The Rose of Blacksword (5 page)

“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.