GREENWOOD

by Sue Wilson

  "Out!" the Sheriff raged, although both he and Mildthryth knew the anger to be but pretense. "You're a bawdy, lecherous-minded old woman. Christ knows why I've tolerated you as long as I have."

  "What you've done to deserve me, 'tis more like it." She winked as the door thudded shut behind her.

  The Sheriff could only agree. He drew a deep breath, unsteady at the prospect of a day cloistered away from the world with only Mildthryth's iron will to hide him. A day, he mused. Only a day. It should be a lifetime....

  Now that breakfast had arrived, he had an excuse to wake Thea, to waste not a minute of the time given them. He picked up the tray, carried it up the stairs to the sleeping alcove, and set it beside the bed.

  "Thea?" he whispered.

  She muttered something indiscernible and rolled her head toward him, but did not wake.

  He called her name again, louder, with no acknowledgment at all this second time. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the breakfast tray with its basket of bread and pot of honey. He removed the lid from the pot, swirled his middle finger into the golden syrup, and ran his finger lightly between her parted lips.

  Though still half asleep, she met his finger with the tip of her tongue and tasted the sweet stickiness. Her lips curved up into a half-smile, and slowly she opened her eyes.

  How startling they were! Somehow he was never prepared for the swirling night-blue color or the smudge of black lashes surrounding them. Never prepared for the drowsy look of seduction that teased within their depths. Her mouth tugged insistently on his finger as she drew the tip into her mouth and licked the honey off with sinuous strokes of her tongue.

  "Thea-"

  She released his finger with a brief kiss that slid down its length and buried itself into his palm. "I was dreaming," she said huskily, as she reached up and pushed the robe off his shoulders.

  "About?"

  Her hands circled his neck, then smoothed down his back, drawing him closer. "About this," she whispered, finding him beneath the thin linen of his braies. "About not leaving this room until I've had my fill of you."

  "And when would that be?" he asked.

  "Never." She reached up, drew his head down to hers, and shared the honey-sweet flavor of her kiss.

  ~*~

  "Sleeping! Resting! That's what she says he's doing-that battle-ax, she-bear-"

  Gisborne turned on his heel, grinding rushes beneath his boot. "She says he's ill. Bah! There's only one thing that could keep my cousin abed past Prime, and that's-"

  "Incompetence?" Aelwynn lifted the tangled mass of hair away from her neck and flexed her supple shoulders, stretching the sleep from her limbs.

  "-That simpering, whey-faced excuse for a surgeon. It's anybody's guess which piece of his anatomy she's been called upon to cure."

  Aelwynn rose from the bed with the liquid grace of a cat and walked slowly toward Gisborne. He watched the yellow silk of her gown glide across her slender legs with each step, felt her cool hands framing his face, trying to force the morning's woes from his aching head. Nothing helped, not even her kiss, thorough, icily provocative, regally detached.

  He shoved her aside and poured himself a tankard of ale.

  Aelwynn's brow lifted, and she eyed him with blatant speculation. "There was a time I begrudged him the use of her myself, when I learned what he felt for her was more than just a moment's infatuation."

  "When your wiles would no longer hold him," Gisborne finished for her, trying in vain to wash the sour taste from his throat.

  Aelwynn bristled. "When I saw how feeble his lust has made him."

  Gisborne stopped in mid-swallow, watching her over the rim of his cup. "Then you see?"

  She shrugged.

  "How tame he's become?" Gisborne rushed at her with a barrage of words. "How meek and preoccupied? How absorbed he is in her, in doing nothing more than frolicking in the forest, than sleeping past noon-"

  "I see how impatient you are. How eager." Her voice dropped. "How desperate."

  She wore an oily smile of triumph, as if his admission had given her a rare advantage. And likely it had. Gisborne cursed himself with a silent oath. He had handed the whore a fine piece of treachery, and with no more thought than when he put himself between her legs. No doubt, she would take it to Nottingham before the day was done, use it in some fruitless attempt to barter her way back beneath his sheets.

  She fingered the embroidery of his surcoat. "You would do well to put Thea Aelredson from your mind, my lord."

  "It is not the wench-" he protested.

  "No. Indeed, it is not. Oh, please understand. I know it troubles you. You-your cousin's keenest rival, always a slow, faltering step behind him-having to forfeit to him, again, something that by all rights you won for yourself."

  Gisborne frowned, uncertainty creeping into the hollow pit of his stomach. "The wench means nothing. I could have any number of Saxon peasants on their knees, damn you, begging for my favor!"

  "Indeed you could, my lord. If you only had from him what you truly want most." Aelwynn's fingers hooked beneath his knotted belt, and she pulled him against her.

  "What I-?"

  "His sheriffdom," she murmured. "His title. This castle. The whole of the shire to plunder as you wish."

  Her lips were impossibly close. The air between them vibrated, the cloud of her wine-spiked breath tickling his throat as he turned his head aside. He could not think why she pursued this treachery; he could only deny her with a harsh, shattered rasp. "No-" he shook his head fiercely, "-Nottingham holds no lure for me. This decrepit castle?"

  "You are content then to follow behind him, always rushing to do his bidding like an underpaid clerk?"

  Gisborne stiffened as if slapped, drawing himself up to full height. "I am lieutenant of his guard-"

  "You are dog piss to him!" Aelwynn spat. She expelled a breath of frustration, then visibly drew in her anger, like a cat sheathing its claws. "And a poor liar, as well," she continued. "You covet his position as obviously as you covet his surgeon. Any fool can see that." Abruptly she released him and turned to the wineskin, fingering the filigreed cap. "It only remains to be seen what you will do about it."

  "What I will do?" he shouted, offense seething from every pore. "Why, I will do nothing! He is my cousin. He bought this sheriffdom himself when my earnings in the lists would not have bought me a cheap whore on a cold night! This shire is rightfully his, by law, by appointment of King Richard-"

  "Your unflagging loyalty is quite touching," she said. "And quite unwarranted. Are you not the same cousin who, moments ago, spoke so eloquently, so angrily about the Sheriff's shortcomings? About his preference for lying abed with your wench while he neglects the responsibilities of his office."

  She glanced at him from beneath slanted brows, her sulfuric eyes trapping him, accusing him.

  "I am merely concerned," he managed. "The time for Prince John's visit draws nigh. There are still taxes to be collected. The knights' portions of Richard's ransom-a sore twenty shillings no knight wants to pay-and the priory at Lenten owes us as least the loan of their silver plate-someone must see to it-Christ, that embarrassing spectacle with the stable burning down-Sherwood teeming with felons-"

  "Put it all aright."

  He was not certain he had heard her correctly, so soft was her whisper. Perhaps he had not heard her at all, and it was the desperate, deranged notions of his own mind, taunting him now as they had for weeks. For years.

  "Who is he but a bastard stable boy? A nameless wretch who squirmed into your family's embrace and used their wealth and good name to make of himself something more than a serf? By God's very bones, Nottingham was no reward to him. He bought it, and from a king who would've sold London itself was there a buyer. And having bought it, what did he do but let the forest rabble rule it, as easily as they-as she-rule him? He has failed. You, my lord, will not."

  Gisborne shuddered. "You don't know what you say, Aelwynn. He has scorned you, turned you f
rom his bed for another, and your wrath has taken the better of your senses."

  "Is that what you think?"

  "Aelwynn-"

  "Then I shall tell you," she announced, turning toward him, her face haughty with the look of success. "The shire barons are not at all satisfied with the way the Sheriff has handled his duties. And they've spared nothing in communicating their displeasure to Prince John. There's the matter of motive, you see. Is he merely ineffective, or does he have another purpose? Even now, Lackland has begun to doubt the Sheriff's loyalty."

  "Impossible-"

  "Possible enough, I'm afraid. Lackland has become convinced that Nottingham's political maneuvering smacks of personal ambition, that even now the Sheriff weighs the possibility that there is more to be gained should he hold the castle for Richard."

  Gisborne choked on laughter. "Then your sources do not know my cousin," he said bitterly. "He may not relish falling at the feet of that dark, little rodent who is prince, but neither does he favor an absent king who cares nothing for England, save the people's ability to finance his wars. No, Aelwynn, my cousin has held Nottingham Castle well for John, and will relinquish it, gladly, in exchange for his highness' royal favor."

  "He will not get the chance. Lackland plans to remove your cousin as sheriff and entrust the castle to William de Wendeval and Ralph Murdoe, two constables whom he trusts."

  "He cannot!"

  "He can; he has the backing of the barons. Sampson de Stradley, Galfred Luterell, lord of Gamston-"

  "Enough! Why this is ludicrous!" Gisborne downed his ale in a single, hearty gulp.

  "You yourself blared of his incompetence. Is it ludicrous to think no one else would notice? Baron Monteforte, whose son was killed in Sherwood, was most outspoken."

  "Why that sniveling, pork-bellied-"

  "Silence!" Aelwynn warned. "It is all but done! Would you ruin your own chances with a reckless tongue?"

  "Chances? What chances do I have without my cousin? Our plans, our every effort on Lackland's behalf-"

  "For safekeeping, Prince John will be convinced to tender Nottingham Castle to you instead," she said.

  "To me?"

  Aelwynn did not reply at first. She merely poured a cup of wine and held it aloft, then inclined her auburn head to him in a gesture of obeisance and bent in a fluid curtsy. "My lord sheriff."

  Gisborne brushed past her. "How did you come by this information?" he asked gruffly.

  "You mean with whom did I sleep?"

  "That is your usual method of currying favor. I see no other way for a common whore to know the minds of barons and earls-and kings."

  Aelwynn put her cup down untouched. "I did it for you," she demurred.

  "Who?"

  "Monteforte," she admitted. "When you left me to entertain him that afternoon of the Sheriff's...absence."

  Gisborne remembered. His cousin returning from his tourn of the shire, eager only to see Thea, foisting off the burdensome baron with a flick of his hand.

  He closed his eyes, suppressing a wave of nausea. It was happening then. The slow unraveling of his cousin's power. The sapping of his every plan. The crumbling destruction of Nottingham's every ambition. Just as Gisborne had feared. As he'd wished in some dark, loathsome part of his heart where he'd buried his secret envy of his cousin alongside his admiration for the man. Gisborne felt sick.

  "Monteforte is nothing," he said. "A piss-ant in the scheme of things. He has no power. And loyalty? You would speak of loyalty? Why he still has not graced the coffers with Wythestead taxes!"

  Aelwynn's gaze flitted away from his, and in that moment, Gisborne knew she withheld some other truth. His hand shot out, taking her stubborn, defiant chin, jerking her face toward him.

  "Who else?" he demanded. "Monteforte hasn't the means to plant such a foul scheme in Lackland's head. You've traded yourself to someone far more influential than a backwoods baron. Who?"

  She shook her head, but his fingers bit sharply into the thin flesh of her jaw.

  "Tell me!"

  "Someone who would have more for you, who wants more for you than to follow in the footsteps of a stable boy. Someone who could give you-"

  "Tell me his name!" The words rang out so loudly the candles flickered in their sconces.

  The blood drained from Aelwynn's face, leaving only the vermilion slash of her mouth and calculating, kohl-blackened eyes. She lifted her chin, higher even than he held it, and stared at him with cool bravado. Her voice hissed into the silence. "Your father."

  "My-?" The name clogged in his throat, stuffing air back into his lungs until he choked on the thought and the world grayed, fuzzy and indistinct, around him. His gut turned to water. "What has my father-?"

  He could not bring himself to finish the sentence. The word alone ripped through his throat like ragged metal, left him bleeding with a deluge of raw memories. God's oath! What was she saying? What did she know? How did she know?

  Instantly, he regretted everything he had spoken to her, every time he had trusted her, touched her, lain with her thinking it made him more of a man. Bile rose in his mouth, and he tasted the betrayal of her every kiss.

  In his moment of shock, she managed to break his grip on her and pushed free. "Ask me no further questions," she said frostily, shaking out her skirts and smoothing her sleeves. "I see you are speechless with gratitude."

  "Aelwynn-"

  "Perhaps words will come to you by Christmastide. Your father travels with Prince John's caravan. A gracious acceptance of his offer would be wise, unless you prefer the companionship of your cousin in the streets!"

  "Aelwynn, I never wanted-"

  "Don't compound your foolishness with a lie," she said, disgust evident in her tone. "You wanted Nottingham's strength as much as I did. You basked in it while he lorded over you, hating him, loving the authority he gave you. It is the way of men with no power of their own."

  "And women?" Gisborne sneered and his eyes met hers, slicing through the traitorous, amber depths with a steely gaze.

  "I am the mistress of Lord Roger deGisborne...and his son. Is that not power enough?"

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  "Enough of this madness!" Nottingham bounded out of bed, grabbed the bedclothes in both hands, and dragged them off the bed with a vigorous tug.

  Thea shrieked, then laughed and lunged for an edge of fur just as it escaped her fingertips.

  "The day is done. You would keep me here all eve as well?" The Sheriff scooped her up in both arms and carried her swiftly out of the alcove and down the steps. "Millie has prepared a bath, stoked the fire, and brought a tray of wine and cold meat from the kitchen."

  "You think too much of your stomach, my lord," she said, circling her arms around his neck and laying her head on his shoulder.

  "Yes, well, one of us should, since it seems you have an unsubtle plan to keep me occupied until I perish of starvation."

  Slowly he eased her into the large tub, and with a sigh, Thea relaxed into the herb-scented water. "Starvation?" she asked dreamily, as the mist curled around her, threading like tendrils of smoke in the creamy candlelight.

  "Or exhaustion." He poured a single cup of wine, drank from it, and passed the goblet to her with a rare, self-effacing smile.

  The expression touched Thea's heart more certainly than any of his practiced techniques and smooth words. His transformation still astounded her. It had been less than a day since he'd opened himself to her, yet she felt as if she had always known him like this: relaxed and easy in his skin; murmuring sweet endearments and witty banter with equal ease; loving her with generous, unbridled passion that never failed to take her breath away.

  "So you have reached the limits of your endurance, Sheriff?" she teased, knowing, of course, he had not. She stretched out in the over-sized cask, one arm bent as a pillow beneath her head, and closed her eyes. From the lazy luxury of her bath, she heard a ripple and felt a gentle, wet slosh against her chin as he stepped into the tub and sank int
o the steamy water beside her.

  The Sheriff did not answer, but shifted his position until he lay alongside her and held her in his arms. As he began rubbing the cake of soap over her back and the round weight of her breasts, the sensations in her body reminded her of what he did not need to say. The man was indefatigable.

  "Is this anything to compare with your pool in Sherwood?" he asked.

  Thea opened her eyes, drowsily content. "Warmer. Somewhat more crowded." She smiled. "Better." She stroked her fingers along the soap in his palm and outlined the features of his face, loving him. The high forehead, the near-aquiline perfection of his nose, the scruff of black beard in need of a barber.

  "Tickles," he said, scratching his nose. Then suddenly he ducked beneath the surface of the water, rinsing the tracery of suds away.

  Thea laughed as he came up sputtering, water streaming from the tumble of sodden black curls that fell to his shoulders. So like the day they had spent in Sherwood together, she recalled wistfully, when she had shoved him into the stream and they had played in the grasses on the creek bank.

  Their mouths met as if by instinct, as if he remembered as well; his hands fashioned slippery caresses against the satin of her skin as he drew her against him.

  Just like that day. Save this time she had what she'd so wanted then. This time she had it all.

  ~*~

  He was drunk and knew it. Gisborne slid his hand around the blurry tankard of ale, missing it completely, and scowled in the direction of the serving girl who had paused at the table. From her expression, the wench was tallying the trips she had made from the buttery to the great hall with an increasingly sour disposition. He would have grabbed at her, too, but his movements had grown leaden as well as imprecise and he had no wish to be the topic of her derisive chatter when she returned to the kitchen.

  Gisborne drained the cup, not bothering to wipe the brown-flecked foam from his lip. Damn Aelwynn for the traitorous whore she was! The courtesan had slid easily enough from the Sheriff's bed to his. Why had he ever assumed she would stop there?