Page 3 of The Rose of Blacksword

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Although she had made the journey years earlier, the trip from Millwort Castle to Stanwood was almost as new to Rosalynde as it was to Cleve. Whenever she would subside into morose silence, Cleve would still be alive with curiosity. He seemed never to tire of the changing scenery and had an endless stream of questions for her as well as for the better-traveled knights. Despite the grim purpose of her task, she found it exceedingly difficult to remain glum when Cleve’s enthusiasm was so indefatigable.

“ ’Tis an adulterine,” one gravelly voiced knight replied to the lanky youth’s question about a huge mound of gray stone ahead, hugging a hillside above the banks of the Stour River. “The new King Henry has ordered all the unlicensed castles built under his uncle, King Stephen, torn down, this one included.”

Cleve shook his head and frowned. “It hardly makes sense to tear down castles when there are people living in mud hovels elsewhere.” Then he brightened. “I suppose the stones could be used to build other houses. And perhaps to mend fences.”

“Mayhap that’s done with other adulterines, but not this one.” The knight squinted at the hulking ruin. “ ’Tis said to be haunted.”

“Haunted?” Cleve’s eyes grew larger, and even Rosalynde stared curiously at the remains of the castle.

“The peasants in these parts say Sir Medwyn killed his wife and then himself rather than accede to the new king’s orders,” the man answered with a chuckle, although he too sent a wary look toward the ill-fated castle.

Another of the knights joined in with a laugh. “ ’Tis more likely that it’s old King Stephen’s ghost that still haunts the place. He still haunts the rest of the land,” he added, disgust evident in his voice. “He was a poor king to England, and the castles built under his reign certainly proved poor protection for him.”

With a puzzled shake of his head Cleve turned his chocolate-brown stare on Rosalynde. “Who’s to understand a king who tears down castles?” He shook his shaggy dark head once more in confusion. “Is Millwort to be safe from the new King Henry then? Or Stanwood?”

Rosalynde could not help but smile at his youthful bewilderment. “Millwort and Stanwood Castles are safe. Never fear for that. But they are old fortresses, begun in the time of the Conqueror. Only the newer castles, like that one up there, are at risk.”

“It still seems a waste,” the boy answered as he eyed the towering rubble. “So much work ruined.”

It did indeed, Rosalynde silently agreed as they approached the remnants of the fortress. But who was to understand the strange inclinations of royalty? On the one hand they protected their people. On the other they terrorized them with harsh assizes and incomprehensible edicts. Lord Ogden on numerous occasions had bemoaned King Stephen’s contradictory practices. Her uncle remembered well the orderliness in the land under the first King Henry, and in the privacy of his own home he had not hesitated to bemoan King Stephen’s many faults. But now the old king’s grandson was in power. Although Lord Ogden had reserved judgment on the young Henry II, he nevertheless hoped fervently for peace in England. As the group of travelers drew up along the riverbank, just downstream of the adulterine, Rosalynde wondered if her father’s views would coincide with Lord Ogden’s.

At the edge of a low, grassy bank they halted. The day was unseasonably warm and the sun shone brilliantly as the group dismounted. As Rosalynde stretched her cramped muscles, Cleve led the horses down to the river’s edge to drink, while the knights stretched out on the grass in the shade of two gnarled yew trees.

“Come along, Nelda,” Rosalynde called to the perpetually scowling serving woman. “The sooner we assemble the meal, the sooner we may be on our way. And the sooner you will be able to return to Millwort,” she added with a determined smile. Rosalynde knew the woman was unhappy to have been uprooted from her comfortable routine at Millwort Castle. But even though Rosalynde had not felt it necessary to have a maid on the trip—indeed, Nelda had been more a hindrance than a help—Lady Gwynne had been adamant. It would be quite scandalous for a lady to travel alone among men, Lady Gwyne had reminded her, particularly an unmarried maiden. A serving woman must always be at hand.

But as Rosalynde unpacked two loaves of bread, a half wheel of cheese, and a pottery dish of raisins wrapped securely in linen cloths, she couldn’t help but wish a maid hadn’t been necessary. Nelda’s presence had meant a cart was needed, for very few serving women knew how to ride horses. That, in turn, had meant they had to travel much slower than if she and Cleve had simply ridden with the knights by horseback. In fact, they would probably be arriving at Stanwood today if they hadn’t been held to such a snail’s pace by the slow-moving carts. As it was, they were little more than half the way there.

Still, for all that she wished to speed their arrival at Stanwood, Rosalynde was not really looking forward to the reunion with her father. Nor to relating the dire news she carried to him. With a heavy heart she cut herself a tiny square of cheese and tore off a small portion of the bread. Then she headed nearer the river and away from the company of the others as they ate.

“You mustn’t fret so, milady.”

Rosalynde looked up from her melancholy position atop a boulder that jutted partially into the river. “I’m not fretting, Cleve. And don’t you worry about anything either,” she said, forcing a smile as she looked over at the page’s concerned expression. Then she tossed a piece of bread in the river and watched as two fish struck at the morsel. “Stanwood is a beautiful place. You’ll love it there.”

“What’s it like?” he asked as he settled himself on a grassy hummock.

Rosalynde looked down at him, watching as he dug into his meal with a still-growing boy’s gusto. It was clear he’d set himself to keeping her from worrying. Although a part of her would rather be alone with her thoughts, she nonetheless appreciated his sincere concern.

“Stanwood is … well …” She thought for a moment, trying to see her childhood home as it might appear to a stranger, trying to see past her emotional ties to her parents’ castle. “It’s big. And old.” She smiled ruefully. “It’s warmer than Millwort, as I recall. Because it’s so near the sea. Sometimes, when the wind is strong out of the east, you can smell the salty sea air.”

“Have you seen the sea?” Cleve stopped chewing as he listened to her. “Have you actually gone down to the edge of the sea and touched it?”

“Of course.” Her smile was genuine as she took in his amazed expression. “I’ve walked in it. And so can you. We’ll go down to the sea one day and then you can see for yourself.”

“Now that would be grand indeed!” The boy grinned eagerly at her then and took a big bite of cheese.

“Stanwood is quite different from Millwort,” she continued as she tossed another bit of bread to the circling fish. “It’s half again as big, with a huge keep that has four floors and even its own chapel. And it has ever so many windows. It’s actually quite light, even inside. And the bailey …” Here her face softened as she remembered. “The bailey stretches forever down a gentle hill. When I was little I couldn’t run the entire length of it. My father—” She stopped and a frown marred her previously serene face. “Stanwood is not as elegant as Millwort. The walls aren’t of big clean blocks but are built of mostly flint. Rubble walls, my father called them.”

She stood up then and abruptly tossed the last chunk of the bread into the icy stream. “I’m sure I’m remembering it much finer than it actually is,” she finished quietly.

“It sounds quite fine.” The boy nodded encouragingly. “Are there many servants?”

Rosalynde paused before answering. “When I lived there it seemed like the entire castle was filled with people: cooks, serving women, squires, the steward, the seneschal, the chamberlain. It was a wonderful place to live, and I don’t remember ever lacking for company.”

But what would it be like now? That was the question Rosalynde had no answer for, and she was relieved when Cleve did not continue with his questions. What Stanwood was like now was anybody’s guess. Still, Rosalynde was certain it was not the warm home of her childhood memories. It was her mother who had filled the castle with love. It was she who had made her husband and her child so happy. When she had died, the love and the happiness had died along with her. Although Rosalynde dearly hoped to be happy again at Stanwood, she did not truly expect to be.

She jumped down from the rock to where her shoes sat abandoned in the grass, then stared pensively at the river, watching a short, rotted branch bump along several projecting stones, then scrape along the gravel shallows before spinning out crazily into deeper water. Cleve had stretched out in the lulling warmth of the spring sunshine. When the first shouts came from the knights who were a little downstream, Rosalynde did not even look up right away. She was so caught up in her own worried thoughts that she hardly heard the noise. But Cleve was not so soundly asleep as he appeared. At the first shout he opened his eyes and propped himself up on his elbows. At the second shout, however, he leapt up in sudden alarm.

“Get down, milady!” he hissed, crouching low and gesturing to her.

“What?” Rosalynde peered over at him, surprised by such perplexing behavior.

“Get down!” he persisted. “Something’s wrong back there. I don’t know what, but you must hide!”

Rosalynde turned sharply toward where Nelda and the four knights had relaxed with their noon meal. What she saw in that brief glance chilled her blood. A band of men, some mounted, others on foot, had attacked the small party with brutal precision. One of their knights already lay crumpled on the ground. The three others were fighting for their lives. She heard a shrill scream—Nelda’s, she realized sickly. Then Cleve’s hand closed over her arm and he unceremoniously yanked her down behind the protective cover of the boulder.

“My God! They’re killing them!” she cried, frightened beyond measure by what she was witnessing. “We must help them!”

“How?” the boy asked curtly, although there was a tremble in his voice. “We’ve no real weapons and we’re vastly outnumbered.” He pushed her low, then tentatively peeked around the edge of the boulder. His short dagger was out, gripped tightly in his right hand, and Rosalynde stared at it with wide, terrified eyes. She had seen swords and long spears in the hands of the surprise attackers. In contrast, Cleve’s weapon seemed woefully inadequate.

For what seemed like forever they crouched behind the boulder, their feet in the icy water as they were forced to listen to the gruesome sounds of the one-sided battle. Metal clanged cruelly against metal. There were shouts and curses and blood-curdling cries of pain. At each new outcry Rosalynde cringed in sickened horror. Her heart pounded painfully in her chest and yet she was frozen in a drowning fear. They were all dying. And it was just a matter of time before she and Cleve were found and killed as well!

“Watch the horses! The horses!” one guttural voice bellowed. Then there was a commotion of whinnies and frightened snorts from the horses before one of the animals thundered away from the melee. Unable to bear the suspense a moment longer, Rosalynde tried to look past the boulder as they heard the horse plunge into the water. But Cleve swiftly dragged her back.

“We’ve got to stay as still as this stone!” he admonished her in a fierce whisper. “Else they’ll find us and then—” He stopped short at her horrified expression. He didn’t have to say any more, however, for Rosalynde’s imagination filled in the rest. But as they huddled there, exposed to the sun and the breeze and the river, it was impossible to feel hidden or very well protected despite the boulder’s bulk between them and the cutthroat band beyond. The sounds of the gang’s ultimate victory carried very clearly to Rosalynde and Cleve. Too clearly.

“Here’s the wine, Tom boy,” one of them said with a laugh. “Best have a tug afore ’tis all gone.”

“Here, an’ after I struck that one that cornered you, you would begrudge me my share? Hand it over, mate.”

There was coarse laughter and much boasting amidst the distinctive sounds of the carts being emptied of all their contents. Then there was a long, low whistle and a brief silence that caused Rosalynde and Cleve to stare at each other in unreasoning fear.

“Lookee here, will you? Lookit this bit of finery. Silk, I vow. Some fine lady will be missin’ her clothes this night.” He snickered suggestively.

“Jewels too,” another one chimed in.

“Lemmee see!”

There were sounds of a scuffle but Rosalynde and Cleve only pressed closer to the boulder, staring at each other as Rosalynde imagined the brutes pawing through her gowns and undergarments and the few pieces of jewelry she possessed.

“Huh. There’s little enough of it. But e’en so, we’ll do all right with this haul. He’ll pay us a good price for these goods.”

“But you know what ’e said,” another voice cut in. “ ’E said no more. ’E wouldn’t take no more goods now that that unlucky bastard was caught and tried. ’E won’t take no more stolen goods. At least for a while.”

The other man, clearly the leader of the motley group, just laughed. “He’ll take it, all right. And if he don’t, there’s plenty of others in Hadleigh what will.”

The afternoon passed with an excruciating slowness. Rosalynde and Cleve dared not move from the precarious hiding place and therefore suffered alternating bouts of paralyzing fear, unspeakable horror, and consuming rage as the vandals amused themselves in drunken celebration, arguments, and scuffles. It was only when the sun began to cast long shadows across the riverbank and the sounds from the gang of ruffians had begun to subside that Cleve chanced a look around the exposed boulder.

“May God smite them down for this and see them rotted in hell!” he muttered as he stared toward the site of the massacre. Then as Rosalynde rose to look as well, he clapped a firm hand on her shoulder. “Oh, no, milady. Don’t look. It’s too foul a sight.”

But Rosalynde insisted. What she saw in the clearing turned her stomach over. Three of the knights lay where they had fallen, although their clothes had been stripped away. Now their naked corpses lay white and exposed, bloodied and mangled. It was enough to sicken a seasoned warrior. It shook her to the core. She turned a pale face to Cleve as she fought down the rising gorge in her throat. Then she leaned heavily against the boulder. “What of Nelda? And … and the other knight?”

“Perhaps it was they who rode away. Perhaps they escaped and will come back with help.”

“But if Nelda didn’t escape, those men will …” Her words trailed off as she imagined just what those brutish men would do to Nelda—to any woman they found. She had heard the tales about William the Conqueror and the Norman invasion. She had listened wide-eyed to whispered stories of the Viking marauders of times long past. A violent shiver shook her as she realized that she was not yet safe either. “Please God, let them have escaped. And us too,” she whispered in mortal fear.

Cleve’s glum expression met hers and he clenched his jaw nervously. “I hope God hears you, milady, for it’s clear we must try to save ourselves.”

Rosalynde’s frightened eyes widened in renewed despair. What were they to do, a boy and one woman, against such a foul horde of murderers? She shook her head anxiously. “We cannot escape, Cleve. We can’t defeat them either. What can we do?”

Cleve’s gaze held with hers a long moment; his face was pale and grim. Then he peered over the boulder once more before taking a deep breath.

“We can escape. They don’t know we’re here. From the sounds of it, they’ve been drinking all the wine Lady Gwynne sent to your father. We can try to slip away when it gets a little darker. But not along the riverbank; it’s too open. We’ll have to head straight to those trees behind us and then skirt around the castle ruin. Then we can strike out for help.”

Rosalynde was reassured somewhat by his clear thinking, and she nodded agreement with his plan. “But when?” she asked nervously. “If we wait until they leave it might be too dark and we’ll never find our way in such strange territory in the night.”

The answer to that dilemma was swiftly forthcoming. One of the gang rolled over with a groan and then rose. In a slow stagger he made his way toward the river. Beyond him the other men drowsed in drunken stupor or else continued to down the fine wines that had been stocked in the carts. As the man approached, Rosalynde cringed in fear. But the long hours of helplessness had given Cleve a new and reckless courage. Rosalynde watched in horror as he once again drew his pointed dagger.

She did not speak as they heard the brute pause just on the other side of the boulder. Please let him stop there , she prayed desperately. Please don’t let Cleve do anything rash .

But Cleve shrugged off her restraining hand and ignored her pleading expression. Then they heard the man move again, coming around the boulder. Rosalynde froze in absolute horror, but Cleve was ready. With the stealth of a stalking cat, he inched around the cold granite stone. In the heart-shattering silence he crouched and tensed, and then, when the man came into view, he sprang forward.

Caught in the midst of loosening his braies so that he could relieve himself, the drunk had no time to protect himself. With a howl of pain he took the full length of Cleve’s blade in his left shoulder. But perhaps due to the numbing effects of the wine, the wound did not at once bring him down. He only turned like a shaggy bear and, with a wild swing of his arm, struck out at his attacker.

Cleve was flung harshly against the rock. Rosalynde heard his sharp cry of pain and immediately sprang to his aid. The cutthroat turned as if to strike her as well, but suddenly he staggered and then went down on his knees. She heard a cry of alarm from one of his compatriots, but she did not waste time on any of them. With a strength born of terror and desperation, she looped Cleve’s arm around her shoulder and then, without pausing a moment, lurched toward the trees, half carrying, half leading the still-stunned page.

“Milady …” Cleve mumbled as he fought to keep his senses.

“Run, Cleve. Run!” she cried as she urged him on.

She feared at any moment to be struck down by an avenging horde of assassins. Indeed, she feared to look back at their sure pursuit, not wanting to know how imminent was her death. But there was no blow, and as they gained the shelter of the shadowy forest, she finally chanced a fearful look behind them.

Rosalynde’s breath came in huge gasps as she stared back at the riverbank. She saw the one man still lying where he had fallen after Cleve’s heroic attack. His arm waved weakly for help, but his cohorts were clearly unable to assist him very well. One had tumbled over a root as he staggered drunkenly to assist. Another ran forward, looked around, then darted in another direction only to stop once more and stare stupidly about as if unsure just what it was he sought. He stared once in their direction and Rosalynde froze, certain they were discovered. But then the man lurched off in another direction, and with a shudder of relief she let loose her tightly held breath.

Without pausing to consider her actions, she plunged deeper into the thicket of shrubs and trees, still half supporting Cleve as she went. She was unmindful of the branches that plucked at her cloak and caught in her hair. She went on, heedless of the direction so long as it was far, far from the brutish men who had attacked, murdered, and plundered with no regard for the plight of their victims. Only when her bare foot caught on a curling vine and she nearly tripped was her headlong flight slowed. Cleve groaned in pain, tried to throw off her supporting arm and stand on his own, and then crumpled in a heap when his legs would not hold.

“Cleve. Cleve!” Rosalynde knelt at his side and lifted his head. Slowly the boy’s eyes opened, but his stare was glazed with pain and confusion.

“Lady Rosalynde?” he muttered, closing his eyes again.

“Shh. It’s all right, Cleve. It’s all right. Just rest a moment while I see to your injuries,” she murmured in a voice far more calm than she actually felt.

“Must get you away … safety. To Stanwood.…” He jerked when her searching fingers found a tender spot on his head.

“Hold still. Let me see—” Rosalynde’s words broke off when she saw the blood. It covered her fingers and matted the boy’s thick brown hair. With a worried frown she tenderly parted his hair so that she could better assess the severity of the wound. Although the blood wasn’t running freely anymore, only slowly oozing from the wound, the gash was a nasty one, and Rosalynde paused as she considered just what to do.

Their situation was precarious at best. Although they were safe for the moment, who was to say how long that would last? They were alone in strange territory, with no supplies, no one to help them, no weapons—

She glanced down at Cleve’s hand and saw with huge relief that he had managed somehow to cling to his dagger despite everything that had happened. It was sticky with the blood of the man he had stabbed. Added to that, it wasn’t much of a weapon to begin with. But they still had it and Rosalynde felt a little restored. They had a weapon and they were no longer being followed. That was a start.

She took a slow, steadying breath and then another, trying to calm her racing heart. Then with a firm set to her chin, she reached for the hem of her kirtle and tried to rip it. But the light linen was too well woven. She reached for Cleve’s knife, but the still-stunned boy only gripped it tighter and struggled weakly against her.

“Give me the dagger, Cleve.” she whispered urgently. “I only want to bind your head. Then we’ll find a better resting place. Night will soon fall and we need shelter.” She passed one of her slender hands over his head reassuringly. “I’ll give the knife back to you just as soon as I’m finished with it.”

Once more his eyes fluttered open, but this time he was more lucid. “Don’t ruin your gown.”

“Be quiet and cooperate,” she replied, somewhat heartened that he might not be too seriously hurt. When his grip on the dagger slackened, she picked up the weapon with two fingers. Grimacing with disgust, she wiped it as clean as she could in a clump of new ferns. She quickly used it to tear two strips from her kirtle and then fashioned a bandage for his head. When she finished, he smiled weakly at her.

“Many thanks, milady.” He struggled to sit up but would not have succeeded without her help. Although he tried to hide it, she could not miss his grimace of pain. “I must get you to safety,” he muttered, staring a little vacantly about the dense forest stand.

“You’re the one needs tending,” Rosalynde countered as she also looked around, trying to take stock of their situation. “I need water to properly wash that gash in your head.” She bit her lip in consternation as she pondered the problem.

“There’s the river,” he pointed out.

“No!” Rosalynde was quick to reply. “It’s too easy for those awful men to find us if we venture down to the water’s edge.” A bird swooped through the trees and they both jumped. Rosalynde watched as it headed up toward the ruined castle that still guarded the hillside. A faint smile curved her lips as an idea formed in her head. “That castle must have had a well. We’ll go up there—”

“You heard what the knights said,” Cleve protested with rising strength. “ ’Tis a haunted place. It would be foolish to enter such a place of death.”

Unfazed by his dire warning, Rosalynde got to her feet. Her hose were in tatters. Her gown was ripped and still wet. Even her sturdy cape had a huge rent along one side. But she was alive and so was Cleve. The threat of ghosts seemed far less a problem than the very real threat they had already encountered that day.

“Those ghosts will be our protection,” she stated confidently as she bent to help him up. Cleve only stared at her with wide doubting eyes.

“They’ll smother us in our sleep,” he warned even as she put an arm about his waist and helped him start forward. “They’ll sit on our chests and suck the life from us.”

“They’ll keep anyone else from following us,” she retorted, although a small quiver of doubt snaked up her spine. “We mean them no harm. Surely they’ll know that.”

Cleve’s expression was dubious. But as he had no better suggestion and was feeling exceedingly weak from the blow to his head, he leaned upon her. Crouching low, and with many backward glances, they slowly made their way toward the abandoned adulterine.