Always (18 page)

“Oh, my lord, having you stop here awhile is not charity. Why, you are practically family,” she assured him quickly.

“You are such a sweet child,” he murmured affectionately, reaching out to squeeze her hand. “And so lovely, like your mother. She was a sweet lamb, too. So gentle, so beautiful. Such a waste, her dying so young,” he added. He shook his head and gave her hand a pat before making an obvious effort to force the sad memories away. “Well, I am quite excited at the prospect. This will give me the chance to practice my rusty old skills ere I am given my own church to tend to.”

Rosamunde's eyes widened slightly. “Do you intend to go back to ministering then, my lord Bishop?”

“Well.” He gave her a self-deprecating laugh. “I doubt young Richard would wish an old man like me for counsel. Especially since I was loyal to his father. Aye, I shall most likely return to doing the work of God, as I was meant to do. And frankly, I'll be quite happy in the doing,” he added conspiratorially. “While it was exciting at first to hold such an important position at your father's side, I found it rather wearying in these last years. The quiet life of the church shall suit me just fine.” He nodded in satisfaction, then pushed his mead away and rose to his feet. “In fact, I think I shall go have a look at the chapel right now and see what shape it is in. If all is well,
we may be able to hold the first mass tomorrow morning. If you will excuse me, my dear?”

“Of course.” Rosamunde smiled at his obvious pleasure and watched him leave the keep. She started to rise from the table herself, only to pause and glance toward the doors curiously when they swung open once more. Her eyes widened slightly when she saw Smithy's head pop in. There was no mistaking his relief as he spied her by the table, and he was through the door in a heartbeat and hurrying across the room toward her.

“My lady,” he said anxiously as she moved curiously forward to meet him. “I am in charge of the stables now, and—”

“Aye, I know,” Rosamunde interrupted, pausing as they met halfway across the great hall. “Congratulations.”

“Aye, well…” He grimaced slightly and shook his head. “I am not knowledgeable enough to handle the job, really. I'm a soldier.”

“You will be fine,” she assured him gently. “You have a natural affinity with animals. I saw it, sir. You will work far better with them than that drunken—” She bit off the rest of what she would have said.

“Aye, but…well, I handled the horses well enough, but handling them is all I have ever done. I've wrapped a few sprains, patched a few wounds in a pinch. That sort of thing. But I have never had to tend truly ill or ailing horses. That was always taken care of by the stablemaster of whatever keep we were at.”

“Oh. Well, you shall learn in time, sir. In the meantime, my husband has said that I may advise you—”

“Aye. His lordship told me as much ere leaving. That's why I'm here. There is a problem.”

“Already?” Her eyes widened in amazement.

“Aye, and it is Black,” he said heavily.

Rosamunde blinked at the name. It sounded familiar, but—“Oh, my!” She gasped suddenly. “My husband's horse?”

He nodded grimly. “And His Lordship is quite fond of the beast, too, so you can imagine the state I have been in over it. You will never know how grateful I have been that he has not wished to ride him this last week. Thank God Lord Spencer is blind and must travel by wagon.”

“Oh, surely he would not blame you.” she assured him quickly.

“Nay,” he agreed doubtfully, then added, “But he would be fair upset. He is mighty fond of Black, is Lord Burkhart.”

Rosamunde frowned slightly at this news, then shook her husband's possible unhappiness aside. “What is wrong with him?”

“He started sneezing a couple of days after we arrived,” Smithy he began.

Rosamunde made a sound of disgust. “It's that damn drafty hovel they call a stable,” she said unhappily. Smithy nodded in miserable agreement.

“Aye. I coddled him quite a bit and covered him as best I could to keep him warm, but I don't know what else to do. I was hoping that his being able to rest would help, but he seems worse every day. He is sickening. He's off his feed. Out of sorts. He tires easily. He just is not himself. And…” He hesitated, biting his lip miserably.

“And?” Rosamunde prompted.

“And now he has a wheeze in his chest, and he's hot to the touch,” the man admitted. He sounded as if it were his fault.

“Oh, dear. That does sound worrisome.” Taking his arm, she urged Smithy around and back toward the door. “Come, I shall take a look and see…” Her voice trailed away even as her steps slowed. “I cannot go see. My husband has ordered me never to enter the stables again.”

The relief on the new stablemaster's face vanished, his expression falling into one of doom. “I am dead. If his horse dies…” He shook his head miserably.

Patting his arm soothingly, Rosamunde considered the
problem briefly, then came to a decision. “He shall not die. We will mend him.”

“But you cannot go to the stables,” he cried in despair.

She smiled. “Then you must bring Black to me.”

“Bring him here?” Hope and doubt struggled briefly on his face. Not waiting to see which would win, Rosamunde took his arm and walked toward the keep doors, almost dragging him along with her.

“Come, now. Courage. Just go get him and bring him back here. I shall wait on the steps,” she murmured as they stepped out into the noisy bailey.

The stablemaster sighed, but nodded and hurried away.

Rosamunde watched as he bobbed and weaved his way toward the stables; then she began to pace impatiently back and forth on the top step. She was still doing so when she finally spied him leading her husband's steed out of the stables. Pausing, Rosamunde eyed the animal as Smithy led him across the yard. It was easy to see that this description was correct. She could not tell about the horse being off his feed, but the beast was definitely tired and out of sorts. The stablemaster had to veritably drag the beast across the yard, and was having to keep a good distance between himself and the horse as he did. Every time he got close, Black tried to bite him.

Worried now, Rosamunde quickly descended the steps and hurried to meet them. They were still a good twenty feet from the keep when she reached them. Murmuring soothingly to the horse, she took his head in her hands, frowning at the discharge about his eyes and nose, then quickly looked the rest of him over, just to be sure there were no other symptoms she should be aware of.

“It is nothing serious, is it?” Smithy asked anxiously. She nodded and muttered to herself.

Moving back to join him at the front of the horse, Rosamunde sighed. “'Tis a cold.”

“A cold?” he asked blankly. “I didn't know horses could get colds.”

“Oh, aye,” Rosamunde informed him knowledgeably. “Horses are not really much different from men. They can get colds, the melancholy, stomach complaints…” Pausing, she reached up to caress the horse's mane. “And
he
has a cold. Probably from the dampness in that old stable.”

Smithy frowned at that, but only asked, “What do I do for him?”

“We must take him inside.”

“Inside? Inside where?”

“The keep,” Rosamunde explained calmly. “He must be kept warm and dry. You cannot accomplish that in that moldy old wreck of a building.”

“Aye, but…” Smithy paused, terror covering his face. “Oh, nay. I do not think His Lordship will approve of that.”

“Well, then, he should have fixed the stables as I told him to,” Rosamunde snapped, taking the horse's reins from him and turning back toward the keep. “Come along,” she ordered, leading the horse forward. Once she reached the stairs, she paused to glance back at the stablemaster questioningly. “Are you not coming? You may learn something useful.”

“Ah…My lady,” the man said pleadingly.

He looked completely miserable, Rosamunde realized, and sighed, considering the matter briefly before moving back to explain her thoughts in a manner that sounded more acceptable. “Sir Smithy,” she began reasonably, “my husband does not allow me in the stables, but he has allowed that I might help you—and you do need my help with Black. If I am not allowed in the stables, then we must tend to him here, do you not think?”

“Aye,” the thin man answered, but he was shaking his head even as he said it. “My lady, His Lordship surely wouldn't wish his horse in the castle.”

“Would he wish him dead?”

“Nay.” He looked horrified at the very idea.

“And did he not tell you I might help you?”

“He said you might
advise
me.”

“And I shall. Inside the keep. 'Tis too cold out here for Black.” When the man still looked unhappy at this decision, she sighed impatiently, then turned back to catch up Black's halter. She urged him forward, muttering, “I am only trying to obey my husband's wishes.”

 

Smithy watched wide-eyed as she urged the horse up the stairs, in quite a quandary. He was rather certain that Aric was not going to like coming home to find his steed in the keep. On the other hand, Smithy was fairly certain that he would like it less if he came home to find his horse dead.

“Sirrah! Do hurry!”

Sighing at Rosamunde's impatient call as she and the horse reached the keep doors, he replaced his cap on his head and straightened his shoulders. “In for silver, in for gold,” he murmured philosophically, hurrying after them.

 

“My lord!”

Aric frowned at Smithy's alarmed cry as he entered the stables, then peered at the suddenly pale man suspiciously. “Aye. 'Tis me. What is the matter?”

“Matter?” the thin man said in a squeak, looking slightly trapped. “I…well, nothing. I just…You…I mean, I was not expecting you back so soon. Her Ladyship felt sure you would not return ere the sup.”

“And no doubt he would not have had he not run into us,” a different voice replied.

Aric glanced around at that cheerful tone to see that his friend Robert Shambley had followed him into the stables. Aric's father, Lord Burkhart, was a bare step behind as he walked forward to join them. Aric, Lord Spencer, and his servant had been about two hours into this last day of their tour when they had come across the travelers. It seemed his father had gotten wind of his troubles with
Delia and traveled to Shambley to see how his son fared. There he had learned of the events of the last three weeks.

From what Aric had heard, Gordon Burkhart had spent the night at Shambley Hall, intending to travel on to Goodhall alone the next morning to meet his new daughter-in-law. But a messenger had arrived with the news of the king's death that morning, and Shambley had decided to join his friend's father. The two had been concerned by how this tragedy would affect Aric and his wife; both were aware that the king had arranged this marriage to ensure Lady Rosamunde's protection. Now, with her father dead, if there was something to threaten her, it would rear its head soon.

Both men had been amazed upon hearing that Aric was still touring his new lands. And he had felt shame as Lord Spencer had spoken up, taking the blame. The older man claimed that the necessity to conduct the tour in the wagon was the reason for the extended length of time of the tour, but the truth was that it was Aric's own dillydallying that had prolonged the task. He'd had great long visits with nearly every single one of his new vassals, accepting every invitation to stop for a meal, and chatting long with everyone in an effort to avoid going home to bed his wife. Of course, that had been until last night. He had determined this morning, as he had waited for the wagon to be readied, that he would pick up the pace and try to finish his inspection today.

Instead, upon meeting his father and Robert on their way to Goodhall, he had forsaken the tour altogether. He had made Joseph turn the wagon toward home, to accompany his guests and their men-at-arms back to the castle.

“Hello, Smithy,” Robert said now. “I see Aric has delegated you to minding the horses full-time.”

“Er…Aye, my lord,” the man murmured nervously, moving suddenly forward and toward the door of the stables. “Nice to see you again, my lord. And you, too, my
lord,” he added with a nod toward the senior Lord Burkhart. “I have to…er…”

He had nearly slipped through the door before Aric brought his escape attempt to a halt. “Get back here. Where do you think you are going?”

Smithy paused and licked his lips nervously. “W-well, I just th-thought to warn—I mean to…er…inform Her Ladyship that you were b-back.”

Aric's gaze narrowed on the obviously anxious man. “Then she is not here? I was beginning to suspect that she had gone against my wishes and come down to work in the stables.”

“Oh, nay, my lord,” Smithy assured him quickly. “Nay. She would not go against…well, she would never come down to the stables after you explicitly ordered her not to. I just thought she might like to know that you are back and—”

“I will inform her of that myself,” Aric said grimly. “You have work to do. See to my father's and my friend's horses.”

“Aye, my lord,” the man said, misery obvious on his face. “As you wish, my lord.”

Frowning now, and aware that something was most definitely up, Aric eyed the new stablemaster silently for a moment, then turned and hurried out of the building, heading for the keep at a fast clip.

“What is going on?” Robert asked curiously as he and Aric's father hurried to catch up.

“I do not know, but I intend to find out,” Aric muttered grimly.

“What was that about you refusing to allow her to work in the stables?” His father asked curiously. “Surely the girl would not wish to?”

“Aye, she would, if you can imagine,” Aric said with obvious displeasure.