by Sue Wilson
The sight of the wounded kept the memory of the attack fresh in her mind, and grief welled up in her heart for the families of the men who had died. She tried to pray for them, but her silent words and the priest's sibilant litanies were not half as eloquent as the remembered sound of the Sheriff's voice tolling off the names of the men who had fallen for him.
Her hands shook each time she thought of Nottingham, whether with rage or fear for him, she did not know. She remembered their brief passion on the hay-covered floor of the stable, how easily, thoughtlessly, she had given herself to him, assuming his feelings were genuine. She had trusted him, believed they had conquered the differences between them. Yet the embers of the fire had not even grown cold before he had accused the Sherwood outlaws and dragged her beneath the castle to identify his supposed attackers.
How dare he use her friendship with Robin's men to accuse and indict them! It was the lowest, meanest form of manipulation she could imagine, even in a man who excelled at twisting things to suit his purpose.
She had revealed to the Sheriff her connection to the outlaws and promised it was not the lethal alliance he believed it to be. She had even broken with John. God in heaven, she had nearly made love with Nottingham and he still suspected her of some insidious treachery, questioning, challenging her loyalty to him.
And his loyalty to her?
The very concept seemed foreign to him. As did trust. Or devotion.
Anger and a sense of betrayal mixed in her belly, and the cold emptiness that resulted was not eased by the thought of the execution to follow when the sun rose. She walked to the door, gazing out at the bailey and up at the soot-stained tower from which Dunstan would be hanged.
Was it just yesterday she woke in the Sheriff's arms and decided to return to Nottingham? Just an evening's passing since he held her, touched her, made her tremble with delight? And now, come dawn, he would hang a man. A man who could have been John, or Robin, or Much.
What kind of man could do that-hold her gently, make love to her passionately, rage so furiously, and fling an enemy's torture-ravaged body to his death, all in the span of a single day? And what kind of woman had she become that she could love such a man?
No, not loved. Not in a thousand years. She couldn't have meant that, couldn't have thought it. Never. Never.
A crowd had begun to pack the square, and the soldiers spilled out of the barracks in noisy confusion. No one missed a hanging at Nottingham Castle.
Thea turned and saw the priest make the sign of the cross over Ned Godwinson and cover his body with linens. The Benedictine's eyes, circled from lack of sleep, met hers, mirrored her sorrow.
Oh, God, if only she could go back. To her cottage. To Sherwood. Or only back to hating the Sheriff with the simple, narrow notion that he was her enemy, and despicable, and deserving of whatever fate befell him. To a time when everything was so clearly spelled out, good and evil, black and white, with none of the grays of a woman's confusion.
Her eyes filled with tears, wetting her lashes and coursing down her cheeks in hot, damp streaks.
Outside, the gathering throng cheered, an enthusiastic display of anticipation. Man, woman, child-they all supported the Lord High Sheriff of Nottingham. Were they afraid not to? The sound reached through the castle walls, becoming a prolonged, muted clamor in her ears, peaking louder at the Sheriff's arrival, at his pronouncement of death. She closed her eyes, trying to shut out the sound. Drum roll. Silence.
Suddenly, she could bear the barracks no longer, could not stand to be trapped by stone walls and stinking, dying men and more death outside. She tore past the priest blindly.
"My child-"
The crowd's thunderous roar chased her down the corridor, up the coil of stairs to her room. Breathless, she closeted herself behind the door, slumped against it.
"Lamb!"
Mildthryth started toward her, but Thea waved her back with a choked cry. She tried to lift the bloody shift over her head, but it clung to her, wet and sticky in places, dried stiff in others. Sobbing, she tore at the laces, her nails rending the fabric into useless strips until it fell from her. She jammed it into the fire and watched the flames take it as they nearly had before, big flakes of it separating like black lace, drifting up the chimney's draft.
Mildthryth draped a soft fur over her shoulders, and Thea let herself be pulled into the woman's embrace. "Cry, lamb. You've been saving tears since I've known you, and 'tis time to let them go. 'Twill be all right."
Thea cried into Mildthryth's shoulder, remembering how she had wept in the Sheriff's arms, how she was certain there had been no tears left to shed. Now she wondered if she would ever stop. Mildthryth crooned and murmured to her as Thea let her broken words spill out.
"Oh, God, what have I done? What have I done?"
"Shush, lamb. All that you could do. No more, no less."
"I shouldn't be here. I should never have returned. There is naught here for me but pain-and him-and now he is pain. I thought I could make a difference-for him-I don't know-but clearly I cannot."
"Nay, lamb, you can. You do. Every day you are with him, he changes, he-"
Thea shook her head and dashed the back of her hand across her tear-stained cheek. "Nay, he is no different. He is harsh, cruel, as always."
"Is he?"
"Aye, and demanding and unforgiving. A man who cannot give his trust, a man so consumed by anger it is devouring him from the inside out."
Mildthryth nodded. "Aye, he is all those things, but-"
"He accused me, made me go with him below-no, dragged me below, as if I were a piece of flesh at his disposal-and forced me to see the men Gisborne had captured. He thought I would tell him they were outlaws from Sherwood, assumed I would tell him their names. I was not sure if, before the day was over, he would have me chained and questioned. I swear to you, in his madness, he was but two thoughts away from the idea."
"He would not do such a thing," Mildthryth said with utter conviction. "His feelings for you-"
"Do not include trust. Or compassion. Or even pity. The man is merciless."
"The man is afraid."
Thea stared back at her, anger and hurt tempting her features. "The Sheriff of Nottingham is afraid of nothing," she said, sarcasm scything through her words. "Ask him. I'm certain he'll tell you."
"He is human, after all."
"Most of the shire debates that."
"Do you?" Mildthryth's silver brows lifted.
Thea looked away, staring into the fire as it lapped a stack of oak logs. It appeared a gentle flame, but she had seen what could grow out of something so seemingly harmless. Slow, insidious destruction, uncontrolled it would consume everything. She shut her eyes and shuddered, pulled back to the night before, to the dry, scorching heat baking her flesh, to the meadow-sweet hay shriveling to foul, lung-clotting bitterness, to the crackle and crash of timbers falling-
To the Sheriff's arms drawing her into the black-silk hollow of his body, putting himself between her and death only to kill her later with contemptible words and actions.
"Today he hanged a man. He let a man be tortured, and then he executed him-"
"Aye. And to the Sheriff, 'tis justice."
"Nay, Mildthryth, not justice. Rage. And revenge. He is ruled by it, this need-this obsessive need-for vengeance, and it makes him a monster."
"And that is all he is to you? Do you not see more?"
Thea did not answer. She wrapped the fur closer, trying to ward off the chill that seemed to have invaded the very marrow of her bones.
"Someone wants his life," Mildthryth continued when Thea did not speak. "The fire was not a random act of arson, nor was it accidental that he was ambushed in Sherwood and felled by the arrow whose point you removed. He's in danger, and keeping a vicious kind of silence about him, like a show of bravery to the people, to his men, to you. But fear is sitting in his belly like a cold, dead thing, not letting him forget. So he searches, without cease, for the ones who did t
his to him. Who will do it again, as surely as the sun's rising, if they are not stopped.
"Aye, the Sheriff suspects your Robin. I daresay he suspects everyone, even his own shadow. And, aye, Nottingham is one for revenge, but he is a man striking out of pain, a pain few have seen, or will see, I warrant. 'Tis a great, bold anger he has, and sometimes 'tis so powerful it sweeps away all else. But there is more to the man, lamb. Noble impulses that seep out without his knowing, good and kindly acts he'd just as soon squelch if he thought anyone noticed. You've seen them yourself, or there'd be no question of loving him, would there?"
Thea glanced up at Mildthryth.
"Aye, he hanged a man," the woman continued, "and 'twill not be the last, as long as he's Sheriff. But he did more than take a life." Mildthryth looked at Simeon, huddled near the hearth beneath a soft, woolen blanket. The sleeping boy snuggled his dark head into the goose down pillow and dug deeper into the straw pallet.
Tears began anew, forming hot in Thea's eyes. "He saved a child," she whispered, her voice breaking.
"Aye." Mildthryth patted her hand. "Had he strength or breath in him, he'd have saved every last one of his men, every one of those horses on which he prides himself so. I know that because I know his heart. Now there are others-those people who were in the bailey this morn-who do not care what's at the core of him, and what they'll remember is the hanging, not the man who carried a child in his arms. 'Tis the way of folks, and a mystery to me. But you are different, Thea. I know you see the other half of the man, the half he keeps hidden. Is there not enough there to love?"
Thea glanced again into the fire's dancing colors, thinking of the mysteries she had glimpsed in Nottingham-the rare, gentle longing for something he could not have, could not even name; the quiet, privacy of the man; the tender, vulnerable need of his loneliness-fragile qualities so fleeting it had taken only a day to obliterate all trace of them.
"I cannot love him," she said finally, her voice hushed as her gaze dropped to her lap. "He won't let me love him."
"'Twill take someone brave. Someone with your courage, lamb. Someone with your gentleness...to show him how."
After a moment, the woman stood, shaking out her skirts and stiff joints. "'Tis a bath you're needing now, a good scrubbing, and I'll see to it myself."
Thea did not argue. She let Mildthryth soap the grime and lingering smoke scent from her hair and skin and douse her with herb-scented water, and all the while, she thought of the Sheriff. She played the fruitless game of imagining where he'd gone when he'd left her outside the dungeon and where he was now. She asked herself if his soul were at peace now that he'd hanged the turncoat. And each time she thought of him, the need to see him grew.
There were too many things left unresolved between them, too many things he had not let her say, and at the very least, she could not let him storm about the castle in an outburst of rancor with wounds that could be serious.
"Now sleep," Mildthryth said when Thea was dry and her clean hair brushed and braided by the fire. "'Tis what you need most. I'll fetch some tea and sit with you, lamb, till-"
"I'm going to him," Thea interrupted, the determination in her voice surprising even herself.
"Are you now?" Mildthryth's eyes widened with surprise.
"He was hurt," Thea said with authority, as if to convince herself as well as her maidservant, "and no doubt has give little thought to the care of his worthless hide."
"No doubt."
"Someone must make him rest."
Mildthryth smiled. "Someone should, lamb."
"I'll need my bag of medicaments." Thea pulled on an undertunic and kirtle, hose and slippers, ignoring Mildthryth's bemused gloat of triumph. Something in the old woman's expression smacked of smug victory. "Of course, he'll hate this. He clearly dismissed me when we were below. He'll say I'm hovering, or disobedient, or he'll simply send me away in a fit of choler."
"M-m," Mildthryth replied noncommittally, adding a deft tug to the laces of Thea's gown.
"But I must see him, temper or no. To see how he fares."
"I think you should."
Thea turned in Mildthryth's arms, and glanced at the old woman with a thoughtful and sober expression. "There are no secrets with you, are there?"
The woman grinned sheepishly.
"I agree with your Warrin, God rest his soul. You must be gifted with the Sight to know so much, to see people so clearly. But, Mildthryth, by God's truth, I don't know if I can love him. He's like someone being tossed by a tempest-one moment witty and charming, the next filled with ire and a brooding disposition. I thought I had begun to see past that, to see the man you say is underneath all those layers of pretense, but today I lost sight of the real Sheriff, if I ever knew him at all. I would find him again, if I could, but I fear there is something separating us, something I cannot see or break through. Something..."
She shook her head, convinced Mildthryth knew better than she did what she meant. Hastily, she brushed a kiss on the woman's plump cheek and took the pouch of herbs and potions. When she reached the door, she stopped. "You love him, do you not?"
"Aye, lamb, that I do."
"How do you know what to say to him?"
Mildthryth's lined face broke into a wide smile, and she shrugged her ample shoulders. "Oh, it matters little what I say to him. He'd not listen for a minute, foul humor or fair. Besides, 'tis not your words he needs, but your presence. Your hand in his. Your heart beside his."
"Will that be enough?" Thea asked softly, wondering if she could give even that.
~*~
Thea lingered at the Sheriff's door, giving herself every opportunity to change her mind. How could she have made so many mistakes with Nottingham? She had been so certain of her loyalties, and her ability to hide them, so convinced that her allegiance to Robin and his men was unshakable. She had believed herself strong, resistant to the pull of forgotten desires, impervious to the Sheriff's smoky-voiced seduction and bold caresses. It was the height of presumption to think she knew him, that she understood his quicksilver nature, when she could not even comprehend her own feelings.
That thought alone was nearly enough to make Thea turn back. He had not called her, after all. She was going to him of her own volition, on some charity that he did not want or need, and most certainly did not deserve.
She was going because she wanted to be with him, wanted to assure herself of his safety, wanted to hold him and erase the worry that creased his brow and the angry fear that kept his fists clenched at his side. She was going because she wanted no more strife between them when the world outside had turned mad and dangerous.
Thea gripped her bundle of herbs and met the sentry at the Sheriff's door. To her surprise, the soldier stepped aside without questioning her, even bowed his head slightly as he opened the door.
She stopped short, just inside the solar, her pouch of medicines knocking against her knees.
The Sheriff was bathing. Being bathed. She could see that much, and more, as the vision broke rudely into her thoughts. Large cask tub. Threads of vapor escaping the water's surface. One lean arm, wet, draped indecorously over the cask's edge, droplets puddling beneath his fingers. Head back. Eyes closed. Water lapping gently against his belly.
She could see no more, wanted to see no more. The wet-bodiced girl who tended him froze. The fall of water from her pitcher stopped abruptly, and she clutched the vessel to her breast.
Thea shook her head, but the image would not clear. It-all of it-was most definitely there, and reason was fast escaping her. Of course he would bathe. Of course. And Nottingham-it was his way-she knew that-to surround himself with wenches of the castle. She was, herself, one of those women. His surgeon. His surgeon. He possessed them all to one degree or another, in one way or another. And that she knew. She had only forgotten, or wanted desperately not to believe it. Every remaining hope disintegrated within her, every frail beginning they had made dissolved.
"Forgive me. I intrude." She mumbled t
he words to him, to the girl, to the air, feeling quite separate from the scene and whatever intimacies the two had exchanged. She did not wait to see if either heard or paid her any heed, but turned quickly, unaccountably miserable, and felt for the latch on the door.
The water stirred behind her, even as she fumbled with the bolt. Oh, God, how wrong she had been! To ever think of love and Nottingham in the same breath, to think he had need of her strength and solace. The bastard obviously wanted for nothing he could not obtain himself!
His voice roused the vague, unnamed hurt inside her. "You are not intruding." Pause. Water dripped. "What have you brought?"
Slowly, she turned around, gathering angry passion around her for protection, knowing it was not the hatred she felt, but something else as darkly burning.
He rose from the water, a dusky-gold Neptune-being, and without taking his gaze off her, held out his arm for his robe. She wanted to look away, knew she should, must, that the sight of him unclothed would be but one more memory to torment her already tormented mind.
It was not a thing she decided with her mind. Candlelight reflected off his wet shoulders with the sparkle of a hundred fiery prisms. She followed the tracery of rivulets that coursed down his chest and wet the thin arrow of dark hair that shot down the length of his belly, and hatred came soon enough.
She hated herself for being drawn away from his eyes, which were not safe, but certainly safer, for gawking like a foolish maiden who had no acquaintance with a man's body. And that was not the least of it. She hated herself for not hating him.
He did not help, standing there with studied indifference. With deliberate delay, he shouldered into his robe, the creamy brown silk of it clinging to still-wet skin.
Thea lifted her chin as if unimpressed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
"I recalled you were injured and not inclined to accept treatment. I was curious to see if the stubbornness had bled out of you yet." Thea set her bag of herbs and potions on the oak dining table and dared her eyes not to travel down the loose robe the Sheriff was casually belting at his waist.
