Through their shared connection, Sparrow could feel that rage and hate alive in the room. It danced around the two men who fought with raw and deadly intent. Martin had never fought so well, yet step by step Sparrow saw Lambert, his face an ugly mask, force him back to the edge of the dais.
The final blow came in a flurry of muscle and movement, a surge of impossible quickness that drove Lambert’s blade forward into Martin’s chest and out through his back.
The crowd howled and Wren screamed. The red glimmer Sparrow could see around Martin winked out, and he fell backward from the dais into the crowd, pulling from Lambert’s sword as he did so and leaving it in the knight’s hand, stained scarlet.
No!
The word bellowed in Sparrow’s mind even though he made no sound. Rival, tormentor, companion, brother—Martin had been with Sparrow from the inception of his life and his world. Whatever he was, he could not be dead, for then how could Sparrow go on?
Unbearable grief rushed through him, rending and tearing his spirit. At least half of it was for Wren because, with all his undeniable courage, Martin had not succeeded in saving her.
Instead, Lambert—now on the same side of the overturned table as Wren—reached out and seized her, drew her back hard against him and raised the gory blade to her throat.
“Silence,” Lambert roared. “This woman is an outlaw, wanted for her crimes. She dies now.”
Quiet fell, enough to let Sparrow hear John’s indrawn breath as he spun.
“Do you usurp our authority?”
“No, sire. But this woman committed an assault upon me. She then fled to the forest and sought to lead others in the name of the outlaw Robin Hood. She is condemned by her own presence here.”
“That is for us to decide. Take her into custody—she will stand trial.”
“Forgive me, sire, but I do not agree.” A bright edge of madness now colored Lambert’s voice. “The Sheriff is dead. He passed to me his authority—”
“All authority in this realm is ours!”
Aye, and that about said it, Sparrow thought desperately. Yet Lambert’s desire for vengeance had hold of him and looked beyond reach of even the King’s reason.
“Sire, you do not understand. She will employ magic. If I leave hold of her now, she will flit away. There is but one answer for it.”
His sword arm jerked and the blade, smeared with Martin’s blood, bit the skin at Wren’s throat. She shrank against Lambert as a lover might, but her eyes ranged over the crowd, beyond desperate.
And found Sparrow.
He felt the connection flare despite her terror, her certainty she was going to die. In that instant, he felt her emotions as clearly as his own.
I love you. I will never leave you. You will hear my voice in the trees, forever in Sherwood.
Not yet,
Sparrow returned.
Stand still. Do not breathe!
He jostled his bow down from his shoulder. It came to his hands effortlessly, and with a feeling of strength. He never remembered snagging the arrow from the quiver or notching it. Silently he asked those pressed around him for room and, as they had for Martin, they moved aside just enough.
Just enough.
Though there was no time, though the scarlet blood had begun to trickle down Wren’s neck, he closed his eyes.
He stood again in the greenwood with his father at his side.
“I tell you, lad, you will never make the mark if you try too hard. You need to become what you are—what I named you. The speeding arrow—Sp’arrow. Do you see?”
Sparrow saw. He had to become what he had always been: intent, born of love.
He opened his eyes and shot the arrow. A shower of blue sparks erupted, and it flew over the heads of the crowd, past the guards at the double doors, above the gathered nobles. Sparrow dared not fail: Lambert held Wren with her body covering most of his. The barest twitch would end her life.
The arrow flew true, truer than any Sparrow had ever shot. It whispered as it went, the voice of Sherwood, the glimmer of light, the flicker of leaves, and embedded itself in Lambert’s right eye.
And it screamed aloud:
This for justice.
Chapter Forty
“By God, by God, by—” Someone breathed the words: a prayer. Rennie discovered they came from her own lips. She staggered and nearly went down as Lambert fell away from her like a heavy cloak. She put a hand to her throat, and her fingers came away red.
She could no longer see Sparrow in the crowd. But Martin lay at her feet, and scores of eyes watched her, from the dais and below it.
The King spoke and she heard him not; her ears were stopped, filled with rushing music. But no—that was the sound of her own blood and her own heart, both pounding. She lived still.
The King moved toward her but remained on the far side of the overturned table. She spared one look for Lambert, sprawled on his back with one of Sherwood’s finest arrows protruding from his eye socket, along with a welter of blood.
She leaped into the crowd.
Hands welcomed her—not hard, punishing hands, and not noble hands. For the barriers at the doors had broken, and the common folk—her folk—now invaded the nobles in the great hall. She recognized several faces from the kitchen, some she had known most her life: the two lads who had been in the yard the day Lambert tried to force her, the boy who turned the spit, a bevy of women who worked now under Moll, the server who had climbed ahead of her onto the dais. They reached for her because she had spoken for them and because she was one of their own.
Behind her, John still shouted conflicting directions. “Stop her. Close those doors. Kill her. Attend our Lord Lambert.”
Those who had Rennie in their charge listened not. They sheltered her, and their whispers poured into her ears.
“For Robin.”
“For Lil.”
Rennie knew, then, it was love that defended her.
Martin’s body lay at the very edge of the dais. She turned back and reached both hands, begging her rescuers, “Please do not leave him here. Bring him.”
More hands bore up Martin’s still form. The tide turned and the sea of faces parted before them.
Where was Sparrow? Rennie still vibrated from that moment when their eyes had met among the many, caught and held. She had felt what he felt then, had been flooded with his love for her, and fully realized hers for him. Now, impossibly, she had lost track of him.
“Come.”
Lifted by the will of the many, she gained the double doors and then the room beyond. The outer gate drew near, and with it Sparrow’s face. She fell into his arms, and he swung her up as if she weighed nothing. He spared one glance for Martin, who hung between a score of hands, head lolling.
Dead
.
Suddenly the rest of their band surrounded them and accepted the burden of Martin. They passed into the blessed, cool air while behind them voices cried for pursuit. Rennie stole one look over Sparrow’s shoulder; it showed her the crowd had once more closed, tangled, and filled the space behind them like a rushing wave.
They began to run, Rennie’s head bumping against the bow on Sparrow’s shoulder. She could feel Sparrow’s emotions surging through him as if they were her own.
****
“Down! Stop and put me down. I would see if yet he lives.”
“Love, he does not.” The breath came harsh in Sparrow’s lungs, and Rennie could feel weariness riding him hard. But they were now well away into the cover provided by the trees, as safe as they were likely to be. Sparrow panted, “Farther yet—he will be coming.”
“Who will? Who, Sparrow? Lambert is killed. You felled him.”
Sparrow stopped running so abruptly he stumbled. Those toting Martin paused, sagged, and lowered him gratefully.
Rennie slid down Sparrow’s body, her hands lingering on him, caressing his face. She realized, belatedly, she was weeping.
“No one will find us,” she babbled through the tears, “not before this is done. Martin—”
Sparrow made no reply, but his dark eyes burned on her. She dropped to her knees beside Martin and laid both hands on him. His tunic was sodden with blood, and his chest was motionless.
He looked like an angel lying there with the new green leaves arching above him, his face so fair despite its half-healed wounds, and devoid of anger. His lashes formed tawny golden arcs on his cheeks; his wild hair made a halo.
“Martin.” She began to massage his chest. “Martin, return to me.”
“Wren,” said Sparrow, his voice broken, “it is too late.”
“No!”
“Lambert’s blade passed right through him. We all saw.”
Rennie looked up at the man she loved, who stood grave and still, and at the others who ringed them—outlaws and outcasts, true hearts. Then she turned back and tore open Martin’s tunic with hands that shook. The garment fell away and revealed the wound, a grievous thing.
Ragged and gaping, it leered at her, the mark of Lambert’s hatred. Rennie placed her hands, one to either side of it, on Martin’s skin, as if she could expunge, mend, heal.
“Wren,” Sparrow breathed again.
Above Rennie’s head, a bird sang. The trees stirred, and Sherwood whispered. It sounded like Lil’s voice, like Robin’s voice. Under her knees, she felt life flowing, and under her hands—
“He is not gone yet. Here, Sparrow, here to me.”
Sparrow stood as if frozen, his eyes wide with shock.
She reached up reddened fingers and seized his hand. “I need you. This will require both of us. Call him, Sparrow. Call him back!”
“Wren, he is dead.” Sparrow had landed on his knees, across from her. Martin’s body lay between them.
She stared into his eyes. “He is still here. He is here! They are all here, in Sherwood.”
She pressed Sparrow’s hands to Martin’s naked bloodied chest. His eyes widened still farther as he felt what she felt.
“Call him,” she bade. “Tell him how we need him.”
Sparrow gasped and bent his head. Rennie saw the blue light begin to gather around him, pure as water or the sky at night. She felt his strength begin to flow into Martin’s body.
She pressed her own hands tight, fingertips just touching Sparrow’s, closing the wound, and began to spin golden light, drawing it from the air around her, from the trees, from the very soil of Sherwood and its waters. She breathed it in with the air, and sent it in a current into Martin’s stilled flesh.
Fine job, that,
said Lil, beside her, with a smile in her voice. Rennie had always been able to hear Lil smile.
Will Scarlet knelt at Martin’s head, his eyes burning silver fire.
Son, arise. Your work is not done.
Blue sparks erupted from Sparrow’s hands, gold streamed from beneath Rennie’s fingers. They sifted together, and the world turned green.
Arise!
Will Scarlet shouted.
Martin jerked beneath Rennie’s hands. His eyelids twitched and he drew a deep, shuddering breath.
Sparrow opened his eyes. Rennie raised her head. They, and their band, were alone, both Lil and Will Scarlet gone. The green light died away gently. Beneath her hands, Martin’s heart beat strong and even.
“He lives.” Sparrow breathed the words and lifted his hands in disbelief. His eyes met Rennie’s. “He lives.”
Rennie began to weep again, this time with joy. “Aye, by all that is holy, he is with us still.”
Chapter Forty-One
“A number of our people intend to go to ground, deeper into Sherwood,” Sparrow told Rennie in an even voice which revealed none of his true emotion. He stood before her in the dawn light, seeming calm and quiet. But Rennie could feel that something within him had focused, intensified. Simply, he added, “I would make one of them. Will you come?”
Rennie raised her eyes, considering him. All around her, Sherwood hummed with energy that sounded like music. She could feel it now without effort, just as she could feel her connection to Martin and to this man before her in near-visible trails of magic.
Gently she asked, “Would you have me abandon the rest of my people?” Abandonment, as she knew, was the hardest of things.
Sparrow shook his head. “Nay. But I believe everyone will scatter for a time, until we see how matters stand in Nottingham. ’Tis a good enough season for it, with summer coming on. Before autumn, folk will move back to rebuild Oakham and take up their lives.”
Rennie nodded. “Under the guidance of their staunch headman, Martin Scarlet.”
“And with hope of a better life.”
“And, pray,” Rennie tipped her head, “who has decided how all this will be?”
“Martin and I, together, whilst you slept.”
“Together?” Rennie’s eyebrows twitched. “And does Martin also mean to avail himself of the bosom of Sherwood before taking up his place in Oakham?”
Sparrow shrugged. “He needs healing. That is the place for it—I do not think any among us can deny that, now.”
“No.” Rennie drew a breath. “Walk with me.”
She reached for his hand, and a small shower of sparks erupted between their fingers. This had happened every time she touched him, all the night. She glanced behind as they moved off into the trees: the rough camp looked deceptively peaceful and quiet with the golden light arcing overhead. She could see that most folk had bundled up their few belongings. All spoke in hushed tones.
Martin lay with two women bending over him—Madlyn, with a mother’s grace, and Sally, who had not once left his side since he was carried in. Rennie narrowed her eyes. A slight haze of crimson light danced over and about Martin.
Sparrow said, “I can barely get my head around what happened yesterday. Martin, I mean. I do not think I realized, until that moment, how surely the three of us are connected.”
“The three of us, and Sherwood,” Rennie corrected. “You and I called him back, but ’twas Sherwood did the giving.”
“Aye,” Sparrow agreed gravely. “And the three of us are now its stewards and guardians, our lives long.”
Above and around them, the trees stirred and spoke in their own language; Rennie cocked her head to listen. “Yet,” she said thoughtfully, “we cannot stay all together, can we?” She turned to face Sparrow. “’Tis what I need to tell you. I have made up my mind.”
****