by Sue Wilson
"I'm fine, John," she said simply.
But John's eyes were not on hers. He touched the rent bodice of her kirtle, wool bloodying his fingertips. "Like hell ye are!" he blustered, scraping away the locks of hair that clung to her shoulder. "Which one of the buggering bastards did that?" He pointed an index finger at the stark, red stain seeping wetly through the fabric.
"John-"
"Who?"
"Sir Guy of Gisborne." She tried to balance the thunder of his question with a quiet tone.
"Himself? God's blood, Thea! If it was Gisborne, if he let ye live-ye know he marked ye fer some foul purpose."
"I'm fine." She stroked his gingered whiskers with the backs of her fingers and watched as the tense muscles of his jaw relaxed and the wrath bled out of him. "Besides, John," she said, hoping she sounded convincing and sensible, "think how impossible it would be: a woman living in the wood with a horde of outlaws."
"I would marry ye, lass. Soon enough. I swear it."
She knew he meant it. John was as good as his word, as simple and strong and true as the quarterstaff he carried. Nor was she blind to the fact that his ardent devotion to her since Brand's death had turned tender, infused with amorous hopes. It was the single uncomfortable thing between them.
"What? And secure for me the respectability of marriage to a wanted felon?" she teased gently.
"Secure yer safety," he muttered, rugged face crestfallen with defeat.
Thea was quiet for a moment, thinking long and hard before she spoke. "You've done that already. More than you know," she said, laying her hand on his muscled forearm.
John straightened and looked over his shoulder at the shambles made of Thea's home. "Have I?" he asked, unconvinced.
"More than you know," she repeated firmly, taking his large hands in hers. How much easier it would be if she loved him, if she returned but a fraction of what he felt for her, easier still if their feelings of friendship and devotion could remain safe and unchanged. She looked up at him, knowing the dilemma was written on her face, that her silent confusion and regret said more than any words.
"Aye," he said presently, and although he nodded and bowed his head, she had no doubt the concession was merely temporary.
"You said before that Much understands, that when he acts, it's his decision, his choice. And you permit it, do you not? Even boast on it, as I recall?"
"But-"
"John, hear me out," she pleaded. "I must make my own choices, too. I must. To help Much, though I knew the risks. To help you, and Robin. To deliver myself from Gisborne and his men. To go...or to stay. I choose."
"Aye, that ye do. But lately less with thinking than with feeling. And ye without Much's poor sense to blame."
"But you do let me decide, John. You do let me choose."
"Hmmph," he snorted. "And pity the poor man who tries to stop ye. Ye'd turn wild Celt on him, too, wouldn't ye, lass?"
"Did I hurt you then with that little bite?" She smiled.
"Drew blood, ye sweet bitch," he grumbled, and held out his affronted paw as proof. "Ah, lass, ye weren't careful enough."
"I'll be more careful."
"If they come fer ye-"
"Then I'll swear I do not know you."
"Lass-"
"And you must do the same. Nothing foolish. No heroics, John. Promise me."
"Bastard Sheriff!" He slammed his fist on the table, his brows drawn together in impotent rage.
"Promise me!" She waited until he looked at her again, his eyes the clear green of Sherwood's streams, holding hers, sobering. She felt their unspoken agreement forged in the silence that followed, and if it was reluctant on John's part, as she suspected it was, she knew he would honor her wishes.
For her part, she would never betray him, or his lot of wayward companions, trapped in Sherwood by the Sheriff's brutal justice. How could she? She was one of them.
It was not the love he wanted, but her loyalty to him was as unyielding as any blood vow. Thea let him touch his lips to her cheekbone, sign of their sealed pact, then chased him away with a flutter of her hand.
"Now be gone with you, John Little. The Sheriff's men have made waste of my home, and you are far too large and too clumsy to be of use in this chaos. Leave, before you damage something yourself."
"I understand ye, lass," he said quietly. "Why ye can't come. Or won't, is more like it. He's here, isn't he, even now?"
She did not reply. John knew, had always known, and her silence was all the answer he needed.
"Aye, well, he was a good man, Brand was. And he cared fer ye, that I know. Whatever he did, he didna deserve to die fer it. And ye, Thea, ye do not deserve to be grieving so long." He stepped closer to her and twirled a tendril of her hair around his overgrown forefinger. "Three years, lass. And still he is here." Gently his finger tapped her temple, then slid lower as he reached out boldly to stroke her breast where her heart thumped.
"And here," he added. "But with a ghost, that makes fer a sure and empty space-a space what needs filling. Ye can fill it up with yer plants, maybe, or lavish yer touches on the village young'uns and fool whelps what thinks themselves thieves. But it ain't the same. And sooner or later, 'twill come to ye. The need to be filled with a man."
Thea glanced into his eyes, and a blush heated her face.
"Aye," he said, and nodded knowingly. "And I won't be mincing words with one what I've loved fer so long. Now ye keep to yerself, lass. That's yer choice, if ye make it so, and I'll leave ye to it. But, damn ye, lass, I be aching fer ye now. And ye cannot choose else for me." He wrapped her in his arms, cloaking her in the forest, in its sweet darkness and the smell of earth and moss.
She clung to him as she always had, savoring his strength, reveling in the shelter his arms gave her, knowing there was no one who could impart to her the security John could, for John was trustworthy, and somehow blessedly knowable. For the first time since her encounter with Gisborne, Thea felt truly safe.
And then it was gone. The feeling of being protected dissolved, replaced by knowledge that he craved her for things she could not give. He pressed his body into hers, a lover's embrace, and she knew.
It had changed for John, and there was no going back. What had been simple between them, and sufficient for her, was now complex and riddled with John's desire. His body spoke to her without words; the unashamed hardness of him spoke loudest.
There was a moment when she wanted desperately to reciprocate, to feel some faint stirring she could give him to kindle, but there was nothing. Nothing save numbness, and worse, loss, for this unwanted turn toward passion had robbed her of what she valued most in John: his friendship.
"Don't do this, John. Don't make of this something it can never be." She muffled her frustrated words against the worn softness of his leather tunic. "I will not-I cannot-"
He released her then, slowly, as if it hurt to move his arms from the warm substance of her body. Disappointment dissolved upon his face, replaced with a lazy smile and eyes full of wise understanding. He slid one hand behind her neck, under her hair.
"Ye have just forgotten how, lass," he murmured. His hand dropped benignly to his side.
Thea looked away, unable to bear his kindness or his patience or her own awkward dread that what John wanted most was to help her remember. "Go," she managed. "It's not safe for you here."
"Aye," he agreed cryptically.
"See to Much, and let this day pass and be forgotten before either of you ventures out again."
"Lass-"
"It will, in time," she interrupted.
"All things...in time," he reminded her.
Her cheeks grew warm with color, for she knew his bull-headed tenacity would bring him to her door again soon, his feelings grown taut and intense with denial. She watched as John stooped to pick up his quarterstaff, wondering how she could be of two minds: missing already the strength and safety he'd carry with him when he left; relieved to see him go.
He bent nearly double
to leave her low door, and Thea followed to the threshold. Outside, he turned, his rough hands caressing the sturdy length of ash. Abruptly his face broke into a devilish grin. He twirled the wooden staff gracefully, a jongleur's trick, caught it mid-spin, and nocked one end beneath her chin.
She gasped unavoidably, raw nerves on end, and bit back a stinging retort. She felt the pole prod her chin and lifted her face. "John-"
"Take care, lass," he said, voice quietly at odds with his bulk and coarse demeanor. "And remember...Sherwood is there fer ye."
With that, he spun around, layers of tattered cloak whipping out behind him. Thea caught herself at the doorway, nails digging into the wood of the doorpost to prevent her leaving, and watched him raise his hood over his head. Gradually, the darkness obscured him, and she waited until she was certain Sherwood had swallowed him up as well.
Shaking, she leaned against the doorjamb and closed her eyes, blanking out the day-all of it. Gisborne. John. Her throbbing shoulder. Her home in ruins. Her uncertain future. Inhaling deeply, she drew in the aromatic scent of crushed lavender that curled on the night breeze, calming herself with the fragrance and ripple of cool air. Drugged with the languor of terror quelled, she opened her eyes and gazed out over the meadow.
The moon had risen, full and low on the horizon. Metal gray clouds chased across the silver disc as the storm's impending wrath passed with no more than a fury of wind and silent lightning that played across the forested horizon. They had escaped the worst of it. The storm was driving hellishly southward.
CHAPTER TWO
Lightning broke the darkness as the narrow windows of the great hall flared with an unearthly light, and the Sheriff of Nottingham winced, anticipating the crack of thunder that would follow. Sheets of rain hammered against the castle walls, and a pennant, torn loose from its moorings, slapped wetly against the window, keeping time with the pounding in his head.
He raked his hands through raven hair that had fallen over his forehead. Three and a half years ago, he had made the gravest error of his life by coming to this damnable place. Three and a half years, and it was still as uninhabitable, as inhospitable, as on the day of his arrival.
He waved his meat dagger in the direction of the irksome flapping, and a servant scurried from the hall to tend to the matter. Now if only one of them would do something with the slab of meat the cook promised was venison. The haunch was cold, swimming in a puddle of red juices, and it reeked with a heavy mixture of spices intended to mask the flavor and odor of rancid game. The steward was undoubtedly purchasing goods on the edge of spoilage and pocketing the savings himself.
He stabbed his dagger through the undercooked meat and shoved the trencher away in disgust. Pouring another mug of ale, the Sheriff turned his attention to the other reason his supper had become less pleasant.
"You're telling me the little wretch got away?"
Guy of Gisborne shrugged, pawed at the stubble of beard on his chin, and with a muttered curse, threw himself onto a chair at the Sheriff's side.
Nottingham took in Gisborne's muddy boots and foul humor with a single, discerning glance. "I take it that means yes."
"Yes, damn it," Gisborne growled, reaching for the ale without invitation. "The cutpurse is gone. Disappeared." He downed a pint in noisy gulps and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
Nottingham smoothed his cup thoughtfully against his lower lip. For the moment, he made no comment other than a raised brow and a faint smirk of disapproval. Guy of Gisborne. Lieutenant of the soldiers garrisoned at Nottingham Castle. How had the man acquired such coarseness of manner? Had they not, as children, suffered the same instruction in civilized behavior? Or had Gisborne's purchased knighthood cost him all notion of propriety?
Nottingham turned the carved wood cup with deliberate slowness and pretended to study the topaz liquid within as if indifferent to the news. "No trail of my silver left behind to follow?"
"None." Gisborne reached across the table, speared the uneaten venison, and dragged the trencher toward him.
"And the informant?"
"We were misled, Cousin. What we found, I would not call an informant." Gisborne's lips curled around the word as if it were distasteful.
"A witness, perhaps?"
Gisborne's face hardened into a defensive mask, pale eyes glaring hotly beneath a lowered brow. "There was a healer of sorts. A collector of herbs, a brewer of potions living alone in old Thur-leah...at Sherwood's edge."
"What? Some monk mixing remedies and catechism?"
"No," Gisborne said. "A woman."
The Sheriff glanced up. "Alone in that accursed place? You haven't been 'misled' again, have you, Cousin? How did you find this 'healer of sorts'?"
"She's known in the wood. Frequents Edwinstowe, Papplewick, Blidworth. Some weak-kneed bastard who valued his sow more than the woman's safekeeping directed us to her cottage."
"And?"
"We found her in the fields. Coming back from Sherwood-" Gisborne sniffed cynically, "her baskets loaded and a lie for every question."
The Sheriff frowned, pushed away from the table, and paced the length of the dais. "So your only information comes from a liar?"
"She travels the wood freely enough in search of her herbs," Gisborne explained. "Somehow manages to keep peace with Sherwood's spirits...and woodsmen she claims do not exist."
"Not one of those mad wiccan hermits? Some simple-minded hag?"
"No crone, I assure you. And wise enough to keep her tongue."
"Her virtue, as well, I gather." Nottingham smiled at the edge of irritation in Gisborne's voice. "Then tell me, what possible use is she to us, this virtuous woman who divulges no secrets?"
"The peasants go to her, and some of the townsfolk. The thief was wounded. We thought he'd seek her out."
"And did he?"
A cunning smile slipped across Gisborne's lips, and he tilted his chair back, bringing booted feet atop the table. "She didn't admit it...at first. I had to show her the merits of telling the truth."
"I see."
The phrase was but a muted echo, a hollow disguise of forbearance left to linger on the damp drafts that swept through the great hall. The quiet control of it stopped Gisborne in mid-swallow, and a cold prickle of perspiration spiked the ale foam on his upper lip.
The Sheriff shook his head slowly and walked back to the table in careful, measured paces. "You, Gisborne, a knight of the realm," he said smoothly as he sat down on the table's edge next to his cousin. "You haven't stooped to terrorizing defenseless women, have you? It's a waste of your considerable talent."
Without warning, his fist thundered down on the table, rattling the candlesticks and sending Gisborne's mug spinning in a pool of spilled ale. "And my time! Why were your men not in the forest tracking the brigand down?"
"There are limits to our jurisdiction, Cousin. Sherwood is Richard's and the royal foresters-"
"The forest laws are consistently broken! Ask any of the outlaws who hide there. Sherwood is a nest of vipers, their crimes a poison that needs leeching from this land. And Richard-" Nottingham spat the name, then stopped and corrected himself, overlaying the title with false respect. "His Majesty the King is away. Who would you charge with the safety of this God-forsaken shire?"
He leaned close until Gisborne squirmed in his chair. "The thief and my money are in Sherwood, Cousin, and not for the first time, I might add. I'm well within my rights to track him down to the very gates of hell, if I choose." He stood, flinging his ebony cloak behind him.
"But there are ghosts. They say Sherwood Forest-"
Nottingham dismissed Gisborne's superstitions with a wave of his hand. "Sherwood Forest is nothing but a few trees, a creek or two, and some deer. Anything else is a product of overactive imagination."
"Is it?" Gisborne's voice cut through the furor, freezing the Sheriff in mid-stride. "You forget. I was there."
Nottingham felt the rhythmic throb in his temples, heard the roar of blood through constri
cted veins. He closed his eyes against the guttering candlelight, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword. For a moment, beneath the weight of his cloak, his body grew taut with remembered chill and scraps of recollection.
Sherwood in January.
A tangle of frozen bracken beneath; bare, ice-encased branches overhead. The hoary landscape of winter and twilight's muffled stillness.
Outside, the black skies emptied themselves over the castle. Like the drone of the rain, the memories poured forth, stealing back from all the places he had imperfectly buried them.
Breath that froze in his beard. Hot scarlet droplets hissing into the snow underfoot, the only sound.
The Sheriff felt the pull of scar tissue across his back and shoulders, a reminder etched into flesh, as if the visions-sounds-smells he carried in his mind were not enough. He noticed it in the rain or cold, this dull ache of damaged skin. It was worse in winter. Worse when he remembered.
He shuddered beneath the voluminous folds of his cloak, trying to dispel the ache, and the memory. The hall had grown silent. Even the minstrel had stopped playing, the discordant strain of his lute dying in the still air. Slowly, the Sheriff turned his head and glanced back over his shoulder at Gisborne.
"Yes, you were there," he acknowledged, a whisper forged in steel. "So you know. Sherwood's ghosts are nothing more than men. Untrained peasants. A rabble of delinquent taxpayers and neophyte robbers."
"And murderers."
"Is that what it is, then? Are your men afraid? Are you?"
"Cousin-"
"Or is it merely incompetence? I would understand that, you see, surrounded by it as I am. Forest wardens who stumble over themselves in order to avoid taking responsibility for the king's wood. Troops of sniveling cowards-my own men, damn them!-eager to run at the first sound of wind in the trees and a few animal noises."
"But Robin Ho-"
"Robin Hood is a thief and nothing more! A petty thief with a band of petty thieves. A piddling horde of common criminals has outsmarted you! My God, man, a woman dares Sherwood's paths while you and your men hide behind weak excuses about ghosts and evil spirits. Damn it all, she stole your courage. Did she take your ballocks as well?"