Page 20 of The Rose of Blacksword
19
The rising sun was but a faded spot of light in a heavy gray sky. It was most appropriate, given Rosalynde’s dismal mood. After a miserable, sleepless night she had risen with no clearer idea of what to do than before. She stood in the still-empty yard, staring across the way toward her little garden—her pleasaunce—and wondering if it might rain. It had not rained once since she’d come home. Not once. That was good for the planting, of course. The villagers had labored long and hard to prepare the fields. But now they needed rain for their crops and she needed relief from the forced cheerfulness of endless sunshine.
As if to punctuate her feelings, a distant rumble sounded the threat of a storm to come. With a disconsolate sigh Rosalynde raised her face to the oppressive sky. Rain would be good, she thought. She would welcome it gladly, if only because it might wash everything clean, take the dust from the air, and freshen the stale earth.
But it would still not bring relief to her dire predicament. It seemed that nothing would. Cleve would inform her father of all he’d seen; Aric would either be punished or banished; and she would be forced into marriage with the first acceptable suitor her father could find. But Aric was unlikely to accept that situation easily. He would reveal their handfast vow, and then only heaven knew what would transpire.
She wrapped her arms around her waist, trembling from the emotional exhaustion. In the long hours of the night she had wrestled with her feelings. From one extreme to the other she had swayed, sometimes hating Blacksword for coming between her and her father, and at other times admitting to the love that she bore for him. Yet no matter how her moods swung, there seemed no way to avoid the inevitable. He would tell her father the truth and he would very likely die for it. That, above all, was the one thing she could not resign herself to.
A gust of wind stirred the dusty bailey, building a quick whirlwind before it subsided. Across the yard several squires stumbled from their quarters, shoving and jostling one another good-naturedly. As she watched, Cleve came into view, walking alone, not participating in the others’ horseplay. When she started toward him she was not sure what she would say. She only knew she must convince him to hold his peace.
“Cleve.” Her call brought him up short and he gave her a wary look.
“Lady Rosalynde,” he replied stiffly. But he said no more, and as Rosalynde nervously twisted her fingers together, she knew he was deeply hurt by what he saw as her defection to Blacksword.
With a fortifying breath she faced him. “I would speak privately with you, if you please. About last night,” she added when he only stared at her from heavy-lidded eyes. In guilt and humiliation her eyes slid away from his. “There is nothing to be gained by involving my father in this matter.”
“It is not for gain that I would speak to him! Not for myself! But for you—” He stopped short, clenching his jaw as he fought for control. “If you have not the sense to end this matter, then your father must.”
“But he will be so angry! You don’t know him!”
“You should have considered that before you fell in with that man. You should have considered just what your punishment would be when you dallied with one so far beneath you!”
“ ’Tis not my punishment I fear, but his ,” Rosalynde pleaded in response to his angry charge. “You were there at the flogging. This can only be worse.”
“Then we will all be well rid of the villain,” Cleve answered in a voice that wavered between its new adult timbre and its old youthful pitch.
“But I love him,” she whispered in desperation. Against her pale face her extraordinary eyes were wide and haunted. “I love him.”
For an endless moment they stared at one another. On the one face was horror and disbelief, on the other, desperation. It was Cleve who looked away.
“ ’Tis not love you feel, but something else entirely. You will feel it again for your husband.”
She came perilously close to revealing everything to Cleve at that moment—that Aric was her husband by right of the handfasting ritual. Only her fear that the young squire could never keep his silence on the matter prevented her from confessing the entire truth to him.
“You’re so wrong. I shall never feel this way for any man but him.”
“Christ’s blood!” The boy exploded in anger. “Are you fool enough not to know that love or not, it does not matter!” But when tears started in her eyes, his tone softened. “Milady, I cannot in good conscience keep this from your father. He has been good to me beyond all expectation. I am his man now. Surely you can see that.”
She nodded weakly, but two teardrops spilled past her lashes and trickled down her pale cheeks.
“Don’t cry, milady. Please, I cannot bear it,” he whispered urgently, drawing nearer as he did so. His dark eyes stared mournfully at her.
“What am I do to, Cleve? Whatever am I to do?”
He did not answer at once but only took her arm and steered her toward the garden. Once there, however, he faced her with renewed conviction. “If you would not have your father be rid of the man, then you must do it yourself.”
She shook her head and wiped at her damp eyes. “He will not go.”
“Then make him.”
“But how?” She sniffed, even as she fought the idea.
“I don’t know,” he replied, angry once more. “But ’tis clear he is encouraged to stay by your acceptance of his impudent attentions. Reject him out of hand. Offer him gold or whatever else you think he might want. But send him away! ”
The problem was, he didn’t want gold, he only wanted her, Rosalynde thought later as she sat in the quiet of her own chamber. Aric wanted only her—and everything that entailed.
Yet if he was to live, he must not stay any longer at Stanwood. As she weighed Cleve’s words, the truth of what she must do became painfully clear. As he had said, she must get rid of Aric or else her father would. More than anything else, her yielding to him as she had last night would encourage him in his mad pursuit of her. It remained for her to squelch the burning passion between them. No matter how she felt, no matter how desperately she yearned for him, she must reject him.
It would not be easy. He would react with anger and perhaps even violence. He might even force himself on her. But she must reject him, even make him despise her if that’s what it took.
She must do it though it killed her, for if she did not, it would surely kill him.
For once luck seemed to be with Rosalynde. The threat of rain came to reality, and during the slow steady drizzle the daily routine of castle life was altered. The men-at-arms were put to repairing harness and weapons, and so long as Rosalynde avoided the stables she was saved the possibility of running into Aric. Although she knew she could not put off confronting him for long—Cleve’s threat to tell her father still hung over her head—she did not want to meet him before she was ready. Then just after midday a small group of riders presented themselves at the castle gate. In the confusion of rain and mud and unexpected visitors, Rosalynde was so busy that she was able temporarily at least to ignore the pressing urgency of Cleve’s demand.
With efficiency that her father noted with silent approval, she had the several knights settled in the guest chambers, ordered a light repast prepared for the tired travelers, and sent orders to the kitchen for a change in the evening meal. Instead of the normal light supper, a substantial meal had to be planned in honor of their guests. It was only when she’d seen to all those details that she was able to take a momentary break.
“Rosalynde. Daughter.” Her father’s voice carried to her. At his side she saw the refreshed knight who was leader of the group. With a welcoming smile pasted on her face she took a breath, then made her way toward them.
“Sir Gilbert Poole, Lord of Duxton, may I present to you my daughter, the Lady Rosalynde.”
With a polite curtsy she greeted the man and took the hand he extended. When she straightened it was his turn to bow and press a light kiss against her knuckles. It was a perfectly appropriate gesture, and yet when he raised his gaze to hers she felt a sudden and unwarranted prickle of apprehension. His eyes were uncommonly pale, the blue of snow in moonlight. He was a comely enough man, well formed and of goodly height. His nose was straight, his teeth well, and his skin unmarked by pox scars. But there was an odd quality about him that she could not pinpoint. His lips curved in a pleased smile and she lowered her eyes in confusion. Straight teeth, yes, but his mouth held a cruel slant. Still, on the surface he was no more than a well-favored knight, the very sort of man her father no doubt would see her paired with.
At once her eyes jerked back up to his as she understood. Her father must have summoned this Sir Gilbert here. His visit was not completely unexpected.
“ ’Tis my great pleasure to meet you, Lady Rosalynde. You are too kind to offer such gracious hospitality to me and my men.”
“ ’Tis our pleasure,” Rosalynde countered as good manners demanded. “I’m afraid our remote location precludes many visitors. We welcome you and whatever news you may bring. From whence have you traveled?” she added politely.
“We come most recently from Elsing, but we have been these several weeks afield.”
“Gilbert hounds the outlaws who are a plague upon the land,” her father explained. “Do you meet with success?”
“Enough to know that there are many still left to be caught.”
“ ’Tis an outrage.” Her father swore. “I would see them all hanged and damned unto hell.” Then he glanced hastily at her. “My pardon, Rosalynde. But my temper festers to know that even one such vermin remains to prey upon the land.”
“Have you suffered at the hands of such renegades?” Sir Gilbert asked with narrowed gaze.
“Nay,” Sir Edward blurted out, sending Rosalynde a telling glance. She knew at once that he preferred her several unchaperoned days be kept from common knowledge. It left too dark a stain upon her purity and his power to protect her. “No, we’ve seen no outlaws nearby. However, there was rumor of an attack near the Stour River.”
“Near Dunmow?” Sir Gilbert raised his brows slightly, and Rosalynde thought him momentarily alarmed. But he recovered quickly and his expression swiftly changed to one of smug self-satisfaction. “You will be glad to know that we sent three ruffians to the gallows at Dunmow. One we believe to be the ringleader of the entire area.” His eyes fastened on Rosalynde’s suddenly pale face with frank admiration. “Never fear, fair lady. It is my intention to rid all of East Anglia of such vermin. Only then will such lovely flowers as yourself be at ease to bloom.”
Rosalynde escaped Sir Gilbert’s presence as soon as was seemly, her heart still pounding and her stomach knotted from his unexpected revelation. Sir Gilbert had been the one who had captured Blacksword! It didn’t matter that Gilbert was ridding the countryside of the dire scourge of outlaws. It didn’t matter that he was well favored and unmarried, or that he was everything an unwed maiden should hope to gain, as her father had made quite plain to her. His presence at Stanwood would be absolutely disastrous should he recognize the outlaw Blacksword.
Or should Aric—Blacksword—recognize him.
Rosalynde felt for all the world like a poor ruff caught between warring hawks of the air. Her father, Aric, Cleve, and now this Sir Gilbert. They all made demands of her while offering threat to one another. She was prey to them all and yet she must nonetheless keep them well apart.
A headache hammered in her head as she saw to the feeding of the group of visitors. She felt no compunction at all about leaving them in her fathers company on the pretext of tending to supper preparations. As much as she wished to avoid it, she knew she must find Aric and alert him about Sir Gilbert. With any luck this might be the impetus she needed to send him well away from here. If he would just flee Sir Gilbert’s threat, all might yet be set to rights.
Only she knew, as she hurried through the misty rain down the slippery stone path, that when Aric left, nothing would ever be right again. Not for her, anyway.
She found him under the shed that projected from the tannery. He was affixing a metal ring to a strap of leather, lacing the looped leather with thin leather strips. Beyond him two other men labored, and for a moment she hesitated. His gaze was clearly curious when he looked up. Seeking him out was hardly something he would expect of her. To her relief, however, he kept his expression carefully blank as he rose to his feet.
“Milady?” he questioned, giving her a short bow. “How may I help you?”
“I … ahh … I’ve need for something to be moved in the kitchens. If you would be so kind.”
“ ’Twould be my pleasure,” one of the other fellows stated, jumping at the possibility to set foot inside the women’s arena of work. “Here, Aric, finish this.”
“Oh, well …” Rosalynde struggled for an effective excuse to reject the man’s enthusiastic offer. “You see, Sir Roger most clearly suggested that I might use Aric.” She gave the man an apologetic smile, then turned her gaze quite deliberately back to Aric. “Can you help me?”
“Aye, milady.” He put the harness down without sparing a glance for the other two men. “Whatever you require.”
For propriety’s sake Rosalynde led him toward the kitchens. But instead of ducking through that open door, she hurried on toward the stillroom. No one would disturb them there, she was certain. And no one would overhear them either.
Before she could properly fasten the door bolt, he pulled her into his embrace.
“How now, my sweet wife? Has last evening’s encounter whetted your appetite for more?” His lips moved against her hair and pressed heatedly against her temple. “I know it has whetted my own.”
For a moment Rosalynde went weak. His strong, manly form pressed against her back felt incredibly good, and every fiber of her being demanded that she succumb to him. Then he turned her to face him, and the delicious feel of their full-length embrace was nearly her undoing.
“Give me your lips,” he whispered as he held her breathless against him. “Open to me.…”
But that was the very last thing she must do, she reminded herself desperately. “Wait,” she pleaded, turning her head from his searching kiss. “We must talk. Wait!” she demanded with a impotent shove at his chest.
“I seem ever to be waiting on you,” he murmured in her ear. “If it is your plan to provoke me beyond my endurance, know now, sweet Rose, that you have succeeded.”
His hand moved languorously down her back to the swell of her buttocks. At once her senses leapt in response. Fire rushed through her veins and sang in her ears. Yet Rosalynde knew she must not succumb to the dangerous lick of desire. Now more than ever, she must remain firm, for his very life depended on it.
“Would you just listen to me!” She wrenched herself from his arms then stepped back a pace, eyeing him across the dim space of the little stillroom. For a minute they just stared at one another. Then the amorous look in his warm gray eyes was replaced by frustration. He folded his arms across his chest and leaned his hips back against the sturdy workbench.
“All right then, I’m listening. But, Rose,” he added in a sterner tone. “Do not think to put me off any longer. I will have my talk with your father.”
Rosalynde refused to agree with him on that point. When she firmly spurned his attentions, he would not care any longer to speak to her father. And if that didn’t work, she would reveal that Sir Gilbert was here. If he had any sense of self-preservation he would flee Stanwood at the first opportunity.
“I have thought long on what passed between us last night,” she began nervously. “I-I cannot deny that there is an attraction between us—”
“An attraction?” he mocked as he watched her face turn scarlet.
“Yes, an attraction!” she snapped. “You have a certain … a certain appeal. And … and you clearly know how best to woo an untried maiden. I was beholden to you—”
He came away from the bench, his posture gone from relaxed and waiting to tensed and menacing. “You will not put me off with this tack, Rosalynde. So do not even try. Justify your yielding to me in any fashion you wish. But I know the truth of it. And so do you.”
At this blatant statement Rosalynde’s control nearly deserted her. Only the dreadful fear she felt for his well-being kept her tears in check and her voice relatively steady.
“Believe what you wish. But you cannot honestly think that a maiden of noble lineage would consent to marry so far beneath her.” She raised her chin a notch, trying hard not to dissolve under his dark, piercing stare. Then she remembered Cleve’s words to her and her tone grew more challenging. “ ’Tis not unheard of for a noblewoman to take a lesser man to her bed. But you delude yourself if you think that signifies anything.” Then she held her breath, fearful of how he would respond.
There was an unnerving silence between them. In the close quarters of the small room, the air was fraught with tension. When he moved slowly toward her, Rosalynde tensed. Inside she was dying. The words had hurt him, she knew, and in so doing, they had pierced her to her very heart.
A part of her cried that it was too cruel to reject him so, when the truth was, she loved him desperately. Yet her logical self knew it was the only way. Her love for him would be his undoing; it would very likely cost him his life. His only chance was for her to deny her feelings for him. Send him away, she heard Cleve’s words once more. Reject him and send him away.
When he was only a foot from her he stopped. His hard gaze pinned her before him; one of his fingers traced the line of her jaw. “Am I to take it that you’ve found some other man—some lesser man—to take my place? Is it this fellow you wish to have lie with you and bring your body to such shuddering pleasure?”
“No!” Rosalynde jumped at the staggering effect his light touch had on her.
“Then, if not another like myself, who?” he asked coldly.
Rosalynde searched her mind for the right words, for the right spot to hurt him enough so that he would go. When the idea came in an angry flash, she did not hesitate nor think of the immediate consequences. “Mayhap you noticed our visitors today. One of them comes as my suitor. Since my father has allowed me my choice among those he has solicited, it remains only for me to make up my mind.”
She knew at once that she had captured his attention, for his jaw clenched and his eyes grew as dark as midnight. But his voice was calm when he spoke, the menacing tone hardly discernible at all. “And have you made up your mind, my thorny little Rose?”
She took a harsh breath. “Yes,” she said, daring him to say she lied. “Yes, I have decided. Under the circumstances I thought you should know. I-I will get you a horse … and gold, of course. You will not wish to stay here.”
His smile was chilling. The icy winds of winter from across the northern seas could never be so cold. In sudden fear of him Rosalynde tried to slip past, but his rigid forearm easily blocked her way. On the other side of her also, his arm came out, trapping her quite effectively before him.
“You cannot truly think this changes anything. No matter your wishes, you are still my wife. The vow was for a year and a day.”
“I will not stand by that vow!” she cried in unreasoning anger. “I will not! And if you try to force me, my father will be rid of you on the instant!”
“What?” he mocked. “You still threaten me with your father when no doubt your suitor is a more likely match should your honor require defending? Have you no faith in his constancy, then? Or is it you doubt he could carry the day against me?” he added caustically.
“He bested you once! He could do it again!”
At that unexpected revelation he went very still. “He bested me?” His dark eyes bore into hers with a fiery insistence. “Pray tell, who is this paragon among men?”
Rosalynde hesitated. What had appeared such a good idea before now seemed exceedingly dangerous. Aric looked more likely to avenge himself against the man than to be cowed by his presence at Stanwood. Had she only complicated things further with her reckless words? In vain she sought some other tact, but it was much too late.
Aric’s hand shot to her chin, forcing her to face his blazing eyes. “Who is he?”
With no other recourse open to her, Rosalynde blurted out his name. “Sir Gilbert of Duxton!” Then she waited for the storm to strike.
But it was not thunder and lightning that she received from Aric. Far from it. To her complete confusion, the narrowed look he gave her was more perplexed than vengeful. And somewhat disbelieving.
“Sir Gilbert of Duxton?” he repeated. “He boasts that he bested me?”
Rosalynde was several seconds in gathering her scattered wits. As it was, she was still mightily bewildered by his reaction. “He … he didn’t say you by name. And I did not reveal your presence here. But he is the one who had you captured and thrown in the gaol at Dunmow. If he knows you yet live …” She let the rest trail away, undone by the grim possibilities of Sir Gilbert’s reaction. She could not be sure her father would come to Aric’s defense, even though he clearly had begun to value the man as a soldier. Sir Edward would not wish to anger Sir Gilbert.
But while Rosalynde’s thoughts tumbled in confused apprehension, Aric’s were hardly so disjointed. In the space of a few seconds everything became suddenly clear to him: his unexplainable capture at Dunmow; his conviction as an outlaw. It had been Sir Gilbert of Duxton! Here was his answer, come to him when it was the last thing on his mind. Sir Gilbert of Duxton had crossed lances with him at that last tourney in London. Although Aric did not know him personally, he knew his reputation. He was well known for his skill with both lance and sword. And equally well known for his debauched habits. Money, wine, and the favors of many noblewomen, not to say even more wenches of lower birth—these were the total of Sir Gilbert’s way of life. But when the man had been unseated by the newcomer, Sir Aric of Wycliffe, he had become enraged. He’d not even been honorable enough to come forward with his loser’s portion, but instead had sent a lackey to deliver the coins. But now it was clear his rage had run far deeper than that mere slight. Aric had suspected that the very outlaws who had for so long been the scourge of the countryside had set him up to be hanged: He was the sacrifice they needed for their own safety. He’d thought it just his poor luck to have been on that particular road when he was surprised and overset by the villains. Now he saw that it had been no accident at all. And it had not been the outlaws either. Gilbert of Duxton must have waited for his chance at revenge, and now he no doubt considered himself well rid of the man who had humiliated him in the lists.
At that moment Aric’s lust for revenge outweighed his lust for the Lady Rosalynde. He stared down at her pale, frightened face, and his anger at Gilbert focused on her. Like Gilbert, she was shallow and vain, weighing her honor and her word of far less moment than her own sense of self-importance. Were it not that he intended to slay Gilbert himself, he would say she was welcome to him, and well deserved also. But he did intend to kill Gilbert, and to his way of thinking, justice would be even sweeter, knowing he also would possess both the maiden and the demesne the man coveted. Oh, yes, he would have the fair Lady Rosalynde. Nothing had changed on that score whatsoever.
Slowly he pressed nearer her, flattening her body against the wall, effectively trapping her in an embrace that was at once both erotic and demeaning to her.
“Your Sir Gilbert means less than nothing to me. And I warn you, my thorny bride, you and he shall both suffer greatly should he lay a claim to what is already mine.”
At her gasp of surprise and her helpless struggle to escape, he let loose a dark laugh. Then he shoved himself away from her. When she hied away in panic-driven flight, he did not try to follow. It didn’t matter. Whether she revealed her tale of woe to her father or her suitor, it didn’t matter. What was to come would come. It was inevitable.