The Rose of Blacksword (44 page)

His brow creased in a frown as he tied the horses to a fence then approached Sir Gilbert’s belongings. Rosalynde
would just have to make the choice, he decided as he carefully began to move several bulky packages well wrapped in fustian. She was unhappy now, but once she was married and had a child—

At that thought he abruptly straightened up, unmindful of the long package that immediately toppled over. A child. Could there be a child of her liaison with Aric? He’d not considered that before yet … wouldn’t she be more anxious than ever to marry if that were the case?

Not having experience with women, Cleve was not sure
how
noblewomen dealt with such possibilities. Even though Rosalynde was enamored of the brute, she surely could not consider him an appropriate husband or father for her children. Deep in thought, he absentmindedly reached for the heavy bundle on the floor, then let out a sharp oath as the cloth bindings came loose and several weapons tumbled out. With a guilty glance around him, he quickly began to gather everything back together. These were Sir Gilbert’s war tools, he realized, and that one would raise holy hell should he learn what had happened.

But when he reached for a sword and scabbard that had fallen, he suddenly paused. The sword had slid a little out of its protective sheath, revealing the base of the blade, and it was that blade which grabbed his notice. Slowly he drew the broadsword from its plain leather-and-steel scabbard. Then a low whistle of admiration escaped him. The sword was magnificent, like nothing he’d ever seen before. But it was not a fancy hilt encrusted with gold and jewels that set it apart. This sword was actually quite plain and of a simple design that appealed to him at once. What made it so remarkable was the long razor-edged blade itself, for it was as black as pitch and as wicked-looking as midnight!

Cleve stared at the weapon in his hand, all the while struggling to make some sense of his accidental discovery.
Could it be just an accident that such a black sword had appeared in the wake of the man Blacksword’s arrival at Stanwood? Logically he knew there could be more than one black sword in existence. Yet he could not ignore the ominous foreboding building in him. Aric was the criminal known as Blacksword, and yet why did Sir Gilbert have this weapon?

In frustration he thrust the heavy sword back into its scabbard and swiftly bundled it with the others. The rest of his work he completed in a trifling, moving Sir Gilbert’s goods and unpacking the horses from Holyfield with a heretofore unknown alacrity. Then he turned the horses loose in the stableyard before hurrying off in search of the one man who could shed light on this disturbing turn of events.

Aric was on the ramparts, taking the watch near the postern gate when Cleve found him. Beneath them the castle yard was busy with servants and guests alike. Beyond the castle itself, a field was being cut for the coming tournament. A row of serfs moved across the meadow, scythes in hand, looking from this distance like ants at work. Yet for all the people around them, Cleve and Aric were quite alone.

As the boy came to a halt before him, Aric gave him a curious look. “If you’re seeking another lesson, it must wait until after the evening meal.” But when Cleve did not immediately respond, Aric peered at him more sharply.

“How came you by the name Blacksword?” the boy asked bluntly.

Aric drew back warily. “I should think that easy enough to surmise. Why do you ask?”

Cleve’s dark brows drew together as he studied the man before him. “Where is your black sword, then?”

At that Aric stiffened and his expression grew grim.
“Have you found it? Perhaps among the possessions of one of Stanwood’s guests?” But Cleve did not have to answer, for Aric already knew. His eyes turned as cold as ice as he stared at the boy. “Have you questioned the knight who bears this sword?”

“No, I thought it better if—” He stopped, as if he wasn’t sure what he thought, and his face reflected his confusion.

The revelation that his sword was at Stanwood sent a jolt of exhilaration through Aric, bolstering his conviction that the coming tourney would provide him the opportunity to confront Gilbert once and for all. But Cleve’s hesitant manner made him pause.

“You came to me first. Why?”

Cleve met his hard gray stare unflinchingly. “I thought—only for a moment, of course—that perhaps it was Sir Gil—this knight—who was the true outlaw, since he had possession of that blade. But I see now, ’tis far more likely that he took the sword from you.”

The tone of his words were scornful, but on the boy’s face was an expression nearer disappointment.

“Aye,” Aric admitted softly. “Sir Gilbert took the blade from me, in a manner of speaking.” Then he stared out toward the field where he meant to avenge himself on the nefarious Gilbert. “ ’Tis best you forget that sword, Cleve, and distance yourself from such matters.”

“Such matters? What does that mean?”

Aric shook off his dark musings and turned back to the boy. “It does not concern you.”

“If it concerns my Lord Edward—or Milady Rosalynde—then it
must
concern me.”

Aric almost smiled as the boy eyed him belligerently. Cleve would make a fine man, and a good knight, he thought indulgently. He had courage and a strong sense of loyalty. All he lacked was brawn and experience, and time
would eventually provide him with those. Aric’s expression became almost approving as he responded to the boy.

“Sir Edward has my loyalty. Lady Rosalynde—” He halted, unable to put into words what he felt for Rosalynde and unwilling, anyway, to reveal it to Cleve. “Lady Rosalynde’s well-being is uppermost in my mind. I mean no harm to anyone of Stanwood.”

But Cleve would not let it go. “How did you lose your sword? I cannot see you surrendering so fine a weapon easily.” Then his face creased as another thought occurred to him. “Does he know you are here?”

The last vestiges of Aric’s indulgence fled. “Sir Gilbert will be informed soon enough, but by me and no other. Is that clear to you, Cleve?” The icy menace in his voice lingered in the air between them as Cleve pondered those last words.

“It would be easier for me to keep my silence if I knew more of you and your ties to Sir Gilbert,” the boy answered slowly.

“Your mistrust of me has been clear from our first meeting. Do you expect me to trust
you
with things better kept to myself?”

“As I see it, you’ve little enough choice,” the boy shot back. “I’ve only to point you out to Sir Gilbert—”

“ ’Tis not a hard thing to silence a man. Or a boy,” Aric stated quietly. He was satisfied that Cleve paled at the threat, and also impressed that the boy still did not back down.

“I cannot allow you to attack one of Lord Edward’s guests.”

“I’ve no intention of catching him unaware. A blade through the back is not my way, so you may rest easy on that score. No, he and I will meet, for justice demands it. But ’twill be on the field of honor.”

At this curious remark Cleve gave Aric an odd look. “The field of honor? But you are not—” He stopped then continued on more slowly. “ ’Twas your sword. And now you would meet him on the field of
honor
 …” His voice trailed off as if a sudden thought had become more insistent. “You’re a knight, aren’t you? Or at least you were once.”

It was in Aric’s mind to deny it, to cling still to the anonymity he had forced on himself ever since Rosalynde’s rejection of him as a realistic choice for marriage. He wanted her to want him no matter his station in life, and so had suffered this lowly place in her household. At times he thought his plan only a foolish exercise in pride. But other times he was certain she would soon be his. Hadn’t their tryst in the stable been the proof of that? Yet he was still loath to reveal too much of the truth, not until she relented and admitted her true feelings.

“My past is of no consequence. You need only concern yourself with the future and with the knowledge that I plan no dishonor to Sir Edward or to the Lady Rosalynde.”

“But you plot against Sir Gilbert, do you not?”

“That one is less than worthy of the title of knight,” Aric bit out.

Cleve looked away, clearly unsettled by his new knowledge. In the castle yard all was in motion. Then his gaze sharpened as he spied Rosalynde. She was crossing the bailey, only to be intercepted by none other than Sir Gilbert himself. Aric too saw the pair below, and his expression grew as cold as a winter storm.

“Christ, but I long to face that vermin in battle!” he swore, ending with a particularly foul oath.

“Lady Rosalynde is unlikely to be fooled by such a man as he,” Cleve remarked, turning back to Aric. A puzzled
frown creased his brow at the sight of the other man’s furious countenance. Then understanding came and a faint smile suddenly lightened his face.

“She should not encourage him,” Aric growled, never sparing the boy a glance. “She should keep to her household duties and stay away from the castle yard.”

“How else is she to catch the eye of any of the other knights summoned here by her father? After all, she must be wed. Perhaps she only plays one against the other—’tis not unheard of.”

Aric continued staring at Rosalynde, and his eyes went nearly black as Sir Gilbert caught her hand and pressed a kiss to it. Although she swiftly freed herself from his grasp, Aric continued to scowl as he watched her out of sight, all the while unaware of Cleve’s steady perusal of him.

The boy was no less concerned about his mistress’s well-being. But the revelations of the past minutes had done much to alter the focus of his concerns. Lady Rosalynde must marry. He accepted that obvious fact. And she must not marry beneath her. He also knew that she was no longer a maiden.

But she still wanted this man she thought a common criminal, and he quite clearly wanted her. Cleve shook his head softly, bemused by the sudden elevation of Aric in his estimation. This cast a new light on everything.

“Do I have your silence, boy?”

Cleve nodded mutely, his serious gaze holding with the bigger man’s darkened eyes. “Aye, I’ll keep my peace so long as no one of Stanwood shall suffer.”

24

Rosalynde could not help herself. She had watched Aric surreptitiously all through the evening meal, and there was no doubt in her mind that he was deliberately avoiding her gaze. He had come in late, eaten his fill, then departed before any of the evening’s entertainments could begin. Now, even though she knew it was foolish beyond all reason, she planned to slip away from the company and seek him out. But as she made a slow circuit through the filled hall, aiming to withdraw through the servants’ entrance, she felt a sudden tug at her sleeve.

“Why, Margaret,” Rosalynde said as she saw the hesitant expression of Sir Edolf’s young sister’s face. “Is there something you need?”

The fair-haired child gave her a serious look, then heaved a desolate sigh. “Please don’t think me ungrateful,” she said in a voice far older than her years. “But I think I would like to go home.”

Rosalynde’s heart immediately melted toward the little girl who was being pushed at so young an age into the perilous world of marriage and politics. If it was hard enough for a grown woman to stomach, how much worse must it be for a mere child? Yet child or adult, a daughter was ever to be viewed as an implement of negotiation by the men who controlled her fate. Even though she herself
had been given the luxury of the final selection of her husband, the men had still been carefully decided upon by her father. She was, more than anything else, simply the funnel by which Stanwood Castle’s future would be secured. Margaret’s fate was even worse, however, for she was a youngest child with only a moderate dowry to commend her. As a result, her rare childish beauty was being flaunted in the hopes that her very innocence might rouse some well-placed nobleman’s lust.

Rosalynde caught the child’s slender hand in her own. “I wish I could go home with you too,” she confessed with an understanding smile.

“But you
are
home,” Margaret replied. Then her sweet face grimaced in understanding. “Oh, you don’t wish to marry either.”

“Well, it’s not precisely that I do not wish to marry. Only …” Rosalynde paused and a bitter smile curved her mouth. “Only, like you, I would wish for more freedom in the choice.”

“If you could choose whomever you wished, who would it be?” the girl asked. Her expression was an odd mixture of childish hope and adult curiosity.

“Oh, that is hard to say,” Rosalynde demurred. “No one here,” she finally said, gesturing toward the noisy hall.

“I know who
I
would choose.”

“You do? Who?”

Margaret hesitated, then bent nearer. “You will not tell him, will you?”

“Of course not.”

“Well then, ’tis Cleve. The squire with the dark hair.” Then, as if that description did not quite sum him up, she added most seriously, “The one with the sparkling eyes.”

Rosalynde had never noticed that Cleve’s eyes sparkled. Yet as she looked down into the girl’s eager face, she realized
that for Margaret at least, his eyes did sparkle. How sweet and lovely was this childish affection that the girl felt for Cleve. Yet it would only be cruel to encourage such hopeless dreams, for Margaret would be betrothed and probably even wed long before Cleve would become a knight and eligible for such an honor.