Always (14 page)

Setting the kitten back on the bed, Rosamunde rose quickly and moved to collect the sack that held all her worldly belongings. Digging through it quickly, she came up with the smaller sack inside that held the medicinal herbs Eustice had packed away for her. With a sense of purpose, she moved back to the bed to tend the kitten's injuries.

 

Aric watched his wife hurry from the stables, then turned to face Shrewsbury. A frown tugged at his mouth and cut deep furrows into his forehead. He noted the displeasure on the older man's face. It was obvious the king's man did not approve of how he had dealt with his wife. Aric felt a moment's discomfort at that look as he realized that the exchange would most likely be reported back to Henry, but then he shrugged that brief worry aside and straightened his shoulders. Rosamunde was his wife. And she had disobeyed him. He would even have been within his rights to beat her for such an offense. Not that he would. He had dealt with her most mildly, he assured himself.

“What news?” he snapped at last, irritated by the other man's silent censure.

“Is this the care you show the king's daughter?”

Aric stiffened at the accusatory tone. “My
wife,
”—he stressed her title and place in his life—“disobeyed an order. As a leader, his majesty will know that such actions cannot be tolerated. If one of my men disobeyed, it could mean death for us all.”

“Lady Rosamunde is not a warrior.”

“Still, she disobeyed an order,” he persisted grimly.
“She was told not to spend time in the stables anymore. 'Tis not a fitting place for a lady.”

“I see.”

Aric swallowed at the silky hiss of those words, suspecting he might have made an error. As the king's most trusted and valued man, Bishop Shrewsbury was nearly as intimidating as the monarch himself. His position gave him much sway with the man. Certainly more sway than a new son-in-law, Aric thought unhappily. As Shrewsbury's next words were issued with gentle firmness, he was positive he would need a better explanation than the one he had offered.

“So you are suggesting that while assisting in the stables was fitting for the daughter of a king, 'tis not fitting for your bride?”

“Nay!” Aric shifted impatiently, cursing his own foolish tongue. “Stables are not the safest of places for a lady, my lord Bishop. She is much safer in the keep.”

“I do not recall her safety being in question at the abbey,” the man murmured, then cocked his head slightly. “And they had everything there that they do here: horses, hay, saddles. Of course, they did not have men. Are you, mayhap, suggesting that one of your own men might do her harm?”

Aric gave a start at those words. Shrewsbury had always been a shrewd fellow. It was why he was so valuable to the king. Still, it startled Aric that he had picked up on the one thing that made a difference to Aric. Even if he had put the wrong spin on it.

“Nay, of course not,” he said at last. “My men are sworn to protect their lady. But—”

“She has grown up in the stables,” the bishop interrupted quietly. “Spent the majority of her life in them. 'Tis the task she was given at the abbey. She has a special way with injured creatures, 'tis the gift God gave her. The abbess recognized that and put her under Sister Eustice's care to nurture her special ability. One should always use
the gifts God has given.” He paused, then murmured, “If you will not allow her to do the work God set out for her to do, mayhap you should have the marriage annulled. Return her to the abbey to become a bride of God—as she had planned.”

Aric stiffened with anger at the very suggestion. Shrewsbury added, “'Tis what she wishes.”

Aric blanched at that, and the older man went on. “She has told me so. She is miserable here. Lady Rosamunde was not raised—or trained—to run a household. She was raised to take the veil. Return her to the abbey,” he urged.

Aric struggled with his temper, then, said, “The king—”

“Is dead,” Shrewsbury finished.

Every man present went still.

“Dead?” Aric echoed in disbelief. The older man nodded solemnly, weariness and grief encompassing his face. Aric turned to peer rather blankly at the other men, numbly noting their expressions. Not one of them could have looked more shocked or pained had they just been told that their own fathers had left this world. Down to a man, they had all gone so pale as to appear gray, their faces blanched and sickly-looking. There was even a touch of fear on each face. What upheaval could follow such an event? Their king was dead—a king whose sons had struggled and fought, backbiting and betraying their own father in an effort to wrest away the throne. Would the sons now fight among themselves for that same title, causing civil war and strife? Pitting baron against baron with their greed? It was a likely possibility. Neither man—the older son, Richard, nor the young favorite, John—had shown even a thimbleful of loyalty to their father. There was little reason to expect that either man would now extend any loyalty to each other.

“Does Lady Rosamunde know?” Lord Spencer asked with concern. Aric turned back to Shrewsbury in time to see him nod again.

“Aye. I told her soon as I arrived. 'Tis why she was in the stables—seeking comfort from the animals she cares for.”

Aric winced at those words, knowing he deserved their sting. He had not even noticed her distress let alone consoled her, and she must be sorely distressed by this news. He had merely chastised her and sent her away. It seemed that he was destined to make mistake after mistake with his wife, damn his own stupid hide. Sighing, he rubbed the back of his neck wearily. “When did he die?”

“July sixth at Chinon.”

“Do his sons know yet?”

“Of course. Richard was informed at once.” Shrewsbury grimaced. “When he paid his respects, blood began to pour from the king's nose.”

“Murder,” Lord Spencer's man muttered with dismay. “The dead bleed only when their murderer is present.”

Aric frowned. That was an old wives' tale. Still…“Was it murder?”

Shrewsbury shrugged, looking wearier than seemed previously possible. “It depends on what you consider murder, I suppose. He fell ill shortly before arriving back at Chinon. He was weak and suffering. He wished to rest, but those sons of his gave him no peace. He could not rally—the world was against him, or he felt it was. He died alone but for Geoffrey, myself, and a handful of servants. We saw him buried at Fontevraud Abbey the next day. Then I came directly here, for he asked me to with his dying breath. He wished me to check on Rosamunde, to keep an eye on her. Make sure she was happy. He wished me to give her a message as well.”

“What was the message?”

“I gave it to her,” the bishop replied evenly.

Aric shifted in irritation, but tried to hide his annoyance just as quickly. “When will Richard's coronation be?”

“I do not know. It will be soon, I am sure. Richard will hardly waste any time on grieving.”

Aric nodded grimly at those bitter words. That much was true, but Aric was less concerned with Richard's feelings over his father's death than he was over the man's feelings on the subject of his half sister. Did he even know she existed? And if so, would he be concerned with her welfare, or would he see her as a possible rival for the throne? That was doubtful. A woman had yet to rule England—and a bastard surely had less claim than a legitimate son. Still, Henry had wished Rosamunde married to protect her from danger, and Aric now had to wonder if Richard could be a problem.

“'Tis obvious the king made a mistake.”

The bishop's words dragged Aric's attention away from his thoughts. A frown curved his face in irritation. “What mean you?”

“I mean 'tis obvious that this marriage was a mistake. I beseech you, my lord, set her free. Let her return to the abbey and become a bride of God. 'Tis what she was raised to be. She was not trained to run a household. She knows not how to be a proper wife. She is miserable trying.”

“She will learn soon enough. 'Sides, the king wished this marriage.”

“The king wished his daughter safe and happy. He would not wish her to be so miserable.”

Aric stiffened. “She is
not
miserable. She just misses her old life. It will pass.”

Shrewsbury clucked in disgust. “Her unhappiness is obvious, my lord. Surely even you see it. She has been taken away from all that she knows and loves and given nothing in return.”

“She has been given a husband and a new home in return. She shall come to be comfortable here. She will be happy after a time.”

“How can she? She—”

“The king wished this marriage,” Aric interrupted grimly. “It shall stand.”

They glared at each other briefly; then the bishop gave a short bow. “Forgive me, I had not realized you were so enamored of Rosamunde. I thought you just as reluctant a groom as she was a bride. I thought only to save you both some misery. But it is obvious from your reaction that you are pleased with this marriage.”

Aric blinked at those words, his mind in an uproar as he realized what he had just done. Good Lord, the bishop had just given him a chance at freedom from this unwanted marriage—and he had refused even to consider it. Worse yet, he had been angered by the very suggestion. Did he really want to keep Rosamunde to wife? His answer to that question came rather promptly.
Yes.
He wanted her. But before he could ask himself why, Bishop Shrewsbury spoke up again.

“I trust I might rest here awhile, my lord?” he asked quietly. Aric sighed at the question. He could hardly refuse the man his hospitality, though right then he would have liked to.

“Aye,” he said grimly, then glanced toward Joseph and Lord Spencer. “Will you see to his comfort? I would check on my wife.”

“Of course, my lord.”

Nodding, Aric made his way wearily out of the stables, his head almost spinning with all he had learned. His mind seemed resistant to absorbing the demise of a man he had thought would outlive them all. King Henry II. Strong, agile, energetic Henry. He had never seemed to stand still, never seemed to rest. And he was dead. Incredible. Horrible. So terribly sad.

God, if he was struck by this so dreadfully, how much worse must it be for Rosamunde? She was the man's daughter, he thought with dismay.

And he had yelled at her for seeking comfort from a horse! What the devil was the matter with him? He knew what the matter was, of course. For one brief moment—until he had recognized that the man with his wife in the
dim stables was Shrewsbury—he had feared history was repeating itself. Jealousy and fear made fools out of men, and he had behaved like a fool. It was no wonder she wished to return to the convent. He had hardly given her a reason to wish to stay. The bedding, for instance; he had not exactly given a stellar performance on their wedding day. If he had had more time…But he had not!

His shoulders slumped wearily. It was terribly disheartening to learn that his wife was so unhappy. The king had entrusted him with the care, safety, and happiness of his most beloved child, and he was flubbing it horribly. He had not even allowed her to try to explain her presence in the stables, he had simply exploded. Of course she would run to the stables for comfort upon hearing of her father's death. She loved that horse. Mayhap she had even heard that Shrewsbury had arrived and, thinking her father would be with him, had rushed out to greet the man. Whatever the case, he should not have been so harsh with her.

Well, he would make up for that. He would offer her the comfort she needed now. And when he did eventually attempt to bed her again, he would ensure it was a good experience for her.

Aric grimaced. He had thought of little else but getting her into bed again for the last two weeks, but not necessarily with eagerness. After the fiasco of their first time, attempting it again wasn't very appealing. In fact, it gave him the shudders just to think of it, he admitted to himself with some shame. How humiliating that was to admit, even to himself, which he had finally done last night when he realized that he was finding excuse after excuse to avoid their bedchamber—all in an effort to avoid his husbandly duties. Not that his wife was likely to demand he perform them.

But it was a task he would have to see to eventually if he wished for legitimate heirs. He would just have to face it. Perhaps he could ply her with wine first to make her
relax; then he would take his time. He would not let the king down again. He was only grateful that Henry had not learned of his failure ere his death. Not that Aric feared repercussions now, but he would be sorry to have disappointed him.

That thought making him grimace, he hurried up the steps and into the keep, then rushed through the great hall, straight up the stairs to their chamber. Pausing at the door to their room, he straightened his shoulders, preparing himself like a man girding himself for battle, then opened the door and stepped inside. There he paused. The tears, weeping, and wailing that he had expected were absent. The room was silent. His wife was fully clothed and fast asleep on the bed, her body curled protectively around a furry ball atop the bed linens. It seemed that, once again, she had turned to an animal for comfort.

He stared at her silently for a moment, debating what to do; then she sniffled miserably in her sleep. Aric peered more closely at her face. Her nose was red from weeping, her eyelids pink and puffy.

Return her to the abbey. Have the marriage annulled. Her unhappiness is obvious.
Bishop Shrewsbury's words echoed in his head, and he frowned at his sleeping wife. He was not going to return her. She was his. They were married.

The possessive thought took Aric slightly by surprise. He had not wanted to marry her—had even resented being forced to and been colder to her for that, he realized now with a bit of insight that shamed him. Aye, he had resented being forced to marry after the debacle of his broken betrothal to Delia. But he had also been helpless to refuse the king, so he had taken out his anger on the slender woman sleeping in the bed. He had not beaten her. Nor treated her truly poorly, at least not in a way for which anyone could take him to task. But he had done very little to make her feel wanted or appreciated. Instead
he had done the opposite, letting her know in myriad different ways that he didn't need her, didn't want her. Yet now, at the mention of the possibility of returning her, he felt anger stir within him.