by Sue Wilson
She saw then the truth she had sought-the fevered purpose of his proposal, desperately calculated, deliberately designed, sacrificing her honor along with his. Her fingers grew cold; even the heat of his hands could not warm them. He must have seen it, or felt it: the change that came over her the moment she caught him in the one act she despised most.
She loved. He manipulated. It was so much a part of him, this need to command people, to dictate to the planets the destined order of his life. The very actions and thoughts were ingrained in him, tangled with the gentle nature she had learned was also there.
"So your offer is to save me...from them." As it would be. No confession of the slightest need to have her as his wife because his heart desired it. But then what had she expected? The man had no needs past those he could secure for himself with his title or position. And love-?
She swallowed painfully, feigning indifference with a frosty wit. "No offer then to unlock this door-which you could, were you man enough to challenge Lackland-and let me escape? No trial subtly altered that I might go free? No pardon bought with the prince's favor, which you have so faithfully curried?"
"Thea-"
"Then who will save me from you?"
His gaze darted to hers in a fiery black flash of anguish. Immediately she regretted she had learned so well from him the art of cold sarcasm. She had hurt him, and that knowledge tortured her far worse than any method she imagined the executioner would employ.
Oh, God, why had she done that? Rebuffed him with every icy word she could summon to make herself strong? Dealt him a sting for which she could provide no salve or simple, no surgery on heart or soul or mind, not even a comforting touch?
Thea watched the golden nimbus of torchlight reflect off his bowed head. An unlikely saint. Streaks of scarlet firelight mixed with the tousled black curls that lay against his neck. But no Satan either. That she knew, if she knew no more.
She gripped the iron bars tightly, even when his hands released hers. Especially then. Every instinct she possessed clamored within her, compelling her to reach through the bars of her gaol cell and draw him close. To find some escape for them both from this place and the events that had torn them apart.
But it was too late.
He struggled to hide the torment etched in his face, burying that single glimpse of candor behind a mask of flame and shadow.
"Your sentence will be one of death," he said, the crisp pronunciation of each word scalding her raw nerves. "Hanging is quick and painless, if done properly. Trial by ordeal, if Monteforte gets his way and the charge of witchcraft stands, would be..."
His words trailed off, a tremble in his voice that no determination could disguise. He struck the iron bars with a closed fist, once, fiercely, every feeling, every impulse checked by a will as strong as the bars that imprisoned her.
"Death either way."
"And marriage to you?"
"It is life, at least."
"Is it? You ask that I betray everything-everyone-I hold dear. Is that not death as well?"
He pushed himself back from the cell bars and turned away from her, black cloak following in a silken hiss. "Do you not think I am punished, too, Thea?" Words pushed past bearded lips like dagger points.
"You? Why you will have everything you've ever wanted, ever worked for! Hardly a sentence of death, Sheriff."
The spew of torch-smoke collected around them, hanging in the air like dry, acrid fog. It burned her eyes and caught, with her breath, in her raw throat. She glanced at his back, severing one by one every fragile feeling that had ever grown within her, shoving aside the emptiness that remained.
He spun back around. "Oh, fear not, Thea. I have been sentenced."
He gazed down at her, and what she saw on his face was as undeniable an honesty as she had ever craved. Thea saw his truth even before he spoke it.
"My sentence is to love you."
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Nottingham turned out of the dungeon, powerful strides taking him through the honeycomb of cellars and vaults, and did not stop until he was well away from the prison guards and the glare of torchlight. Alone, he slumped against the bedrock wall and raked his fingers through his hair and down across his face. For a long moment, he stayed there, face buried in his hands, letting the darkness, the aloneness, steal over him. No words of prayer came to him, and the thoughts that tumbled over themselves in his head seemed as labyrinthine as the dank maze of corridors in the bowels of the castle.
He was well and truly snared in Lackland's plan, and he doubted anything remained of their sham of a friendship to save him once the prince had his precious silver. Certainly little remained of the man's good humor, and his black mood conspired with his bloodied pride to make Thea's fate certain. Nottingham saw no way out.
The chill of the corridors was nothing compared to the wintry fear that sluiced through the Sheriff's veins. Without Thea, it mattered not if he could ever squeeze himself back into Lackland's good graces; it mattered not if the chain of office were ripped from his neck. If they killed her, they would do well to string him up beside her, for left alive he would take the chain himself and garrote every miserable bastard who had spoken against her. He had maintained his alliance with them only with bitter silence, and only in hope of sparing Thea's life.
He glanced back in the direction of the dungeon as if he could see through stone walls to her cell. She would never know his torment upon seeing her there, bruised and battered, knowing his own greed and ambition had brought this upon her, and feeling powerless to change the course he himself had set into motion. If self-chastisement could have undone this coil of events, Thea would have been freed hours ago.
He had not expected her to comply with his frantic proposal; he had certainly not expected forgiveness. He deserved neither. But, damn it all, neither had he expected to see her so uncaring of her own plight. Christ, he had robbed her of everything, of hope most of all, and he wanted her to live, if only to breathe Sherwood's green air again. If he could give her that-
He straightened, unwilling to surrender to what seemed inevitable, then froze. A flash of something, under torchlight, quickly gone. A scuffle of padded footsteps.
"Halt!" he ordered, pulling sword from scabbard.
The footsteps died in the distance.
He knew he was near the vault where the silver was stored. Perhaps a guard-but then a guard would have made himself known at the command. Nottingham sprinted down the low-ceilinged tunnel, rounded a corner, and darkness exploded into light.
~*~
"Give me one good reason I shouldn't slit his bloody throat right now!"
Sound returned even when vision did not, echoing off the walls, the dizzying slur of words churning with nausea in his gut. He felt the wetness of stone at his back; opening fluttering lids, he saw torchlight orbit from one dark horizon to the other before blackness returned. He lay on his back, the skin of his temple split, a hot rivulet of blood coursing down his cheek and neck.
Someone's hand grabbed his hair and hauled him into a sitting position. His body followed limply, having no will of its own to protest.
"Because we need him. At least for the moment."
He opened his eyes again, steeling himself for the lance of light, and found himself shadowed by a giant face. Scruffy roan beard, weather-reddened cheeks. Beneath the cowl of a priest's robe, unruly brows knit together in a frown and the fist tightened in his hair.
"But I'll be for killing the bastard myself once we're done here."
Nottingham's head seemed to wobble sickeningly on his shoulders, the only part of his body alive. He glanced at his numbed hand, empty of sword, at his belt, devoid of dagger. He felt bile gather in his mouth and forced away the urge to retch. "Pray you make it quick, then," he muttered.
"Only after you tell us where she is."
He slipped through a crack in consciousness. "Thea..."
Pain in his scalp dragged him back again. The priest's face loomed over him, features taunti
ng the ragged edges of his mind. The Benedictine's free hand curled around a quarterstaff as thick as the Sheriff's wrist.
"Aye, Thea, damn ye! What have ye done with her?"
Nottingham forced reason back into his pounding head. The reddish beard-
"God's teeth, John, you knocked him senseless!"
"Not nearly senseless enough for my liking."
John. Little. The giant with the vicious hold on his hair. Nottingham made a feeble attempt at a laugh, but the motion sent pain ricocheting through his skull. Outlaws in his castle. How oddly appropriate.
"Tell me where she is, ye mongrel Norman, or I'll take yer bleeding tongue and force it down yer bleeding Norman gullet!"
The quarterstaff with which he'd been bludgeoned slammed into his belly, and the Sheriff doubled over in pain.
"Might I suggest, John, if you want him to talk-"
"Cram it, Alan! I'll be handling him my way!"
The quarterstaff clattered to the floor and two massive hands grabbed his cloaked shoulders and pulled him to his feet. The wall rushed up behind him to crash into his spine. With effort, the Sheriff opened his eyes. Blood from the gash at his temple tickled the corner of his eyelid, tinting his vision scarlet.
"So help me, you pitiful excuse for a man, ye'll not have harmed her else I'll have your balls for breakfast. Tell me where she is!"
A fist whipped his head sideways, slicing his lip upon his teeth. He swallowed blood.
"You might try listening to your man, you overgrown imbecile," he managed.
The fist raised again.
"John! He cannot answer you if he's dead! Let the bastard speak!"
The fist stopped in mid-air, then grabbed his shoulder again. Nottingham felt his feet beneath him, sensation returning to weak legs and knees. He stiffened against the wall, lifting his head with a pride he did not feel. With effort, he looked up at the woodsman, only a hand's width taller than he, but with twice the girth and the strength of a bear. The cowl had slipped from a head of coarse red hair; and moss green eyes stared back at him, angry, oddly fearful.
"Thea-" Nottingham stopped as soon as he began.
"Aye?"
John Little's hand moved to circle his throat, tightened warily. Air fled his lungs, and darkness fluttered before him like the beating of crows' wings, and somewhere in the failing of his senses, the idea sprang to life. Ridiculous. Ironic. Desperate.
He forced his own hand to grip the giant's sinewy wrist. "I think you might be of service."
~*~
"The dungeon, you say?" John Little's feet pounded the chamber floor, crushing the rushes into dust at each turn. He paced like a caged animal, swearing in a Saxon vernacular whose meaning, while foreign, was unmistakable.
Nottingham nodded and swiped at the blood that occasionally dripped onto his cheek. He still marveled that he was alive, that the felon in priest's disguise had let him live long enough to speak, that, indeed, he had followed him to his solar to discuss the matter privately, if not reasonably. Along with Will Scathlocke, they had made their way along the corridors without any more suspicion than might ordinarily have ensued were the Sheriff to beckon a priest to his room; undoubtedly most of his people believed wholeheartedly that confession and penance were long overdue.
"And her trial? If ye can call it that?"
The Sheriff shook his head. "I'm not certain, although I'd wager the prince would rather dispense with it sooner than later. But I don't want to wait for the trial. I don't want her in that place a moment longer than need be, so we must be swift."
"How many guards?"
"Two, at the entrance to the gaol, and there's Gryffyd, the turnkey." The Sheriff grimaced ruefully. "So, four, all told."
The mathematical jest was lost on the giant outlaw.
"And along the way?"
"None that matter. You'll be coming to console a doomed prisoner. No one will think anything of it. And if I accompany you-"
"No offense, Sheriff, but I'd rather not have ye about, mucking up my plans. Were your own cursed scheme what landed her there. Best you keep Lackland entertained and off my back. Scathlocke, here, and I can take care of it."
"Getting into the dungeon is the least of your problems, Little. Getting out of Nottingham Castle..." The Sheriff wandered to the hearth, braced his forearm against the stone arch, and peered down into the bed of glowing embers. The heat touched his face, thawing every frozen feeling he had tried to keep in check.
Little would free her. Arrows, his damnable quarterstaff, his bare fists, if necessary. It didn't matter. Likely the challenge of downing three men and pulling Thea from her cell was but meager exercise to the man. Scathlocke, he supposed, could disappear back into the throngs from which he appeared. His mind stopped at the completion of their escape only because it refused to think further.
Thea would be gone.
Safe, true. But gone. Consigned to a life as a murderess in Sherwood's own prison. Pardon unthinkable. Parted from him forever. He closed his eyes. The pounding in his head had abated to a dull throb, nothing compared to the anguish of losing her.
Selfish bastard! He stopped himself. Thea would be safe. And the huge forest felon who had come for her-
Nottingham looked over to John Little, huddled head to head with his felonious companion. No doubt Little cared for her, loved her with a clear and simply honesty that she deserved. He would protect her; no harm would ever come to her. If tortured, sleepless nights were Nottingham's own end, at least they would not be filled with worries for her safekeeping. This time, the greenwood would not have stolen something from him, he would have surrendered it, willingly.
Somehow, the rightness of that brought him no peace; the very idea of living some kind of parallel existence with the woman he loved was unbearable. To know she lived, maybe even thrived, but never to see her or touch her, never to wake to the warmth of her body nestled against his. He supposed it was penance enough, at that.
"Aye," he heard Little say, and turned to the two outlaws. "Then we'll be about it." The giant's hand clasped Scathlocke's in agreement.
"When?" Nottingham asked.
"Tonight."
"But I had hoped to see her again-" The words slipped out before he could stop them, and he could not tell if it were amusement or understanding that colored John Little's cheeks.
"Best to do it now when 'tis unexpected, before the morn when Lackland might prove hungry for a trial to start his day proper and all. While 'tis dark and we stand a chance of passing through the gate."
Reluctantly, the Sheriff nodded. He drew a painful breath and looked out through the arched windows to the blackened horizon beyond. The moon reflected silvery light off drifts of snow. Only one question lingered. It hardly mattered, but he asked it anyway.
"You did come to rescue her, did you not?"
Silence.
He looked around at the giant's all-too-ingenuous face.
"You did come for that purpose, did you not?" he repeated. "Belated though it may be, you are here for her-" He stopped suddenly, his senses clearing with an onrush of insight. "Just how many of your men are in my castle?"
John Little answered him in silence, but the Sheriff caught Scathlocke raising an anxious face to his stoic companion, his expression one of a deer trapped by nocked arrow.
"How many?" Nottingham roared, his own voice like thunder in his skull.
"Enough," Little replied, never moving, his features as stolid as his bulk.
"Christ Almighty!" Nottingham swiped at bleary eyes. "Then you did not come for Thea, but to-"
"Nay, we want her as well."
"As well as my silver!"
"'Tisn't yer silver, Sheriff-"
The Sheriff's hand sliced through the air, cutting off the woodsman in mid-statement. "When were your men going to carry out your intended embezzlement?"
"I am not at liberty to say."
"Then your plan to rob me is intact? No, do not supply a needless answer. It is written
as plainly as the guilt across your faces." He paused, stroking his chin. "Then I daresay there are a legion of your ilk in every corner of my castle? Enough to down the guards at the vault and every step between there and the gate? Enough to cart a goodly number of barrels and chests? To man and drive a treasury wagon?" Nottingham laughed under his breath and pivoted toward the window. "My God, did Thea tell you? Never mind. It doesn't matter."
His mind raced beyond the obvious dilemma, that the security of his castle had somehow been breached by a rabble of thieves bent on stripping him of his last tenuous purpose. It raced even beyond the fact that surely Thea had somehow sent word to the forest that the transfer of silver was imminent. His thoughts sped ahead of reason, taking devious, hopeful turns as he conspired within himself, tempting him with his first taste of pleasure since Lackland's arrival.
Slowly, he turned and fixed John Little with a skeptical stare. For the first time, the outlaw's face was marred with the frightening possibility that he was trapped, likely to be arrested and thrown to the hounds, with the horrible apprehension that he had not only surrendered the secrecy of his conspirators, but forfeited Thea's rescue in the bargain.
On any other occasion, the Sheriff would have relished the moment, for he had won, had Locksley's chief accomplice and a goodly number of his men within his grasp. Finally. It was all he had lived for since the first time he had entered the castle gates.
Nottingham smiled ruefully, the irony digging sharply into his belly as he shook his head in resignation. "Your cassock is too short, priest."
"What?"
"Anyone within ten paces would spot you as counterfeit."
"I made it this far, did I not? Nay, Sheriff, do not stop me now, not for the love of that blood money sitting in yer-"
Nottingham cut off the spew of words. "Merely an observation, Little."
~*~
Every bone in her body ached. Thea longed to stretch out her limbs as much as her cramped cell allowed, but she had no wish to disturb whatever vermin shared her quarters or to find, by accident, the foul leavings of the previous captive. She had huddled into a tight knot in the center of the stone cubicle, her knees drawn up to her chin, her forehead resting on her knees, and prayed for sleep that never came.