The Rose of Blacksword (6 page)

“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.