GREENWOOD

by Sue Wilson

  Through his aide, he had promised Aelwynn a personal audience were her mission successful, during which he no doubt would discuss his son and his rise in power. Aelwynn had other intentions, however. At one time, she might have settled for being the consort of Gisborne, as sheriff. Indeed, she had spent enough of her time with him when he was without title or importance. But her eyes were set on something, and someone, infinitely more fitting her appetite. Roger deGisborne owned an estate in Normandy to equal few others and had Prince John's undivided attention, such prestige as Gisborne could only hope for, and her blood ran hot and thick in her veins at the prospect of a liaison with a man of such dominance and potential.

  She caught Monteforte's questioning gaze again and smiled silkily as a minstrel announced the meal and the lords and ladies took their seats at table. She glanced at the Sheriff's place at the high table, and back at Monteforte, a triumphant look upon her face.

  ~*~

  Nottingham had surrendered his seat of honor to Lackland, and the shire barons and their ladies lined the table on either side of the prince. The Sheriff, being merely a royally appointed keeper of justice, maintained a position farther away from the nobility who came by their titles through birth. It came as a relief to Thea that she was not wedged between any known traitors, but rather found her place beside the Sheriff at the far end of the dais.

  The feast marked the breaking of Advent's fast, as well as the arrival of the prince and barons, and she could only imagine what a display of food and beverage Nottingham had ordered to impress his guests. It would not matter, she thought nervously. She could eat none of it, knowing that as she dined here, John and Robin were hatching a plan to be the Sheriff's undoing. She looked at Nottingham, tempted to beg leave for a sour stomach, but one look at him kept her silent.

  The tension in his body was visible, and as she took her seat, she could feel the rigidity of his thigh brushing hers. He bent his head low, his voice privately muted. "Twelve courses and subtleties in between. You'd be well advised to eat nothing."

  Her eyes widened, then darted to Lackland, whose servant tasted the first slice of venison and pronounced it fit.

  "Not him," the Sheriff said under his breath. "But if what Gisborne said is true, I have been threatened and warned. It would make a tidy way to dispense with my cumbersome presence."

  "Poison-?"

  "Smile, sweet, you are being watched. It appears Roger deGisborne has taken a particular interest in you." Nottingham raised his wine goblet in the direction of the lord and nodded his head in polite recognition. His eyes blazed with cold hatred, although his lips curved into an appropriately subservient smile.

  "What am I to do?"

  "Pretend courtesy. Pretend to be engrossed in an absorbing discussion with me. I believe you are sly enough for that, are you not?"

  He had said few enough words to her all eve that those he spoke now struck her heart with the impact of an arrow. "You said you wanted my company," Thea said. "There's no need to give me a lesson in cruelty."

  His lips tightened, as he bit back the bitter remark too late. "Forgive me. I have used my allotment of tact for the day, and weary of deceit." He looked askance at her. "I am glad you are here. It makes it somewhat easier to bear. Pretend I am not such a crass idiot."

  Thea pushed the food around their shared trencher with her knife, trying to stay the trembling in her hands. "If they are intent on removing you, what loyalty do you owe them now? If you would but see reason-"

  "I will not have you argue this tonight of all nights! I beg nothing of you but companionship and a willingness to let drop this constant badgering. Barring that, silence will suffice."

  She pushed her chair back, but found his hand gripping her thigh.

  "Silence."

  She glanced at the fingers wrinkling her skirts, then at the Sheriff's face. His features could have been carved from granite; his eyes glinted like polished steel. They all wanted pretense from her-John Little, Mildthryth in her kindly way, now Nottingham. Yet how could she pretend not to care that the world he had built was crumbling down around the man she loved, that in days, or maybe hours, he would find himself beneath the deadly rubble of his own making, and she could do nothing to prevent it?

  "Play your game? Is that it, Sheriff?"

  He said nothing. Whatever conscience or heart he possessed seemed buried beneath an impenetrable mask, if either existed at all.

  "Very well," she said tightly. "But do not expect me to remain at your side and gloat for your good fortune. Deliver the silver. Save your undeserving arse. Reap your rewards. I will not stay past tomorrow's dawn to bear witness to another moment of your undoing."

  He turned away, attention focused on the goblet of untouched wine as he dragged his forefinger around the lip of the cup. "Do as you wish. I will not stop you. Only, tonight..." His voice trailed off, and he looked up again, something far away and unspoken in his eyes, something she could not begin to understand, or condone.

  The uneaten remains of their first course were dumped into the alms basket, as were the second and third courses. The skin of wine remained full, drawing Thea's nervous gaze throughout the night.

  The Sheriff dropped into a doleful, if watchful silence, his gaze continuing to drift from one corner of the great hall to the other. No one could assume he was anything other than a consummate host, carefully observant that all details of the feast went as planned.

  One course blurred into another, tension sharpening some events, numbing Thea's senses to others. The entertainment between the courses provided an inane counterpoint of merriment. Minstrels, tumblers, mummers, those Nottingham had employed as well as those who were part of the prince's entourage, all performed, and none of it meant anything save the end of one course and the beginning of another.

  As the evening wore on, it took on an air of unreality, of implausibility. Though she had tasted no wine, Thea felt as if she viewed everything from behind the veil of a drunken stupor, removed and alone, insensate to the endless celebration around her.

  Toward the end of the feast, the cook and his staff brought forth a subtlety of sculpted sugar fashioned into the shape of a lion that was paraded around the room and presented to Prince John. Lackland stood, already a little unsteady on his feet from a surfeit of wine, and raised his cup.

  "Trusted friends," he said, and the hall fell silent, heads turning toward the dais. He drew out the moment, narrow eyes commanding the attention of everyone in the room. "Were our brother here to see for himself how valiantly you have flocked to our side in this, England's most needful hour. Alas, 'tis his very absence that makes us needful, and for that we salute him."

  An uncomfortable ripple of laughter circled the room.

  "Those here present, who have come to our aid with your sworn allegiance, far more valuable than treaties, with your armaments, with such donations of material wealth that we are humbled by your generosity, you are the vanguard of England's new age."

  Thea cast a look around her, watching the assemblage of Prince John's supporters. It seemed as if every political turncoat in the land was gathered here; the number and wealth and prestige of Lackland's allies made real what had been before only a threat. This man would rob King Richard of the throne. He had the strength, the backing, and the unmitigated gall.

  "We have labored long, sacrificed much," the prince continued, "but now the rule of our absent king is at an end."

  He stared at the carved sugar lion for a long moment, then looked back over the crowd, a twisted grin at his lips. "Raise your cups and drink with us! A New Year, a new rule!"

  The crowd echoed his words loudly, enthusiastically.

  Lackland took his meat dagger, raised it high into the air, and brought it down upon the sugary beast, lopping off the lion's head with a decisive strike. The hall erupted into gales of laughter, then cheers, deafening to Thea's ears.

  "I won't abide this a moment longer," she said, although she knew the noise drowned out her wo
rds to all but the Sheriff. "That Judas, that animal, no more deserves to be king than-"

  "Raise your cup," Nottingham said tightly without looking at her. "But do not drink."

  "Minstrels!" the prince called out. "We favor a song! A dance! A celebration!"

  The hall filled with music as lords and their ladies spilled onto the floor, and Thea felt the Sheriff's hand close around hers. Over her protests, Nottingham led her from the dais to join their guests, and she forced her clumsy, leaden legs to mimic the steps of the round and carol dances. The music sounded like a roar in her head; the intricate steps became a jumbled blur; the drunken laughter reverberated in her aching head, fraying shattered nerves. She let herself be handed off from one partner to the next, a small stiff smile frozen in place, as she sought constantly to keep her gaze on Nottingham. Then suddenly she stopped, her abrupt halt causing several of the dancers to stumble into her.

  "I beg your forgiveness," she mumbled, not looking at any of them, and stepped away from the broken ring of revelers.

  She was dimly aware they had closed the gap, clasped hands again, continued dancing without her, continued laughing. No one even heard her small gasp as she looked toward the dais.

  Lord Gisborne leaned against the end of the table, forehead perspiring from the dance, and lifted a goblet of the Sheriff's wine to his lips-

  She shoved through a knot of spectators, felt the jab of an elbow in her ribs. "No! Let me pass!"

  Drank heartily, refilled the cup-

  "No, you must stop! No!"

  And drained it.

  Behind her the musicians ended their song and the dancers broke apart, weaving in and out of her field of vision as they returned to their places at the table. Nottingham appeared at her elbow.

  "Thea?"

  She could see deGisborne look at the cup, his brow furrowing.

  "Oh, sweet Mary!" She pushed past the Sheriff without acknowledging him and rushed to the table, coming to a breathless halt among the rushes. "My Lord Gisborne."

  "Ah, yes, the...surgeon, is it?"

  "My lord, I beg a word with you-"

  "And my dear Sheriff. I must make complaint of your wine, sir." He grimaced. "I've not had such bitter swill since-"

  "My lord, I must implore you-"

  "Thea?"

  She paid the Sheriff no heed, but reached for deGisborne's arm to steer him aside. "If you will come with me, perhaps-I mean to say, the wine-it is truly vile. We noticed it ourselves and were-"

  "A forward wench," deGisborne said, "but I could expect no more for the tastes of a barn bastard."

  Nottingham drew into a taut posture beside him.

  "I fear the wine may have been tainted, my lord," Thea continued, trying in vain not to call attention to their discussion. Already, several people had clustered about them. "I can supply a remedy, but you must come now."

  "DeGisborne?" Baron Monteforte pushed his way to the front of the enlarging circle on onlookers, his usually florid face grown slack and jaundiced.

  The lord's face was flushed, and Thea lifted her hand to his cheek. He slapped it away. "Away, wench! Nottingham, take your whore aside!"

  The hall seemed to quiet at deGisborne's bellow. Several of the other nobles flocked to the dais.

  "There's been a mistake-" Thea began.

  "The wine could be fouled, sir," the Sheriff said. "If you will permit my surgeon-"

  "Damn you!"

  "Haste is of the essence-"

  "Here now, what is the trouble?" Prince John sidled through the crowd, a smirk of irritation on his face. "Not up to our English dances, deGisborne? God's teeth, man. Are you ill?"

  "I fear it's the wine," Thea intruded, earning only a scowl of heated wrath from the prince.

  "Impudent wench! Sheriff, do you care to explain this?"

  "Your Highness-" Nottingham inclined his head slightly, "I've no wish to cause alarm, but if you will beg my indulgence, it is imperative that Lord Gisborne accompany my physician. Let us retreat to a private chamber where he may be tended-"

  Already the crowd had begun to whisper.

  "Is it poisoned?"

  "Did she do it? The herb woman?"

  "It's the Sheriff's cup. Perhaps she meant it for him."

  "Enough!" Nottingham's voice rang out, silencing the clamor. He turned again to deGisborne. "Sir, if you will come without delay-"

  "Get your filthy hands off of me!" DeGisborne thrust the Sheriff aside, then stumbled back against the table, confusion and disorientation filming his eyes.

  Thea saw the dilated pupils, the labored breathing. Dissolved in wine, the poison would speed to his heart. She reached out to him just as his knees buckled and he collapsed to the floor, dragging the damask tablecloth with him. Silver goblets clattered to the floor, and the upturned wine spilled in bloody pools around him. "My lord, please, I beg you. Come with me."

  Lackland frowned, the possible seriousness of the situation beginning to dawn on his dark features. "Send for my surgeon," he ordered one of his servants. "A purgative, deGisborne," he joked hollowly, "'twill set you aright come morn."

  The Sheriff signaled for two of his soldiers to help deGisborne to his feet and assist him from the hall.

  "I'm going with them," Thea announced.

  ~*~

  Prince John's surgeon paced back and forth in the darkened chamber, muttering to himself and stroking the graying beard that came to a point at his chin. "Henbane, I suspect. Or belladonna. One cannot be certain."

  "There is no rash," Thea offered. She had stood by as Lackland's leech had induced vomiting with mulberry bark boiled in vinegar, then followed with an antidote of goat's milk, mustard seed, and honey water. She could find no fault with his course of treatment, but deGisborne was not responding. "I would suggest henbane."

  "I would suggest you leave this matter to one with true knowledge," the physician returned. "Or are you so experienced with the administration of poisons that you know something I do not?"

  Thea stiffened at the affront. "Not with their administration, sir," she said with quiet authority. "But I know something of their effects."

  "Do you now?" Baron Monteforte commented. He had insisted on following the group to deGisborne's room, along with several of the lord's servants and an equal number of guards. "Then perhaps you might care to comment on how such a virulent compound made its way into the wine at table."

  "Unfortunately, sir, I cannot even hazard a guess, although I assure you the Lord Sheriff will turn Nottingham Castle inside out until the culprit is found."

  "Indeed," Monteforte sniffed. "Then I presume he need look no further than his bed. The wine was at the Sheriff's place; it was obviously intended for him, left by his latest disgruntled conquest. But that would be you, my dear, would it not?"

  The muscles in Thea's jaw quivered as she stifled a retort. She turned to the pacing surgeon instead. "Is there anything you require from my still room, sir? All I have is at your disposal."

  "If you are as well-versed in poisons as you claim, wench, then you know there is naught to do now, but wait. Keep forcing down such milk or butter or cream as he will tolerate to absorb the toxins. And if in the passing of time he does not respond, I could let the poisons from his veins."

  "I hardly think that advisable-"

  "And I hardly think you need question the methods of someone possessing more than your charlatan's skill!" Monteforte thundered.

  "Is there a problem?"

  Thea turned to see the Sheriff standing in the doorway. His face was haggard, circles graying his eyes, the vertical crease between his brows deeply grooved.

  "Vastly understated, as usual, Nottingham," Monteforte muttered.

  "Lord Gisborne has lapsed into an unquiet sleep," Thea said softly. "I wish I had more heartening news, but-"

  "Is there anything that can be done?"

  "You can find his killer!" Monteforte interjected. "Damn it all, Sheriff, must I point out that you have a murderer on the loose, a r
esult, no doubt, of inadequate security measures-"

  "Please, this is neither the time nor the place for such a discussion," Thea said.

  "I quite agree." Nottingham placed his hand on the baron's shoulder and turned him toward the door. "If you haven't confidence in my surgeon, still you cannot question the expertise, or allegiance, of Lackland's own man. Come. I would value your assistance and your keen observations in this matter. Perhaps you noticed something tonight that I overlooked."

  Monteforte appeared mollified, if yet reluctant to leave deGisborne's bedside. "As you will, Sheriff. There are questions to be asked."

  "And I shall take charge of the interrogation personally. DeGisborne was like a fath-" Nottingham paused, and began again. "The man was my only benefactor. Rest assured I shall have justice in this matter."

  "And, of course, the transfer of silver must proceed."

  Thea watched Nottingham's face darken, eyes narrow, his only reply.

  ~*~

  The night passed, and the next day, and deGisborne did not rally. He slept as if drunk, muttering incoherently, waking to hallucinations, and picking at the air with nervous, tic-like gestures.

  Lackland's surgeon bled him, to no avail other than to reduce the delirium to coma. The warm, flushed skin paled to an ashen gray, blue around his lips and nails. The racing heartbeat slowed.

  Thea had not been allowed to treat him, but neither had the leech sent her away. She had made herself useful, interposing herself between the lord and an endless barrage of curious guests, not the least of which was the would-be usurper himself. She bathed deGisborne's face and hands, tried to soothe him during times of frenzy, fetched food and drink for the surgeon. None of it was enough.

  When the Sheriff returned on the eve of the second day, she went to him, carefully pulling the door closed behind her.