Page 4 of The Rose of Blacksword
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It was not the moans of unhappy ghosts nor the threat of menacing specters that tormented Rosalynde through the long hours of the night. She was not threatened by visions of the dead Sir Medwyn and his hapless wife as she huddled in the roofless remains of what must have been one of the kitchen’s stores. She was instead gripped with fear for the feverish Cleve and haunted anew by the more recent deaths she had witnessed.
Nelda had not wanted to come on this trip. But because Rosalynde had insisted on traveling to her father herself, a maid had become necessary. If not for Rosalynde’s adamant demand to go to her father herself, Nelda would still be alive, as would the four unlucky knights. Although she had seen only three bodies, Rosalynde could not banish the sight from her mind’s eye, and she was certain everyone else in the party had also been murdered. And all because of her, she worried guiltily. Their poor souls had not even been dignified with a Christian burial.
Now Cleve was in a very bad way as well.
“Sweet Mary, mother of Jesus,” she prayed with an urgency that clutched at her very soul. “Save this boy, I beseech thee. Have pity on him, for he does not deserve to die.”
Through the moonless black of the night, as unseen beasts rustled nearby and others howled from afar, she kept her lonely vigil. But try as she might to be thankful for their survival, for the protection of the ruined castle and the blessed remains of the old well in the rubble-littered bailey, Rosalynde was nonetheless besieged by both fear and fury.
It was not fair, she silently raged as she pressed a damp rag against Cleve’s burning brow. Nothing was fair at all! Giles should not have died. Nelda and Lord Ogden’s men should never have been so cruelly slaughtered. She should not be thrust into this terrible mess. And poor Cleve …
He groaned and tried to roll over. Then he flailed one arm wildly about before she was able to grab it and still his feverish thrashing.
“Look out!” He moaned as one tear escaped his tightly clenched eyes and trickled down his cheek. “Look out, milady.”
Then his eyelids flew open and he stared up at her as if she were one of the very ghosts he had feared.
“Be still now,” she crooned in a soft voice. She dipped the cloth she’d torn from her kirtle into a broken jug she had found and filled with water from a well. Then she wiped the sweat from his face. Despite the chill spring night, he was damp with the heat of his own body. She knew, however, that it was only a matter of time before the fever would give way to chills. Why hadn’t she searched the woods for some vervain before the night had descended? She could have prepared a tea for his fever. Then she could have made a wash of common woundwort or a poultice of lady’s mantle for his festering wound. Together the tea and the wash would have helped dispel the fever that tortured him now.
But she had not thought about it in her haste to find them a hiding place safe from the clutches of those murderous highwaymen. As soon as the sky grew light, however, she would venture forth. As soon as dawn broke the oppressive black of this night, she would do something—anything!—to help him.
It seemed forever before the faintest glow of gray-mauve light touched the eastern sky. She was cold and weary. Her muscles ached from the crouched position she had maintained at the injured boy’s side all night. Her eyes stung and her vision was blurry, yet as soon as she was able to discern her surroundings, she knew she must move. Cleve had fallen into an exhausted slumber broken only occasionally by incoherent mutterings as he sought a more comfortable position. As she rose from his side she spread her cloak over his slight form and tucked it warmly about him. Then with teeth chattering from the cold, she picked her way warily from the lean-to shelter and out into the bailey.
The ruined castle had clearly not been very grand, yet Rosalynde could easily determine where the keep had stood as well as the main walls and the chapel. As she made her way to the collapsed gatetower, she wished, as she had all night, that the new King Henry II had not been so adamant in his orders to dismantle all unlicensed castles. If Lord Medwyn and his wife had not been summarily dismissed, those bandits would not have felt so free to roam the countryside, attacking at will.
She was brooding as she skirted a charred pile of timbers, thinking of the home it must have been, when a sudden idea struck her and she halted in her tracks. Any good chatelaine would have maintained an herb garden of both medicinal and cooking herbs. Surely some of those plants must still survive.
It did not take her long to locate the forgotten garden. Amid new green shoots of loosestrife and hedge mustard, conkerwort and nettle, a sturdy group of the herbs necessary to any castle still thrived. There was no woundwort, but shepherd’s knot would do as well. And the inner bark of the linden tree, once stripped and beaten, would make an even better poultice than the dried everlasting leaves she had carried in the cart.
Despite the cold and the hungry ache growing in her stomach, as she hurried back to the sleeping youth, Rosalynde felt infinitely better. Cleve would be all right now. She would make sure of it. Then somehow they would find their way to safety. Something good must come of all this, she reasoned as she pushed a hopelessly tangled strand of dark hair back from her forehead. Surely it was not possible that anything else could go wrong.
“You cannot go!” Cleve muttered. He started to rise but Rosalynde quickly pushed him back onto the pallet of leaves she’d fashioned for him.
“Someone must,” she argued back. Her angry tone changed to a sympathetic one, however, when she saw his grimace of pain. “One of us must go for help and you clearly cannot,” she explained more reasonably.
“ ’Tis not safe,” he persisted. But his eyes fell closed and his shoulders slumped in resignation.
“No,” she agreed softly. “ ’Tis not safe. But think, Cleve, what else is to be done? You cannot travel, and who knows when those terrible men might return? Besides, the local authorities must be told of this cruel and murderous deed.”
“But you cannot wander about,” Cleve insisted, staring up at her most earnestly. “What if those men should find you? What if they try to ransom you to your father?”
“We cannot wait here forever,” she answered quietly. “Anyway, I’ve already decided. I’ll take your cloak instead of mine. As dirty as I am, with torn and ruined clothes and hair tangled beyond redemption, I shall look just another poor maiden of the village.”
“And do you think just because they believe you’re only a poor village maiden that they won’t harm you?” he cried in exasperation. His face was pale but his eyes burned intently into hers. “They might not kill you, but they might do you even greater harm.”
She started to reply, then stopped as his meaning of “greater harm” suddenly became clear to her. She had heard enough castle gossip to understand. “Oh. I-I see.” She ducked her head in both fear and embarrassment.
“So, you see, you cannot go,” the boy said with a sigh of finality.
“But I must,” she said, although her voice trembled now with renewed fear. “Besides, those men are probably far away by now. I’ll be careful, I promise you. It’s very likely no one will take any notice of me at all.”
Cleve frowned in agitation and shook his head weakly. “You wish it to be so, and therefore you believe it. But consider, milady, you have only to look upon a person once to be well remembered. No one will long believe your guise.”
Although Rosalynde did not want to give any credence to his words, she knew in her heart he spoke the truth. Although she considered herself rather unremarkable looking, she had lately become more and more aware of men’s eyes following her. But more than that, from her earliest memory her eyes had marked her apart from others. At times it had been a blessing. Today, however, it was a curse.
As a child she had been a curiosity. Her eyes with their clear green centers flecked with gold and rimmed with deep indigo had dominated her face. The story was told that upon her christening the priest had repeated his blessing, and not just once, but twice over again. To ward off any evil spirits that might dwell beyond her clear baby’s gaze, he’d said. As she had grown, however, her eyes had become her best feature. More than one young man had sung their praise and sworn his faithfulness to her. But whether her startling eyes were considered an oddity or her claim to beauty, Rosalynde knew they nonetheless made her quite memorable. In frustration she chewed her lower lip and then looked back at Cleve.
“I’ll keep your hood pulled low over my brow. And I’ll duck my head and lower my eyes.” She sighed, stood up, and reached for his coarse brown cloak. “It’s the best I can do.”
Cleve did not respond as she prepared to depart. Rosalynde glanced once at him, but the sight of his normally animated face so pale and stricken caused her to quickly look away. She felt as if she were abandoning him to the unknown even as she faced her own terrible fear that she was plunging into disaster. None of her options seemed promising. Yet to do nothing was foolish indeed.
“I’ve filled this bit of crockery with water. More linden bark is in it for you to change the dressing at midday. When the sun reaches its zenith, chew some of the shepherd’s knot with a little of the water. Then again before the sun touches the horizon. And I’ve left some watercress here for you to eat.”
“How long will you be gone?” the boy demanded with a doleful expression on his face. He managed to prop himself up on his elbows. “You should not stay away so long that it gets dark. You should not go at all,” he added angrily.
“I’ll come back before dark, no matter what.” She turned to go, then paused in what was once the doorway to the partially demolished building. “I’ll be very careful,” she promised fervently. “And I’ll find someone willing to help us.”
She would, she repeated to herself as she walked swiftly along a partially overgrown path. She would return before dark no matter what. The very thought of being completely alone at night in unfamiliar territory left her petrified with fear. So long as the sun shone she would manage the grim task set before her. But once darkness fell …
She shivered and hugged Cleve’s fustian cloak about her. It was fortunate they were near the same size, she thought absently, all the while keeping a wary eye about her. With any luck no one would pay her any mind at all.
This hope kept her going as she followed the footpath. Near a stream the path met up with a rough cart track. Rosalynde was certain a village could not be too far away. When the woodlands opened onto wastelands, the cart track widened. Then soon she saw stone fences, neat farm rows, and the distant squat tower of a small village church.
She was both encouraged and even more frightened as she neared the village, however, for something seemed most odd. No one worked the fields, although it was mid-morning at least. At the first few stone cottages no wash lay over the bushes, nor children played about. Her pace slowed as she pondered this odd fact, but when she saw the flags fluttering and heard the sound of horns and drums and laughter, she understood. It must be fair day in this particular village. No one was afield because everyone had come to share in the festivities.
Rosalynde approached the village with great trepidation. But she soon realized that the crowd was a boon to her. What was one more girl in a square filled with merrymakers? What notice would anyone take of just another urchin come to partake of the day’s revelry? Best of all, the cobbled road that ran through the town appeared to be the same old Roman road they had been traveling on before the attack. They had only to continue on this way to reach Stanwood Castle and safety.
The village was not large, but it did form the crossroads of the old road and two other cart tracks. The river formed one edge of the place, creating a wide, grassy bank that clearly functioned as the town square. Rosalynde paused and looked about, trying to get her bearings and to decide where to begin her search for help while keeping her hood low and her face somewhat hidden. Don’t be too hasty to trust anyone , she reminded herself sharply. For all she knew, the same brigands who had attacked them might be at this very fair themselves.
As Rosalynde progressed into the center of the festival, she was amazed at the immense number and variety of folk present. From meanest serf to prosperous craftsman, from shabby villein to well-heeled merchant, they milled about the square, partaking of the entertainments on every side. Pedlars from far and wide displayed their wares. She saw fine furs and hides, bolts of every imaginable sort of cloth, goose quills, and linen napery Lady Gwynne would have gushed over. Gamesters plied their trade, luring the wide-eyed and unwary into the innocent-looking game of colored stones and walnuts. Acrobats climbed upon one another, twisting themselves with apparent ease into unbelievable contortions. Musicians fought for eminence with rebec and lute, harp and gittern, all at odds with one another, overwhelmed only by the shrill tones of the clarion. In one roped-off arena men wrestled a giant of a man. Though quick and agile, one after another of the young men were bested by the lumbering fellow who seemed quite impervious to their repeated assaults.
There was a dizzying jumble of sound and motion, and delectable smells of every food imaginable. Rosalynde’s mouth watered as she sniffed first the fragrant aroma of roasted leeks, then the enticing scent of a pair of fat suckling pigs turning on an open spit. On another fire ducks and geese and chickens roasted. It was all so delicious that she could not resist approaching nearer the rare treats.
“I’ll grant ye a smell for free. But to taste ye must ha’ the coin,” a stout fellow warned her, but not too unkindly.
“Oh, well. I’m not … I’m not hungry. Not just yet.” She smiled apologetically and began to back away. Then she stopped, reminding herself of her purpose. “By your leave, sir.” She drew nearer the man once more. “Can you tell me who might be the authority in this village?”
He grunted as he turned the heavily laden spit. Sweat poured down his neck and arms as he labored over the fire. “The mayor’s about, s’pose.” He jerked his head toward a boisterous crowd closer to the river. “Try over t’ the bearbaiting.”
The bearbaiting. Rosalynde grimaced in dismay as she stared at the knot of men and boys clustered around some entertainment she could not see. Her aunt had prevailed on Lord Ogden to disallow such gruesome sport at Millwort Castle, but Rosalynde had heard tales of it. Dogs disemboweled by ferocious bears. She shook her head in distaste, then swallowed hard and started forward. There was nothing she could do about it. She needed the mayor’s help.
As she crossed the crowded square, however, intent on her mission, she was unexpectedly knocked over by the rough horseplay of two brawny toughs.
“Give way,” one said with a grunt as his elbow caught her midsection. But when she landed hard on the ground and her hood flew back, the man halted in midstride.
“Well, well. What is it we have here, hidden in a lad’s short cloak?” Without a by-your-leave he bent down and grabbed her arms, then roughly pulled the still-breathless Rosalynde up. “Is she a pickpocket?” he asked his comrade with a snicker, his ale-laced breath assaulting her senses. “Or perhaps a whore come to follow the fair and ply her trade?”
“Surely not a whore,” the other rowdy let out with a drunken laugh and gave Rosalynde a disparaging look. “She’s hardly endowed with the usual whore’s generous equipment.”
“Could be you’re too hasty.” The man pulled Rosalynde against his chest, then nearly lifted her off her feet as he rubbed her crudely against the length of him. “There’s more here than meets the eye.” So saying, he flung her cape over her shoulder and reached lecherously for her rounded breast.
At the outset of the confrontation Rosalynde had been too outdone and too frightened to respond. The memory of the previous day’s brutal attack had her nerves so on edge that she wanted no more than to melt away into oblivion. But when the man loosened his hold on her arms and reached for her breast, she reacted instinctively. With a loud crack she smacked his face. Then when he stepped back in stunned surprise, she jerked her other arm free and fled panic-stricken into the crowd. There was an uproar behind her, a furious cursing and then the heated pursuit by the two. But Rosalynde was too scared to look back, too alarmed to do anything but run for her life.
“The whore robbed me!” she heard him bellow like an enraged bull as he tried to encourage others to grab her. “Stop her! Catch the thief!”
But the crowd was too thick and the noise too loud for him to be long heeded by the merrymakers. Ale and wine bad flowed freely since first light. Who would care if some fool was fleeced by a strumpet?
But Rosalynde feared pursuit on every side. Her blood roared in her ears as she dodged past a vagabond healer’s cart, then insinuated herself into a bevy of women surrounding a colorful pedlar’s tent. She could hardly catch her breath as she cast furtive eyes around her, terrified at any moment to be caught and handed back into that horrible man’s clutches. While the other women crowded about, reaching out to finger the pedlar’s goods and perhaps strike a bargain with the man, Rosalynde only huddled in their midst and pulled up her hood, praying all the while that she had escaped. She stared blindly at a length of fine red twill, and even reached forward perfunctorily to stroke a handsome blue Samite, shot through with gold threads. But her mind was not on fabrics and gowns. She still needed to find the lord mayor. Yet how was she to venture about when that ogre could still be searching for her?
For the next hour Rosalynde debated just what to do, all the while keeping herself well surrounded by other village women. Twice she caught a glimpse of the pair of toughs who had chased her, but she hastily hid herself from their view.
She drifted from one pedlar to the next, hiding herself among the crowd that gathered to watch a pair of jugglers perform astounding feats of coordination. But although they tossed wooden bats, then daggers, and finally burning torches, Rosalynde could not enjoy their performance. When the rest of the crowd gasped in horror as one of the men donned a blindfold, she saw only the nightmarish danger of it all. The flaming batons were tossed faster and faster between the two men, and miraculously, the blindfolded fellow never missed a catch. But unlike the other spectators who cheered and tossed tokens of appreciation to the pair, Rosalynde only shuddered at the unnecessary risk the men had taken. Did everyone in this dissolute village thrive only on danger?
But as the crowd wandered off to seek amusements elsewhere, she knew she could hide amidst them no longer. She must brace herself and seek out the mayor once more. She would explain her predicament to him—including her altercation with those two horrible men. Surely he would understand and come to her aid.
It took only a few inquiries for her to be directed to the mayor.
“He’ll be near the gallows,” one young lad told her. “Gettin’ ready for the hangin’s.”
“There’s to be a hanging?” Rosalynde asked, forgetting for a moment to duck her head as she stared dubiously at the scruffy boy.
“Three.” He grinned and held up a like number of fingers. “Me da says they’s a murderin’ lot and we should all of us cheer when they goes up.”
“Is that what this fair is for?” she asked with a shiver of revulsion at his eagerness for the killings.
The boy gave her a skeptical look. “Naw. ’Tis the Flitch of Bacon. The day of handfastin’,” he said, disgust with her ignorance evident in his voice. “Only since no one has come forward to be handfasted, well, the mayor, he says we’re to have the hangin’s instead.”
Rosalynde had heard of the custom of handfasting. It was a remnant of earlier times, a form of trial marriage. But it was not sanctioned by the Church, and although embraced by common folks, it was most certainly frowned upon by those of noble rank.
She murmured her thanks to the boy and then reluctantly turned toward the makeshift gallows where he’d said the mayor would be. A throng of curious bystanders had already begun to gather there for the gruesome entertainment, and she once again tried to hide herself within their midst.
“… a bear of a man,” one graybeard was saying. “With a sword as black as ’is heart!”
“Still and all, they was caught separatelike. Who’s to say they’re e’en part of the same gang?”
“Have ye heard of any attacks these several weeks since ’e’s been in the gaol?” the old fellow retorted smugly. “No, you haven’t. An’ it’s ’cause ’e’s the ringleader. I saw ’im when I brought the lord mayor ’is ale. You’ll see for yourself soon enough. ’E’s the one, that Blacksword. The other two may be just as murderous, but mark my words, ’e’s the ringleader. ’Tis unlikely ’e’d let any man give ’im orders.”
Had those terrible men who had attacked them been caught? For a moment Rosalynde felt an enormous relief. But just as quickly she realized they could not possibly have been found and tried that fast. It was some other outlaws they had caught. She wanted to tell the men that bandits did indeed still roam the countryside. This Blacksword they discussed might be everything the old man said, but she and Cleve were living proof that he wasn’t the only one. However, she decided that caution was in order and that she should go first with her story to the mayor.
“Excuse me,” she interrupted the men, keeping her head meekly bowed. “Where might I find the lord mayor?”
The old man gave her a keen once-over, then gestured toward the gallows platform beyond them. “That’s ’im up there. With the red cape and the big gut.”
There was coarse laughter all around, but Rosalynde did not linger. She headed straight for the gallows, intending to speak to the mayor before she lost her nerve. She had left Cleve alone far too long already; it was time she conquer her fears and find the help they needed.
She had almost reached the steps that led up to the gallows platform when she finally saw a man who fit the description of the mayor. But before her relief could blossom, she was filled with a sudden dread. There, standing next to the mayor, gesticulating angrily, was the very same ruffian who had accosted her! Hurriedly she lowered her head and pulled her hood protectively about her face. But she nevertheless kept her eyes slanted sidelong at the man whose voice carried even over the hubbub of the crowd.
“… full of thieves! One little whore picked my pocket while we were discussing—” He broke off then and lowered his voice. Although she could not hear his words, Rosalynde was certain he was accusing her further. Oh, how could she be so unlucky? she agonized as she melted back into the crowd. Why must the man whose help she so desperately needed be in the company of the very man she had been trying to avoid? And why, why, did the ruffian insist on accusing her of such thievery? She’d done nothing to him but try to escape his disgusting pawing.
But there were no answers for her questions, and Rosalynde’s face creased in despair. She watched the two men from behind the sheltering bulk of a chestnut tree as she pondered this new problem. Eventually that man would leave. Eventually the mayor would be alone. But did she dare approach him? Would he listen to her, or would he simply believe that man and cast her in the gaol?
When the other man finally sauntered away, she crept nearer the scaffolding. But still she hesitated to approach the corpulent mayor. Then, to her dismay, a stout cart with the condemned men drew up before the gallows, surrounded by a jeering crowd. All other activities at the fair seemed to stop as everyone gathered around for the day’s chief entertainment. Amidst considerable shoving and jostling for position, the crowd pressed close to the platform, thrusting Rosalynde almost to the forefront of the gathering. She could neither go forward nor slip away, for she was hemmed in by villagers all around. One roughshod foot trod on her bare foot, but when she drew back, an elbow prodded sharply against her ribs. Like a mole caught in its tunnel she was trapped there, unable to escape and forced to witness the gruesome spectacle to come.
It was only the shouts of the mayor as he strode importantly back and forth upon the platform that brought any measure of quiet to the noisy, restless crowd.
“Hear me! Hear me, fine people of Dunmow!” He flapped his hands about for silence. “Quiet yourselves and hear me!”
When the uproar was down to a low murmur, the man puffed out his chest and stilled his nervous pacing. “ ’Tis a fine day for a fair—”
“An’ a foin day fer a hangin’!” someone shouted from the throng.
“So ’tis! So ’tis!” several voices added to the sentiment.
“Yes. Yes.” The mayor waved once more for silence. “We shall have the hangings in short order. But I thought it only fittin’—given that this is the traditional day for the handfastings—that I offer one more time the chance for trial marriage to some willin’ lad and lass. ’Tis only for a year and a day,” he added in a wheedling tone.
“E’en a year and a day is too long for a man to be wed!” a crude, leering fellow hooted.
“E’en a day’s too long for a woman to spend with the likes of you, John Finch!” a woman cackled back at him.
“That’s just the point,” the red-faced mayor continued.
“ ’Tis always been the custom this day to let a man and woman try at marriage. If they don’t suit, they may part ways in a year and a day, no harm done.”
“Except to her maidenhead,” a voice cried from the back, causing everyone to laugh.
“Might I take a new wife every year?” one drunken fellow called. “I might be tempted if I could have a new wench to warm me bed every year!”
“A girl would do better to wed one of those murderin’ thieves than the likes of you,” an answering taunt came from a woman.
But as the laughter roared once more, a crafty smile formed on the mayor’s face. “There’s never been a Flitch of Bacon Festival where Dunmow did not see at least one couple handfasted. Since it appears no maid is willin’ to take her chances with one of our own fine lads, perhaps there’s a lass among you who will take one of our prisoners to husband.”
At that outrageous suggestion everyone broke into excited debate.
“Who’d wed a murderer?”
“They should all hang!”
“Yes, but a good woman can keep a man honest.”
“Keep ’im satisfied, perhaps. But honest?”
“Huh! A woman’s a worse sentence than a noose. Make them all three marry!”
Rosalynde stood just below the mayor, staring up at him in frustration. She cared nothing for this ancient custom of theirs and hardly more for the men who remained bound in the cart on the other side of the platform. She only wanted the mayor to dispense with this banter and finish this business. Then she could seek his help.
“Now hold on. Hold on!” the mayor shouted as he once more attempted to quiet the restless people below him. “I only thought to provide you with more entertainment.”
“I say, let us see the goods first,” a young woman just behind Rosalynde cried.
Rosalynde turned to look askance at the girl. What manner of woman would even consider such a union? The girl, however, was already being sharply reprimanded by her mother.
“Shame! Shame, daughter!” the older woman hissed as she soundly cuffed her stocky daughter’s head.
“What other choices are there?” the gap-toothed girl shrieked as she raised her arms defensively. But she was no match for her furious mother, who yanked her by one braid and dragged her ignominiously through the crowd. The mother gave no care to the uproarious laughter as she shouldered her way through the packed square, her daughter bawling every step of the way.
At their exit the people turned back to the mayor, who had been laughing so hard he’d gotten the hiccups. To cure that dilemma he guzzled ale from a leather skin he carried at his waist, but his speech was noticeably more slurred when he spoke again.
“D’ye wish to look ’em over, ladies?”
“Aye!” The roar came from men and women alike.
“Show ’em afore you condemn ’em—whether it’s to be to the hangman or to the wife!”
To Rosalynde’s utter dismay, the entire assemblage seemed now to want some hapless girl to wed one of the condemned men. This would take forever, she fretted. And to make things worse, it appeared the mayor would not last much longer. By the time she did get to speak to him, he would be quite lost to drink! She stared around her in despair, wondering if she could find someone else in authority who could help her. Surely there must be someone else.
But there was no one else, at least not still possessed of all his wits. To the last man, every villager was well steeped in ale or wine, celebrating the annual festivities despite their lack of understanding of the custom’s source. It had always been done so, and it always would be. And as they probably did every year, they were all becoming completely and blindly drunk.
She tried to get through the crowd but it seemed hopeless. Then a chant started and she cringed with the cruelty of it all. “Bring ’em up! Bring ’em up!”
Between the awful noise, her helpless situation, and her worry for the ailing Cleve, Rosalynde almost burst into tears. Had the entire world gone mad? Were there nothing left but murderers and hangmen and bloodthirsty spectators? She clapped her hands over her ears and once more tried to escape. But she was perversely shoved even nearer the front, closer to the narrow stairs that led up to the gallows.
Then the tone of the crowd changed and she looked about in renewed panic. A group of village men had maneuvered the cart nearer the stairs and removed the back rails so that they could drag the three prisoners out. Rosalynde saw the group of men rear back, as if heaved all at once by a force too mighty for them to oppose. But then they quickly surged forward again to capture their quarry. She heard a cry of pain, and more than one vicious oath. Despite her determined disinterest, she could not help but raise up on her toes and crane her neck to see better. But everyone was now peering avidly toward the scuffling at the cart and she could not see past them.
Then the crowd suddenly drew back and Rosalynde was nearly toppled from her feet. By the time she regained her balance and glanced up, the condemned men were being herded up onto the gallows.
Rosalynde was overcome with unexpected compassion as she watched the repellent scene. Before she had been too consumed with her own miseries to worry about anyone else’s troubles. But as she watched the first man ascend to the platform, she was overwhelmed with pity. He was a crude young fellow, dirty and mean-looking. But for all that, he was quite clearly terrified. The second man was older, with a mouth that fell open in fear, showing blackened stubs for teeth. Tears ran freely down his cheeks, leaving clean rivulets upon an otherwise filthy face.
She clutched at her cloak as she watched them shamble to stand beneath the waiting nooses, a burly guard on each side of them. Their feet were linked by heavy lengths of rope. Their arms were bound behind their backs. It was only by reminding herself that they were very likely murderers, of the same ilk as the deadly gang of cutthroats that had attacked her and her unsuspecting group yesterday, that she was able to fight back tears of sympathy.
Then there was another disruption at the stairs, and, with a loud outcry from the crowd, the third man was dragged up onto the gallows.
Rosalynde’s eyes were as round and staring as everyone else’s when the fellow found his footing and then shook his would-be captors off. Like the others he was bound hand and foot. But unlike those other hapless men, his bindings did not begin to lessen the threat he presented. Like a cornered wolf, beleaguered yet no less dangerous, he held the nervous men at bay, seeming almost to dare them to approach.
He was a big man—huge, Rosalynde noted—with massive shoulders and powerful arms. His tunic had been ripped and partially torn away, and as he strained against the stout hemp ropes, his every muscle and sinew stood out in sculpted detail. He was a full head taller than any other man on the platform, and for the space of two heartbeats Rosalynde wondered how such a fine specimen of a man could ever have come to so poor an end.
The crowd was silent, in awe of the man who, even as he approached his death, could be so fearsome, so intimidating. Then the man straightened a little, and with a contemptuous glance at the men who’d tried to hold him, he moved of his own accord to stand beneath the third noose.
There was in that move an odd sort of nobility. Where the other men were broken and afraid, he was proud and brave. Clearly he did not wish to die, but he seemed to have accepted his end with the dignity of a prince, Rosalynde thought. He did not meet any eye after that, but only stared grimly toward the horizon.
“Now there’s a bloke worth having,” Rosalynde heard a woman somewhere near her murmur.
Yes, she silently agreed. There indeed was a man worth having. If only he’d been at the river with them yesterday. If only he’d been there to stop that pair of ruffians from manhandling her and chasing her as a thief! She was so desperately frightened, yet he seemed afraid of nothing. Not even death. If only she could hire him to see her home.
On that wishful thought she suddenly froze. He could get her home if he was free. And she could set him free if she would agree to be handfasted!
She shook her head in confusion, aghast at such a preposterous idea. Claim him for her husband in this heathen ritual? She must be mad to even think such a thing. And yet a part of her was mad, she admitted to herself, as she stared wildly around her, still fearing to be caught by the two bullies. She was mad with fear and mad with desperation. Could she afford to wait for another way home?
She stared up at the man once more. He might be a criminal, but there was something oddly noble in his bearing. She was convinced he could get her home safely. But would he? And could she take such a foolhardy chance?
She was still staring at him, dumbfounded and wondering what he looked like beneath the week-old beard and long hair plastered damply to his head, when she realized the mayor was again speaking.
“… the three prisoners. Tom Hadley.” He pointed to the miserable young man at the end whose head hung down pitifully. “Tom Hadley for thieving and murder, on the King’s Road to London. Roger Ganting for hunting within the Bishop of Shortford’s preserve and for attacking the Bishop’s guard and killing one man.”
The mayor started to move nearer the big man but then clearly thought better of it. “And then this fellow, known only as Blacksword since he has not revealed his Christian name—very likely he’s not even Christian! Blacksword, also for thieving and murder. On the King’s Road to London, on the highway to St. Edmonds, and in the village of—” He stopped abruptly when the man slowly turned his head and gave him a cold stare.
“The—the village of Lavenham,” the mayor concluded quickly. Then he took another step back from the menacing prisoner. “They’ve all been tried and found guilty. Now we’re to see ’em hanged.”
“Wot about the han’fastin’?” a man beyond Rosalynde called.
“Aye! Where’s the maid willin’ to rescue one of these fine upstandin’ lads from the noose?” an old man shouted.
Rosalynde did not pause to reason out what she did next. She had heard the charges against him, yet she harshly cast them from her mind. She had been horrified at the suggestion that some maiden be handfast wed to one of this murderous group. Yet now she clung to the idea as her only salvation. She had been disgusted by the crowd’s perverse interest in seeing these men hanged or else wed to some unlucky woman, and yet … And yet the logic that prompted those earlier emotions fled when she once more spied the drunken visage of the man who’d chased her. If she did not act right now, she might not get another chance to save herself and Cleve.
As she raised her voice and fought her way forward, she knew he was the only man strong enough—and sober enough—to help her and Cleve. He was the only man with a reason to take her seriously. He had nothing to lose and everything to gain. Surely out of gratitude he would see her safely to Stanwood.
“ I will be handfasted!” she cried, shoving her way past a stout village woman and her half-grown son. “ I will have him to husband!”
At first the mayor did not hear her. There was too much noise from the restless spectators who surrounded the platform. But the people around her heard, and before she could reconsider her rash actions, she was pushed along, grabbed at roughly, and propelled forward until she stumbled to a halt at the foot of the crude stairway.
For a heart-stopping moment Rosalynde hesitated. All around her people stared and laughed. A new chant was springing up: “Handfast! Handfast!” She suddenly wanted no more than for the earth to swallow her up and deliver her from this hell she’d plunged herself so precipitously into. She looked wildly about for escape, but there was none. Before her a sea of avid faces swam, some malicious, some compassionate, others only eager for a new and novel entertainment. She had wanted to remain hidden and unnoticed, but now she was the center of everyone’s attention.
She was shaking with fear as she tried to step back away from them all. But her heel struck against the rough wooden stairs and her hand bumped against the railing.
It was that rail that decided her, that gave her the strength to follow through on her mad and ill-advised scheme. Beneath her hand it was solid despite its rough texture and the splinters it promised. When she thought she would fall from the sheer fright of everything, the rail held her up. Although it made no sense—she knew it was only a desperate wish on her part—she kept thinking that this man might be like the rail: hard and strong, and prickly too. But beneath it he might be steady and reliable.
They need only be handfasted for a year and a day as the mayor said, she reminded herself. If she appealed to his better nature, he might help her. If she saved his life, he might feel obligated to her.
If she offered him a reward, he might do it.
She closed her eyes and tightened her grip on the wood. Then she took a slow, steadying breath, and with a fervent prayer for divine help, she turned and mounted the stairs.
“Well, well. What sport have we here?” the mayor leered as Rosalynde reached the top of the scaffold. “Come here. Come here,” he gestured, clearly pleased that he’d been successful in enlarging on the-day’s entertainments.
Once she stood beside him he tugged down her hood, revealing her dark tangled hair and her dirty, frightened face. “What? No suitors of your own?” he scoffed, to the enormous pleasure of the raucous onlookers. When she didn’t answer he prodded her forward, forcing her nearer the three condemned men. “So, what’s yer pleasure, m’ fresh young bride? Which of these earnest young grooms pricks yer fancy?”
“They’ll prick her fancy, all right,” one drunken fellow guffawed. “That, an’ plenty more!”
“Pick the little one,” an old woman shouted her advice. “Ye can keep ’im in line easier.”
“The big un’ll tear such a little thing to pieces in the bed,” another one warned.
“Bet he’d fit you just fine,” the malicious retort came right back from another bystander.
With catcalls and whistles, hoots and shouted advice, the crowd worked itself into a frenzy of anticipation. The day of drunken merriment topped off by a handfasting and public hanging! It was a day the people of Dunmow would long recall with considerable relish. But for Rosalynde it was a nightmare too awful to be believed.
She ignored the crude advice and taunts from the people in the crowd. With a shudder of revulsion she slipped away from the vulgar pressure of the mayor’s hand on her shoulder. In doing so, however, she placed herself directly before the last of the three prisoners, the one who had prompted her to take such a mad course of action.
She was terrified as she slowly raised her eyes to him. He was so big. So powerful and clearly dangerous. As her gaze raised timorously from the tall boots that encased his feet and calves, then farther, past his muscular thighs wrapped in what once had been fine linen braies, she became even more unnerved than she already was. This was like no man she’d ever seen before. There was a brutal strength evident in both his magnificent physique and his proud carriage. His tunic was half torn from him, as was his shirt, and she saw a raw scrape where a portion of his chest was exposed. His hands were still bound, yet the muscles of his arms bulged against the rough rope.
Finally, when she could bear the suspense no more, she lifted her gaze to his face.
Rosalynde wasn’t sure what to expect. He was younger than she had first supposed, perhaps a half score years her elder. He was dirty, of course. Filthy. His unkempt hair was plastered to his skull, and she could not have guessed its true color. His jaw was stern and rigid, his nose straight save for a crook where it might have once been broken. All in all, however, he would probably be quite acceptable to the eye once cleaned and properly dressed.
But none of those things mattered to Rosalynde. He was a thief and a murderer. And yet he perversely seemed the only one who could help her. She had it within her power to save him, it appeared. Would he return the favor? It was that which she hoped to determine as she met his ferocious stare.
But the very fury in his eyes took her completely aback. He would as happily strangle her as look at her, she thought with a gasp of dismay. For an endless frozen moment she stared at him, her eyes wide with fear and desperation. Then he spoke, although it sounded more a low, menacing snarl.
“Begone from here, madame. I do not like your game!”
He had all his teeth, she noted obliquely. And better speech than she would have guessed. She shook her head sharply, trying to focus on the very real problem at hand.
“ ’Tis no game,” she whispered urgently.
But he only raised one of his straight eyebrows mistrustfully as his jaw tightened. “Then what? Why choose a husband from the gallows—”
“Is this the man you choose? Blacksword?” the mayor interrupted imperiously, although he did not venture too near. “You know, you might find one of the others a bit more biddable.”
At this the crowd erupted in laughter, and he paused to take another gulp from the skin at his side.
“I want him ,” Rosalynde answered, raising her head to stare at the man known only as Blacksword. Her eyes searched his face for some sign that she was making the right decision, some reason to believe she wasn’t delivering herself into the hands of the devil himself.
But his face was as hard as granite, set in the same rigid expression he’d assumed when he had first crossed to stand under the noose intended for him. Did he prefer hanging to marrying her? she wondered disbelievingly. Was he so lost to the world that he would seek his own death and perhaps doom her and Cleve as well?
In that moment anger flared within her, anger at everything that had happened to her, but mostly anger at him for being the horrible creature he was.
“I choose you !” she muttered through gritted teeth, her eyes blazing with fury. Without pausing to think, she grabbed hold of his grimy tunic and clenched a knot of the fabric in her small fist. “You have no other choice. Except to die.…” The rest faded away as his cold, colorless eyes met hers.
Fire leapt between them, angry and selfish and sizzling. Against her knuckles the heat of his skin seemed almost to burn her. She wanted to jump away, to protect herself from this menacing outlaw, this murderous villain. But her life might very well hang in the balance. Despite her every instinct to flee, she faced his icy rage.
When his agreement came, it was not in words. Indeed, it was hard for her to say just how she knew he had agreed at all. His posture was no less tense. His expression did not soften. But there was something in his eyes. A flicker, perhaps. A new light.
All Rosalynde knew was that she felt a sure and swift relief, as if he had somehow saved her life in that fraction of a moment. She released his shirt then and let loose the breath she had unconsciously been holding.
The mayor approached them and the crowd began to hoot and stomp with anticipation, but she didn’t notice. Her gaze held with that of the man before her. It was then that she realized that his eyes, which she had thought only hard and colorless, were in truth a rare, clear shade of gray.