The Rose of Blacksword (4 page)

The afternoon passed with an excruciating slowness.
Rosalynde and Cleve dared not move from the precarious hiding place and therefore suffered alternating bouts of paralyzing fear, unspeakable horror, and consuming rage as the vandals amused themselves in drunken celebration, arguments, and scuffles. It was only when the sun began to cast long shadows across the riverbank and the sounds from the gang of ruffians had begun to subside that Cleve chanced a look around the exposed boulder.

“May God smite them down for this and see them rotted in hell!” he muttered as he stared toward the site of the massacre. Then as Rosalynde rose to look as well, he clapped a firm hand on her shoulder. “Oh, no, milady. Don’t look. It’s too foul a sight.”

But Rosalynde insisted. What she saw in the clearing turned her stomach over. Three of the knights lay where they had fallen, although their clothes had been stripped away. Now their naked corpses lay white and exposed, bloodied and mangled. It was enough to sicken a seasoned warrior. It shook her to the core. She turned a pale face to Cleve as she fought down the rising gorge in her throat. Then she leaned heavily against the boulder. “What of Nelda? And … and the other knight?”

“Perhaps it was they who rode away. Perhaps they escaped and will come back with help.”

“But if Nelda didn’t escape, those men will …” Her words trailed off as she imagined just what those brutish men would do to Nelda—to any woman they found. She had heard the tales about William the Conqueror and the Norman invasion. She had listened wide-eyed to whispered stories of the Viking marauders of times long past. A violent shiver shook her as she realized that she was not yet safe either. “Please God, let them have escaped. And us too,” she whispered in mortal fear.

Cleve’s glum expression met hers and he clenched his
jaw nervously. “I hope God hears you, milady, for it’s clear we must try to save ourselves.”

Rosalynde’s frightened eyes widened in renewed despair. What were they to do, a boy and one woman, against such a foul horde of murderers? She shook her head anxiously. “We cannot escape, Cleve. We can’t defeat them either. What can we do?”

Cleve’s gaze held with hers a long moment; his face was pale and grim. Then he peered over the boulder once more before taking a deep breath.

“We
can
escape. They don’t know we’re here. From the sounds of it, they’ve been drinking all the wine Lady Gwynne sent to your father. We can try to slip away when it gets a little darker. But not along the riverbank; it’s too open. We’ll have to head straight to those trees behind us and then skirt around the castle ruin. Then we can strike out for help.”

Rosalynde was reassured somewhat by his clear thinking, and she nodded agreement with his plan. “But when?” she asked nervously. “If we wait until they leave it might be too dark and we’ll never find our way in such strange territory in the night.”

The answer to that dilemma was swiftly forthcoming. One of the gang rolled over with a groan and then rose. In a slow stagger he made his way toward the river. Beyond him the other men drowsed in drunken stupor or else continued to down the fine wines that had been stocked in the carts. As the man approached, Rosalynde cringed in fear. But the long hours of helplessness had given Cleve a new and reckless courage. Rosalynde watched in horror as he once again drew his pointed dagger.

She did not speak as they heard the brute pause just on the other side of the boulder.
Please let him stop there
, she
prayed desperately.
Please don’t let Cleve do anything rash
.

But Cleve shrugged off her restraining hand and ignored her pleading expression. Then they heard the man move again, coming around the boulder. Rosalynde froze in absolute horror, but Cleve was ready. With the stealth of a stalking cat, he inched around the cold granite stone. In the heart-shattering silence he crouched and tensed, and then, when the man came into view, he sprang forward.

Caught in the midst of loosening his braies so that he could relieve himself, the drunk had no time to protect himself. With a howl of pain he took the full length of Cleve’s blade in his left shoulder. But perhaps due to the numbing effects of the wine, the wound did not at once bring him down. He only turned like a shaggy bear and, with a wild swing of his arm, struck out at his attacker.

Cleve was flung harshly against the rock. Rosalynde heard his sharp cry of pain and immediately sprang to his aid. The cutthroat turned as if to strike her as well, but suddenly he staggered and then went down on his knees. She heard a cry of alarm from one of his compatriots, but she did not waste time on any of them. With a strength born of terror and desperation, she looped Cleve’s arm around her shoulder and then, without pausing a moment, lurched toward the trees, half carrying, half leading the still-stunned page.

“Milady …” Cleve mumbled as he fought to keep his senses.

“Run, Cleve. Run!” she cried as she urged him on.

She feared at any moment to be struck down by an avenging horde of assassins. Indeed, she feared to look back at their sure pursuit, not wanting to know how imminent was her death. But there was no blow, and as they
gained the shelter of the shadowy forest, she finally chanced a fearful look behind them.

Rosalynde’s breath came in huge gasps as she stared back at the riverbank. She saw the one man still lying where he had fallen after Cleve’s heroic attack. His arm waved weakly for help, but his cohorts were clearly unable to assist him very well. One had tumbled over a root as he staggered drunkenly to assist. Another ran forward, looked around, then darted in another direction only to stop once more and stare stupidly about as if unsure just what it was he sought. He stared once in their direction and Rosalynde froze, certain they were discovered. But then the man lurched off in another direction, and with a shudder of relief she let loose her tightly held breath.

Without pausing to consider her actions, she plunged deeper into the thicket of shrubs and trees, still half supporting Cleve as she went. She was unmindful of the branches that plucked at her cloak and caught in her hair. She went on, heedless of the direction so long as it was far, far from the brutish men who had attacked, murdered, and plundered with no regard for the plight of their victims. Only when her bare foot caught on a curling vine and she nearly tripped was her headlong flight slowed. Cleve groaned in pain, tried to throw off her supporting arm and stand on his own, and then crumpled in a heap when his legs would not hold.

“Cleve. Cleve!” Rosalynde knelt at his side and lifted his head. Slowly the boy’s eyes opened, but his stare was glazed with pain and confusion.

“Lady Rosalynde?” he muttered, closing his eyes again.

“Shh. It’s all right, Cleve. It’s all right. Just rest a moment while I see to your injuries,” she murmured in a voice far more calm than she actually felt.

“Must get you away … safety. To Stanwood.…”
He jerked when her searching fingers found a tender spot on his head.

“Hold still. Let me see—” Rosalynde’s words broke off when she saw the blood. It covered her fingers and matted the boy’s thick brown hair. With a worried frown she tenderly parted his hair so that she could better assess the severity of the wound. Although the blood wasn’t running freely anymore, only slowly oozing from the wound, the gash was a nasty one, and Rosalynde paused as she considered just what to do.

Their situation was precarious at best. Although they were safe for the moment, who was to say how long that would last? They were alone in strange territory, with no supplies, no one to help them, no weapons—

She glanced down at Cleve’s hand and saw with huge relief that he had managed somehow to cling to his dagger despite everything that had happened. It was sticky with the blood of the man he had stabbed. Added to that, it wasn’t much of a weapon to begin with. But they still had it and Rosalynde felt a little restored. They had a weapon and they were no longer being followed. That was a start.

She took a slow, steadying breath and then another, trying to calm her racing heart. Then with a firm set to her chin, she reached for the hem of her kirtle and tried to rip it. But the light linen was too well woven. She reached for Cleve’s knife, but the still-stunned boy only gripped it tighter and struggled weakly against her.

“Give me the dagger, Cleve.” she whispered urgently. “I only want to bind your head. Then we’ll find a better resting place. Night will soon fall and we need shelter.” She passed one of her slender hands over his head reassuringly. “I’ll give the knife back to you just as soon as I’m finished with it.”

Once more his eyes fluttered open, but this time he was more lucid. “Don’t ruin your gown.”

“Be quiet and cooperate,” she replied, somewhat heartened that he might not be too seriously hurt. When his grip on the dagger slackened, she picked up the weapon with two fingers. Grimacing with disgust, she wiped it as clean as she could in a clump of new ferns. She quickly used it to tear two strips from her kirtle and then fashioned a bandage for his head. When she finished, he smiled weakly at her.

“Many thanks, milady.” He struggled to sit up but would not have succeeded without her help. Although he tried to hide it, she could not miss his grimace of pain. “I must get you to safety,” he muttered, staring a little vacantly about the dense forest stand.

“You’re the one needs tending,” Rosalynde countered as she also looked around, trying to take stock of their situation. “I need water to properly wash that gash in your head.” She bit her lip in consternation as she pondered the problem.

“There’s the river,” he pointed out.

“No!” Rosalynde was quick to reply. “It’s too easy for those awful men to find us if we venture down to the water’s edge.” A bird swooped through the trees and they both jumped. Rosalynde watched as it headed up toward the ruined castle that still guarded the hillside. A faint smile curved her lips as an idea formed in her head. “That castle must have had a well. We’ll go up there—”

“You heard what the knights said,” Cleve protested with rising strength. “ ’Tis a haunted place. It would be foolish to enter such a place of death.”

Unfazed by his dire warning, Rosalynde got to her feet. Her hose were in tatters. Her gown was ripped and still wet. Even her sturdy cape had a huge rent along one side.
But she was alive and so was Cleve. The threat of ghosts seemed far less a problem than the very real threat they had already encountered that day.

“Those ghosts will be our protection,” she stated confidently as she bent to help him up. Cleve only stared at her with wide doubting eyes.

“They’ll smother us in our sleep,” he warned even as she put an arm about his waist and helped him start forward. “They’ll sit on our chests and suck the life from us.”

“They’ll keep anyone else from following us,” she retorted, although a small quiver of doubt snaked up her spine. “We mean them no harm. Surely they’ll know that.”

Cleve’s expression was dubious. But as he had no better suggestion and was feeling exceedingly weak from the blow to his head, he leaned upon her. Crouching low, and with many backward glances, they slowly made their way toward the abandoned adulterine.

3

It was not the moans of unhappy ghosts nor the threat of menacing specters that tormented Rosalynde through the long hours of the night. She was not threatened by visions of the dead Sir Medwyn and his hapless wife as she huddled in the roofless remains of what must have been one of the kitchen’s stores. She was instead gripped with fear for the feverish Cleve and haunted anew by the more recent deaths she had witnessed.

Nelda had not wanted to come on this trip. But because Rosalynde had insisted on traveling to her father herself, a maid had become necessary. If not for Rosalynde’s adamant demand to go to her father herself, Nelda would still be alive, as would the four unlucky knights. Although she had seen only three bodies, Rosalynde could not banish the sight from her mind’s eye, and she was certain everyone else in the party had also been murdered. And all because of her, she worried guiltily. Their poor souls had not even been dignified with a Christian burial.

Now Cleve was in a very bad way as well.

“Sweet Mary, mother of Jesus,” she prayed with an urgency that clutched at her very soul. “Save this boy, I beseech thee. Have pity on him, for he does not deserve to die.”

Through the moonless black of the night, as unseen
beasts rustled nearby and others howled from afar, she kept her lonely vigil. But try as she might to be thankful for their survival, for the protection of the ruined castle and the blessed remains of the old well in the rubble-littered bailey, Rosalynde was nonetheless besieged by both fear and fury.

It was not fair, she silently raged as she pressed a damp rag against Cleve’s burning brow. Nothing was fair at all! Giles should not have died. Nelda and Lord Ogden’s men should never have been so cruelly slaughtered. She should not be thrust into this terrible mess. And poor Cleve …

He groaned and tried to roll over. Then he flailed one arm wildly about before she was able to grab it and still his feverish thrashing.