Laura Strickland - The Guardians of Sherwood Trilogy (27 page)

Another turn, another step, and Gareth’s injured thigh threatened to steal his leg out from beneath him. Falcon, quick to take advantage, all his instincts running high, pressed in and delivered a tremendous blow directly to Gareth’s shield.

Gareth never even felt the fingers of his left hand fail him, but he saw—as from a distance—his shield fall and clatter onto the trampled, green grass. The crowd cried out, and there came a call from the pavilion that Gareth could not quite hear for the loud buzzing in his ears.

An unholy grin spread across Falcon’s face. He raised his blade again with murderous intent. Gareth saw the glint of light as the sword swung for him and set himself to take the strike, endure the wound, and end it, as he must.

But at the last instant, Linnet screamed in his mind,
Love!
Instinct acted without his permission and brought his blade up somehow to meet Falcon’s. The two weapons met with a screech, and the impact tore a groan from Gareth’s lips. He did not have the strength to hold.

Falcon bared his teeth and disengaged in a movement worthy of a trained sword master. He rounded on light feet and attacked Gareth again before Gareth could turn.

“Norman dog!” Falcon growled, a heartbeat before his blade hooked Gareth’s and tossed it wide. With a glint of light, that same blade then found its place at the side of Gareth’s neck in a deadly kiss.

Everything stopped. For an instant, time itself froze: the sunlight ceased to beat down on Gareth’s head, his heart seized in his chest, and even the beads of sweat he could see on Falcon’s brow arrested. He knew what Falcon felt at that moment, could read it all in the man’s eyes—the victory and the ownership of it, all laced with gratitude. It mattered not how Gareth’s wounds burned or that his left arm felt limp as a length of rope. He regretted only for Linnet’s sake, and prayed only that he might live on, like those other, blessed spirits in Sherwood.

“Do it,” he spoke into Falcon’s face.

Something moved in Falcon’s eyes. His sinewy arms flexed, and Gareth felt the bite of the blade. Curiously, there was no pain, or perhaps it was merely lost in the welter of other agonies that engulfed him.

He fell.

It seemed as if he descended backwards into a bottomless chasm. Darkness enfolded his sight, but he could still hear. Screams and cries and, aye, some cheers from the onlookers, for all were not nobles, there.

And one shattering call that he knew not whether he heard with his ears or his soul, straight from Linnet’s heart.

No, no, no, my love.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

“Does he live?” Linnet caught at Falcon with hands like claws and arrested his flight. The rest of their party halted also, breath searing their lungs. Already they were well away into the trees, though Linnet did not remember running nor, in truth, leaving Nottingham. She remembered only seeing Gareth’s bright head go down.

Falcon whirled to face her. “Do not touch me, Lin. I am stinking from that place.”

“Do you think I care? Tell me if you left Gareth de Vavasour dead, if you slew him even as you have wanted this long while.” She watched Fal’s lips while her heart pounded in her ears, willing him to deny it, to speak the impossible.

Instead, his mouth twisted in a grimace. He said, “Did you expect me to spare him?”

A sob caught in Linnet’s throat, a terrible, raw thing. It seemed she must have harbored some such hope after all, for she felt it die now, and her soul came apart in pieces, a scorching pain. “He fought that fight for you. He sacrificed himself for you!”

Falcon stared. The other men of their party looked away. It was Lark who stepped forward to face her sister. “You are wrong, Lin. Whatever your champion just did, ’twas not for Fal. How should he care for one wolfshead? What he did, he did for you.”

“Aye.” All her breath stolen, Linnet struggled for air and then crumpled with pain, collapsing in bits where she stood and sinking to the floor of the forest.

“Come, Sister.” Lark’s voice softened with compassion, and the hands that gathered Linnet up felt kind. Linnet did not know if Lark could sense what she felt, or even part of it. She hoped not, for she would spare even her worst enemy this pain.

“Get hold of yourself,” Lark whispered. “You can give in to grief later—not now. We must get Fal away, or your man will have died for nothing.”

“Is he dead?” Linnet looked into Lark’s face through tear-filled eyes and saw a reflection of her own sorrow. Her stubborn heart still hoped, amid its agony. “I fear he must be, for I can no longer feel him, in my heart or mind.”

“The Lady save us!” Lark muttered, and caught Linnet close, as she might a child. Over her head, she looked at Falcon. “Help me with her. We cannot linger here lest those at Nottingham fail to honor the bargain, with de Vavasour dead.”

Dead
. The word echoed in Linnet’s ears. Was this how her grandmother, Marian, had felt when Robin fell? This wrenching, unbearable loss that made every heartbeat a hollow agony and changed the future into an unimaginable wasteland? No wonder Marian had retreated inside herself, unwilling to carry on.

Linnet had not realized that for days she had existed on Gareth’s love for her and hers for him, exchanged and ever flowing like a current between them even when they were apart. She had lived on her acute awareness of him. Now stark terror replaced that awareness. She had never felt so alone.

“Listen to me.” Lark whispered the words even as she drew Linnet closer. “What of his child you believe you carry? Will you not be strong for his or her sake?”

“Lark, I cannot.”

“You must. The love is still with you, Lin. Sherwood is all about love.”

“You lie! Sherwood is all about sacrifice.”

“Help me with her,” Lark appealed to the others again. “We must away.”

Strong hands bore Linnet up, and her grief with her, and carried her on.

****

Somewhere, someone wept. The knowledge of her grief enfolded Gareth amid the darkness where he lay. Deep black it was, and paralyzing. He wanted desperately to break free of it and comfort her, but he had not the strength.

“Help me.” He spoke the words to no one in particular, or rather to everyone and everything: to his mother with her bright beauty, to Robin with his strong kindness, to Sherwood itself. It felt as if a crowd of spirits surrounded him, those he knew and some he did not. Their essence began to flow into him, a mere trickle at first, and then a flood of strength.

Champion.

Robin’s voice it was, calling him with insistence enough to rouse the dead. Was he, Gareth, dead? Or had Falcon, for some unimaginable reason, held his stroke? It would take inestimable skill to do so in the heat of the fight. And Falcon, who hated him, had no reason.

A form materialized beside the place where Gareth lay. He did not know how he could see it, for his eyes remained closed. Composed of light gathered from separate, glowing particles, it coalesced into the form of a man who laid his hand on Gareth’s brow.

Sherwood takes
. The voice, Robin’s voice, spoke again.
But it also gives much. If you might have one thing, lad, what would it be?

To ease her pain
. For it caught at him, called to him even as had her love, drew him back from the pit of darkness into which he had fallen.

He felt Robin smile.
Then arise and go to her.

Gareth’s eyes opened. He lay on a hard surface in a dim, cool room, with his arms spread wide. Light slanted in through an open doorway built of stone.

The castle, then. He was somewhere in the castle. He drew a breath that expanded his lungs, and brought a hand to the left side of his neck.

His fingers met with wetness, the sticky residue of blood. It had happened then, and truly—Falcon’s blade had taken him there in the sunshine, with all those faces looking on. Beneath the stickiness he could feel the edges of the wound, now joined together like a seam in a leather pouch.

From beyond the doorway came the sound of voices.

“Here, my lord. You will no doubt want for him to have a hero’s burial?”

“Why should you suppose so?” The voice of Robert de Vavasour at its harshest and most impatient. It might have been that of Gareth’s father, coming to him from out of his childhood. A shudder shook Gareth from head to toe.

“My lord Sheriff, he fought and defeated all comers.”

“Aye, save for the last.” Shadows blocked the sunlight and caused it to flicker as the two men came in. The castle seneschal it was, in company with Gareth’s uncle.

Robert de Vavasour paused beside the stone slab where Gareth lay sprawled.

“Prepare him for burial,” he told his man, “and put him in the ground before sundown.”

Aye, Gareth thought, and did his uncle still suppose him dead? Was he dead after all, even while possessing this awareness? For though he believed he had opened them, he realized he lay with his eyes yet closed, and Robert saw not how the breath filled his lungs.

But Gareth could see the anger and disdain in his uncle’s face when the man leaned close.

“So, you failed me,” Robert ground out, too low and vicious for the seneschal to hear. Or had the man gone? “Failed me, our family, and your King. You could not take down one lowly peasant with a borrowed sword when it mattered. Better you are dead, and I need not disgrace myself in dealing with you.”

De Vavasour spat. The spittle touched Gareth’s cheek like a curse. Robert spun on his heel and marched out without a backward look.

Aye, and the seneschal had gone; Gareth found himself alone save for the sunlight. He sat up. A shower of what he recognized as magic surrounded him as he did so, silvery green droplets like dew. His head swam violently, and he still could not tell for certain whether he lived.

He sought for Linnet in his mind but could not find her. He needed to leave this place; he no longer belonged here, if ever he had. All strength and all love lay in Sherwood.

He slid from the stone and stood on his feet, swaying. If someone came now, what would he think? Might he run from Gareth, screaming?

But no one came as he walked to the doorway of the chamber. No one saw as he took himself from that cold place and out into the light.

I come to you, Linnet, my love
, he called with his spirit.
Sherwood, I come.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

“Linnet, listen to me.” Falcon knelt at Linnet’s feet and took both her hands in his. The light of the new morning flooded over and around him—green light, Sherwood’s light. Linnet sometimes felt she had been raised on it, had drunk it like mother’s milk. But she found little comfort in its presence now. The endless night might be done, her first without Gareth since she had bonded so completely with him in body and mind, but her pain had not abated.

Falcon’s fingers squeezed hers hard enough to hurt, and his eyes captured her gaze persistently. “Do not go away from us. We need you, Lark and I.”

Behind him Lark stood on one foot and bit her finger viciously. Linnet should be able to feel what Lark felt, but all her senses seemed stunned by grief. She felt little even from Fal, who touched her.

She blinked at Lark and then tried to focus on Falcon’s face. She saw sorrow in his wide eyes, and something that might be fear.

“We cannot do this without you, Lin,” he said, and bowed his head over her hands. “Do not hate me.”

She felt a stir of emotion then, the deep pull of the ties that bound the three of them together. She sighed, restless as the wind in the trees. “How could I ever hate you? You are part of me.” She blinked still harder. “But you slew him. Did you slay him?”

Falcon clenched her fingers, crushing, and refused to lift his head.

Lark stepped forward and laid her hand on Falcon’s shoulder.
Mine,
the gesture said.

Of course he is yours,
Linnet told her, in her mind. The communication worked sluggishly, but it did work. Perhaps in time she would come back to herself.

A measure of the tension went out of Lark. “Come, Sister,” she said, gently for her. “Falcon acted only as he had to. Let us travel deeper into Sherwood, to where we can get you some rest and decide how best to carry the magic among us. It is all that matters now.”

You have your love,
Linnet returned, mind to mind.

Have I?
Lark’s gaze fell to Falcon, still poised at Linnet’s feet.

In answer, Linnet reached out and laid both hands against Fal’s face, lifting it to her. “You go with Lark,” she bade him. “Make for her a good husband.”

“Aye.”

Linnet felt something pass between Falcon and Lark, a question asked and an answer given, acknowledgement of what had been forged between them while Falcon languished in Nottingham’s dungeon.

“I will remain on my own for a while,” Linnet added softly.

“But we need you.” This time Lark protested.

“I will rejoin you anon,” Linnet said. “But first I need what answers Sherwood can give me.”

Falcon freed her hands and got to his feet. He and Lark exchanged speaking glances.

“We will not abandon you,” Lark said then. “Did not Ma always say abandonment is the very worst of things? You come with us or we do not go.”

So that was how it was to be from now on, Linnet thought. She must live for these two, for the triad, and for the child who might one day assure the guardianship of Sherwood, or not at all. A lesson learned early: Sherwood gave much, and took much.

Even though it felt as if her heart had been torn from her breast, it beat still, and so she must go on.

****

Beloved.
The word shimmered through Linnet’s mind like a stray shard of moonlight and woke her from her uneasy sleep. She aroused with a start to find herself surrounded by magic.

The three of them—she, Falcon and Lark—had migrated back to the place where her parents had once held Gareth de Vavasour, deep in Sherwood’s heart. Not fifty paces from where Linnet lay was the moss bed where she and Gareth had consummated their love with wild abandon and conceived the child that now rested, so precious, beneath her heart. She awoke to find the clearing aglow all around her, every leaf rustling beneath a full moon, and every spirit whispering in awareness.