Chapter Twenty-Eight

“We took two men found with a deer near Ravenshead,” said the elder of the two foresters seated by Havers’ fire. “Tried to deny they had felled it, of course, but the arrow through its shoulder matched those in the one’s quiver. They will stand trial, one or both of them.”

Anwyn’s heart, already fully battered by the events of the day, trembled even as she pushed in beside the men to serve bowls of the stew she had made. They discussed their day precisely as if she were invisible.

“And lose their hands, or their lives,” the younger threw in.

Havers nodded grimly. “No mercy can be shown. These peasants are like undisciplined children or”—his gaze moved to Anwyn—“a wife who has not felt her husband’s anger. They need to learn.”

He gestured at her roughly. “Do not just stand there gawping, woman. Refill their mugs of ale.”

“The thing is…” The younger man spoke again. “We cannot arrest every peasant we encounter in the forest. And they are all poaching, I am convinced of that.”

“To be sure, they are,” Havers denounced. “But you see, ’tis difficult for a man with one hand to draw a bow. So you cut off his hand and let his family starve. These serfs resemble rats, in that way. You have to destroy one generation to curb the next.” He drank deeply from his mug. “Lord Simon is a careful man, and far too lenient. Were I in a position of authority, it would be hard dealing until these folk, who seem to feel themselves so privileged, stop stealing from their betters.”

Anwyn’s lip curled again. To Havers, everything was a matter of discipline. And was this the man her father wished to see made overseer of Sherwood?

The conversation and the meal limped on. Anwyn told herself she should be grateful, for at least the presence of these men kept her safe from her husband’s attentions.

But they left at last and, almost at once, Havers ordered both children to bed. He bent a look on Anwyn. “I am off to my bed also.” He gestured to the alcove. “You will join me as soon as your work is done.”

She nodded. She could still hear the voices of the other two men, now on the far side of the dividing wall, which told her they could hear everything she said, as well. Would she let them hear her beg and cry for mercy from this misbegotten troll?

Could she bend her pride enough to ask mercy from him? Could she bear to let him touch her? No.

Her eyes stole toward the door even as she kept her hands busy. Outside, the pounding of the rain matched that of her heart. It sounded welcoming, in light of what awaited her in the alcove.

But Havers had barred the door when the other men left. She might have time to dash out, otherwise, but he would surely catch her when she had to pause and lift that bar.

She glanced at the two children, gone to their pallets against the opposite wall. Agnes’s worried gaze caught hers, and she whispered to the child, “Stay in your bed, and do not listen.”

The girl ducked her head down beneath her blanket. Anwyn shot still another look of longing at the door. When she turned back, Havers stood at the opening of the alcove, stark naked.

Horror suffused her and stopped the breath in her throat. The fire, which shed the only light in the room, allowed her to see his body: broad and squat, thick with muscle and bristled as a boar. Shadows danced over arms knotted with bulk and sinew, legs like the broken, bandy stumps of trees. Aye, and he stood ready for her, as well, the length of him jutting like an engorged, obscene weapon.

Somehow she dragged her gaze to his face. It wore a look of lordly demand, his little eyes narrowed and mean. “Enough, Wife. Here, to your duty.”

Anwyn did not move; she no longer could. As well to toss herself into the jaws of a ravening wolf.

“Come,” he insisted, “or will you feel the weight of my hand?”

Somehow Anwyn forced her voice through frozen lips. “You will have to beat me before I consent to let you touch me.”

“Aye, well, wench,” he advanced on her, “I will take pleasure in that, and what comes after also.”

Anwyn’s paralysis broke and she fled to the door. But the room, only a few paces across, did not allow distance enough for her to elude him. He caught her, even as her fingers brushed the bar, and spun her about by the shoulder. Before she could blink, he struck her, a smashing blow that took her across the face and knocked her down. Her head hit the door as she fell and she lay stunned for the instant it took him to haul her up and strike her again.

This time her ears rang. He held on to her so she could not tumble down, and bellowed into her face, “Now get you to your bed, and be the whore your father sold to me.”

Having never been struck in such a way, Anwyn did not expect her primary response to be one of anger. She felt surprised by it now, but the rage streamed up through her, obscuring fear and even her pain.

“I will not,” she spat into his face.

Not a sound came from the other side of the wall, nor from the children’s pallets, though she knew they listened. She could expect no help; the children were too frightened and the men considered her Havers’ property.

Havers’ small, piggy eyes widened in surprise. She doubted many people defied him. “You will,” he vowed, “over and over again.”

He began to drag her away from the door, but she reached out and seized the bar with desperate hands. With a grunt he slapped her once more, and her fingers bit into the cold iron as if it could grant her freedom. But the only freedom lay in—

Curlew!

She screamed his name in her mind, a cry born of need and longing. Help me, my love.

Havers grunted and raised one beefy arm to strike. Anwyn saw the blow coming and cocked her foot to fend him off. A desperate kick, it took him in the stomach and rocked him back so he let go of her.

She lifted the bar from the door. A power not her own helped her, so it seemed weightless in her hands. She felt strength flood and steady her so she was ready when Havers bellowed and came for her again.

She swung the bar with both hands and met his lunge. Not the chest, no, said the voice now inside her, or he will seize the bar with his hands.

But Anwyn’s first strike, clumsy and badly directed, took Havers in his left shoulder and—by all that was holy—knocked him down.

She swung again even as he fell—once, twice—and battered his naked flesh. Then, the bar still in her hands, she opened the door and fled into the rain.

The door on the other side of the hut opened and a head emerged—the elder of the two foresters, he was. Did he mean to stop her and send her back inside? She glanced over her shoulder. Havers would be coming, unless she had killed him, and she doubted she had. Hurt him, aye, maybe.

She returned her gaze to the forester’s face. For an eternal, breathless moment, they stared at one another.

“Run,” the man told her then.

She did, into the gathering autumn dark, shocked to see it was not yet really night. Havers had not wished to wait long for his cruel pleasure. But the rain and the early dusk lent their own cover in which she would gladly lose herself.

Where to run? Not home. Her Da might well send her back to Havers. What she wanted was away to Sherwood. As she had ascertained earlier, the foresters’ huts lay outside the gates. Yet, disoriented by reaction and the rain, she could not begin to tell her way.

Come along with me, child, said the voice that had already sounded in her head, inside the hut.

She lifted her face like a startled hind. “Who are you? Where?”

Here.

A woman took form beside her, barely visible through the driving rain. Tall she was, with dark hair woven into a braid that flowed down her back. Eyebrows like wings marked a face at once severe and full of beautiful strength.

Anwyn gasped. From whence had she come?

Do not fear, child. Rain streaked the woman’s face, though she heeded it not. Would you not go to my grandson?

“Your grandson?”

Curlew.

Another spear of surprise pierced Anwyn. This woman did not look old enough to be Curlew’s grandmother. But she breathed in ready response, “Aye.” Oh, aye, it made the one desire of her heart.

Then I will lead you to him. Fear not, for I assure you I will not get lost in Sherwood.

“I believe you,” Anwyn said. And so she did.