Chapter Thirty-Nine

“Move!” barked Martin, at Sparrow’s side. “Do not let them seize her.”

The fear in his voice matched that in Sparrow’s heart. Every protective instinct Sparrow had ever possessed rose up, howling. Should Lambert succeed in hauling Wren away to the dungeons or elsewhere, he might visit upon her any vile punishment he chose.

But an impossible barrier of humanity prevented their movement forward. The guards at the double doors had been engulfed, and strained at their places. The tableau on the dais remained mercilessly displayed.

He saw the King speak to Lambert, who now gestured wildly at Wren. He saw Lambert speak forcefully in reply, but he could no longer hear their words because the crowds in both chambers had become restive, their muttering grown into babble.

Wren stood as if pinned in place by Lambert’s glare, her back straight as a spear, displaying no emotion. But Sparrow could feel her terror and dismay; even from here he could. As must Martin; somehow, despite the press of bodies around him, he drew his sword, and Sparrow felt his courage flare.

“Let me through. Out of the way!” And, like magic, the crowd in front of Martin rippled, folk pushed and crumpled, and Martin moved forward.

Just as quickly as that, he and Sparrow were separated. A glance behind gave Sparrow no glimpse of the rest of their band. Nor could he now see anything of Simon, just Martin’s hood, well up to shield his face, migrating steadily to where the guards attempted to hold the doorway.

Sparrow pushed forward, but a solid wall of backs and shoulders prevented him. The gap Martin had formed was gone. Frustration raced through Sparrow, and sweat broke out all over his body. He could not stand here and watch the woman he loved far more than his own life die.

The crowd at the doorway rippled violently, and another outcry arose. The little girl beside Sparrow, still in her father’s arms, began to wail.

One of the guards went down. No one on the dais even noticed—they still argued loudly. The disturbance that was Martin moved forward. Would he be in time?

“Guards! Guards!” King John’s voice rang above the general rubble of sound. Sparrow saw Wren take a step backward as if to leave the dais. No guards had responded to John’s call, but the nobles around him, all armed in their own right, rose up.

He saw Wren take up the platter of sweetmeats from the table and swing it wildly at the nearest baron. Figs flew everywhere, and the platter broke across the man’s nose. General chaos broke out: John shrieked, Lambert bellowed, and half a score of voices demanded Wren’s seizure.

“I challenge you! I challenge you for her freedom.”

Martin’s demand cut across the thunderous noise like a clean wind. For an instant, everything fell silent. Each face on the dais turned, and Wren spun about.

Miraculously, Martin had won the steps to the dais. He raised his sword, and scarlet dust seemed to spark off the length of it and dance about his form. The breath caught, hard, in Sparrow’s throat.

Quite possibly, Martin Scarlet had been born for this one moment, all his anger, all his courage stored and sharpened like the blade in his hand, allowing no refusal. He climbed onto the dais, and no one prevented him. He took the place at Wren’s side to face Lambert, and no one questioned his right.

This, Sparrow knew, had been Robin’s dream: that all men might stand equal on blessed English ground.

From what seemed an incredible distance, he heard Martin’s words. “Show me your sword, Lambert, if you be man enough.”

Lambert snarled. His blade came to his hand as if by magic, and he leaped the table, overturning it as he went.

A thousand thoughts now poured through Sparrow’s head. Wren should take advantage of the distraction and get away, disappear into the seething crowd below. But she stood as if rooted, far too close to the fight which, as soon as the two swords crossed, turned so vicious it once more silenced the onlookers.

All his life Sparrow had watched Martin fight, seen him work countless hours at the blade, both with and without his father’s instruction. But Martin had not yet recovered from his dire injuries. Even now, as he flung the mop of fair hair out of his eyes, and his hood with it, his wounds stood out, vivid, upon him. They were wounds laid at the order of the man he now fought so desperately, and Lambert’s furious expression left no doubt he recognized his opponent.

But whose hate might prove stronger? Lambert, a knight and a noble, possessed skill honed by every advantage. No one, however, could match Martin Scarlet’s capacity for sustained rage.

Through their shared connection, Sparrow could feel that rage and hate alive in the room. It danced around the two men who fought with raw and deadly intent. Martin had never fought so well, yet step by step Sparrow saw Lambert, his face an ugly mask, force him back to the edge of the dais.

The final blow came in a flurry of muscle and movement, a surge of impossible quickness that drove Lambert’s blade forward into Martin’s chest and out through his back.

The crowd howled and Wren screamed. The red glimmer Sparrow could see around Martin winked out, and he fell backward from the dais into the crowd, pulling from Lambert’s sword as he did so and leaving it in the knight’s hand, stained scarlet.

No! The word bellowed in Sparrow’s mind even though he made no sound. Rival, tormentor, companion, brother—Martin had been with Sparrow from the inception of his life and his world. Whatever he was, he could not be dead, for then how could Sparrow go on?

Unbearable grief rushed through him, rending and tearing his spirit. At least half of it was for Wren because, with all his undeniable courage, Martin had not succeeded in saving her.

Instead, Lambert—now on the same side of the overturned table as Wren—reached out and seized her, drew her back hard against him and raised the gory blade to her throat.

“Silence,” Lambert roared. “This woman is an outlaw, wanted for her crimes. She dies now.”

Quiet fell, enough to let Sparrow hear John’s indrawn breath as he spun.

“Do you usurp our authority?”

“No, sire. But this woman committed an assault upon me. She then fled to the forest and sought to lead others in the name of the outlaw Robin Hood. She is condemned by her own presence here.”

“That is for us to decide. Take her into custody—she will stand trial.”

“Forgive me, sire, but I do not agree.” A bright edge of madness now colored Lambert’s voice. “The Sheriff is dead. He passed to me his authority—”

“All authority in this realm is ours!”

Aye, and that about said it, Sparrow thought desperately. Yet Lambert’s desire for vengeance had hold of him and looked beyond reach of even the King’s reason.

“Sire, you do not understand. She will employ magic. If I leave hold of her now, she will flit away. There is but one answer for it.”

His sword arm jerked and the blade, smeared with Martin’s blood, bit the skin at Wren’s throat. She shrank against Lambert as a lover might, but her eyes ranged over the crowd, beyond desperate.

And found Sparrow.

He felt the connection flare despite her terror, her certainty she was going to die. In that instant, he felt her emotions as clearly as his own.

I love you. I will never leave you. You will hear my voice in the trees, forever in Sherwood.

Not yet, Sparrow returned. Stand still. Do not breathe!

He jostled his bow down from his shoulder. It came to his hands effortlessly, and with a feeling of strength. He never remembered snagging the arrow from the quiver or notching it. Silently he asked those pressed around him for room and, as they had for Martin, they moved aside just enough.

Just enough.

Though there was no time, though the scarlet blood had begun to trickle down Wren’s neck, he closed his eyes.

He stood again in the greenwood with his father at his side.

“I tell you, lad, you will never make the mark if you try too hard. You need to become what you are—what I named you. The speeding arrow—Sp’arrow. Do you see?”

Sparrow saw. He had to become what he had always been: intent, born of love.

He opened his eyes and shot the arrow. A shower of blue sparks erupted, and it flew over the heads of the crowd, past the guards at the double doors, above the gathered nobles. Sparrow dared not fail: Lambert held Wren with her body covering most of his. The barest twitch would end her life.

The arrow flew true, truer than any Sparrow had ever shot. It whispered as it went, the voice of Sherwood, the glimmer of light, the flicker of leaves, and embedded itself in Lambert’s right eye.

And it screamed aloud: This for justice.