Page 12 of The Rose of Blacksword

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.”

“That’s not true!” She shook her head wildly, casting about desperately for the words to convince him. “I hired him to see us home. Cleve was hurt. We were alone. He was the only one willing to do it. Oh, don’t you see? To punish him is wrong. I promised him a reward!”

Rosalynde knew she dared much by challenging her father on this, a matter more proper for men to attend to, and far beyond the affairs of a mere woman. But her conscience nagged at her too sorely for her to let Blacksword be tortured or killed for his deeds. Despite his unforgivable behavior toward her, he nonetheless had the right of marriage on his side. Her father did not know that—if he did he would very likely be even more inclined to kill the man. But she knew it was true, and she could not allow him to die for it.

There was no time for her to plan what to do, how even to stop Blacksword from revealing all to her father should his life be spared. She would face that problem later when she had to. Right now she knew only that any pain he suffered would be on her head, and she simply could not bear any more guilt.

“I promised him a reward,” she stated more softly. “You cannot just murder him.”

“ ’Twill hardly be murder.” Sir Edward gave her a hard, scrutinizing look. She had to fight down the color that threatened to rise in her cheeks, but she met his gaze squarely. She knew instinctively that he preferred very much to believe what she said if only because any other story was much too unpleasant for him to stomach. He wanted his daughter whole and unsullied. Unless he were faced with undeniable proof to the contrary, he would accept her story.

The uncomfortable silence was broken by the entrance of a serving girl who halted, then waited in the corner to show Rosalynde to her chamber. But Rosalynde stood there silently pleading with her father to relent.

“I will look into the matter,” he finally conceded. “I promise you I’ll not make my decision in haste.” Then as if any further discussion of the matter was closed, he turned to leave. “Sleep now, daughter. We’ll speak later of what will be done.”

One prison was very much like another, Aric thought with disgust as he cast a bleary eye about the black hole he’d been thrust into. Cold. Dark. Smelling of urine and mold. With a grunt of pain he pushed himself up to a sitting position then gingerly raised one hand to his brow. An enormous egg had raised up on his forehead; his knuckles were raw from the one blow he’d managed to get in against the group of knights who had overpowered him; and his left arm felt as if it had been yanked from his shoulder. But he was still alive, and he tried hard to take some comfort in that.

Damn the bitch! he thought bitterly. Damn her to hell for throwing him to the wolves the first chance she got.

With the cold assessiveness of a man long accustomed to fending for himself in difficult circumstances, he examined this latest prison into which he had been cast. The chamber was small, less than twice his length square. The walls were rubble and stone, too rough to lean against with any degree of comfort. The floor was stone as well, covered with a stale layer of straw. The only light admitted was from the steel bar grate in the heavy oak door, and it was barely enough to see by. A small bucket chained to the wall held water; a hole in the floor allowed human waste to be washed away. All in all, it was not a place he wished to spend much time in. But then, it was unlikely he would have to, he reasoned cynically. Once she ran to her father with her sad tale of woe, it was unlikely he’d live out more than a day or two. He well knew that the one thing prized above all in a noblewoman was her virginity. Handfast ceremony or no, her father would no doubt rather kill him than risk the chance that his daughter’s imperfect state might be revealed to anyone.

Once more he cursed the moment of insanity when he’d thought he might win both maid and demesne for himself merely by the bedding of her. He must have been mad! But then, as he recalled how she had looked standing in that quiet pool with the sunlight glinting sparks off her wet lashes, and her slender arms and shapely ankles exposed to his view, he knew just what sort of madness it had been. He’d been completely and unexpectedly overcome with desire for the strange nymph-like creature she was, and it had totally clouded his thinking. Now it appeared he would pay dearly for his mistake.

In the hollow darkness of the little cell, he tried hard to attain that same state of calm he’d finally reached in the prison at Dunmow. It had not come easily. He had fought the unfairness then of being falsely convicted, the frustration of not knowing who had singled him out in such a way, and the incompleteness of a life not lived out as expected. Yet in the long days and nights as he’d awaited the inevitable hanging, he’d come to a grudging acceptance of his fate. He’d vowed to meet his maker with as much dignity as he could muster.

But then when the sudden intervention had come, he’d been almost angry. The peace and resignation had been ripped away, and all the raw fear and pain were exposed once more, much like a wound torn wide apart after it had barely begun to heal. The ragged urchin who had so fearfully mounted the grisly gallows had appeared at once both an imp of the devil and an angel of God. He’d been unable to believe she was more than a figment of his imagination, a manifestation of his suppressed prayers for salvation. Yet she had stood there, timid … terrified … made bold by her own desperation. In her fear she’d grabbed hold of his tunic and her startling eyes had blazed with heated emotions. But it was not the heat in her eyes that had swayed him. Perhaps in different circumstances he would have been moved by those huge, piercing eyes. But that day … that day it had been the unexpected warmth of her knuckles grazing the skin of his chest.

In a strange way he had already started to die by the time she had made her way up before the jeering crowd. When he’d finally resigned himself to his fate, he had begun to let go of life. But her warm touch … It had been like the touch of life itself, enticing him—goading him—to take one last chance, to not give up.

Aric leaned back against the rough wall, ignoring the sharp jut of stone against his sore shoulder. He’d taken the chance and he’d escaped the hangman, but now he could see that it had only been a stay of execution. A temporary reprieve. Now it was over.

With a vicious oath and a grunt of pain, he got to his feet and then flexed his left shoulder gingerly. God’s blood, but he did not want to die! Restlessly he paced the small dank chamber. Three strides across the foul-smelling space then back to where he’d started. Just as impatiently his mind turned round and round, seeking some escape, some way out of this hellish pit he’d landed in. But here too he met only with stone walls. No matter how he struggled to find a solution to his dilemma, it all came back to the same thing. Unless she chose to defend him, he would die. Unless she denied that he had spoiled her virginity, his chances were grim indeed. What he said would matter less than nothing to her father. It was all up to her.

On that thought he placed both of his hands against the stout door and leaned his weight against it in resignation. If his fate was in her hands he was doomed.

Rosalynde descended the ancient stone stairs one groggy step at a time. She was home, she kept telling herself over and over. That was what she had wanted and she should be happy at last. Yet that did nothing to dispel the awful feelings of dread that hung over her like a heavy shadow. She was still exhausted and completely disoriented. Although she’d just awakened, something told her it was long past dawn. And even though she’d been bathed by some maid last night and now wore a new gown that, though not fancy, was nonetheless reasonably clean, she still could not quite enjoy her newfound safety. Too much was still unresolved from last night. As her senses sharpened she had a nagging feeling of guilt for her lengthy slumber. The situation with Blacksword was still uncertain, and she needed to know whether her father had set him free. Then she spied Cleve sitting alone at a table with a huge platter of cheeses, broken meats, and dried fruits before him, and looking far too pleased with himself. If Blacksword had been freed, Cleve would hardly appear so content.

“Cleve!” Her cry stopped him in the process of stuffing one more chunk of cheese into his already overfilled mouth. “Cleve!” she repeated, this time in an accusing tone.

At once he jumped up, a look of complete guilt on his face. A fresh bandage was wrapped about his head and she noticed that he too looked newly bathed. But she had something far more important than his appearance on her mind as she approached him. Something was going on, and she was certain he knew exactly what.

“Why did no one awaken me earlier? What hour is it?” she demanded. Then her stomach let out an embarrassing growl, and she could not help reaching out for a handful of raisins and devouring them ravenously. “Why is there no one about?” she added suspiciously.

“It’s near midday, milady. And as for the whereabouts of the castlefolk, well, as far as I can see, there aren’t too many inside servants to begin with.” He cast a disdainful glance around the admittedly shabby surroundings. “And those that there are have all gone out to view that villain. That Blacksword.” This last he said almost boastfully. Even her sudden frown could not quite diffuse his obvious satisfaction.

At once Rosalynde was alarmed. She had slept more than half of the day away. With Cleve’s hostility toward Blacksword—Aric—he might have told her father anything. But more than his lies Rosalynde feared that Cleve might have told her father the truth, and throughout it all she had been left to sleep, blissfully unaware. As frightened as she was angry, she rounded on him with her fists planted imperiously on her hips.

“What is going on around here, Cleve? Tell me now what you’ve done.”

But Cleve was not easily cowed, even by her, for he keenly felt the righteousness of his own anger. With a stubborn jut to his chin he stood up and scowled right back at her. “Your father questioned me this morning and I told him nothing but the truth of it—how that man bullied the both of us. How he is a thief and a murderer—and boastful of it too!” The boy pushed his shaggy hair from his brow. His dark eyes glittered with emotion. “And then there’s what he did to you!”

Rosalynde gasped at the painful truth of his words. “You … you didn’t say anything … not to my father,” she finished weakly.

Under her horrified gaze Cleve’s angry glare slowly faded until he finally looked down at the floor. “That swine should hang,” he muttered furiously.

“What did you tell my father?” Rosalynde whispered urgently. She crossed the remaining space, grasped his arms, and stared fearfully into his eyes. “What, Cleve? What?”

Anger warred with loyalty on the young page’s face. Rosalynde knew instinctively that he would never deliberately do anything to hurt her. He’d proven beyond any doubt that he would risk his very life to protect her. But she also realized that he saw Blacksword as a threat to her. It was as pure and simple as that. Even though she knew her own shameful part in the deed, Cleve saw only Blacksword’s guilt. He would no doubt say anything to see Blacksword punished for his crime. But in doing so, had he sentenced the man to death?

“I told him—” Cleve’s face took on a mutinous expression and he shook off her desperate grasp. “I told him what I saw. That he was accosting you, trying to … trying to …” He stopped abruptly. “It’s true, isn’t it? I told your father that I stopped him before he could—” He looked away then and took a harsh breath before he peered resentfully back at her. “I told him nothing happened. But it did, didn’t it?”

Rosalynde could not answer him. No matter how true it was, no matter how undeniable, she simply could not bring herself to say the words aloud. Yet her very silence seemed to condemn her.

In the awful stillness of the great hall Cleve’s eyes seemed to go almost black. The petulance in his face jelled into a harder emotion. Had she not been so consumed by her own self-reproachful thoughts, she might have even imagined that he shed the cloak of boyhood at that moment. His youthful ideals had been crushed by reality. He could never be a boy again.

“You don’t understand,” Rosalynde finally choked out. Her mouth was as dry as dust even though tears clouded her eyes. She felt hot with shame and yet her face was pale and colorless. “You don’t understand.” Then she whirled away from him and fled recklessly from the hall.

She did not plan her pell-mell flight from Cleve’s accusing eyes. She could not think or reason what she must do. But when she charged into the glaring sunlight of the inner bailey, into the unexpected clusters of castlefolk gathered there in the midday sunshine, she came to an abrupt halt.

To Rosalynde’s still-disoriented senses, the scene in the bailey was not quite real. It was a bad dream, a familiar reassuring place, yet possessed now of a strange and ominous tension. It was her home and yet everything was somehow wrong. Several faces turned at her sudden appearance. Then a wave of murmurs and whispers swept through the crowd until every neck craned to see her, every eye peered her way. Rosalynde was taken aback by her sudden preeminence, and in her beleagured state of mind it seemed that Cleve’s accusing stare echoed now a hundredfold in these new and unknown faces.

As she stood there, frozen, she realized that this was very much a recurrence of her dreadful ordeal in Dunmow: all those expectant faces waiting to be entertained, no matter that it was at the dire expense of another. Panicked anew, she nearly turned and fled, so unnerved was she by it all. But then she heard Cleve’s step behind her and at once her resolve strengthened.

It took only a quick glance across the sea of faces to ascertain what was going on. At the far end of the bailey beyond the alehouse, a man was tied to the gate that led into the stableyard.

Blacksword.

Aric.

His arms were spread wide; his back was bared to the waist. Before him a knot of men clustered, and a little beyond them stood her father. Then the brawniest of the group of men separated himself from the others and approached the bound Blacksword, shaking out a long leather whip as he advanced.

“No!” The scream tore from her lips as she dashed down the few steps then pushed her way through the staring crowd. She heard the sharp crack of the whip even from across the bailey, followed by the gasp of the crowd, and she winced as if the wicked leather had cut her own skin.

“No! No!” she cried out once more, unaware that it came out only as a frantic sob. But the spectators’ attentions were no longer focused on her. Everyone had heard the gossip: Some fiend had been foolish enough to attack Sir Edward’s daughter. Now he was to pay with a painful stripping away of his flesh until he begged for the final relief from his pain at the hangman’s noose. With every snap of the vicious whip, the entire assemblage jerked in response. Yet they waited still for the next and the next, both repelled and uncontrollably drawn to watch the grisly flogging.

But Rosalynde felt only a sickening anguish for what was happening. Sobbing and gasping for breath, stumbling blindly as she ran, she broke into the little clearing as the whip drew back then snaked cruelly out once more. She watched in frozen horror as the stiffened tip of leather cut through the air then flicked with deadly precision across Blacksword’s broad, sweating back.

“Stop! Oh, please God, stop!” she prayed aloud as her stomach twisted with revulsion at such a cruel deed. Standing unbowed, his hands tied in place against the sturdy wooden gate, Blacksword could not see her. But she could see him, and what she saw filled her with terror and shame. His back already showed the fierce red welts of too many strikes of the whip. The last one had finally drawn blood. Before her unbelieving eyes the whip struck once more, and she saw with agonizing clarity the thin red tear against the firm brown flesh and then the several bright lines of oozing blood that slid down that strong unyielding back.

Unable to bear it even a moment longer, Rosalynde tore her eyes away. Then she saw her father and she knew what she must do.

“Stop this, Papa! Stop it!” she pleaded as she rushed to his side. She grabbed both his hands to force his attention to her. “You can’t let this go on! You can’t!”

Her father’s face was grim as he finally met her eyes. “He gets no more than he deserves.”

“He deserves none of this. None of it!” she begged, heedless of the tears that flooded her face. “I promised him a reward.”

“So you said before, but ’tis clear he was too impatient to wait for it. In his greed and lust he wanted something more—” He broke off then and signaled to the man with the whip to resume his gruesome task. Once more the unforgiving leather cracked, and this time Rosalynde felt as if it struck her to the very heart, tearing her—ripping her—asunder. She could not let this go on! In a fury she rounded on the man, seeing in her fear and pain how he drew back once more to flog the unbending man who refused to sag or whimper beneath the whip’s savage bite. In an outburst of energy she flung herself at the thick-muscled arm that held the whip.

Her strength was not enough to stop the man. Had she been able to think clearly, she would have recognized that fact at once. But the scowling fellow knew better than to strike the very woman whose honor it was he now avenged. One swat of his other hand would have rid him of her pesky interference. But he dared not. It was her father who finally dragged her away. It was Sir Edward who grabbed her and shook her until her teeth fairly rattled in her head.

Then he took an angry breath and glared down into her frightened, stubborn face. “Mind what you do, daughter! Do not shame me by this unseemly display!”

“If you flog him—” She gasped for breath as she locked her haunted eyes with his furious ones. “If you flog a man whom you should reward, then you shame yourself.”

There was an unearthly silence in the castle bailey. Not a soul moved. No one dared speak. Every ear strained to hear what passed between father and daughter, and a hundred possibilities circled in as many minds. But their words were low and muttered, and no one heard a word save the two of them.

Finally the glowering Sir Edward turned and, with only a terse shake of his head, signaled the man with the whip to halt. Then, ignoring both the waiting crowd and the still-bound prisoner, he dragged his unruly daughter away.