Always (31 page)

“Here we are!” Shambley breezed cheerfully into the clearing. “Fresh clothes for both of you.”

“I shall change in my tent,” Rosamunde snapped, snatching the gown he held out and stomping past him. “I trust you will keep an eye on my husband and be sure he is safe.”

“Of course,” Robert agreed, staring after her rather blankly. She marched off back toward camp. “Well, did I interrupt at a bad moment?”

“Hmmm?” Aric glanced toward his friend, distracted, then began to grin like an idiot. He stepped out of the water. “Nay, nay. She thinks of you as a ‘people.'”

“Oh.” His friend blinked. “Well, that is good. I guess.”

“Aye. And she thinks of me as
the
man.”

“And so you are a man,” Shambley murmured, wondering what the hell his friend was jabbering on about.

“And she wants to mount my manhood on the mantel,” Aric announced happily, taking the brais Robert held and tugging them quickly on.

That made Shambley pause and blink several times before asking cautiously, “And this is a good thing?”

“Aye. It means she cares about me.”

“I see.” Shambley nodded slowly. “If you say so. Er…I do not suppose Rosamunde thought to check that head wound of yours…to see what damage may have been done?”

“What?” Aric frowned at him, then scowled as he
snatched his tunic from his friend. He began to don it. “There is nothing wrong with my head.”

“Of course not,” Robert agreed. He followed then, shaking his head as Aric snatched up his sword belt and started back through the trees toward camp.

Sighing, Rosamunde paced the length of the room she and Aric had been given, and glanced impatiently toward the door.

They had arrived at court the day before, and Rosamunde had been grateful for that at the time. Unfortunately, despite the fact that she had not left his side for a moment after Shambley and Aric had returned to their campsite the day he had nearly drowned, there had been another attack. Not on his person, though. That had not been possible now that they were on the alert. However, the last morning of their journey, their attacker had apparently become desperate and placed a sharp pin under Black's saddle.

The plan had been very clever. So long as there was no weight on the saddle, Black had been fine, but the moment Aric had mounted, the thick pin had stuck the horse, making him buck wildly.

Her husband had been thrown from the saddle. Luck
ily he had landed on Bishop Shrewsbury, else he might have been killed. Of course, no one had seen anyone strange near the horses, and once again they were unable to determine the culprit.

It had been a great relief to reach court, especially for the bishop. He had knocked his head pretty hard when Aric had landed on him. The poor man hadn't even seen the trouble Aric was in, so had been unprepared for the warrior's weight upon him. The cleric had been quite testy the rest of the journey. Rosamunde suspected his head had been aching. He had retired to his own room as soon as they had arrived, not even leaving it to join them all at the sup.

The memory of the meal last night, her first at court, made Rosamunde again sigh unhappily. What a debacle that had been. Aric had been hailed by someone down the table just as they were being seated. Excusing himself, her husband had moved to speak to the man, leaving Rosamunde alone. She had still been alone a few moments later when a pale-skinned, dark-haired beauty with an apparently permanent expression of disdain on her face had been seated at her side.

Feeling a certain kinship with the other girl, since the two of them had been momentarily abandoned, Rosamunde had foolishly attempted to strike up a conversation with the newcomer. She had quickly regretted it. The woman had taken great delight in looking down her nose at everything about Rosamunde, from her pretty but plain blue gown to her undressed hair. When she had suggested that Rosamunde was in need of a better lady's maid, Rosamunde had blurted that she did not have one. The woman had immediately become even ruder. Rosamunde had been quite relieved when she had finally felt a slight pressure on her shoulder and heard Aric's voice just above her head.

“As you can see, Delia, my wife is beautiful enough that she does not need the artifices some women feel
naked without. I hardly think that a maid could improve the beauty God has given her.”

Feeling her heart warm and her stomach unclench slightly at her husband's sweet words, Rosamunde had smiled up at him, then turned back to her tormentor. It was only when she saw the way the woman's face had paled, her mouth suddenly as straight and tight as a bowstring, that Rosamunde had recognized the name:
Delia.
This was the fiancée who had broken his heart, she had realized, watching silently as the other woman rose with a sneer and hurried away.

“I apologize,” Aric had murmured, settling himself beside her. Rosamunde had glanced at him in surprise.

“For what, my lord? That was not your fault.”

“Aye, it was,” he had assured her quietly. “At least in part. I should have bought you new gowns as you deserve—as, indeed, your father instructed me to. And I should have thought of a lady's maid.” He had shaken his head in self-disgust. “I have two sisters. I do not know how your lack slipped my attention.”

“I do not want a lady's maid,” Rosamunde had assured him quietly. “I have never had one and have no wish for one now. And had you bought those gowns, I am sure she would have simply criticized them as well. She seems a very bitter and unpleasant person. I think she takes pleasure in hurting people.”

“Aye.” He had smiled at that. “And you saw that after only a matter of moments…. I have known her all my life, and yet did not see it until I learned to love you.”

When Rosamunde had smiled at him then, squeezing his hand gently, a dissatisfied frown started to tug at his lips. “I just said I love you, wife. Are you not the least surprised? Have you nothing to say to that?”

Rosamunde's eyebrows had risen slightly at his irritation. “But I already knew you loved me, my lord. Why would I be surprised?”

“You knew?” He had scowled, a muscle beginning to
twitch in his cheek. “How could you have known?
I
did not even know until I said it.”

“Why, I knew the moment you stopped acting so jealous all the time, after the incident by the river. You no longer grumble at anyone who smiles at me, or—”

“You knew I loved you because I
stopped
being jealous?” He'd gaped at her reasoning, but Rosamunde nodded, for she'd realized it was true.

“Of course. It meant that you had come to trust me, my lord. And trusting me was the last hurdle you needed to overcome. You already liked me, desired me, valued my abilities, and wanted me near you. Trust was the last item needed.”

When he'd began to shake his head in a sort of bewildered uncertainty, she had pressed a hand to his cheek in a soft caress. “And I recognized that because I had come to love you, too.”

Relaxing then, he had covered her hand with his own and smiled. “Your father was a very wise man.”

“Aye,” she had agreed, tears pooling in her eyes. “He gave me a wonderful gift in you.”

“Nay,…” Pausing as he was jostled by someone seating himself nearby, Aric had glanced around with irritation. “Are you really very hungry?”

“Only for my husband,” she had whispered huskily.

Squeezing her hand, Aric had smiled widely, then stood, taking her with him as they departed the table. Once in their room, there had been no more need for words. They had proven with their bodies what had already been said in words, giving of themselves and sharing with a joy that still made her smile. Or would have, were she not so worried.

Sighing, she glanced toward the door again. She had awakened early this morning as was her habit, but whereas she normally would have gone below and puttered about, this morning she had remained abed, watching her husband sleep. She had no intention of leaving
him alone and venturing out in this strange castle. So she had watched over him, until looking was just not enough anymore, and she had been unable to stop herself from gently caressing him: his cheek, his throat, his chest. Aric had awakened by the time her hand had dropped lower; then he had shown her the many benefits of awaiting his awakening.

One added benefit, oddly enough, was that he seemed to be much less grumpy. That morning, as they had dragged themselves from the bed and moved below to break their fasts, Aric had been the most pleasant of husbands.

But her husband's good cheer had lasted only until after they had eaten. As they were rising to leave the table, Shambley had approached with the news that Richard had granted Aric the audience he had requested and would see him right away. Aric had ordered Rosamunde back to their room.

Rosamunde had left reluctantly, positive that her husband had asked to see Richard in the hope that he might divine whether the prince was involved in the attacks that had occurred first at Goodhall, then on the journey here. Fear had been plaguing her ever since he had left. Now that she was alone, and with nothing to occupy her thoughts, her anxiety had grown. It was not that she feared he would not be careful in broaching the subject, but…she had a superstitious sense that things had been going too well, that she was too happy, and that payment for that happiness was coming due.

Her patience snapping, Rosamunde whirled and headed for the door. She could stand it no longer. She had to find her husband. She would wait outside the audience hall if need be, but orders or no orders, she could not wait alone in their chamber another moment.

 

“Oh, my lord. There you are.”

Aric paused in the hallway outside the royal audience
chamber, his eyebrows rising as he watched Bishop Shrewsbury hurry forward. He had just wasted an hour talking to Richard, telling him about the trouble he had had of late, the attacks on Rosamunde and himself, feeling the man out to see if he might be involved somehow. But other than a mild concern, the man had given nothing away.

Now all Aric wanted was to return to his chamber and his wife. He could not wait for this trip to be over so that they could return home. There were too many strangers here. Too much intrigue. He would take Rosamunde home as soon as the coronation was over. There he would look into different ways of ensuring their safety; he would replace every single person at the castle, if need be. Now that he had found happiness with Rosamunde, he had no intention of losing it.

“Thank goodness I got to you in time.” The bishop spoke the words barely above a whisper. “I rushed here the moment Shambley told me that you had been granted an audience. You must not see Richard, at least not until I warn you—”

“I just came from seeing him,” Aric interrupted brusquely. Bishop Shrewsbury's face was immediately filled with dismay.

“Oh, no,” he gasped, wide-eyed. “What did you say? I wish you had waited until I could tell you…” Sighing, he shook his head. Aric frowned.

“Until you could tell me what?”

“I know who is behind the attempts on your life.”

Aric stiffened. “Who?” he asked harshly.

Shrewsbury opened his mouth, then snapped it closed again as his gaze landed on the guards on either side of the door. He shook his head. “Not here. Come with me.”

Turning, he hurried off down the hall, leaving Aric to follow him. After a brief hesitation, Aric did, trailing him
down one hall, then another, until they reached and crossed the noisy great hall. There they came to the doors leading out into the garden.

 

Loitering. That was what she was doing, Rosamunde thought unhappily. She avoided looking at the guards outside Richard's door as she tried to pretend she was not there. She might be loitering for no good reason, either, for it was impossible to tell if Aric was still inside. She supposed she would know when the door opened.

She hoped that would happen soon. She had reached this hall only a moment ago and yet already felt terribly conspicuous. Aric would be furious, of course, when he realized she had disobeyed him and left their chamber, where he had ordered her to remain. But it could not be helped. She was too fretful simply to sit and wait. She would be glad when this business of the coronation was over and they could return home.

The door to the hall opened suddenly, and Rosamunde turned sharply, her eyes widening when she saw the man exiting the room. He was breathtakingly handsome. Over six feet tall with red-gold hair and blue eyes, he sported a short beard on his perfect features that gave him a slightly rakish look. There was no mistaking who this was. The
Coeur de Lion.
Richard the Lionhearted was famous for his beauty. This was her brother—half brother, she amended. This was the man who had caused her father no end of misery.

Remembering herself, Rosamunde dropped into a deep curtsy, her eyes firmly on the ground at her feet until the heir apparent and his guards had passed. Slowly regaining her feet, she turned to watch them walk away down the hall before glancing uncertainly back toward the king's rooms.

Richard had been alone. Aric and Robert had not been with him. Surely she could not have missed them? Biting her lip, she took an uncertain step toward the chamber
door, her mind running over possibilities. If Richard was the one behind the attacks, or if Aric had unintentionally allowed his suspicions to show and somehow angered Richard…Surely the new king would not have done anything to him? She took another step, glancing up the hall to be sure no one was around, then scurried the last few steps to the door. She would just take a peek inside and be sure…. Her imagination was running wild with thoughts of blood splattered on the floor, and Aric's broken body.

Pushing the door open, she started to poke her head inside, then glanced around guiltily at the sound of approaching voices. No one was in sight, but the voices were drawing nearer. In a panic, Rosamunde slid into the room, closing the door until it was only open a crack. Peering through that opening, she was just in time to see two men pass by the end of the corridor; then they were gone.

Releasing the breath she had been holding, Rosamunde eased the door closed and turned to glance around. Her eyes widened. The king's audience chamber was a huge room. Deep crimson canvases hung from the walls, the brilliant colors of the royal arms standing out upon them. Other than the rushes on the floor, the only item in the room was a lone chair at the far end. Scarlet cloth covered the seat, and the arms were ivory, with boars' heads carved into them.

Rosamunde stared at that chair for a moment, knowing it was the king's. Her father had sat upon it, and soon her half brother would. She tore her gaze away to glance over the rushes, relieved to see that while the walls were splashed liberally with bloodred canvas, the rushes did not show any similar color. She had just ascertained that and turned back to the door—intending to slip back out with no one ever being the wiser about her presence there—when someone spoke.

“Have you seen enough, then?”

Turning guiltily toward the voice, she saw a woman move away from the wall and toward the center of the room. Because the woman was dressed in a gown only a shade or so different from the crimson on the walls, Rosamunde had not noticed her. Now she stared at the lined face of the woman moving to stand by the king's chair, and she knew with a sinking heart that she had been caught by no less than Queen Eleanor herself.

“I am sorry, Your Majesty,” she murmured, dropping into a curtsy. “I was searching for my husband. He had an audience with Richard and did not return to our chamber. I—”