Always (33 page)

Stiffening, Aric stared at the empty cottage door for a moment, hesitating in the sudden silence, then started uncertainly forward, drawing his sword. He didn't believe Rosamunde was in there. Most like the silly old fool had walked in on another woman and her lover. Probably a large one, too, who wouldn't care for his woman being called the “whore of Babylon.”

“Silly old fool,” Aric muttered as he approached the door. He called out, then, “Bishop? Are you all right?”

Stepping through the doorway, he blinked in the suddenly dim light. His eyes were still struggling to adjust to the shadows when a shuffling sound made him turn. He was halfway around when something heavy slammed into his head.

 

Rosamunde paused and peered anxiously about once she reached the gardens. A sense of urgency had taken possession of her, and she knew it would not ease until she found her husband and Shrewsbury. But where were they? The gardens were huge and full of little hidey-holes. Why had the bishop led him out here? And more important, where had they gone? If Shrewsbury was behind the attacks….

She grimaced at the thought. It made no sense really. If it was him, and it was all based around some mad love he held for her mother, why kill Aric?

Her thoughts were distracted by a titter of laughter as
two women appeared ahead on the path, walking toward her. Pausing, she smiled at them as they drew abreast. “Excuse me, you did not happen to see two men while on your walk? One older, one younger?”

“Do you mean Bishop Shrewsbury?” the older woman asked. They appeared to be mother and daughter to Rosamunde. Both were similar in looks, blond and pale.

“Aye,” she said quickly.

“We passed them. They were heading straight that way,” the younger one told her, waving toward the path and through the trees. “Though I do not know why. They kept going even when the path ended, but there is nothing there, I do not think.”

“Aye, there is,” the older one announced. “Rosamunde's cottage.”

“Rosamunde's cottage?” Rosamunde asked with a start.

“Aye. She was a mistress of Henry's some years back. She lived in a cottage through there until Henry took her into the castle proper. He never let anyone else live there. I'm surprised Eleanor never had it torn down.” The girl giggled. “Especially if she hated that mistress as much as people claim.”

Feeling the hair on the back of her neck stand on end, Rosamunde grabbed her skirts and rushed in the direction the woman had pointed.

“Ah, you are awake.”

Was he? Aric wondered a bit fuzzily, forcing his eyes open. It seemed to him he was asleep and caught in some maudlin nightmare. His head was throbbing, much as it had been doing the day he had been knocked into the river. He was presently lying on his back on a creaky old bed. A musty, tattered, and filthy old bed, he realized, his gaze sliding over the ratty material of the bed drapes. His eyes fixed with disgust on the myriad cobwebs that covered the top of them.

Aric hated spiders. Detested them actually. Always had. That being the case, his first instinct was to get the hell off the bed and away from them, but when he shifted to do so, something held him back. Glancing upward with a frown, he gaped at the rope that bound him to the posts at the top of the bed. A glance down at his feet showed that they, too, were tied to the bedposts. He was staked out like a sacrificial lamb.

“I considered just setting the cottage on fire and leaving you to burn alive—without your ever knowing who did it or why, but that seemed terribly unfair.” Bishop Shrewsbury made the announcement conversationally, drawing Aric's gaze to where the man was presently coaxing a fire to life in the fireplace. “Besides, I
do
think that for me to enjoy the situation, you really need to be awake.”

Having gotten the fire started, the older man now straightened and moved toward the bed, a happy little smile curving his lips.

Waking up fully, Aric eyed the other man warily as he approached, taking in his cold gaze, his flat expression, and the wicked-looking blade he was toying with. None of which eased the concern mounting within him.

“What? Did I waste my time?” Shrewsbury asked now, pausing at the side of the bed and tilting his head slightly. “Have you nothing to say? No questions you would have answered? Shall I get right to the killing, then?”

Flinching inwardly at the man's amused words, Aric cleared his throat, searching his mind for a question he could ask—any question that might delay whatever the bishop had planned long enough for Aric to come up with a way out of this. “I take it, then, that you were the one behind the attacks? First in the bedchamber, then—?”

“That was a mistake,” Shrewsbury interrupted almost absently, peering down at the knife he was holding and running one finger along the edge of the blade.

“A mistake? What mean you by that?” Aric arched an eyebrow questioningly as he ever so slowly began to pull at the ropes binding his wrists. If he could loosen them without alerting the other man—

“Just what I said; 'twas a mistake.”

“Do you mean you mistakenly thought I was in the bedchamber the night you entered and Black attacked
you?” he asked, remembering Rosamunde's suggestion to that effect.

“No.” The bishop smiled wryly. “I knew you were still below. I meant to attack Rosamunde and kill her in your bed.”

“But why?” he asked with real confusion. “I thought you were fond of her.”

“Oh, I am. And that is why I thought it best to kill her.”

“You thought it best to kill her because you are fond of her?” Aric asked in disbelief.

“Exactly.” Shrewsbury nodded with satisfaction. “I thought to save her.”

Aric stared at him incredulously. “By killing her?” When the other man nodded, Aric shook his head. “What did you think to save her from?”

“Why, from you, of course. Just as I saved her mother from Henry. I could do nothing less than save the daughter from you.” Sighing, he moved down to the end of the bed. He abruptly changed the subject. “This was her cottage. The fair Rosamunde's. Charming, is it not? I thought it a fitting place to end this.”

Shrewsbury began moving slowly around the room, dragging his knife lightly over tabletops and chairs, any surface available, scraping it along the wood and kicking up small dust clouds as he went. “Rosamunde loved it here. She really had no wish or desire to live in the castle. She used to say that it was full of wolves and vultures, that there was not a moment of peace or privacy there. She preferred it here.”

Pausing beside the bed once more, Shrewsbury stared down at Aric for a moment, his gaze becoming clouded. “This is where they fornicated. Henry and my fair Rosamunde. I can still see them in my mind's eye. Henry was younger then. Strong, tall, and lean. And Rosamunde…ah. Rosamunde was a beauty. So much loveliness, it nearly hurt to look upon her. She was perfection.”

His mouth twisting with disgust, he said with a sneer, “And Henry had to sully that, of course. Had to lay his grimy hands on her pure skin. Cover her with his sweaty, panting body. Fill her with his tainted seed.”

Aric watched warily as the bishop clenched his hand around the hilt of the dagger he held, his teeth grinding together in impotent rage. A pulse was throbbing in his forehead, and his face was flushed with fury. Suddenly he burst out in a voice filled with outrage, “And she
let
him! Worse yet, she
liked
it!”

Aric stiffened as Shrewsbury furiously stabbed the dagger into the bed's surface mere inches from his hip, as if he were stabbing at the woman in his memory. “She would mewl, and cry, and
writhe
on this bed! Her body covered with nothing but firelight and his flesh, she would
beg
him for more as he pounded into her.”

Straightening abruptly, he shrugged matter-of-factly, his rage gone as quickly as it had come. “They were both no better than animals.”

Aric blinked, unable to keep up with the sudden shift from rabid rage to nonchalance. It was madness. Insanity. The bishop was deranged. He had figured that out a bit earlier, of course, when the man had been claiming he had tried to kill Rosamunde to save her, but he had not realized the depth of the madness then. Now he did, and he knew he was in trouble. He began to work harder at his bindings, a little less concerned with whether Shrewsbury realized he was doing so or not.

“It is amazing that your wife turned out as well as she did, considering she is the daughter of the fair Rosamunde and Henry. They called him ‘spawn of the Devil,' you know. Actually, he liked to call himself that, too. He would say it rather proudly.”

“Is that why you wanted to kill her? Because she was their daughter?” Aric asked, straining against the ropes and sawing his wrists back and forth within them, ignoring the burning pain it caused.

“Nay, of course not.” Bishop Shrewsbury frowned at him. “I already told you that I was trying to save her. The bad blood she inherited from Henry had nothing to do with it. In fact, I had high hopes for Rosamunde all along. I was very proud of her when the message arrived announcing that she was going to take the veil. She will make a lovely nun.”

“She will not be a nun,” Aric said grimly. Sweat was beginning to bead on his forehead, and he could feel blood trickling down his wrist where the skin had been rubbed raw, but the bindings seemed looser. “She did not take the veil. She married me.”

“Aye. More's the pity.” He scowled. “I did all I could to prevent that. I kept the abbess's message from the king. I used every excuse possible to delay his getting to the abbey in time. But then he learned that you had broken your betrothal and were at Shambley—he decided on you rather than Rosshuen for the girl's husband. It shaved a whole day off the journey. He got there in time. He forced her to marry you. And you, in turn, forced her to enjoy your touch.”

Aric stilled at that in surprise and the other man nodded.

“Yes. I know all about that. The disgusting things you did to her. The things you made her do to you. That was not bad enough, however.” Anger and outrage flared in his eyes again. “Aside from subjecting her to such base behavior, you had to
order
her to enjoy it. I heard and saw it all in the stables. Thank God,” he added grimly, with a pious glance upward as he crossed himself. Then, shaking his head, he sighed and stared at Aric again. “Up until then I had thought that to save her, I had to put her at peace as I had her mother. But of course, that was not what God wanted at all.”

He frowned, slightly distracted again. “I should have realized that sooner, I fear. He gave me several hints. First Black was in your room that night; then that stupid bull
refused to trounce her. Your horse could have been happenstance, but with that vicious bull not attacking her, what else could it be but God intervening?”

What else?
It could be Rosamunde, Aric thought with a sad smile. She seemed able to tame the wildest beast with a mere touch and kind word…or an apple. She had tamed him, after all. But he didn't dare say as much to Shrewsbury. He was not at all certain he could get himself out of this fix, and if he did not, he would rather die thinking that Rosamunde, at least, would be safe from this madman's murderous attentions.

“Then, in the stables,” the bishop went on. “I knocked the bale down, intending to climb down and finish her, then place her in one of the horses' stalls to make it appear that the beast had gone mad. But, she got out of the way. Still, she started to climb the ladder then, and I thought it would work out after all…but then you arrived, preventing my finishing her off. Ruining everything again, I thought. But I was mistaken.

“I realized it after that animalistic display you gave me. I saw it
all,”
he repeated with disgust. “God wanted me to see it. He wanted me to hear you order her to enjoy it. He wanted me to know that it was not her fault at all, but that it was yours.”

“What was my fault?” Aric muttered distractedly, glancing toward his wrists to see that the rope was indeed loosening. Not enough for him to slip free yet, but it
was
loosening.

“Her enjoying the bedding!” Shrewsbury snapped, then explained, “When she admitted to me that she enjoyed your touch in bed, that she no longer desired to return to the abbey, I thought it was because she was like her mother: a fallen angel, a whore, a sinner. But then I heard you order her to enjoy it, and I saw you take her there in the stables like an animal. I understood that she did not
really
enjoy it, but that you ordered her to.”

The bishop sighed, shaking his head sadly. “My God,
the humiliation she must suffer every time you touch her. But she has to claim to enjoy it. She vowed to obey you, and you had given her an order. Well, that is when I realized. I was not meant to kill her, but you.”

“Of course,” Aric said without much enthusiasm.

“Aye. Once you are dead, she will return to the abbey and the life she was meant for,” he said firmly, then paused to tap the tip of the dagger against his chin thoughtfully. “I wonder now if I should not have killed Henry rather than her mother. I fear I may have erred there, as well.” He looked briefly worried over that, then shook his head. “Ah, well, He will forgive me my mistakes.”

“He will forgive yours, but no one else's, then? Is that how it is?” Aric and Shrewsbury both peered sharply toward the door at those harsh words, to gape at the woman standing there.

Rosamunde filled the entrance to the small cottage like an avenging angel. Sunlight was pouring through the door behind her, surrounding her in a golden glow and setting her hair afire. She was magnificent…and Aric could have throttled her. She was supposed to be waiting safely in their chamber, but was she? Nay. Here she was, gallivanting about court and setting herself in harm's way.

 

Rosamunde took in the situation at a glance. She had arrived at the clearing around the cottage a few moments ago. Old and neglected, the building had not looked inhabited, but she had decided to check it anyway.

She had heard Bishop Shrewsbury's calm voice announcing his intentions to burn Aric alive as she had reached the door. Her heart pounding violently in her chest, Rosamunde had stood just out of sight, beside the door, and listened to the conversation inside as she had considered her options. Running back to the castle for help had been out of the question. She had feared her husband would be dead ere she could return with assistance.

That had meant she was his only hope. Her. An unarmed female, against an armed madman. The odds had not looked favorable. Straightening her shoulders, she had silently berated herself for the fatalistic thinking. This was one time when she could not afford to fail. This time she had to do it right. Turning away from the door, she had peered about the overgrown clearing for a weapon. She had her dagger, but it was small and dull with use; it would be of little use in this situation. She needed a real weapon. But nothing had looked very useful to her as she had peered around the clearing. A small rock. A stick. Lots of brush…

Then her eyes had fallen on a tree stump several feet away from the door of the cottage and the small ax embedded in the top of it. It was a rusty old ax, probably as dull as a mallet, but even that would be better than nothing. Leaving the door, she had hurried to the stump and managed to remove the ax with some effort. Then she had quickly hurried back to her position beside the doorway to listen to Shrewsbury talk while she examined her weapon.

It was old, rusty, and—as she had expected—terribly dull. But it was also solid and heavy and, despite its dullness, would do some definite damage if swung at someone. Rosamunde intended on doing just that. Lowering her hand, she had held the weapon against her side, then leaned forward to peer around the door frame to get an idea of the layout of the cottage. Relief had flowed through her as she had spied Aric on the bed. Despite being tied down, he was unharmed…so far. She had drunk in the sight of him for longer than she should have, then had scanned the rest of the interior. The cabin held an old and rather small table, large enough only for two, a chair, the remains of a second chair, a fireplace, and Shrewsbury. Other than that it was just dirt and debris.

Rosamunde had considered creeping up on their foe and smashing him over the head as he raved, but the dirt
and debris on the floor had scotched that idea. Shrewsbury's own movements were accompanied by the rustle of leaves and various other items that littered the cottage. It would be impossible for Rosamunde to approach in her skirts without making some sound and drawing his attention. That took away the possibility of a sneak attack—but not of a surprise attack, if she could keep the ax close to her side and hidden by her skirts.