by Sue Wilson
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Aelwynn cast a backward glance at the darkened corridor and held her breath, listening to the tramp of receding footsteps as the paired sentries turned the corner and vanished down an adjacent hallway. Easing her flattened spine away from the cold stone and mortar wall, she stepped out of the shadows and pushed open the oaken door.
God's teeth, but that healing wench had taken her time in departing! Long after the rest of Nottingham was lined along the prince's parade route, the peasant had stayed, chattering with that stable brat who clung to her side like so much horse dung to one's heels. Even the old woman seemed in no hurry to haul herself to the upper bailey for a final inspection of the royal apartment.
Aelwynn eased the latch into place and paused. The pungent smell of the herbalist's wares assaulted her nostrils, and she winced at the mingled odors. Rows of dead, dry plants rattled like bones above her head, and a variety of wooden and crockery vials, each inscribed with a curious script, filled the nearby shelves. Her thin lips turned down at the corners. So the witch could read, could she? And write. A waste of talent, to be sure. Better the simpering fool develop a taste for suspicion and a flair for survival, qualities that would stand her in better stead.
Aelwynn pulled the cork stopper out of one bottle and sniffed the ingredients. Frowning, she wet the tip of her finger and brought the crumbs of dried leaves to her tongue. A hot, bitter taste filled her mouth, and she spat, swearing aloud. Foxglove, and without the mask of honey that made a serviceable purgative. It would do, of course, but not nearly well enough. Not quickly enough. And it must be quick. At least it was some small comfort to know that among her cures, the Sherwood whore kept a goodly stock of poisonous compounds.
She replaced the stopper and ran her finger along the row of jars. The herb witch had amassed quite a store of simples, when she was not busy in the Sheriff's bed. Aelwynn did not possess more than a rudimentary knowledge of herbs, but Monteforte had made that unnecessary. Surreptitiously, she took the pouch that dangled at the end of her girdle and loosened the ties at its neck. He had provided the means, the instructions, everything save the gall to carry out his dastardly plan. And that he had left to her.
Aelwynn chose a vial at random, emptied its contents onto the table, and replaced them with the henbane Monteforte had provided, reserving enough for her own purpose. She returned the bottle to the cupboard, and folded the remaining herbs back in their parchment wrapper. Efficiently, she swept the herbs she had removed from the vial into her pouch and added the parchment square.
There were few, if any, among Lackland's party who would care should the Sheriff take suddenly ill; in truth, Monteforte would have rid the shire of him weeks ago and spared Aelwynn no admonishment on the failure of her other attempts. What could she say? Nottingham had been lucky. So far.
No time remained for delay or another bungling of their plans, or the Sheriff's unfathomable ability to escape the fate planned for him. Nottingham must be removed before the weakening in his loyalties ruined everything. Monteforte had insisted upon it. And Lord Roger deGisborne promised to reward her handsomely for opening the way for his son to assume the main role in the transfer of silver.
Aelwynn thought briefly of Guy of Gisborne. Not a leader, but then that was not what they wanted. He would do what was required of him and had neither the intelligence nor the spine to question his orders. A season ago, she would not have given the lieutenant more than a passing glance, perhaps stooped to a trifling flirtation were she bored. But a season ago, Nottingham had been hers, and the outlaw woman from Sherwood had not even existed. The Sheriff had indeed outlived his usefulness.
Vehemently, Aelwynn tugged the strings of her pouch closed. So, for that matter, had that simpering witch who had robbed him of his ambition. If suspicions were to be raised over her lover's death, let them fall on her.
~*~
The Yuletide season traditionally lasted from Christmas Eve until Twelfth Night, and Thea had managed to escape the few days and evenings after Prince John and the barons arrived by keeping to her usual routine of caring for the sick. However, the Sheriff had made it clear he expected her attendance at the Yuletide festivities; keeping to her chamber was not an option.
Mildthryth had spent the better part of the day fussing over last minute preparations of Thea's gown, and as the sun dipped below the hills of the shire, Thea had given herself reluctantly to the serving woman's ministrations.
"I know what you're thinking, lamb," Mildthryth said, lowering a shift of embroidered ivory silk over Thea's head, "but you cannot delay further. Besides, he needs you there."
"To watch him make the worst mistake of his life? Why must I be witness to that?"
"He needs your strength," was all Mildthryth would say as she tugged the laces tight at Thea's waist and again at her wrists where the long, narrow sleeves ended.
"I could do without the gaiety and revelry. In truth, I don't think I can abide this masquerade."
"You'll manage, and he'll manage better with you at his side."
"It's the powerlessness, Mildthryth. Knowing what is about to happen and being unable to do a single thing to prevent it. It seems as if I am doomed to stand by and watch those I love slip beyond my grasp. It was that way with Brand, and now Nottingham. Is it so wrong to want to challenge the unfairness of it all? Brand lay dying and I cried out to God, wondering how He could give me the talent to heal and then strip it from me the one time that mattered most. And now-if love is so powerful a thing, how is it that my love is not enough to alter the Sheriff's course?"
Mildthryth shook her head. "You cannot blame yourself for the Sheriff's steadfastness. If he is doing wrong, 'tis for him to correct his course, not you. His errors are not your burdens, lamb. If 'tis treachery, or sin, only he will be judged."
"But I will be punished, for what worse sentence is there than to be forced to watch as the man I love commits the one act that will surely separate us forever? If I could, Mildthryth, I would stop them all! If it meant bringing Nottingham Castle down to a rubble of stone, I would do it!"
"You've done all you can." The softly spoken reminder hung in the air between them, and Thea closed her eyes against the tears that threatened.
Mildthryth took the dark green gown Thea had chosen to wear, and lifted it over her head. Green, like the forest, she had said, when she'd picked it over a number of more luxurious kirtles. The soft wool fit her snugly over her breasts and waist, but the sleeves fell into long trailing bells at her elbow and were knotted at the ends to prevent them from dragging in the rushes. The hem of sleeves and skirt were embroidered with gilt thread that sparkled under the candlelight, and a narrow gold cord girded her waist, her one concession to senseless finery.
Mildthryth had coerced her spirals of hair into braids and woven handfuls of tiny gilt filaments through them so that every turn of her head caught the light and glittered like coppery fire, but Thea would wear no veil or wimple, no jewelry, no stain of berries on her lips or cheeks.
Undoubtedly she would look out of place among the other ladies of the prince's entourage, but she didn't care. Let them see her swathed in the colors of Sherwood, let them laugh and joke behind their milk-white hands at the peculiar woman the Sheriff had employed as surgeon. Let the rumors run rampant; no doubt, they would anyway.
A knock sounded at her door, and Thea knew he had come for her as promised to escort her into the great hall.
"Are you ready, then?" Mildthryth gave the skirts a final brush of her hand and pinched Thea's cheeks to redden them.
"This is a travesty," she muttered under her breath. "My soul will burn in hell for even playing a part in it."
"Aye, well, you'll look like heaven itself on your way then, if I do say so myself."
Mildthryth opened the door and stood aside as the Sheriff entered. For a long moment, no one in the room spoke. Thea's throat tightened as she pressed her lips together grimly, and held out her hand to him.
&n
bsp; ~*~
The great hall had been utterly transformed. Ablaze with torchlight and myriad candelabra, the room seemed afire with revelry and expectation. Banners hung from the vaulted ceiling; one emblazoned with the golden Plantagenet lions on a scarlet field formed the backdrop for the high table, which was draped in snowy damask and festoons of ivy, winter berries, and gold ribbons. Centerpieces, each comprised of twelve candles and surrounded by an equal number of holly springs, adorned the high table as well as the two tables juxtaposed at either end. Silver plate and gem-encrusted goblets sparkled at each setting. For a solemn, midland fortress, Nottingham Castle had made an elegant display of itself.
A great crush of people filled the room, and the noise of their talking was momentarily deafening. Thea halted just inside the arched entrance, fingers biting into the Sheriff's forearm to detain him. "I can't do this," she murmured. Even as she spoke, the sound of laughter swallowed her words.
Nottingham looked down at her, his eyes lit with amber threads of candlelight. He looked resplendent, garnets and intricate embroidery of gold and burgundy trimming his black, fur-edged cloak. The pattern of jewels and metallic threads was repeated on his tunic, rimming the neckline and striping down each tight-fitting sleeve.
If there were hesitancy on the Sheriff's part, he disguised it well. "We mustn't keep our guests waiting," he said, bending his head close to hers.
"Ah, here she is!" A booming voice called out, and the hall fell to silence. Clusters of brightly colored tunics and gowns parted with a silken rustle as the guests moved back, bowing or curtsying, to make room for Prince John of England. "Our Lord Sheriff has whetted our appetite for you, madam, with tales of your miraculous cures. You did not say, Nottingham, what a rare vision she was."
Thea had a glimpse of dark hair cut blunt at a square jaw, of a swarthy complexion and discerning eyes meeting hers with something less than amusement or geniality. In a pause that stretched out a trifle long for propriety, she met his gaze, then bent into a stiff curtsy. "Your Highness."
"An absolutely charming piece of baggage," the prince continued, dismissing Thea without so much as a word. Lackland laid his hand on the Sheriff's shoulders and steered him aside. "Tell me," he continued as the two of them walked away and the crowd resumed its chatter, "however did Aelwynn take being rousted from your bed? Now there's a talented wench. You could search the countryside and still not find a tastier meal than what lies between that woman's thighs."
The Sheriff's reply, if there was one, and the prince's lewd ramblings mixed with the clamor of the other guests, and Thea straightened, her hands drawn into tight fists amidst the folds of her skirt.
Enough then, she had made an appearance and would be damned before she subjected herself to breathing the same air as that man and his cohorts. Nottingham had all but disappeared into the throng of his guests, and she would not be missed. She turned on her heel and made quickly for the doorway, only to feel someone yank on her sleeve. She wrenched away from the hold and started to hurry past, but an iron hand circled her upper arm and drew her roughly aside.
"Leaving before the first course, lass?"
Thea's heart turned over beneath her ribs, then raced headlong into panic. "John!"
"And I hear there's to be quite a spread. Roast venison in pepper sauce-and where do ye suppose they found that, I ask? Meat pies with pastry as brown as you'd like. Pig turning on the spit in the kitchen, dripping with seasoned oils. I'd as like come for the victuals as much as yer message."
"You fool! Hide yourself!" She shoved him into a darkened corner behind the privacy of a hanging tapestry.
"Aye, and thank ye for such a warm and hearty welcome, Thea."
"God and all the saints!" A host of emotions slammed through her, and she covered her face with her hands and sobbed.
"Shush, lass. And I put on Tuck's finest habit to impress ye. Here now, 'tis nothing, shush-"
She threw herself into John Little's arms, and in the next second pushed herself away from him. "You came! I was past believing there was any help. Why did you not send word? Why did you-?"
"Dry your tears, now. Did ye think I'd leave ye alone when the time came? Didn't ye know, lass? One word, and I'd be at your side. No tiny row between us would change that."
"But I thought-"
"And not I alone, you'll be glad to know." He winked at her as a sly grin spread through gingered whiskers. "I'll not be so bold as to point them out, but stay a while and enjoy yer feast, and see if some of the faces don't look a tad familiar to ye."
"They're here?" Thea asked incredulously, already looking over her shoulder at the milling crowd.
John turned her cheek back to him. "Aye, if your manner don't send them scurrying for the nearest doorway." He laid a large finger aside his lips. "Try and see if you can keep your wits about ye for a change."
"How ever did you manage?"
"Hell, lass, Nottingham Castle done flung open its gates for every last man and woman in the shire. T'weren't nothing, save for Alan, who tried to get in the proper way, saying he was a minstrel and all. But I fear the lad's ballocks have dropped; his voice has taken on a peculiar bass at inopportune times, and the Sheriff weren't having-"
"How can you even jest about such a thing?"
"Best do my laughing now, lass, for there's work to do later, and plenty of it. The vaults are nigh swollen with silver and armaments, and ye cannot be about the halls without tripping over a dozen of Nottingham's soldiers, all being on their best behavior for once. Damn the bleeding lot of them, but they don't intend to make this an easy one."
"What must I do, John?"
"Well, ye sit at your bastard Sheriff's side and enjoy your venison. Sip your wine. Smile ever so sweetly. See if ye can't keep a respectful tongue in your head so no one is the wiser."
"But-"
"Stay out of trouble. Do ye think you can do that, lass?"
"Aye, but, John, there must be more! Let me-"
"Keep out of harm's way, Thea," he said, a somber look in his green eyes.
Thea gritted her teeth, and a muscle worked in her tightened jaw. "I can help."
"Aye, ye have. We're here. Now let the lads have their fun."
"Damn you, John, I am-"
"Listen to me, and listen well, for it's as clear as the look on your face ye haven't considered what will come of this." John folded his hands over her shoulders and stared at her with intensity she had never seen in the man. "Should we make off with the silver, should we succeed, there will be hell to pay for it. Not just for us, but also for you. And as for your Sheriff, whether 'tis by Lackland's hand for fouling his plan or Richard's for playing party to treason, the man's coming down, and there's naught to save him. I know ye made your choice back there in the wood, and while I cannot say I like it, I allowed it. But the time has come, lass. Stay with him, and you sign your own death warrant. Not even I can rescue ye from that."
"But-"
"Be ready to leave when I come for ye."
"John, I cannot-"
"You can and you will, lest ye have me truss you like a squealing piglet and haul ye out of here myself. Until then-" He tilted his cowled head in the direction of the festivities, and a brief smile supplanted the look of danger and warning on his face. "I sampled the venison myself. 'Tis quite tasty."
~*~
Aelwynn traded glances with Baron Monteforte across the crowded room, then she scanned the hall for the familiar faces of her other accomplices. Ah, yes, de Stradley, bedecked like a barnyard cock in yellow and red, swaggering among the guests as if he owned the place. Luterell, whose effeminate features and vapid smile belied his treacherous thoughts. And over beside the hearth, away from the others, sulking as if the eve's events were not at all to his liking, was Gisborne.
Aelwynn allowed a brief frown to cross her face, then replaced it with studied nonchalance. Gisborne had seen to his duties well enough, if not altogether soberly, but he was still unpredictable.
He had
said little of his reunion with his father save that the man's ambition had not mellowed in the intervening years. When she had prodded him for details, wanting to know if he had been forgiven the lapse of his youth, wanting to know if he had managed to salvage their relationship, Gisborne had only snarled contemptuously. "He wants me as sheriff, does he not?"
It was not an altogether satisfactory, or reassuring, response, and Aelwynn had spent the better part of the eve coddling the lieutenant's insecurities and assuring him he was made for something more glorious than a common soldier and lackey. She hoped she had been convincing. The Sheriff was but a millstone around Gisborne's neck now, and Gisborne knew it. Best to sever whatever strange ties of loyalty bound them before he made a complete fool of himself. The plan had been set into motion, whether he realized it or not. By tomorrow, he would wear the chain of office and Nottingham Castle would be his. He had only to play the role of witless pawn.
Aelwynn's gaze drifted to the Sheriff, and for a moment, a rare spear of regret lanced through her. Unfortunate the tide had turned against him, for he was truly a magnificent man in nearly every respect. Even now, she was able to appreciate the fineness of his dark figure, the boldness of his gestures, the keen sexual fire he lit wherever he went. If only he had not allowed that Sherwood vixen to come between them, if only the witch had not softened his heart and his drive and his all-consuming authority.
She shrugged, and dismissed the months she had been a servant to her lust for him. That was the past, and now she would use him as he had used her. She had not survived as long as she had, alone, without recognizing that shifts of power were as natural and inevitable as the changing of the moon, without predicting who would next hold the reins of control and quickly assessing how she might insinuate herself into his sphere of influence.
She looked at last upon the man she had chosen for herself, long before he had even set foot in the shire.
Lord Roger deGisborne had the wiry stature of his son, the same hollowed cheeks and angular jaw, the same darting eyes that lent him the appearance of a watchful hawk as he surveyed the room from the periphery of the crowd. But there all similarity vanished. His hair, although Norman-sheared, was a lush crown upon his head, gray streaked equally with black and white. His attire was immaculate and understated, as was so often the case among those who had inherited their fortunes, took their abundance easily for granted, and saw no need to flaunt their largesse.