Chapter Thirty-Six

“You must let me help,” Simon begged Wren passionately. “Give me a chance to make up for what I have done. I can prove valuable to you, Mistress, for Sir Lambert does not know I have turned.”

The sense of disquiet that had haunted Sparrow for days flared once again. He spoke before Wren could. “But what of your mother, lad? Surely you are better off keeping out of it?”

Simon turned empty eyes on him. “My mother is dead—word awaited me when we returned from the forest. There is naught I can do for her now.”

“I am sorry, lad,” Wren said with quiet sympathy.

Simon drooped where he stood. “Everything I did was for her sake. I betrayed those who cared for me. I betrayed Robin’s memory.”

“We act as driven, in the cause of love.” Wren cast a look at Sparrow before extending her hand to Simon. “I will be grateful for your help. Sparrow and Martin have their army, such as it is. You and I, lad, shall go to Nottingham.”

“Eh?” It was the first Sparrow had heard of any such plan, and alarm raced up his spine. “Nay, Wren. We have not spoken of this—”

“Sparrow, I need to get inside. Simon is at liberty in the courtyard, the hall. I can gain access to the kitchens.”

“It is sheer madness,” Sparrow hissed. “All it needs is for one person to betray you—one, out of the many. Why take such a chance?”

Wren narrowed her eyes. “Word from Nottingham says the King arrives tomorrow. I must gain access to him, to seek an audience. The Sheriff is not expected to live until dawn—”

“An audience with John? Now I know you are mad!”

Wren seized both Sparrow’s hands. “You know as well as I do the Sheriff’s authority is all that has kept Lambert’s brutality in check. An appeal must be made to the King, lest he decide to elevate Lambert in the Sheriff’s stead. You know what could happen then.”

Sparrow thought of the scene in the castle forecourt, Martin brought to the finest throes of agony. He thought of Oakham burned, its folk slaughtered, right down to the children. Aye, Lambert represented Norman tyranny at its worst.

Yet he shook his head. “You cannot hope to appeal to John.”

“The barons did.” Her golden eyes widened. “They persuaded him to sign that charter to their benefit. What of us?”

“The barons had power.”

“And so have we.” She linked her fingers with his and raised the joined hands between them. “Of a different kind.”

“You think magic will help us?”

“I think Sherwood will, if we believe strongly enough. Believe for me, Sparrow.”

Sparrow felt her will and her emotions tug at him, yet he held back. Had she asked him to risk anything else, including his own life, he would not deny her. But his heart remained unsure. They possessed only an army of twelve, a lad who may or may not betray them again, himself, Wren, and Martin, who existed only on will and should not even be on his feet. How could it be enough? He had but one secret hope in his heart.

Last night he had spoken at length with Martin, the two of them with their heads close together in the dark, while Wren slept. Martin’s body might be sorely battered, but his heart remained strong as ever. It was his heart that made him believe he could still fight—that, and his conviction that one of the three of them might yet be required to pay the ultimate price.

“And if that is so, Sparrow,” Martin had vowed to him out of the darkness, “it should be me. Or you. Not Wren.”

Finally, something on which he and Martin agreed. And if Wren now carried Sparrow’s child, did that not mean she was protected—at least until that child, member of the next triad, was born? Perhaps so—but only should he or Martin prove willing and prepared to sacrifice himself. Oh, aye, Sparrow had learned well how worked the magic of Sherwood...

“Aye,” he had told Martin, there in the darkness, “you or I—not Wren.” And they had clasped hands on it, almost like brothers. Just so long as Wren remained safe.

****

Time for leave taking. The last that he and Wren might ever share? Sparrow could not but wonder. He stood ready with his bow on his shoulder and his quiver across his back. He had blessed every one of his arrows as he slid them into place and, somewhat to his surprise, had both felt and seen the magic that crackled around them.

Sparrow: the arrow. It was as if he could hear his father’s voice again, full of warmth, love, and laughter for the young child Sparrow had been. Look at him. He grows straight and long as an arrow. May he always fly as true.

Aye, he had flown true—straight for Wren’s heart. From that first moment when she came bursting into Lil’s kitchen with her wild eyes and wilder spirit, igniting both the night and something within him, her heart had been the one place he wanted to dwell. And now he must bid goodbye to her, possibly forever.

All around them, other leave-takings echoed theirs. Both parties—Wren with Simon and Sparrow with Martin and their small band—were to set out at the same time.

Husbands parted from wives. Madlyn wept. Not far off, Martin and Sally stood together with their hands clasped. Of what did they speak? Did Sally tell Martin all he needed to know?

“Do not look like that,” Wren chided Sparrow. “I need you strong and sure.”

“’Tis difficult.” He had never spoken truer words. “You walk into the lion’s den. I still call it madness. Will you not reconsider?”

“Sparrow, we are lost indeed if you cannot believe in me. I need your belief now more than anything.”

Sparrow knew that. Yet letting her endanger herself was the hardest thing he had ever done.

“What can you say to John that will make him listen? Why should he even agree to give you audience?”

“Why, indeed? He must be made to see that if he heard the demands of the barons, he owes as much to the rest of his subjects.”

“You are no baron.” Sparrow reached out and touched her cheek. “You are the woman against whom Lambert has sworn vengeance, a serf, the one I love.”

“I am the daughter of Robin Hood. Shall he have spent his life in vain? Shall all the others have wasted their hearts’ blood? What did they buy, if not my right to hold my head high and speak to my king?”

“Do you think John cares for your pleas, against a tyranny that has brought him all he holds?”

She clasped his hand, and green light flickered between them. “Believe for me, Sparrow. Believe in me. I cannot survive if you fail in that.”

“I do believe in you.” As in nothing else.

“Then kiss me once, for luck.” She leaned in to him and her lips reached for his, greedily. The magic leaped between them, bright and strong. “Once, twice, thrice,” she breathed, following suit and blessing him with kisses. “Believe in the power of three.”

****

The two groups departed in separate directions not long after. Martin walked at Sparrow’s side, silent, and Sparrow concentrated on catching his last glimpse of Wren’s brown head as she disappeared into the trees. He started when Martin spoke, his voice rough.

“Did you know?”

“Eh?”

“That the child Sal carries is mine.”

Sparrow turned his head sharply. Martin went with his hood thrown back onto his shoulders, at least here among the trees, with every half-healed wound on display. Twin furrows marked the sides of his face and traced his hands, like red worms. He looked a different man, yet his eyes were the same, fierce and iron-blue, demanding.

“She told you, then?” Sparrow asked.

Martin grimaced. “She claims she told me before, when I lay dying. I do not remember. That is not a thing a woman wishes to hear—that a man does not recall such a telling.” Once more he raked Sparrow with his eyes. “You should have told me. You might have kept me from flying off after Lambert—not that the bastard did not deserve it.”

“It was not my secret to tell,” Sparrow said yet again. “And I would have thought any sensible man might have guessed. You bedded Sal all winter.”

“Aye, but I was not sensible, was I? I was taken entirely with Wren and this thing between us.” He waved a hand and corrected himself. “Among us.”

“So what will you do then? About Sally, I mean.”

“Do? What can I do?”

A bit uncomfortably, Sparrow said, “She loves you, man. She sickens herself with it. Surely that is worth something?”

Martin gave him an odd, measuring look. “You would have me give her my heart in return? It is not worth much, Sparrow. It is blackened and twisted, and consumed by old anger—and better than half of it belongs to Wren.”

Sparrow swallowed hard and Martin laughed ruefully. “No, you do not like that answer, do you? You do not want to share her, even in my heart. But I ask you, how can I fail to love her?” He widened his eyes and leaned toward Sparrow. “Or she fail to love me? ’Tis the nature of what we are, is it not?”

Sparrow rued the bitter feelings that stirred inside him, and that Martin could doubtless feel. He did not want to go into this day with any darkness on his soul. But even now he could not help himself. He asked, “Why can you not just love Sally with whatever part is left?”

“I do. I care for her as well as I am able. But you cannot expect me to make Sally promises.”

“Why not?” Sparrow demanded.

“Because”—Martin gave him a long, hard stare—“I go away to die.”