is high time you were wed, Anwyn. I mean to find you a suitable husband here, perhaps someone high ranking among my staff, or a member of the Sheriff’s guard.”

  “One of your foresters?” Anwyn thought of the man they had met on the sun-dappled road and her pulse leaped, wild and hard. All the night past, and even last evening while they busied themselves settling into their new quarters, she had been unable to chase him from her mind. She did not know why. Was he not just another man among the scores that thronged the world?

  Perhaps not. She thought again of the look they had exchanged as her cart lumbered past him yesterday. She recalled his eyes—pure silver they were, like the chain her father had given her last Christmas, like the band Da wore on his thumb. Tall and graceful as a young tree, and supple like one also, he had a mane of hair the deep brown color o
f chestnuts. He looked more a spirit of the forest than a real man.

  But that had been real blood on his hands—quick, long-fingered hands they were, too. She would almost have thought him a poacher, an outlaw. Surely not part of Da’s new crew.

  What had he said his name was? Champion.

  “I am trying to do right by you, Anwyn,” her father spoke again. “But you must meet me half way.”

  “I am willing always to do that.” She smiled. “Trust me, Da.”

  “That is just it. Each time I do, I live to regret it. Promise you will stay here in our quarters today.”

  She hated giving promises she knew she would not keep, especially to him, and especially with all that tantalizing activity down below. “Aye, Da, of course.”

  “Occupy yourself with finishing our unpacking. Lord Simon has asked us to sup with him this evening. ’Twill be our first chance to make an impression on the company, so make yourself lovely.”

  “Aye,” Anwyn agreed. And how many dreary hours stretched between her and that dubious honor?

  Her father gave a nod and went out; she could not tell whether he believed her, or no.

  Anwyn turned back to the window. The sounds and colors below immediately caught her attention. Market day and the castle grounds were crowded with folk come from far and wide, eager to buy and sell.

  Surely she would not be noticed among so many.

  She bit her lip and tried to decide where her father would have gone. To meet with Lord Simon de Asselacton? To review members of his new staff, or to inspect the King’s forestland? Surely he would be far from all that clamor below.

  She strove to determine when and why she had turned so disobedient. Her Da blamed it on Winifred’s death, but she knew it had started before that, when she had refused young Arkwright’s hand in marriage. Handsome he had been, aye, and a good enough match, but not the man for her—that she knew to her bones. Da would have liked to see her settled, but he did not worry about it until she took to slipping away on her own and staying out late. He warned her she would ruin her reputation, and his. He told her Shrewsbury, so near the Welsh marches with all their unrest, was the last place she should be on her own.

  “Do you wish to be snatched, Daughter, and held for ransom—or worse?”

  Did she? Of course not, but she discovered she did like courting that bright edge of danger. She did not know what she was looking for, but it proved to be none of the young men who subsequently vied for her hand.

  Another bright vision of the man on the forest road sprang alive in her mind. It made her mutter to herself irritably before she donned a head covering and fled the rooms intended as her new home.

  Ah, and out in the castle grounds she encountered movement, sound, color, and life. Anwyn craved it all, and she slipped seamlessly into the crush of folk milling in the courtyard and beyond. Peasants laughed and talked and argued, watched by soldiers who looked, for the most part, bored. The scents of cheeses, ale, and currant buns mingled with those of manure and folk who had given their summer bath a miss. Anwyn felt her heart rise.

  A man carrying a tall wooden rack of ribbons caught her eye. She stole one, just to see if she could get away with it, and then pitched a coin at his feet. Startled, he swiftly snatched his payment from the dust.

  She ate a sticky bun and watched a couple behind the next stall as they indulged in a kiss and cuddle. The restlessness she felt increased.

  What would happen if she tried to purchase a mug of ale? She had to exercise some caution—her father had threatened more than once lately to send her away to the good sisters at the nearest nunnery. And she would rather end her own life than be confined in such a place.

  She watched a rough man, a farmer from one of the villages, perhaps, buy a flagon of ale for himself. Before he could drink it, she edged up and spoke from the corner of her mouth.

  “I will give you twice what you just spent, in exchange for that.”

  Startled, he turned his head and their eyes met. He wore a squat woolen hat over hair like brown straw. His eyes were brown also, almost the exact same shade as the ale. They moved over her face slowly and then down to her bosom, where they lingered.

  “Well, now.” He grinned, revealing a big gap between his front teeth, hesitated, and added, “My lady.”

  Anwyn dug into her pocket pouch and brought forth a coin. “Here, trade me.”

  “You want my ale, do you?” His gaze shifted to her mouth. “Tell you what, let’s share it. We shall go someplace quiet—”

  “The coin,” Anwyn insisted.

  He shook his head and stepped closer, his eyes issuing a dare. “Not for no coin, but I will give you this flagon for a kiss, my lady.”

  “Just one?” Anwyn had bargained far more, for far less. Before she could let herself hesitate, she leaned forward and pressed her mouth to his, which was half open in surprise. He tasted of the pork pie he must have just eaten, and like blatant, healthy male.

  “Not bad,” she told him, and extracted the flagon from his suddenly limp fingers. She raised it to her lips and drank deep, letting the ale wash her senses. A goodly measure of it spilled down her chin and the front of her dress, making those standing nearby laugh in appreciation.

  “See here.” Her benefactor eyed her now-damp breasts. “I could help you wi’ that.”

  She wagged a finger at him. “I will just bet you could.” She drank again, and the circle about her increased in number. None of those here had ever seen such a spectacle—a young woman, likely of some quality, judging by her clothing, at large and unescorted, chugging ale like a soldier.

  She grinned at the fellow with the gap between his teeth and thought about taking him up on what he offered. Likely she could string him along quite a while before turning him away.

  “My lady?” The courteous and serious voice spun her around. Speaking of soldiers, the scene had snagged the attention of one of those on duty, who now scowled at her. Ah, and she had barely begun to have fun.

  She treated him to a glare. “Are you not supposed to be guarding the battlements, my good man?” The ale, strong stuff, already threatened to trip up her tongue. Another swig or two and she would go away somewhere quiet with the young farmer.

  The onlookers chuckled, but the guard drew himself up and seized her arm. “Just you come along with me.”

  “Why? Do you want a tumble?” Anwyn laughed into his face, then kneed him with an ease born of experience and sprinted off, the flagon of ale still clutched in her hand.

  The guard—or someone in the crowd—called another and, just like that, Anwyn found herself pursued. She ducked and wove through the gathered throng, her skirts bunched high in one hand, the flagon in the other. She collided with a cart and bounced off a large man with a bale of wool on his shoulder. Hearing a cry from behind, she headed for the main gates, which stood wide open, thinking to lose herself in the freedom beyond.

  A hound darted out in front of her. She leaped over it but landed unevenly and stumbled into a number of people on their way in. The ale upended itself all over the chest of the man directly in front of her. Someone guffawed, and a pair of hands came out and caught Anwyn by the arms.

  Her breath hiccoughing in her lungs, she looked up into a face that appeared to hover between annoyance and amusement, and a pair of clear, intelligent, gray eyes fringed with lashes so dark brown they looked almost black.

  Every bit of her desire to escape fled her body and was replaced by delight as bright and sudden as pain.

  “’Tis you!” she exclaimed. “The forester with the red hands.”

  Chapter Four

  “Hush, will you?” The man from the forest road spoke in a low tone, tempting as warm honey. The sound of his voice seemed to go through Anwyn the way a hot knife might, too swift to hurt. “Else they may haul me away and relieve me of one of these hands. Is that what you want?”

  Anwyn pressed her lips together and shook her head. His hands most assuredly belonged where they
were—not only attached to his wrists but touching her, searing her flesh right through the fabric of her sleeves. Her eyes clung to his the way a woman hanging from a cliff might grasp her handhold, and she could not seem to catch her breath.

  Surely she had heard this man’s voice before, curling through her as he held her in the dark, as his beautiful hands touched her where she had never been touched, as she gave herself to him, body and spirit.

  “What are you doing here?” He shook her gently. “Where is your father?”

  The devil that dwelt inside her made her ask, “Why, have you come to report to him?”

  An answering spark of mischief caught in his eyes. “Never mind me. I doubt he would want to find you running amok through the rabble with a measure of—is this ale dripping all down my tunic?”

  “It is,” said a second voice, beside him.

  This one belonged to a woman, and Anwyn turned to survey her through narrowed eyes. Prepared already to dislike her—just because she stood at this man’s side—Anwyn scarcely needed to take in the loveliness of her face, her smooth black hair, or her merry eyes.

  “You will smell, Lew, like you have had your head in a barrel all night.”

  Lew? But that was not what he should be called. Anwyn’s mind stumbled over it.

  “You are Champion,” she said aloud.

  The raven-haired woman gave him an incredulous look. “You know each other?”

  “We have met.” He still had hold of Anwyn; she prayed he would not let go. “This, Diera, is the daughter of the Sheriff’s new head forester.”

  “You jest.” Laughter spilled from the woman, making her even more beautiful. Did she belong to Champion? Might she be, even, his wife? A hot feeling burgeoned in Anwyn’s chest.

  She glared into the woman’s eyes. “And are you Mistress Champion?”

  Diera shot another disbelieving look at her companion. “Me? Not likely.” But she added, “Leave go of her, Lew. You are attracting attention.”