Always (19 page)

“It was her job at the convent,” his friend explained now to Gordon Burkhart. “Apparently all of the nuns—
and the girls preparing to take the veil,” he added quickly when Aric glared at him. “Apparently they each had a task that was their own. Tending to the injured and ailing animals was Lady Rosamunde's chore. She appeared quite skilled at it,” he added defensively, mistaking Aric's father's surprise for displeasure. “She caught on to the fact that the horse I was riding on the way back to Shambley had the lockjaw before I even knew aught was amiss. Did she not, Aric?”

“Aye,” he agreed unhappily. “And no doubt she is skilled at it, but—”

“Of course she is skilled at it.” All three men turned as Shrewsbury approached, his expression severe. “That is because she has spent a lifetime honing the natural talents God gave her.” Pausing before them, he turned a harsh expression onto Aric. “But you would allow those skills and talents to go to waste. Instead you insist she fritter her time and life away running
your
keep.”

“I do not intend for her to waste anything,” Aric said stiffly. The bishop's eyes widened, his expression softening with hope.

“You have decided to let her return to the abbey, then?”

“Nay,” Aric snapped, then more calmly said, “She is my wife and shall
stay
my wife. And she shall run my home. But,” he emphasized harshly when Shrewsbury looked ready to interrupt, “I shall allow her to assist Smithy with the animals. I have already told them that he may consult her on the more difficult cases.”

“You are willing to allow…” The bishop could not have looked more surprised. “You seemed so adamant on—”

“She will not be in the stables. Smithy will come and consult her if he needs her assistance with an animal,” Aric said grimly, aware of the solemn expression on his father's face as he listened to all of this information. Turning before anyone could offer further argument, Aric continued on toward the keep, aware that the others followed.

Aric reached the keep doors just as Joseph opened them for Lord Spencer. The older man and his servant had headed directly to the keep upon returning, while Aric and the others had stopped in at the stables. The older man moved at a much slower pace, old age and rheumatism making his journey up the keep stairs a slow and torturous one.

Aric waited patiently for Joseph to usher the old man in, then followed. He had barely stepped inside the door, however, when a wave of heat hit him, making him pause. It was a warm summer day outside, but it was positively stifling inside. Before Aric could glance toward the fire place, the only source of heat in the great hall, an exclamation from Lord Spencer drew his gaze. The blind man had also paused just inside the door, but his face was raised, his nose working as if sniffing out an unpleasant scent.

“What…?” the older man murmured with bewilderment.

Aric arched an eyebrow curiously, then glanced toward his father, Shambley, and Bishop Shrewsbury. The trio crowded into the keep behind them. “Is there something amiss, my lord?” he asked Lord Spencer.

“That smell.” the old nobleman frowned uncertainly.

Aric sniffed the air and began to glance around the empty great hall. “I do not—” His voice came to a choking halt as his gaze reached the fireplace. The great hall was not empty after all, he saw. His eyes widened with horror as they fell upon a horse standing calmly before the fireplace. At least he thought it was a horse. It was hard to tell. The animal was completely covered in clothing. Various gowns and miscellaneous clothing had been wrapped around his legs, head, neck, torso, and even tail. A great cape had been draped over the top. And—to add insult to injury—a feathered cap was perched jauntily on the animal's head.

“There is a horse in my great hall,” Aric muttered in disbelief.

“Ah, I knew I smelled something,” Lord Spencer murmured with satisfaction, then continued on toward the trestle tables. Joseph followed behind him. The bishop hesitated a moment to peer curiously at the horse, then followed the other two men, meandering away as if there were nothing unusual afoot.

“There is a horse in my great hall,” Aric repeated, turning a rather dazed expression to his father.

“Aye, it would seem so,” Gordon Burkhart agreed. Crossing the room, he began to walk slowly around the animal, examining what he could see of the horse through the clothing bundled around it. There was not a spare inch of coat showing through the material. Not even enough to tell them the color of the beast. The only thing visible was its face, and that was half-hidden as well.

“There is a horse in my great hall.” Aric was starting to sound almost plaintive now as the fact sank in, but nobody paid him any attention. Instead Robert joined Lord Burkhart in examining the beast and murmured, “Do you think it is male or female?”

“Well.” Gordon hesitated “One can't tell by the way it's dressed. That appears to be a gown wrapped around one leg. And there is a shift on this one. But those appear to be brais on that leg there. If I am not mistaken, I believe that may be Aric's great cape across its back.”

Robert's eyebrows rose as he peered more closely at the cape in question. “I believe you may be right. That
is
his cape.”

“My cape?” Aric cried with alarm, moving forward to look at the item in question. Then he said, faintly, “My God! It
is
my cape. There is a horse in my great hall wearing my cape.”

“So…” Robert bit the inside of his mouth to keep from laughing at his friend's distress. “'Tis wearing both gowns and brais. That explains one thing to me.”

Lord Burkhart raised an eyebrow at that. “That 'tis a gelding?” he suggested dryly.

Robert grinned, but shook his head. “No, and I am not looking to find out.”

“Then what does the clothing tell you?”

“That this is Lady Rosamunde's work.” When Lord Burkhart raised his eyebrows at that, Robert grinned. “She is the only person I know who wears both brais and gowns.”

“Does she? Does she indeed?” Gordon asked with interest.

“There is a horse in my great hall!” Aric roared, drawing both men's attention to his furious face.

“Aye, Aric. We have noticed that,” his father pointed out. Something that looked suspiciously like amusement tugged at the older man's distinguished face.

Aric opened his mouth to bellow some more, but the
words caught in his throat at a highly suspicious sound that came from the posterior section of the horse. “What was that?” he snapped.

“Ah, well,” Lord Burkhart murmured, raising one hand to calmly cover the bottom of his nose. “It sounds and…er…
smells
rather as if the poor animal has, er…flatulent colic.”

“Flatulent—”

When his friend peered at him blankly, Robert hid a laugh behind a cough and murmured a less polite, but more common term. “The stomach staggers, Aric.”

“Stomach staggers?
Stomach staggers!
” His eyes rounded in horror one second before the smell suddenly hit him. “Oh, God! He's
farting!
” Waving a hand frantically in front of his face, he hurried a safe, distance away, one step behind his father and Robert.

“
That
is no doubt what I smelled when I entered,” Lord Spencer called cheerfully from the table, which was a safe distance away. His words drew an appreciative glance from Bishop Shrewsbury.

“You have a very good nose, my lord,” the late king's man complimented. “I did not smell anything at all when we entered. Still do not, in fact.”

“Ah, well.” The blind man shrugged the compliment away. “When you lose your eyesight, your other senses tend to sharpen in an effort to compensate.”

“That cap the horse is wearing looks quite familiar to me, Aric,” Robert commented, drawing his attention from the conversation at the table. “Is that not the new one you purchased on your last trip to London?”

Aric glanced back toward the horse and went suddenly still, his mouth working, but nothing came out of it. His friend was right. That was his hat perched on the animal's head! His brand-new hat. He was still standing there a moment later when Rosamunde came jogging lightly down the stairs, her attention on the stockings she was slipping off of her hands.

“Here we are, then. These should help keep your feet warm. Not a hole in the bunch,” she sang out cheerfully as she reached the bottom of the steps and crossed the hall toward the bundled animal. “Now, we shall just get these on your feet.” Stopping beside the animal, she bent to run her hand over one of the horse's fetlocks. The horse raised his foot at once, apparently willing to cooperate, and that was when Aric found his voice, managing to draw her attention to their presence with a bellow.

“Wife!”

Dropping the horse's hoof, Rosamunde straightened abruptly, her eyes wide with horror as she spotted the crowd standing near the trestle table. “Husband! You are returned!” she cried with dismay, then suddenly stepped in front of the horse as if she thought she might be able to hide its great bulk behind her own small frame. “What are you doing here?”

“What am I…” Aric began with disbelief, then, “What the devil is
he
doing here?”

“Who?” she asked innocently as he started across the room toward her. As if she thought, for one bloody moment, that they all could not see the horse standing behind her, he thought with amazement.

The animal was now nuzzling her shoulder as if trying to remind her of its presence and pointing out that he was the “who” in question.

“Wife,” he began again.

Shoulders slumping at his warning growl, Rosamunde sighed, then stomped the floor impatiently with one dainty foot. “You were not supposed to be back so early. You did not return until sup yestereve, and I thought sure that you would be late again today. I would have had him moved somewhere else by then,” she complained, somehow making it sound as if this were all his fault. Then her gaze slid to the two men accompanying him and her eyes widened slightly. “Oh! Lord Shambley. Hello again. Wel
come to Goodhall!” A bright smile on her face, she hurried forward to offer her hand as if nothing were amiss.

Ignoring a fuming Aric, Robert took her hand in his, bowed gallantly, and pressed a kiss to her fingers. “My lady,” he greeted, his eyes sparkling with humor. “'Tis a pleasure to see you again.” Then, straightening, he turned slightly to introduce the older man at his side. “I do not believe you have met Aric's father, Lord Burkhart. Lord Burkhart, may I introduce Lady Rosamunde, your new daughter-in-law.”

Smiling reassuringly into Rosamunde's horrified face, the older man stepped forward, taking her hand from Robert's. “It is a pleasure to welcome you to the family, my dear. I hope Aric does not prove a difficult husband for you—”

Aric snorted at that and shook his head. “
Me
difficult? Excuse
me
, but does no one recall there is a
horse in my great hall?
” Another burst of escaping air from the animal in question made him stiffen, straighten, and correct himself. “There is a
farting
horse in my great hall.”

“Husband!” There was no mistaking the reprimand in her voice, and it made Aric gape at her as she hurried over to soothe the animal lest it become offended. “You shall embarrass him. 'Tis not his fault that he has the flatulence. He is ill.”

“Ah, 'tis a he,” Lord Burkhart murmured with a nod. When Rosamunde peered at him curiously, he explained. “We were not sure. He is wearing both gowns and brais, you see.”

Missing the teasing laughter in his eyes, Rosamunde frowned as she considered that fact. “You do not think it shall cause him embarrassment or confusion, do you?”

Robert and Gordon laughed gently and shook their heads. Aric was less amused. “Wife. Get this horse out of my keep.”

“Nay.”

His eyes widened incredulously at her rebellion. It was the first time she had said nay to him. “What?”

Biting her lip, Rosamunde briefly considered the fact that she was disobeying her husband—despite the vow she had made to obey, both to God during the wedding ceremony and then to her father afterward. But then she decided that since it wasn't for her own benefit, or out of some whim for her own pleasure, it was all right. After all, the matter affected the horse's life. Besides, quite simply, her husband was wrong! Surely she wasn't expected to obey when he was so obviously wrong?

Her conscience salved by this reasoning, she forced a smile and endeavored to explain the situation so that he would see the error of his decision and hopefully change it so that she need not continue to disobey. “He is ill, my lord. He has a cold, which he got from those damp and drafty old stables.” The words came out a bit snappishly, since the building's state was wholly his fault for not listening to her. Regaining her temper, she continued, “He must be kept warm and dry. The only place to do that is here in the keep, by the fire. 'Sides,” she added quickly as he opened his mouth to shout again. “'Tis not just any horse. 'Tis Black.”

Aric's eyes shot to the clothing-covered beast with alarm, but it was his father who moved over and lifted the material from around his face. “Aye,” Gordon said with surprise. “'Tis Black! I did not recognize him in disguise.”

Robert gave a laugh at that, but Aric moved quickly to the horse, examining the beast's weeping eyes with dismay, then jumping back with a curse as Black suddenly drew his head up and sneezed squarely in his master's face.

“You must leave him covered,” Rosamunde chided, hurrying forward to rearrange the clothing she had wrapped around his head. Aric wiped his face with disgust. The horse suffered her ministrations without fuss
ing, and even leaned its head into her shoulder as if to thank her. This was not Black's typical behavior. Normally he liked no one but Aric. He tended merely to suffer anyone else's presence.

“How ill is he?” Aric asked, concerned now, but keeping his distance.

“He has a bad cold.” Rosamunde gave the horse a soothing pat as he sniffled miserably from under his coverings, then bent again, urging his front leg up so that she might tug a stocking onto the hoof. “He will recover if handled gently. But if you put him back in those damp stables, he could worsen, get the lung complaint, and die.”

“Die?” Aric asked worriedly, then frowned as he got a good look at what she was doing. “Are those my stockings? By God, they are!” he said incredulously, gaping at her where she knelt. “Madam, you are putting a stocking on a horse. My stockings on my horse, in fact.”

“Aye, 'tis fitting, do you not think?” Rosamunde murmured with an absent-minded smile, straightening and moving to the next leg to repeat the action.

“Fitting?
Fitting?
”

Frowning over her shoulder at him, Rosamunde slowly stood. “There is no need to shout, my lord. I am standing right here. Besides, you shall disturb Black.” As if on cue, the great black beast gave a sniffle, followed by a pitiful whinny. Rosamunde turned to run a soothing hand down his neck. “There, there. You shall feel better soon.” Peering back at her husband, she smiled angelically, distracting him briefly until her words sank. Then he recalled he was upset. “You see? He does not feel well at all.”

“Fine! He is ill. But that does not mean you needed to bring him in here, stand him by the fire, and dress him in my great cape,” Aric protested, but some of the bite had gone out of his tone.

“I needed something to keep him warm,” she explained patiently. “I can always wash your cape, my lord. But I
cannot produce another fine horse like Black out of the air.” Finished with the stockings, Rosamunde straightened and started toward the front of the horse, where Aric now stood glaring at the beast. She paused, however, to smile at a young servant girl who hurried out of the kitchens to hand her a pail.

“Thank you, Maggie,” she murmured, accepting the bucket and pausing to dip a finger into its contents before turning with satisfaction to hold it up for the horse.

“What the devil is that mush you are feeding him?”

Rosamunde grimaced at his choice of words. “It is porridge, my lord. Blackie shouldn't eat anything hard while he is ailing. The soft food will be easier on his digestion, allowing his body to concentrate most of its effort on fighting the cold.”

“That explains the stomach staggers,” Robert murmured from where he stood some distance away, Lord Burkhart beside him.

Aric ignored the comment in favor of frowning at his wife. “His name is Black, not Blackie. And I want him out of here ere the sup,” he said grimly. Then, turning on his heel, he strode toward the keep door.

“Where are you going?” Robert asked, hurrying after him.

“To set some men to build the new stables.”

“That is probably for the best,” his father murmured, beginning to follow.

“Aye,” Aric agreed dryly, casting a pointed look over his shoulder at where Rosamunde stood feeding his horse. Then he added, “Then I am going down to the village, where I can enjoy an ale and some food without this stench.”

Grinning, Robert glanced back toward the table. “Lord Spencer? Bishop Shrewsbury? Shall you join us?”

“Certainly, certainly. It will be a pleasure,” the blind man murmured, rising and moving forward with the aid of Joseph. Shrewsbury, too, rose.

Rosamunde watched the men slip out of the keep, then glanced back at Black with a sigh. “Ah, well, never fear, Blackie. I will stay here with you.” A gaseous emission from the horse in response made her wrinkle her nose. “But you
are
a stinker.”