Page 23 of The Rose of Blacksword

22

Aric sat on a crude bench as the other men-at-arms left for supper. To the several calls to join them he gave only a silent shake of his head. Food was the last thing on his mind.

“Perhaps he’s meetin’ with Molly.” One large fellow guffawed. “I seen her flittin’ about after ’im. Now’s the time when the dairy’s still. What man wouldn’t prefer Molly’s offerin’s over a trencher of mutton an’ gravy!”

“Who’s to be fillin’ whose belly full, I wonder,” another man good-naturedly threw in.

Aric looked up, forcing an appropriate grin to his face. Although it was the immodest dairymaid they jested so coarsely about, his recent meeting with Rosalynde was too fresh in his mind for him not to inwardly cringe.

“I’ve no doubt she’s too tired to tend to my needs,” he replied, but lamely. “There’s a well-worn path to her door already.”

“Molly’s never too tired.”

“She don’t do nothin’ but lay there and spread ’er legs. What’s to get tired of?”

By the time the others trooped off to the great hall, Aric was gritting his teeth in anger. But the anger was directed as much at himself as it was at the lot of braggarts he watched depart. Molly was no concern of his; she did not interest him in the least, nor did he care that her reputation as a slut was well deserved. But he was just hours from lying with Rosalynde; her scent and the feel of her shapely body beneath his was still fresh in his mind. To hear the act they’d participated in so eagerly denigrated to the level of coupling animals disgusted him. What was worse, however, was the unpleasant fact that there were a string of Mollys in his past—the camp followers at battle; the duly impressed maidens who always gathered at the tourneys he frequented. Many a pale white body had lain beneath him in some darkened place. He’d sought temporary ease in many a warm belly and pair of parted thighs. But Rosalynde was different.

Frustrated by the position he found himself in, he drew out his knife and picked up a sturdy length of oak. Without thinking about what he did, he began to work on the staff, whittling smooth the place where a branch had been, thinning the thick end so that the staff would be ideally balanced. Splinters were banished and the proportions of the sturdy weapon were perfected. In his deft hands the staff took shape. But all the while he worked, his mind relived his hours with Rosalynde.

She had been so sweet, an unbelievable melding of innocent reticence and passionate abandon. The very thought of her willing young body and eager response caused his blood to heat and his loins to rise in renewed desire. What had become of the anger he’d nursed toward her? The disappointment that a title mattered more to her than the man inside? He’d known it to be a foolish hope on his part. Illogical even. Yet something in him—perhaps the unrecognized bastard he’d always been—had wanted to believe it possible, and when she had spurned him for his perceived lack of position, he had been angry beyond reason. Then when the lad, Cleve, had struck his reluctant bargain, he’d promised not to seek her out. At the time, consumed as he was with his plan for revenge on Sir Gilbert, it had been an easy enough concession. No matter what did or did not transpire between Rosalynde and himself in the two weeks before the tournament, it would not affect what was to come. When he met Gilbert in the melee—and defeated him—he would reveal all to Sir Edward and, in so doing, claim Rosalynde as his wife. He had no doubt her willingness would resurface when she learned he was a knight, and although the inconstancy of her nature infuriated him, he had no intention of letting such a prize escape him. He would have both her and Stanwood, or else die at Sir Gilbert’s hand.

But this day’s surprising encounter with her put another slant on things.

He paused in his whittling and ran his hand slowly along the staff. He had not sought her out; she had come to him. Yet he could not help but feel a twinge of guilt. He had not broken his word to Cleve, but he had also not sent her away. Indeed, he had taunted her and mocked her, sending her a challenge he knew she would not be able to ignore. Then, when she had joined him in the low-ceilinged loft above the stables, he’d forgotten everything else but her. Cleve’s forced promise, Sir Gilbert’s ominous presence—none of that had mattered when he’d been faced with her intoxicating nearness. She had stood there, small and afraid, yet bold enough to follow him when she surely knew what he was about. And then she had given herself so sweetly to him.

He leaned back against the wall, the work in his hands forgotten as he relived each delicious moment. Surely the scent of the stables—horses and straw and burlap—would ever remind him of her, overlaid, at least in his mind, with the light fragrance that was uniquely hers. His Rose. His woman.

But was she truly his?

It was that uncertainty which kept him from the great hall tonight. He knew it a coward’s way to avoid the truth. Yet he could not bear to see her sitting so far above him, fawned over by that snake, Gilbert, as she gave him the smile that should be reserved for no man but himself. More than that, however, he feared to see her look down upon him, to see in her eyes that she had only one use for him, and that a purely physical one.

“Christ, damn me for a fool!” he muttered furiously.

He stood up abruptly and paced the work space restlessly, consumed with anger, overwhelmed with fear. How had one slight maiden brought him to such a pass? he wondered as he squinted into the now-darkened yard. He’d always jeered at those poor fools whose brains seemed to rest within their braies. A woman was meant to serve her man. She was flesh of his flesh, formed of the rib of Adam. Yet now he was consumed by his need to possess this one troublesome woman, almost to the point of forgetting his original need for vengeance.

A sudden outburst of laughter interrupted his black thoughts, and he cocked his head toward the sound. In the bailey he heard several thuds, followed by a grunt and then a cry of pain. Another round of laughter, then he heard a voice that he recognized as one of the several squires’.

“Bastard ye are. And a runt as well.” Another thud and a groan of pain. “I suggest you remember your place, Squire Cleve.”

Once more several voices rang out in laughter. Then a small group of lads hurried from the darkness behind the barn and made their way toward the great hall.

Aric stood stockstill at the stable window. So Rosalynde’s pup was held in contempt by his peers, he mused. How fitting. Yet that insult—bastard—echoed most uncomfortably in his ears.

What matter if the boy was a bastard? he told himself. He would either grow strong and rise above his place, or else wither under the taunts and become a craven fool. How the boy bore his cross was not his own concern.

Yet as another smaller shape stumbled into the shadowed yard, Aric’s brow creased in a frown. He had once been in much the same predicament—an outsider, the bastard son of a knight of no particular note. Had he not been taller and stronger than the other squires, he would have suffered even more at their hands than he did. But he had been strong enough and eventually they’d abandoned their tormenting of him. Cleve, however, did not have that advantage. As the bent-over figure limped past the stable, Aric once again cursed the perverse streak in his own nature.

“Come in here.” He barked the curt command from the dark doorway. Cleve whirled into a crouch, clearly startled by the sudden order and expecting another attack.

“You!” He gasped, then pressed one hand to his side. Slowly he straightened to his normal height. “So ’tis you who are behind this.” He snarled like a cornered pup.

“If I wished you harm, boy, I would not send those fools to do it.”

There was a brief silence. “What do you want then?” the boy asked belligerently.

Aric let out a self-deprecating snort. He was not himself sure of the answer to that question. “If you are to survive your years as a squire, you’d best learn to handle yourself in a brawl.”

“I was but one!” Cleve defended himself heatedly. “They were four or more!”

“More reason than ever.” Aric shrugged. “Learn to fight, or you will be forced to crawl.”

“No one will ever see me crawl.”

“Brave words—now.”

“I can take care of myself,” Cleve charged, sending a baleful glare at the imposing man. “ ’Tis none of your affair.”

“I could teach you a few tricks.”

In the silence that followed, Aric could almost hear the thoughts milling through Cleve’s surprised mind. “I’ve no need of tricks ,” he snapped. But when Aric did not respond, only waited, the tone of the boy’s voice changed. “Why do you make this offer to me?”

Aric smiled in the dark. “Let’s just say that I’m partial to a fair fight, and I can help you even the odds.”

“But why?”

In a rare moment of weakness Aric answered more honestly than he intended. “We are not so different, Cleve, despite appearances to the contrary. And I’ve no stomach for cowards who prey on the weak.”

“As if you’ve not done the same. Outlaws always prey on those weaker than themselves.” Yet even those biting words could not disguise Cleve’s curiosity.

“There are ways to overcome a stronger opponent,” Aric said, as if he had not heard the boy’s accusation. “Ways of using his own strength against him. Whether you battle with a sword, dagger, or by hand, ’tis all the same. But if you’re not interested …” He shrugged once more and turned away from the open door.

“Wait—”

He twisted his head and watched as Cleve drew nearer. “What payment shall you exact?” the limping boy asked, still suspicious of his enemy’s motives.

“None,” Aric replied quietly. “I do not do this for payment.”

“Hah! No one like you does anything without some selfish motive.”

Once more Aric smiled, hearing in the boy’s belligerent words a reflection of his own suspicious nature. “I had not thought of it as payment, but mayhap you are right. In exchange for teaching you how to win any fight, I would have you forgo your rabid animosity toward me in favor of, let us say, a more thoughtful observance.”

“Thoughtful observance!” Cleve blurted out. But then he stopped and took a deep and obviously painful breath. “All right, then, I agree. But this changes nothing of our earlier agreement. You will not seek out milady Rosalynde. And after the tourney, you go.”

“Our first agreement still stands.”

“Then let’s to it,” the boy replied, moving purposefully into the stable.

“Are you up to it?” Aric eyed the battered boy when they stood in the light. But he knew the answer to that. Hurt, he was an even easier mark than before. Those who preyed on the helpless never gave them time to recoup their strength. As Aric squared off with Cleve, he determinedly ignored the boy’s bloodied nose and swelling eye.

“All right. When I come at you, defend yourself.” Then, without warning, he lunged at the lad. In a second Aric had thrust him back, undeterred either by Cleve’s blows or by his efforts to escape. When Aric released Cleve, his eyes narrowed.

“First, always—always!—be aware of your foe. Where he is and what his weapons are. In my case, I have height and weight over you, as well as experience. You cannot hold me off. This is of paramount importance, so you’d best heed it well: Never push when you can pull. But never pull directly back. Instead, twist aside. Look.” In a slower version of his initial lunge, he advanced on Cleve. “Step back with your right foot, pivoting on your left. As you do that, grab at my tunic or my sleeve, and pull me past you. I’m already charging, but I’m expecting you to try to stand fast. But a well-placed tug here.” He demonstrated, placing Cleve’s right hand on the fullness of his own tunic. “That one pull will use my own weight against me and throw me off balance. Here, try it again.”

They went through the motions slowly. Then as Cleve began to understand, they tried it faster. Aric came at him alternately from either side, and then from behind as well. Each time he showed the now-eager boy how to judge his opponent’s direction and to then use his own positioning to best advantage. Cleve’s pains were forgotten as they practiced again and again. It was only when voices were heard from the bailey that they both drew back, winded.

“Enough for one night, I vow. Come tomorrow and we’ll continue.”

Cleve nodded his head as he drew several hard breaths. “Aye, I’ll be here.” He stepped back, but he did not at once turn away. “You have my thanks,” he finally admitted grudgingly. “That changes nothing, of course,” he hastened to add.

“No, of course not,” Aric agreed. But he was smiling after the boy left the stables.

Rosalynde was as nervous as a cat surrounded by baying hounds. By all standards the evening meal was a most civilized affair, complete with musical entertainments and Edith’s remarkable almond-raisin tarts. Yet she could not enjoy the results of her labor so long as Aric and Cleve were mysteriously absent. Perversely, she knew that Aric’s presence in the hall would have unnerved her even more than his absence did.

All day she had been a bundle of nerves, jumping at shadows, starting whenever someone addressed her. She’d been quite the fool in the kitchen, giving Maud and Edith such contradictory instructions that Maud had finally given in to an uncontrollable giggle.

“… and the plate—” She had broken off, giving the cooks a vague glance. “What is it, Maud? You seem much distracted.”

“Is it the bread we must stew well while we have the meat baked till the crust turns golden? Or perhaps t’other way around?” Her eyes crinkled with good humor. “And then there’s the pewter plate you said we were t’soak to remove the salt while we rubbed the dried herring until it shone!” At that, both women began to laugh out loud while Rosalynde turned pink with embarrassment.

“I … well … my thoughts are somewhat distracted.”

“Aye, so t’would seem. It wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain strapping fellow, would it?”

The color fled Rosalynde’s face in a rush. In sudden terror she faced the two women. Was she so transparent that everyone knew? Had she and Aric been seen? “I—I don’t know what you … what you mean.”

“Ah, so it ain’t that handsome Sir Gilbert who has ye so flutter-witted,” Edith mocked her good-naturedly. She elbowed Maud. “An’ here we thought she was just fallin’ prey to a case of the maidenly jitters. Could be the gossip is wrong about ’im wantin’ to marry ’er.”

Rosalynde’s relief was immediate. It was Gilbert they attributed her absentmindedness to—not Aric! With an enormous sigh she released the breath she’d unconsciously been holding. “I have been acting strangely, I suppose.” She gave them each a rueful grin.

“No, not strange, given the circumstances.” Edith laughed. “What maiden wouldn’t become scatterbrained to have such a fine gentleman pursuin’ her?”

One maiden wouldn’t, Rosalynde was still thinking later as she sat at the high table between her father and the very man Edith and Maud linked her to. She could not be less interested, in Sir Gilbert Poole, but she was enormously relieved that no one else suspected that. As long as they thought her struck foolish by his presence, they would not question her odd behavior or link it to the foot soldier Aric.

Aric. The very thought of him pushed everything else from her mind. Not the meal, nor Sir Gilbert’s unavoidable presence, nor the conversation going on between him and her father could prevent memories of Aric from sweeping over her.

How had she let things go so far between them? Even now when her skin still tingled from his rough caress and her body ached from their urgent coupling, she could hardly believe it real. She’d sought him out of her own free will. It did no good to pretend she’d only done so at her father’s bidding. The truth was, she’d have searched for him regardless. And though she’d had more than enough opportunity to get away from him, like the most wanton of women she had followed him up that ladder to the dark privacy of the storage loft.

Her thick lashes lowered over eyes that had darkened in remembered passion. She had followed him up that ladder. At the time she would undoubtedly have followed him anywhere. But what about now?

Rosalynde’s eyes opened as noisy laughter burst from her father and Sir Gilbert. She smiled appropriately, although she’d not heard a word of their discourse. Then she bent her attention to her meal and her thoughts went back to the afternoon.

She did not know what she should do about Aric now, nor how to react when she next saw him. In the aftermath of their violent lovemaking, neither of them had spoken much. For a long while they had lain together on the burlap sacks, catching their breath, not kissing or caressing, but nonetheless getting to know more of one another. It had been a silent communion of souls, she thought with a wistful sigh. In the dim confines of the crude space she had felt safer and more cherished than a queen might, though she be ensconced in the finest castle and recline on the finest of silks. In his arms she’d felt so right, though every logic deemed it wrong beyond comprehension. She might have lain there forever, trying to force reality away, had he not moved first.

“ ’Tis time you returned to your duties,” he had murmured as he sat up. Rosalynde had not responded, only watched as he donned his braies and chausses, and then his chainse and tunic. He was a formidable man in the dress of a soldier. And formidable in the lesser garb of a lover, she’d thought quite fancifully. But unlike her, he’d seemed well aware of their surroundings and the threat of discovery, and his enigmatic gaze had prodded her to rise.

“Let me,” he’d murmured when she had tried to tie the laces on either side of her gown. Rosalynde had swallowed hard as his big hand had nimbly tied the side slits of her gown closed, and she’d become painfully unable to speak. What was one to say after such an earth-shattering experience? How was she to act when the same man who’d brought her to such shuddering pleasure now resumed his daily role as servant and man-at-arms? How was a woman supposed to treat her lover?

It was Aric who decided the matter for her.

“It would be best if you left now,” he’d said, stepping back from her. His head had nearly touched the low rafters, she remembered.

“Y-yes,” she’d agreed weakly.

It would be best, she’d told herself as she’d carefully slipped down the ladder then quickly exited the stables. It was best that she left before anyone remarked on her absence, yet for the remainder of the afternoon she’d felt an aching hollowness within her at such an unresolved parting. Now as wines and ale flowed, and the din of the evening meal grew ever louder, she wondered if he’d been as disappointed to see her go as she had been to leave.

At that moment her unsettled thoughts were interrupted. “I said, Sir Gilbert has asked about the ale,” her father repeated the request she’d not responded to the first time. “He wishes to compliment the alewife.”

Rosalynde turned a chagrined face to her guest, glancing only briefly at her mildly exasperated father. “Oh. Why, thank you, Sir Gilbert. Thank you. I shall surely convey your remarks to her—”

“If you would be so good as to escort me to her, I would as lief tell her myself.”

With her father silently urging her to it, Rosalynde could hardly refuse. But her smile was strained as she rose from the table and accepted Gilbert’s proffered arm. She heard the whispers that followed in their wake as they left the room together, and she tried to reassure herself that she should be pleased. After all, no one would link her to Blacksword if they connected her to Sir Gilbert.

“Your father and I have spoken of you,” Sir Gilbert began, once they were out in the bailey.

“Spoken of me?” she echoed. Although she had no doubt of his meaning, she was surprised that he would bring it up so boldly.

“I pray you will not toy with my heart, my Lady Rosalynde. Surely you know I have spoken to him regarding you. Surely you know I seek a union between you and me, and between the castles of Stanwood and Duxton.” Grasping her hand, which rested on his arm, he halted their walk and turned to face her. In the moonlight he appeared earnest and appealing. The cruel slant of his mouth disappeared in a sincere smile; the shadows made his eyes impossible to read. Yet the warm grasp of his hands made it clear what message he wished to convey.

Rosalynde tried very hard not to frown. Her heart raced, but not due to any emotional response to him. If anything, she was angry that he had lured her away from the great hall on the pretext of complimenting the alewife.

“My father has not discussed this matter with me,” she replied, trying to extricate her hands from his too firm clasp.

“But he has told you that he seeks a husband for you.”

“Yes,” Rosalynde admitted reluctantly. “He has.”

“And though it is an odd quirk on his part, he has promised you a say in the choice of a groom.”

That reminder renewed Rosalynde’s confidence. “He did. But you must understand, Sir Gilbert, that I have not yet met the other men he has approved. I am, of course, much flattered by your interest in me, and I consider it the deepest compliment. But I would do my father a disservice to rush into a decision when he has so generously granted me this choice.”

Even in the dark Rosalynde could tell that he did not like her answer. But he was also not ready to concede defeat, for in a determinedly smooth tone he pressed his suit.

“Fair Rosalynde, I only pray that you will look with favor upon my offer.” He raised her hands to his lips and kissed her knuckles. “Just tell me, I beg you, whether some other has caught your eye.”

Rosalynde hesitated for an instant before answering him. Someone had done far more than caught her eye. Someone had caught her heart and she would be many years in freeing herself from the devastating effects, if indeed she ever could. But that was something Sir Gilbert must never know of. No one could. Besides, Gilbert’s query was for those other noblemen who might try to win her and, thereby, Stanwood.

“I’ve met no one, Sir Gilbert. Only you. However, my father has invited a goodly number of men to a tourney. No doubt I shall be introduced to any number of acceptable nobles at that time.”

“Then I am the first,” he stated with a smile. He moved a step nearer, to her sudden alarm, and she hastily stepped back as well.

“Shall we seek out the alewife?” she reminded him nervously.

“In a moment.”

Then before she could react, he pressed a damp kiss fully on her mouth.

Rosalynde gasped in shock and then was further affronted by the surge of his tongue between her parted lips. She stumbled back repulsed, jerking her hands angrily from his.

“How dare you—” she choked out.

“Forgive me, Rosalynde. I beg you to forgive my impetuous nature. If you did but know how your nearness affects me.”

She started to reply that perhaps she should keep her distance from him, then abruptly thought better of it. If she reacted too coldly toward him, her father would no doubt wonder why and question her on it. He had already expressed his exasperation toward her constant rejection of any reference to her eventual marriage. He would see any coldness on her part as just another aspect of her resistance, and he might not be so willing to grant her the freedom of a choice. Swallowing her distaste as best she could, she faced the expectant Sir Gilbert.

“I think it would be best if we return to the great hall.”

“But what of the alehouse?” he pressed. “I promise to be on my best behavior,” he added with what he clearly meant to be a beguiling smile.

Rosalynde averted her eyes. It seemed pointless now to turn down his request. But as she nodded, then led the way—although pointedly avoiding his proffered arm—her emotions knotted in confusion. Sir Gilbert’s wet kiss had revolted her. The thought of opening her mouth to his intimate caress quite literally turned her stomach. Yet with Aric that same act had stirred her very soul. She’d opened much more than her mouth to Aric’s bold caress, and reveled in glorious abandon as he’d commandeered all her emotions. Two men, both young and handsome. How was it that the one left her cold, while the other caused her to burn with desire?

As they made their way toward the alehouse, she did not see the rigid figure in the shadows of the tannery. Aric stood as still as stone, watching the two retreating figures, and although his eyes burned with violent emotion, he felt colder than a winter storm.

His wife and his enemy! It was more than a man could be expected to endure! And yet the logical, calculating side of him knew he must let it go. Everything was falling into place; it was not yet time to act. He knew who his enemy was—who had conspired to see him hang as a common thief. Now the man was within reach, but it must be done right. Their conflict had begun on the field of honor. It would end there as well. At the melee he would confront Gilbert. He would reveal his identity at that time and challenge the man to a battle of honor—a battle to the death.

Aric watched Rosalynde and Gilbert enter the alehouse, then forced himself to turn away. His appetite was suddenly gone, and the late meal he’d anticipated in the great hall lost its appeal. He’d seen that vermin, Gilbert, kiss her, and it sickened him. And yet, when he could have easily stepped from the shadows and stopped them from going on into the alehouse, he had not. Had his need for revenge against his foe completely suppressed his adherence to his knightly code of honor? Would he go so far as to forsake the woman he loved—

The woman he loved!

He halted at that unexpected admission. The woman he loved . Had he truly succumbed so completely to her? Yet even as he sought some logic to deny that it could be so, he knew it was true. He’d neither sought nor avoided love in his many dalliances with women. The fact was, he’d never considered the emotion at all. But now this most difficult of all women had stolen unawares into his heart.

Unbidden the memory of her, naked and slick with sweat beneath him, came to mind. How sweetly she’d responded to him. How passionately she had risen to his possession of her. It had been a perfect communion of two spirits, something special that only they shared. Certainly no other woman had ever pushed him so far.

Then he was reminded of their circumstances and his wonder turned to fury. The woman he loved walked now with his vilest enemy. Was he mad to wait until the melee to confront Gilbert?

A shudder ripped through him and he had to fight back a blind need to seek out Gilbert of Duxton then and there, and beat the life out of him.

Your time for revenge will come , he told himself over and over. Your time will come .