Chapter Thirty-Two

“She chose me.” Sparrow despised his own selfishness even as he reminded himself of that fact once again. He did not feel chosen. Instead, it seemed Wren had virtually dropped him from her awareness.

She thought only of Martin.

A full day had passed since they broke camp and fled, in groups, deeper into Sherwood. Their group was larger than Sparrow liked and consisted of Wren and himself, Martin, Madlyn, and Simon, with the unfortunate inclusion of Sally. When they moved, Sparrow and Simon toted the litter. Sally wept.

She wept silently and without ceasing. Sparrow could not say he blamed her. There were moments in plenty when he felt like joining her.

Such as now, when evening came down and Wren sat, devoted, at Martin’s side and held his hand. They dared not have so much as a whisper of fire, even here in the trackless reaches of the forest, and already the night damp crept in.

Sparrow knew Martin wallowed in pain and his life hung by a thread. He could feel Martin’s weakness, virtually taste his agony; Sparrow knew how he flickered in and out of consciousness.

To Sparrow’s misfortune, he could also feel Wren’s emotions—he did not even have to touch her to do so. They poured off her in tangible waves: warmth, caring, strength—love. It was as if part of her reached inside Martin to call him back from the dark place he had gone, and then held him.

Sparrow shivered, feeling his own chill at the edge of the circle, even as he paced their stopping place on watch. He glanced over his shoulder at the scene.

The three of them made a changeless tableau—Martin stretched on his litter, looking like a dead god with his fair hair all tousled and his wounded arms thrown out; Madlyn with her simples and her visible fear that her skills would not suffice; Wren—

Sparrow’s heart faltered within him as he observed her. She glowed. The same light he had seen around her in the forecourt at Nottingham now surrounded her and burned steadily, extending to and fully enfolding Martin.

Ah, so that was what love looked like to eyes that could see it. And Sparrow, linked closely to the two of them as he was, could see.

By the god’s horns, how could he be so selfish as to mind? But he did—he did, for he loved her with a depth that terrified him. It surpassed the mere physical, though that did not keep him from aching for her moment after moment. He longed for her touch even in passing, and suffered from being deprived of it. He perished for the taste of her. It might have been better had he never known her at all.

No, not that. He cherished every memory of what they had shared together, alone in the forest—that which he feared he might never know again. For he could not rid himself of the belief that Wren had now given herself, in some inexplicable, incomprehensible way, to Martin instead.

But she chose me, he whined to himself piteously, yet again. Could it happen? Could Wren choose him and then change her heart? Could it be changed by Martin’s need?

Disgusted with himself, he spun on his heel and nearly collided with Sally, who stood at his elbow.

“What is it, love?” As if he need ask. Sally’s grief and desperation nearly matched his own.

“Sparrow, I think I should tell him.”

“Eh?” Fully distracted, Sparrow did not at once grasp her meaning.

“I wish to tell Martin I carry his child. He should know, in case—” Sally’s throat spasmed and her voice died.

“Lass, I do not know that he can hear you, or will understand. He is far beyond our reach.” But not beyond Wren’s—for she held him fast. Kindly, he added to Sally, “And just as well. It shelters him from some of the pain.”

And such pain it must be. Sparrow’s very spirit flinched from it. He had to admit only Martin’s great strength could so endure.

Two more tears coursed down Sally’s face. “Will he die, Sparrow?”

“Not if Wren has aught to say about it.”

Sally gazed at the group of three. Sparrow wondered if she could sense what he felt, if she minded, but then she burst, “I would do anything for her—anything—could she but save him.”

And there, Sparrow thought, was love at its finest—no selfish emotion. He caught Sally’s hand. “Come.”

They approached the threesome quietly. Wren glanced up, and Sparrow felt her attention slide over him and away again.

“How fares he?” Sparrow addressed Madlyn instead of Wren.

New, deep lines furrowed Madlyn’s face. She looked exhausted. “He weakens.” She waved her hands helplessly. “So many wounds.”

“He will endure, Mother—you know how strong he is.”

Madlyn’s head drooped, her only reply.

Sparrow spoke. “Might we have a moment alone with him, Sally and I?”

Wren’s head lifted sharply. Her nostrils flared, and her fingers, clasped around Martin’s, turned white. “Why?” Her voice sounded rough, that of a defensive she-wolf. Mine, it said.

Sparrow summoned a painful smile. “We would give him something to live for.” A child was that, at least to Sparrow’s mind. What would he not give for one of his own? If the news could reach Martin—

Wren’s eyes narrowed with caution. “I do not know that he will hear anything you say. I have been calling him. It becomes more difficult.” She considered Sally, and her demeanor softened almost imperceptibly. “But if you think you can tell him aught that will help—”

Sally sank to her knees beside Martin, and Wren surrendered Martin’s hand to her. Sally would not have her moment alone, but it seemed she cared little for any listening ears.

“Oh, my love, my dear love,” she began. “Can you ever forgive me? This is my fault, all of it. You went seeking revenge because of what I said, the lie I told.”

Wren’s face once more tightened. Sparrow ached to touch her but dared not—she, like Sally, fought hard for control.

Sally’s agony continued to pour off her. “Perhaps I do not deserve your forgiveness. But should my lie cost your life, should you pass from this world, you need to go knowing the truth: I do not carry Lambert’s child. He never waylaid me nor touched me. That was a tale I told. My child is yours, my love—yours.”

She collapsed in tears, Martin’s hand clutched to her cheek.

Sparrow felt Wren recoil from the display. She got to her feet and stepped to his side. Her eyes, merciless as those of a hawk, raked his face. “She blames herself, but this is your fault as much as hers. You knew the truth, Sparrow. You knew, and yet you let him go seeking his revenge. You could have kept him from spending himself for a lie.”

Sparrow sucked in a breath and winced as if she had slapped him. “No one in this world can keep Martin from spending himself, once his mind is set.”

Her eyes narrowed, “Yet you could have said—”

“No.” Sparrow clenched his jaw. “The secret was not mine. Had it been, I say to you again, it would surely have been told. But not even my feelings for you, Wren, will make me break my word given in good faith.”

Her brows flew up and her look cooled still further. “So, for the sake of a foolish girl’s secret, you have risked everything.”

“No, Wren—for the sake of my honor.”

“Your honor?” she burst. “And what is that, if we lose him? What happens to the cause, if the circle shatters? You might at least have confided in me. I thought we shared everything.”

“As did I.” His gaze touched Martin. “But I perceive I was wrong.” He moved to turn away, and Wren seized his shoulder, her touch far from gentle. He had longed so for her to touch him, even a simple brush of her hand, but now the contact only served to emphasize the distance between them.

“What do you mean by that?”

Sparrow stared at her, mute. A muscle jumped in his cheek.

Her eyes widened suddenly. “You do not begrudge my time with him? He lies dying!”

The hard honesty inside Sparrow made him reply, “I begrudge not your time nor even your caring. But I saw—felt—what happened between the two of you at Nottingham—”

“What? I upheld him. I sustained him!”

“You love him.” Sparrow was ashamed of the words that followed but could no more hold them than stop his breath. “More than me?”

She, in turn, looked as if he had struck her. She actually reared back, and her hand fell from his shoulder. He saw the thoughts move in her beautiful eyes: doubt, anger, scorn.

She seethed. “I was not aware that we meted out amounts of love the way Lil once measured her simples. And I did not know I had lain with a mere boy. I thought you a man full grown, wise and deep of spirit.”

Sparrow felt her barb enter him, an arrow to the heart.

“Is this, then, your love?” she challenged. “This narrow, ugly, and spiteful thing?”

Sparrow’s throat worked before he spoke. Never had he been accused of selfishness. All the years of his growing, he had been the giver who considered the feelings of others, even while Martin did as he chose without regard. Aye, he felt jealousy now, but for Wren to denounce him for it went beyond bearing. Hoarsely, he said, “You do not understand.”

“You are right. I do not.”

“I need you.”

Her eyes flashed. “He needs me. Be gone from my sight.”

“By the god’s mercy, Wren, do not ask that.”

“I do not want to look at you—I cannot bear it.”

Sparrow shrank into himself as her disdain found its deeper mark. He stood, frozen, as she began to turn away from him, back toward Martin. Only then did he call, not with his voice but with his mind, Wren, I love you.

She made no reply.