The Rose of Blacksword (48 page)

Her prayers had been answered!

26

In the ensuing confusion—as the men on the field picked themselves up and the spectators milled about in rowdy curiosity—no one could get to their horses in time to prevent Aric’s escape. As one, the dark destrier and its bent-over rider flew across the field toward the safety of the forest. Only at the edge of the dense woodlands did the animal pause as Aric looked back at the chaotic tournament grounds. Despite the distance between them, however, Rosalynde knew he did not look to ascertain whether he was pursued. Even across the wide plowed field she felt his eyes seeking her—finding her. In that brief moment when their eyes connected, she knew he wanted her to come to him. And as he turned his mount and disappeared into the forests, she knew she would somehow do it.

It took no great effort at moralizing—no weighing the right and wrong of it, or judging the logic. She’d spent a month and more waging that battle, arguing that debate to no avail. Now, as her heart filled with immeasurable joy to see him safe and free, she knew that logic had no place in her decision anymore. She must go with her heart now—always!—where Blacksword was concerned. She must go to Aric, her love.

But she also knew that she must be careful. Stifling the urge to flee at once, she willed herself to be calm.

Her father and Sir Roger still looked stunned by all that had happened in the last few seconds. Sir Gilbert’s enraged screams only compounded the disorganization of the pursuit efforts.

“He is an outlaw, I tell you! One of the vermin that were to hang at Dunmow!”

“But he has been an excellent foot soldier.” Sir Edward tried to placate the furious man. “We had no—”

“Fools!” Gilbert shoved off the help of two of his men. “You cannot even ferret out the runagates among you! Is it no wonder they prey upon the land at will!”

“I knew he was suspect!” Sir Roger swore. “I should have hanged him when I first found him—”

“I shall hang him yet!” Gilbert vowed in icy rage. He yanked his sword from the hands of a man who had retrieved it. He scowled at the circle of men then moved his narrowed gaze belligerently to Sir Edward. “And where did he come by a sword? If he was a foot soldier, why did he have a sword?”

“We’ll know that when we capture him,” Sir Edward bit out, clearly fuming at such an embarrassing turn of events. He turned away, signaling his men to retrieve their horses, but Rosalynde anticipated his move. Taking advantage of the attention focused on the crowd of men still on the field, she dashed back to the makeshift rope corral where most of the horses were being held. Holding her skirts high, she flapped them toward the skittish animals, stomping and yelling as she did. In a moment they were milling about, circling within their confined quarters, alarmed by the small but aggressive figure that flitted about them.

Rosalynde was unsuccessful in causing the horses to break free from their meager confines. But when the
squires and knights tried to collect their mounts, the horses were too nervous and highstrung to be caught. As Rosalynde melted back into the shadows of the viewing pavilion, she could only hope that she’d afforded Aric enough time to ensure his safety.

But as the horses were finally caught and the first riders set off in the direction Aric had taken, she knew she had much more to do if she were somehow to find him. First on her list was to stay well out of her father’s way. At once she headed for the still-laden food tables.

“Keep everyone well fed, and be generous with the ale,” she ordered Maud when the woman sent her a bewildered look.

“What’s to be made of this?” Edith cried as she hurried up.

“Too much temper, it appears.” Rosalynde shrugged, giving the two a tight-lipped smile. “But there’s no reason the day must be ruined for the rest of our people. Just see to the tables while I seek out Cedric.”

She found Cedric near the wine butts, his normally complacent features set in a perplexed frown. “Lady Rosalynde,” he said, clearly relieved to see her. “What are we to do now?”

“ ’Twould be best to proceed as if nothing untoward has happened. The day is not yet done, and as it is to celebrate the spring planting, I’m sure my father would not see his people deprived of their pleasure. Be generous with the drink and they will not miss the conclusion of the melee. Meanwhile, I shall seek out my father.”

“But he rode off with Sir Gilbert to seek out the errant foot soldier who attacked the man.”

So much the better, Rosalynde thought as she clambered onto one of the field carts and urged the sturdy
pony forward. If her father was gone he would not note her actions.

“Hie. Hie!” she cried with a flap of the long leather reins, urging the pony up the dusty road to the castle. She had medicines to get, and blankets and clean linens. And a basket of food, she added to her list as she made her plans. Aric might very well be hurt and would most certainly be hungry. When she found him—

Her jumbled thoughts were interrupted by an urgent cry. “Lady Rosalynde! Hold up, milady!”

When she saw Cleve running after her, she slowed the cart. Of all people, she did not wish to deal with Cleve, for she feared he too easily might guess what she was about.

“Cleve, thank goodness! See to the loose horses, will you? I must away to the castle for lanterns and candles.” Then, without giving him a chance to respond, she slapped the reins once more and sent the cart rollicking up the road to the castle.

Cleve watched Rosalynde’s departure with mixed emotions. Lanterns and candles? Surely she did not mean to aid in the search for the missing Aric? Yet it was equally unlikely that she would be worried about lighting the festivities after dark—not considering what had just happened.

Yet Rosalynde’s peculiar words were of far less moment than Aric’s daring confrontation with Sir Gilbert and subsequent escape. As Cleve dutifully hurried to help with the horses, his head spun with a myriad of disturbing facts.

Aric had obviously stolen that sword from among Sir Gilbert’s belongings. Although Cleve knew he should feel guilty for having revealed its whereabouts to Aric, any guilt was overridden by the disturbing fact that Sir Gilbert had not accused Aric of stealing the weapon. The black sword had been in Gilbert’s possession, yet it appeared
that for some reason he did not wish that fact known. If he had taken the sword from Aric when he’d caught him near Dunmow, there would be no need to conceal it from this company. Yet although he had accused Aric of being an outlaw—and of having a weapon that a man-at-arms should not possess in the melee—Gilbert had not identified the sword as his own.

That was because the sword was undoubtedly Aric’s, Cleve knew. His namesake weapon. And it followed, therefore, that Sir Gilbert had acquired it through less than honorable means.
That
was why Aric had been so set on confronting him.

Once more Cleve felt a certain conviction that Aric was a knight. Everything pointed to it—everything except his accursed silence on the subject. But something had gone wrong, and it was clearly tied to Sir Gilbert of Duxton.

Cleve flapped his arms, turning one loose horse back toward the horse pen. As he caught his breath he stared out toward the place where Aric had disappeared into the forest. This bad blood between Aric and Sir Gilbert was not done, of that he had not the slightest doubt. Sir Gilbert had thought Aric dead—hanged at Dunmow. He would surely not rest now until he saw him dead, and by his own hand. Yet Aric was just as clearly not afraid of such a battle, else he would not have challenged the man before everyone.

Now, however, it was unlikely he would receive a fair fight. If Aric was smart, Cleve decided, he would disappear for a while and just bide his time. He had a weapon and a horse—no doubt his very own horse, judging by the beast’s uncanny reaction to Aric’s desperate plight. Yes, the man should bide his time and wait for another day to get his revenge on his enemy.

It was not until Cleve made his way almost an hour later
to the castle that a wayward thought struck him. Sir Gilbert had said that Aric was to have been hanged at Dunmow. Yet Rosalynde had made no mention of that fact when she’d first brought him to the adulterine castle to help them. He’d wondered then how such a man could be without any means at all, lacking even his own dagger. Now he could not decide whether Lady Rosalynde had known all along, or just been an innocent pawn in Aric’s escape.

He frowned and rubbed the back of his sweaty neck. There was still much to be uncovered in this confusing affair, he thought. A few riders had returned from the chase empty-handed, but Sir Gilbert and Sir Edward were still out. Until they returned, Cleve decided it was time for him to have a long talk with the fair mistress of the castle.

Rosalynde left by the postern gate. She’d wrapped everything she might need in a soft linen cloth and flung it over the withers of a mare she’d saddled in the stables. Now, as dusk descended over the land, she led the mild-tempered horse through the narrow gate, more than thankful for the distractions in the castle. Between the uproar caused by Aric and the lulling effects of the still-flowing ale, it had been easy to remain unnoticed and out of sight. She hoisted herself up into the saddle, and turned the mare silently for the forest. How she would find Aric when the others had failed she did not know. She only knew that she must try. Down the gravel path she guided the horse. Down the escarpment and up into the cleared field that backed the castle. A watchman hailed her—a drowsy, incoherent sound. Then there was only her and the amiable mare, heading straight toward the protection of the forest.

It seemed forever that Rosalynde had been restraining
her haste—waiting for dusk to come, waiting to sneak out of the stable, walking the horse quietly when everything in her screamed hurry! Yet once she melted into the dark-shadowed forest, she was assailed by sudden doubt. Which way to go? Where to begin her search? And what if she couldn’t find him?

She sat the complacent horse, staring around her, trying to gather her bearings as she searched for a trail to follow. Somewhere in this vast forest was Aric; all she wanted was to be with him and know that he was safe. Yet as the night sounds of the woodlands began to fill the darkness, she despaired of succeeding.

She neither heard nor saw the large shape that swung down from the branches of an ancient chestnut tree and dangled an instant behind her. One moment she was completely alone, praying for divine guidance in her quest. The next, someone had slid down behind her onto the horse, startling the animal into an awkward run and terrifying the very wits from her.

“No!” she tried to cry, before a heavy hand clamped over her mouth. Then she was pulled against a wide chest and even before he said a word, she knew.

“Hush,” he whispered against her ear as his arms held her steady. With one hand he took control of the reins, slowing the panicked mare, while with his other he held her so tight as to nearly constrict her breathing. Yet Rosalynde’s sudden happiness was so overwhelming that she could easily have survived without breathing at all. Aric was here—that was all she need know. He was here and he was safe, and nothing else mattered at all.

As he brought the mare to a plunging halt, Rosalynde melted against him and tilted her head back to fall against his shoulder. At her compliant pose, Aric bent his head forward and hungrily pressed his lips to her exposed neck.
Like a statue melded together in an emotionally draining embrace they sat there, Rosalynde wrapped within Aric’s unyielding grasp, each of them taking solace from the other, giving strength and receiving strength. Rosalynde pressed her cheek against his bowed head as tears streamed down her face. She could feel his vital warmth surrounding her; his heart beat a rhythm that matched her own. For a long quiet moment her happiness was complete. She had everything she truly wanted in Aric. Why couldn’t the rest of the world simply go away?

“Ah, my sweet Rose.” He breathed the words as he kissed the sensitive skin along her collarbone. “Your thorns can no longer protect you from me.”

Rosalynde’s hand came up to cup the hard line of his cheek. “I do not need thorns with you.”

He lifted his head then and their eyes finally met. Despite the darkness of the night, there was an intensity in his eyes that she could not mistake. When she twisted around in his arms, he loosened his grip, then lifted her clear of the saddle and settled her across his thighs. Rosalynde’s arms went immediately around his neck, and without restraint she pressed herself fully against him in a long, stirring kiss.

“I was so afraid,” she whispered brokenly as she kissed his cheeks, his chin, his firm curving lips. “I thought you would be killed.” She ran her tongue lightly along the seam of his lips, then deepened the kiss when he opened his mouth to her. The mare shifted slightly beneath them, but neither of them noticed as desperation turned into fiery passion.

Then, in less than an instant, Rosalynde was no longer the aggressor, demanding and receiving his passionate kiss, but instead became the receptacle for his mounting desires. One of his hands slid roughly along her thigh,
finding the soft flesh beneath her skirts. At once his kiss deepened. Rosalynde was bent back over his arm, off balance, clinging to his neck, yet she had never felt so secure as he plundered the sweetness of her mouth. Their tongues met and retreated, then danced in erotic promise. His hand moved farther up her thigh, sliding around to cup her derriere, and his fingertips brushed near her feminine core. With a gasp she pressed down against his hand, mindlessly urging him to ease the fire that so quickly threatened to consume her. As her head fell back, he moved his searing kisses down her throat to where the pale skin was covered by her gown. Then he pressed his face against her outthrust breasts.