This place represented her life, and she loathed that also.
Yet she sat on the tangle of blankets in the corner, and Lil came to join her.
“I know you are full of questions,” Lil began.
“Who is he? Who are Geofrey and Alric?”
“I shall tell you everything later.” Unexpectedly, Lil reached out and stroked Rennie’s hair. Lil was rarely demonstrative, yet Rennie felt love emanating from her now, along with a mix of other emotions.
Lil whispered, “I do not suppose I could have kept you here much longer. There is too much inside you, and what is within must eventually come out—’tis the way of life.”
“I hate when you speak in riddles.”
“You seem to hate everything, of late. I do not like this harshness about you.”
“What is not to hate? My life here, as a virtual slave? The attentions of that vile monster, Lambert?” Lately the captain of the Sheriff’s guard had come sniffing around, making it clear he wanted favors and, moreover, suggesting what Rennie did not offer willingly could be taken by force.
Lil shook her head. “I can no longer hide you. And with the death of Geofrey—”
“Who is Geofrey?” Rennie asked again. “What is the ‘triad’? And that man—”
“Sparrow?” Lil smiled briefly. “He lives in Sherwood. He and his companions—outlaws all—keep alive the tradition of the Green Man, and of Robin Hood.”
“That old legend?” Rennie tossed her head. “A story for children.”
“Is it?”
“Aye. A tale meant to give hope to the hopeless.”
Lil gazed at Rennie and said nothing.
“Not that there is hope anywhere,” Rennie concluded bitterly.
“We live under the heels of the Normans, aye,” Lil conceded. “But that does not mean hope is dead—it lies beneath the soil like yarrow in winter. And it lives in Sherwood with Sparrow and his crew.”
Lil leaned closer and lowered her voice until it made a thin whisper. Even the silence of the sleeping kitchen seemed to bend in and listen.
“I assure you, child, Robin Hood was a real man, and flesh and blood. He must have been, mustn’t he? Because you are his daughter.”
Chapter Two
“Did you see her? What is she like?”
The questions assaulted Sparrow as he slipped through the trees, silent as a shadow, and entered the outlaws’ camp. Night always meant life to Sparrow, in Sherwood. At home here since birth, he knew the animals who stirred only under cover of darkness—and the men.
Now one of those appeared before him as if by magic, and blocked his way. Sparrow sensed others beyond, but the bulk of emotion came from Martin, who hovered threateningly, demand in his every line.
“Peace,” Sparrow said, though Martin never seemed to find much of that.
What a curse it was to be able to feel others’ emotions the way Sparrow felt the warmth of the air or the breeze on his cheek! He did not want to be assailed by Martin’s unstable brew, especially now when his own head still spun. He pushed at Martin in order to pass, but, stubborn as always, Martin stood firm.
“You can give me an answer,” he growled. “That is simple enough.”
“Aye.” Sparrow’s anger, a rare commodity, flared. “You always think everything simple, do you not?”
Martin scowled; even in the soft, dim light Sparrow could see his expression. Or maybe he did not need to see it.
“I still say I should have been the one to go to Nottingham. I would have brought her back with me. We need her here. How dare the old woman contrive to keep her from us?”
“Would you drag her away from her home, and she not knowing who—and what—she is?”
Martin nodded his shaggy, fair head. Whipcord strong and but a few inches shorter than Sparrow, Martin displayed the old Saxon blood, run true. With an often-murderous expression in his iron-blue eyes, he always looked like he should have a sharp axe in his hands.
“It is time, and past time,” he grumbled.
Someone moved behind Martin, a far more soothing presence: Alric.
“Come, sit down,” he told both men. “We have much to discuss.”
“Words!” Martin tossed his head in rampant frustration. But he listened to Alric as to no one else.
A small fire burned, releasing the sweet smell of ashwood into the air. With a hand on each man’s forearm, Alric led them there, nodding to Martin’s mother, Madlyn, in passing.
Madlyn—the only resident woman in camp—had played nursemaid and mother to them all over the years. Other females came and went; members of the outlaw band brought their lovers and wives from time to time. But few stayed long. Life in Sherwood always proved too risky, too difficult, and too dark. Madlyn, like Martin, was made of sterner stuff.
She nodded at Sparrow now, looking serious. They all knew how much rode upon the lass at Nottingham—the protection of Sherwood, their very lives.
The trouble was, Sparrow thought as he sat within reach of Alric’s hand, he and Martin had differing opinions about how to move forward now that everything needed to change. And Martin rarely backed down.
Aye, well, Sparrow determined, neither would he, this time.
“Someone needs to be in charge here.” Martin spoke almost before his rump hit the ground.
“I think it should be me, do you not?” Alric might be ancient, but there was no weakness in him. Though the old hermit appeared humble, power simmered in his blood, and he could split rock—or a man’s will—with one glance from his pale eyes. He wore his white hair long, half-braided, and it shone now in the graying light.
To Martin, he said, “What we must do here is too important to allow for argument. You must stand together as never before.”
Martin, predictably, scowled. He drew his short knife from his belt and began to play with it.
Alric turned his compelling gaze on Sparrow. “How did you find the lass?”
Martin also raised his eyes to Sparrow’s face, awaiting his answer.
Sparrow smiled slightly and shrugged. “She is a wild thing, trapped. I do not know how Lil has held her so long.”
“The power stirs. It calls to her. No doubt she can feel the coming change.” Alric spoke softly.
“She is no weakling, then?” Martin asked. “No shrinking miss?”
Sparrow shook his head. “She has been raised in a scullery. I doubt she is troubled by fine manners.”
“Lil will have coaxed some manners into her,” Alric said. “And there is good blood behind her.” He stared into the fire for a moment.
Martin leaned forward. “She is Robin, to all purposes. ’Tis well she has some iron in her.”
“She carries a third of the magic. Sparrow, how did you find Lil?”
“Same as ever, save grieved at Geofrey’s passing. Why do you ask?”
“Because, aye, Geofrey is dead, and I grow weary. My own time is not far off.”
Both young men stared at him in dawning horror.
“Do not say that,” Sparrow breathed.
“Why not, lad, if it is true? The Sheriff, my old enemy, dies also, by inches. It shall be a contest to see which of us passes first.” His bright gaze defied his words. “Then shall two parts of the circle fail. Before that happens, you three must be prepared. Matters grow urgent.”
Martin waved his knife at Sparrow. “I keep telling him that. But Sparrow would not stir himself if his toes were on fire.” He leaned toward Alric. “Sherwood must be protected, and our fight must continue. The magic must be kept whole. You agree?”
The old man nodded.
“Then,” Martin continued, “put me in charge. Give me leadership, if you would see anything done.”
Alric gave Martin a long look. “No one is in command, lad. It is a balance. If you cannot see that, we have strayed farther afield than I thought.”
“I do see,” Martin retorted. “But there must be a leader, else folk will mill about like sheep. We are no sheep, but wolfsheads.”
Sparrow spoke. “What makes you think she is not meant to lead us? Her father did.”
“Her father was Robin-fecking-Hood! She is a scullery maid who has scarcely been away from Nottingham. Who carried the fight all these years in Robin’s name, letting folk believe Robin was still alive? Our fathers, that is who—yours and mine—and ourselves, after them. Nay, Alric, if you would have us stand strong, leave it in my hands.”
Alric shook his head and got to his feet with a grunt. “The two of you are not meant to compete but to work in harmony. I have failed to teach you that, as did Geofrey before me. If you cannot learn that lesson, we are doomed.”
He stalked off, and Sparrow eyed Martin doubtfully. For as long as he could remember, all during their years spent growing in the forest, they had vied with one another for position: who was taller, who cleverer, who the better shot. Aye, raised together they might have been, but they thought very differently. Sparrow favored consideration; Martin was all fire and purpose.
Now Martin asked, in Alric’s wake, “When does she come, the wolfshead’s daughter?”
Sparrow shrugged. “That is up to Lil.”
Martin leaned toward Sparrow and his eyes glowed cold as the blade of the knife in his hands. “She will have to choose one of us, you know—me, or you. That is how it works. Just so you know, pup, it will not be you.”
Sparrow felt his own rage gather and simmer. “Only let her come, and we shall see about that!”
Chapter Three
“It cannot be true.” Rennie spoke the words to herself as she stumbled out into the new light of morning. At this early hour the air felt sharp and chill, and the kitchen yard remained sparsely populated. Rennie, come to fetch water for the day’s endless rounds of scrubbing and wiping, spared little thought for her purpose.
She and Lil had continued to speak in the gloom of the scullery until morning dragged itself over the kitchen windowsills. Well, Lil had spoken. Rennie had struggled with pure disbelief and voiced an occasional objection, a bleat like the lamb she most definitely was not.
“Robin Hood was my father? But you told me you found me whilst out gathering herbs and knew my parents not!”
“I lied,” Lil admitted, with no apparent remorse. “I did it to protect you.” A small smile crooked one corner of her mouth. “What better than to hide our greatest treasure beneath the Sheriff’s nose and feed you from his table? He would have done much to get his hands on you, had he known you existed.”
“He is dead, Robin Hood?” Rennie had always sneered, secretly, at the legend of the man, as she dismissed all childhood stories meant to provide false comfort. There existed very little comfort in this world—just subjugation, weariness, and pain, and the Norman fist raised always above it all. It was like the tales of God, distant and requiring the Latin tongue, of no real value.
“He died nearly twenty years ago,” Lil whispered, “not three weeks before you were born. But those left behind in Sherwood—his band and their supporters—wished to carry on the fight. So was created the legend that Robin had not died but lived yet, protected by magic. Over the years, much good has been accomplished in his name. Folk have even claimed to see him.”
“Aye.” Fools. Rennie’s lip curled in disparagement. “Who is my mother, then? And how came I into your hands, if not gathered along with your herbs?”
For the first time, Lil hesitated. “You have heard the tales,” she said, “of how Robin loved a baron’s daughter called Marian, and she forsook her father’s house to follow him.”
“You would have me believe that true, as well? No one would leave the comforts of a Norman dwelling for the forest.”
“You did not know Marian, a woman of considerable passion. But she was not Norman; equal parts Saxon and Celt fired her blood, just as that of Robin himself.”
“She lives still? Where is she?”
Lil’s expression turned grave. “She crumbled when Robin died, all her considerable spirit torn to shreds. To be sure, we feared for her sanity. She gave birth to you in Sherwood but decided she could not bear to stay and raise you.”
“She abandoned me?” Pain squeezed Rennie’s heart, a familiar ache that seemed to have accompanied her all her life.
“Child, she had no choice. Her love for your father was a desperate thing, fierce, unending. Well, we all loved him.” Abruptly, Lil’s voice wavered. “That was how Robin inspired his followers, through love and belief. He wove a kind of spell—it is that we refused to let die.”
“But my mother, Marian—what happened to her?”
“She entered the convent near Lincoln, three days after your birth.”
Rennie’s anger acquired a thread of hope. “I might go there and see her, then?”
Lil shook her head. “She died three years ago. Child”—she grasped Rennie’s arm—“I wanted to tell you then. By Herne’s horns, I wanted to tell you a score of times. But I knew your ignorance protected you. And you are far too important.”
“Important? Me?” Rennie scoffed. “Now I know you lie.” And that hurt unbearably; Lil never lied to her. At least, never that she had known. Suddenly the beloved old woman seemed a stranger.
“Everything rests upon you—on you and Sparrow, and Martin.”
“Two fellows named after birds? What—”
“Not two named after birds—three.” Lil spoke with emphasis. “Three is a magical number. You were birthed three weeks after Robin’s death, your mother nursed you three days that you might live, she died three years ago. Three of you.” Lil’s voice dropped so Rennie had to lean forward to hear. “Three birds.”
“Three?”
“Martin, born first, so very much the son of his father, Will, with that fierceness bred into him: Martin Scarlet. Sparrow Little, with his father John’s strength and gentleness. And you, child—Wren.”
“Eh? But my name is Re—” She stopped abruptly, unable to go on.
“Wren, lass, not Rennie, though ’tis what I always called you. Three birds, all birthed in Sherwood. And now the time has come. You must go back.”
What was time? Rennie wondered now, standing in the cold air of the yard with her bare toes biting into the damp cobbles. It ground to a halt in the scullery when she scrubbed endless piles of crockery, while her back ached and the salt stung her raw hands. Time meant nothing. It held no more significance than she.
Rennie hated the scullery; she hated the castle and time itself. Yet they made up her world, and her place was with Lil. Even though she longed to leave, such a prospect, like time itself, surpassed understanding.