Always (8 page)

“Aric!” Robert placed a restraining hand on his friend's arm.

“What?” Aric snapped impatiently.

In contrast, Robert nearly whispered his own words. “Surely there is no need to be so harsh?”

“Am I wrong?”

“Nay. There is truth to your accusations,” he admitted quietly. “But Lady Rosemunde obviously was not aware of it. Would you speak so to a new squire should he make a like error?”

Aric frowned at that reasoning, then let his shoulders relax. He sighed. Shambley was right, of course. Rosamunde could not have known these things. How could she? It was doubtful she had ever even left the abbey ere this, let alone camped outside and learned the dangers that lurked beyond the convent's walls. Yet he had attacked her as if she had deliberately set out to get them killed. He would never have been so sharp and impatient with a new squire.

It did not take much soul-searching to recognize the real source of his anger. He was embarrassed at his own carelessness. Not only had he overslept, but he had slept through the racket she must have caused by finishing all those tasks in the clearing that morning.

She had chased, caught, killed skinned, and cleaned a rabbit, then built a roaring fire to cook it over, and fashioned a makeshift spit. She had even moved the horses to another spot with fresher grass. Yet even the jangling of the horses' harnesses had not stirred him. He was a warrior. Such sounds should have awakened him.

Good Lord!
Had she been one of those bandits he had been snarling at her about only moments before, they
would all be dead. So much for his sworn oath to the king, her father, to protect her!

It did not salve his conscience that Robert, too, had slept through her activities. He was not the one who had sworn an oath to the king. Worse, Aric was angry with himself, and he had taken it out on her.

Sighing, he nodded at last at Robert to reassure him that not only had he heard his words, he heeded them. He turned to apologize to the woman who was now his wife, but instead squawked her name in dismay. “Rosamunde!”

She was on her knees beside the fire, her back to them, her bottom—snug in tight brais—in the air and pointed in their direction. It had been bobbing gently up and down as she worked at something he could not see, but she had shifted slightly just before he shrieked. Now her behind was still, her whole body gone stiff.

Glaring at Robert—a grin had suddenly covered his friend's face at the vision Rosamunde was thoughtlessly presenting them—Aric hurried over to block his friend's view of her derriere. Pausing, he took a moment to attempt to rein his reawakened temper in, then leaned over her slightly to peer down at what occupied her. “What are you doing?” he tried to ask calmly.

Rosamunde winced at the harshness of his voice. Aric was intimidating enough when he was bellowing and roaring at her from across the clearing, but now he was looming over her like murder, his body a dark cloud that cast her in shadow as he scowled down at her. She supposed she deserved his ire, though. It
had
been foolish of her to build such a huge fire. Cooking the rabbit was another mistake. As soon as she had understood that, she had moved to correct her error. Grabbing the stick the meat was impaled on, she had dropped to her knees beside the fire, set the rabbit on the ground, and quickly dug a small hole. She had laid the rabbit in the hole, and
was in the process of burying it when her husband's voice had interrupted her.

Quickly raising a hand, she wiped furiously at the tears leaking from her eyes. It was foolish to cry. Tears solved nothing. Knowing that, Rosamunde rarely ever did, but just now she was unable to help herself. It seemed she could do nothing right. First the fire, then the meal…Burying the rabbit to stop the smell was probably wrong, too. The way her luck was working that morning, she had probably set the horses to graze in a field of nightshade and they would be dead by noon.

“I am burying the rabbit to hide its scent, my lord,” she explained herself quietly.

“Nay. Do not do that,” her husband protested, kneeling beside her and quickly catching at her hands as she would have thrown more dirt on the meat. When she stilled, but refused to raise her face to look at him, he sighed and made his tone gentler. “Forgive me. I am as grumpy as a bear when I wake up. I should not have yelled so. I should have realized you could not have known about the dangers out here, and been more patient. Instead I was over harsh and am sorry for that. Forgive me?”

Her tension easing, Rosamunde nodded, but still would not look at him.

Aric released her hands and tugged the rabbit out of its would-be grave. “Let us see if we cannot rescue this.”

“But what about the dogs and wolves?” she glanced up in surprise.

Aric took in the drying tears on her face with self-disgust. He had caused those. He was not doing very well as a husband so far. He had protected her as poorly as a shield made of stale bread, and treated her with less kindness than he would a new squire. This was most likely not what the king had intended when giving her into Aric's care.

Forcing a smile, he shrugged slightly. “Aye, well, 'tis
not just the four-legged variety of beast its scent would tempt, but the two-legged as well, and I am one of those. It smelled delicious and nearly finished. Is it?”

“Aye,” she admitted with a sigh.

“So with the fire out, the scent will no longer carry on the wind. There is no sense in letting this excellent fare be wasted.” Even as he spoke, he began to brush the dirt from the rapidly cooling meat. “How long have you been awake?”

Watching dubiously as he brushed at the rabbit, she shrugged distractedly. “I am not sure. A couple of hours or more, I should think. It was still dark when I awoke.”

“You are an early riser.”

“Everyone rose early at the abbey.”

“Hmm.” Standing, he went to the river's edge and submerged the meat in the clear water, giving it a quick swish back and forth to remove the worst of the dirt. Dangling it from one hand, he turned it this way and that for a quick inspection, then nodded in satisfaction. “Good as new.”

Rosamunde eyed first the meat, then her husband doubtfully, but said little as he returned to the fire and dangled the mistreated meal over the few glowing embers that remained of her once glorious fire. He turned it about over them briefly, then turned to her with a grin, holding the meat out as if making a grand offering. “Cleaned and dried, madam, and perfect for our consumption.”

After a brief hesitation, Rosamunde accepted the meat. She peered at it closely as Aric moved off to have a word with his friend. Amazing, she thought, and shook her head. The wild herbs and spices she had found, shredded, and cooked onto the meat had all been rubbed or washed away, but most of the dirt seemed still to cling to it. She had no idea how he had managed that. Still, mayhap that was how he liked it.

Smiling in mild disgust, she moved to pack the meat
away until the nooning meal, deciding as she did that she would stick with the fresh fruits and bread that Sister Eustice had thoughtfully packed away for them to take. If they wished it, the men could eat the rabbit.

“Delicious!”

“Aye, the best I have ever tasted.”

“I am delighted you are pleased, my lords,” Rosamunde murmured, biting the inside of her lips to prevent her amusement from bubbling out. It was difficult to take their praise of the rabbit she had cooked seriously when they kept pausing to spit out bits of stone and dirt. The men were just trying to be kind. They had been nauseatingly nice ever since setting out that morning.

Rosamunde had ridden on Aric's mount with him again. As had happened the day before, he did not ask or invite; he merely mounted, took his reins in one hand, and leaned over to scoop her up with the other. And as she had the day before, Rosamunde had held her tongue. But it had been harder this time. Her tenderness from the day before was gone now, and she was not used to being coddled. There was very little coddling in a convent. Rosamunde had learned to be self-reliant at a young age,
and while she disliked the discomfort of riding her own mount, she did appreciate the independence. Still, she had kept her silence, attempting to maintain her vow to her father to obey her husband.

She had not said a word all morning as they had ridden. Mostly she had spent the time dividing her gaze between the passing scenery and watching Robert's horse. She had thought when they had first set out that the horse was favoring one of its legs, but after watching him for a moment, she had decided that she must have been mistaken. Still, she had glanced over at the beast every once in a while to be sure. Other than that there had been little to distract her attention, and she had been about to burst with boredom by the time Aric had called a halt to their journey and announced it time to stop for some of the “fine rabbit” she had cooked for their lunch.

Now they sat, companionably eating. Neither man seemed to notice that she had forgone the rabbit and stuck with the provisions Eustice had packed. She supposed they were too busy digging dirt out of their own meals.

Grimacing and spitting out another small stone, Robert chewed and swallowed the meat that remained in his mouth, then raised an eyebrow at Aric. “As I recall, 'tis only another hour or so ere we reach the next village.”

“Aye. I thought to trade the horses there.”

Rosamunde stilled suddenly. She had not really been listening to the conversation, but those words caught her attention. “Trade the horses?”

“Aye,” Aric answered as he brushed a clod of dirt off the meat into which he had been about to bite. It seemed he had not cleaned the hare as thoroughly as he had thought that morning. He had not managed one bite of the meal without at least half of it tasting of grit. It served him right, he supposed. He had behaved in a beastly fashion that morning. Mayhap it was justice that he eat a lunch fit for nothing but swine.

“Nay!”

Aric stilled at his wife's dismayed cry, turning away from his meal to peer at her. She went on: “Nay, my lord. You cannot trade my Marigold. She was a gift from the abbess. You cannot trade away a gift.”

Aric blinked at her ferocious expression in surprise, but it was Robert who asked gently, “Marigold?”

“My horse. Her name is Marigold.” She stood impatiently. “I named her. In fact I saw her into this world. 'Tis why the abbess wished to give her to me. We have a special bond. You cannot trade her in, my lords.”

Robert glanced at his friend, frowning slightly at Aric's, blank expression as he eyed his wife, then explained gently, “We must travel quickly, my lady. 'Tis too hard on the horses to travel night and day without rest. We must trade them.”

“But Marigold was a
gift.
She is mine. 'Sides,” she added, realizing that an emotional appeal might have little effect. “They rested last night while we slept.”

The two men exchanged a glance; then Robert murmured, “We did rest quite a while.”

“Aye, but we have also ridden them hard all morn.”

“Only a couple of hours, really,” he argued. “We slept late if you will recall.”

“Aye.” Frowning, Aric thought it over briefly, then acquiesced. “All right. We will trade only our horses. You may keep Marigold for now. She has been riderless most of the way, anyway.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Rosamunde whispered, real gratitude in her eyes. She beamed at him before getting quickly to her feet and hurrying over to offer her precious horse the apple she had been about to eat.

“Marigold,” Robert murmured the name with amusement. “Only a woman would name a horse after a flower.”

“Aye.” Aric watched his wife as she held the fruit out for the horse to take a bite, then heaved a sigh. “We shall
have to trade her in eventually. Even riderless 'twould be cruel to force the beast to travel night and day till we reach Shambley. I am afraid we have merely delayed her upset.”

Robert was silent for a moment; then he murmured, “We could always stop for the night again tonight. Allow her horse to rest.”

Aric glanced at him sharply. “I thought you wished to travel as quickly as possible to get back and ensure that your father is still on the mend?”

Robert avoided his eyes and shrugged. “No doubt he is up and about by now. He always was a quick healer.”

Aric watched him narrowly. Something was up. He could tell. What was his friend keeping from him?

After a moment of withstanding his suspicious gaze, Robert sighed and admitted, “I am not all that eager to return.”

“Oh?”

“Aye. Just ere he fell ill, my father was beginning to take on about my fulfilling my own betrothal contract.”

“Ah.” Aric grinned. “And you fear that when you return he will bring it up again.”

“Bring it up?” Robert gave a short laugh. “After an illness that almost took his life before he could see those blasted grandchildren he is always carping about, and upon seeing your new bride, he will harp on me endlessly.” He sighed. “A delay of a day or two will not be a trial for me.”

“Hmm.” Aric peered back at his wife. The horse had finished the apple. Chattering cheerfully to the animal, Rosamunde petted its mane soothingly. Mayhap they could risk another night out in the open. The horse
had
been a gift, after all, he thought. His bride now turned her attention to Robert's mount, apparently to give it some attention, too.

 

Rosamunde shifted to a more comfortable position and sighed. It was several hours since they had stopped for
the nooning meal. It seemed like forever that they had been traveling. Rosamunde had never been so bored in her life. It had been interesting at first, she supposed. The excitement of new experience, the beauty of the scenery and so on…but it had not enthralled her for long. Besides, Rosamunde was not used to being silent for such an extended period. The only time silence had been required at the abbey was during meals, and then there had been amusing little hand gestures that they had used to communicate.

Sighing, she glanced surreptitiously up at her husband's face from beneath her eyelashes. He sat stiff and straight-shouldered in the saddle, his eyes alert and flying over the terrain they passed, his face grim and serious. Neither he nor his friend, Robert, had exchanged a word since setting out upon this journey, except for their brief conversation when they had stopped to eat. And Rosamunde, too, had been equally silent. Mostly because, should she try to speak, she was likely to bite her own tongue off at this pace they were riding. Probably that was why the men were so silent as well. At least she hoped that was why. She did not wish to believe her husband was always so taciturn.

Husband.
She marveled at the title that now belonged to the stranger in whose arms she rode. A stranger who had many rights and privileges over her. Her
husband.
She had never thought to have one. Never even considered the possibility.
Dear Lord.
Her life had certainly taken a different path than she had expected. She pondered that rather dazedly and was still doing so when they stopped for the night some time later. It kept her quiet as she was lowered to the ground so that her husband could dismount.

Without waiting to see what he would do, Rosamunde immediately moved to attend to her horse, automatically going through the grooming functions that were necessary even as the men began to tend to their own beasts.
She had removed the mare's saddle and begun brushing her horse down when she noticed how skittish Robert's horse was.

Appearing distracted, the man continued to wipe down the beast, then left it to graze, moving off to begin gathering wood for a fire. Aric finished with his own mount and went to help in making the preparations for the night ahead. But Rosamunde was working much more slowly, her attention divided between her task and Robert's horse. The steed was not eating, though he should have been hungry.

Recalling her concern that the horse might have been favoring a leg earlier, Rosamunde finished with Marigold and moved to the other horse's side, soothing the creature with gentle words as she began to examine him.

“Is something amiss, my lady?”

Rosamunde paused at that curious question from Robert as he approached. He had stacked the firewood in the center of the spot they had chosen, but had not set it afire yet. There were still a few last dying rays of light left, and, as she had learned that morning, it was not safe to have a fire until darkness arrived. That helped hide the smoke it gave off.

“Aye,” Rosamunde murmured grimly, straightening from examining the horse's hind legs. “This horse is ill. He has the lockjaw, I think.”

Frowning, Robert peered at the animal, then raised a hand toward the beast's snout, his eyebrows rising when the horse immediately shook its head nervously and took a step back. Rosamunde tugged gently on the reins she held and murmured soothingly, caressing its powerful shoulders. She had been prepared for that reaction. It was the same one she had received on examining him.

“I think you may be right,” he agreed with amazement as he peered at the horse's tightly closed mouth. “Aric!”
he called, as the second man returned to the clearing with more branches. “Come here. My horse is ailing.”

Setting the branches down by the others, Aric moved to join them. “What is it?”

“Rosamunde thinks 'tis the lockjaw.”

His eyebrows rising, Aric performed the same action Robert had, and the animal pulled his head up and back at once. “It could be. What makes you think—?”

“He shied away every time Robert got too close to his head while preparing him for the night, then would not eat or drink with your horse, though he must be starved.”

Aric peered at the horse consideringly. “Still, it could be—”

“There is also a festering scratch on his hindquarters. And look at his eyes.”

Sighing, Aric grimaced. “The lockjaw.”

“Aye,” Robert agreed unhappily. “I shall see to it.”

Taking the reins, he led the horse silently into the forest. Rosamunde watched them go silently, then turned to Marigold, giving her a soothing pat. Whether it was meant to soothe Marigold or herself, she was not sure. Robert was going to kill the horse. He had no choice. The lockjaw would kill the animal, but in its own good time, and not until after subjecting the poor beast to horrendously painful muscle spasms and starvation. It was cruel to do anything but put the animal down. She knew that. Still, it was hard to accept.

“It looks as if Marigold will have a rider on the morrow.”

“Aye,” Rosamunde murmured solemnly.

Aric shifted slightly; he could see that she was upset about Robert's mount but knew not how to comfort her. “'Twill be for only a little ways.”

She glanced at him curiously, and he explained, “We are little more than half an hour from the village we first traded our mounts at. They are keeping them for us to
collect on the way back. He will most likely ride his own mount from there.”

“I see.”

Nodding, Aric glanced away, then turned irritably toward the fire. “Come. I will build a fire; ‘tis dark enough now and there is a chill in the air this night.”

Sighing, Rosamunde followed him back to the camp. Seating herself on a handy log, she reached automatically for the small sack that contained the last of the rabbit meat, bread, cheese, and fruit they had. Her ears straining to hear any telltale sounds from the woods around them, she began to unpack the meal as her husband started the promised fire.

It was quite a while before Robert returned. His expression was grim when he did. Rosamunde felt a twinge of sympathy. The task he had performed would not have been an easy one. She remained silent as they began to eat, but once finished, she began to get fidgety. The men were both silent, staring into the fire with similarly thoughtful expressions, but Rosamunde was ready to go insane from the lack of activity. First she'd bobbed quietly about on a horse's back all day, now this. It was drawing on her nerves.

“What is the matter?”

Rosamunde stiffened, her nervous shifting coming to a halt at her husband's rather annoyed question. Sneaking a quick peek at his face, she grimaced, then cleared her throat. “Not a thing, my lord. What would make you think that there was anything wrong?”

“You keep sighing.”

“Do I?” Frowning slightly, she shifted and started to sigh again, then caught herself. “Where are we headed, my lord?” she blurted, almost desperate for conversation.

“To Shambley.”

Rosamunde accepted those words with interest. “Why?”

“To collect my men.”

“Oh,” she murmured. “Then where shall we go?”

“To Goodhall.”

“Is that where you live?”

“'Tis where
we
shall live,” he corrected. “It is your dower land.”

“It is?”

“Aye.”

The silence closed in around them again and Rosamunde sighed. Her husband
was
the taciturn sort, it seemed.
Wonderful
. Glancing to the river that ran along the side of the clearing, she searched her mind for something to discuss. “Where is it you are from, my lord?”