Daughter of Sherwood Read Free

gaze defied his words. “Then shall two parts of the circle fail. Before that happens, you three must be prepared. Matters grow urgent.”
    Martin waved his knife at Sparrow. “I keep telling him that. But Sparrow would not stir himself if his toes were on fire.” He leaned toward Alric. “Sherwood must be protected, and our fight must continue. The magic must be kept whole. You agree?”
    The old man nodded.
    “Then,” Martin continued, “put me in charge. Give me leadership, if you would see anything done.”
    Alric gave Martin a long look. “No one is in command, lad. It is a balance. If you cannot see that, we have strayed farther afield than I thought.”
    “I do see,” Martin retorted. “But there must be a leader, else folk will mill about like sheep. We are no sheep, but wolfsheads.”
    Sparrow spoke. “What makes you think she is not meant to lead us? Her father did.”
    “Her father was Robin-fecking-Hood! She is a scullery maid who has scarcely been away from Nottingham. Who carried the fight all these years in Robin’s name, letting folk believe Robin was still alive? Our fathers, that is who—yours and mine—and ourselves, after them. Nay, Alric, if you would have us stand strong, leave it in my hands.”
    Alric shook his head and got to his feet with a grunt. “The two of you are not meant to compete but to work in harmony. I have failed to teach you that, as did Geofrey before me. If you cannot learn that lesson, we are doomed.”
    He stalked off, and Sparrow eyed Martin doubtfully. For as long as he could remember, all during their years spent growing in the forest, they had vied with one another for position: who was taller, who cleverer, who the better shot. Aye, raised together they might have been, but they thought very differently. Sparrow favored consideration; Martin was all fire and purpose.
    Now Martin asked, in Alric’s wake, “When does she come, the wolfshead’s daughter?”
    Sparrow shrugged. “That is up to Lil.”
    Martin leaned toward Sparrow and his eyes glowed cold as the blade of the knife in his hands. “She will have to choose one of us, you know—me, or you. That is how it works. Just so you know, pup, it will not be you.”
    Sparrow felt his own rage gather and simmer. “Only let her come, and we shall see about that!”

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