Always (23 page)

“But the two of you have not even broken your fast,” Rosamunde cried in dismay. But they merely waved at her and continued on their way, their heads now close together as they spoke.

“And how is Lord Aric's horse this morning?”

Rosamunde glanced away from the men disappearing through the keep doors to smile at Bishop Shrewsbury. He crossed the great hall toward her from the direction of the stairs. “Good morn, my lord Bishop. He is better today. Thank you for asking.”

“Good, good.” The older man beamed at both her and the horse in question. “I knew you would mend him. 'Tis a gift you have.”

Blushing slightly at the praise, Rosamunde smiled slightly, then turned to collect the horse's reins. “I was just about to take Black outside for a moment. Why do you not sit down and break your fast? Lord Spencer should be along soon to eat with you.”

“Ah, no. Not this morning, I fear,” Bishop Shrewsbury said sadly. “Joseph was on his way down here to have a tray brought up to Lord Spencer when I left my room. He said Spencer's rheumatism is bothering him something fierce this morning and he will remain abed. He seems to think that means rain,” he added, then shrugged. “I told Joseph I would see to it, so he need not leave Lord Spencer alone.”

“Oh.” Rosamunde hesitated, her gaze moving to the kitchen door, but Shrewsbury patted her arm reassuringly.

“You go ahead and take Black outside before he does anything unpleasant. I shall ensure that Lord Spencer's tray is sent up.”

“Thank you, my lord Bishop,” Rosamunde murmured gratefully, starting toward the keep doors. Black followed docilely behind her. “I should not be long. Then I will keep you company while you eat.”

“Good, good. Then we can talk about how to approach your husband.”

Pausing, Rosamunde turned back with surprise. “How to approach my husband? About what?” she asked uncertainly.

“Why, about returning you to the abbey, my dear. I am sure that if we just find the right approach, he will see the sense in it. Unfortunately, he does seem to have a temper. He was quite upset with me yesterday when I—”

“My lord Bishop,” Rosamunde interrupted, leaving Blackie where he stood and moving slowly back. She had quite forgotten all about that day in the stables when she had sobbed that she did not belong here, that she could do nothing right, the day he had arrived with the news of her father's death. So much had happened since then. “My lord, I know that I was upset the day you arrived—”

“Of course you were, child. Hearing of King Henry's death on top of your own misery here as Burkhart's wife—”

“I do not wish to return to the abbey,” Rosamunde said before he could make her feel any worse than she already did about not grieving longer over the loss of her father. The cleric would hardly understand, even if she explained that while she had loved and admired Henry, it had been from a distance—always from a distance. She had seen him only once a year, usually a quick visit on his way somewhere else. He had never once stayed the night at Godstow, and the meal she had been told he ate while she had prepared for her wedding had been only the second he had ever consumed at the abbey. In truth, she had spent more time with him on his last visit—and they had exchanged more words then—than they ever had before. Ere that, he had always been quiet and regal. He had always been her King more than her father, and though she had loved him and sought his approval, his title had always stood between them—something she now regretted.

The abbess and all the women at the abbey had been her true family. They had nurtured and loved her, watching and helping her grow, enjoying her victories and commiserating with her in failure. Her father…Well, she grieved his passing, and the loss of a good king, but he had been a very poor parent.

Still, she would have died before being ungrateful enough to admit that. And she could never, ever have said as much to the man who stood before her, a man who had spent the last thirty-odd years of his life at the king's side, the most faithful of servants.

“I do not understand,” he said slowly at last. “You said you could do nothing right here. That you—”

“I was very upset at the time.” Rosamunde sighed. “I had been torn from the abbey, refused to be allowed to work with animals.” She shook her head helplessly.

The bishop nodded helpfully. “Aye. And if we return you to the abbey, you can take the veil, and continue to heal and nurture the animals—as God meant.”

“I can do that here, too. Well, not take the veil, of course—but Aric has agreed to allow me in the stables. He even said it would be a waste of my gifts to deny them.” Her face fairly beamed as she told him that, and Shrewsbury smiled slightly in return. Then he seemed to catch himself and shake his head.

“That
is
wonderful. But what of the marital bed? You said you found it painful and humiliating. Surely you do not wish—”

“Oh, well,” Rosamunde interrupted, her face beginning to burn with embarrassment. “That was…I mean…Well, the first time is always painful, is it not?”

“Aye, I have heard as much,” Bishop Shrewsbury murmured carefully, watching her face closely. His eyes suddenly widened in amazement. “Are you saying you do not find it unpleasant and humiliating anymore?”

Rosamunde was finding this conversation uncomfort
able and decided it was time to bring it to an end. “My lord Bishop, I cannot…This is a most discomfiting discussion. I fear we shall just have to leave it at the fact that I am no longer unhappy here. I am content to stay.”

“Just a moment,” the bishop murmured anxiously as she started to turn back toward Black. When she paused, he sighed and made a face. “I know this is an uncomfortable conversation for you, child, but this is important. I must ask you—you do not
enjoy
the marital bed, do you?”

Rosamunde's face colored at the question, and she looked at him warily.

He sighed impatiently. “I do not mean to offend. I ask only because I am aware that the abbess—thinking that you would forever remain with the abbey—may not have taught you about such matters.” When Rosamunde made no reply but looked uncertain, he said gently, “'Tis a sin to enjoy the marital bed.”

“Have you given any thought to what kind of trouble King Henry may have been worried about?” When Aric slowed to a stop at the bottom of the keep steps and turned a confused expression to his friend, Robert reminded him, “He was worried about Rosamunde's safety should anything happen to him. He said 'twas why he sneaked back to arrange the wedding.”

Aric frowned slightly, then continued forward. They were nearly at the half-built stables before he admitted, “I have thought about little else, but I am still not sure what King Henry was concerned about.”

“Do you think his concern was about Richard?”

“I do not know,” Aric admitted with a scowl. That was his fear. That perhaps now that Richard was to be king, he might pose a threat to Rosamunde. But Aric did not know if the man was even aware of her existence. He wished, not for the first time, that Henry had been more specific in explaining his fears.

“I do not know either,” Robert admitted on a sigh, drawing Aric's thoughts back to their conversation, then echoing them. “It would be helpful had King Henry been more forthcoming about what sort of difficulties he expected. And from what corner? Richard or John?”

“Aye.” Aric considered the matter briefly, then murmured, “Well, now that Henry is dead, Richard will inherit the throne—so he is most likely the one King Henry feared might act against her.”

Shambley nodded thoughtfully. “After all, Richard is most definitely his mother's son. Eleanor has great influence over him.”

“Aye, but surely you do not think she could still be bitter over Henry's affair with my wife's mother?” he muttered with dismay.

“I do not know. That is why I brought it up. I wanted to hear your opinion on the matter,” he said carefully. “King Henry's concern for her was my first thought when the messenger arrived at Shambley with news of his death. This sudden fear for Rosamunde, what could it mean?”

“Aye, that has been preying on my mind as well,” Aric agreed.

“And the last thing you need is more concerns to trouble you,” Robert muttered suddenly, amusement beginning to twinkle in his eyes. “Between acquainting yourself with your new responsibilities and Black's illness, you have quite enough in your trencher. Speaking of which, how are you enjoying him as a chambermate? Does he snore? Or do the stomach staggers keep him from sleeping?”

Aric glared at him coldly. “Enjoy it while you can, Shambley. No doubt the day will come when the tables are turned. I shall certainly enjoy my own good laugh then.”

Robert merely laughed harder. “Truly, Aric, I do not know how you maintained your temper last night. It did
not even occur to me to wonder where Rosamunde had moved the horse to. And to your room?” He shook his head. “Why, the great hall is huge, and the stench in there was staggering. Your chamber must have been suffocating!”

Aric exhaled in misery as he thought about it. But in truth, he had been so drunk when he returned to the chamber, he hadn't noticed any stench at all. In fact, his real irritation had been on awakening to find the animal's nose dripping all over his face. He kept that bit of news to himself, though. His friend had enough to tease him about.

“Back to our discussion of my wife and her possible danger,” he said meaningfully instead.

“Ah. Aye, of course.” Robert sobered quickly. “What will you do about the coronation? Tidings should come of that soon enough, and you will no doubt both be expected to attend. Do you expect trouble at the ceremony? Eleanor will be there, most like.”

Aric considered the matter briefly, then shook his head. “Nay. I do not see that there should be any trouble. Rosamunde's mother's relationship with Henry was nearly twenty years ago. I cannot see any woman holding a grudge that long.”

Robert raised an eyebrow.

“But just in case, I think I shall tell the men to be on the lookout for trouble.”

“It cannot hurt to do so.”

“Aye.” Aric sighed. “I shall just have a word with my first in command ere I…” Frowing, he slowed, his hand raising instinctively to his cheek and coming away with dampness on his finger. His brow furrowing with displeasure, he held his hands out, palms to the skies. It was barely a moment before a fat drop of water plopped into one. It was followed quickly by a second. “Damn,” he said in disbelief.

“Hmmm. It appears your work on the new stables shall
have to wait,” Robert managed to say, straight-faced. “I suppose this means you shall be sleeping with your horse again tonight. I do hope he's feeling better.” He couldn't repress his laughter when Aric released a long growl of frustration.

 

“There you are, Blackie.” Rosamunde set the bucket of water she had brought with her at the horse's feet. “That should do you for the night.”

Straightening, she slid her fingers beneath the material covering his face, relieved to find him cooler. She considered removing the clothes wrapped around him, then decided against it. One more night wearing them would not harm him, and she was sure that if she removed the clothes, Aric would decide that Black was fine and could be returned to the stables. Which was not an option. Not when it had been raining all through the day and most of the evening.

Rosamunde sighed as she thought of the plight of the other horses in the stables tonight. Despite it being full summer, the days had been cool, the kind that seemed to seep right into one's bones. And on top of that, the horses were suffering from the damp, too. The old stables did not only have holes in their walls. The roof also leaked, as if it had been constructed of cheesecloth. Rosamunde had spent a good portion of the morning trying to move the horses around, doubling them up the best stalls, emptying some to avoid the worst of the leaks. But by the end of the morning, she had given up the chore as useless; there simply hadn't been enough stalls that did not have leaks above them.

Rosamunde shook her head at the memory of that frustrating and wholly useless morning. It had not helped that Aric had trailed her around the whole time, grumbling and complaining about the rain and the way it was slowing—actually halting—his construction of the new stables. Had he been complaining about it out of concern for
the horses, who had to stand in the mud getting a soaking, she would have grumbled along with him and not been so irritated, but there was no mistaking the fact that his main concern with the delay was that he would have to suffer another night with Black in the castle.

By the midday meal, Rosamunde had enjoyed quite enough of her husband's company, and she had hoped that he would remain behind in the keep during the afternoon. Alas, as soon as the meal was over and she rose to return to the stables, Aric was on his feet to accompany her. She had suggested then, gently, that he entertain his father and Robert in the afternoon rather than follow her around, but he had quickly put paid to that possibility. Nay, he'd said, he was happy to help her and keep her company.

All Rosamunde could do was sigh and shake her head. His statement would have been more believable had he not spit the words through gritted teeth as he trailed her through the pouring rain to the bull's paddock.
The
bull. The one who had stomped and gored poor Jemmy's pup. Its owner had approached her just ere the nooning meal to ask if she might not take a look at the animal. The beast seemed to be favoring one leg. Soaking wet and covered in mud to her knees, Rosamunde had arrived at the paddock where the bull resided in no mood for its cantankerous antics.

Aric had taken one look at the huge, angry beast and the way it glowered at them as they neared the wooden enclosure it was in, then drawn Rosamunde to a halt. He'd then turned to the bull's owner to begin discussing ropes or various other methods of subduing the animal so that she might safely enter the pen. Knowing it was useless to argue, Rosamunde had waited in the pouring rain until they moved off in search of such materials. As soon as the two men disappeared inside the ramshackle old shed that passed for the owner's barn, she had shaken her
head, and moved to the fence. The bull had immediately turned to face her, lowering its head threateningly.

Rosamunde had tried a nice, soothing tone to calm the animal, but the bull had merely pawed the ground a time or two in response. She had deduced from that that it wasn't fear making him cranky. The bull was just miserable.
Wonderful.
Well, she hadn't felt her most charming at that moment either, and didn't appreciate the fact that she was getting cold and wet all for an ungrateful brute of a bull that stomped on poor, defenseless puppies.

Muttering under her breath, she had lifted her skirts slightly so that he could see her legs, then imitated his pawing motion—just to let him know she wasn't intimidated. Then she had climbed determinedly up on the fence. She had been about to swing one leg over the top bar, but froze when the bull had suddenly charged. The bull charged until it was a hairbreadth away from the fence, and then veered away.

She had known it would do that. The animal was feinting, warning her of what it would do should she not stay on her side of the fence. But Rosamunde hadn't been about to put up with such nonsense. As the bull started to turn away, she swung her sack of medicinals over the fence and clubbed the beast in the head with it.

Startled, the animal had sidestepped quickly and whirled to face her. Rosamunde could have sworn she saw an amazed and injured look in the bull's eyes. She suspected most people gave it a wide berth and did not challenge its posturing—except mayhap for puppies that didn't know better and were easy to trounce. But she had found that animals were a lot like people. And bullies were the same no matter the species.

Having gotten its attention, Rosamunde had smiled sweetly and slid her hand in her pocket. She dug about inside. Pulling out an apple, she waved it from side to side, then held it out. “Care for some?”

The bull had stayed put, but she'd been able to see the interest in its eyes. She had smiled slightly before tossing the fruit lightly onto the grass at its feet. Watching her warily, presumably lest she suddenly go mad and start thrashing him again with her bag, it lowered its head carefully and nudged the apple, then bit into it. Rosamunde waited patiently.

Angus, the bull at the abbey, had known a weakness for apples that Rosamunde had hoped that this bull would share. Much to her relief, this bull also proved susceptible. The succulent bribe quickly disappeared.

Reaching into her bag, Rosamunde had taken out another apple, waved it from side to side, then swung first one leg, then the other, over the fence so that she sat on it with both legs inside the paddock. Pausing, she'd leaned forward to hold it out.

The bull had stared at her, hesitating, then had taken one step forward. Then it stopped and simply stared at her. Rosamunde had hesitated, then tossed the apple to the ground halfway between them. The bull had eyed her warily, but closed the space. It quickly gobbled up the second offering. Rosamunde had promptly produced a third, and that had been the charm. All she had had to do was hold it out; this time the bull had moved cautiously forward and taken it carefully from where she held it out on her flat palm. While it ate that one, Rosamunde had eased off the fence and slowly circled it, murmuring soothing nonsense as she had raised a hand to caress its side.

By the time Aric and the farmer had returned with their ropes and other paraphernalia, Rosamunde was kneeling in the mud, fretting over a nasty gash on the bull's hind leg. It was a bite—the teeth marks had told her that much—and most likely from Jemmy's pup. It seemed the animal had defended himself. Ignoring Aric's dismayed orders for her to get out immediately, Rosamunde had quickly cleaned the wound and smoothed a soothing lin
iment over it. Straightening then, she had given the bull a reassuring pat. Then she had calmly left the paddock.

Aric had greeted her with a stern expression and escorted her silently back to the stables. There, the lineup of animals awaiting her attention continued. Her husband had remained silent and grim through her treatments, then escorted her back to the keep to sup. He had also sat silently through that. When she had finally left him, several minutes ago, he had appeared to be well into his cups.

Sighing, Rosamunde gave Black a pat, then moved to the bed and quickly removed her gown. She started to remove her shift, too, then paused and sighed. It was a sin to sleep nude. Bishop Shrewsbury had reminded her of the whole list of sins that morning, before Aric had been forced back to the keep by the rain that Lord Spencer's aggravated rheumatism had predicted. The very thought of her conversation with the clergyman made Rosamunde sigh wearily again.

That, of course, was the true source of her tiredness. She was weary of spirit, made miserable by the pleasure she had enjoyed with her husband—and by the fact that she was not supposed to enjoy it. It seemed sister Eustice had been correct about all the
do
s and
do-not
s she had listed on her wedding day. Rosamunde had rather been counting on her being wrong about everything. But the bishop had reiterated every single one of the rules Eustice had listed, and even introduced a couple the nun had neglected. The very thought of all the
do-not
s was enough to make Rosamunde wish to climb into bed and never come out.

Of course, she couldn't do that, but she could go to bed and turn her thoughts off for a little while, at least. And that was what she planned to do. Pulling the linens back, she slid into bed, then drew them back up to her neck. She lay watching the shadows that the fire was casting dance around the room until they lulled her to sleep.

 

The fire had burned low, and the room and the shadows in it were much darker when she awoke some time later. She had turned onto her side in her sleep, and now lay facing the window that looked out over the courtyard.

Wondering what had awakened her, she let her eyes drift closed again, then blinked them open at a sudden scream from Black. It wasn't a nicker or a whinny. It was a scream, or as close to one as she had ever heard from a horse. And the sound was followed by the sudden thunder of Black's hooves on the wooden floor of the chamber. It sounded as if a herd of horses were charging the bed. Sitting up in alarm, Rosamunde glanced a bit wildly around, her eyes widening as she saw that Aric had entered the room. And Black was attacking him! The horse had charged forward from his place by the fire and was now on his hind legs, pawing wildly at Aric's dark shape. He cried out and swerved to avoid those lethal hooves.