Chapter Twenty-Five

“So you can tell us naught of these vile dogs who stole you away, Mistress Montfort?” Simon de Asselacton asked Anwyn with a frown.

De Asselacton—or the Asslicker, as the folk of Sherwood invariably called him—had shown Anwyn only kindness and forbearance since her return to Nottingham, but he quite clearly did not believe her story, at least not all of it.

“We must identify these men so that those guilty may be brought to justice, and others who are not guilty released.” Like Falcon Scarlet, who had been set free that very afternoon. Though Anwyn had not seen him she could imagine Lark’s joy, and that of Heron and Curlew, at his return to Sherwood.

And was she now also part of Sherwood, since she had bonded with Curlew, with Heron? Had her heart at last found a home?

She only knew she would do anything for them—for him—whatever that meant.

She looked de Asselacton in the eye. “I did not see their faces, my lord. They kept my eyes covered. As I have said, I heard their voices only, and so do not see how I can hope to identify them.”

“Tell me again how it was you were captured.”

She drew a breath. “I was disobedient, my lord, and did not listen to my father, who bade me remain in our quarters. ’Twas already growing dark when I ventured out. I wanted an adventure and thought to walk to the edge of Sherwood and see if I could catch a glimpse of any outlaws. After all the stories I had heard, well, my lord, it was foolish, as I now know, but my father will tell you sometimes such urges get the better of me.”

“Your father has no need to tell me,” de Asselacton said. “Where were you when these villains fell upon you?”

“No more than half way to the wood. I heard a noise behind, and then I felt hands seize me, and a sack came down over my head. It smelt of onions. Someone said, ‘It is the forester’s daughter.’ ”

Lord Simon glanced at Anwyn’s father, who stood beside her, poker straight and silent. De Asselacton’s ruddy face looked sour. “The provision of the sack would argue a planned capture. You have not been here long enough, Mason, to earn such enemies.”

Anwyn’s father remained silent.

“On the other hand,” de Asselacton went on, “you push the peasants hard and have made a number of arrests. These men who seized you were peasants, aye, lass?”

Anwyn hesitated. She had no wish to turn suspicion on the innocent. “How to tell? Their voices might have belonged to anyone.”

“Describe again the place where you were held.”

“’Twas but a hut, old and not well kept, outlying, I think. I do know we turned eastward and headed some distance before we arrived.”

“Not into Sherwood, then? Passing strange, that. Mason, we need sufficient information to track down these miscreants. We cannot have blackguards snatching our daughters from beneath the walls—no matter their disobedience,” he added with disapproval.

“Aye, my lord. But we will do well not to apprehend the wrong men. The folk are already up in arms over us hauling in the headman of Oakham without what they call just cause.”

De Asselacton waved his hand. “He has been released, has he not? And he is but a peasant, after all.”

“Highly regarded, though,” said Anwyn’s father, who was rarely anything but fair.

Lord Simon snorted. “He is probably a wolfshead. I hope I have not made a mistake in letting him go. But I gave my word, and I am a man who keeps his word, as you well know.”

Anwyn’s father nodded his head. “Indeed, my lord.”

De Asselacton fixed Anwyn with another hard stare. “These men who held you, mistress, they did not defile you in any way?”

Again Anwyn hesitated. Her sole defense against Havers lay in claiming to be ruined. Yet how could she send Lord Simon or even her father on a vengeful hunt for men who did not exist? They were bound to seize someone and he—or they—would suffer needlessly. Her thoughts flew madly: how might she best aid Curlew?

She dropped her eyes. “My lord, I would rather not say.”

“Aye but, child, you must, if we are to seek for justice.”

“Is it not enough if I confide the truth to my father?”

De Asselacton shot another look at Anwyn’s father and then relented. “Very well. You will bring word to me, Mason, if measures need to be taken. Meanwhile”—his words grew weightier—“you must curb your lass’s tendency to roam. Whatever has happened in the past, we cannot have that here at Nottingham, do you understand? Only look at the trouble it has caused. You will wed her at once to this man of yours, the one you said is willing to have her. Within the next two days.” No question but it was an order issued. Anwyn’s father bowed his head.

She drew a breath. “But, my lord—”

He fixed her with a glare. “I did not ask you. You may choose marriage to your father’s man or the nunnery. Do you understand?”

A chill chased its way down Anwyn’s spine. The very thought of a nunnery lent feelings of suffocation, guilt, sorrow, and death. Anything but that.

Almost anything. The memory of Havers’ piggy eyes assailed her. How could she endure his touch after lying with Curlew?

Ah, but surely she could dissuade her father when she had him alone. Yet de Asselacton gave him one last glare and said, “I want this settled, Mason, and ’tis my final word upon it.”

****

“So tell me, Daughter, were you harmed during your ordeal?”

They were alone in their quarters with night coming on. Anwyn’s heart struggled in her breast. She wanted away to Sherwood so badly she ached. She wanted to lie this night long in Curlew’s arms.

Everything she did, she reminded herself, she did for him.

“Nay, Da,” she answered, “they were not unkind.”

“Then tell me,” he sat down beside her, “that I might send you to Roderick with an easy mind, and that you are virgin yet.”

In his eyes she saw desperation, shredded patience, and a measure of forbearance. Aye, she had tried him much. He did not know what to expect from her answer, yet he hoped.

She shook her head and his face fell; pain flooded his eyes.

“Who is the man?” He faltered. “There is but one?”

Shame touched her then, that he should think otherwise of her. But aye, she had been running wild, and stories of her behavior had not been gentle.

She said with certainty, “There is but one.” One man for her, now and forever.

His face flushed dark. “Are you with child?”

The very idea convulsed her heart.

Before she could answer, her father rushed on, “For Roderick will not have you if you carry another man’s brat.”

She sat up straighter. “He will not have me anyway, now that I am ruined. He told me as much.”

“He and I have a bargain. I have pledged to him that, as the man wed to my daughter, I will elevate him among my foresters as soon as the opportunity presents itself. I have spoken with Lord Simon about it, and he agrees. Measures must be taken to protect Sherwood. We both believe that requires placing it in the hands of a strong overseer. Roderick is not without ambition, Daughter.” He paused and wetted his lips. “He has agreed to take you in any condition we found you, upon your return.”

The blood drained from Anwyn’s face. “No.”

“Oh, aye, and I do not mean to let you out of my sight until the marriage takes place. This nonsense we have had from you is surely and truly done.”

Anwyn’s mind flapped and fluttered against the idea like a bird in a cage. There must be a way out; her father was basically a kind man. Yet she had used up all his kindness and then some. Should she tell him she could not accept Havers because she loved another? But she would sooner die than place Curlew at risk.

“Father, please reconsider.”

“Nay, Anwyn. You heard Lord Simon: he wants the matter settled. And ’tis clear you need a stronger hand than mine. I have failed in my duty to your mother. You are not the young woman she hoped you would become.”

“Do not say that.” A blow, indeed. Tears flooded Anwyn’s eyes.

“I pray this match will benefit us all. You will learn to obey your husband and Roderick will earn a fine place once our battle with the rabble infesting Sherwood is done.”

“’Tis no battle, Father. I do not doubt folk in Sherwood, as elsewhere, are only trying to survive.”

“It has gone on too long. Lord Simon would send word to King Henry that order has been established here, and thus take at least one worry from him, in light of all the unrest westward.”

Lord Simon would, rather, curry favor.

“None of that concerns you,” her father told her. “You must prepare yourself for your wedding.”

“I will not!”

“I have never raised a hand to you, Anwyn. Perhaps that was my great mistake, but your sainted mother would not have it. Now, though, I do not doubt you require firm guidance.”

What she required was the sound of Curlew’s voice in her ears, the feel of his arms around her, the scent of him as he filled her, the touch of his mind on hers, and the glint of humor in his silver eyes.

She lifted her head. “Would you send me to a man who has promised to beat me? It will not happen, Father. I swear to you, no man will touch me.” None but Curlew Champion.

And her father told her grimly, “We shall see about that.”