Daughter of Sherwood by Laura Strickland

Already Sparrow had memorized everything about Wren—the precise color of her hair, the length of her limbs, the grace with which she moved, and the flash of intelligence in her eyes. He liked to keep watch for her smile, rare and fleeting, loved the way she handled a bow or stood, sometimes, gazing up into the trees as if listening for something, or someone.
    “Can you keep a secret?” Sally asked, lowering her voice.
    “Aye.” Sparrow bent his head closer to hers.
    “I am carrying his child. Martin’s.”
    Sparrow’s stomach plummeted. “Are you sure?”
    She gazed away and nodded. “I show all the signs.”
    “By God, Sally! How far—?”
    “I would say three months, maybe a bit more. Not so he can tell.”
    “He needs to know, Sal.”
    Her expression grew mutinous. “No. You promised me, Sparrow.”
    “But that is not a thing to be kept from a man.”
    “He wants her, now. He wants the place at her side, as headman of Oakham. Deny that is so.”
    Sparrow could not deny it.
    “But he deserves to know.”
    “Do not be a fool, Sparrow. He has but one thing in his mind, and ’tis not me, nor any child of mine.”
    “Of his, you mean.”
    “I mean to take care of it, Sparrow.”
    “How is that?”
    “There are ways to lose a babe—drenchings and potions. I meant to go to Lil.”
    Sparrow’s heart dropped still further. “Lil would never help you do such a thing.”
    “No? Well, there are other women who will. Gert, over in West Riding—”
    “She is no better than a butcher. Sally, listen to me. Children born in Sherwood are rare and special, often important, often blessed.”
    “This one will not be born here, nor at all.”
    “Have you spoken to Madlyn of this?” Her first grandchild—surely Madlyn would fight for its preservation.
    “Not a word.” Sally tossed at him before walking off. She did not look back.
    Sparrow clenched his fists against a sudden urge to hit someone—Martin, preferably, to knock some sense into him. Why could the man not see what lay before him? Sally went round with her heart in her eyes. Was Martin truly such a prize?
    You are jealous, lad, Sparrow told himself, and knew it for truth. Why could Wren not look at him the way she looked at Martin, with trust and admiration? That one shared kiss had made him believe she felt something for him, yet in the three days since they received word about Lil, she had stuck to Martin like a burdock. Seldom did Sparrow see her chestnut head without Martin’s shaggy, fair one beside it.
    Except now.
    Sparrow watched as Martin walked away, his sword in his hand, and left Wren standing on her own beneath the tall beech at the northeast corner of camp.
    Sparrow wasted no time in approaching her. She looked up at him with a guarded expression, strained and grim.
    “Where has Martin gone?” he asked before he could stop himself.
    “Something is amiss with the pommel of his sword. He means to take it to the smith at Oakham.”
    A miracle! Sparrow drew a breath. “Come walk with me.”
    “No.”
    “Eh?” Her abrupt refusal made Sparrow cock his head.
    Wren sighed. “I am not in the mood for a stroll in the forest.”
    “You seem to have plenty of time for Martin.” As soon as he spoke the words, Sparrow wanted to thump himself.
    The look in her eyes cooled; now he could see lines of weariness in her face. “Listen to me, Sparrow. I care nothing for any rivalry between the two of you. I care for nothing at all save Lil, and I have not slept since the news about her came. Whatever you wish to say to me, you can say here.”
    Sparrow’s spine stiffened. “I understand you are distraught. We all care about Lil. But this scheme of entering the castle is ill-conceived.”
    “Is it?”
    “Aye. You may as well put Martin’s sword to your own throat as take yourself into Nottingham.” Why did he hurl these hard words at her when he wanted so badly to take her in his arms? She wore an air of toughness and showed, always, such a