Chapter Forty-One

“It is far too soon,” Anwyn fretted. “Your wound has barely closed over. You remember how long it took Heron to heal—how will you ever draw a bow in competition?”

Curlew smiled into her eyes. He could see all she felt there—concern, ownership, and passion. “Do not fear, love. Sherwood sends me to this. I was born for it; those who came before us have battled and bled for it.” A measure of authority, a chance to speak fairly for all he loved. “I cannot fail.”

She bit her lip and somehow kept from saying what she feared, but he knew. He heard her thoughts so clearly now, both hers and Heron’s, when he chose. She knew he should not even be up on his feet after three short days, and she was right—the deep wound so near his heart, mended by magic, might not endure the strain.

But she had returned with word from Nottingham last night, having gone thence with her father in order to convince Simon de Asselacton to call off his search for them and to allay any suspicions he might hold. The competition for the position of steward would take place this very day. If he failed to participate, he lost all hope of winning the appointment. And so he would not count the cost.

Aye, and he had already won one prize, that of Anwyn returned to him. Their separation had been a fierce drain on his spirit, a thing she no doubt sensed as well. Could he hide from her his weakness?

“I still cannot believe Lord Simon has gathered his champions so quickly,” she fretted on. “I confess, I hoped for more time—weeks rather than days. What are the odds of a famed Norman archer being so near, in Grimsby? It seems events still conspire against us.”

Curlew reached out and drew her into his arms. Not without mischief, he asked, “And, Lady, did I lack for strength last night, when you required it?” He could still taste her on his lips, and fairly vibrated with the bliss of completeness. “You give me everything I need.”

She stared into his eyes, mutinous. She wanted so badly to bar him from this, and knew she could not.

He ducked his head and reached for her lips, a potent temptation. Kiss me once for luck, he spoke into her mind, twice for strength, and thrice just because you love me.

Gladly she gave the required kisses, but told him, I only wish I could do this for you. Da says Lord Simon has conjured not just the one, but five competitors—all Norman. You will need to draw that bow many times before it is done.

He stepped away from her, just far enough to settle his quiver across his back. She adjusted the strap over again, easing it against the bandages beneath his tunic, and with reluctance handed him his bow.

Believe in me, he beseeched. Can you not believe?

That calmed her fears just a bit. I have never stopped believing.

Heron stepped up, with Diera as ever at his side. “So, Cousin, you go to do this thing so many years in the making. Curlew Champion, son of a northern Norman squire, is it?”

Curlew smiled. “True enough, the tale. My father was squire before he was knight.”

“I need not tell you my hope goes with you. All Sherwood goes with you.”

“I have just been busy assuring Anwyn I was born for this.”

“So you were.” Heron smiled, but Curlew could see the concern in Diera’s eyes. She had scrutinized his wound when she changed the dressing this morning. And Heron, as well as Anwyn, must be able to feel the pain that still dogged him.

No matter: if he were, indeed, the most important person ever born in Sherwood, then surely this must be the most important day of his life.

****

It looked like a fair day at Nottingham. Pennants flew in the autumn breeze, and a pavilion had been set up for the comfort of those privileged observers that included Lord Simon and several of his knights. Less exalted folk, many from Sherwood, milled about. Curlew knew Anwyn numbered one among them, for he could feel if not see her. Presenting himself at the field where the butts had been set, he struggled to ignore the many distractions and measure his competition.

No trouble identifying them. They stood already out where the targets were set in a row, some conversing and some fiddling with their bows, all Norman. Most, he imagined, would be well known to Lord Simon, and some favorites brought in with haste, even as Mason Montfort had previously been brought.

Aye, and he saw then just how clever Anwyn’s father had been, granting him an identity virtually unknown and unquestionably Norman. And had not Sherwood assured he did carry a measure of Norman blood?

As if conjured, he saw Montfort approach across the green sward.

“Good day to you, Master Champion. I am that glad you have come.” Without giving Curlew time to reply, he lowered his voice. “Are you fit? I did not mean for this to take place so soon, but after losing most of his foresters as well as a slew of soldiers, Lord Simon has a fire under him. What of your wound? I have been worrying over it.”

“You and Anwyn, both. She is here somewhere, and fretting enough for all of us.”

Montfort nodded and turned to survey the gathered archers. “’Twill not be easy, lad. They are all very good. The man with the yellow hair and the greedy eyes is Lord Simon’s cousin, Le Blanc, in England on a visit from Normandy. The fellow beside him is head forester at Telligate. I have seen them all shoot. If they measure up to their abilities, you will need to prove faultless.”

Curlew nodded. He doubted not his aim; if anything proved wanting, it would be his strength.

“Then come along.”

Curlew followed Montfort across the damp green grass, his hide boots seeming to float somewhere above it. They paused directly in front of the pavilion, and Montfort called, “My lord, the last of our competitors has arrived. This is Master Champion of Leeds.”

“Ah, the man of whom you spoke.” Lord Simon’s dark eyes appraised Curlew closely. “You shoot with a longbow, my good man?”

“Aye, my lord,” said Curlew in a clear voice. “My father’s bowmaster was Saxon.”

“Interesting. Then let us begin.”

The other competitors eyed Curlew also as he moved to his place at the end of the line. The men took up their bows and composed themselves; he slid his off his shoulder and shook the hair back from his face, assessing the targets and the light as he did so: sun nearly at its height but situated enough to the south at this season to cause some glare. The distance would, aye, be challenging, but nothing he could not manage.

His bow, the best Sherwood had to offer, was cut from yew grown at the heart of the forest, with its living essence in the wood. Polished by the touch of his hands, it now came to him easily, without conscious thought, a part of him. But he knew it had a mighty draw, suited for shooting great distances from under cover, ordinarily no trouble for him.

Lord Simon rose to his feet and spoke. “This is a competition for the place of Steward of Sherwood Forest. The man who wins it will assume great responsibility. He will manage the resources therein, interact with the folk who dwell nearest that great expanse, and act as liaison between them and Master Montfort, here, and thus me.”

About fricking time, said a voice beside Curlew. He turned his head and saw a man standing there, one with a mane of fair hair, bright blue eyes, and a deeply scarred face. Martin Scarlet. I have waited long for some measure of authority in Sherwood. My lord, do not miss your mark.

Have I ever? Curlew returned.

Martin turned those dangerous eyes on him. Nay, but you and I know just how deep that wound of yours goes.

Aye, Curlew agreed, and we both know also how to endure pain.

Martin grinned at him with warlike assent.

Steady on, my lord, said another voice, this one at Curlew’s other elbow, and deeper. The man there wore a sheepskin cloak and had eyes as dark as Sherwood’s mysterious heart—Sparrow Little. He offered the great bow in his hands. Would you not rather shoot with this?

Curlew shook his head. I could not hope to draw that, he told Sparrow.

You do not need to, said his grandmother—his daughter—Wren, at his back. You need only be who and what you are. A shower of gold magic erupted all around them. The Lord of Sherwood.