Chapter Thirty-Six

I know I swore I would never deceive you, Anwyn whispered to Curlew in her mind, even while she guarded her thoughts from him and hoped he would not hear. But this need goes far beyond any promises.

Another morning and the forest lay silent all around her, heavy with cloud that threatened rain.

Rain like tears.

She pushed that thought away fiercely, afraid to allow it dominance. The party escorting her father back to Nottingham had just departed following a wealth of discussion, and she needed to catch them up before Curlew—or Heron—tumbled to her intention. At the moment, the two of them conferred together in a huddle with others of their folk who still disagreed about returning Mason Montfort ahead of de Asselacton’s release of their own people. She had only moments to act.

She swung her quiver up across her back and followed it with her bow.

“Where are you bound?”

The question caught Anwyn in a grip of iron and spun her around. Diera stood just behind her, straight and tall. Anwyn tried to determine what she saw in Diera’s dark eyes. Sympathy? Understanding? Denial? A mist stirred between them and suddenly muddied the distinctions between past and present.

Without conscious thought, Anwyn said, “I know who you were—who you are. You stepped up and took one of the three places after he fell. You know what it is to love, and suffer, and need to protect.”

Diera nodded, but Anwyn still could not feel her emotions. And Diera had only to open her lips, or possibly her mind, to alert Heron.

Desperately, Anwyn said, “You were there that day when I lost him, when the blood flowed from him and would not stop for all my prayers. Even the healing power in your hands could not save him.”

Diera inclined her head and her dark hair fell forward, half obscuring her face. What did Anwyn see there? And who was this woman before her? A tall, slender maid, keeper of Heron’s heart, or the strong yet diminutive healer Diera had once been?

Whoever she was, she said, “This is not then. Why do you fear the past will occur again?”

Wild now with terror and desperation, Anwyn returned, “Do you not see? That is why I was born. It is why all of us have gathered here now, because it must happen over again so I can change the ending, so I can save him this time.”

“Or perhaps”—Anwyn heard Lil’s wisdom when Diera spoke—“the circle now turns and proves to us nothing can ever be lost, no matter how it may appear to our mortal eyes.”

“Then why am I so afraid? Why do I wake with the thought of losing him even though I lie in his arms? You are a woman, and a soul who loves. Surely you understand.”

Diera spread graceful hands. “I would not be here, did I not believe in second chances. But, Anwyn, grief comes to those who dwell in fear of it—as does love to those who long for it.”

“I have learned,” Anwyn said hoarsely, “that grief is the companion of love. I go to do this, Diera, and you cannot hold me. Accompany me if you will. But I pray you do not tell Heron. Are you able to speak to him in your mind?”

Diera shook her head. “That has not yet been afforded us. But Curlew will hear you, or Heron will, through your connection.”

“Not if I guard myself from them. Come swiftly, if you are to come, before they see.”

Diera stole one look at the men on the far side of the encampment. Then she hiked up her skirts, and together they ran.

No sooner were they away into the trees than the rain came. Weeping, weeping. Bright blue eyes reaching for her through the tears.

Breathlessly, Diera asked, “Just what do you mean to do?”

“Trade myself to Havers for his promise to cease with harrying the folk of Sherwood.”

“Do you think you can trust any promise he may give?”

Better, she hoped, than Curlew could rely on her own. She had promised, aye, never to leave him. Surely in the purest sense she did not, even now.

Marianwyn! As if her errant thought summoned it, his voice sounded clear and bright in her mind. She skidded to a halt, and Diera faltered also, staring.

“His thoughts pursue me.” Anwyn’s heart clenched. “That did not take long.”

“Let us turn back.”

Anwyn ignored that plea. “Heron instructed the men to take my father by the east road out of Sherwood, did he not?”

“Aye, and Curlew sent archers ahead to guard the way.” At Anwyn’s look of surprise she said, “You did not know that? Curlew rarely leaves things to chance.”

“So, others of our folk are out there?”

“Aye. Let us turn back,” Diera urged again.

“Nay, for you heard what Heron said: Havers may well fly the banner of my father’s rescue, but what he truly wants is my return. I see no hope but to give it to him.”

“You would endure his anger, his vengeance?”

“For Curlew’s sake, I would endure most anything.”

Diera studied her long. “Then come.”

They ran on, Diera now leading the way through the trackless forest on a tangent that Anwyn guessed would intercept the east road. Tension grew inside her as they went, and awareness of a great event approaching. The rain pounded down so loud she could not hear her own footsteps, could barely hear Curlew’s voice still calling in her mind.

He came. But he would not catch her in time.

Anything would be better, she told herself again as she ran, than to fail him. Nay, it had not been her fault he fell, last time. But afterwards she had crumbled, shattered, turned from all he loved, and ended her days in the desert of the nunnery, away from the place he rested and away from Sherwood’s green light.

Anything would be better than that slow starvation, even pain at Havers’ hands.

Marianwyn, return to me.

She closed her thoughts to the desperate voice in her mind. Just ahead through the trees she could see the road, and caught a glimpse of the party bent on leading her father back to Nottingham. She reached out and caught Diera’s hand, dragged her to a halt.

Was it better to join her father’s party now or follow them to Nottingham? Would the Sherwood group try to send her back to Curlew? They knew how he felt for her—by now most everyone did. But they had little reason to value her of themselves. Still, she would not risk being turned away.

Even as she stood hesitating, the decision was taken from her. She heard a cry ahead, voices raised in challenge and one voice she knew and hated most well.

Havers. Here, now. No.

Diera sucked in a great breath and freed herself from Anwyn’s grip. “Trouble. We had better turn back.”

For an instant Anwyn stood while everything teetered in the balance. Turn back or go forward? Reach for safety or resolution? Dare or fail? The very forest seemed to whirl around her, a wheel on its axis, and Curlew coming, bringing with him a past she needed so desperately to outrun. The future, bright with danger, sweeping in.

One thought only tipped the scale for her: if she did not move forward, how could she protect him? She must protect him.

She darted forward so swiftly she eluded Diera’s grasp and headed like an arrow for the clamor of sudden battle, the screams and the peril.

Behind, Diera called even as Curlew cried to her, in her mind.

She burst onto the roadway and into a scene of carnage. The party from Sherwood had halted in the pounding rain to face Havers, who had both foresters and soldiers at his back. Three men already lay dead or wounded to death—two of Havers’ and one from Sherwood. Her Da stood with his hands still bound, unable to defend himself. That alone was enough to take Anwyn forward.

Her father saw her at once and called her name, which snagged Havers’ attention. The squat forester—her husband—loosed a shot from his bow and turned to face her, maddened as a boar on the attack.

He roared, “So there you are, misbegotten wench!”

Marianwyn! Curlew called at almost the same moment.

What happened next would stand forever in Anwyn’s mind. Havers started toward her even as the Sherwood party fell back, still battling the soldiers. Curlew Champion appeared from the forest and leaped into the road.

Faster spun the circle in which Anwyn seemed so surely trapped. It did so jerkily, and in a garish light, every detail standing out too strong. Curlew skidded to a halt in the road. To her horror, she saw he had come away without his bow, no doubt determined to catch up with her and thinking of nothing else.

Even now he parted his lips and called her name. “Anwyn!”

The cry diverted Havers’ attention from Anwyn for one terrible moment—one that proved long enough. She saw the heavy hatred fill his mean, little eyes. “Is this your captor then, bitch? Aye, and I can answer the bastard as he deserves!”

Anwyn did not see Havers notch his arrow. It was simply there at the ready when he raised the bow and sighted. Everything within Anwyn roared in protest and she launched herself at him—a few short steps were all it would take to place her body between Curlew and that arrow. But Curlew leaped also and rushed into the shot in an equally thoughtless effort to protect her.

Everything halted. The terrible, merciless circle ground to a stop and all the players stood pinioned. Only the arrow moved, flying, as inevitable as the past, and buried itself deep in Curlew’s chest.

Anwyn clutched her own breast precisely as if the wound had taken her, instead. And it had, oh, it had! Then the circle shuddered into motion. The rain pounded down—like tears, endless—and Curlew crumpled to the ground, his eyes already closed.

No, no, no, no, no, no—

A few short steps separated her from her heart, which now lay in the road like something slain. She was not permitted to take them. Cruel hands caught her even as she stumbled forward, and a hated voice grated in her ear, “Ah, no! Your lover is he, that outlaw? Dirty slut that you are. But you will not go to him. Nay, Wife—you will come away with me.”