by Sue Wilson
For hours she had entreated God and an endless list of saints to deliver her, but to a one, they mocked her earnest pleas, leaving only the echo of the Sheriff's last words as painful company. Had she been less angry, she would have cried. Had she been less weary, she would have whiled away the sleepless hours of night conjuring ways in which the faithless bastard could meet an end as gruesome as the one Lackland obviously planned for her. But nothing remained in her mind or heart or soul. She was hollow, a void, with only her aching body to remind her she still existed.
Tendrils of thought whispered at the edges of her consciousness, dragging her back to the time after Brand's death. She had felt like this then, emptied, insensate, with each minute, each hour stretching in front of her in some cruel and endless torture that would have been unbearable had she been able to feel it. Giving into tears or venting rage would only have opened doors she preferred latched shut. Better to feel nothing than to embrace the monster of her grief. Until the Sheriff had opened the doors for her, one by one, and stood by her, holding her steadfast against the tidal onslaught of feeling while it rushed over her, through her, and became nothing more than a gentle pool of memories.
If only he could have stopped at that. If only he had not also warmed every frozen feeling in her veins and reminded her to revel in the fury of breath and life. If only he had not taught her the splendor of passion.
If only he had never admitted that he loved her.
The sound of his voice resonated in her ears, and she clasped her hands to her bowed head as if she could block out the sound.
If only she had not loved him in return.
Of all her mistakes, and there were many, it was this one that truly condemned her, and Thea knew with utter conviction that when she faced the executioner, it would be with no one to blame but herself.
"Open!"
The word startled her, and she looked up from her cell.
"By order of the Sheriff, who commands that his prisoner be given spiritual solace-"
Thea squinted into the dimness at the vague familiarity of the voice. A small man, raggedly dressed, soiled scarlet cape hanging from scarecrow shoulders-Will Scathlocke? And beside him, the bedraggled Benedictine garb and cowled head-
She bolted to her feet, hands grabbing the bars of her cell.
"And I got orders she see no one," Gryffyd said, ambling toward them, "from the prince himself."
"Aye, aye, but," Scathlocke stammered, "his royal majesty, er, highness, the prince there thought she may confess and spare herself the worst of it. No trial, and a quick and painless hanging if she owns up to it now-easier work for you, now, wouldn't it be?"
The turnkey moved in front of the cell door, legs planted firmly apart, hands on his hips. "Then let the prince come down here and tell me himself. She's seeing no one."
"Ah, well, now, that's a shame, see-"
Thea heard the goaler grunt, saw him double over, his huge form collapsing over Scathlocke's thin shoulder, nearly toppling them both to the ground.
"Stand back, lass!"
Gryffyd fell to a crumpled heap of bronzed arms and legs, and Thea saw Will twist his blade savagely into the turnkey's belly, withdraw it-
"Will, no!"
And slice the man's neck efficiently from ear to ear. The priest was already fumbling at the gaoler's waist, tearing away the ring of keys. The scuffling of booted footsteps sounded behind him as he jammed a key into the lock-
"Behind you, man!" Will called out, and the priest swirled around, fist connecting with face, belly. One guard slumped to the floor at Will's feet, blood burbling from his split throat, and Will caught the second as the man fell wheezing from the priest's blow.
The Benedictine spun back to her, turned the key, threw open the cell door.
"God, John!" She started to rush headlong into his arms, but Will was between them.
"No time for it. Your guards are bloody fast!"
"Your guards-?" Thea asked.
"You might want to ditch the cape, put on the mail instead. Can you manage?" The Benedictine's voice was unmistakable, and assuredly not John's.
Will bent to the task, and Thea grabbed a handful of the priest's worn cassock.
"Your guards?" she repeated, jerking the cowl back. Guttering torchlight reflected off Nottingham's black hair. "Sweet saints, what are you doing?"
"Rescuing you, if you'll keep your voice down." The Sheriff turned to Scathlocke as the outlaw struggled into a mail shirt, then retrieved a Norman helm from one of the fallen guards and slammed it down on Will's head.
"But-" Thea protested.
"I've just helped murder three of my best men, so I'm hardly in the mood to argue. Can you use this?" Nottingham shoved a quarterstaff into her hands, not waiting for her answer as he nodded to Scathlocke to take up the dead soldier's sword.
"Aye, but, Sheriff-"
He turned toward her, and Thea swallowed her words with an indrawn breath. For a moment, everything stood still and silent around them as she gazed upon his face, taking in the gash at his temple, clotted with blood, the plum-colored bruise along his cheek, the split and swollen lip. Her gaze traveled back to his eyes, dark, unfathomable.
"What do you think you are doing?" she whispered hoarsely.
"Seeing you home."
She did not speak further, could not, and there was nothing Nottingham needed to say. His eyes softened and the tautness left his jaw, as his ravaged soul showed as clearly as the damage on his battered face. He leaned toward her, pulling her toward him, close, and bent his lips to hers.
"Aye, aye," Scathlocke interjected, "and if you can't keep your codpiece on a moment longer, Sheriff, you'll be having us drawn and quartered beside her."
Nottingham drew back, suddenly mindful of the outlaw beside him, and swept the back of his fingers across Thea's cheek before releasing her.
"Although, Blessed Jesus, Thea, your taste in men! Have you lost your wits, girl?"
"So you found them," Thea said quietly, ignoring Will, her gaze fixed on Nottingham's eyes.
"In truth, they found me. Now come, quickly. There isn't much time." He picked up Will's discarded cloak and settled it about her shoulders, bringing up the hood to obscure her face. "We've a clear way out of the dungeon, but there are guards along the way who might take notice. Now go with Scathlocke-"
"But-"
"Resist the soldiers, if you must, but make haste."
"And you?"
Nottingham grinned, grimacing only slightly at the pain of his torn lip. "I'll be going ahead to prepare transport. Scathlocke-" He turned to Will, and clasped him by the shoulder, "do you remember the way I told you?"
Scathlocke nodded, the helm bobbing on his head. "Aye. Down through the tunnels."
"Very well."
"But, Sheriff-" Thea interrupted.
"And see if you can keep her quiet, although Lord knows, if you can, you are a far better man than I." Nottingham turned to Thea. "Stay here a few moments, then go with Will. You are a woman following a soldier to some dark corner of the castle." He shrugged eloquently. "Play the role. No one will notice."
His hand tightened briefly on her shoulder, and though there were so many things she wanted to say, she only nodded mutely.
The Sheriff strode toward the door to the gaol without a backward look, and only after he had disappeared did Thea think to ask. "He was wearing Tuck's robe."
"Aye."
"Then where is John?"
Will smiled and rocked back on his heels with unabashed delight. "Helping the Sheriff. Preparing the transport."
~*~
John Little slammed his back against the corridor wall and gulped in a chestful of air. He did not count the Norman bodies that littered the trail behind him, for there was no time for it. The vault lay ahead.
He glanced to his side where Much had scrunched himself beneath the giant's shoulder. He could feel the lad quaking, but when he searched his face, he only saw determination and a rare courage
that made him feel proud. Thea would have his hide for this. She would roast his balls over a campfire for sure. But nothing mattered if the campfire were in Sherwood, far away from this God-forsaken castle. If she were safe, and home.
Beyond Much, lined up as if for execution, were Alan and Donald and Wyrm. And to his right-
John turned to the man beside him, and tense blue-gray eyes met his in acknowledgment.
"Well done," the man said. "I had not thought the bastard to be trusted, but he knew his men and their stations to the one." Even in this darkest turn of tunnel, his pale hair shone like a beacon.
"Yer hood, Rob," John reminded him.
Locksley's hand drew dark fabric about his face. "Mothering me still, are you, Littlejohn?"
"Aye, and where would ye be without me?"
"Likely in the bowels of Nottingham Castle in the dead of winter, freezing my arse off."
John grinned. "You always said I'd come in handy."
"There are two guards posted outside the door," Locksley's voice grew sober. "And those inside."
"Easy pickings."
"And the ones between here and outlet."
John shrugged. "Probably snoring in their sleep."
"And God knows how many barrels and chests to be carted away. If the wagon is there as he says. If he's not lied through his Norman teeth and is waiting to cut us down like stringed poppets."
"That's what I like about ye, Rob. Always looking on the bright side."
"You're that sure about him?"
"About him? Nay. About his feelings for Thea?" John felt a spike of discomfort wedge beneath his ribs. "Aye," he finished, and dropped his gaze to his boots.
Robin shook his head, skepticism coloring his features. "We have nothing but his word. We could be caught, all of us, red-handed at the gate."
"I saw what I saw in the man," John said. "And I seem to recall you know something about that kind of love."
John looked up, and Locksley's face wore the faintest shadow of a smile.
"And I seem to recall you know something about it yourself," Robin replied.
"Aye, well-" John stiffened his spine and, avoiding the outlaw's eyes, looked over Robin's head down the last coil of passageway. "Work to be done, Rob. I'm for it. Are ye?"
Robin of Locksley clasped his shoulder in firm assent. "A devilishly cold night spent offering my belly to a pack of Norman hounds on their own hunting ground? I wouldn't have it any other way."
~*~
"But our orders were-"
"Your orders have been changed," the Sheriff said tersely. "Bring the wagon around now, or I'll feed what's left of your miserable corpse to the carrion-eaters. That's as nicely as I'll ask."
The soldier gulped at the lethal smile Nottingham displayed.
"And none of your men lingering about the place," the Sheriff warned. "The prince demands absolute secrecy."
"But how will you carry it all, my lord?"
Nottingham adopted his best malicious sneer. "Did I ask your advice, soldier?"
"No, my lord."
"Mercifully correct. Now be gone before your boots root to the floor."
~*~
"All clear!" Will called out in a strained whisper, and Thea sidled out of the dungeon door to join the woodsman. "Now, just as the Sheriff said, mind. If we're lucky, we'll pass whatever soldiers are along the way without much notice taken of our passage."
She nodded and followed Will down the tunneled corridor, her heart hammering in time with their steps. She tried to walk slowly when all she wanted was to break free and run as fast as she could, but she forced her pace to be casual, and kept the dark red hood of Will's cloak pulled close about her face.
They had made three turns when Will pulled up short, tugging at the straggled excuse for a beard on his narrow chin.
"What is it?" Thea asked.
"I'm not sure-he did say left, then left again, then right-"
"Holy Virgin, Will, you haven't forgotten, have you?"
"Nay," Will said, obviously affronted, looking around the corner with perplexity twitching at his features.
"Then go!"
"He said there'd be a door-I remember a door-that's what he said-"
"Halt!"
Footsteps rang out on stone behind them, and Thea swallowed a quick gasp of air, catching Will's sleeve in trembling fingers.
"Who are you? What are you about down here?"
Will turned to the Norman guard whose patrol they had stumbled upon.
"Sir William of-de Bois," Will said with a slight flourish, as Thea shuddered.
"I don't recall no de Bois in the garrison."
"Right you are. I'm-new. Called in this morn. From France."
Thea grimaced, shading her face with her hand. Leave it to John to put her with the poorest liar of them all.
"France, you say? You don't sound French."
"Ah, well, my sainted mother, you see-"
"And who's this with you?" the soldier trampled over Will's lame words. "The Sheriff don't take to women making rounds with his men, you know."
"Aye, aye, that he don't. But-she's my missus, she is, and we haven't seen each other in such a long time, and, besides-" He nudged the guard's rib jokingly. "I hear 'tis a good place down here, alone and all private-like-"
"What's she armed for?" The sentry nodded toward Thea's quarterstaff.
"Oh, that, well-she needs it to walk."
"I hurt my foot," Thea rushed to explain, lifting her skirts to show her ankle, indeed scraped and blue from the soldiers' rough treatment of her. She flashed the guard what she hoped was a disarming smile.
The Norman peered through the darkness at her swollen ankle. "Well-" he hesitated. His gaze traveled up her cloaked body to her down-turned face, and he frowned, tilting his head in an effort to see her better. "I know you-" he began. "You're the Sheriff's wench. You're the one who-"
Thea turned a desperate expression to Will. "Sweet saints," she muttered under her breath, and before the guard or Scathlocke could react further, she struck the quarterstaff soundly against the soldier's shins. His yelp of pain and surprise transformed into a grunt as she shoved the heavy staff into his gut. He doubled over and, wincing, Thea knocked him alongside his head.
"God forgive me," she said, as the guard slumped like a sleepy bear to the floor.
Will's jaw hung open as he looked from the downed man to Thea and back again. "Remind me to have you by my side more often," he said with astonished disbelief.
"Remind me to have Robin teach you left from right," she returned.
~*~
John Little hauled the limp body up by the shoulders and tossed it aside as if it were so much Norman refuse, the last man guarding their way to King Richard's ransom. He dragged his hand across his brow to swipe the sweat away from his eyes, and turned to Robin.
Locksley slung his empty bow across his back and dusted his hands together. "By God and Allah," he said, astonished. "I've not seen treasure like this since-"
"Since last tax collection time and ye were away," John finished for him. "The Sheriff's quite a knack for bleeding the shire dry."
"There must be thousands, millions-" Stunned, Robin ran his hand through the contents of an open chest. Silver coins trickled through his fingers, landing amid silver and gold plate, ornate jewelry, gemstones.
"Enough to buy a kingdom for Lackland."
"At least."
"Or to buy a king for the kingdom," John said.
Robin looked up sharply, and resolve tightened the muscles in his jaw. "We're not out of here yet."
"A matter of moments," a voice came from the door. "The wagon awaits."
John glanced toward the entrance to the vault. The Sheriff of Nottingham had discarded the now useless priest's frock and stood still, as if carved from black granite. For a moment, out of reflex alone, John's fingers twitched, wanting bow or sword or quarterstaff with which to give the bastard his due, but he did not move, and remained silent. He glanced
from the Sheriff to Robin. Two more disparate figures the earth could not have conjured, with Robin's white-blond hair and rugged woodsman's attire contrasting with the Sheriff's black cloak. For a moment, neither man spoke. He felt the tension in the air thickening between them, smelled the wariness of each man for the other as their eyes locked in a fierce, wordless struggle.
"Locksley," Nottingham said finally. "We meet at last."
"And on less friendly turf than I would prefer, Sheriff."
"I am certain that at one time I would have said the same about Sherwood."
"And now?"
The Sheriff shrugged. "It is of no matter. The treasure you seek is here."
"And you intend to let us have it? As simple as that?"
Nottingham strode into the chamber and closed the lid of the strongbox where Robin stood, slid the iron bolt through the hasp, locking it shut. "You'd best hurry," he said, not meeting Locksley's penetrating gaze. "I'd like to have it through the city gates before dawn."
"Why?" Robin insisted. "Why do you help us? Why now?"
The Sheriff smiled faintly. "Because I am charged with the keeping of order and law in the shire." His words sounded soft to John Little's ears, with none of the bluster and roaring of which he knew the man capable. "Because the citizens of this shire look to me to see that their taxes are well-spent. Because they love their absent king and expect their loyalty to be rewarded with his return home."
"And your loyalty?"
Nottingham raised his gaze to Robin, the same vague smile curving his black-bearded lips. "As you've always heard, Locksley, my loyalty is to myself."
"I don't understa-"
"I would like nothing more than to spend time debating such mysteries with you over my finest wine, but the sun will soon rise. I'd like to be away."
"You're going with us?" Incredulity showed on Locksley's face as clearly as in his words.
Nottingham paused, striking his fist gently against the locked chest as if making his decision final, not for Locklsey, but for himself. "I said I would see her home."
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Squat and square, made of heavy wood reinforced with iron, the treasury wagon still managed to creak and groan under the weight of so many strongboxes. The Sheriff held the horses harnessed to pull the wagon and had long ago ceased to count the numerous trips Locksley and his men had made to and from the castle vault.