The Rose of Blacksword (13 page)

Cleve was not happy with the arrangement, but Rosalynde knew it was frustration more than anything else that had his face set in such a determined scowl. He had refused at first to ride, insisting he could walk. But dizziness had proven him wrong, and then, when his obstinance brought tears of desperation to Rosalynde’s eyes, he had finally given in. But he had not been gracious about it. She knew he was sorely tried by their predicament, and more especially by his unaccustomed helplessness. It did not help things further that they must rely on such an immoral outlaw as this Blacksword to help them home. But while Cleve fumed in youthful outrage,
Rosalynde determined to maintain an air of calm. After all, it would do no good to aggravate the very man who was their sole means of safe passage. Moreover, she hoped by her example to cool Cleve’s simmering anger over being indebted to such a vile person. They had several days more to spend in his company. She did not want the two coming to blows, for she knew well enough who would win. And she suspected as well that he was not the sort to go easy on a perceived adversary.

Yet all the logical reasoning and good sense in the world could not completely bury the resentment she felt toward the arrogant criminal, Blacksword. He might have agreed to get them to Stanwood, but only for the reward. He felt not the slightest bit of gratitude to her for saving him from the gallows. Why, he would have deserted her at the first chance if she hadn’t been so persistent! She needed his help and so she must suffer his presence, she knew. It was even more galling to think that they were handfast wed. But that was only a temporary arrangement until they each went their own way. Until then, however, she had to keep the peace as best she could. But, oh, how she looked forward to seeing the last of him.

Even the way he pulled the crude contraption he had made annoyed her. He led the way with Cleve stretched out on the sling while she followed behind. As he forged through the forest’s undergrowth, he seemed hardly strained at all, as if he were unaffected by the heavy load he dragged along. Indeed, as she took a deep breath and struggled to keep up with him, she began to wonder if he were completely tireless. He probably was, she fumed silently. He was Lucifer incarnate, devoid of any conscience or feelings whatsoever. Lucifer would not feel pain or weariness. He would just go on and on and on.

As they continued beneath the towering canopy of oaks
and beeches, under stands of giant chestnuts, elms, and yews, she became increasingly tired. Her feet hurt, for unprotected by the slippers she’d lost in the attack and subsequent escape, her toes seemed to catch every branch and find every stone. By the time he stopped beside a particularly dense stand of cedar trees, she had a pronounced limp.

“Why are we stopping?”

At Cleve’s irritated tone Rosalynde gave him an exasperated look.

“Because we’re tired,” she answered crossly. She sat down where she stood and rubbed first her left foot and then her right. “And because my feet hurt,” she added under her breath.

At once Cleve’s petulant expression altered. “I’m sorry, milady. It should be you who rides in this infernal sling, not I.”

“Don’t be silly, Cleve,” she replied. She was sorry now for her short temper with him, for she knew he was only feeling the effects of his unaccustomed confinement. “I’ll be rested soon enough—”

“We’ll stay here until nightfall.”

At this, the first words Blacksword had spoken since they’d begun their trek, both Rosalynde and Cleve looked up. But he had gone deeper into the densely grown thicket. Taking advantage of this first opportunity to speak privately to Cleve, Rosalynde quickly moved nearer the boy.

“Please, Cleve, do not antagonize this man.” She raised her hand, forestalling his quarrelsome reply. “Just trust me when I say that there was no one else who would come to our aid.”

“But, milady,” he whispered back most urgently. “He’s an outlaw, you said, just like the men who attacked us. A
murderer! He preys on those weaker than himself. And that’s near everybody, from what I can tell,” he added morosely.

“But he has agreed to help us.”

“So he says. But why is he doing it?”

“I-I promised him a horse. And weapons too. I’m sure my father will honor my vow.”

Cleve gave her a disbelieving stare. “A man like that agreed to help you merely for a promise? Where did you find him anyway?”

Rosalynde was so relieved that he had not waited for her to answer the first question that she rushed headlong into the second. “Dunmow. The village was called Dunmow and no one there would … could …” She faltered as she cast about for some believable explanation that had nothing to do with the handfasting. Then she remembered one of the fair’s activities and she took a great breath.

“There was a festival, you see. And everyone was drinking. And … and placing bets,” she added, trying hard to make her story sound true. “The mayor … well, he was too far gone in his cups to be much help.” That at least was not a lie. “Then I saw this huge fellow betting on the bearbaiting.”

“This Blacksword,” Cleve cut in, saying the name as if it tasted bad in his mouth.

“He’d lost everything,” she hurried on, consoling herself that this too was not precisely a lie. “But even then everyone was afraid of him. So, I thought … that is, I asked him if he would help me and he agreed to the terms.”

Cleve stared at her, clearly hard-pressed to believe such a far-fetched tale. Yet Rosalynde knew the truth was far less believable even than her lie. Plus, the truth complicated
things terribly. It was best for everyone involved if her handfast vow to one Blacksword was kept entirely secret.

“He agreed,” Cleve repeated. Then he let out a great sigh and rested his head on the crook of his arm. “ ’Tis still a puzzle why he agreed. If he’s such a bold outlaw, why didn’t he just rob someone and get what he needed?”

“Perhaps he wants to mend his ways,” Rosalynde answered, biting her lower lip as she did so. “Perhaps he wearies of such a lawless life.”

“Perhaps he plans to rob your father once he gets into his good graces,” Cleve countered darkly.

“You are too suspicious by half,” she replied in a huff. “We are hardly in a position to be particular.”

“Hardly,” a deep voice echoed from behind them.

With a guilty jump Rosalynde turned to look up at their dubious savior. He had come out of the thicket without a sound, and she wondered how much of their whispered conversation he had overheard. But if he was aware that she had deliberately lied—she preferred to think that she had just withheld the truth—he gave no indication of it. Still, she knew she must somehow speak to him privately about keeping the circumstances of how they met a secret.

To her vast relief, Blacksword did not pursue their line of conversation. Instead, he once more picked up the pointed end of the carryall and dragged it forward. But this time he pulled it directly into the dense green thicket with a curt order to her to “Come on.”

She did not argue with his arrogant command, for she knew it would be pointless. But she wanted to. Cleve also kept his peace, but she knew by his tightly compressed lips that he too chafed under the imperious attitude of their murderous escort. Just suffer his arrogant superiority, she told herself in resignation. It’s only for a short
while. Once he got them to Stanwood she would ask her father to pay him and then send him far, far away. But that day could not come soon enough to suit her.

“Do you know where we are?” she asked in a subdued tone.

“East Anglia,” he replied being deliberately vague. Then he seemed to relent. “The forest ends shortly. We’ll have to cross a wide wasteland, and then fields beyond. We’ll do it at night.”

She could not argue with that sound bit of reasoning. Besides, Rosalynde doubted her sore feet could go any farther without a rest. With a weary sigh she sat down and then pulled out the supply of herbs she had taken from the ruined castle as well as the broken bit of crockery.

“Is there any water nearby?” She looked at the man who was standing now, staring at her. An odd little shiver snaked down her spine but she firmly thrust it aside. “A river perhaps? Or a brook?”

With a gesture of his head he indicated an area beyond them. “There’s a spring. And a pool. Shall I show you?”

Rosalynde hesitated at this unexpectedly cordial response. A part of her wondered why he now asked instead of ordered. But she needed that water, both for Cleve’s medicine as well as to refresh herself, and with only the briefest hesitation she agreed. “Is it far?”

“No.” He watched her closely as she crossed the clearing to him. “The boy will be safe here.”

Indeed, Cleve was already dozing off, quite clearly exhausted by his awkward ride. With one last glance at him Rosalynde turned back to the intimidating Blacksword and took a deep breath. Although Cleve was no protection against him, the thought of being completely alone with this man was nonetheless unnerving. Still, she did want to bathe her face and arms. And also to soak her sore feet.
With the bit of pottery clutched tightly in her hands, she proceeded down the meager trail he indicated.

In the early-afternoon sunshine, the woodlands were still shaded and cool. The heavy canopy of trees allowed only the occasional shaft of sunlight to pierce to the pleasant gloom of the forest floor. A soft light permeated everywhere, casting a peaceful green shade over all. Through this strangely tranquil scene they moved with a minimum of sound, slipping without speaking along a narrow path that wound between low rises and giant trees, steadily angling downhill.

When they finally came upon the spring it was almost a surprise, for there was no warning trickle of water spilling forth. Instead it gurgled up from a crevice of rocks, forming a small, still pond that then overspilled its banks to give birth to a thin sparkling brook. Sedges and ferns lined the banks, and white willows bent gracefully over the slow-moving water. All in all, it was a quiet, pristine scene, and they both automatically paused when they saw it. Then with a glad cry Rosalynde moved forward.

The man stood back, just watching as she knelt at the edge of the pond and filled the broken bowl with water. Then she placed that aside and pushed her sleeves up so that she could submerge her arms up to her elbows. Her thick, tangled hair fell alongside her face when she bent forward, hiding it from his view. But it was clear she was splashing her face and neck now, and that she was taking great pleasure from it. A sigh of pure contentment escaped her, and that simple sound commanded his attention.

She was a strange little flower, this Rose who had miraculously plucked him from the hangman’s clutches. He’d thought her a bold and sassy urchin, and yet she was also as timid as a mouse, starting every time he moved too quickly. He knew she had every cause to react so to him.
He was, as far as she knew, a notorious outlaw and cold-blooded killer. And he’d not done anything to lessen her fear. He’d deliberately taken a menacing tone with the two of them if only to keep them quiet and completely responsive to his commands.

He’d not truly expected her story to be true. Had it not been for his guilty stab of conscience, he would have left her at the first safe village. Only she
had
turned out to be a lady, and then he’d felt honor-bound to return her to the safety of her own castle.

But had it truly been honor that compelled him? he wondered in a moment of honest self-examination. Had it been honor or the thought of reward? Christ’s blood! he thought as a frown creased his face. What difference did it make why he was doing it? The fact was, it was none of his business how she’d come to be in such dire straits, just as it was no one’s business why he was helping her. All he had to do was get her to her father’s house safely and collect his reward. She would gladly be quit of him and he would be as happily rid of her. Then he could see to his other quest, his need for revenge against the unknown men who had conspired to have him hanged.

At the memory of his close brush with death, Aric’s thoughts focused once again on just how he would satisfy himself on his unknown enemies. During his long hours in Dunmow’s gaol, he’d had sufficient time to ponder his accusers’ purpose. Innocent as he was of the crimes attributed to him, he had at first been sure that the local authorities had been looking for any stranger whom they might hang, in order to appease the terrorized populace. But as he had thought more on it, he realized that it might just as easily have been the bandits themselves who had wanted him hanged—to divert the search from themselves for a while. Now, however, the fact that the mayor had allowed
him to be freed in the ritual celebration made it highly unlikely that it was the authorities who had wanted him framed for the crimes. No, it seemed obvious that it was the bandits themselves who’d sought a scapegoat. Whoever it was who led the villains in their reign of terror was clearly smart enough to know when to lay low and how to turn attention away from himself and his gang of cutthroats.

Still, even that did not explain everything. The night he had been taken he’d been riding from London, half asleep on the unfamiliar road to Lavenham and an upcoming tournament. He’d never even seen the blow coming. At one moment he’d been nodding in the saddle, exhausted from the long ride, and the next he’d been struck from behind with what had felt like a tree trunk. He’d hit the ground with a bone-jarring crash, but even in those first groggy minutes he’d heard what was said.

“Grab his sword!” The shout had come as innumerable men had swarmed over him. “Get his sword and bring it to me!”

Despite his valiant struggle, he’d been overpowered. His weapons had been confiscated and he had been bound with his arms behind his back and a cloth over his head. Then he’d been rudely pushed up onto a horse and brought into Dunmow. He’d never seen his captors, never put a face to the voices who congratulated themselves on the success of their plot. And even the voices would be hard to identify, for with a harshly barked “Keep quiet, fools!” one of the men—presumably their leader—had silenced them all.

Even now the ignominy of it caused his blood to heat in anger. They had trussed him up like a goose for the roasting and handed him over to the authorities as an outlaw known only as Blacksword.