by Sue Wilson
Shivering, she huddled into a tight ball and fought the tears that gathered in her eyes.
She thought of Nottingham, then pushed the thought away. He had let this happen, damn him! Coaxed her into coming with him to what she thought would be a fair hearing, then turned the questioning over to Lackland, her greatest enemy, allowed that braying jackass Monteforte to invent untruth about her. Not once did he try to halt the proceedings. Not once did he call for an end to the mockery. Not once did he even try to intervene. Damn him, damn him! Damn him to hell and back for selling her out to save his own miserable hide, to salvage his alliance with Prince John and his pack of power-hungry wolves. Damn him!
The heat of anger dried her tears. How unreasonably naïve she'd become, how trusting, how gullible! How wrong! She had believed in him, and Nottingham had abandoned her. He had crushed every hope she'd ever had in him. He had used her no differently than he used any castle woman, to take what he wanted when he wanted it, then dispose of her. And, oh God, she had let him. She had invited him every step of the way.
Thea struck the ground with her fist, despising him, despising herself for her own incomparable foolishness. She did not want to cry; she did not want to be afraid. She did not want to give him that power over her. But the tears came, streaking hot over her cheeks, gathering in the corner of her swollen lip. Shivering with the effort to contain them, she muffled her sobs against her knees.
~*~
Aelwynn paced nervously in Gisborne's chamber. She had waited outside the great hall until the doors opened and two soldiers strode out, the struggling herb witch pinned between them. The clamor of angry voices had spilled out into the corridor in their wake, Monteforte's chief among them. She had hidden away from the torchlight lest she be seen, anxiously composing and discarding excuses for her latest failure with which to satisfy the barons. Even when the bell for Vespers had sounded, Monteforte-no one-had emerged from the great hall. Not wanting to draw notice, she had reluctantly retired to Gisborne's room, shivering in the meager heat of the hearth.
Perhaps all was well. The Sherwood woman had angered them and drawn their blame, the little fool. And Monteforte could hardly throw suspicion upon her without also incriminating himself. She was safe from charges of murder, at least.
But to have poisoned Roger deGisborne! One of their own! The barons would flay her alive for that.
Aelwynn swore under her breath.
How inconvenient of the man to render himself completely useless to her!
More importantly, what could she say to deflect Monteforte's anger? She twisted her hands together, her ear to the door for what seemed the hundredth time, listening for Gisborne's booted footsteps. It was not time to despair, she told herself, but time to think!
Monteforte would be angry, but she had dealt with angry men before. If she could only convince him that despite her failure to remove the Sheriff, nothing had happened that would prevent the barons' plan from proceeding.
Ironically, Nottingham had sealed his own fate, revealed himself to be a man who consorted with a murderess, and one who could not hold her tongue at that. Surely that would breed disfavor with the prince, if not utter contempt. The barons could demand that the Sheriff be stripped of his office and the prince persuaded to appoint Gisborne in his stead. And Gisborne was predictable; he would deliver the silver without a second thought.
Aelwynn turned on her heel. Gisborne, she laughed ruefully. To think it had all come to this: to be mistress of a malleable, spineless sheriff, buried away in a castle in the hinterlands, away from the royal court. An exasperated groan escaped her lips as she struggled to warm herself. It was not the power she had craved, but it was far removed from the dungeon of Nottingham Castle. And in time, with any good fortune whatsoever, she could parlay her position to one of greater esteem.
Aelwynn heaved a sigh of relief as the events of the past days settled back into some predictable order, then swirled around as the chamber door opened. "Well?"
Gisborne tore at the brooch closure of his mantle and threw the garment over the back of a chair. He poured a cup of wine and tossed it down his throat before replying. "Thea has been arrested. You should be pleased."
"Why is that, my lord?"
"The Sheriff's bed is empty once more."
Aelwynn's laugh was a nervous twitter. "And why would I seek the bed of another man when I have one before me who knows far better how to please a woman?"
Gisborne stopped in mid-motion, cup raised halfway to his lips. He looked at the wine, a curious expression marring his features. "Perhaps I should have asked someone to taste this first."
"I do not know what you mean."
"But then you cannot go on casually eliminating men at random, for with whom would you ally yourself were I done harm?"
Aelwynn shrugged, pretending incomprehension. "I thought you said the Sherwood witch had been gaoled."
"As she has."
"And is that not what you've wanted all along?"
"Well, I had rather wanted a taste of her first."
Aelwynn laughed tensely, drawing her hand down her throat. "Yes, your small obsession. But she appears to have a rather lethal effect on her men, wouldn't you say?"
"Where did you get the poison, Aelwynn?"
Vermilion lips pursed. "You think that I-?"
"I know you wanted my cousin gone, but murder was a rather extreme move, don't you think?"
"You're talking nonsense. The night has been long, and you are weary-"
"Oh, indeed, I am weary. I am especially weary of your lies."
"My lord, you are mistaken-"
"I took you for an intelligent woman. A rarity in the species, I know, but I thought your deviousness had a certain admirable design to it, boldness, flair. Use your wiles to ingratiate yourself among the barons, do their bidding, agree to their insane plan to remove my cousin from office-"
"I did that for you, my lord-"
"You did it for yourself!" Gisborne hissed.
Suddenly he loomed over her, firelight glancing off the angles of his cheekbone, off the golden hoop that dangled in his ear. His face was contorted with rage. "You seem to have planned it all so well, thinking me too much the weakling to do aught but allow it."
"I never thought-"
"Believing I craved his power as much as you, counting on my envy of him to keep me silent-"
"But you-"
"Oh, I envied him. In truth. I envied his superior strength, his mastery of horses, his prowess with the sword, his relentless ambition, never taking by halves what he could take by whole. I even envied him his women."
Aelwynn felt his gaze grow hot, branding her as it traveled from her face, to her breasts, to silk-clad hips.
"But as much as you purported to know me, you did not know this: he is my cousin, and has saved my undeserving arse more times than I care to count; he is my cousin and because of him, I have a position that, as meager as it is, does not involve dying on the Welsh marches. Do I resent him? Yes. Do I feel jealousy curdle within me? A thousand times yes."
"But-"
Gisborne shook his head. "But to claim to know us both so well? For a woman of such insight, Aelwynn, I fail to understand how you never saw it. You expected to kill my cousin to make me more powerful? By God's own Mother, woman, my power comes from him! Everything I am I owe to him!"
The guttural growl of Gisborne's voice echoed off the walls, as he lowered his head menacingly to her.
"But here is where you plan so utterly failed," he continued, his breath against her neck hot with the aroma of wine. "You counted on me to say nothing, to do nothing, to let the barons rob him of what was rightfully his and bestow it upon me. You counted on my weakness. Not an altogether flattering presumption on your part."
"But-"
"My father will not live to see the morrow. I assume you want my silence on the truth of his death." He laughed bitterly. "But what protection can I offer you, a man you believe powerless save that you c
onnive for him, murder for him, a man you can manipulate with a honeyed word?"
"My lord, you are hardly weak-"
"Spare me your coddling, Aelwynn. I've no need for it now."
"But if you will only allow me-"
"Oh, I will grant you silence," he continued. "After all, the Sherwood woman is where she belongs, no doubt, and for that alone I wish you some sort of clemency. But for underestimating me?" From beneath his tunic, Gisborne pulled out the vial Aelwynn had put in Thea's cupboard. "I don't think I should forgive that so readily."
He looked at her, his pale eyes blazing like fire on ice.
"I propose a compromise." He emptied the contents into the goblet and swirled the wine with his finger. "A choice. More than Thea was permitted. More than you gave to my cousin. Or to me."
He held the wine up, his eyes narrowing as his mouth curved upward in an incongruous smile. "I can call the guard, and name you murderess, and watch you hauled below where the turnkey will carry out my every wish. The whip. Hot irons. The rack. He is quite proficient, utterly conscienceless. He can torture a man for days, and still spare him for the noose. And a woman? I believe your screams will only make him more imaginative in his methods."
His voice lowered to a rasping whisper, as his finger trailed the silk of her bodice, from throat to the indentation of her navel. "He will split your fair skin, from breasts to belly, carefully, with a surgeon's skill, and let you watch as your entrails are pulled from you and torched. And when your cries of mercy have become but tedium, I will hang you myself."
Aelwynn felt her stomach spew the sour burn of bile into her throat. "You cannot-you would not-dare!" Violently, she shoved his hand away.
Gisborne cocked his brow, as if amused. "It is your choice, as I said. I can summon the guard. Now." He extended the wine to her with a cold sneer of contempt. "Or you can drink to the dismal results of your plan."
~*~
"Open!"
Thea's head jerked up, spinning the darkened cell around her. Her tears had dried on her cheeks, and she brushed the hair off her face with a grimy hand, wincing as she touched her bruised jaw.
"Where is she?"
"Here, my lord."
"Thea? Thea, by Christ!" Nottingham rushed to her cell. "Open this door, damn you!" he called to the turnkey over his shoulder.
"I can't do that, my lord, by order of Prince John himself. She's to remain under lock and key."
Thea caught sight of wrath she had never witnessed before on the Sheriff's face, each feature twisted with barely controlled rage, dangerous. The Sheriff swore viciously under his breath and turned back to her.
"Are you well? Have they mistreated you? Come into the light. Thea, come to me!"
Clearly the last person she wanted to see in this lifetime. Hay clung to her kirtle, to the ends of her tangled braids, and the ordure of the dungeon stained her face and forehead. She looked up at him from her crumpled posture, willing herself to be dead to him, to the frantic tone of his voice. "There is nothing you can do. Leave me. Please."
"I came as quickly as I could. You cannot imagine the furor your comments raised in the hall. Prince John has done nothing since you were removed but storm and curse and drink, dragging every one of the barons with him, step for step."
She shook her head. "I don't care," she muttered, and put her head down on her knees again.
"You must! Thea, by God, you must care!"
"I don't care if their whole foul scheme falls tumbling in upon itself. I don't care if Lackland is so livid he can't enjoy his evening ale or midnight wenching."
"Heed me, Thea. It is not too late to remedy this. I protested on your behalf-"
"Did you?" Disbelief hardened her voice.
"Thea, come to me, close, where I can see you, touch you-"
She sighed heavily and rose, cramped muscles protesting, and stepped toward the iron grille of the cell door. She saw the Sheriff's face pale as she stepped into the meager light, saw pain pass fleetingly across his lips as she tilted her bruised face up to his.
"By God, I will have the eyes and ballocks of every man who hurt you. I will have them racked and-"
"Will you start with yourself, then?"
"Thea, I could do nothing then, but this is far from over."
"No, Sheriff. You are wrong. It is over now. Finished."
"Thea, Lord Gisborne is dead."
She crossed herself, then shuddered and wrapped her arms about her body, trying to ward off the chill that took her.
"You cannot pretend unconcern!"
"I will pray for his soul." She spoke as if she were dead, as if every feeling had fled her.
"Thea pray for your own, for they mean to lay this at your feet. Even as we speak, formal charges are being drawn up-"
"Did you ever expect it to be otherwise? If you did, you are as much a fool as I, for you put your trust in them. And I put my trust in you."
His face darkened, took on a stricken look, as if she had slapped him. He looked down, avoiding her eyes. "You have every right to be angry-"
"Angry?" She laughed, and the shrill sound of it sliced her own nerves in twain.
"I misled you."
"You delivered me to them, you bastard!"
"Thea-"
"I would have expected it from Gisborne, something that self-serving, something-anything-to keep your precious plot alive! And then at the hearing, you let Monteforte rattle on with his lies, and never once did you uphold me! You did not admit to the threats on your life, which might have explained the wine, the poison-"
"I could lend no voice to suspicion-"
"Sweet saints, no! Of course not! Not when it would cast the barons themselves in dim light! Not when it would mean risking your stupid, stupid, plan! Or Lackland's favor, or your much- desired reward. Far better to let suspicion name me, falsely, and remain silent!"
"Thea, I have spent the last hours assuring them you had no part in any of this, that I know you only as the gentlest of creatures-"
"Spare me your belated consideration!"
"I believe they will listen-"
"Oh, yes, until your back is turned. They are undoubtedly making jest of you even now. The Lord High Sheriff of Nottingham, whose wits were taken by a peasant herb woman-"
"Thea, marry me! Here...tonight!" Strong lean fingers reached through the iron bars, laced between hers, and drew them to his black-bearded lips.
The force of his words came in heated puffs against the back of her hand-harsh urgent breaths that conveyed his insistence in a whisper. The tips of Thea's fingers flattened against his mouth, silencing any more he would say.
Madness, that this should come now-this proposal of marriage sounding every bit the ruthless command at which he so excelled. What motive did he have, for surely one existed?
Torchlight sputtered behind him, stabbing the darkness with streaks of gold and vermilion. What little she could see of him in the wavering light she had already committed to memory.
Cheekbones chiseled high in a patrician face, casting planes of shadow more than light. Raven mustache sweeping over the bow of his lip. Precisely trimmed beard lining his clenched jaw with a midnight hue.
All she'd ever wanted from him was some small admission of the truth. She searched his eyes, obsidian-glazed with a purpose she could not fathom.
Truth, as always, was hidden.
Held too long, her breath tore raggedly from her lungs. She let her fingers drop from his full lower lip to the gold chain of office draped across his chest, and his mouth hardened. Even in the darkness of the castle dungeon, she could see the vertical furrow that creased his brow.
"Thea, we shall wed-"
"Impossible," she said, her reply no more than a whisper itself, with none of the force of his demand for marriage. She hated the weak sound of it, knew it gave him an edge with which to press her.
"Not impossible," he argued. "I will send for the bishop now, and-"
He did not understand. Or would n
ot. How accustomed he was to believing men pawns he could appropriate and order to his advantage. Even a man of the cloth. Yes, if he deemed it so, the bishop would be awakened from his peaceful slumber, dragged here without vestments, and forced to mumble the proper phrases to tie them inextricably together.
A useless plan. She was tied to him already, if not through Latin vow.
"You should go," she said, curling her fingers around the bars of her cell.
"Damn you, Thea. It is my castle."
She almost smiled. Instead, she lifted her chin and regarded him with a challenge as contrived, surely, as his proposal of marriage. "Then let me go."
"That I cannot do."
"As I thought, for Nottingham Castle is no longer yours. You have given it, all your authority, and all your hard-won power, to Prince John. And your honor, as well, such as you had."
He was upon her in an instant, hands covering hers as they circled the bars, forcing into the flesh of her palms the cold reminder of her predicament, and her fate.
"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."
