Chapter Three

“It cannot be true.” Rennie spoke the words to herself as she stumbled out into the new light of morning. At this early hour the air felt sharp and chill, and the kitchen yard remained sparsely populated. Rennie, come to fetch water for the day’s endless rounds of scrubbing and wiping, spared little thought for her purpose.

She and Lil had continued to speak in the gloom of the scullery until morning dragged itself over the kitchen windowsills. Well, Lil had spoken. Rennie had struggled with pure disbelief and voiced an occasional objection, a bleat like the lamb she most definitely was not.

“Robin Hood was my father? But you told me you found me whilst out gathering herbs and knew my parents not!”

“I lied,” Lil admitted, with no apparent remorse. “I did it to protect you.” A small smile crooked one corner of her mouth. “What better than to hide our greatest treasure beneath the Sheriff’s nose and feed you from his table? He would have done much to get his hands on you, had he known you existed.”

“He is dead, Robin Hood?” Rennie had always sneered, secretly, at the legend of the man, as she dismissed all childhood stories meant to provide false comfort. There existed very little comfort in this world—just subjugation, weariness, and pain, and the Norman fist raised always above it all. It was like the tales of God, distant and requiring the Latin tongue, of no real value.

“He died nearly twenty years ago,” Lil whispered, “not three weeks before you were born. But those left behind in Sherwood—his band and their supporters—wished to carry on the fight. So was created the legend that Robin had not died but lived yet, protected by magic. Over the years, much good has been accomplished in his name. Folk have even claimed to see him.”

“Aye.” Fools. Rennie’s lip curled in disparagement. “Who is my mother, then? And how came I into your hands, if not gathered along with your herbs?”

For the first time, Lil hesitated. “You have heard the tales,” she said, “of how Robin loved a baron’s daughter called Marian, and she forsook her father’s house to follow him.”

“You would have me believe that true, as well? No one would leave the comforts of a Norman dwelling for the forest.”

“You did not know Marian, a woman of considerable passion. But she was not Norman; equal parts Saxon and Celt fired her blood, just as that of Robin himself.”

“She lives still? Where is she?”

Lil’s expression turned grave. “She crumbled when Robin died, all her considerable spirit torn to shreds. To be sure, we feared for her sanity. She gave birth to you in Sherwood but decided she could not bear to stay and raise you.”

“She abandoned me?” Pain squeezed Rennie’s heart, a familiar ache that seemed to have accompanied her all her life.

“Child, she had no choice. Her love for your father was a desperate thing, fierce, unending. Well, we all loved him.” Abruptly, Lil’s voice wavered. “That was how Robin inspired his followers, through love and belief. He wove a kind of spell—it is that we refused to let die.”

“But my mother, Marian—what happened to her?”

“She entered the convent near Lincoln, three days after your birth.”

Rennie’s anger acquired a thread of hope. “I might go there and see her, then?”

Lil shook her head. “She died three years ago. Child”—she grasped Rennie’s arm—“I wanted to tell you then. By Herne’s horns, I wanted to tell you a score of times. But I knew your ignorance protected you. And you are far too important.”

“Important? Me?” Rennie scoffed. “Now I know you lie.” And that hurt unbearably; Lil never lied to her. At least, never that she had known. Suddenly the beloved old woman seemed a stranger.

“Everything rests upon you—on you and Sparrow, and Martin.”

“Two fellows named after birds? What—”

“Not two named after birds—three.” Lil spoke with emphasis. “Three is a magical number. You were birthed three weeks after Robin’s death, your mother nursed you three days that you might live, she died three years ago. Three of you.” Lil’s voice dropped so Rennie had to lean forward to hear. “Three birds.”

“Three?”

“Martin, born first, so very much the son of his father, Will, with that fierceness bred into him: Martin Scarlet. Sparrow Little, with his father John’s strength and gentleness. And you, child—Wren.”

“Eh? But my name is Re—” She stopped abruptly, unable to go on.

“Wren, lass, not Rennie, though ’tis what I always called you. Three birds, all birthed in Sherwood. And now the time has come. You must go back.”

What was time? Rennie wondered now, standing in the cold air of the yard with her bare toes biting into the damp cobbles. It ground to a halt in the scullery when she scrubbed endless piles of crockery, while her back ached and the salt stung her raw hands. Time meant nothing. It held no more significance than she.

Rennie hated the scullery; she hated the castle and time itself. Yet they made up her world, and her place was with Lil. Even though she longed to leave, such a prospect, like time itself, surpassed understanding.

A shadow stirred at the corner of her vision as she stood, witless, with the bucket in her hands. Only those as unfortunate as she tended to move about so early, so she failed to take heed in time. She missed her chance to duck back into the kitchen before he approached, moving like one of Lil’s roosters, and with the same purpose.

Lambert. Rennie did not know his given name, though surely he must have one. He was just Sir Lambert, captain of the Sheriff’s guard, newly come since Sir Guy, who had served the Sheriff long, had been killed last winter. A young man, this, and dangerous. Stories had soon circulated about how he liked to spread his seed among the castle’s serving women. Four were rumored, even now, to carry his child.

Lately he had come into the kitchen yard more and more often at times like this, when it was quiet. He had approached Rennie more than once, with increasing persistence.

He displayed his Norman breeding clearly, but she found him ugly for all that, or maybe because of it. Tall and fair-haired, with a touch of ginger in his beard, he had the eyes of an adder, sly and cruel. Thin lips curled downward beneath a nose that must once have been broken, and his face bore marks of the pox.

The very sight of him now made Rennie recoil. She clutched her bucket and, even though it was only half full, turned back for the door of the kitchen.

“Stay where you are.” The voice of command shivered round the yard and froze everyone there—Rennie and two lads hauling a sack of cabbages. Lambert moved quickly for a man his size. Before Rennie could blink, he was at her side. “I want to speak to you.”

Even Rennie, unversed in the ways of men, knew he did not truly wish to speak. He stood far too close, and the cruel eyes were all over her. Much like the young visitor’s eyes, last night, they touched her hair, her throat, her bosom. But Lambert avoided her eyes.

“You are the lass from the scullery. What is your name?”

“Rennie, sir.” Wren.

“You will perform for me a service.”

“Sir, I am needed in the kitchen.”

“It will not take long. Besides, my needs supersede those of that witch who runs the place. You are a pretty enough thing, in your odd way.”

Rennie, frozen like a rabbit before the fox, said nothing, but her anger turned her stomach.

“On your knees.”

“I am needed—”

“Silence! I can put those lips of yours to better use.” He reached for the front of his breeches and Rennie’s stomach heaved still more violently. She had heard stories of this, when the maids whispered in the kitchen. But if this beast put any part of his vile body near her mouth, she would vomit.

“On your knees, wench!” He seized her hair, which hung loose down her back, and wrenched hard, causing Rennie to fall. The pain was astounding and her landing on the cobbles less than gentle.

He let go her hair and thrust his hand down her bodice until he encountered a breast and squeezed hard. Rennie’s anger flared into something blinding.

Any good servant, as she knew—any who wanted to survive—would meekly comply with a Norman overlord’s demands. Rennie, hidden so long in the scullery, had not encountered her masters often, and now discovered herself not suited to obedience.

Even as Lambert reached again for the front of his breeches, she surged to her feet with a cry of rage. She had one glimpse of the two lads’ shocked faces before she swung the wooden bucket with both hands, scribing a wide circle that ended with a crash at the side of Lambert’s head.

Whatever the burdens of scullery life—heavy pots and platters, endless tubs of water—they lent a woman strength. Rennie heard Lambert’s skull crack before he fell, soundless, onto the cobbles.

“Gaw!” one of the lads cried. “Get out of here before he wakes up!”

Rennie ran back into the kitchen, instinctively seeking Lil, whom she found engaged in discussion with one of the many undercooks. Both women and half those around them turned to stare.

Lil’s eyes widened. “What is it, child? You are pale as death.”

Rennie whooped; the rage had stolen her breath. “I—”

The lads ran in from the yard. “She has just killed the Sheriff’s captain. Lambert—is that his name?”

Lil straightened and her eyes flashed green. “Is this true?” she asked Rennie.

“He wanted me to—to—” Rennie pointed to the floor, and then to her own crotch. Not a woman there needed further explanation. “I hit him with the bucket. I doubt he is dead.”

Lil gave her a look such as she had never seen and went out to the yard, accompanied by half the kitchen staff. Rennie stayed where she was, trembling yet defiant. Those left in the kitchen shrank from her as if she carried plague.

Lil returned in an instant, her eyes blazing green fire. “He is not dead, but when he awakens his temper will be far from sweet. Come, Rennie.”

“Where?”

Lil seized her arm in a bruising grip. “This decides things, I fear. You can stay here no longer.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “You must away to Sherwood.”