The Rose of Blacksword (3 page)

2

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.”