Always (32 page)

“Decided to hunt him down,” Eleanor finished her sentence with vague amusement. “Rise, child, and come closer. Who is your husband?”

“Aric Burkhart, Lord Goodhall.” Rosamunde rose and moved reluctantly forward, not missing the startled expression on the queen's face as she peered at her.

“You look familiar to me. Have we met?”

“Nay, Your Majesty.”

“Hmmmm.” The older woman frowned slightly, her hands coming together to twist the ring on her left hand. She stared at Rosamunde consideringly. Abruptly she said, “Your husband has already been and gone. Yet my son was regaling me with the troubles that have plagued you….”

“Oh.” Rosamunde hesitated briefly, then bobbed in a quick curtsy. She began to back away toward the door. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

“I did not give you leave to depart,” Eleanor snapped, and Rosamunde froze. Satisfied, Eleanor was silent for a moment. “Richard said that there have been attempts on your life. And your husband's, too.”

“Aye.” Rosamunde nodded. Then, shocking even herself with her brazen words, she blurted, “I have heard it suggested that you may be behind them.”

There seemed no way the older woman could have feigned the genuine amazement that covered her face. “Me? Why would I trouble myself to harm
you?
I do not even know you.”

“You knew my mother.”

The older woman stilled at that, her gaze narrowing suspiciously. “And who was your mother?”

“Her name was Rosamunde.”

Eleanor's hand fluttered to her throat, and she sank slowly to sit on the king's chair. “My God. The fair Rosamunde,” she said softly, then shook her head. “I should have seen it at once. You look very like her. Except for your hair and eyes,” she added with a grimace. “Those are definitely Henry's.”

“My mother—”

Eleanor waved her to be silent. “Your mother was a beautiful but foolish young woman. She followed her heart. I learned long ago that the heart is fickle, and one is wiser to follow one's head.” She paused. “However, I did not dislike your mother.”

Catching Rosamunde's doubtful expression, Eleanor smiled wearily. “I did not say I liked her, either.”

“I was told—” Rosamunde began uncertainly, but Eleanor waved her to silence again.

“Yes. I know about the rumors claiming I was behind her death. But I was not.” She paused, seemingly lost in thought. “I might have been, had things turned out differently, but as it was, someone beat me to it.”

Standing, she moved around to the side of the chair and stared at the wall behind it. Eleanor ran a hand back and forth over one of the chair's ivory arms, then murmured, “I always suspected Bishop Shrewsbury, myself.”

Rosamunde gave a start at that. “Shrewsbury?”

“Yes. He studied the healing arts while growing up in the monastery and had a great knowledge of poisons. And he was quite distressed by the whole affair between your
mother and my husband.” She glanced back, a disturbed expression on her face. “His relationship with my husband was most odd. I could have sworn he hated him.”

“
Hated
him?” Rosamunde asked with amazement.

“Yes. It was in his eyes sometimes—when he looked at Henry and thought no one else was watching.” She was silent for a moment, then shook away the thought that held her attention and glanced at Rosamunde. “And yet he was as faithful as a dog to Henry. Perhaps I am mistaken. Perhaps he was just jealous.”

“Jealous?”

“I think the poor bishop was madly in love with your mother. From what I gather, he thought her a saint. I happen to know that he was forever hanging around, watching her—spying on her, really. On them.” She gave a shudder. “It was a mad sort of love.”

“But if he loved her as you say, why would he kill her?”

“Because she did not love him back, foolish girl,” she suggested with annoyance. Then amusement tugged at her lips and she said uninterestedly, “Or mayhap because she allowed Henry to corrupt her. She fell from her pedestal rather hard, did she not? A saint could hardly live in sin with the spawn of the devil.”

Rosamunde was frowning over her words when Eleanor suddenly suggested, “You look very like her—except for the hair and eyes. Did these attempts on your life start after he arrived at Goodhall?”

Rosamunde blinked at her in surprise. “How did you know he was at Goodhall?”

Eleanor gave her a patronizing look. “We have known he was at Goodhall for some time. I just did not realize who the new lord and lady of Goodhall were.”

“Oh.” Rosamunde accepted that at face value, then considered the original question. She frowned. “The attempts started shortly after his arrival,” she admitted unhappily.

Eleanor did not look surprised. “I would keep an eye on him. He always gave me the shudders. He is a zealot, and while they are useful, they are also dangerous. Not that Henry would ever listen to me when I tried to tell him that.” Her mouth twisted bitterly; then she shifted impatiently. “I tire of this conversation. You are dismissed.”

Nodding slowly, Rosamunde curtsied and backed out of the room, but paused in closing the door to murmur sincerely, “Thank you. For all that you have told me.”

Surprise crossed the old queen's face; then her expression softened slightly. “You are welcome.”

Rosamunde closed the door. Whirling then, she hurried down the hall, her mind in a spin. Could it be Bishop Shrewsbury behind the attacks? She believed Eleanor's words, that the queen was not involved. Twenty years was a long time to carry a grudge.

Besides, Aric had relayed the conversation he had had with her father the night Henry had arrived at Shambley to ask him to marry her. And her father had said that he believed Eleanor had killed her mother not out of jealousy or love, but because she hadn't wanted to lose her title as queen and the power that went with it. Rosamunde was hardly a threat to that.

But then, there was nothing for Bishop Shrewsbury to gain either, she reminded herself. Her footsteps slowed. She had difficulty seeing the pious old man as a vile murderer.

 

“Surely this is far enough, Bishop?” Aric called out irritably as he followed the old man through the gardens, but if the fellow heard him, he neither slowed down nor stopped. He continued on at the same swift pace he had set, moving out of the castle and leading him deep into the gardens. Losing his patience, Aric finally snapped, “I am stopping here. This is safe enough for us to talk.”

This time the prelate seemed to hear him. Pausing, he
frowned back at Aric. “Just a little farther, my lord. There is a clearing ahead where I know we shall be both comfortable and safe from curious ears.”

Grumbling under his breath, Aric started to walk again, but muttered, “A little farther, then, but that is all.”

Nodding, Shrewsbury turned and continued forward.

 

“Rosamunde! Where is Aric?”

Rosamunde turned slowly to frown at Robert. Shambley hurried up the hall toward her. She had just arrived back at the room she and Aric had been given, and thrown the door open, only to pause in the doorway as she realized that the room was empty. “I thought you were with him.”

“I was, but Bishop Shrewsbury said my parents had arrived and wished to speak with me. I—”

“Was it true?” Rosamunde interrupted urgently.

“Aye. My mother and father had just arrived.” His eyes narrowed at the relief that covered her face at that; then he added, “But I do not know where he got the idea that they wished to speak to me. They knew nothing of that.”

“Oh, no.” Rosamunde sagged weakly against the door frame as her fears crowded in.

“What is it?”

“The queen…” She shook her head hopelessly. “Queen Eleanor said that she did not kill my mother.”

“You
asked
her?” he asked in horror, but Rosamunde ignored the question.

“She suspected that if my mother was poisoned, it was Bishop Shrewsbury.”

“What? Nay!”

“She said that he loved my mother. That he spied on my parents. That she suspected he hated my father.”

“That is hard to believe,” he said, then frowned. “And yet, he did lure me away from the king's chamber with that tale about my parents, and now Aric is missing.” Her husband's friend shifted, then patted her arm reassur
ingly. “I shall take a look around and see if I cannot locate them. You wait here in case he returns.”

Had he given her the chance, Rosamunde might very well have protested at being ordered to wait behind again. She was rather tired of such treatment. But he did not give her the chance, turning sharply on his heel and hurrying off down the hall. She was left glowering after him. He had barely disappeared around the corner when another voice hailed her.

“Rosamunde, my dear.”

As she turned to peer down the hall in the opposite direction, her eyebrows rose, a smile briefly erasing the worry from her brow. She moved forward. “Lord Burkhart! You are arrived.”

“Aye.” Smiling, Aric's father took the hands she held out and squeezed them gently. He leaned forward to kiss her cheek. “We arrived about half an hour ago, but took the time to settle into our rooms ere coming in search of you and Aric.”

“We?” Rosamunde smiled at him quizzically, then glanced curiously at the two young women standing shyly behind him.

“Yes. May I introduce my daughters? Aric's sisters, Margaret and Elizabeth.”

The two women, as blond as Aric, and as pretty as he was handsome, curtsied; one offered a shy smile, and the other grinned mischievously, and Rosamunde bobbed a curtsy in greeting. “I fear you have missed Aric,” she said. “He—”

“Aye. I know,” Lord Burkhart interrupted wryly. “We saw him as we crossed the great hall.”

“You
saw
him?” Rosamunde asked with amazement.

“Aye. But he was too distant and did not hear me hail him. I thought that if we found you, he would eventually find us, so I asked where your room was and—”

“I am sorry, my lord,” Rosamunde interrupted. “Were you able to tell where he was going?”

Lord Burkhart's eyebrows rose slightly. “Well, it looked as if he were following Bishop Shrewsbury out to the gardens.”

“Shrewsbury,” she muttered faintly.

“Aye. Is there something wrong? You have gone quite pale of a sudden, Rosamunde.”

“Oh…I…” Shaking her head, Rosamunde began backing up. “I have to find him. I am sorry, my lord. I…” Shaking her head again, she turned and hurried away.

 

As Aric had expected, the clearing was more than “a little farther” ahead. They walked for another ten minutes before suddenly breaking out into a small clearing before a cozy cottage. Pausing at the edge of the trees, Aric scowled at Shrewsbury's back. “This is far enough. Tell me what you know. Who is behind the attacks on my wife and myself?”

Hesitating, Shrewsbury frowned between Aric and the cottage, then moved back reluctantly. “What I have to tell you would be easier seen than said,” he murmured slowly.

“Seen?” Aric frowned. “What is there to see?”

The bishop peered at him consideringly, then glanced back toward the building. “If we could just go inside…”

His eyes hard, Aric arched an eyebrow. “And what is it I am supposed to see in there? You said you knew who was behind—”

“Your wife,” Shrewsbury said abruptly. Aric blinked at him.

“What?”

“She is who you will find in the cottage, and she is behind the attacks on you.” The older man sighed unhappily.

Aric stared at him blankly for a moment, then gave a short laugh and shook his head. “This is a poor jest, my lord Bishop.”

“I wish it were a jest, my lord,” Shrewsbury said quietly. “But 'tis true.”

Aric shook his head. “Shrewsbury, I do not know where you got this idea, but you are wrong. She could not be behind the attacks on me. She was with Shambley the morning I was knocked unconscious and thrown in the river. They found and dragged me from—”

“
They
knocked you out and threw you in the river. They only dragged you out when they thought you had drowned. They—”

“Shambley?” Aric was getting angry now. “Shambley has been my friend for over twenty years. We were children when we first met.”

“Friendship means nothing when it comes to a woman,” Shrewsbury said sadly. “He fell in love with her the moment he saw her. Everyone does. She is an angel of loveliness. Almost too perfect for this sinful world.”

Aric shook his head, anger and disgust warring on his face. “I have heard enough. This is drivel, and I do not believe a word of it,” he snapped, and much to his amazement it was true. He did not believe that Rosamunde had been unfaithful to him with Shambley. He did not believe she had been unfaithful with anyone. She had told him that she loved him, and while words were easy to say, she had shown that love in many ways: the way she had fussed over him after the near-drowning, then after the fall from the bucking Black. Her determination to guard him like a mother hen once she had become convinced he was the one in danger. Her overwhelming desire to pleasure him while making love, and her ability to. Above those things, she was caring and concerned and would never willingly hurt a living thing—or probably a dead one even, for that matter. The idea of her attempting to murder him was ludicrous.

Nay, he did not believe it. He had learned to trust his wife. Shaking his head, he started to turn away, deter
mined to return to the castle and his love. His search for the real culprit was being delayed.

Shrewsbury caught his arm. “Wait. It is true, my lord. I swear it.” When Aric began to shake his head again, the bishop's mouth firmed. “And I shall prove it. Wait here.” Turning away, the old man suddenly rushed across the clearing to the cottage, threw open the door with a dramatic crash, and stepped inside. His shout echoed out. “Aha! Whore of Babylon! Strumpet! You are caught out! Your husband is—” A shriek ended the priest's words.