The Rose of Blacksword (39 page)

“What has happened?” she began without preamble. Then, when he only shot her an aggrieved look and continued on with the horses, she fell in beside him. “I know you’ve done something, now tell me what it is.”

“I took care of things,” he snapped. “You couldn’t—or wouldn’t—so I did. He’ll not bother you again.”

Rosalynde’s heart began to pound, and without thinking, she grabbed the lead rein of the horse nearest her, forcing Cleve to a halt. “And how did you do that? Did you tell my father? Or Sir Gilbert?”

Cleve drew himself up angrily, and she vaguely noted that he had finally surpassed her in height. Then he spoke and she recognized too the new manly ring to his voice. “There was no need to threaten him with your father’s wrath. As for Sir Gilbert, I’ve no concern with him at all.
’Tis only your safety—and good name—that I have a care for. Even though you clearly do not.”

“But … but what did you do? Why will he not—”

“He and I have agreed,” the boy interrupted her. With a yank he snatched the reins from her hands and started forward angrily. “He will stay through the tourney—I allowed him that much. But after that he will leave here, never to return again.”

Rosalynde heard his words as he strode away. She understood what he said and yet it made no sense at all. How had Cleve convinced Aric to leave? And then, given that, why had the boy agreed to let him linger another fortnight at Stanwood? There was no logic in it whatsoever, and yet as she watched his stiff departure across the muddy bailey, she knew she would get no clearer answers from him.

Baffled, she made her way slowly back to the kitchens. She must see a cart stocked with provisions for the hunt, for her father would entertain Sir Gilbert in the forests today. Yet as she instructed that a butt of wine be loaded into the conveyance along with linen-wrapped breads and cheeses and a basket of dried fruits, her mind would not let go of this latest turn of events.

Aric was not a man to back down from any threat. And yet Cleve, a green boy, had somehow managed it. There was no sense in it whatsoever. With a frown marring her brow she ordered pewter mugs and wooden cups added to the cart as well as several woven rugs. Then, when the clarion call came for the hunters to assemble, she wiped her hands on the linen cloth she’d tucked into her girdle and laid the rag aside. She smoothed her hair back, tucking one damp and curling tendril behind her ear. Then, as most of the other castlefolk were doing, she made her way toward the assembly of men and horses near the gatehouse.

Rosalynde had dressed with especial care this day. Her father had been displeased with her behavior last night, although he’d not said as much in words. Still, her reticence with Sir Gilbert had been all too obvious, and it was her wish to appease her father now. She did not want to anger him. After all, he had said she would be allowed some voice in the selection among the men he would present to her. During the long, worrisome hours of the night she had recognized the foolishness of her earlier behavior. Now she vowed to be pleasant and accommodating. She would be polite and gracious to all whom her father recommended to her. She would do whatever she must to keep her father content, but she would reserve the choice of a husband for herself. The summer, the fall, the winter, and most of another spring must pass before the handfast vow she’d taken could be set aside. Only then could her choice be made.

But even then she would not be able to choose the one man she would truly want as husband.

With a sigh and a silent vow to put that thought from her mind, she held her skirts carefully above the muddy yard. Her new gown was a lovely piece of work, indeed, and she would not see it ruined. She had remade it from another of her mother’s older gowns, fitting it well to her body, then letting the skirts flare wide about her ankles. The fine Raynes linen was light, woven of the finest threads and cut on the bias so that it moved in the most graceful manner when she walked. The color had been one unknown to her, somewhere between the rich purple of royal garments and the brilliant blue of the sky, only softer—somewhat like ripened plums, wet from the rain. She felt quite lovely in it despite the fact that it was simply adorned. The neckline lay just beneath her collarbones, showing only the faintest hint of her kirtle beneath it. A
plain silver woven braid decorated the neckline as well as the snugly laced wrists. Besides that, only her long silver-worked girdle broke the simplicity of the gown.

To make up for the unornamented style, she had labored long over her hair. The dark waves lay loose and shining about her back and shoulders. A length of silver chain lay across her brow, then caught the hair from her crown and wove down her back in a loose braid, a style seen often among unmarried maidens.

She felt a certain guilt to wear her hair in such a virginal style, although she knew no one else would note it, save for Aric. And Cleve. But even that guilty thought was banished by her recollection of Aric’s hand stroking down her back, along the freed length of her hair. “You have beautiful hair,” he’d whispered. “Beautiful hair.” Against all logic she wondered if he would think so today.

“By the blood of the saints!” she muttered under her breath. Why must
he
always creep into her thoughts? She did not care if he liked her hair or not.

Or at least, she
should
not care.

But the sad fact was, she did care. She cared about what he thought, where he was, and what he did to an inordinate degree. It was shameful, and terribly unwise, but it was nonetheless true.

With a sigh she stepped up onto a square stone block that had once served as a mounting block for her when she’d been but a child. Now it served nicely as a dry spot from whence to watch the men’s departure for the hunt. Her father was easily recognizable in his tunic of green and gold. He was without a hood, and his graying head showed well among the younger men. His chestnut gelding was a tall steed, and Rosalynde felt a glimmer of fond pride to see him so handsomely mounted. Then her eyes focused on Sir Gilbert and her smile faded. He too rode a
fine horse and was outfitted most handsomely, as was appropriate to his station. She had no doubt that under differing circumstances, she would have been quite flattered by his suit for her hand and perhaps, after but a brief hesitation, would have accepted his proposal and thought herself the most fortunate of maidens. He was young, handsome, and courtly. What more was there to ask?

Yet when compared to another taller form, one strongly muscled and forged as if of steel, Sir Gilbert of Duxton came off a distant second. As she shaded her eyes against the strengthening sun, she sternly reminded herself that at least Sir Gilbert was suitable. He was a nobleman, and he did not shirk his responsibilities if his determined pursuit of the outlaws was any indication. Perhaps when her year was done she might find him acceptable.

But Rosalynde knew deep in her heart that she could never find Sir Gilbert acceptable. There was something about him that made her skin crawl. And above all else, she knew he would not hesitate to have Aric slain if he were to identify him. That made him her foe too.

Upon spying her, Sir Gilbert cantered over, then leaned down with one elbow on his knee to address her.

“ ’Twould be a pleasure, indeed, if you were to accompany us to the hunt, my Lady Rosalynde.”

“My thanks, Sir Gilbert. But I’ve much to oversee this day. No doubt the hunt will bring us much game to be prepared. I must be certain the fires and the pits are made ready.”

His watchful eyes swept over her, then briefly down to her breasts before raising once more to her eyes. He gave her a smooth smile. “Perhaps it is all to the good, for your fair face and form already dazzle these eyes of mine. I’d be sorely distracted from the hunt should you accompany us.”

They were pretty words, a compliment that should have
brought a blush to her cheeks and a stammer to her words. But Rosalynde was unaffected by his remark save perhaps for a delicate shiver of distaste. However, she hid that unwarranted emotion behind a determinedly pleasant smile. To her relief, she was saved the necessity of response by her father’s approach.

“Your captain begs a word with you, Gilbert,” he said. Then as Gilbert cantered away, he turned with a smile to his daughter. His eyes sparkled with good humor, and his face was animated. “So, Rosalynde, you still decline to join us. I had hoped you might become better acquainted with Sir Gilbert—under my watchful eye, of course.”

As much as she knew that such an “acquaintance” was impossible, Rosalynde nevertheless could not help but smile at the thought of her father playing the part of chaperon. A mother, yes. A trusted maid, of course. But having neither of those, Sir Edward became the only logical choice, no matter how poorly suited to the part he was.

“I’ve enough and more to keep me busy here. Besides, the hunt is not a favored activity of mine. I’ll be more content to attend my daily routine.”

“You won’t forget your other task? The one I charged you with?”

“Other task? Oh.” Her smile faded as her father’s meaning became clear. He’d asked her to learn something of Aric’s past, something that would help him to rest easier at the thought of the man fighting at his back.

“He was … that is … he won’t—” She took a nervous breath and started again. “I’ve learned very little, only what you already know. He’s from a place called Wycliffe. Oh, and he is the youngest son, although he has said little of his parents,” she added, remembering Aric’s words once before.

“A youngest son, eh?” Her father shifted in his saddle, a
puzzled expression on his face. “ ’Tis curious, indeed. How did a lad of such meager beginnings come by his skills, then? ’Twould seem a man would keep such a strong worker at home.”

“Perhaps there were too many mouths to feed,” Rosalynde speculated, wondering herself about the mystifying man she’d bound herself to. Like her father, she felt there was more to Aric than was immediately apparent. And as her father did, she wished to know the truth of it. But not now. Especially with Sir Gilbert in temporary residence at Stanwood.

“He was no doubt not a sterling son,” Sir Edward mused. Then he straightened on his horse. “I can forgive the mistakes of his youth so long as I have reason to trust him as a man.”

“Do you trust him?” Rosalynde was unable to resist asking.

Her father was slow to respond. “Aye, I do. At least I trust him to do his part in a fight. But that does not mean you should abandon your efforts, Rosalynde. Today would be a good day to approach him, while the castle is quiet. There will be few enough quiet days in the next weeks. Perhaps you could send for him, say … oh, I don’t care why. Because you would have him fitted for a new tunic,” he suggested with a vague gesture of his hand. “Use whatever excuse you like. Just give it another try.” Then, with an encouraging smile, he turned his horse and joined the waiting group of hunters.

In a matter of minutes they were through the gatehouse and on their way to the thick forests that stretched as far as the eye could see around the Castle Stanwood. Rosalynde was left standing on her block, contemplating her father’s final words and debating whether she should approach Aric again. It wasn’t her father’s request that prodded her
to it, however. Rather, it was Cleve’s vague allusions that troubled her. His conversation with Aric made no sense to her, yet her entire future—and Aric’s—seemed to hang upon it. She could not rest until she knew how he had managed to sway the heretofore implacable Aric and actually convince him to leave.

She found him at the horse pen beyond the stables, staring intently at the horses fenced there. Come upon from behind, with his wide shoulders hunched thoughtfully while one foot was propped upon the second fence rail, he struck her once again as being possessed of the most extraordinary air of nobility. There was an aura of power about him, as if he naturally expected others to bend to his wishes. As her pace slowed to an unconscious halt, she felt an intense pang of regret. Nothing ever came out as it should, she thought morosely. No one she loved ever stayed. Not her mother. Not her brother. And now not Blacksword either.

He turned his head sharply. Then when he recognized who so silently watched him, he altered his stance at the fence. “Is there something you want of me?” he asked curtly. His gaze was hard as he raked her with it, yet the anger she saw there was not cold and icy. Rather, it burned her with its ferocity and seared her with its thoroughness.

“My father sends me on a mission,” she answered honestly. “He would have me learn more of your dark past. He likes you,” she added with a bitter smile. “He would keep you among his men-at-arms.”

His expression lifted marginally at her truthful revelation. He leaned back against the fence, studying her well before he replied. “What would you know?”

At this unexpected response, Rosalynde became even more confused. Cleve had revealed that Aric would leave
after the tourney. Why, then, was the man now becoming so agreeable? Still, she was too curious about him to forgo this opportunity to learn more of his vague past. “In the years since you left your father’s house—”

“I robbed and pillaged, and took whatever I wanted from whomever I wished.” He straightened up and started toward her. “I honed my skills on villein and noblemen alike, and I devoured young maidens like yourself. Is that what you wish to hear?” he finished sarcastically as he stopped mere inches from her.

“That … that’s not true,” she whispered hoarsely, as much dismayed by his cruel words and taunting tone as she was by his sudden nearness. As if the heat of his strong body reached out for her, she felt an answering warmth rise quickly in her, lifting all her senses to a new and sharper awareness of him.

“I devoured you, didn’t I? You sacrificed your virginal feast to my insatiable hunger, didn’t you?” He mocked her unmercifully. “Isn’t that how you would describe it?” His eyes bore down into hers with a fury she guessed born of her rejection and Cleve’s as-yet-unnamed threats. Panicked by her chaotic emotions, she stumbled back a pace.

“No … no, it wasn’t that way.”