Always (20 page)

 

Sucking in some fresh air, Rosamunde smiled slightly, then sank onto the keep steps with a sigh. She had come outside to get a few moments away from the stink and heat in the keep. Between Black's flatulence and the heat pouring off of the inferno she had built in the fireplace to sweat out some of the chills the horse was suffering, it was a mite uncomfortable in there just now. She planned to allow the flames to die down and move Black an hour before the sup to allow the room to air out, but was still not yet sure to where she would move the horse. The kitchen would be nice and warm, but she did not think Cook would appreciate it—and he did seem the irascible sort. Mayhap she could persuade Black to mount the stairs and get him into one of the empty bedchambers.

She was distracted from her thoughts by the sound of a child's sobbing. Frowning, Rosamunde allowed her eyes to focus on the bailey before her, concern tugging at her lips as she spied a small boy moving past the steps, stumbling under the weight of a dog he carried. The animal was unconscious, blood matting its normally brown fur. Standing abruptly, Rosamunde started down the stairs, hailing the boy as she went. “Boy? Boy! What has happened?”

Halting, the lad turned to stare at her, tears streaming down his face. He hitched his awkward burden higher in his arms and watched her approach.

Pausing before him, Rosamunde reached out to smooth some of the coarse fur away to get a better look at the animal. She had at first thought it a full-grown dog because of its size, but up close she could see that it was really just a rather large pup. Its paws and head were
larger than the body deserved; the animal had not yet grown into them. The animal was hardly breathing.

“What happened?” she repeated, frowning over the injury to its throat and side.

“The bull,” he answered dully. “Laddie got in the paddock with him. He was just playing. He's a pup and don't know better. I should have trained him better, kept a closer eye on him. Now he's dead.” His voice broke on a heartfelt sob, and the boy gasped through his tears. “Da says I should bury him outside the gates.”

Rosamunde took in the guilt and grief struggling on the child's face and felt her heart tighten. “What is your name, lad?”

“Jemmy,” he got out somewhere between a hiccup and a sob.

“Well, Jemmy, you had best not be burying your friend there too quick. He is not dead.”

“He isna?” The boy gaped as she took the pup from him. “But…he looks dead.”

“Looking is not always being,” Rosamunde assured him, turning toward the keep steps with her burden. “Come along. Let us see what we can do.”

 

An hour later, after laboring tirelessly over the small dog, Rosamunde was satisfied with her efforts. She had cleaned his wounds, bandaged him, wrapped him in a blanket to ward off the shock he was suffering, and the puppy was now awake and staring around in confusion. He was in a lot of pain, and it would take a while for the pup to recover, but recover he would.

Beaming with relief and pleasure, Jemmy threw his arms around her in a spontaneous show of gratitude, not even minding that she insisted his pup must stay in the keep so that she might keep an eye on his injuries. The boy then rushed out of the keep to tell his father that she had “brought my dog back from the dead.”

Between Jemmy and Stablemaster Smithy chattering
away to everyone about her work with Black, word spread quickly that the keep's new lady had a special way with ailing beasts. Before Rosamunde knew what was about, she found herself besieged by peasants. Pigs, goats, sheep, and dogs were paraded into the keep. Chickens, hawks, cats, and kittens were carried in. Even a mule and a couple of cows. The great hall filled up quickly, and Rosamunde found herself knee-deep in animals by late afternoon.

 

“With all the men you've assigned to this, it should not take more than a couple days to finish the new stables.”

Aric glanced at his father as they crossed the bailey toward the keep. “Aye, and you can stop your fussing. I am no longer angry at my wife.” A wry smile twisted his lips. “I should not have lost my temper in the first place. She was only trying to save Black. I was just a bit overset. When I said Smithy could consult her, I did not expect her to take it to mean he should bring the horses into the keep.”

“Aye, well.” Robert laughed. “Once the stables are up, she will most likely leave the horses there. Although…”

Aric stiffened slightly, his eyes narrowing on his friend.

“Although it does seem to me that much of this could have been avoided. Had you just allowed her access to the stables, I suspect she may have just bundled Black up there and stayed nearby to keep an eye on him.”

“And when you are married, you may decide how you deal with your wife! In the meantime, pray do not try to tell me how to handle mine,” Aric interrupted, starting up the keep steps.

“As you wish, my lord,” Robert said a touch dryly, then jogged lightly up the stairs. Reaching the keep doors, he pulled one open, made a snappy little bow, then held the door as a servant might do. Aric ascended the steps toward him.

He was nearly at the top when Shambley suddenly stiffened, cocking his head briefly as if trying to discern the source of some sound, then turned his head to glance sharply into the great hall. In the next moment, Robert slammed the door shut and threw himself before it.

“What is it?” Aric asked suspiciously as he paused before him, frowning.

“Nothing,” he said quickly. But the fact that the word was squeaked out in an uncustomarily high voice, as if he were choking on it, made it hard for either Aric or his father to believe. Especially when Robert added in a desperately cheerful voice, “Say! Why do we not go have another ale in the village?”

Taking in Shambley's expression, Lord Burkhart frowned, then peered briefly toward the door the younger man was blocking. Suddenly he nodded. “Mayhap that is not such a bad idea. I could use—”

“Move.” It was one word and said pleasantly enough, but the hard look in Aric's eye said more than the word could.

Heaving a sigh, Shambley stepped out of the way. “Just remember, you are the one who refused to allow her the stables.”

Aric reached for the door, suddenly positive that Rosamunde had neglected to move Black, and that the farting horse was still ensconced by the fire. He prepared himself for just such a sight as he slowly opened the door, determined that he would remain calm. He would not lose his temper. He would simply tell her in a reasonable tone of voice to move the animal and she would—

His thoughts stopped dead at the sight that met his eyes as he stepped inside the great hall—or what used to be the great hall. This could
not
be Goodhall's great hall, he assured himself. This was the great hall of another castle. Somehow they had lost their way on their return from the village and left his land. This room, filled with twenty or so people and twice as many animals—all milling, cluck
ing, squawking, or quacking about—was some other poor lord's great hall, and he really should turn around and make his way back to Goodhall now, he thought faintly. But then there was a shifting of the people and animals, and he saw the chair at the head of the trestle table. Yes, that definitely looked like his chair at the head trestle table in his great hall. In fact, he was suddenly quite positive that that was his chair, and that this was his great hall.

What made him so positive, despite the animals that he was certain he had not made welcome in his dining area?

Well, it would be the fact that there was presently a hawk perched on the back of that head chair at the trestle table in this great hall, and that that hawk was presently relieving itself on the chair. Yes. And there was only one person Aric could think of who might see it as acceptable to allow a hawk to relieve itself on her lord and husband's chair. The same person who thought it was quite alright to dress a horse in her lord and husband's clothes, cape, and cap and coddle him by her lord and husband's fire. And that person would be his—

“Wife.”

The roar had barely left his lips when Aric found himself grabbed from behind and dragged back out of the keep by both his father and Shambley. The outer doors slammed closed and Aric began to swear and shout in earnest as he was dragged backward down the stairs.

Bishop Shrewsbury, Lord Spencer, and Joseph all paused at the foot of the steps they had just reached—as usual, they had been slightly slower in their return—and gaped after him briefly as he was carted bodily across the bailey toward the stables. Then Lord Spencer murmured something. Shrewsbury shook his head, then hurried up the stairs to the keep doors. He opened one, stuck his head in, then pulled it back out, slamming the door again as he whirled back around. He hurried back down the stairs and past Lord Spencer and Joseph. Shouting some
thing to the others that Aric couldn't hear, the bishop hurried across the bailey after them. Grabbing Joseph, Lord Spencer quickly began to follow as Shambley and Lord Burkhart dragged Aric into the ramshackle old stables.

 

Sure she had heard her husband's voice over the cacophony of animal sounds around her, Rosamunde straightened from the duck whose broken wing she had just finished binding and glanced around the hall anxiously. There was no sign of the man, but guilt suffused her as her eyes slid over the myriad animals surrounding her. Ducks flocked, geese squawked, and chickens clucked between and around the feet of the thirty or so peasants waiting their turn to see her. A goat was tethered to the table. Several sheep were sleeping nearby. A hawk was perched on the head chair, her husband's, where she saw with dismay that it had relieved itself several times. A couple of pigs were poking through the rushes, rooting for grub. There were several dogs here now, as well as cats, and even a cow. The great hall fairly echoed with various animal sounds, and it smelled like a stable. If that were not enough, Black still stood miserably by the fire, adding his own horrible perfume to the air every other moment.

How late was it? she wondered a bit uncomfortably. Her husband would not be pleased to return to this madness in his great hall, but the time had gotten away from her. Excusing herself briefly, she made her way past and around the animals and people so patiently waiting, and slipped into the kitchens to find out. To her dismay, Cook was nearly finished making the sup. It was nearly the dinner hour!

Biting her lip, Rosamunde hurried back out into the great hall, forcing a smile for the benefit of the bevy of servants, farmers, and children who owned the animals around her. “I am sorry, but I fear we shall have to stop
now for the day. 'Tis almost the dinner hour and we must clear the great hall,” she announced.

There was a general shifting of people as they began to gather their animals in preparation for leaving. No one complained, but Rosamunde still felt bad at having to turn them away—despite the fact that the only cases that remained were minor injuries or ailments. She had seen the serious cases directly as they had arrived. While no one had seemed to mind the preemptive treatment of these more critical cases, Rosamunde could not help but feel guilty about how long some of the people had been waiting for their animals to be seen.

“I shall make myself available again on the morrow to aid the rest of you,” she assured them as the great hall began to empty. Then her gaze slid over the lord's chair, the trestle tables, the benches, and even the rushes as they were abandoned.

“Oh, damn. Damn, damn, double damn,” she cursed. This was awful. Horrific. Just terrible. There was animal waste everywhere. Groaning aloud, she ran for the kitchens. Thrusting the door open, she peered frantically at the various servants rushing this way and that. “I need help! Now! Right now! Lots of it! Quickly!” she cried.

The cook took one look at her panicked expression and hurried over to peer past her into the great hall. She heard his gasp, then, “
Sacre bleu! Qu'est-ce que tu fait?
” Then he let the door close and peered at her with terror as he seemed to recall that she wanted help cleaning up that mess. Backing away, he began shaking his head. “Oh,
non. Non, non, non, non, non.
”

“Oh,
oui. Oui, oui, oui, oui, oui,”
Rosamunde cried, dismayed by his negativity. Were they not her servants? Shouldn't they
have
to help her if she asked for it? Cook seemed to come to that conclusion even as she did, for, cursing more in French, he turned on the others in the kitchen.

“Allez! Allez! Vite vite, depechez-vous!”
he roared, and everyone began to move. Every last servant in the kitchen suddenly rushed past her and out into the great hall. Everyone but the cook—but Rosamunde wasn't about to push her luck. Besides, someone had to keep the supper from burning.

“Merci.”
She beamed her thanks at the man as she backed out of the kitchen.
“Merci beaucoup, monsieur.”

“Bah!” Making what she suspected was a rude Gallic gesture, the man turned away and hurried over to a pot bubbling upon the fire, leaving Rosamunde to join the servants now rushing about cleaning. But the door had barely closed behind her when a whinny and a fart drew her gaze toward the fire.

“Oh, Blackie!” She sighed, then hurried toward the horse. Her husband had ordered that he be out of the great hall by sup.

 

“Let me up!”

“Not until you regain your temper,” Gordon Burkhart announced calmly, shifting to a slightly more stable position on his son's chest before glancing at Robert, who knelt at Aric's head in the straw, holding his hands down. They had dragged Aric here, and were now holding him down in the hopes of giving his temper a moment to cool before he encountered his young wife. “How are you doing, Robert? Can you hold him?”

“Aye, I am fine, I—”

“Regain my temper?
Regain my temper?
” Aric interrupted to roar. “That woman has turned my great hall into a stables!”