Page 21 of The Rose of Blacksword

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She had to escape.

That solitary thought pounded in Rosalynde’s mind as she fled the stillroom and her disastrous confrontation with Aric. She must get away from him before she was ripped asunder by the conflicting emotions that tore at her. It should not matter that he courted disaster with her father; it should matter even less that he might now be discovered by Sir Gilbert. Yet no amount of logic would banish that fact that it did matter. If he was hurt she did not think she could bear it. And if he was killed …

She came to an abrupt halt at the stables and placed a hand to the painful stitch in her side. If he was killed, something inside her would die as well. It didn’t matter how he provoked her or how angry she became. In the final analysis, she could not bear to see him hurt. But she was perversely unable to prevent it either. He seemed almost to seek a confrontation with that man, Sir Gilbert. She’d thought to frighten him away with the man’s very name. Instead, it had worked more as a challenge to him, a gauntlet tossed before him that he took up with a vengeance.

Rosalynde slumped against the stable wall and closed her eyes hopelessly. It didn’t make sense. None of it did. Not Blacksword’s role as a common outlaw. Not his insistence that she honor the handfasting. And certainly not his unexpected reaction to Sir Gilbert’s presence here.

With every move she made, everything became even more confusing until now it was beyond all hope of putting right. Before she’d only had Blacksword and her father to juggle against one another. Now with Sir Gilbert’s threat, as well as Cleve’s, she knew she was losing control. It was only a matter of time before it all came apart around her.

At that precise moment, Cleve rounded the corner, coming face to face with her, and Rosalynde felt as if her very thoughts had come to life. He stopped short at the sight of her pale face and defeated posture. Then his expression grew anxious and he moved nearer.

“Milady? Is aught amiss?”

She gave him an ironic smile, faint as it was. “Everything is amiss. Surely you cannot wonder at that.” But as his young face reflected his warring emotions—both guilt for his part in her misery and satisfaction that she had taken his threat seriously—she felt a pang of regret for her angry remark. None of this was truly of his doing, she admitted to herself. He’d reacted only as should be expected. She knew he had always been concerned with her safety.

“Forgive me, Cleve.” She sighed then turned her eyes away from him. “That was most unkind of me. It’s only that …” She faltered, then turned a haunted face back to him. “He will not go. Indeed, it seems he is more determined than ever to stay.”

“Then he shall suffer the results of his foolishness,” the boy retorted in quick anger. But as swiftly as his anger flared, it faded, for he was not proof against the desperation on her face. With a muttered imprecation he looked away before sending her an impatient scowl. “No doubt he cannot believe you. Not after all that has passed between you. But he will believe me.”

“You! You can’t mean to threaten him, Cleve, for he will not credit it at all.”

The boy’s brown eyes grew bright with the light of righteous anger. His vow echoed with the timbre of a man’s when he spoke. “He’ll not doubt my animosity. Nor my threat.”

Aric did not believe in omens. Yet the mist and the lingering drizzle worked to his advantage, and now the boy, Cleve, ventured out alone, almost as if he sought him. Mayhap he did, Aric decided as he watched the boy’s cautious approach. The pup had come up in the world, it appeared, with a fine wool tunic, new hose, and a long dagger in his girdle. Remembering the boy’s pluck, Aric grinned to himself. Even when he’d not had a chance, the boy had conquered his fear and attacked him anyway. Sir Edward was wise to give him a chance to become a knight. Indeed, Sir Edward seemed to have an eye for selecting good soldiers. After all, he’d picked him for a man-at-arms, with nothing to commend him beyond brute strength. But then, it was said that one good man of war could always recognize another. And Sir Edward was clearly a most adept man of war.

Aric’s eyes narrowed as the boy put his hand on the hilt of his dagger. Although he was certain the lad could not see him in the dark shadows, he nonetheless had hoped not to use a weapon on him. The element of surprise should be sufficient.

Cleve paused beside a stone wall and wiped the rain from his eyes. That was the instant when Aric made his move. Like an arrow loosed from a longbow, he sprang from the shadows, pinning the boy’s dagger hand to his side with one long arm and gagging his mouth with the other.

There was a split second of shock on the boy’s part, when his muscles did not react to the sudden danger, but almost before Aric could tighten his grasp, the wiry little fellow began to struggle. Like a wild man he twisted and kicked, all the while trying frantically to reach his razoredged dagger.

“ ’Tis not my intent to harm you unless you force me to it,” Aric muttered harshly as he tightened his grasp even more. “Hear me out fairly and no harm shall come to you at all.”

There was a tense moment when the boy went very still, as if trying to decide the truth of those words. Then his head bobbed his assent and Aric immediately released him. “Smart boy.” But no sooner had Cleve’s feet touched the ground than he whirled around, his dagger in his hand as he crouched down, ready to attack.

“What’s this?” Aric’s eyes narrowed in anger. “Have you not yet learned that to be a knight you must always honor your word?”

“A fat lot you know of such things! A knight’s first honor is due his liege lord. He does whatever he must to serve his lord well. And to my mind, it would serve my Lord Edward very well if I were to skewer you on my blade.”

“But it would not serve my Lady Rosalynde well at all.”

At those words, softly said but taunting nonetheless, Cleve lost control. With a foul curse he sprang forward, fully intending to drive his blade clean through Aric’s heart. But before his blade could land, the broad target he’d struck at had moved. Before the boy could adjust his attack, Aric caught at his loose tunic with one hand and spun him off balance. Then with a sharp blow to Cleve’s wrist, he knocked the dagger free. In less than a second he had Cleve by the throat and shoved him hard against the wall.

“There is no one to save you this time,” Aric growled ferociously. “If you wish to live long enough to become a knight, pup, you’d best lend an ear to my words. ’Tis not my desire to harm you. But it would not cause me any great hardship either.” Then with a last menacing glare he released Cleve and took a step back.

For a long minute they stared at one another, the boy visibly shaken by the bigger man’s easy dominance. The dagger lay in the dirt between them, yet neither made a move toward it, for it was clear that the knife was no deterrent. It was Cleve who spoke first.

“If ’tis not your desire to harm me, why am I waylaid thus?”

Though he was defeated and his voice low, the boy’s eyes still flashed with fury, and it drew a small smile of respect from Aric.

“I would form a pact with you.”

“A pact?” Cleve gave him an incredulous look. “I’d as soon form a pact with the devil.” But he made a nervous sign of the cross as soon as the blasphemous words escaped his lips.

“If you are sincere in your goodwill toward Lady Rosalynde, you will hear me out.”

“The Lady Rosalynde!” the boy sputtered. “You take undue liberty to even mention her name!”

“So it might seem. But time will prove otherwise.”

At that enigmatic statement Cleve eyed him more warily. “What do you mean?”

But Aric was not about to reveal too much to this boy who so heartily disliked him. There was too much at stake—both his revenge against Sir Gilbert and the reward he sought through marriage to Rosalynde. Cleve could too easily foul his as yet incomplete plot. It was the boy’s silence he needed—no more. And as there seemed only one thing Cleve wanted, Aric reasoned that to be his best bargaining tool.

“You’ve made it clear you mislike my presence here—”

“I misliked your presence the first time I laid eyes on you!”

“Nonetheless, you were unable to travel and hardly able to be of service to your mistress.” At the boy’s answering silence, Aric relaxed a little. “Whether you wish to believe it or not, I too have Lady Rosalynde’s best interest at heart.”

“Lady Rosalynde does not know her own mind any longer. You have blinded her until she—” He broke off, clenching his teeth tightly. But Aric knew what he implied. He also knew that the boy would never speak ill of his mistress.

“That may be,” Aric conceded as his face grew more serious. “You think my intentions dishonorable—”

“How can they be anything but! You can never hope to win the likes of a lady such as she.”

“You have risen from page to squire, if I am not misinformed. And with the chance to someday become a knight?” Aric’s brows arched questioningly. “Perhaps I aim as high.”

Once again Cleve was temporarily silenced, but in the passing seconds Aric became aware of a new curiosity in the lad’s expression.

“What is it you want of me?” the boy asked suspiciously.

Aric gave him a considering look. It was a gamble to deal with this fiercely loyal pup of hers. The boy could run just as quickly as ever to her father and thereby alert Sir Gilbert of his own presence here. But for the promise of his departure, the boy might keep his silence.

“I agree to depart Stanwood, alone, and without the reward promised me by the Lady Rosalynde if you will agree to keep your silence.” He paused as he considered his choice of words. “If you will not inform her father of what has passed between her and me.”

Cleve leaned forward in ill-disguised shock. “You would leave?” Then he became suspicious once more. “When would you go?”

“After the tourney.”

“ ’Tis a fortnight away! No. I’ll not have her subjected to your odious presence!”

“Think hard before you say nay,” Aric warned. “You think Sir Gilbert a good husband for her, yet I am well apprised of his vicious nature. You think to save her from two weeks of me, but you could well be subjecting her to a lifetime of hell at his hands.”

It was the right thing to say—he saw that at once in the uncertainty that swept over the boy’s face. “I will leave after the tourney if her father will not accept my suit for her hand. In the days ’tween now and then, I’ll not seek her out. On this and the name of God I swear.”

Cleve’s agreement was most reluctant. But when the boy finally departed through the gloom of the heavy mist, Aric felt a surge of relief. This was a small victory, he knew. And there was much that remained yet subject to chance. It was a mortal error to underestimate your enemy. Besides Sir Gilbert, he had also to deal with the dubious certainty of both Rosalynde’s and her father’s feelings toward him. Where once he’d been more sure of the maiden, now he felt easier on the father’s response. That one, at least, respected skill and integrity, and would give him honor when his true identity was made clear. But Rosalynde …

His satisfaction dimmed when he thought of their last confrontation. She wished him gone, she’d said, for he was beneath her. Though by rights he should not expect more of a noblewoman, somehow he did expect better from her. He’d hoped, foolishly it now seemed, that she could cleave to him for the man he was, without title or fortune to commend him. To win her love had seemed a real possibility until she had spurned him so coldly.

Aric thrust one hand through his damp hair, raking it back from his brow. He should be twice damned for the fool he was! She was a noblewoman, and, like most of her ilk, to be valued only for the property that came with her hand in marriage. Her comeliness was simply a thing of good fortune—no more, no less.

And yet that fair face—coupled with her desperate bravery in saving him from the gallows—had set her apart in his mind. In all honesty, he knew that his decision to honor their handfast vow had been based only on logic, and perhaps a little greed. A well-propertied wife was more than a bastard knight-errant such as himself could have hoped for. But he’d quickly come to value her for more than just the demesne attached to her. Now, however, it was clear he’d been swayed by the sharp flare of desire that crackled between them.

He pulled his hood over his head and peered out through the dreary fall of rain. As his wife, her delectable young body would be his for the taking. His passion would be well slaked upon her and he would have the castle as well. But it was the opportunity for vengeance against his newly identified foe that he must focus on now, he told himself. That was what would afford him his greatest pleasure. His challenge to Sir Gilbert would be played out before Sir Edward, and in that one moment of revenge he would obtain all he wanted.

He hunched his shoulders and moved out into the damp. At long last Sir Gilbert would be his. Stanwood too would be his. And, whether she liked it or not, the Lady Rosalynde would also be his.

Rosalynde drew her hand back from Sir Gilbert’s too-firm kiss and sent him a nervous smile. First Aric. Then Cleve. Now she must deal with Sir Gilbert’s unwelcome suit, meanwhile maintaining every appearance of graciousness under her father’s expectant gaze. Saints preserve her, but she wished this day were done! Yet she concealed her shattered nerves behind a facade of polite welcome, hoping her jumpiness would only be attributed to a normal, maidenly shyness.

“Sit, sit.” Sir Edward gestured for Sir Gilbert to take the seat of honor at his right hand. Before he could turn to her, Rosalynde quickly slid into the chair at his left, keeping her father squarely between her and the smooth Sir Gilbert.

“ ’Tis very long since I partook of Stanwood’s hospitality,” Sir Gilbert said most agreeably as he lifted a cup, brimful of red wine, to his lips.

“I had not thought to play the host in the years after my wife died,” Sir Edward admitted. “However, my daughter’s presence here now demands it. I would not have her locked away from youthful companionship and the courting due her.”

“Ah, and such courting there shall be.” Sir Gilbert supplied the right response without hesitation. His pale eyes flicked over her, appreciation apparent in their blue depths. “I am hopeful, however, that she will find my suit the most welcome.”

Rosalynde replied with a weak smile, then hastily lowered her eyes. His suit was not welcome at all. Very likely, no man’s would be if she perversely continued to compare every one of them to Aric. However, she must give every appearance of welcoming his pursuit if Aric was to be discouraged. Yet even that tack seemed hopeless now, given Blacksword’s strange reaction to the knowledge that Sir Gilbert was here.

She nodded at Cedric, signaling for the food to be brought in, though all the while her mind struggled to find a solution to this newest dilemma. Oh, where was Cleve? she wondered desperately. What had come of his confrontation with Blacksword?

The first round of serving had very nearly reached the squires’ table before she had the answer to her first question. As trays and platters of roasted pork and lamprey in raisin sauce were passed around, Cleve slipped past the tall oak doors and made his way to his place among the other squires. There was some good-natured shoving—and some not so good-natured—as he slid onto the bench. Rosalynde suspected that he might be a while earning the acceptance of the other lads for whom becoming a knight had always been a given. Cleve’s questionable birth and late arrival in their midst had spawned some ugliness, but by and large she thought he had fit in. Now, however, it was not his well-being that concerned her. He obviously was all right. But where was Aric?

At that moment Cleve’s head raised and his gaze swept the high table. Their eyes met and held, and across the sea of faces, Rosalynde sought desperately for an answer in his expression. To her complete bewilderment, however, all she received was an odd little smile and a courteous nod. But other than that, nothing.

Confused beyond belief, and troubled anew, Rosalynde sat back in her hide-upholstered chair. What had transpired between those two that Cleve could look so noncommittal? A frown marred her brow as she tried to reason it out. Then another figure entered the teeming great hall, and her attentions were drawn away from Cleve.

Aric’s hair was damp, she noted as he pushed his hood back. He paused at the door, a tall, imposing figure as he surveyed the scene before him. Then his gaze stopped and she frowned again when she recognized the focus of his stare. Cleve stared right back at him, not smiling, but for once not frowning his dislike either. Something passed between the two, some private understanding, before the look shifted. When Aric’s eyes found her she glanced quickly away. But just as quickly her gaze returned to him, drawn by the same powerful attraction that tortured her endlessly. Aric’s gaze, however, was hardly as civil as Cleve’s. She sensed the fury that burned behind that cool, restrained gaze. And the contempt. Then his eyes flicked casually to Sir Gilbert, and Rosalynde felt a sudden, stinging shame.

To her dismay, her ploy had not worked. She’d rejected him as beneath her, then flaunted Sir Gilbert’s presence at Stanwood in the hope that Aric would save himself and flee the castle. It was clear now that her rejection had hit the mark, but instead of fleeing, he appeared, perversely, quite prepared to do battle for her. Like the boy-king of legend and his circle of gallant knights, Aric seemed plagued with a sense of honor—and of right—that was unaffected by practicality. Sir Gilbert was a powerful knight, quite able to have Aric imprisoned and hanged for his original crimes. Yet Aric seemed almost to dismiss his threat as inconsequential. It was that accursed handfast vow that he clung to, and she was convinced now that nothing would swerve him from his goal.

When Aric’s eyes left Sir Gilbert and met her gaze, she felt his scorn as clearly as if he accused her with words. His curt nod to her was an insulting dismissal. Then he found a vacant spot, served himself, and began to eat with good appetite.

The subsequent courses came. Food was served and eagerly consumed. Ale and wine flowed often and well. Sir Gilbert sought in vain to draw her into conversation while her father sent her several telling stares. But Rosalynde was too worried about Cleve and Aric to do much more than reply vaguely to their conversation and poke at her food. She could not fully participate in the meal. Something was afoot, she fretted, sending furtive glances toward the two sitting so far below. Something was going on. But until she could corner Cleve and Aric, she would just have to suffer her fears in silence.