GREENWOOD

by Sue Wilson

  Already the Sheriff was becoming too interested in the witch. That he had sent Gisborne on this fruitless mission was confirmation enough. But there were other signs of the Sheriff's growing involvement that gnawed at an uneasy spot in Gisborne's vitals. The proprietary tone when Nottingham spoke of his surgeon. His fledgling need to protect her with some trumped up honor so she would not appear the whore she was fully intended to be. The peculiar fascination Gisborne could see dawning in the Sheriff's eyes-the same fascination he knew could grow by twists and turns into obsession.

  Gisborne could not let that happen. Not now. Not when so much was at stake, and they were so close to achieving the political coup Prince John had started. Yet what recourse was left him?

  Plants and potions and a dead husband's shirt. Hardly the incriminating evidence he sought. And if he told Nottingham the truth, what would the Sheriff do save dredge up some tender, ill-placed sympathy for the widow?

  Ah, she was a traitorous vixen! Chaste mourning indeed! Who but a fool would believe the woman had lived so purely, turning her every passion to her work? No, the creature was subtle and sly and obviously had the dim-witted denizens of Sherwood fooled. He knew better.

  The woman he met in the lea was not a woman with "the light gone out of her eyes." Behind her distrust and hatred simmered a passion these simpletons could not begin to understand. It was a passion he ached to taste, nearly as much as he needed to prove her guilt.

  "Sir! Over here!"

  Gisborne turned, glowering at the interruption of his thoughts.

  "Would this be what you're after?" The soldier held a delicately arched bow.

  "So she hunts." Gisborne jerked the bow away with a snarl, angry that they could uncover such little evidence.

  "With a weapon like that?" The man cocked his head skeptically and pointed one grubby finger at the symbol inscribed in the wood. "The Locksley cross. I'd know it anywhere."

  The frown dropped from Gisborne's face as he glanced at the bow. He rubbed the pad of his thumb across the carving as if to convince himself of its reality. "So it is," he said, his voice a barely breathed whisper.

  "Of course, it could be nothing. For hunting like you said, or-"

  Gisborne silenced the soldier with a glare. "Oh, it's something, to be certain." He caressed the bow gently, breath held as he contemplated the bend of the wood. It was hardly the proof the Sheriff would have wanted, yet-

  Gisborne looked from the bow to the rough peasant shirt with a jaundiced eye, his mind whirring with possibilities. An outlaw's weapon. A dead man's shirt. Or perhaps, if-

  "Yes!" the word hissed into the gloom of the cottage. The one thing Nottingham would not abide. Something that would taint the healer forever in his sight and rid them all of the woman's sorcery.

  Another man. A rival. The witch's true consort. Better still-

  Gisborne's eyes narrowed into a cold gleam of delight. The one man Nottingham hated the most. The man who had become a symbol in the Sheriff's mind of every lawless thing that inhabited the forest.

  Locksley himself.

  Gisborne let a guttural laugh roll up from his throat. If neither truth nor evidence could indict her, then lies and cunning would have to suffice. And why not? He could bend the gossip to fit.

  She had taken no man, people claimed. No, not publicly, he would say, but in secret, fleeing to her lover in the forest depths.

  The men at the inn had made reference to her quitting her cottage for unexpected sojourns in the wood. Gone for days on end, they said. What better alibi to hide her woodland trysts than to say she was tending to the sick in a secluded village far from Edwinstowe?

  Perhaps, from time to time, she had even sheltered her Robin here in this cozy, thatch-roofed nest.

  Gisborne's blood pour through his veins, a sensation that left him light-headed and near giddy with relief. Truth be damned. He had suspected the woman all along, knew with shadowed certainty that the witch was allied with Hood in some fashion. Gisborne turned the thought over in his mind, facts, hearsay, and deception blurring until the details of his ruse felt like truth to every instinct lodged in his gut.

  And the Sheriff? The mere mention of Locksley's name in connection with the Sheriff's sainted surgeon would raise the hackles of doubt in Nottingham's suspicious nature. Gisborne grinned and let the piece of homespun linen slide off the end of his sword into the crate of herbs. With a shirt and a bow and a few well-placed lies, the Sheriff could be made to believe.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  "You were buzzard meat, by all we heard."

  From his bed, the Sheriff opened one baleful eye and tried to focus on the hearty peasant burr that rang out from the doorway, much too cheerful for his mood. "And I thought you wise enough not to give ear to such gossip, Millie. Or did you start it?"

  The older woman smiled, red cheeks plumping out, bright blue eyes crinkling in the corners. "Mildthryth," she corrected him. "What's wrong with your tongue, Sheriff? Does it not bend 'round a good English name, or are you too Norman-proud to call me by what's rightful mine?"

  "Too early in the morn. My tongue's still thick with last night's drink."

  "Aye." Her round face turned sober and disapproving. "I can see that for myself. Could you not sleep?"

  The Sheriff growled unintelligibly, a dark snarl twisting his features. "Leave me the hell alone, Millie. It was Monteforte, damn the pompous ass! Kept me up till all hours, reciting a list of grievances. Believe me, it required half a barrel of wine to muffle his chatter."

  "Well, I brought you something to break your fast, since you did not see fit to grace the hall with your presence."

  Nottingham winced at the clatter of the tray as Mildthryth set it down next to him. The smell of pickled eels and brown bread sent a wave of nausea rippling through his gut. He scraped his face with his hand, covering his nose and mouth as the urge to retch rose, and passed.

  "Your surgeon might fetch you a nostrum," Mildthryth suggested, then added meaningfully, "if you can face her after what you've done."

  "What I've done?"

  "You should be ashamed, treating the poor lamb like a prisoner."

  "She is not a 'poor lamb,'" he said gruffly, shoving the platter aside.

  "Now there I disagree, Sheriff. I know where she is, and 'twas a mean-spirited thing, sending her to that place."

  Nottingham shook his head in confusion and immediately regretted the motion. A jolt of pain ricocheted from temple to temple.

  "Small thanks you give to one who saves your worthless hide. Everyone's talking about it. Even your guards are wagering her fate."

  "Ah, the circuitous babble continues, I hear. Have pity, old woman, I've not been privy to the latest word to come from the servants' quarters."

  Mildthryth stopped, hands on hips. "Her chamber," she explained. "Although 'tis more like a swine's sty, if you ask me. I trow the Baron's very hounds fared better last eve. Why, you put her in-"

  "Gisborne was charged with finding her suitable accommodations," he said, his patience fraying. He waved his own comment aside as if it aggravated him. "So what is this new nonsense? Her rooms-? Where is she?"

  "The chamber that the, ahem-" Mildthryth cleared her throat. "-The Lady Aelwynn occupied before. Before she came to be with you."

  "I see. Gisborne again. One would think the bastard would spare me his sense of the ironic." He reached for the skin of ale left on the tray, took a hearty swallow, and glanced askance at Mildthryth. "And where is Aelwynn now, if not in her chamber...and not in mine? Or do I not want to know the answer to that?"

  Mildthryth shrugged.

  "Nay, do not answer. So Gisborne, at least, believes I have chosen Aelwynn's successor in my bed. Pray tell, what does the rest of the castle think? Nay, do not answer that either. Tell me, Millie, what do you think?"

  "Take that earnest expression from your face, Sheriff," the older woman said in a huff. "I've no interest in how you fill your nights. You're too thick-minded to see what it's
doing to you."

  "It's keeping my mind off...things," he retaliated, "like the brazen impertinence of those who serve me."

  "Bah!"

  "It's-it lets me sleep."

  "Does it then? Like the drink?"

  "Millie, what would you have of me? That I lead a life of temperance and celibacy? I am Sheriff-"

  "Aye, so I've heard, countless times when you have no other excuse for going on with the very fool thing that's usually your undoing. You've made quite a name for yourself, quite a legend of your stinking meanness, strutting here and there and pounding your chest and proclaiming, 'I am Sheriff.' And you've done it well, too, scaring the folk into submission with your anger. But is it working, if your nights want for sleep? And if you greet the morn like a bedraggled cock unable to crow for all his past night's mischief?"

  He looked at her in feigned innocence. "You are right. I am a dissolute rogue."

  "Gisborne is a dissolute rogue. You are-" She paused and laid her timeworn hand on his shoulder, her observation soft and not unkind. "You are angry. And the anger still another mask, I think."

  "Enough, Millie. I am not in the mood for your supposed wisdom." He covered her hand with his and squeezed it slightly. "Let me forget."

  "But will you?"

  "In time." His jaw clenched in determination. "When things are set right."

  "And until then?"

  He exhaled sharply, pushing the question aside. "I understand my surgeon is unhappy with her quarters and has somehow won your sympathy."

  "I've not even met the poor-"

  "Lamb," the Sheriff finished for her. "Yes, I know."

  "No one's lived in that room for nigh on-let's see, 'twas May, wasn't it? You and that one were at the fair and you bought her-'twas ribbons, I think."

  "Your memory is excellent as always, Millie."

  "Well, I remember because ribbons-well, it seemed like so small a price to pay for such a devoted companion as she was."

  Nottingham favored the woman with a withering look. "Yes, damn it, it was May, and it was ribbons, and, yes, I enjoyed months of her so-called devotion, here in this chamber, yes, Millie, four months to be precise, but that is past and my surgeon is sleeping on sour rushes with a litter or two of mice. Do you suppose you could do something about that, besides chastise me with your prattle?"

  Mildthryth smiled. "I can see to it first thing."

  "Then do so. And I suggest you have Aelwynn ask after her needs. Time the erstwhile lady earned her keep."

  "Aye, but you're a sly and vengeful man." Mildthryth's eyes sparkled with enthusiasm for Nottingham's plan. "And still able to do the right thing when you set your twisted mind on it. An odd thing though, Sheriff."

  "And what is that?"

  "Your needing to dunk your head in a barrel of wine on account of Monteforte, that I can understand. But 'tisn't Monteforte who caused your sleepless night. And being disturbed at Lady Aelwynn, that I can see, too. But 'tisn't Lady Aelwynn that disturbs you."

  "A riddle, Millie?"

  "No, just the truth, plain and simple. 'Tis her. Your surgeon. Any fool can see what's happening."

  "She is not Aelwynn's successor. I've made that clear to Gisborne. You may make it clear to the rest of the castle."

  "M-m," Mildthryth said. "But why ever not?"

  The Sheriff took another swallow of ale and grimaced. "Because, my dear Millie, she won't let me near her."

  ~*~

  Prime had come and gone, and Thea's belly felt turned inside out with hunger. She had known hunger before. Often, in fact. It was a reality she accepted, like being tired after a hard day's work or having her cheeks sunburned after a day of gathering. A few short days in Nottingham Castle, supping from the Sheriff's tray-that was the problem with having food on a regular basis. It was all too hard to do without when the time came.

  Since dawn she had dwelt on belly-filling images of pease porridge flavored with succulent bites of bacon. On aged cheese smeared over buttery bread still hot from the oven. Her mouth watered of its own accord, and she pushed the thought aside. Easier to remember why she was hungry and who bore responsibility for her having landed here, in a locked room sparsely furnished with equal amounts of refuse and goshawk droppings.

  By the Virgin, if she ever laid eyes on the man again, she would force on him a purgative so strong he would spend the better part of a sennight crouched in the garderobe. She stood and paced the room, the heat of anger chasing the chill from her bones.

  How dare he treat her in such a manner! He had made her his surgeon, and that was not a title he bestowed upon her in one breath and took away the next.

  Thea thought back to the days she had spent with the Sheriff. She had not succeeded with him by being timid, by cowering when he bellowed or agreeing with his every word, and she doubted she would survive now by being the image of meekness. On the contrary, what little acquiescence he seemed inclined to give came when she proved as stubborn and intractable as he.

  It was time she let him know that she would not be dismissed like some scullery wench who had fallen out of favor. She was his surgeon, by his own pronouncement, and his surgeon had a few demands of her own to make.

  She went to the bolted door and pounded, determined to keep it up until her fists were raw. She could hear the mutters of the guards outside, their laughter.

  "Tell the Sheriff I wish to see him at once!"

  To her surprise, she heard the jangling of keys and the rusty squeal of the lock being turned. A broad-shouldered sentry, armed as if for battle-or her escape-stared down at her, a wide-lipped grin doing little to hide rotten teeth.

  "I wish to see Lord Nottingham." Thea lifted her chin in an imperious gesture and hoped she spoke louder than her tattered appearance.

  The guard sniffed in amusement as he glanced at her in indolent assessment. Obviously entertained by the threat she posed, he reached out a mail-covered index finger to tilt her chin higher. His gaze strayed to her lips. "The Sheriff's not to be disturbed...wench."

  "Is he not? How unfortunate, for I intend to disturb him to the best of my ability. Now let me through."

  The soldier choked back a wry laugh. "Those what disturb him generally find themselves in the dungeon."

  "Then this is not it?" She gestured behind her at the room.

  "Not if you haven't found the whips and chains."

  She paused for a moment, hardly daunted. "Then a simpler request," she conceded. "If you would please, at your earliest convenience, or his, convey to him my need for a broom, some cleaning rags, and though doubtless unacquainted with the substance himself, some strong lye soap."

  "I heard you was something of a spitfire," the guard returned casually. "So you say what? Your new quarters not to your liking?"

  "The stench is unbearable."

  "Aye, a mite putrid to be sure, but the Sheriff says a fresh layer of straw over the cesspit will offset the odor."

  "The Sheriff can drain the cesspit personally, for all I care!"

  "Not short on opinions, are you? He did warn me."

  "Did he?"

  "Said he'd seen she-wolves with better manners and blackbirds what squawked less."

  "And did he tell you to stand guard over me, armed as if you held a regiment of Saracens at bay?" She touched the dagger at his waist, and before she could draw breath, the weapon whispered from its sheath and wagged threateningly an inch from her nose.

  "I believe he used the words 'legion of Celts.'" Chuckling, the guard entered the room and took a ring of keys from his waist. He slipped one into the lock of an inner door, turned it, and pushed the door open, gesturing to the adjoining room. "Said this was yours, as well, when you started up a fuss."

  Thea stepped across the threshold. The room was nearly a replica of the first, except for the impossibly foul odor. "Twice the filth," she muttered. She braced her hands on her hips and surveyed the debris, all in various stages of putrefaction. "Tell your lord that his kindness is unmatched. And inf
orm him that, should this be a test, I am not afraid of hard work...although I'd much prefer it with a meal in my stomach. You don't suppose he intends to starve me into submission?"

  "I wouldn't be asking after the Sheriff's methods, lady."

  "No, I didn't think you would." She pushed her sleeves above her elbows and tucked the hem of her tunic into the girdle at her waist, forming a makeshift apron. "At least this is simple, honest filth. I've dealt with worse."

  Without waiting for his response, she turned and put her back to the sour-smelling and unquestionably infested straw-stuffed bedding, leaving the guard to ponder whether he had just been dismissed by his charge.

  Cleaning supplies arrived within the half-hour; a tray of meat and turnips and a cold pitcher of ale followed not long after.

  ~*~

  Near the end of the afternoon, a knock sounded at her door. Thea paused from her work, knee-deep in old rushes and nameless matter that she had swept from the corners of her new sleeping chamber. She rested her hands on her broom, realizing she had not stopped for even the briefest respite since beginning her rampage of cleaning. She looked like it, too, her apron soiled, the hem of her kirtle wet and reeking, her bodice sweat-stained and unlaced over throat and bosom.

  She patted her hair, more loose tendrils than combed braids, then moved her hand to the small of her back where a persistent ache had lodged in tightened muscles. There was not a visitor in the whole of Nottingham Castle she wished to greet-not the guard, not a kitchen girl with supper tray, not even the Sheriff himself unless the scoundrel could be made useful with a bucket of soapy water.

  The knock came again, more sharply, and she pulled the door open.

  Thea recognized her visitor at once.

  The woman appeared older than her twenty-five years, her face blighted by a bitter expression and a square jaw whose severe lines were unrelieved by a thin-lipped mouth. Narrow, spite-filled eyes gleamed beneath lined lids, and Thea caught herself staring at their peculiar aureate depths. She had never seen a female who painted her face, but this one wore not only the black kohl of the infidel women, but also an unmistakable dusting of flour over an already pale face.