Always (13 page)

Lord Spencer had explained during the meal how the king had chosen Goodhall for them. It was one of Henry's many holdings that had no heir.

The castle had been the Spencer family home for as long as anyone could recall. When he was young, Spencer himself had married and brought his bride here to live. They had been happy, and his wife had given birth to several children. Six, actually, but only two had survived infancy. Then, when his son was sixteen and his daughter fourteen tragedy had struck: the woolsorter's complaint, a deadly disease that had struck their sheep. It had spread quickly to his people, too, before they had realized what it was they were dealing with and could take the necessary precautions. Half the village died, along with half the inhabitants of the keep. His lady wife had been one of the first to go, then his daughter, then his son. They were dead and gone long before he had even returned to hear the news.

After he'd discovered his loss, Spencer had returned to his king's side to devote his life to battle—hoping to die and be reunited with his wife. But fate had played a cruel trick, and he had been blinded during an attack. That had kept him from battle, his only hope of dying without taking his life, and he would never do that. Suicide was a sin. Thus, he was cursed to live out his life until God saw fit to end it. God, he pointed out wryly, was taking his own sweet time.

Rosamunde had been touched by the tale. Lord Spencer's love for his wife and children was obvious in his voice as he spoke, his grief still raw these many years later. She had wondered briefly what it might be like to be so loved, with so much passion and gentleness that two decades later the very name of one's wife could bring a tear to a man's blind eye.

A woman who was so loved was a very lucky woman indeed, Rosamunde decided as she slid out the front door and hurried down the stairs of the keep. She would just check the stables and look in on Marigold. Most likely it would be as the castle had been: from the outside it looked neglected and uncared for, but inside it was spotless and well tended. Surely the stables were like that too, she assured herself. She crossed her arms and frowned at the chill night. This was the last day of June, but now that the sun had set, the air was cold. The breeze was also heavy with threatening rain, and a fine mist had settled over the bailey, carried by a northerly wind.

A storm started as she reached the stables. A flash of light in the distance made her pause and glance toward the north, but there was nothing to see. A moment later the roll of far-off thunder rumbled through the air. Rosamunde felt the first large, wet drops of rain, then hurried into the stables. She paused instinctively just inside the door to allow her eyes to adjust to the sudden darkness.

But there was no darkness to adjust to. The great gap
ing holes she had seen when they had arrived assured that the interior was just as well lit by the night sky and lightning as the bailey had been. The holes also made it just as windy and wet inside as it had been outside. She realized this with a frown, her gaze moving over the rows of stalls as the horses began to shift nervously about. Frightened by the storm and unhappy at being partially exposed to the elements, they were neighing and whinnying in displeasure.

“Ah, stick it up yer arses and quit yer complaining. Ye're inside, aren't ye? Yer bellies' full and yer feet're dry.”

Rosamunde stiffened at that surly voice, her head cocking as her gaze shot toward the back of the stables from whence it had come. It was not until the clouds shifted again, and the moon popped out once more, that she spotted the man lounging on a stack of hay at the back of the stables. He was half slouched, his head lolling forward and from side to side as he contemplated a pitcher he held in his hand.

The stablemaster? she wondered, then grimaced slightly. Who else could it be? Shifting impatiently, she moved toward the man until she stood before him.

He was drunk. Rosamunde could smell the liquor from where she stood. It was amazing that she could, considering the overpowering stench of animal refuse in the air. It didn't take much thought to figure out where that was coming from. She could feel it under her feet. She had walked through and now stood in a puddle of the mess. As she had noticed on first entering the bailey, the stables had been foolishly situated in a slight depression. Either that, or over the years the land had settled and taken the stables with it. The very center of the stables had a sort of trough running through it that acted as a drain or gutter down the center of the stables. Its watery contents were really rather disgusting, but from what she could see of the place, it was the only way any of the refuse was
removed. It certainly did not look as if the gentleman presently singing a bawdy tune to himself as he clutched his pitcher did any actual work. Certainly not mucking out the stalls and stables. This was disgusting, a true sty. And unsanitary to boot. If some sort of plague had not already struck, it was likely to soon.

Rage overwhelming her, Rosamunde opened her mouth to berate him but was interrupted.

“What are you doing out here?”

Rosamunde blinked at those grim words, then whirled about as she realized that they had come from behind her. It seemed that her exit from the keep had not gone unnoticed after all. Her husband stood in the entrance to the stables, glaring at her as if
she
were the one who had done something wrong.

Gathering her wits quickly, she tried for a smile. It quickly turned into a frown as she explained herself. “I thought to check on the stables, and to see that the horses were well tended. Marigold—”

“Return to the keep,” he cut her off abruptly.

“But just look at the stables, husband. And the stablemaster.” She stepped aside, glancing behind her as she did to see that the man was now unconscious. “It is a disgrace. He should be replaced at once. Your man Smithy could do a far better job. And the stables should be rebuilt as well. On higher ground, and—”

“Return to the keep.”

Rosamunde hesitated at his firm words. He did not sound as though he would appreciate being disobeyed.
Disobeyed
. There was that word again. Obey Aric? Why had she repeated that vow, then made the promise to her father on top of it? Because, she admitted, she had been too stunned at suddenly finding herself having to get married to consider the words, she was saying at the time. If she had been thinking properly, she would have refused. Or at least modified them somewhat. For instance, she might have said “obey to the best of my abilities,” or
“obey when I agree to,” or something. It was most inconvenient to have made a promise to obey, and now have to try to do so.

Sighing, she let her shoulders drop slightly and walked forward. He took her arm as she made to move past, spearing her with his eyes as he did. “I will not have you racing about the bailey willy-nilly. The stables are not a place for a lady. You shall confine yourself to tending to the keep—as a proper wife should.”

Her eyes widened in horror at that, and his hand tightened slightly on her arm.

“Do as I say, Rosamunde.”

Swallowing, she nodded silently, her mind and body suddenly having gone numb. This was inconceivable. Never to be allowed into the stables?
Impossible!
It was what she did. It was what she had always done. It was her job!

Unaware of her thoughts, Aric released her arm and gestured toward the keep, satisfied when she stumbled out of the stables and headed toward the building.

His gaze slid around the stalls then before turning unhappily to the stable master. Aric grimaced with distaste. He turned and followed his wife. While he did not care for being told how to do his job as lord of the manor, his wife was right. The stables were a shambles. The stablemaster would have to be replaced, and a new building erected. Still, in the shape the man was in there was no sense in berating the stablemaster now, and it was not possible to see to the animals in the meantime.

While his wife had also been right in stating that his man Smithy was an excellent replacement, the soldier, like most of the others, had taken to his ale with enthusiasm after their week-long travels. He would not be of much use just now. The horses would have to make do for the night. He would deal with the situation on the morrow. He would assign Smithy to the stables, as well as a couple of other men to help him with the immediate task
of mucking them out, and boarding up the worst of the holes. Then new stables could be built.

Sighing, Aric shook his head. It was only one of many things he suspected would need doing. But this would all have to wait till the morrow. He was weary after their travels and wished only to find his bed. But first he had to arrange for quarters for his men.

Rosamunde dropped onto the chair by the fire and sighed miserably. It had been two weeks since their arrival at Goodhall. Two long, slow, boring weeks that had passed like years. She had never been so miserable in her life, had never felt so useless. Not even during those first few days of the journey here from Shambley, when the men had refused to allow her to do anything, had she felt so hopelessly unneeded. At least then her days had been filled with the distraction of her various aches and pains, and the necessity of staying in the saddle. But these last fourteen days she had had nothing to distract her. Nothing. She was restricted to the castle and had not been allowed to step out of it since the night of their arrival. Her husband insisted she was to stay in the keep and tend to it, but there was nothing that needed her attention. The castle staff had been running themselves quite nicely for decades without her, and her input was hardly needed now.

Oh, she had tried. That first day after arriving, she had
made a tour of the interior of the castle, looking for something—
anything
—to do. But everything was chugging along just fine without her interference. If anything, she seemed merely to get in the way of one servant or another as they went about their chores. She had wandered aimlessly about for a while, then finally moved to sit before the fire.

But simply sitting immediately begun to chafe at her. Rosamunde was not used to being inactive. With her body forced to stay still, her mind had promptly begun running in circles. She worried about the state of the stables and whether her husband intended to do anything about them. She considered the stables back at the abbey, and wondered how the mare and new colt were doing. Had the prolonged and unusual labor weakened the mare's constitution? Was she still well? Or had she fallen prey to some infection or lung complaint? That was always a threat for a horse after such a dangerous and sapping experience. Was the colt all right? Was it feeding? How were Eustice, Clarice, Margaret, and the abbess? These things became a tangle in her mind.

And so had gone her time. Sitting before the fire, fretting, and growing more depressed by the day while her husband got to wander all over the estate. He was familiarizing himself with his new holdings, and Lord Spencer and his man accompanied him everywhere as he did. Aric had assured the man he need not bother, but Spencer had insisted. He was the previous owner, he'd said, and it was his responsibility. The two men rode out in a cart early each morning, the disabled man's servant driving, and did not return until after Rosamunde had gone to bed.

Aric had spoken very little to her in that time, and he certainly had not bothered her about his husbandly rights. Not that she would have enjoyed them, but at least if he had, she would have felt she was accomplishing something. Instead she sat remembering her days at the abbey, and thinking of the women and animals she had left
behind. She missed them all. She was even beginning to miss Father Abernott. That, more than anything, told her how desperate her situation had become.

The sound of the great hall door opening and closing caught her ear. Rosamunde straightened slightly to glance around the back of her chair to see who had entered. At first she didn't recognize the slumped figure shuffling wearily toward the trestle table, but then she did, and promptly leaped to her feet.

“My lord Bishop!” Filled with pleasure, she rushed forward to greet him. “What are you doing here? Are you and my father come for a visit?” Her gaze shifted to the door. “Is Father still out with the horses? I should—”

“Nay.” Shrewsbury caught her arm, drawing her to a halt as she would have rushed past him. “Nay, child. He did not accompany me. The king is not here.”

“Not here?” The words came out as an exhalation of breath. Her expression showed her shock. The bishop was the most faithful of servants. She had never seen the man travel without her father. Nor had she ever seen her father without Shrewsbury in attendance. “What? Why?” she stammered in confusion. He patted her arm, sadness washing over his face. He shook his head.

Rosamunde felt nausea roll up within her as she took in his expression. “He's not—”

“Aye. He is dead.”

“He…But—it cannot be!” she managed to cry at last.

“I fear it is. He fell ill on our return journey to Chinon. He tried to fight it, but what with the business with Richard and the king of France…” He shook his head. “He had been able to get no rest. They kept at him like hounds on a fox.”

“Damn them,” Rosamunde whispered. Tears pooled in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks.

“Aye. Then, when he actually received proof that John
had gone over to Richard's side, he seemed to lose the will to live.”

“Oh,
no
,” Rosamunde cried out. Her heart was breaking for the pain that such a betrayal must have given her proud father.

“He died July sixth at Chinon. I stayed only long enough to see him borne to Fontevraud to be buried, then came to you. He wished it so. 'Twas the last order he gave me, to come to you. To be sure that all was well with your marriage. He wished you to know of his deep love and pride in you. And he bade me to tell you not to be sad. He was tired and desirous of rest. He also said—though I confess I did not understand at the time, and still do not—he said to say to you ‘Always.' He said you would understand.”

“Always?” she repeated brokenly, then recalled their parting and the last words he had said to her.
I love you, too, child. And so shall your husband, but you must promise me to obey him. Always.
Her heart seemed to split in half as his words echoed in her head. She was so desolate with sorrow at that moment that when she heard the pained keening that drifted past her ears, she did not at first realize it was her own. It was when Bishop Shrewsbury's lined face came close and he put out a hand to touch her that she recognized that the high, soft wailing came from deep within her own throat.

Gasping in a shuddering breath, Rosamunde pulled away from his touch. She could not bear to be comforted just then. She could not be comforted. She had lost her king and her father, a man she had assumed would always be there for her.

Spinning on her heel, she fled the castle, heading automatically for the one place she could find comfort—the one familiar place in this new life of hers, her only link with the women and the place that had safeguarded her all of her young life. She ran to the stables, stumbling
into the drafty building and staggering immediately to the stall that housed Marigold. Hurrying inside, she threw herself at the mare. Her arms wrapping around the animal's thick neck, she buried her face in her mane and sobbed. Marigold whinnied once, then drew her head slightly to the side and back, pressing her snout briefly against Rosamunde's crown as if to offer comfort.

Bishop Shrewsbury found her several moments later. Joining her in the stall, he touched her shoulder gently. “'Tis all right, child. All will be well.”

“Nay. It will not. How could he leave me? Now I have no one.” She sobbed miserably.

“Hush.” Pulling her away from her mare, Shrewsbury enclosed her in his withered arms and rocked her gently. “You have your husband, still. Burkhart is a good man.”

“Aye,” she murmured, sniffling. “He is a good man.”

The bishop stilled at her toneless agreement and pulled back to peer at her with a frown. “Is everything not well with your marriage, child? Are you not happy?”

Wiping her tears away with the backs of her hands, Rosamunde pulled away with a shrug that only made Shrewsbury's frown deeper.

“He does not abuse you?”

“Nay. Of course not,” Rosamunde assured him quickly, then sighed when the old man continued to look suspicious. “It is just…I do not think that I was meant for marriage, my lord. I cannot seem to do anything right. I was not trained in the more refined arts expected of a wife. I cannot do needlepoint. I do not know how to run an estate. I feel so useless here, and…”

“And?” he prompted gently.

Rosamunde flushed with embarrassment, but admitted with shame, “I know we are not supposed to enjoy the marriage bed, but I did not just not enjoy it. I found it painful and humiliating!” She grimaced. “Truly, I do not know why Father Abernott insisted on lecturing on adul
tery so often. I cannot imagine anyone willingly performing the activity.”

“Ah.” The bishop flushed bright pink and turned away slightly before asking carefully, “Have you—Has your husband…er…approached you since your wedding day?”

“Nay. And I am glad for that. But it also makes me feel guilty, for it just seems to be something else that I am no good at,” she admitted miserably.

“My poor child.” Shrewsbury shook his head sadly. “If your father had realized how miserable you would be, I am sure that he would not have insisted on this marriage.”

“I wish he had not,” she admitted bitterly. “I wish he had just left me at the abbey, or had arrived too late to stop my taking the veil, or—”

Her voice died as the stable doors opened and men's voices filled the drafty building. Her husband entered, followed by Lord Spencer, his servant, Joseph, and a couple of men-at-arms.

Rosamunde pulled abruptly out of the bishop's comforting arms and faced her husband, guilt at her disloyalty weighing her down. She had admitted that she wished she had not been forced to marry him.

 

Aric spotted the embracing couple the moment that he entered the stables, but it was not until the woman stepped out of the man's arms and moved out of the shadowed stall to face him guiltily that he recognized her as his wife. For a moment, he was overwhelmed by a sense of déjà vu, and he was cast back to the day he had caught Delia and Glanville in the stables. But then he noticed the tears in Rosamunde's eyes, and the man stepped up behind her, the light suddenly revealing to him that it was Bishop Shrewsbury.

It didn't take Aric's mind but a moment to switch from one concern to another. He went from fear that his wife
was yet another faithless wench, to a sudden panic that the king had returned to check on his little girl and her happiness; the king was never without the bishop. His mind immediately began racing. Had the king already talked to the girl? Had she told him…what had she told him? Was she miserable?

Drawn and quartered, drawn and quartered.
The words sang through his head merrily, and Aric swallowed as sweat broke out on his forehead. He had been rather stern with his young bride about what she could and could not do. He also had not spent any time trying to please her. He had not even troubled himself to talk to her or have a game of chess. And, dear Lord, he had not bedded her since the wedding. Had she told the king that?

“I know I am not supposed to be in the stables, my lord. I apologize for disobeying you so.”

His wife's soft, sorrowful words drew Aric's thoughts, and irritation drove the anxiety out of him. She
had
disobeyed him. The wench had disobeyed a direct order from her own husband. Well, that would hardly look impressive to the king, would it? She had flouted a direct order. He had been flouted! Well, he was deviled if he would put up with that. The king be damned. A man could not allow himself to be flouted that way. Drawing himself up, he glared at her sternly. “Being sorry is not good enough. Get back to the castle at once. You will go to our room and stay there.”

She hesitated briefly, just long enough for him to suspect she would rebel; then her shoulders seemed to sag, and she shrugged indifferently. “As you wish.”

Slipping past Aric, she wove her way through the men and horses and out of the stables. Then she broke into a run, heading blindly for the castle. Tears were streaming down her face again as she pushed through the keep doors and rushed up the stairs to their bedchamber. Once there, she threw herself across the bed and began to sob
in earnest—for the loss of her father, for the misery of her life now, for herself.

She was still weeping silently into a crumpled-up portion of the bed's top linen several moments later when a scratching at the door caught her attention. Sniffling, she raised her head to peer at the door blankly, then sat up and stood to walk over to it. The sound came again. Opening the door, she glanced out into the empty hallway, a frown tugging at her lips. No one was there. Closing the door silently, she turned away, only to pause in surprise as she saw a small black ball of fur leap onto the lighter-colored furs that covered the bed.

Wiping the last of her tears away, she moved toward the bed after the creature, realizing that this must have been the source of the scratching. She should have looked down. No doubt the animal had scooted into the room as she had opened the door.

Rosamunde recognized it at once as one of the kittens from the kitchen. She had seen four of them on an old pile of straw stacked in a corner of the kitchen that first day when she had toured the castle. Their mother had been absent at the time. Hunting up a mouse or two somewhere for her own meal, no doubt. Rosamunde had managed to trip up a lad carrying a tray of steaming bread as she had knelt to pet the tiny creatures. That had been when she had decided to give up bothering the servants and had relegated herself to sitting silently by the fire, where she could cause no more harm.

Seating herself on the edge of the bed now, she scooped the kitten into her arms and began to stroke it. This one was a male. She had noticed that morning. It had been all over her at the time, eager for any attention and affection she was offering. Now it mewled a complaint and tried to avoid her hand. Frowning as she realized that it only shrank away from her when she petted near its tiny head, she examined it carefully, murmuring comfortingly despite her concern. There were burns and
melted hair on one ear. It had gone too near to Cook's fire, that was obvious, and she was not at all surprised. In the few moments she had spent with the kittens that morning, she had noticed that the black one, the only one that did not have its mother's gray coloring, was also the most curious and adventuresome.