The Rose of Blacksword (23 page)

But to his surprise four burly men-at-arms approached him, and he was unexpectedly released from his helpless position. Quickly, before he could react to his sudden freedom, they tied his arms behind him. Then he was led across the bailey, through the crowd, which murmured now in bewilderment equal to his own, and hustled back down into the gloomy, foul-smelling donjon. His arms were untied and he was shoved painfully into the same fetid cell. Only then did one of the four guards say anything that shed a small light on these new goings-on.

“Use the water to make yourself presentable. Sir Edward will speak to you directly.”

The door screeched shut, the bar was lowered with a
hollow thud, and Aric heard the tramp of the men’s footsteps as they ascended from the dank donjon. He stood there in the chill air, his damp skin shivering and lifting in goose bumps, and his mind filled with a myriad of questions. He did not know what was going on, nor why he was to be brought before her father, Sir Edward. Perhaps it was a miraculous reprieve.

More likely the man wished to cast the killing blow himself, he thought sourly. But then, why have him wash? It made no sense at all. Still, whatever the reason, Aric took some solace that he was at least to have a chance to face the man who would decide his fate. How he would proceed, what he would say, how he could defend himself against the accusations cast at his door, he could not yet predict. That would depend on the nature of the accusations and the temperament of the accuser. But
she
would not escape the truth with an accusation of rape, he vowed as he reached for the bucket of water. He grimaced in pain as his tortured flesh pulled against the muscles of his back. If she cried rape he would reveal the marriage. Though either of those was sufficient to condemn him, he would not let her escape unscathed.

The treachery was hers. She must suffer the consequences as well.

Sir Edward did not look up when the group of men approached. He sat at his huge table with papers and quills, ink and blotting sand strewn in seeming confusion before him. He remained purposefully absorbed in the boring list of fields and tenants and crop assignments as the men came to a clattering halt before him. Let the knave squirm, he thought as he moved his finger quite deliberately down the parchment. It would do him good. Yet honesty demanded that Sir Edward admit, at least to
himself, that he was nearly as uncomfortable with this interview as this cursed fellow no doubt was.

His finger paused and a frown emphasized the creases of his deeply lined face. Christ’s blood, but it would be easier to just stretch the man’s neck. But in a moment of weakness he’d promised otherwise to his daughter, and now he found himself in an untenable position. In unfamiliar frustration his mind veered from fury to bewilderment, from absolute conviction to total bafflement. It was not his way to be indecisive. By God, when a man made a decision he must be true to his gut feelings and stick closely to his words! To punish the man who mistreated his only daughter had taken no great struggle of conscience. Yet Rosalynde’s pleadings on the man’s behalf had created an unwelcome debate between his need for revenge and his need for justice. Between his common sense and his emotions.

For a moment he saw how she’d looked up at him, with her eyes so huge and her face so pale. How like her mother she was, he thought. It was what he’d feared when he’d sent her away those many years ago—to be reminded every time he gazed upon her of the wife he’d lost. Yet now he found an unexpected comfort in it. Like her mother she was fair and sweet, like any rose, yet not so fragile as she appeared. The same lips that had trembled with emotion were as likely to thin with anger and purse with displeasure, he realized. His frown eased as his own wife’s face came back to him. She had possessed those very same lips that had been just as prone to smile with tenderness and laugh with joyous abandon. He’d never been able to deny the Lady Anne a thing. Was it any wonder he could not deny their daughter?

One of the men shifted restlessly and Sir Edward came back to the present with a blink of his suddenly mist-filled
eyes. His hand trembled slightly as he put the ledger page from him. But he firmly buried the image of his wife as he attended the unpleasant business before him. She’d been gone from him these eight long years. The fact that Rosalynde had her mother’s same lustrous mahogany hair and that her mouth was cast from the identical mold changed nothing. He was still without his wife, though it pained him every day of his existence. But now he had his daughter back and he would be a good father to her. He was still Lord of Stanwood, however. No matter his promise to his beloved daughter, he still must ensure the safety of his people, her included. The hard-eyed brute before him would not be hanged; he’d already said as much. But as Sir Edward slid his narrowed gaze over the arrogant-looking knave, his resolve hardened. He would not be hanged. But he would damn well be brought to heel.

Sir Edward leaned his elbows on the table and made a steeple of his fingers as he watched the man closely. “You survived the flogging well enough, I see.”

The man met his gaze evenly. “Aye.”

Sir Edward’s chin raised a notch. Too arrogant by half, he decided with grim amusement. But that would not last. He picked up the quill and dipped it into a pottery dish of ink. “Your name?”

There was a brief hesitation, just enough for Sir Edward to wonder if the answer given was a truthful one. “I am Aric.”

“Aric.” Sir Edward stared steadily at him. “From whence?”

Again the hesitation. “Wycliffe.”

This one would be trouble, Sir Edward decided on the instant. On the pretext of writing down that information, he turned his eyes away from the even stare of the man before him. He was trouble and he would bear watching.
But he was big and looked strong as an ox. It was a rare thing to find a man of such physique. Even among his own knights few appeared his match. There was only one thing for it, Sir Edward decided. The man would be worked dawn to dusk, at the hardest, most taxing and menial of jobs. If he were bone-tired and dog-weary he could cause no mischief. Work and sleep would become the whole of yon Aric’s life. He would either rise to it or bolt. At that moment Sir Edward was hard-pressed to decide which eventuality he would prefer.

“So, Aric of Wycliffe.” He threw the quill down and leaned back in the heavy hide-covered chair. “You’ve taken your flogging well. Another less-just lord would have seen you hanged as well. However, since there is some doubt as to the precise extent of your crimes, I have decided to offer you a choice.” He smiled slightly, pleased by this brilliant ploy he’d just thought of. “You may choose to work in my employ—to prove yourself, as it were. Or you may be treated as are all outlaws, and hanged.”

His brows lifted in wry amusement when the man’s jaw tightened at his words. “So, what say you to this? You bear the brunt of your own decision.”

For a long moment the man did not reply. The silence stretched out so unnervingly that a blood vessel began angrily to throb in Sir Edward’s temple. But just as he was about to leap from his chair in a fury over the man’s outrageous effrontery, the huge brute gave a barely perceptible nod of his head.

“I thank you for making the choice my own,” he said stiffly. He raised his chin and stared boldly at Sir Edward. “I accept your offer to work in your service. You may count me among your loyal subjects.”

Sir Edward had to stifle an amazed chuckle as the man was escorted off by the four frowning guards. By God, but
the knave made it seem
he’d
been the one to confer the favor instead of the other way around! And now he would be a most loyal subject? There was scant chance of that. A week of working with his back still afire from the flogging would test that loyalty well. Added to that, the grim dislike of the castle guard and the fear and contempt of the castlefolk would very likely see him straining in the harness.

Sir Edward felt well pleased with himself as he pushed away from the table and the remainder of his unfinished work. That fellow was too cocksure of himself to long endure such ignominy. Eventually he would break, and when he did the penalty would be great. No leniency would be forthcoming for even his least infraction of any castle rule. The man had been given his one and only chance. If he stretched the boundaries even the smallest bit, Rosalynde would not be able to object or intercede on his behalf.

13

Despite her all-consuming worry about Blacksword’s condition, Rosalynde knew she must prepare for the evening meal—and her next meeting with her father—with great care. At midday, given all the commotion caused by the flogging, and then her own public display of temper, there had been no meal other than the hasty distribution of broken meats, bread, and cheese. Even the ale had been consumed on the run as men-at-arms, servants, and tradesmen alike had hurried from Sir Edward’s furious path. But now the castle was calmer and a proper meal was called for. Accordingly she buried her concerns for her outlaw protector as best she could. She donned one of the several gowns her father had given her—gowns that had once been her mother’s—and combed her long hair until it gleamed. To calm the rebellious waves she pulled two long tendrils back from either side of her brow and wove them together down the back of her head until she could not reach any farther. Then she took a short bit of cord and tied the strand securely, adding a sprig of lavender into the knot for good measure.

She had none of her ornaments, no jewels or ribbons, nor gowns of silk bedecked with braided trim. Yet she did not mourn their loss, for such items seemed quite insignificant to her now. Life was what mattered, she told herself
as her thoughts once more veered to the man who had saved her at Dunmow. Being alive, being safe—those were the important things. The most sumptuous gown made from cloth of gold, worked entirely with silver threads and sparkling pearls and caught up in a girdle of the finest golden links, would mean far less to her than simply being able to breathe deeply and without fear, secure in the bosom of her own home.

Rosalynde spun slowly around on her heels, taking in the oddly shaped chamber to which she had returned. The room was quite the same as she recalled: rough stone walls built at flat angles to make almost a circle; six tall narrow windows so that a view of nearly the entire countryside could be had. Each window was set back into a recess, just the right size for a child to curl up in—or for a woman to sit back in, holding a fretting babe or comforting an ailing child.

For a long moment she stared around her, seeing the dusty plank floor, the plain high bed, and the slightly worn tapestry that hung above the bed. Yet what she saw in her mind’s eye was a far different scene entirely. Oh, the chamber was much the same, but in her imagination it held a certain glow, a satisfying warmth. How happy she’d been then, she recalled as bittersweet memories tugged at her. How completely and utterly happy. She wiped away a stray tear, then stared around her as reality intruded once more. There was no warm glow now, though a small blaze fought the evening chill away. There was no happiness either. The room was the same except for the accumulated dust and its decidedly shabby appearance. But nothing else was the same.

With a deep breath she tried to shake off such depressing thoughts. It did no good to dwell on the past, she told herself as she rubbed her hand aimlessly across a sturdy
wooden trunk. She frowned at the thick gray dust on her palm, then brushed her hand clean. When her mother had lived, the castle had shone like a rare gold coin. Now it was dark and dirty and sad.

Rosalynde squared her shoulders as she crossed to the door. If nothing else she could at least set the place to rights. She could see Stanwood dusted and scrubbed and clean once more. She might not be able to restore it to happiness—who could possibly know how to accomplish such a thing? But the rest of it she could handle. After all, managing a large household was precisely what her aunt had trained her to do.

Feeling somewhat better for having at least some course of action open to her, Rosalynde banked the fire, pulled the wood shutters tight across the windows, then finally left her chamber and headed for this next meeting with her father. They had seemed to have a confrontation every time they’d met so far. But this time she was determined it not be so. After all, she reasoned, there was no longer any cause for it. He already knew about Giles, and although she still felt the dire weight of responsibility for her younger brother’s loss, she also knew there was nothing to be done for it. Time was the best healer for such pain, although in her father’s case it seemed he’d not yet even recovered from his wife’s death. Still, she thought as she moved silently down the steps, there was nothing she could do about that either.

The other matter of discord between them, that of the treatment of Blacksword, would also resolve itself, she hoped. She’d watched from a window in her chamber as the guards had untied him and led him away from the clearly disappointed crowd. Her relief had been immediate and overwhelming. He would not be killed! Yet fast on the heels of relief came a new fear. What might he reveal
now that his life was spared? She had promised him a reward—a horse, weapons, even gold. But her father had made it clear he would not reward a man he considered a base scoundrel. However, despite her father, it would be in her best interests to find Blacksword some sort of reward, if only to buy his silence. Now that he had narrowly escaped with his life, he must realize how foolish it would be for him to claim her as his wife. Her father wouldn’t hesitate to kill him if he knew all that had passed between them in the woods. No, she reassured herself, Blacksword would take whatever she could find for him as a reward and flee.