by Sue Wilson
When she came to the main road, Thea stopped. Blackness engulfed her, laughing at the attempts of a reed-thin moon to light her way. The very memory of the man she'd left behind beckoned her.
It had happened then-the full transformation he had begun in her at harvest time. She did not know her own mind. What she knew he had put there: doubt and confusion, chaos and torment, desires of the flesh she had never experienced before. The sure madness that came when a demon possessed one's soul.
Chimera pranced nervously at their delay, skittering sideways at the eerie wail of the wind. Thea caught the reins and a clump of mane in her hand and, standing on tiptoe, stretched to fit her foot into the stirrup. Fighting her skirts, she heaved herself up, over the beast's back and astride the saddle. Once Thea mounted, her feet dangled high above the stirrups, and the horse circled wildly, pivoting about as she fumbled with the twisted reins.
Chimera was afraid, she realized. As afraid as she. Of the night and the wind and the death rattle of leaf-bare branches. Maybe of Sherwood itself.
~*~
Guy of Gisborne had doled out instructions to light only half the rushlights in the great hall that evening. The gloom suited his mood, and the sputtering ocher light that leaked through the darkness enhanced the effect the warm spiced wine lent to his senses. Narrowing his eyes, he scanned the hall, marking the atmosphere of the room.
He had managed to squelch most of the talk that erupted after the Sheriff's unexpected and indecorous departure, but not before word spread from the stable through the castle like an ill-contained brush-fire. Making an example of Ned Godwinson had helped. The stable hand would flap his ruddy jaws less without a tongue in his head.
As Gisborne surveyed the people who drifted through the wan light of the great hall, he reassured himself that few engaged in conversation, and those who did quickly swallowed their words when he aimed a sneering threat of permanent silence in their direction.
Damn the woman! The blame for this entire debacle could be laid at her feet. He picked up a cup of wine and frowned into the steaming liquid before taking a hearty gulp. With restless irritation, he hoisted one booted foot atop the trestle table and kicked the trencher of meat away.
Aelwynn's long-nailed fingers retracted as the venison flew out of her reach to the end of the table. Her sulfur eyes flicked in Gisborne's direction; painted lips pursed in a moue of disapproval.
"Patience, my lord," she crooned, thin hand falling provocatively on Gisborne's raised knee. "The day's events are not worthy of such jaundiced wrath."
Gisborne swiveled toward her in a gale of motion, features contorted with rage. "To you, perhaps. You can afford to let this-this-witch distract him and amuse yourself while he dallies with her."
"And you cannot?" She smoothed her hand up the length of Gisborne's thigh and fixed him with a sultry stare. "He will tire of her."
"You said that weeks ago." He brushed her hand away like the aggravation it was. "Tell me he remembers your charms, Aelwynn, when he can scarce remember what day it is for the thoughts of her that fill his head. And now this scene in the stable, riding out of here like a lust-crazed youth, clutching her in front of him."
"It was the way she came in," Aelwynn reminded him coolly. "Perhaps he only means to return her to Sherwood."
"Would that were true. No, doubtless, he was overcome with the desire for more than a romp in the hay and thoughtless enough to flaunt his weakness for all to see. Worse, he rode out of here without so much as a guard, without a thought to his safety."
"Is it his safety that concerns you, my lord?" Aelwynn's voice was honeyed with pretended amazement. "One would think you'd be celebrating his jeopardy."
"Are you a fool? You need him alive as much as I do, or do you think you could profit as well without him-you, naught but a discarded concubine?"
He took another swallow of wine, staring at Aelwynn from above the rim of his cup. She had interested him at first, giving him a sense of accomplishment and mastery when he shared her bed. And she did possess a modicum of skill; there was no denying that. But the novelty of her talents had worn thin.
There was no thrill in taking a woman Nottingham had cast off, and with good reason. Her whining petulance grated on his ears. Once titillating, her demands for all manner of gratification both day and night were tedious now. Worse, she seemed not a whit concerned about her own welfare, or his.
Did she not see? To let the Sheriff continue his enraptured liaison with this treacherous thing from the forest was to spoil forever the one chance they all had of getting out of this God-forsaken tomb and into the royal court.
Once he had entertained the hope that Aelwynn could win back the Sheriff's affections. God knew Nottingham had toyed with her longer than any other wench in the castle. But Aelwynn had lost her charm and clearly the better part of her ambition. What did she want of late but to pacify herself with her runes, beg Gisborne for favors, and mewl for this comfort or that? God, but the woman stuck faster to his side than any leech!
Perhaps Aelwynn had outlasted her usefulness in more ways than one. Certainly he had relied too heavily upon her to keep the Sheriff from continuing his dogged pursuit of Thea Aelredson.
"You were supposed to keep his interest from her, or, failing that, entice him away," Gisborne reminded Aelwynn.
She shrugged her narrow shoulders.
"You were supposed to make certain she did not soften him with her endless pleas for that flock of outlaws she's protecting."
"I was supposed to procure her for you." Aelwynn sniffed and raised a supercilious brow.
"Well, in that you have failed, too."
Her eyes struck hot golden sparks. "Is that it, then? Truth, Gisborne. Which irks you most? That he has bedded her, or that you have not?"
Gisborne's chair scraped back, and he bolted to his feet, hands clenched at his sides. "She stands in our way, I tell you!"
"Then the answer is simple. Remove her." Unruffled, Aelwynn confronted the lieutenant. "Or can't you do that?"
Gisborne swallowed hard, feeling trapped in her eyes, like an insect caught in the amber of a witch's amulet. The truth of her implication struck like a knife in his gullet.
"If not," she continued, "I suggest you are as lust-blind as he."
Her gaze flitted across his face and down the length of his body, a look of assessment and contempt. She rose from her chair with affected, regal grace, sharp chin raised in a silent dare. "And nearly as careless. For what do you think he would do to you were he to know of your obsession with his woman? How well do you think you would profit, lying in some dark corner of this castle with his dagger in your gut?"
Gisborne's fists tightened around sweating palms. Perspiration spiked his brow; he felt a rivulet course down his temple, threatening to undo his grip on his temper.
Aelwynn's lips curved into a thin, blood red crescent, and her suggestive threat of an instant ago slipped away. She lifted her jeweled hand to his cheek and wiped away the trickle of sweat with a long, tapered finger.
"You fear too much," she murmured, voice as thick as curdled cream. "Your cousin is well. He merely gratifies himself with this moment of whimsy. Leave him to me, and don't fret so. Your place at his side is secure."
"And this woman, this herb witch-"
Aelwynn's hand drifted down, splaying possessively across his chest. "I believe, left alone, the witch will hang herself."
His body stirred in response to her unspoken invitation, and he hated himself for it. He did not want Aelwynn. He wanted Thea. Once. Just once. To right the imbalance of power she'd caused by being unafraid of him and leading his cousin astray of his ambition. Just once. Inside her. His shaft hardened at the thought; the glorious promise of conquest throbbed low in his spine. Once. And then the witch be damned.
He captured Aelwynn's hand as it wandered lower and crushed her fingers in the vice of his palm until she grimaced with pain and turned her gaze toward his.
"And I believe, left
alone, she will hang us all."
~*~
Ages had passed since Thea had turned onto the main road from the unmarked footpath near the swineherd's hut. As the thin moon rose higher in the night sky, she rode Chimera deeper and deeper into the wood, trusting in her own unaccomplished commands to keep him going northward.
Several times, the stallion's instinct and training rose up to challenge her. She possessed nothing of the Sheriff' mastery over the animal, and Chimera was ever tempted to balk or turn and retreat the way he had come.
Thea matched wit and will against the horse until her thighs ached and her palms were scraped raw by the reins. Somehow, miraculously, Chimera carried her miles along the Great North Road instead of back to the Sheriff's camp. Despite a gait that jerked from walk to canter and back again, he did not stumble in the dark. Nor, with her fingers clutching the reins and mane, did she fall.
When they reached the first of several trails that led away from the main road and deeper into Sherwood's western flank, Thea stopped and risked a tentative sigh of relief.
Nothing followed her. Certainly not the angry, stalking figure she imagined to be at her heels every step of the way. All she heard was the rustle of fallen leaves fluttering about the stallion's restless hooves and the low whistle of the wind rising intermittently to drown out the pounding of her heart.
She had traveled far enough that Nottingham would never catch up with her now. Even if he were such a fool to try.
Which he isn't, Thea reminded herself grimly. She closed her eyes, tried to blot out the image in her mind: the Sheriff left alone in a place that spelled death to him, asleep, unaware, as innocent as the man was likely to get, defenseless-
No, hardly that. God and His angels had yet to dream up a predicament he could not snake his way out of. And he did have his sword, although that was little salve to her conscience and none to that part of her mind that wished she were back there beside him, wrapped in the fur of his mantle and his leather-clad legs.
Cold wind whipped against skin grown hot with the effort of her ride, and she remembered why she had left him, why she could not turn back. She urged the warhorse onward, wondering if it were possible to outrun the memories the Sheriff of Nottingham had left in her mind.
~*~
"C-cold," he managed, lips swollen, dripping blood into the rag the girl held wadded to his mouth. He tried to see her face through a haze of drink and pain. He could smell her. Sweet, like the hay where he lay, knees curled up beneath his chin in a pitiable posture of defeat. She reached down, stroked aside the strands of hair sweat had plastered to his brow, then gestured helplessly to his back. He knew without looking. Felt the red heat pulsing, the sticky ooze of raw skin seeping blood.
Gisborne paced nearby. "He is an ass," his cousin said.
"He is... your f-father." The words sounded far away, an atonal drone that boomed and receded with the throb in his back and temple.
"I will kill him myself!"
"No."
"Don't think I can't do it. Don't think I won't!"
"Cousin-" Each word hurt; his jaw sang with the pain.
"You'll leave here. It's the only way. And I with you."
"Cousin-"
"Soon, I swear it. Across to England, do you think?"
A boy's dream. He held tight to it, gritting his teeth against the fire that licked across his back. "C-cold," he said, despite the flame. He huddled closer into himself, burrowing his head into the girl's tattered skirts.
"Thea..." He filled his hand with the wool of her mantle, the sweet lavender scent of her clinging to the fibers, mingling with the fragrance of the forest.
Cold.
The Sheriff bolted upright, the single motion scattering the dream into a thousand fragments. Nothing remained but the stiffness and ache of scarred skin-and the cold.
The place beside him was empty. He reached out, hand settling into the slight hollow her hips had made among the leaves.
~*~
"Thea! Lass! Good Christ!"
She heard the words as if in a stupor. Fatigue and cold dragged at her senses, dulling everything around her. Had she reached them finally?
Several small fires illumined the night, and the light chased shadow up and down the trunks of the ancient oaks. The reflection of flames, scarlet and gold, cut through the darkness as she saw the lot of grimy bandits surge toward her. Some had already drawn bows; most were still wrestling sleep and the effect of late-night drink.
The horde of dirt-streaked faces parted. One man, taller than the rest, pushed through. "Thea?"
"I fired the warnin' arrow, John. Thought it was Robin comin' back-"
"But before we could stop her-"
Voices blurred together. Thea shook her head, trying to rouse herself. Torn and bleeding, she still gripped the reins and the stallion's mane. A large, work-roughened hand closed over hers and pried her fingers loose. She felt herself half-falling, half lowered into oak-strong arms, cradled like a babe against a massive chest.
"John?" she murmured.
The familiar boom of his voice resonated in her ears. "Sh-sh, lass. Duncan, can ye spare a blanket, man? Much, fetch the mead for me. Stop sniveling, lad, she's all right. Now, run! Be quick, can ye?"
Already she was warming, clutched to the giant's body like a small, limp poppet. Safe. Listening to John bark out orders in one breath, croon and fret over her the next.
"More wood to my fire. Her blood's chilled through."
"And what am I do to with the horse, John? Answer me that. I've seen that stallion before. That's the Sheriff's beast."
"She stole the Sheriff's horse?"
"Then his army of hounds is on her trail for sure. Sweet Virgin, she's probably led them straight to us!"
Thea struggled to reply, to tell them they were wrong, that they need fear neither soldiers following in her wake nor surprise attack, but John spoke for her.
"Codswallop, Donald! It's Thea ye speak of!" His few words and the authority in his voice ended further questions. The men dispersed, straggling back to their bedrolls or to the campfire for a last swig of ale.
John lowered her to the ground, hands daubing helplessly at the rips in her kirtle and the scratches on her face. Tenderly, he drew a tattered blanket around her shoulders, then held a wooden cup to her lips. "Drink."
She swallowed full and hard, the mead splashing fire through her belly, then curling a languorous heat throughout her body. Her arms and legs felt weak and leaden with exhaustion.
"I failed, John," she managed. "God forgive me, I couldn't stay."
"Shush, lass. Not now. Quiet yourself. There's time for all this later."
"But John-"
"Drink."
The mead tasted sweet on the second sip, its fire faded to a golden, honeyed glow. She drained the cup, feeling the liquid warmth push the ache from her back and neck and the sting from her briar-lashed hands.
Everything she had planned to say to him became a drowsy tangle in her mind-confession, apology, all the reasons she could not stay. The callused tips of his fingers pushed back the spill of curls at her temple, then traced the welt that angled upward across her cheekbone. Her lids grew heavy, fluttered closed.
"I had to leave him," she whispered into the darkness.
"Did he harm ye, lass? Tell me that, and I'll be for killing the bastard myself."
Through the fog of drink and sleep, she reached out and stayed his hand. "No, John, don't. Let the man be."
~*~
The Sherwood camp stirred with activity as the day broke. Men pulled themselves to their feet with seeming reluctance, yawning, stretching, rubbing sleep-gritted eyes. A few grunts and mutters passed for conversation; a single, bedraggled rooster filled the absence of chatter with a strident crow.
John Little winced and shot the fowl with an imaginary arrow. "Cease yer morning caws or I'll have ye in a stew pot yet, ye old cock. God's bones, it's murder on a man's head to hear such noise straight from sleep."<
br />
Thea smiled. "It could be the mead, John."
"Could be." He shrugged away the knotted muscles in his neck. "Could be I lain awake all night wondering why you'd come back, and how ye managed to make your escape on the Sheriff's prize animal. Saints, Thea, did no one tell you beginning banditry oughtn't to be so conspicuous?"
The subtle pride in John's voice should have put her at ease. Instead, Thea only felt more nervous. She had spent so many hours of her ride rehearsing what she would say when she arrived-something that would explain why she had to leave the castle without revealing the Sheriff's disastrous effect on her senses. Now every careful construct of her explanation fled.
She glanced up at the affable grin on John's face and tried to smile back. This man deserved something kinder than the truth.
"I suppose I should have planned it better, but when the idea came to me, John, when I decided to leave, I had mind for little else but going."
"What is this, lass? Has the careful woman I knew so well grown impulsive on fine, castle food?"
"I couldn't stay. I know I thought I could, but...." She lowered her gaze, reluctant to confront him. "I couldn't stay. Call me coward if you wish, or disloyal. There just came a time when I seemed more a hindrance than a help to Robin's plan."
John said nothing for a moment, as if measuring her words against some other meaning she'd left unspoken. Then he gently touched her arm. "Walk with me, lass," he said, shouldering his quarterstaff. "We've water skins to fill."
Thea nodded, as needful of privacy as he, and took two skins in each hand. They moved beyond sight and sound of the encampment to a small brook before he spoke again. "So Nottingham done ye in, lass?"
Thea glanced at him sharply. It was not like John to be obtuse, even less like him to be humorless, yet his words seemed couched in ambiguity and sternness.
"The castle," she said with careful emphasis, "is cold, dank, and foul when the wind is right. You were there. Imagine such a place for days-weeks-without reprieve. Guards at every turn. Doors locked or barred. Faces that look at you with suspicion instead of smiles. It was oppression, John, and I dealt poorly with it."
