by Sue Wilson
In their eyes, you are a murderess!
"In their eyes, you are a murderess, woman! They have found evidence in your chamber. Monteforte says he saw you add poison to the wine, and cannot mutter your name save that he call you 'witch' soon after. Gisborne has testified that you've consorted with felonious woodsmen. My God, Thea, you called the king's brother a traitor to his face. For that affront alone, Prince John will demand a hanging!"
"Then your proposal?" she interrupted him with the calmness of her question, and watched the frustrated fury drop from his face by degrees.
When he spoke, the words seem choked, as if, for once, he was unsure of the range of his power, as if the very authority that made him strong was crumbling beneath him.
"I believe there is still some hope. Prince John favors a spirited wench, and could be convinced, I think, that your fiery outburst was nothing more than anger at me. If you say you meant the poison for me and that-" He stopped, his head hung low, tendrils of dark hair obscuring his forehead. "And even if they are resolved to punish someone for deGisborne's death-surely, they would not dare hang the Sheriff's wife."
She saw then the truth she had sought-the fevered purpose of his proposal, desperately calculated, deliberately designed, sacrificing her honor along with his. Her fingers grew cold; even the heat of his hands could not warm them. He must have seen it, or felt it: the change that came over her the moment she caught him in the one act she despised most.
She loved. He manipulated. It was so much a part of him, this need to command people, to dictate to the planets the destined order of his life. The very actions and thoughts were ingrained in him, tangled with the gentle nature she had learned was also there.
"So your offer is to save me...from them." As it would be. No confession of the slightest need to have her as his wife because his heart desired it. But then what had she expected? The man had no needs past those he could secure for himself with his title or position. And love-?
She swallowed painfully, feigning indifference with a frosty wit. "No offer then to unlock this door-which you could, were you man enough to challenge Lackland-and let me escape? No trial subtly altered that I might go free? No pardon bought with the prince's favor, which you have so faithfully curried?"
"Thea-"
"Then who will save me from you?"
What readers are saying about Greenwood...
Sue Wilson is a gifted storyteller. Do you know how I know this? Because...anyone who can take legendary characters and bring them to life on paper is indeed a storyteller. Not just a storyteller but a gifted story teller. If you liked Robin Hood and the tales of Sherwood Forest your will love Greenwood.
~Fern Michaels
Greenwood gives readers the story of a hero who is both a bad boy and a tortured man, emotionally and physically. Is it too late for the Sheriff, or can our heroine help to bring out his softer side? The seduction scenes are scorching, yet honest. The Sheriff's internal struggle between right and wrong is externalized through these scenes.
~Julie Shininger, Escape to Romance
Who would have ever thought the notorious Sheriff of Nottingham could have a vulnerable side? Sue Wilson shows us just that, in this new look at a classic tale of a medieval villain. Sue Wilson shows promise of becoming a top-notch writer, with this, her first entry into the writing world. She does a marvelous job of capturing the essence of the times. This is the kind of writing of which we need to see more.
~Brenda Gayle, Romance Writers' Weekly
Greenwood
by
Sue Wilson
NovelBooks, Inc.
Douglas, Massachusetts
This is a work of fiction. While reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the characters, incidents, and dialogs are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2003 by Sue Wilson
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and review. For information, address NovelBooks, Inc., P.O. Box 661, Douglas, MA 01516 or email [email protected]
NBI
Published by
NovelBooks, Inc.
P.O. Box 661
Douglas, MA 01516
NovelBooks Inc. publishes books online and in trade paperback. For more information, check our website: www.novelbooksinc.com or email [email protected]
Produced in the United States of America.
Cover illustration by Ariana Overton
Edited by Jamie Disterhaupt
ISBN 1-59105-065-0 for electronic version
ISBN 1-59105-090-1 for trade paperback
To Carol...who believes in the art of the written word.
To Marie...who believes in the power of romance.
To Nancy...who believes in my hero.
To Vickie...who believes in the healing properties
of long talks and a good cup of coffee.
And most of all, to my brilliant and beautiful children,
Rik and Jenna...who believe in me.
CHAPTER ONE
Nottinghamshire, August 1193
She noticed the thunder first, a rumble echoing between hillocks, threading through the valley.
"Rain! Blessed Virgin!" Thea sank to her knees with a sigh that was less prayer than protest. Nineteen years she had lived in this midland meadow, and crops had gone foul more often than she cared to count. From the rise of a small hill, she gazed toward the green and gold patchwork of ripening fields. To the north, black-bottomed clouds mushroomed along the horizon.
It was not unfamiliar, this wetness. Just unwanted, with harvest upon the land and the seasons gone mad.
She reached for her baskets, brimming with newly gathered herbs, and the sound came again, closer, a whip crack through charged, humid air. Thea placed her hand against the ground and watched the water well up around her fingers. Beneath the sodden ground, the earth shuddered, some muffled rhythm, unnatural, as threatening as another downpour on overripe fields.
She scrambled to her feet, breath frozen in her throat, and turned in time to see the backlit figures crest the ridge above her. They drove their horses mercilessly, four, five-no, a half dozen of them-with the day's frail sunlight glinting off tarnished mail and sword hilts. Soldiers, damn them! They would see her-had seen her-and now turned as one, their course directed toward her.
Fear razored through her belly, then hatred, as she watched the umber swath of soil ribbon out behind them. A woman alone was not safe in the shire, not with King Richard imprisoned and lawlessness ruling in his stead. In a time when knighthood was purchased with coin more often than noble deed, no soldier offered guaranteed of safety. She knew she should run, but there was nowhere to hide in the openness. No cover she could reach in time. Even Sherwood-
The forest was a dark green haze in the distance, striped layers of emerald and viridian blanketing the land around her lea. Silent and still. She was alone.
She released the breath she'd been holding, made ragged with rage, and touched the leather-sheathed dagger at her side. It was a paltry blade, used for herbal cuttings and reaching stubborn roots her digging stick could not unearth. Hardly a weapon to best crossbows or broadswords, but it was all she had-save her wit.
Her fist closed instinctively around the knife's bone hilt, and she lifted her chin. This was her valley, legally deeded, taxes paid.
The rider in front plunged his steed through standing water, spraying an arc of mud across her kirtle. Amid curses and the clank of armor, his men plowed to an abrupt stop behind him, their horses neighing in protest. Hooves rippe
d through fragile clumps of clover, thickening the air with the wild smell of sod torn open.
The knight drew his mount in a tight circle around her. "You are the one they call Thea? The Sherwood healing woman?"
She looked at the men in Norman helms, then back at their leader. She did not know him, this rogue in mail with sharply pointed chin and sallow skin stretched tightly over angled cheekbones, but she could not have lived in the shire without recognizing the soldiers. These were the Sheriff of Nottingham's men.
"I am," she replied, gripping the dagger more tightly.
The minute motion was not lost on the horseman. "That is unwise, wench," he said, icy gaze trained on her hand.
Thea let go of the blade, burying her fingers in the wool of her skirts, and met his inspection without flinching.
"Word has it you're the herb witch who tends this misbegotten flock of peasants. One of your brood was in Nottingham this morning, wreaking havoc in Market Square. Perhaps you know him. A scrawny, runny-nosed runt with hair the color of straw and ambitions toward robbery."
He let the reins slide through his hands and urged his horse forward until the animal's muzzle was inches from her face. The beast's breath blasted hot against her cheek.
"A child, my lord?"
"A mute, a half-wit. We hear he's the miller's son. Some call him Much."
"And what did your thief steal, my lord?"
"The little bastard made off with the Sheriff of Nottingham's purse."
Thea curbed a smile. She could easily imagine Much, ruddy cheeks alight and cornflower eyes boasting silently as he shook the prized leather pouch whose thongs he had severed from the Sheriff's waist. He had outdone himself this time to have Nottingham's men still in relentless pursuit.
"I see," she said carefully. "And why would your thief seek me out, my lord? I could offer little past a prayer and a charm for protection."
One of his men laughed derisively. "That's not what we hear, is it, Sir Guy?"
Thea's breath stopped, and she looked sharply at the man questioning her. Of course. How could she not have known? The man fit every description she had heard, from his hawk-like face to the lank hair captured at the nape of his neck and left to stream down his back. Woad tattoos coiled around his wrists and forearms like blue serpents. There was even the unmistakable trademark: a small gold hoop adorning his left earlobe. Little was left of Norman nobility past the stained silk surcoat he wore-that and the oily, superior manner of one who presumed himself more important than those he oppressed.
So she had met, finally, with Gisborne, the lieutenant of the guard at Nottingham Castle, the henchman so firmly attached to the Sheriff's ambitions.
"No, it is not what we hear." His lips curved into a half-smile, and he chuckled, a gurgling growl deep in his throat, the sound of something not quite tame, or human.
His men joined him in a rough chorus of laughter as, one by one, they closed rank around her. She stepped backward, and felt a metal boot tip dig into the small of her back.
"Where you going, lassie?"
"You'd not be thinking of running now, would you? There's six of us-"
"And only one of you."
The laughter rose again, lifting above the sour smell of unwashed men.
She shuddered, but glared up into the eyes of their leader. "Call off your hounds, Sir Guy," she demanded.
One brow arched delicately, the knight's only show of surprise. Clearly he expected what he received from countless other victims: a reaction of fear, some small spark of terror. When it was not forthcoming, he raised his gloved hand and waved his soldiers back. With a single, fluid move, he dismounted and approached her.
"Do you know the punishment for thievery, woman? Your Much fled with his hands intact. Alas, as swift as the half-wit was, he did not escape the bite of my sword. Sooner or later, the lad would have had to stop for help."
He pulled his weapon from the scabbard slung across his back, stabbed into her gathering basket, and brought a speared sprig of costmary close enough to Thea's face for her to smell its balsam-mint fragrance. A mirthless smile creased his face. "Perhaps from you."
Thea looked down the sword's length to Gisborne's knowing, sleet-gray eyes. "There is a boy such as you describe," she said warily, "a lad of fifteen years perhaps, but with the mind of a child. I assure you, my lord, he is not the criminal you seek. Much is harmless."
"You would swear to his innocence?"
"I would, my lord."
"And would you swear to your own? Before the Sheriff himself?"
"If need be. If your Sheriff could not be persuaded to find some humor in a small, nimble-fingered prankster-"
"A thief," Gisborne corrected her coldly. "And I can assure you, the Sheriff finds little humor in thievery. Nor do I think he will be amused to find some peasant has given aid to his enemy."
He lowered his sword and bent his head close to hers. "You might save yourself, if you've a mind to. Tell us where the lad went. And I'd suggest the truth," he murmured, glancing at his soldiers with a canted smile. "They're hungry today."
Thea turned her head aside, avoiding his lips if not the warm, rancid breath that crawled along her neck. "I have no idea, my lord. Much is a child, and children are like quicksilver. Here one moment, gone the next."
"The forest, perhaps? Where you dig your herbs?"
Thea glanced in the direction he indicated with his outstretched sword to the expanse of trees rimming the horizon. She drew a long breath and steeled herself, already sensing where this line of questioning would lead.
"I doubt it, my lord," she said. "Sherwood Forest is haunted, certainly no place for a child."
"But you go there, do you not?"
"Sometimes," she admitted, "if I must. For woodruff or cherry bark-"
"But not for trysts with outlaw woodsmen?"
She met his charge squarely. "There are no thieves in Sherwood Forest, sir. Only ghosts-and they do not appear interested in my digging."
Gisborne's brows drew low over hooded, milky eyes; full lips thinned and hardened. Thea heard the groan of saddle leather as his men leaned forward, anticipating, eager.
"You'll not get the truth from the likes of her," one called out, bloodlust in his voice. "She's protecting the little bastard. Any fool can see that."
Gisborne did not acknowledge the soldier's stupidly voiced opinion of his strategy. He slid his sword delicately beneath the woolen scarf covering Thea's head and flipped the ends over her shoulder, baring her neck. "You do remember your pickpocket's wound, do you not?" he asked, plucking the fabric from her hair.
Thea snatched the ragged cloth from his sword tip.
Gisborne favored her with a mild show of surprise at her daring, and his gaze raked over her with deliberate slowness. The corners of his lips lifted in an appreciative smile. "A small slice, regrettably. It barely grazed the skin." He directed his sword between her breasts, threading it into the fibers of her kirtle, and paused as if letting his intent sink in.
His eyes narrowed, her only warning, and he slashed viciously upward through the cloth.
Thea gasped as the sword tip stung her skin. The scarf she held fluttered from her nerveless fingers and settled in a gray puddle on the ground.
Gisborne's brow arched as his stare trailed to Thea's lips, to her throat, to the fabric laid open by his sword. "I believe she's remembering, Morgan." He grinned as if privately amused and inclined his head toward her in mock deference. Unexpectedly, he sheathed his sword and prepared to mount.
"You're not letting her go?" the soldier asked in disbelief. "This one's a liar for certain. I say finish her-now!"
"It's not the healer the Sheriff wants," Gisborne replied, sliding his booted foot into the stirrup and lifting himself into the saddle.
"But she aided the thief! Tended his wound, I'll wager, and though you'll wring no confession from her, you know she helped him escape. Not to arrest her, my lord-Nottingham will have your gizzard for dinner-"
<
br /> "A risk I'll have to take. I said she is not the one we're after."
His horse pranced impatiently, and Gisborne tightened his grip on the reins. He pointed to the faint red line that had seeped through Thea's kirtle and lapped at the edges of her tunic.
"Think carefully, wench. There is a price on the head of every Sherwood bandit, and to aid them is treason. We wouldn't want to find your lovely neck in a noose."
Gisborne dug his heels into his horse's side, and the animal reared. "To Nottingham!" he shouted to his troops and rode off, not once glancing back.
Several minutes passed before Thea unclenched her fists and drew a deeper breath. The wind whipped her skirts about her legs, and a roll of thunder sounded in the distance, bringing her to her senses. She stooped to rescue her muddy scarf, trampled and torn by the horses' hooves. A drop of blood fell on the ground, and Thea put her fingers to her rent kirtle.
"I'll show you treason, you Norman swine."
~*~
Thea had only heard of him, Gisborne's master, the tyrant who lorded over Nottingham. By practice, she never ventured close to the city, let alone the brooding gray castle the Sheriff claimed for himself. Caution limited her travels to the fields near her home and to the forest, where her herbs, roots, and barks grew in abundance.
Upon occasion, the villagers of Edwinstowe urged her to make the journey to town. Some suggested she could show a tidy profit if she brought a cart filled with herbs and simples and set up beside the gaily-decorated booths that lined the Square on market days. Others boasted of the minstrels and mummers, wrestlers and archers, and ale flowing freely at the Trip to Jerusalem Inn, a favorite haunt of returning Crusaders.
She weighed these temptations carefully against one single, sufficient deterrent-the Sheriff of Nottingham, murderer, madman-and chose to stay away.
No one knew who the man was, save he was a Norman. That alone was enough to condemn him. Whatever else she'd heard was no doubt embellished by fear and peasant hatred. Yet in Thea's mind the man was the very embodiment of evil: a dark figure, stalking the castle ramparts under a midnight moon, sacrificing his last traces of humanity for inhuman power. The image was not unlike the ones she recalled from her father's stories of other bestial, war-thirsty Normans, invading and taking what was never theirs to take.
