by Sue Wilson
"I don't believe any of that." The gravity of her tone cut through his tirade.
"Then you fool yourself."
"If you are evil, it is more a shield than a weapon. You could put it down, if you wished."
"And be weak?"
"Is it evil that keeps you strong? Not some nobility of heart, some integrity of spirit?"
He turned away, disgusted with her words, with himself for falling so short of her expectations. "I am not what you think I am. Not noble. Not honorable. You've confused me with some fantasy you've spun-"
"Then tell me. If I am so mistaken, tell me for truth what I do not know. Take down the wall yourself."
He turned toward her slowly, face hardening at her challenge. "Or you will tear it down for me?"
"Stone by stone. Until I find what I know is there."
"And what would that be?"
She looked at him with a directness that pierced every league of distance he had tried to put between them. "The part of you I love," she whispered, her expression softening. "The part of you who saved Simeon. The man who loved so much, so selflessly, that he would trade his own life for that of a seven-year-old stable boy. That man, Sheriff. What would it take to see him again?"
He wanted more than anything to answer her, to proclaim that here was that man and promise to fulfill every unfounded dream she had of him, but words would not come. The one thing she loved in him, he could scarcely explain-a single, impulsive gesture born without his knowing or willing it, acted out without foresight or thought for the consequences.
Christ, if she only knew. If he gave her the truth she wanted, if he told her of the dreams and the crime he had committed in Sherwood, then she would certainly despise him. And he would lose her.
Nottingham shuddered at the thought. No, it was easier to keep his dark shame than to see the truth tear them apart. Let her think what she would, there were things about him she was safer not knowing.
His brows knotted, and he bent his head into the cradle of his hand, middle finger rubbing his creased forehead as if he could drive away the nightmare images lingering in his mind. He drew in a hiss of air through clenched teeth, bade the throb in his temples to abate, and sighed the breath out again.
"Simeon-" he began. "Saving him was an accident of nobility, nothing more. You see goodness where none exists."
It took every strength he had to pretend apathy, to deny the one thing in himself she had said she loved. He turned his back, poured a cup of wine to overflowing, and drained the bitter, lukewarm liquid. The fire settled in the empty pit of his belly, stinging his gut, and he grimaced. He followed it quickly with another.
"Evil men are not troubled by dreams such as yours," she said quietly. "They are indifferent or, worse, take pleasure in their misdeeds. They are not haunted."
He emptied the cup and said nothing. She did not know, would not...ever. "Thea. No."
Silence crept uncomfortably between them; the sudden shifting of embers in the fireplace jarred his head, igniting the memories, the horrors. He poured a third cup and a fourth. Until he could not hear when the door closed behind her, until the sun rose and the dreams receded in the gray light of dawn.
~*~
Thea thought staying busy would help, so she filled her days from cockcrow to late after midnight tending to the soldiers and stable hands who had survived the fire. More often than not, Simeon was at her side, carrying her bag of herbs and medicaments, prattling endlessly about the family they had just left or the one they were to visit next. With his unreserved trust and effusive praise of Thea's abilities, the child opened doors to many a skeptical goodwife who thought Thea only the Sheriff's leman. Once inside, Thea's gentleness and concern-and the recovery of the injured-did the rest.
It was not enough to banish rumor, but ample to unseat it. In the days that followed, the nature of hushed whispers that rose and fell in the wake of her visits changed from one of suspicion to one of guarded acceptance. Consort with the Sheriff though she may, she gave freely of her simples and guidance, spoke to the people in their own Saxon tongue, and accorded respect to those she treated.
To the wives who were dealing with the difficulties of their husbands' impairments, she showed empathy. To the numerous children who clambered into her lap, hoping for an apple or a rare piece of honeyed treacle, she demonstrated genuine affection.
In time, word of her healing spread. Her practice grew. People waved and called out to her in the bailey, wishing her good morrow or good eve. Children tugged at her with grimy hands to attend the births of kittens and pups. She listened to rheumy chests, measured the quickening of unborn twins, made liniments for aches and teas of chamomile for those who could not sleep.
When Simeon finally tired of her rounds, she tucked the boy into his pallet and lulled him to sleep with tales of the new stable being built and the bays and sorrels and blacks that would fill it. And then she left again, working late into the night with those who needed help.
Mildthryth said little, perhaps the old woman's way of disapproving the dark circles Thea knew were forming beneath her eyes or the too-pronounced hollows beneath her cheeks. She knew her maidservant visited the Sheriff, could tell from Mildthryth's wearily-lined face, if not from castle gossip, that the man rarely left his chamber save to pace the battlements at night; that he drank indiscriminately from watered wine and stout ale alike, as if the longed-for stupor of oblivion hung barely out of reach; that he ranted and roared until all but the most foolhardy left him to his lonely den atop the castle tower.
Thea did not breach Nottingham's self-imposed exile. The Sheriff, she reminded herself countless times a day, knew well how to order her presence in his chamber, on the battlements, or in his bed, if that was where he desired her-yet he did nothing. In every way, he proved himself intractable, infuriatingly filled with stubborn pride. He deserved either the heat of her anger or a cold word or two, and she would give him both, she decided at least a dozen times a day. As many times, she recanted her decision. In the end, she could not forget how sleep had loosed his pain or the agony she had heard wrung from him in tortured cries.
"Alyce!"
She remembered that.
"You should eat something," Mildthryth prompted her.
Thea jumped, thoughts scattering, and looked up from the herbs she was grinding. How many minutes had she sat there, pestle unmoving in her hand?
Without asking permission, the woman pushed a bowl of stew across the table. "You're as thin as winter gruel and nigh as colorless. If you don't sup or sleep, you'll waste away before my very eyes. And that milk of gillyflower you gave to young Winnie Smithson to make her breasts grow? You'll be needing the simple yourself before long."
Thea glanced ruefully up at Mildthryth, at the reddened Saxon cheeks puffed out indignantly and the hint of haughty chin buried between generous jowls. Behind her, the fire had turned to a bed of embers, piled and covered for the night. Rain pelted against the drawn shutters, the only sound.
"At least sleep if you will not eat."
The rich aroma of mutton, potatoes, and carrots spiced heavily with rosemary made her stomach heave. "Mildthryth-"
"Are you breeding his babe then? Is that it, lamb? 'Twould explain your lack of appetite, I suppose, and-"
"Mildthryth, please!"
The old woman's face drooped, her tiny lips bracketed by creases of concern. Instantly, Thea regretted her sharp tone. "I'm sorry. I did not mean to snap at you." She smiled feebly and patted the woman's hand. "How could I be with child? Ah, Mildthryth, you old romantic fool. First you want a bedding, now you want a babe. And the truth of it is, we are so unsuited-your Sheriff and I-we cannot speak to each other without swords being drawn. I push too hard; he retreats to sullen silence. We're as predictable as this foul weather of late, each hopeful hint of sun blown away by storm winds and dark clouds."
"You love each other."
"How can we? We cannot stop quarreling long enough to kiss." Thea sighed an
d pushed her stool away from the worktable, shrugging stiffness from her cramped shoulders. "I am worried for him, that much is truth. Never have I left someone with wounds like his without going back to offer treatment, but I knew you were caring for him, and Mildthryth, I could not bear his pain. Call me a coward, but I could not stand by while he made naught of my work with his drink and his wrath. I could not watch him torture himself."
Mildthryth remained silent for a moment, her eyes downcast, her fingers unraveling the edges of her tunic sleeve. "He needs you there," she said softly.
"What can I possibly do for him? He as much as sent me away. If you only knew-"
"But I do. I know how it is when he dreams."
Mildthryth looked up and caught Thea's gaze in an unwavering stare. Thea's lips parted in surprise, questions dying before she could utter them.
"Aye," the old woman repeated. "I know. From the first night in this castle, when he arrived wet and frozen, hiding himself in that sleet-slick mantle he wore. The dreams started then. Reminders of what they did to him."
Thea's brows drew together in confusion. "'They'?"
Mildthryth paused and looked away, as if seeing some distant, private vision. For a moment, sadness haunted her eyes. Then her heavy bosom heaved, and her lips pressed firmly together. "'Tis not with an easy conscience I break his confidence. But 'tis time you heard a piece of it."
She turned toward Thea. "You see, he was bound for Nottingham through Sherwood, preparing to take on his duties as sheriff. Outlaws ambushed his party. To a man, his soldiers died, all save Gisborne, who fled and hid till it was over. A yellow-livered cur, I always thought, though were it not for him, 'tis doubtful the Sheriff would have lived. They strung him up, you see, flogged him till his skin hung in ribbons and the bone showed beneath. Left him to die. And he would have, from the bleeding or the pain, from thirst or freezing, except Gisborne returned, cut him down, and brought him by night to the castle.
"To this day, I do not know how the Sheriff managed. Rode his own horse through the gate, he did, seated stiff and proud like some granite statue, pretending nothing was amiss while shock washed the color from his face. He wore no expression, and his eyes were empty as a dead man's. I think it must've started then, the tales of the mad Sheriff of Nottingham, for the beastly figure he cut that night was one that chilled the breath and blood of every soul who looked upon him. A man who had seen hell. And brought it with him."
Mildthryth worried the frayed edge on the hem of her sleeve. "Gisborne sent everyone away with a growl and a flash of his sword. Everyone save me. He commanded me to come to the Sheriff's chamber. I tended the new lord as best I could for an old woman with paltry skills. I begged him to let me send for the leech, but he would have no one know, would have no one else witness how close the great Sheriff of Nottingham had come to being broken. 'Tis a secret to this day, lamb, a secret you must carry to your grave."
Thea had forgotten to breathe, and when she drew in air, it was ragged, like shards of ice scraping throat and lungs. She closed her eyes with a shudder, the memory of Nottingham's scarred back vivid in her mind, the feel of ridged flesh imprinted on her fingertips. So much explained: his injuries; his single-minded hatred of the outlaws, of any outlaws, of the forest itself; his unrelenting pursuit of the brigands of Sherwood.
"He dreamed that night," Mildthryth continued, "and nigh four years later, the nightmares still haunt him when he's weary and exhausted from running from them. When he's weak. 'Tis like the devil's loose inside him, keeping the pain alive. Aye, he tortures himself. With things long dead and buried. With cursing God and the outlaws and himself in a single breath. With guilt, and grief. Not a day has passed that I have not bent my knees, begging mercy of the saints that he might lay it all to rest, knowing in my heart 'tis only one thing that can take away such wounds as are in him-and that is love."
Thea reached up and wiped tears from her eyes. Mutely, she shook her head, unable to speak.
"I know you said he was a hard man to love, and I'll not be arguing what is plain and simple truth. But he is not difficult out of contrariness or whim or meanness. He's like a wounded animal who slinks off to some private lair to lick his wounds, snarling, snapping, biting at the very hand that would help him. Beneath the scars on his back are wounds fresh and raw and bleeding still, left from something he's covered up for so long, he's all but convinced himself it did not happen. And the rest, he will not let himself forget."
Thea knew instantly there was more Mildthryth had not told her. The flesh rose up on her bones as she remembered the Sheriff's cry. "Alyce," she whispered softly. "There was someone named Alyce."
"Aye."
"Who-?"
"'Tis something he should tell you himself," Mildthryth said somberly. "If you go to him-"
"He doesn't want to see me."
"Ah, lamb, you are so wrong. He wants confession and forgiveness; he wants the warm and tender touch of healing, of love. The man cries out for it with everything but words. What do you think lies at the root of your quarrels if not passion, wanting to be heard? Aye, I've seen passion, and I'm not too old to have forgotten what 'tis like to be tossed by the tempest of it. To have feelings so strong they defy sensible words and come out in twisted bits and pieces, not hinting at half of what you mean. Good saints, you have but to look at the pair of you, to see the way his eyes crave the sight of you, the way he reaches for you, then forbids himself the favor of your touch. Or to see you, even now, care and wanting so clear on your face your whole heart is laid bare. He wants to see you, lamb, rest assured of that. With everything save proud words, he begs you to be with him."
"But Alyce? How am I to know-?"
"I cannot tell you that." Mildthryth was firm. "I can only tell you where you'll find him."
~*~
The rain had stopped. In its stead, an occasional flake of snow drifted down from the ebony sky, wafting through air grown frozen in the night. An early winter, Thea mused, and the Sheriff without a cloak, as if he were impervious to the cold.
She had found him, just as Mildthryth had said, in the midst of a small graveyard whose high stone wall and gate gathered it into the protective shadow of the church. He stood with hands clasped behind his back, head bowed, thoughts leading him to so far-off a place he did not seem to hear her approach. Candlelight gleamed through the church's narrow, ice-beveled windows, silvering his hair and the haggard lines of sleeplessness carved deep in his face.
Thea watched him for a moment, noting the slow, frosty breaths he exhaled, then glanced around. A somber array of stone crosses and sepulchers memorialized souls long departed. She could make out the name on one: Mildthryth's Warrin, entombed in marble like a nobleman. But where Nottingham stood? Hoary stubs of grass poked between a cobblestone path, but the plot itself was empty, devoid of even the humblest marker.
She was intruding. Despite Mildthryth's urging, despite the numerous times she had come to the Sheriff without invitation, this time was different. He seemed draped in private silence, in some kind of aloneness that shunned human company.
She did not know if it were courage or utter foolishness that pushed her forward. They had not spoken in a fortnight, and no words came now. She simply drew his mantle from beneath the cover of her own and spread it across his cold-stiffened back. Her hands lingered, and she pressed her cheek against his shoulder.
Long minutes passed before he acknowledged her presence, and even when he did, he did not move or turn to look at her.
"I cannot forget...." His voice was the distracted monotone of a man trapped in the past.
Words faltered and he began anew. "A soldier sees many things: knights whose entrails have spilled into their own hands, who survive miraculously and later do not remember-not the blow of sword that laid open their bellies, not the pain, not the battle or how gray the sky or how muddy the field-"
He broke off abruptly, peering into the distance. "Alas, I remember too well. I can still see it-the littl
e coach that carried her. Her small white hands folded on the pelt of rabbit fur she held in her lap. That's how I remember her...her small white hands. And then I see the coach atilt on its side, one wheel spinning...and smoke. There was this arrow slit in the side-in the side of the coach, you see-and it was shaped like a cross, and smoke was pouring through it. Gray smoke, rolling out of this slit. And I knew they had fired it-fired the coach. I could not go to her-they would not let me go to her-"
He laughed bitterly. "I was quite helpless. They had seen to that. They had taken the whip to me, circling round and laughing, wagering on how many lashes it would take before I swooned. And I thought, God, let her lay low in the coach and not breathe too much, and they would not notice her. They had me. I was all they wanted. Me...or my silver. Or some winter merriment."
He bit down hard on the words, the muscles in his jaw tightening. "But she could not breathe. I knew when I saw the smoke. It had grown too thick, too black. She must have choked on it until she could stand it no longer...and then she broke through the door."
He hung his head, shivering, as cold and the memories swept over him. "There were so many of them-five, six, surely more I could not count-all with eyes fixed on her, a look I've seen in men too many times."
He looked up, and the wind tore through his hair. "They meant to have her, made bold dares and jests with one another. And Alyce-she was so small, as slight and fragile as a bird, and so unaware, so innocent...still. And in my mind, I saw their hands on her and their mouths on her and her fur-trimmed gown in shreds. I imagined I heard her cries, her pleas to me for help. And I could do nothing. I saw her look at me in horror, so many questions in her eyes, the danger of her own situation not even dawning on her."
Thea caught her lip between her teeth, not daring word or breath.
He exhaled raggedly, and small scraps of memory flickered far back in the granite-gray depths of his eyes. "They were howling like wolves gone mad, damned outlaws, some grabbing at the laces of their trews, rubbing at swollen crotches, one drunken behemoth stroking himself-I could not save her, and yet, I knew I could not let them take her. I thought if death were to come to her, it should not be like that. It should come quick. Quick."
