The Rose of Blacksword (20 page)

Cleve was plucked to safety by another stout knight, and they were quickly flanked by two others. But Blacksword was left far behind, surrounded by angry warrior knights with weapons drawn. Despite his physical prowess, Rosalynde knew that on foot and unarmed he did not stand a chance.

Once beyond a stand of trees, they stopped and dismounted. The leader of the knights who found them was an older man called Sir Roger, whom she vaguely remembered from her childhood days. He was clearly overjoyed to have found her, but not nearly so much so as Rosalynde, who deemed it a veritable miracle to have been saved, and by her father’s own knights! Even more astounding was the fact that among them was one of her uncle’s knights, the only survivor of the four men who’d originally accompanied her. The man told her that he and Nelda had escaped, and the two of them had managed to reach Stanwood on one of the horses and summon help. More than anything else, Rosalynde thanked God for sparing at least those two lives.

But when she tried to intercede on Blacksword’s behalf, Sir Roger would not hear a word of it.

“Don’t bother yourself on his part,” he told her as he resettled her on the pommel before a silent young knight. “My men will take care of him, have no doubt.” But as vague as his words were, the significant arch of his bushy brows sent an unwarranted shiver of fear through Rosalynde.

“What does that mean?” she demanded from her perch
over the war-horse’s withers. “What are you going to do with him?”

“Only what’s due a man who attacks innocent women and children,” he answered curtly. “Don’t even turn your mind toward the likes of him, milady.”

“He should be strung up!” Cleve interjected, shooting her an angry look. “He’s a thief and a murderer and a—” He halted abruptly and after a moment his eyes fell away from her mortified face. “And he should be hanged,” he ended lamely.

For the space of one moment the older knight stared from the outraged boy to the suddenly pale girl. Then he shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other and noisily cleared his throat. “Did he … that is, has he …” He faltered, then cursed softly under his breath. “Did you suffer any harm at his hands, milady?”

Rosalynde felt the rush of blood to her face, and though she feared it gave her away, she did not even pause to consider her answer. “No,” she muttered quietly. Then no again, louder. “He helped us get this far,” she stated, giving Cleve a quelling glance.

“He hardly looked to be helping you,” Sir Roger quipped sarcastically.

“I tell you, he should not be treated so!”

But for all her insistence, Rosalynde was not to know Blacksword’s fete. He was still in the half circle of willows while she and Cleve were surrounded by the other knights deeper in the woods. When Sir Roger led the small band away, she tried frantically to catch a glimpse of Blacksword. But her efforts were in vain; The knights deliberately skirted the spot where he had been captured. As the horses thundered away from the abandoned campsite, she bowed her head in abject contrition and prayed that another man had not been killed because of her.

The burly fellow whose horse she shared said not a word to her as they rode. They were surrounded by several other knights, and Cleve trailed somewhere behind on a laden packhorse. As for Blacksword, she simply did not know—and that was the worst of all. It did no good to console herself that he would have died on the gallows if not for her. He had met his part of their agreement; he’d been taking her home as he’d promised. The fact that he had taken advantage of her now seemed a much smaller matter when compared to the loss of his life. Although she’d not thought so before, she now knew that nothing he had done deserved so cruel a fate as that. The deed had not been so terrible. If anything, it had brought her unexpected and undeniable pleasure. She hardly dared admit it, even to herself. But the truth was indisputable. For all his brutality he had been possessed of the most tender of touches. With hands and mouth …

A sudden trembling came over her and she felt a telling heat rush through her body. In dismay she closed her eyes against the bittersweet memory of it. She was a woman now, no longer a maiden. She’d lain with a man—her husband, no matter what the circumstances of their marriage. But he might already have paid for that with his life. Added to that, there was the possibility now that she could end up with child. And how was she to explain any of this to her father?

Rosalynde was so exhausted by everything that had happened, so defeated by the emotional turmoil that gripped her, that she could hardly sit upright in the saddle. She sagged against the rigid knight’s grasp and a fat tear escaped her eye. Then another came, and another. As the riders made their way at a bone-jarring pace, she wept hot salty tears for all that had happened, and all that could never be again. She cried for her brother, for the knights
who had died, and even for the loss of her mother, so many years before. But mostly she cried for the man Blacksword—Aric of Wycliffe, he’d said was his name.

She cried for Aric of Wycliffe, and she cried for herself.

11

They rode as if the devil himself chased them. Even when night fell over the land. Even after the moon’s cold thin light abandoned them. Even though darkness shrouded the countryside with an impenetrable blackness. Still they pressed on, though both riders and beasts suffered with their weariness.

They arrived at Stanwood at the bleakest hour of night. Yet torches burned in the gatehouse, and even to Rosalynde’s beleagured senses the castle appeared to be in a strange state of unrest. The gate was down, men and horses milled in seeming aimlessness, and in the flickering orange light it looked almost as she imagined hell might, all dark disjointed shapes and jerky movements.

Rosalynde could not quite collect her senses as they clattered to a halt in the stone-paved bailey. Her wits were still befuddled from her uncomfortable catnap, and her emotions were far too battered. To further confuse the situation, a low murmur rippled through the people there, then quickly escalated to shouts and calls. Sir Roger dismounted first. Then she was swiftly handed down into his waiting hands and set onto her own wobbly legs. Cleve quickly found his way to her side, and in spite of her lingering anger at his unswerving obstinance, she was nonetheless grateful for at least his one familiar face. Then
a tall austere figure hurried through the gathering throng, and before she realized what was happening to her, she was unexpectedly swept into her father’s fierce embrace.

At the urgent feel of his arms crushing her to him, all of Rosalynde’s disparate emotions combined to dissolve the last of her stamina. Hot tears clouded her vision and a sob caught in her throat as she clung unashamedly to the man she both loved and feared. “Papa,” she whispered against the coarse wool tunic at his chest. “Papa,” she cried as she gave way to a flood of tears.

“You are safe. You are safe,” he muttered over and over into her dark, tangled hair. His hands clasped her even closer as if he feared she might disappear. “You are safe.”

The rest of her confusing homecoming was lost in the curious chatter of the onlookers and the barked orders of Sir Roger. Somehow she and her father made their way to the great hall. The inquisitive spectators were shut out when the huge pair of doors was closed. Only Sir Roger, her father, and another nervous-looking fellow accompanied her, and it was there that her father finally released his tight hold on her.

“I thought I’d lost you too,” he whispered hoarsely as he held her at arm’s length. He blinked hard, cleared his throat, and then let his hands fall away from her. “Are you hurt at all?”

Rosalynde shook her head in reply, for she could not speak, she was so overcome with emotions. He loved her—the thought circled round and round in her disbelieving mind. He still loved her and had grieved to think he’d lost her. It was a wonder, almost beyond comprehension, after the long years he’d all but ignored them. Then his words registered more clearly and her breath caught in her throat. He thought he’d lost her
too
. He knew about Giles.

“Papa.” She approached him and hesitantly reached out
to touch his dark-clad chest. “I came because of Giles. I … I’m sorry.”

At this softly worded expression of her own grief, he stiffened and she could almost feel him pulling back from her. In the brief passage of only one second he changed from the loving father she recalled from her early years, back to the cold unyielding man he had been ever since her mother’s death. Panicked that she was losing him all over again, Rosalynde gripped the loose fabric of his tunic.

“I tried to save him, Papa. I did! I used everything I knew—cleansed his blood with elder shoots, dandelion, and nettle; purified his lungs with lungwort and shave grass; cooled his fever with vervain and sallow bark. I even burned mugwort and St. John’s root in his chamber.” She babbled on faster and faster. “But nothing would do. I tried … I really tried—” She broke off as tears flooded her eyes once more and a sob choked in her throat.

Rosalynde felt her father tremble as he sternly put her from him. His face was pale, even to her blurred eyes, and his jaw was clenched as if he fought for control. Then he spoke and no trace of softness lingered in his voice. “Giles was ever a sickly child. It was God’s will.”

But he turned away from her then, and even though he placed none of the blame on her, Rosalynde felt the weight of his rejection keenly. He did not blame her with words, but his reaction.…

A paroxysm of trembling rushed over her and she was suddenly light-headed. Only Sir Roger’s timely grip on her arm prevented her from collapsing on the floor. He seated her on a high-backed chair, then quickly called for something for her to drink. By the time Rosalynde swallowed the potent red wine, sputtering and coughing as it seared down her throat, her father was bending over her once more, his brow creased in concern.

“Are you hurt? Were you harmed in any way?” he demanded almost angrily.

But though she shook her head no, it was Sir Roger who answered her father.

“We found her about ten leagues to the west, half the way to the Stour River. She and her serving lad were being attacked by a giant of a runagate—Blacksword, the lad called him.”

“And did you kill the bastard?” Sir Edward growled furiously.

“Ahh … well, you see, sir, I would have. Only—” He shot Rosalynde an uncertain look. “Your daughter demanded we not kill him. So I had him brought back here for your pleasure, milord.” He let out a slow sigh of relief when his liege lord’s eyes narrowed and he nodded in angry approval. “I might add, sir, that the serving lad gave a good accounting of himself. Puny bit that he is, he faced the man as bravely as you could ever hope to see.”

“He shall be well rewarded,” Sir Edward replied curtly. Then he stared once more at his pale-faced daughter. “And what of you, Rosalynde? Did the man—did he—” He faltered as if the words were too ugly to say, too awful even to contemplate. But Rosalynde knew whereof he spoke, and her mind twisted away from a truthful answer. There was nothing good to come of the truth, she rationalized. Not for her. Not for her father. Certainly not for the man Blacksword. She’d felt an intense rush of relief when Sir Roger revealed that Blacksword still lived. But she knew he would not live long if her father knew what had passed between them. When she finally spoke the lie came most convincingly to her lips, although it burned like gall on her tongue.

“I am tired, Father. And dirty. My clothes are ruined. My feet—” She broke off as she recalled the rabbit-skin
shoes that had led to her ultimate downfall. But she took a hard, shaky breath and continued. “I was frightened beyond the measuring, but I am not hurt.”

Their eyes met in silent assessment. Did he believe her? she wondered nervously. Could he read the lie in her eyes? Then he gave her a slow nod and she let loose the breath she’d unconsciously been holding. As he gave orders for a bath to be prepared for her and a chamber readied, she sat there, numb from all that had happened. Her mind cried out for sleep, her body was almost beyond her own control, so exhausted was she by her ordeal. But there was still one thing she had to do. With the last reserves of her strength she stood upright and crossed to where her father gave instructions to the sandy-haired man.

“… her chamber in the east tower,” he was saying as she timidly plucked at his sleeve. Then he waved the fellow away and he turned to face her.

“Father, about that man.”

“Cedric?” Sir Edward questioned, gesturing to the quietly departing seneschal.

“No. No, not him.” Rosalynde clasped her hands tightly together. “You know, the man, Blacksword.”

At once her father’s expression hardened. “Do not let that knave disturb your thoughts even one moment longer, daughter. His punishment falls to me, and mark my words, he shall pay the ultimate price for daring to harm me or mine.”

“But he didn’t!” she cried in renewed fear for the man who had been both villain and savior to her, both knave and lover.

“If he did not harm you, it was not for want of trying. It was only the lad who prevented him from doing his worst.”