Page 5 of The Rose of Blacksword

4

“They shall seek wedded bliss!” the mayor shouted to the mass of people crowded about the gallows. “Wedded bliss!”

With that announcement every throat seemed to raise a shout until Rosalynde clapped her hands over her ears at the din. It might have been the bloodthirsty howl of wolves, so unfeeling and pagan did it echo across the square. She floundered between renewed panic and enormous relief, between terror and hope as she stood trembling before the maddened crowd.

“Handfast! Handfast!” The chant reverberated around and around her. But the cry melded also with another call to “Hang them! Hang them!” until the two seemed one and she felt as if she were as much the subject of the one sentiment as the other.

“Handfast!”

“Hang them!”

In desperation she looked back up at the man she had just chosen to be handfasted to, but his grim expression provided her no solace. He only gave her a cold stare and then turned his eyes toward the horizon.

For a terror-filled moment she feared that instead of saving herself, she had indeed flung herself into a far worse snare. The riot of drunken villagers seemed as ready to cast her fate with this Blacksword and hang her as it was ready to see her wed to the menacing wretch. She turned to the mayor for help, but he was swilling back more ale and rousing the crowd to ever greater bedlam. She whirled to face the screaming horde, then stumbled back in fear as one leering fellow lunged partially onto the platform and tried to grab her ankle. He came up only with the tattered edge of her gown, but that was enough to unbalance her. Had she not been stopped by the solid bulk of the huge man behind her, she would have fallen hard on the wooden platform. As it was, she was barely able to right herself. But it was only when Blacksword took a threatening step toward the man still clinging to her hem that the drunken fool released his hold and fell back in very real fear.

Without thinking she ducked behind Blacksword, keeping his sturdy bulk between her and the crowd. Even though he was still bound, he seemed able to intimidate everyone near him. But his menacing posture toward the man who had grabbed at her had a surprising effect on the restless mob.

“Jealous, ain’t ’e?”

“ ’E courts her a’ready!”

And slowly the cry turned to “Handfast.” From somewhere a chair was produced, and the mayor directed it be placed at the front of the gallows platform. Then he signaled Rosalynde to approach him.

“Wot’s yer name, girl?” he demanded, fixing his hand on her shoulder again.

She glanced from him to the hulking Blacksword then at the crowd, which had subsided somewhat and strained now to hear what was being said. Then her eyes flitted back to Blacksword.

“Rosaly—” She halted, then swallowed hard. She had a sudden and unaccountable fear of revealing too much about herself. “Rose. I—I am called Rose.”

“A Rose!” the mayor jeered even as a loathsome belch escaped his lips. “We have here a thorny Rose to be wed to the outlaw Blacksword!”

“ ’Twill be a union deadly to them both,” someone cackled from the sea of faces below them. But it set the crowd to laughing again, and despite her fright Rosalynde sensed a more genial mood from the avid spectators. Still, she did not doubt their mood could just as easily turn black. If only she could be done with it all and make good her escape.

But that was not to be.

In short order the chair was dragged to a place before the two other condemned men. Then the intimidating Blacksword was freed of his bonds by a wary guard and thrust rudely toward the chair.

Rosalynde thought for a moment that her scheme would fall apart right there, for the fearsome rogue gave the guard such a quelling glare that the man raised his dagger protectively before him. But despite Blacksword’s threatening posture, he seemed equally aware that this was not the time to seek revenge against those who had captured and imprisoned him. She saw him flex his shoulders as if to stretch them after their long cramped position. Then in a move she would never have expected, he turned toward the waiting crowd and gave them a victorious wave, with both his hands extended high over his head. Then equally surprising, he crossed the few steps to her and gave her a wide, mocking bow. “If you wish to live out this day, go along with whatever I say,” he said quietly, for her ears only. Then he abruptly picked her up and tossed her most unceremoniously over his shoulder.

At once the crowd erupted into riotous waves of laughter and bold exhortations. From her upside-down position over his iron-muscled shoulder, Rosalynde heard the lewd advice and coarse suggestions. For a desperate, dizzying moment she feared she had delivered herself into the hands of Lucifer himself, a man who’d no sooner been set free by her intercession than he threatened her very life! What sort of madman had she bound herself to?

In a panic she kicked her legs and pounded her knotted fists against his back. But it was to no avail. He only strode back and forth along the platform, displaying her struggling, up-ended form for all to see and thereby goading the crowd to even more uproarious laughter. When he finally righted her, she nearly collapsed, she was so woozy from his topsy-turvy manhandling. But when he tried to steady her she furiously slapped his hands away.

“Cuff ’er one!”

“Teach ’er who’s to be boss!” The laughter rang out.

For a moment Rosalynde cringed, fearing a blow from his mighty fist. But to her enormous chagrin he only scooped her up once more, then sat down on the chair with her firmly on his lap. Though she struggled, he clasped her tighter around the waist until she could hardly catch her breath at all.

“Be still,” he said with a fierce growl in her ear.

But that only increased her terror and the tempo of her flailing arms. Then his other arm wrapped around her, holding her arms snug against her sides.

“I said be still and go along with whatever I say,” he snarled once more, even as the spectators laughed anew at the antics before them.

“Oh, please, just let me go,” she pleaded in a faint and breathless tone. She was unable to think or even move as her heart thundered painfully in her chest. What manner of man had she loosed by her ill-considered plan?

“It’s too late to change your mind, wench.” He pushed her hair aside so that his face was beside her own. “Just play your role and with any luck darkness shall see us free.”

At this unpredictable remark Rosalynde turned a stupefied expression toward him. What did he mean, “luck”? Then in a flash she understood. It was not him she need most fear, but the crowd.

He glanced down at her frightened face while in the background the crowd became steadily drunker on both ale and pent-up anticipation. Once more she was struck by the vivid gray of his eyes, and she saw the sharp intelligence there. But before she could signal her new understanding of his meaning, his face descended over hers, and she was abruptly bent back over his arm in a harsh, impersonal kiss.

The wild cheering of the crowd echoed faintly in her ears. In some vague portion of her mind she even recognized that this too was just something he did to court the spectators’ goodwill. But then logic fled and she was left conscious only of the hard forcefulness of his mouth, and how his lips gradually became softer and his tongue probed between her lips. As he’d ordered, she tried to play her role, but she was too undone by the sudden rush of blood to her head to clearly figure out her part. Should she protest? Should she succumb? No maiden would countenance such a public manhandling, would she? But that might not be true of a woman who would be handfasted to a condemned man.

Before she was able to make up her mind, he pulled back from her and gave her a quick and curious glance.

“Next time open your mouth,” he mocked softly. Then he straightened her on his lap.

Rosalynde was breathless and weak, and completely befuddled by this strange turn of events. She was unsure now just what she was to do at all. It was the lord mayor, however, who decided for her.

“We have here the man known as Blacksword. And here the maiden called Rose.” He strutted before them, stumbling from too much drink as he sought now to bring his performance to a triumphant conclusion. “They shall be handfast—wed in the old way—for a year and a day.” He belched and stumbled to a halt. “First the hangin’s. Then the handfastin’!”

What followed was grisly beyond Rosalynde’s worst nightmares. She still sat on Blacksword’s lap, held immobile as much by her revulsion of the goings on around them as by his taut grasp. She refused to look behind them as the other two prisoners were forced to stand on boxes while the nooses were slipped over their heads and then tightened about their necks. But she was horribly aware of their helpless struggles and their pitiful pleading. She bowed her head, squeezing her eyes tightly as she prayed for this not to be happening. Around her the fierce Blacksword’s grip tensed, and she was suddenly aware of his heart thudding in his chest, pounding against her back as he too tensed in awful anticipation. Then with a sinister scrape the boxes were pulled out from under the two hapless men’s feet and she heard the sickening cries as they fell, the sound changing from wretched sobbing to abrupt choking.

Rosalynde was never to be sure whether it was she or Blacksword who jumped at the grotesque sound. Beyond them the crowd let out a hoarse cheer, but it quickly turned to an ominous quiet until nothing but the strangling, jerking sounds of the doomed men behind them could be heard. It was not until the silence was broken only by the rhythmic creaking of the stout ropes as they twisted and swayed with their heavy loads that the crowd began to shift and buzz with returning conversation. But it was not nearly as animated as before.

As for Rosalynde, she was trembling in violent agitation, tears brimming in her eyes. The man who held her seemed almost as affected as she. She heard his heartfelt “Thank you, Mistress Rose,” whispered so quietly she was hardly sure he said it at all. But she had no chance to respond, for the mayor, who was clearly unmoved by the deaths he’d just witnessed, addressed the gathered throng once more.

“We’ve had the hangin’s. Now fer the handfastin’.”

In short order she and the man Blacksword were stood on either side of the chair. At the mayor’s impatient gesture they joined hands across the chair, to the enormous approval of the waiting horde. Her hand felt small and cold when his larger one enveloped it. He held it firmly, although not painfully, and when they were declared wed she felt his short sigh of relief. But he did not look at her nor did he say a word.

The next two hours were a living hell for Rosalynde. Reseated in the chair, the two of them were lifted high and paraded around the square. Several times they were nearly dropped. More than once she thought she would slide out of his steely grasp and be trampled in the drunken mob. By the time they were lowered to the ground, she was trembling with fear and faint with exhaustion. Terror, hunger, and two days of brutality were taking their toll, and she was sure she would not last until nightfall. When someone tossed an apple in her lap she stared at it in dull surprise.

“If you don’t eat it, I will,” Blacksword said, reaching for the bruised fruit, which was clearly a leftover from the previous year’s harvests. But Rosalynde was too quick. In a flash she snatched it up then proceeded to devour it like a starving woman. At such a desperate reaction, however, other festival-goers devised a new sport. Within moments they were being pelted with all sorts of foods. Raw carrots, onions, pears, beans, and even hard crusts of bread. Her arms, her legs, even her cheek caught the brunt of their new game, no matter how much she dodged. It was only when one man threw a particularly large turnip and nearly struck her in the head that Blacksword rose angrily from the chair they yet shared. Placing her abruptly aside, he glared furiously at the drunken lout who’d tossed the vegetable, sending him scurrying away. Rosalynde, meanwhile, lost no time in gathering up as much of the food as she could, stuffing it in her gown for Cleve.

“We must leave,” she whispered to her new “husband” as he turned to watch her. “We must escape.”

“Yes,” he answered, looking around them as he did so. Then he spied a group of musicians surrounded by dancers, and he grabbed her arm and pulled her up. “Forget that cast-off food.”

The dancing was not the courtly movements she had been taught by her tutors. Men and women milled in wild abandon, stomping and swaying, drinking as they went and raising their voices in bawdy lyrics until the instruments were practically drowned out. Rosalynde was jostled and shoved, and nearly lost Blacksword in the confusion. Had she not grabbed determinedly onto the wide leather belt that circled his waist, he might have been gone, leaving her as stranded and alone as before.

But she refused to let go, and when he paused between two carts and looked back at her she was glad she had.

“I must leave you now,” he said as he firmly disentangled her hand from his belt. He glanced once at her then turned his face away. “Many thanks for sparing my life.”

“You can’t just leave me!” she exclaimed, running after him as he turned to go. She grabbed once more at his belt, at his arm, at the torn edge of his tunic as he strode purposefully away. “You can’t leave me!” she cried in renewed desperation.

He turned abruptly, grabbed her by the arms, and held her rigidly away from him. “I cannot help you! For whatever reason you chose to save me, I thank you. But I have my own affairs to tend. I cannot be any aid to you in yours,” he finished bitterly.

“But you must help me!” Rosalynde pleaded, staring disbelievingly into his harshly set face. “I took a chance on you and you must repay me!”

“I told you, I cannot help you,” he countered tersely. “Find someone else.”

“But … but …” Tears welled in her eyes as her last hope for help began to disappear. She shuddered as she realized that everything she had endured this day had been for naught. Desperately she grasped his forearms. “You would be dead if not for me. Hanged like those other poor wretches.” Her anger dissolved into frightened pleading. “I beg you, please don’t abandon me here.”

Through her tears his face was blurred; his expression was impossible to detect. She saw only his fierce gray stare, the stubbornly set jaw and brows lowered in a scowl. But she felt when his grasp changed. He thrust her away from him rudely, as if he were disgusted with his own forbearance.

“Who is it you fear?” he muttered, eyeing her suspiciously.

“No one … everyone.” She shook her head then straightened up and wiped her tears away with the back of one hand. “I need to get somewhere and … and I thought … I want you to take me there.”

“I cannot,” he answered curtly. “There is an urgent matter I must pursue. A matter of vengeance—”

“You owe me this!” she interrupted him furiously, then ducked her head as a drunken couple looked over at them and began to giggle. “You owe me this much,” she hissed.

“I owe—” He stopped and sighed. Then he gave her a disgruntled glance before he stared around at the lengthening shadows of approaching dusk. “If you want to follow me, so be it. That’s as much as I can offer you. But you’ll have to keep up. I’ll not slow my pace for you.” With that grudging offer he turned and headed past two stone cottages and toward an orchard beyond.

Rosalynde did not know whether to be infuriated with his callous indifference or relieved that he at least was not abandoning her entirely. But as she followed him, running to keep up with his ground-eating stride, she cast him more than one vituperative glance and silently cursed him for the black-hearted villainous reprobate he clearly was. His back was broad and inflexible as he strode through the shadowy orchard; his head was held high, like that of a fearless warrior as he proceeded on without so much as a glance behind him. In both his stride and his ease of movement he struck her as a man of incredible power and considerable pride. But he was a blackguard nonetheless, she fumed.

When they reached the edge of the orchard, he paused and Rosalynde collapsed onto a stone wall, gasping for breath. The vegetables she’d tucked into her tunic clustered in uncomfortable lumps at her waist, and she squirmed to find them a better resting place as she slowly caught her breath. When he turned to stare at her she met his gaze with an icy glare, but when his eyes did not waver, she began to feel uncomfortable. For all her frantic need to find help, for all her tears and demands that he not abandon her, as she faced that hard, assessing gaze, a tremor of fear slithered up her spine. She had thought he would be grateful enough to help her, but he clearly was not. Was he cold-hearted enough now to harm her?

When he took a step toward her, she let out a squeak of alarm and scrambled down from the rock wall.

“Have you any weapon?” His eyes ran down her dirty, lumpy form then up again to her face. “A dagger, perhaps?”

Rosalynde froze in indecision. Should she pretend to be weaponless—and thereby appear completely at his mercy? Or admit to having Cleve’s small knife and perhaps have him take it from her? She hesitated and tried to break the hold of his perceptive gaze, but before she could formulate a reply, he gave her a cold smile.

“You have one,” he stated knowingly. “Come, give it to me.”

“No.” Rosalynde backed away from him warily. “You may not have it.”

“I can just as easily take it from you. Come now. Just hand it over.”

As best she could, Rosalynde affected a measure of calm as she removed the meager weapon from the strap that held it to her leg. But she was shaking with fear and dread. Then, when he started toward her to retrieve it, she swiftly lifted it up and pointed it at him threateningly.

“Stay away from me!”

Her whispered warning slowed his pace, but a smirk curved his mouth into a half smile, and he looked at her in amusement.

“How now, wife?” The smirk grew broader as she stiffened at his use of that turn. “Is this any way to greet your new husband?”

“You’re not my husband!” she hissed. “I only went along with that pagan ritual to get your help.”

“You married a condemned murderer expecting his help?” He shook his head in mock disbelief even as he took another step closer. “It seems much wiser to ask the authorities for help than a ‘convict’ like myself. Why not go back and speak to the ‘lord’ mayor?”

“He’s drunk. They all are,” she answered, taking a wary step backwards. “Anyway, his friend grabbed me and then he accused me and—”

“Accused you? Of what? Thieving, perhaps? Are you a cutpurse, or maybe a whore?” One of his brows arched and he gave her a thoroughly insulting once-over. To her chagrin, she did not know whether to be relieved or angry at his obvious lack of interest in her womanly attributes.

“I’ve done nothing wrong!”

“Nor have I,” he said sarcastically. “Do you believe me?” Then, at her look of disbelief, he let out a short, mirthless laugh. “I see you do not.”

“I don’t care about what you’ve done. If I had I would not have saved you from the hangman. But I did save you and now I want to be brought safely to my home.”

“As I said before, I’ve needs enough of my own to occupy me, brat.” His eyes narrowed until they appeared as dark as obsidian. “Where, pray tell, is your home?”

“Stanwood Castle. Have you heard of it?” she added hopefully.

But he only shrugged. “How did an urchin like you get so far from home?”

“I’m not an urchin!” she burst out. But at his clear look of skepticism she sighed in resignation.

“I-I was living at Millwort Castle and my brother … my brother died. I go to tell my father.” She did not realize that her posture had slumped as she thought of her brother, nor that her hand had lowered somewhat with the dagger. “We were attacked. Everyone was killed but Cleve and me, and—”

“Cleve?”

Rosalynde stared at him doubtfully. How much of the truth should she tell this man? Should she reveal that she was a noblewoman and Cleve only her young servant? Should she let him know that Cleve was hurt? She needed to convince the brute that he would be well compensated for any help he gave her, but she did not want to appear so helpless that he might take advantage of her.

She was spared the necessity of reply by his sudden, lightning-fast lunge. In an instant he had her wrist in an unbreakable hold. She struggled frantically to grab the dagger with her other hand, but he swiftly jerked her against him, then spun her around so that her back was pressed against him and her other arm was pinned by his implacable grasp.

“Drop the knife,” he muttered hoarsely in her ear. Then his hand tightened painfully around her wrist, cutting off her circulation until her fingers began to feel numb. “Drop it,” he ordered once more.

When her nerveless fingers finally did release the short dagger, Rosalynde let out a small cry of despair. But whatever dreadful fears she had for her own safety fled as he immediately released her and grabbed the knife, almost seeming to forget she was even there. He ran his thumb assessingly over the hard steel blade and hefted the bone handle in his palm. “Small but effective in hand-to-hand combat.” He gave her a piercing look. “I’ll see you safe to the next village. That’s the most I can do for you. Perhaps there you can get the help you need.” He slid the dagger into the wide leather thong at his waist.

Rosalynde was too undone by his clear intention to abandon her to weigh her words well. “You cannot just leave me off wherever you wish! I saved your miserable neck so that you could help me and Cleve! Have you no feelings whatsoever? Have you no honor?”

His expression turned black at her shrill tone and accusing words. Rosalynde knew it was reckless to berate a man such as he. She knew her words were foolish and rash. But too much had happened; she had been witness to too many horrors and had been too agitated in the last few days to care anymore.

“You have no honor! No … no soul! No heart at all in your chest!” Then she snatched one of the carrots out of her soiled tunic and flung it furiously at him.

He deflected it easily enough, but his scowl did not relent. “Think carefully, my thorny little Rose. If I have no honor, no soul nor heart either, then you are on precarious ground indeed. Count it a blessing that I have consented to take you to the next village. Do not think to get anything else of me. Now let’s go.” So saying, he scooped up the battered carrot, stepped easily over the ancient stone wall, and strode out into the open wastelands beyond.

Rosalynde watched him go with a mixture of hopelessness and fury. How could he be so cruel and heartless—so unfeeling? He had taken the knife, and he obviously had no compunction about abandoning her at the first opportunity he found. Even though that might be for the best, there was still Cleve to consider.

He was almost a third of the way toward the distant tree line, his tall form beginning to blend into the long shadows of dusk, when she finally made up her mind. No matter how awful he was, he was still her only hope. And he was heading in the wrong direction!

As fast as she ran across the open wasteland, she thought she would never catch him. He was almost to the trees when he paused briefly at her breathless shout. But then he turned and continued on his way, and she had to force her bruised feet and aching lungs to continue on.

“Wait!” she cried as she finally caught up with him and grabbed the hem of his tunic. “I said wait!”

He stopped so abruptly that she ran full force into him. When she raised her dazed eyes to his face, he was once again glaring at her.

“A woman who orders a man around—whether husband or no—takes the risk of being severely cuffed for her impudence.”

“I’ll pay you!” Rosalynde blurted out as she stared up into his shadowed face. In the waning light he appeared more beast than man, a shaggy creature of supernatural strength, all her direst fears brought to unholy light. But her worry for Cleve and her terror of being alone in a strange, dark place overpowered her fear of his anger. “I’ll pay you. You’ll be well rewarded,” she vowed, half sobbing in her desperation.

“With what?” Then he smiled coldly and gave her a distasteful once-over. “I hope you don’t think to bribe me with your womanly favors. If I wanted that I would simply take it. After all, we are handfast wed.”

Rosalynde was aghast as much at his disgusting assumption of her means of payment as by his humiliating rebuff. But she was not about to let him leave. “My father will pay,” she insisted. “He will reward you well if you but bring me safely to Stanwood Castle. And Cleve too.”

This time he did not respond so quickly, and Rosalynde felt the tiniest glimmer of hope. But then he laughed and pushed his long matted hair back from his brow. “What will he give me? A broken-down cow? Half of his wool from the fall shearing? Or perhaps a share in his already meager portion of the rocky ground he farms for some noble lord? No.” He shook his head bitterly. “I seek much more than that.”

“My father is no mere cottar, no farmer to pay you in leeks and mutton!” she cried. “He is Lord of Stanwood. He will pay you in … in …”

“In gold? And jewels?” He laughed sarcastically and put his fists on his hips. “Yes, I can see now that you’re quite the lady. How foolish of me not to have noticed. Here I thought I’d been wed to a mere village urchin, one who wanted a husband perhaps because she was already with child.” One of his brows arched and his gaze moved down to the lump of vegetables inside her tunic. “No doubt your father will reward me with castles and land and riches far beyond my wildest dreams.” He laughed again and started to move away. “What a poor liar you are.”

“He’ll give you weapons!” Rosalynde shouted in desperation. “A horse. And … and … and gold! Yes, he’ll give you gold if you just bring us safely home.” When that didn’t convince him, when he gave her a last skeptical glance, she could not prevent the tears that spilled over her long thick lashes. “If you don’t believe me then ask Cleve. By the holy rood! If you’ll just talk to Cleve! He’ll tell you. He’ll tell you who I am and who my father is.” She clasped her hands tightly before her mouth. “Please,” she begged in little more than a whisper. “Please.”

After a heartbreakingly long moment he turned to stare at her. His eyes were dark; his expression was unreadable. When he spoke his voice held a note she could not decipher. Had he been moved by her tears, or by her pleading? Or was it only his greed?

“What an odd little wench you are. What a thorny little Rose.” Then he crossed to stand before her, and with one finger beneath her chin he tilted her face up to him. “Show me this Cleve of yours. But be cautious,” he warned as the quick light of relief lit her face. “I’ll not countenance any lies from you. Be truthful with me and we shall get along. Lie to me.…”

He left off without finishing, but Rosalynde was well aware of the threat inherent in his warning. Still, she was fairly certain her father would reward this Blacksword for any help he provided her. She did not pause to worry about that, however. As the violet light of nightfall began to shade the countryside, she quickly began the return trip to the castle where poor Cleve lay ailing. She did not let herself think about what would happen then, what Cleve would say, or about the days to come. She refused to dwell on the fact that she was entrusting herself and Cleve into the care of a condemned murderer who might, but for his previous capture, have been one of the bloodthirsty gang who had beset them yesterday.

Instead she concentrated on the knowledge that he wanted the reward. He was big and strong. And mean. He would get them to Stanwood safely in order to collect his prize. Then he would be on his way.

She drew her hood around her neck and shivered a little at the cool evening. No one need ever know about the handfasting, she decided. In a year and a day the vow would be broken, and she would be free to make a true marriage. Neither her father nor her future husband would ever have to know. She glanced curiously at the man who strode beside her in the dark moonlit night.

He would keep the secret, she assured herself. After all, he was not the sort who wished to be tied down to a wife. Besides, she recalled, pursing her lips in annoyance, he had already indicated his distaste for her. No, he would not tell anyone about the handfasting. With any luck she would be rid of him within a fortnight.