Page 19 of The Rose of Blacksword

18

Rosalynde stood beneath the one tree in her garden. The ancient walnut provided the only shady spot in the otherwise hot and dusty castle yard. Two of the lads from the great hall were laying an edging of river stones around one portion of the garden while two others were off collecting more of the smoothly rounded rocks, and still another pair struggled to shift an oversize block of stone to the far end of the neat little lawn.

Aric would make short shrift of that task, she decided as she watched the boys’ sweaty efforts. Then she immediately berated herself for such a perverse thought. So what if he could move the huge stone single-handed? That meant nothing. He was still a condemned criminal. Yet her eyes could not help but stray once more to the broad-shouldered figure on the far side of the bailey. Even among the many like-clothed men-at-arms he stood out. It was as much his arrogant carriage as his considerable size; the man was simply not the sort one could ignore. Even among the other men-at-arms that proved true. Although she observed him from afar, it was nonetheless obvious that the other men were in awe of him and his incredible prowess with whatever weapon they practiced with. Some responded by seeking his friendship. Others reacted with scowls and quiet mutterings. But there was not a man among them who did not react in some way. Blacksword was not a man easily overlooked.

Even Sir Roger had made a point of observing him. It was the day they had practiced with the stout oak staffs. Back and forth in the dusty yard the men had fought. Feint and parry, then strike. High and low the staffs had swung with the thud of wood on wood a constant echo across the yard. Aric had been paired with the most proficient of the other men. When that poor fellow had been deftly unarmed with a particularly swift upward stroke, Sir Roger’s second-in-command had stepped in to take his place. All other activity had slowed to watch the two men’s eager exercise. Even Rosalynde had moved reluctantly nearer.

This time the fight had been long and tiring. Before a clear victor could emerge, Sir Roger had called it to a halt. Rosalynde thought it was to save the other man’s dignity, but another odd sensation had struck her as well. Aric had seemed to be holding back, she had noticed during the fight. His movements were slower and not nearly so aggressive. It was almost as if he too had not wished to belittle the man by his victory. But that had made no sense at all.

Now as she watched them scale the inner walls of the castle, throwing their pike-ended ropes to catch on the parapet walls, then hauling themselves up until they gained the walkway, the mystery of the man plagued her anew. Sir Roger wondered about his remarkable physical skills. Her father was intrigued by his considerable talents. And she … she was plainly besotted with him.

With a frustrated oath she pushed herself away from the walnut tree, then snapped the small dried branch she held in two. If it had been a torture to work with him every day in the garden, it seemed doubly so now that she only saw him from afar.

“Does this please you, milady?” one of the lads inquired respectfully.

“Yes, yes,” she answered with a vague wave of one hand. She gave the fellow a cursory glance, then sighed, annoyed by her constant preoccupation with Aric. “It looks very well,” she said, this time actually looking at the finished work. “Until the next cartload of stones arrives, go ahead and fetch water for the new row of rosebushes.” Then she saw her father across the yard and her attention was once more turned away from her labors.

Her father stood next to Sir Roger. From this distance Rosalynde could not determine what passed between them. But she watched, as did they, while Blacksword speedily scaled the wall, catching up to the man before him, and allowing that lagging fellow to use one of his shoulders as a boost up to the top. Her father turned at once to Sir Roger, and their heads bent close for several seconds. Then Sir Edward turned to stare at her and all at once her heart began to race. She’d not spoken at length to her father in the five days since he’d pulled Aric from the garden and made him one of his men-at-arms. Yet she knew that something was afoot.

It was not until the evening meal, however, that she received the least inkling of what it could be. She was freshly cleaned. Her hair was loosely pulled back from her face, then caught halfway down her back by a pierced leather strip that was woven with the hair into a braid falling past her waist. She wore an apple-green gown, the first of several gowns she’d begun for herself, and her face glowed with color from the many hours that she spent outdoors. When she spied Aric entering with the other men-at-arms to eat at a table in the middle of the hall, an astute observer would have noticed that the golden-rose hue of her cheeks deepened even further. But Rosalynde quickly averted her gaze, and in the flickering light of the hall, her emotions were easily hidden.

When her father joined her, he too appeared in fine spirits. But his old eyes were sharp as he watched his daughter signal the chamberlain to begin the serving. With an occasional nod of her head and gesture of her hand, she orchestrated the meal from her place above the salt.

“The fowl is good,” he commended her as he did justice to the whole duckling before him. “The bread and the sauce also.” He licked gravy from one finger, then grinned at her. “Your husband shall be blessed indeed.”

“Husband!” Rosalynde’s eyes widened in sudden alarm. What did he mean? What did he know?

Her fathers amiable expression dissolved into a frown. “God’s blood, daughter! Can I not speak of your marriage without you staring at me as if I were sending you to your execution? ’Tis your duty to marry. Especially now. And do not think to enter the abbey no matter what the priests may say. Stanwood is held only through you. It is just this choosing of the right man that awaits.”

“I-I do not mean to imply that I would shirk my duties,” Rosalynde answered, recovering from her shock. “I know I must marry, and truly, I do seek it. It is only the choice that concerns me. Nothing else.”

“That is good, then. That is good. And I plan to be generous with you on that account. You shall see any fellow I consider and I will not deny you comment on their merits. The decision, of course, will be mine. However, I would see you happy with the choice.”

“Thank you, Father,” she said with a small sigh of relief.

“To that end,” he continued, after drinking deeply of his wine. “I propose a spring festival. The planting nears completion. The weather has cooperated. I would reward one and all with a day of feasting and games.” He cleared his throat and gave her a watchful smile. “Several men of my acquaintance have expressed interest in the games.”

“Several men?”

Sir Edward met her dismayed gaze, then looked away. “There will be a small tourney. It will give you a chance to meet several unmarried men and perhaps find one to your liking. Since I’ll not invite any whom I would not also accept, you will have much freedom in the choosing. More than most fathers would allow,” he added somewhat belligerently. Then his tone softened. “Stanwood has not hosted such a gathering in many a year. Until you returned the place was hardly presentable. But you have taken things well in hand, daughter. I have given you leave to manage the household as you will. You must now trust me to do my duty to you with regard to a husband.”

“I-I cannot but agree,” she replied, aware that he asked nothing unreasonable of her.

“Good,” he said, then signaled a page to refill his cup. “You prepare chambers and meals. I’ll see to the entertainments. Oh, but there is one matter you could help me with. Pertaining to the new man. Aric.”

“Aric?” Rosalynde echoed. Once more her equanimity was destroyed. “How can I … What do you mean?”

Sir Edward bent toward her, his voice lowered. “That fellow you brought here has me mightily perplexed. Beyond his brute strength, he possesses a shrewd intelligence.”

With that assessment Rosalynde could not but agree. Still, her father’s interest made her wary. “But what has that to do with me?”

“He reveals nothing of himself. Not how he came by his talent for combat, nor how he has spent these past years. Yet I am not one easily fooled. The man fights like one trained to it. His skill was learned and then tested on the field of battle. He is not a mere brawler. But he keeps his secrets to himself.”

“Perhaps it is for the best, Father.”

“Aye, sometimes that is best. But one of the entertainments at our festival shall be the melee. If he can be trusted he could very well turn the tide in our favor. Sir Virgil of Rising will be here, and I have not bested his men in the melee’s battle games in many a year.”

Rosalynde’s relief at her father’s concerns was so great that she let out a great sigh. Then she smiled brightly at him. “He can be trusted to fight with you. Of that I am absolutely certain.”

“So I thought you might say. But I would nonetheless like to know more of him. You spent time with him before. You saved him from my punishment and probably even tended his back.” His one brow arched perceptively. “You trust him and I wouldn’t doubt he trusts you, at least more than he might trust anyone else around here. Talk to him, Rosalynde. See what you can learn of him. The man has much to offer but I must know more.”

“I must know more.” Those words of her father’s bothered Rosalynde through the remainder of the meal. “I must know more.” And yet there was much that he must never know.

Still, her curiosity about Aric was even stronger than her father’s. The man was a complete enigma. His arrogant attitude was sorely at odds with his lowly station in life. It was no wonder that her father had noticed him. The fact that he was so adept in battle only piqued her father’s interest, for Sir Edward was primarily a man of war. He had not hesitated to back Matilda and her son Henry II in his bid to claim the crown from Stephen. In the two years since that conflict had been resolved, he had clearly been chafing at the bit. Now that he proposed the tourney and the melee, it was no surprise that he would seek out the best warriors to fight with him. And just like him, she had no doubt that Aric was among the best.

But how had he gotten to be the best? That was the question that puzzled her father and that plagued her as well.

She left the meal early, leaving her father to his own devices and the now well-trained boys to the clearing of the tables. As she made her way past the edge of the crowded tables she saw Edith. Remembering a matter they needed to discuss, she made her way over to her.

“Good ev’nin, milady,” Edith said, starting to rise from her half-completed meal.

“Please, I do not mean to disturb your meal,” Rosalynde said with a smile, pressing her back into her seat. “I only wished to tell you that tomorrow after the first meal I will explain to you which spices go best together. We’ll measure and tie into bundles the prescribed amounts so that you may more easily use them in your cooking.”

“Thank you, milady. I promise you, your faith in me shall not be wasted.”

“Of that I have no doubt.” She patted Edith’s shoulder then turned to depart. It was then that she met Aric’s gaze. He was still sitting at the table, but his meal was done and he was just finishing his cup of ale. Their eyes met only briefly; she quickly averted her face and continued on her way. But in that single moment of contact there was a wealth of communication. Her skin was warm and her heart raced as she made her way out of the great hall. A knot twisted deep in her belly, and once outside she paused to take a calming breath. But she hardly had time to get over that one potent look they’d shared before the very object of her disquiet appeared through the twilight. As if he knew she were there—as if he expected her to be waiting for him—he crossed to the deep shadows where she stood on trembling legs.

“Come walk with me,” he said in a low and husky tone. His hand reached up and with the backs of his knuckles he stroked down the curve of hair that lay against her cheek.

The ready retort she had for his unseemly invitation died unsaid when his hand met her hair. Instead she only pressed herself harder against the rough stone wall, wishing he would go away, wishing that he would not force her to confront the terrible feelings he roused in her.

“I have missed you,” he murmured when she did not respond. His fingers found the line of her jaw and he traced a path down to her chin. “Have you missed me as well?”

“No,” Rosalynde replied, although she knew it was not the truth. “No,” she repeated the lie in a breathless voice.

She heard his soft chuckle and felt his warmth as he moved a little closer. One of his hands moved to rest against the wall, effectively blocking her escape. With his other he tilted her face up to him. “Such a sweet little liar you are, my Rose. Lips like honey, waiting to be feasted upon. Yet from those very lips spill the most blatant of lies.” He rubbed the callused pad of his thumb across her full lower lip. “You tell me lies; you break vows that were made before God and man. How is it that I still would have you to wife?”

“You want only one thing of me,” she accused him, her voice trembling.

“And that is?” One of his brows arched in mocking question.

“My … my … you know! Your way with me, you horrible beast!”

“My way with you?” He laughed again, then he pressed up against her and she gasped as all her senses leapt. His chest was hard against her full breasts. His belly was firm and his thighs like iron where they pressed against her soft form. He nuzzled her hair, finding her ear with his mouth. “We both know I can have my way with you whenever I wish,” he whispered hotly in her ear. To make his point he rubbed his loins aggressively against her until she felt she would melt from the heat he inspired in her. “It only remains for me to gain the castle through a proper renewal of our vows.”

“Oh!” Rosalynde tried to free herself of him at that cold and self-serving revelation. “Let me go, you despicable cur!” she ordered as she sought to shove him away.

“From those perfect lips you vow your hatred. But, Rose, your body tells me otherwise. Here.” His hand moved up to stroke the side of her breast. Then his thumb slid to the hardened crest. “And here,” he added as his eyes stared deeply into hers. Despite her wish to deny his abhorrent words, Rosalynde knew with a sinking desperation that in this he had her dead to rights. A frisson coursed through her as his warm gaze held with hers. Then with a shudder of defeat she closed her eyes, unable to fight the truth anymore.

“Ah, my sweet Rose,” he whispered in light kisses on her brow and then down her cheek to her temple. “Tell me once more how much you hate me.”

Rosalynde swallowed hard, then swallowed again when his lips found the vulnerable exposed hollow at her throat. Her arms lifted to circle his neck; in the quiet dark of this corner of the bailey she pressed her entire length to him, succumbing to the desire that simmered so near the surface and that now threatened to erupt and overwhelm them.

“I hate you,” her words came, faint and trembling. “I do,” she insisted on a sigh.

He pulled her away from the wall and gathered her into his arms. “If this is your hatred, then I must work harder to gain your love—”

But before he could complete his statement, before his lips could meet hers, the door to the great hall opened, spilling a slash of light down the three stone steps and into the starlit yard. Instinctively Blacksword turned, hiding her identity with his broad form. His lips touched hers lightly, whispering a mute warning to be quiet. Then on silent feet he turned, moving deeper into the shadows, still holding on to her as two men paused on the step.

Rosalynde was too unnerved by her reaction to Aric to be mindful of the men who stood so near yet were oblivious to their presence. She buried her face against Blacksword’s neck, breathing in the unique scent of his hard-muscled body, intoxicated by the wild feelings he roused in her. Yet when one of the men spoke, her nerves came painfully alert and she was overcome with fear.

“ ’Tis a chance you need not take,” Sir Roger said in his familiar gravelly voice.

It was her father who responded. “He has the talent. You saw him today, Roger. You know he could have made short shrift of Harold if he had but wished to.”

“But there’s the rub! Why did he hold back? And who’s to know when he might hold back again?”

Rosalynde sensed Aric’s sudden tension when he realized they spoke of him. In the dark corner formed by the outer wall and the great hall they stood, pressed together, both straining to hear her father’s response.

“He had a reason for holding back, I’ll grant you that. Though I cannot be sure of his reason, however, I am nonetheless fairly sure that he will not do so in the heat of battle.”

Sir Roger let out a grunt of disapproval. “He is an outlaw. Mark my words, ’tis more than likely he’ll go too far and let serious blood during our sport. Either way, I’d as well not learn you misjudged him on the field of honor.”

With a low chuckle Sir Edward moved down the steps and out into the yard. “ ’Tis only a melee,” he reminded his captain of the guard. “Best to find out now instead of in a true battle.”

“Aye, it is only a melee,” Sir Roger agreed as the men began to walk away. “But Sir Virgil of Rising will be there and I would rather be completely sure of our troops. And ’tis not only Rising’s forces who will be eager to best us. Every man who aspires to your daughter’s hand will want to prove his mettle before you.”

They were soon out of earshot, but Aric did not immediately move away from her. He seemed preoccupied until she shifted in his arms. Then he leaned back and looked down at her.

“Those fools who aspire to your hand will have me to contend with,” he said sternly. Then his expression relaxed. “It appears the father is coming around toward me. So, it seems, is the daughter.” His hands moved down her back as he stared into her eyes. “How soon until we tell your father he already has a son-in-law? How soon until you will be mine, my night Rose?”

More than anything Rosalynde wanted to say “now.” More than anything she wished to complete the passionate exploration they’d begun, to allow the fire they’d started, to build to an inferno until it consumed them both. But the conversation they had overheard had forced reality on her. As she lingered in his stirring embrace all her questions came back to mind, the very same questions her father had about the uncommon servant she had brought him.

“Who are you?” she whispered, trying to make out the expression in his shadowed face. “Please tell me who you really are.”

There was a moment’s pause before he answered, a moment when she sensed a strange yearning in him, as if he fought a part of himself before replying. “I’m the same man you saved from the gallows. The man you wed. The man who claims you as wife. What more do you wish to know?”

In frustration she pushed against him. “That’s not what I mean and you know it. My father offers you an honorable life. He asks only for the truth of your past so that he may know whether you will truly protect his back. Is that so hard for you to understand?”

“I’ll protect his back, Rosalynde. I pledged him my loyalty and I always stand by my vow. ’Tis time you stand by yours.”

“Must you always come back to that!” she cried, truly frustrated now. She tried to slip from his encircling arms but he easily thwarted her.

“Your vow is where it all started between us. It will always come back to that. But if you would know more of your husband, ’tis easily enough done. Just bribe me with your kisses. If you doubt my willingness to serve your father honorably, promise me your tender caress. Tempt me with the memory of our joining.” His husky words sent a warm shiver through her. “Come to my bed, my sweet, sweet wife.”

If only she could, the wild thought careened through her head. If only it was that easy she would follow him right now, whether to a bed of straw, a pallet of hides, or a mattress of feathers and down. He would lay her back and remove her clothes. Then he would remove his as well, and cover her trembling body with the heat and power of his own.

Rosalynde turned her face away from his seeking kiss, but her hands twisted in the sturdy fabric of his tunic. “You don’t understand,” she whispered miserably. “What you want … it can never be.”

“You’re wrong in that, my honey Rose. We may have whatever we want if we are willing to take the risk.”

“But the risk is your life! ” she blurted out angrily. “Can’t you see that?”

His hand caught her chin and he turned her face up to him. She felt the rough warmth of his palm against the sensitive skin of her neck. But his eyes were hard and as dark as obsidian.

“I think, perhaps, that it is the risk to your life—to your way of life—that worries you most.” So saying, he bent forward to take her mouth in an angry and forceful kiss.

There was no teasing this time, no beguiling and seducing with lips and tongue. This time he did not ask nor did he coax. Instead he took what he wanted with no regard for her feelings at all.

Rosalynde felt the heat of anger and frustration in his demanding possession of her. As he twisted her hair in his hands then plundered her mouth voraciously, she recognized the desire that drove him to such a violent outburst. Within her there was an answering desire. She was thunder to his lightning, as much a cause of this storm of emotions as she was a reaction to it. She felt the rigid strength of him pressing against her; she felt the melting heat as she became pliant against him. But everything else was lost as she succumbed to the intoxicating power of his kiss.

There was no right or wrong as Rosalynde yielded to his steely embrace. Logic and the proper order of society played no part in her reaction to him. In truth, it never had. Whether he were a black-hearted criminal as had been proclaimed, or something else as she often suspected, there was no denying him. In reckless abandon she rose to his forceful possession of her. In a dizzy rush she accepted his rough caress and in so doing found an even greater pleasure. She was crushed in his arms, drowning in the powerful emotions that erupted between them. And when his hand slid down to cup her derriere, to press her most intimately against his fierce arousal, she whimpered helplessly against his lips.

“Will you have me, my thorny Rose?” he murmured in a voice thick with passion. He moved deliberately against her, starting an erotic ripple that coursed up from her belly to encompass her entire being. “Will you have me at last?”

Rosalynde was beyond denying him anything. One of her hands circled his neck, sliding along the pronounced muscles of his shoulder and back. There’s a man worth having , she recalled the awestruck comment made by some woman of Dunmow. She’d agreed at the time and she still did, but for reasons that could not be more different. He was a man worth having no matter what the chasm between them was, and that very realization erased even her last few doubts. It was as if joy suddenly filled her, as if an odd sort of serenity washed over her with all its attendant happiness. There was no wrong when two people shared such intensity of feeling. Such desire was a gift to be treasured, a blessing bestowed upon them by a benign and understanding God. It was not lust, she understood with almost painful clarity. It was not lust but love.

Tears started in her eyes as that thunderous truth struck her. Emotions caught in her throat and in a sob she turned her face away from him.

“Blacksword …” she whispered as his mouth pressed feverish kisses to her ear and neck and throat. “Blacksword …”

“Aric,” he murmured as his tongue traced an exquisite pattern in her ear. One of his hands cupped her breasts, and she stiffened at the perfect thrill it sent through her. “I am Aric, Rosalynde. Your husband.”

“Yes,” she replied as her nipples tightened in response. “You are Aric, my husband.”

My love, she added silently when his lips caught hers in a fiery kiss. As she succumbed to this new wonder, this new understanding of his place in her life, Rosalynde’s thoughts tumbled in disjointed happiness. They’d kissed at the handfasting ceremony, but this, she now knew, was the true kiss that pledged her vow. As he slowly turned round and round, holding her with desperate fervor, kissing her as if he must consume her, she did not hold back a thing. She came to him with complete awareness and total acceptance. His breath was her breath. His heartbeat was her own. Their passion was a mutual thing.

Their love was inevitable.

But their lovemaking sadly was not. Once more the door to the great hall opened. Once more light spilled out across the darkened yard. But this time a lantern swung from the hands of a solitary figure, and this time the light found their corner.

Rosalynde was much too overwhelmed with emotion to react at first. Too besotted by the name she’d put to her feelings to think or even to move. But Aric’s response to the interruption was immediate.

“Begone from here, fool!” he said with a snarl as he used his wide shoulders to protect her identity from prying eyes. “Begone from here or suffer the consequences.”

Yes, begone , Rosalynde echoed silently as she pressed a kiss against the rough wool at Aric’s chest.

“If that is the Lady Rosalynde, then ’tis you who shall suffer the consequences!” young Cleve’s voice hissed furiously.

At once Rosalynde’s head came up. Aric’s hands tightened on her arms, but he did not stop her when she wrenched free of his embrace. As she faced the boy who shook now with the depths of his anger—or was it disappointment? she wondered as she took in his pale face—she tried to marshal her thoughts.

“Please, Cleve. You must understand—”

“ ’Tis clear enough for even a fool to understand!”

“No, no. If you would just listen!”

“This is not your concern, pup,” Aric said warningly. His arm came around Rosalynde’s shoulders and he pulled her possessively against him. “I suggest you take yourself off.”

The boy sent the towering man a scathing look, then his eyes turned urgently to Rosalynde. “Come with me, milady. Just leave him now and this can all be forgotten,” he pleaded.

Behind her Rosalynde felt the warmth of Aric’s chest, and also the tension he barely restrained. With a slow shake of her head she stared at Cleve.

“It’s not that simple.”

“Bedamned if it is not! D’you think you’re the first maiden to swoon at the feet of a man she can never have!” His eyes narrowed and he took a step forward. The light swung wildly in his hands, casting grim dancing shadows across them all. “D’you think you’re the first maiden to go to her marriage bed no longer a virgin!”

“Hold your accursed tongue, boy. Or else I’ll tear it from your head! If you care for her as you profess to, you’ll not be so loose with her honor!”

Cleve drew himself up to his fullest height and glared at the man who held Rosalynde so easily. “Her honor is defiled only by you. She’s too besotted to see that, but I am not.” His eyes came back to her. “I beg you, milady. Put him from you before you come to grief. Even now your father seeks an honorable man to be your husband. Do not ruin your life with a one such as him!” Then with a stiff bow that was more an insult, given the circumstances, he turned and stalked away.

But Cleve’s departure did not ease the tension that gnawed at Rosalynde. As darkness enveloped them once more she was forced to face reality. No matter the feelings that swelled within her for Aric, no matter his noble bearing and the thread of decency she knew ran deep within him, she could not change facts. She was from noble lineage; for her, marriage to another of her class was inevitable. Aric—Blacksword—was a criminal, a slave, a servant. No father in his right mind would sanction such a match. Most especially not hers.

Aric’s arm moved down to circle her waist, and with an easy tug he turned her to face him. But his expression too was serious as he met her somber stare.

“This changes nothing. He knows. Your father must soon know. But it changes nothing.”

“It changes everything,” she whispered as an infinite sadness engulfed her. She bowed her head and leaned heavily against him. “It changes everything.” Then she straightened up and pulled back from him. “I must return to my chamber. You’d best go to your own … wherever it is you sleep.”

“If Cleve chooses to tell your father, the fact that you sleep alone tonight will change naught.” His hand reached out to finger a loose tendril of her wild dark hair. “Stay with me, Rose. We’ll face your father together. I promise you, it will be easier than you think.”

Tears started in her eyes at the sultry pull of his slow, husky words, tears of frustration and helplessness and overwhelming sorrow. It could not be, no matter how much she might want it. He and she could never be together. To meet secretly, even this one time, would only make it worse later on. Unable to speak, she lifted her misty eyes to him and shook her head. Then she backed away, turned, and fled across the yard.

Rosalynde did not seek her chamber, for she knew too well the tortures that awaited her in her bed: Visions of Aric. Dreams of his caress. No, her chamber was the last place she could go. But there was no other place of solace either. When she paused at the edge of the garden, winded from her rapid flight, she knew it too was the wrong place. The garden was filled with memories of Aric. But then, everything was.

In final desperation she made her weary way to the dark and empty chapel. In the quiet of the night it seemed almost to protect her in its close, tomb-like atmosphere. But though she slumped down onto her knees, though she clasped her hands together and tried desperately to pray, this time she found no comfort. Whether the oft-repeated phrases of the well-known prayers, or her own fumbling attempts, this time the words would not come.

As she huddled there in the dark, miserable and silently weeping, the truth was inescapable. She could not pray to be rid of this problem, of this man who tormented her night and day. She could not pray to be rid of him because in her heart she knew that she could not bear to let him go.