Chapter Twenty-Five

“How are you, Sally?” Sparrow asked in concern. He thought the lass appeared unwell. Her once rosy skin had turned pale, and her features looked pinched. Sparrow feared the worst. During their time apart, had she rid herself of Martin’s child? And was there a tactful way he could ask such a question?

A fortnight had passed since Alric’s death, and the outlaw camp had more or less reformed in a new, well-hidden location. One by one, folk had drifted back, along with new arrivals driven by the cruel punishments visited upon Oakham. Each arrival had brought snippets of information, and Sparrow had built a picture in his mind.

The Sheriff lived yet, but he was so ill and spent those about him expected each breath to be his last. Word had been sent to King John. No one could guess whom he might appoint as the Sheriff’s successor, but meanwhile Lambert acted with the King’s authority and proved a cruel and violent master. He had declared himself determined to eradicate the outlaws of Sherwood and all who assisted them.

Martin, who had stepped into his new role with enjoyment, seemed more than ready for the challenge. But in all this time he had barely glanced in poor Sally’s direction.

The lass now drooped, sad and wan. Even distracted as he was by his own worries, Sparrow ached to do something for her. When he found himself sorting arrows with her, following a skirmish not far from Oakham, he decided to speak.

“How is your health,” he asked, his voice a low buzz, “and that of your child?”

Sally shot him a warning look and her expression turned even grimmer.

Sparrow caught his breath. “I pray you, Sal, tell me you have not—?”

“I would have, given the opportunity. There has been no chance, with Lil gone and the rest of us in flight, all about Sherwood.” She pressed both hands to the small mound of her stomach. “Now I fear it is too late. But you promised not to tell.”

“And I have not.” Sparrow had shared the precious knowledge only with Alric, and he now in his grave. “Sal, I cannot help believe ’tis best you have kept the child. But you need to tell Martin. Surely the truth will soon begin to show.”

“And should I throw myself at him for such a reason, when his disinterest cries aloud?” Sally gazed across the camp to where Martin even now stood in conference with Wren. “I still cannot believe she did not choose him. Not that I say she is wrong in choosing you, Sparrow—we are good friends and I am that happy for you. But he—”

Sparrow smiled ruefully. “Aye, Martin burns very brightly, especially now.” He followed Sally’s gaze; Martin and Wren stood with their heads close together, the yellow nearly touching the brown.

Martin fairly oozed confidence, and Sparrow acknowledged Wren’s wisdom in placing her faith in him and giving him purpose. It had gone far in healing the sting of her rejection, which Martin perceived as a slight.

Yet the position of headman, dangerous as it might be, allowed for marriage, did it not? He turned to Sally again. “Sal—he needs to know. It might make him risk himself less.”

She shook her head. “That it will not. Martin is Martin, and will never change.”

“We all know what it means to be without a father. But now that things are sorted between us he might well be able to help you look after a child.”

“He does not love me. He no longer even wants me—he still wants her.”

“A babe might change all that.”

“No. When Martin’s heart is set, it is set.” Sally’s eyes met Sparrow’s. “I hold you to your promise. You will not betray me?”

“It is not a matter of betrayal. Soon Madlyn will ask why you appear unwell, and she is no fool, even if Martin is. Better the truth comes from your lips to Martin’s ear.”

“Lies can be told,” Sally said stubbornly. “You just keep your promise to me, Sparrow Little.”

Unhappy, Sparrow looked up again to see Martin watching him and Sally with an expression that boded well for no one.

****

Not until much later in the day, when the patrol had gone out chasing soldiers and returned again with the swords of no less than three, did Martin approach Sparrow. He came at a swagger, the gore of the fight still upon him.

Sparrow felt Martin’s aggression break over him in a bold wave, even before he spoke. “So—one woman is not enough for you, is that it? You are not satisfied with winning what I wanted once but must do it again.”

Sparrow, interrupted splitting kindling for the fire, straightened with the axe in his hands. “What are you on about?”

“I saw you earlier—you and Sal all cozy together, whispering. What do you want with her, when you already have Wren?”

Sparrow drew a breath. He had hoped Martin might have left his jealousy behind him, but it seemed Sally was right—Martin would be Martin. “Do not be a fool.”

Predictably, Martin bristled. “Is that what you call me?”

“That is what you are. Have you no eyes in your head?”

“To see what?” Martin’s gaze narrowed. If Martin guessed Sally’s secret, so Sparrow told himself, that did not count as betrayal on his part. “Sally is my friend, only. And she is troubled,” he said.

“Troubled? How so?”

“Is it truly so impossible for you to fathom? Her father has been killed, she has lost her home and is forced to take refuge in the forest, and the man upon whom she should be able to rely has forgotten to care for her.”

Martin flushed with ire. “So she turns to you for comfort? Have you bedded her, as well as Wren?”

Sparrow laughed incredulously. “If you can suppose I want anyone but Wren, you are a greater fool than I thought.” In truth, he burned for Wren, but had not lain with her since she took her injury. The stubborn wound refused to heal cleanly, and Wren insisted on doing too much. He nearly had to tie her down to make her rest.

Martin’s eyes narrowed. “Why would you not want Sal? She is beautiful enough.”

“She is. And she loves you with her whole heart, if you could but see it.” That made no betrayal, being a fact everyone knew—save Martin. “Look at her. Truly look at her, man!”

Martin turned hard eyes across the clearing to where Sally stood speaking with Madlyn. The late afternoon sun caressed her form and outlined her increased shape. Martin’s eyes widened. He turned to Sparrow with dread. “She is—” Words seemed to escape him. He stared at Sparrow accusingly. “Yours?”

“Of course not mine, you pillock.”

“Who—?”

“You will need to ask her that. But talk to her, for the love of God.”

With no further question, Martin crossed the clearing and joined Sally where she stood. He laid a hand on her arm, and they stepped away and then sat together.

Sparrow did his best not to watch; he went back to work splitting kindling, but dangerously, with one eye on the couple across the way. Soon Sally put her face in her hands and began to weep. Martin put an arm around her.

At last, Sparrow thought victoriously. He swung his axe and smiled to himself.

“You nearly removed your own fingers, there.” Wren stood beside him. She looked weary and spent, yet her presence brought him a rush of gladness.

My love, he said, his mind to hers, and then, aloud, “How do you feel?”

“I keep telling everyone I am fine.” She, too, looked across the clearing. “What goes on there?”

“I believe Sally confesses a secret, and high time.”

“What secret?”

“’Twould not be one if I told you, would it?”

He felt her shrug before she leaned close. “I shall tell you a secret of my own, shall I?” Her breath tickled his ear and sent a shiver down his spine.

He gazed into her wild-hawk eyes. “Pray do.”

“Sparrow Little, I cannot live without you one night more. I have been watching you ply that axe this long while and fairly burnt myself to cinders in the doing.” She leaned still nearer and brushed her lips across his. The axe fell from his suddenly numb fingers and landed harmlessly on the ground. “Why do you not come to me where I lie?”

“You are hurting, and need to heal.”

“Are you sure that is all?” She withdrew from him, and sudden doubt invaded her eyes. “It is not because my wound makes me ugly?”

“Ugly?” Sparrow could not conceive of the word in relation to her.

“Aye, Madlyn tells me there will be a scar, a great, hideous one. All these days of inflammation, and the flesh refusing to close, do not help. You know, the wound cuts clear across my chest, and onto my breasts. You called them beautiful, once.”

“As I do still.”

“You have not seen—”

But he had seen, when Madlyn changed her bandaging, back at Alric’s hermitage. “Wren, you took that wound for me, unhesitating, to save my life. How could it be anything but beautiful?”

“I wish I could believe you.”

He caught her face between his hands. “Listen to me, Wren—I love you, and will until the day I die. Surely you can feel that. You can hear my thoughts; do you hear any lies?”

“No. But there is a difference between being compelled to love me, by magic, and finding me desirable, as once you did.”

He laughed unsteadily. “You think that is why I love you, because Sherwood ordains it?”

“Is it not?”

“No, Wren. I told you, I loved you from the first moment I saw you in Lil’s kitchen, when you came stumbling out of the scullery with your hair all loose about you and questions in your eyes.”

“That is not desire.”

“I never leave off desiring you.”

A faint light entered her eyes. “I may need call upon you to prove that.”

“Feel this?” He drew her close against him so she could not miss the burgeoning bulge trapped inside his leggings. “Woman, I scarce need the axe. I could split wood with—”

A cry echoed across the clearing and interrupted their affectionate exchange. Hand in hand, they spun to face Martin and Sally, just in time to see Martin explode in rage.

With a roar, he leaped up from Sally’s side. She came to her feet also and stood with her arms wrapped about herself, her face white as bone.

“What has happened?” Wren asked.

Sparrow shook his head. Even Martin would not react so to what Sally must have told him. Yet Martin, flushed with anger, now charged across the camp, calling to men as he came.

“You—Gerald, Micah, and Dennis—go find your brother.” He called on the best of his men. “We leave at once.” He virtually skidded to a halt in front of Sparrow. “I need you, also. Bring your bow and as many arrows as you can carry.”

“Why?” Sparrow shot a look at Sally, who stood wearing a dreadful, shuttered expression. Their eyes met. “What goes on?”

“We go after Lambert, and I will not rest until that bastard lies dead.”

“Calm down, Martin, I do not understand.” Wren laid a hand on his arm. “Explain!”

“Sally just confessed the truth to me at last,” Martin raged. “That villain’s attacked and had his way with her. She is with child. His child!” Martin struggled to gain control of himself and failed entirely. “I tell you, he needs to die.”