Chapter Thirty-Five

“We are at war now, and no doubt about it,” Curlew said heavily. “Two more villages burned and half a score men dead. Things have not been so dire since my grandmother’s time.”

“Aye?” Anwyn returned. “And what would your grandmother have done in our place?”

Curlew turned his head to look at her. Dawn had again come to Sherwood, bringing radiance that lit both the dying leaves and his lady’s hair with fire. A chill morning it was, with the mist not yet burned from the ground, but she wore only that glorious curtain of wheaten silk, and despite their dire circumstances his heart rose. Was there any sorrow from which his Marianwyn could not lift him?

“Grandmother Wren?” He smiled despite himself. “She would have gone storming into Nottingham and demanded justice.”

Anwyn tipped her head and a spark of mischief entered her green eyes. Softly, she came to him, naked as she stood, and pressed herself close into his arms. Thank the green god, he thought, they had chosen a place away on their own to spend the night. For his lady, as he well knew, possessed little restraint around him and might well behave so even before prying eyes.

The very thought enflamed him. Only half clad, he felt himself swell against his just-donned leggings. Ah, and had he not loved her most the night long? It seemed he could not get enough. Aye, Sherwood gave.

He growled at her in combined arousal and mock-anger, “This is no time for your nonsense. Have I not just said we are at war?”

“Forgive me, my lord.” Her eyes gleamed. “But you know me for a wicked woman. Only give me leave to make it up to you.”

She slid down his body slowly, making a tantalizing friction, until she came to rest on her knees, her fingers already at the laces of his leggings.

The breath snagged in his throat, half laugh, half wonder. Nearly a week had they lived together now, and she never ceased to amaze or delight him. Her love was wondrous strong, and he knew—just as he knew all that lay in her heart—she sought endlessly to compensate for all the years they had missed.

How could he ever hope to live without her now?

He caught her face between his palms and tilted it up so her gaze met his, even though he ached to feel her mouth upon him.

Her eyes danced, unrepentant. “I can hear your thoughts, my lord. I know exactly what you want.” She added, with a small smile curving her lips, “And ’twill be my deepest pleasure to provide it you.”

Marianwyn. Mine. He spoke the words into her mind with gladness and claiming. Do you know how I love you?

And she replied, her words enflaming him more surely than her touch, No more truly than I love you.

Satisfaction thrummed through him that had little to do with the flesh. All his life had he wished for such a connection and now it came, sweeter than imagined. For she was need and gratification, question and answer wrapped up together. She completed him even as she brought him to the knife’s edge of terror, for fear of losing what he had found.

Never leave me, he beseeched.

Light flared in her eyes, magical as Sherwood’s heart. As if I could. ’Tis as you have promised: we will remain together, here, even should one of us—

She dared not complete that thought, even in her mind.

Swiftly he drew her up from her knees and fast into his arms, where he wrapped her tight. He wished he could pull her inside him, into the place where his need for her lay, keep her there for all time. Aye, Sherwood assured their love would never die. Of their flesh, it gave no such assurances.

She felt what he felt, and as the regret and acknowledgement flickered through him, she trembled.

It shall be me this time, my love.

Eh? He stiffened.

You say we are at war, and I know full well the costs war may bring. If one of us must fall, it will be me. Let it be me!

Nay. Somehow he drew her still nearer. Who says one of us must fall?

Her gaze held his. Have I not come back to make up for my past failures?

Nay, he said again, not by dying for me. Marianwyn, if you would make up for aught—and I do not say you must—let it be by standing strong and taking your place in Sherwood’s defense. For ’twas not your fault I fell, and you could not have loved me better.

I could not, she acknowledged. And I can stand strong in the face of anything—her eyes filled with tears—save losing you again. I fear…I fear ’twill crush me, for all my intentions.

Love. He touched her face gently, caressed her with his fingers, his mind, and his emotions. Do not think on this thing, and so invite trouble. Such fear feeds on itself. And those fears we admit to our minds too often may come true.

But it has always been in my mind. Even before I knew you, I desired you, searched for you, feared losing you. Curlew, what can ease this agony I feel inside?

Faith, Marianwyn. Only faith.

She hid her face against him and trembled. I vow to you, Husband, I will try.

****

“The attack came at dawn,” Heron said bitterly, “while you, like we, were away in the forest.” He indicated Diera, who stood pale as death beside him. “Yet another party led by Havers, come after Montfort, no doubt.”

Curlew shot a look at Anwyn and asked, “But Montfort was not found?” He could feel Heron’s distress and Anwyn’s also. So closely were they now linked he very rarely felt alone in his own head.

“Nay, nor where we hold him. But six more are dead, three of them children.”

“He slew children?” Curlew heard the shock in his own voice.

Heron met his stare. “He did so deliberately, slaughtered the wee ones, innocents, before their parents’ eyes, in an effort to make them speak. But the folk did not know where Montfort is hidden.” Heron paused and then pronounced, “The bastard needs to die.”

The very fact that Heron, of all men, should call for violence shocked Curlew. But he nodded gravely.

Diera spoke with tears standing in her eyes, “Does he not have children of his own?” She looked to Anwyn.

“He does,” Anwyn confirmed, “and treats them to the strap regularly. The man is devoid of mercy.”

“Clearly.” Heron’s eyes glowed with fury. “I have prayed over this, but I tell you fairly, I am not easy in my mind. Danger rushes upon us. I see heartache. And blood.”

Diera’s hand flew to his and he clutched it tightly. Beside Curlew, Anwyn tensed. Curlew lifted his chin. “We must make resolution, send Montfort back, if need be. We cannot allow Havers to commit such deeds upon our own.”

Heavily, Heron said, “I fear even Master Montfort’s return will not stem Havers’ brutality now. Aye, he travels under the banner of the Sheriff in seeking after Montfort. ’Tis what he says he wants. But you know, as well as I, he desires the return of his wife still more.” He nodded at Anwyn. “He will not rest until he has her back in his hands.”

Diera suggested softly, “Surely Anwyn’s father will be able to curb Havers. He is not an unreasonable man.” While caring for Mason Montfort’s injuries, Diera had become friendly with him.

Anwyn answered, “My father will speak reason to Lord Simon once back in Nottingham, aye. I trust he will do his best for us. But I am not sure anyone can reason with the beast Havers.”

“Yet,” Diera still hoped, “Havers must take his orders from de Asselacton.”

“Must he?” Anwyn shook her head. “So he may pretend to do. But Havers is sly and cunning. He might well pay lip service to Lord Simon even whilst playing at his own game and seeking revenge.”

“One thing I do know.” Heron spoke again. “We must make the best possible trade for Anwyn’s father. He is one of the few things with which we have to bargain.”

Curlew spoke thoughtfully, “Yet we also have right on our side, and courage—and Sherwood. We cannot allow ourselves to weaken. As never before, we must stand strong.”

“There is one more possible choice,” Anwyn said.

Curlew turned his gaze on her, suddenly alert. He did not like what he heard in her voice or felt streaming from her—a mingling of fear and determination.

She looked at Heron and not at him. “We could simply give Havers what he wants.”

“No,” Heron said, even as Curlew’s heart reared in protest, “not that.”

Anwyn tossed her head in the bold, careless way Curlew now knew covered her uncertainty. “’Tis the one sure way to stop the pain and persecution, is it not? To halt his cruelty, the burnings and the murder of babes? I will return alongside my father to Nottingham.”

Curlew’s heart twisted in his chest. “You will not. You would not, for you promised me we would never be parted—”

Her expression tightened, yet she spoke still to Heron. “Surely you see ’tis the only course.”

“And surely you see,” Heron returned gently, even though Curlew felt his outrage, “we cannot so sunder the circle. We have only just found you. Would you deprive us again?”

“The circle will hold,” Anwyn said unequivocally, “whether I am here or in Nottingham. By any road, ’twill be for but a short time. I will find a way to make Havers rue the day he wed with me, to want shed of me, and then—”

“No.” The word thundered from Curlew. He seized Anwyn’s wrists and turned her to face him. “It will end no better than last time. What if he seeks to punish you for defiance? What if he insists on his revenge, and your pain? Only think the things he could do to you before you might flee him.”

“Curlew is right,” Heron said swiftly.

Anwyn did not so much as glance at Heron; her eyes now held Curlew’s as if she might never look away.

“Anything is better,” she throbbed, “than that he should come after you or harm you in any way. I could not relive that scene. Better another barren death in a convent! Better a thousand nights at his hands—just so you live and breathe the free air of Sherwood.”

“Foolish girl! Would you seek to sacrifice yourself—for me?”

“Have not countless others? You know what you are—more than a man made of bone and flesh. You know what you carry inside you: hope, belief in a justice not brought by Norman hand, the chance for a better future and a share in England. What is my small life against all that?”

Curlew’s throat worked desperately before he said, “Everything. Everything, to me.”

“And to me,” Heron echoed.

She turned at looked at Heron then. “What have you seen at your prayers, holy man? What, that you dare not reveal? I can feel it all inside you. Why will you not say?”

Curlew, too, looked at Heron and saw acknowledgement fill the golden eyes, along with honest fear.

Heron said slowly, “I see danger, aye, a great risk. I cannot say—”

“I can!” Anwyn seethed. “This thing I have always known. I will not let him die in my arms again.”

Marianwyn. Curlew breathed it into her mind.

She continued speaking exclusively to Heron. “How do you know I was not made one of your three only so I could play this part? Sherwood gives and Sherwood takes. Let me give, so Sherwood will not take him.”

A brittle, fragile silence fell. The trees themselves listened, as did the bright morning. Curlew willed Heron to speak, to say something—anything—that would persuade Anwyn she argued for madness.

For, nay, Sherwood would not bring her to him only for the purpose of sacrifice.

And Heron spoke the desired words, “Lady, you act out of fear, but your desire to protect him, to protect us, is misplaced. Our strength lies in three.”

And Anwyn repeated, “We are three apart as well as together.”

Heron shook his head. “I say we return your father to Nottingham and see can he speak to de Asselacton, and thus curb Havers’ ferocity.”

Swiftly, Curlew spoke, “I say it also.” He ran his fingers down Anwyn’s arm to clasp her fingers. “And, my love, it takes but two of us to overrule the third. Now let us hear from you no more talk of sacrifice.”