by The Raven
Sir Bryan hesitated, then blurted, “His reputation with women stinks to high heaven. He’s already had two wives; both are in their graves!”
“His wife died in childbed,” said Roseanna thoughtfully.
“The first one did, perhaps. The second one died under very suspicious circumstances. ’Tis rumored she was murdered—or worse!”
“Bryan, please, don’t be upset over this. My parents would never force me to wed a man I didn’t love.” She smiled into his eyes. “They have always given me my heart’s desire.”
He took her into his arms again and held her fiercely. “I’ll not let you go to him,” he swore.
She reached up a finger to smooth the frown from his brow; he took it and kissed it. “Pledge me your love, and I’ll be satisfied. For now,” he added.
“I pledge you my love with all my heart,” whispered Roseanna.
Jeffrey and Alice rode up, and their privacy was at an end. But before they parted, they pledged their love again, silently, with their eyes.
Roseanna was spending less time in the stables and more time indoors these days, her mother noticed with satisfaction. Her daughter actually asked Kate Kendall’s advice about housekeeping duties and was seen in the kitchens writing down some menus. When Joanna remarked on her new interest in womanly occupations, Roseanna said sweetly, “I will need to know these things when I become a wife.”
Joanna drew in her breath. “Darling, you won’t be devastated if the betrothal with Ravenspur comes to naught and is dissolved, will you?”
“Oh, Mother, of course not. I know it can come to nothing. I’m not naive enough to think he will ever claim me.”
“Then you will be happy if we look about and consider another husband for you?”
Roseanna smiled. “It is what I desire most.” She almost said more but caught the words and smiled her secret smile instead. Silently she added, “You won’t have to seek far, Mother.”
In the stables, she helped her father dose a mare who had delivered a foal easily enough but whose afterbirth was proving troublesome. He appreciated Roseanna’s gentle hands. As he held the mare’s head at a good height, Roseanna poured warm gruel laced with black treacle into the mare’s mouth. She did it very slowly so that it wouldn’t go into the windpipe.
“Ah, Roseanna. What would I do without you?” he asked with admiration.
She teased, “You’ll have to train someone before I get married—unless of course I marry one of your knights and live at Castlemaine.”
“That would please me.” He smiled fondly. “But what of your mother?”
She ignored his question and asked one of her own. “Father, if I did fall in love with someone and wished to marry, would there be any difficulty with Ravenspur?”
He shook his head. “I think not. You’d be honor bound to beg off, but I think the vow was forgotten years ago.”
Whenever they were in the great hall together, Roseanna’s and Bryan’s eyes followed each other’s every move. Roseanna was blooming. She wanted to shout her love from the rooftops! Everyone must be blind. Couldn’t they see she was walking around in a love trance? Whenever the two young people managed to steal a few moments alone, the scenario was always the same: bliss while a few breathless kisses were exchanged, followed by Bryan’s misery because she was pledged to another. She could not convince him that everything would work out for them if only he were patient.
Roseanna had a plan. It was simple, really, and it would solve everything! Ravenspur was now at Belvoir, the King’s hunting lodge, not six miles distant. She would simply go and ask him to release her from the old betrothal because she loved another. She would go tomorrow. She blew out her candles, and having made her decision, she was asleep almost as soon as her head touched her pillow.
The morning was hot and unbelievably oppressive for such an early hour. Roseanna decided to tell no one of her plan so it could not be thwarted. She was a girl who was used to making her own decisions and acting upon them. She seldom needed anyone to aid and abet her. In fact, she rather despised women who could not do things alone and forever went about in twosomes, propping each other up.
On a fancy, because she would be going through the forest, she chose a pale green dress of lightweight material and a matching scarf to cover her long tresses. She wished to appear properly demure when she appealed to the baron. She wore her new green leather riding boots embossed with winged horses. How clever the workmanship on them was! Her father had known she would love them on sight.
She took her breakfast late so that her father and most of his knights and men-at-arms would be long gone from the great hall. This was one morning she did not wish to tarry with Sir Bryan.
She gave Zeus an early apple and rubbed the black velvet of his muzzle; then she thought better about riding him. Perhaps it would be more seemly to ride a palfrey. So she picked out a young filly and saddled it quickly. As old Dobbin ambled up, she smiled at him and said, “As you see, I’ve chosen a gentle mount today, so there will be no need to send a groom to follow me to pick up the pieces.”
He grinned up at her, exposing the gaps in his teeth. “What’s the use? You usually manage to give him the slip anyway.”
As she rode, the sun beat down unmercifully upon her shoulders, and she felt her neck becoming damp beneath her hair and the head covering. She noticed, however, that a few sultry, bruise-colored clouds were gathering ahead of her; briefly, she hoped the storm would not come until night.
A fat partridge flew out of the gorse, and the young filly reared up in fright. The horse was still skittish after she brought it under control; it danced aside at every shadow. She slowed her pace and patted the animal’s neck and soothed it with calming words, but its nervousness increased. Then Roseanna heard the far-off rumble of thunder, and she realized the horse’s keen hearing had picked it up long before she herself heard it.
“Damn,” she swore, and dug her heels in, hoping to reach the shelter of the forest before the drenching began. She almost made it. She was within two hundred yards of the trees when the deluge came. Animal and rider entered the woods at full gallop, curving around the trunks of trees and jumping over fallen branches. Then the rain, coming in sheets, began to penetrate the foliage above, and the forest floor became slippery with mud and weeds.
Roseanna dismounted and led the nervous young animal by the bridle deeper into the forest, where the oaks were so large, their trunks were six feet in girth. She tied the filly’s reins to a branch where it was quite dry and sheltered and sat down close by on a fallen log to wait out the thunderstorm. She was aware that her appearance had been ruined by the rain; reluctantly she pulled off the pretty head veil that had been so becoming this morning but that now resembled a sodden rag. She ran her fingers through her wet hair in an effort to spread it across her shoulders so that it would begin to dry.
After about an hour the thunder and lightning began to abate, and she knew the storm was moving off. With a sigh of relief, she arose to untie the horse’s reins. At that precise moment, the shrill blast of a hunting horn carried through the trees. The young animal panicked instantly: it screamed, showed the whites of its eyes, and bolted.
She cursed the horse’s cowardice and thought, Zeus is a thousand times safer than this untrained filly. Roseanna ran through the trees in the direction the horse had taken and began what she thought might be a fruitless search. She had almost given up when she heard an unmistakable cry for help. She followed the horse’s pitiful cries until she came to a wide stream. The horse’s back quarters had gone down into the water, and though the river didn’t appear deep enough for real danger, she realized that the animal’s fright alone made it necessary for her to go in after it.
She sat down and removed her new green boots carefully, calling out soothing words that she was far from feeling at the moment. She pulled her gown up above her knees although it was already quite wet from the rain. “Hold on, girl. I’ll help you,” she called softly, wading out
into the middle of the stream.
Just as she reached for the trailing reins, the frightened young filly lunged forward, thrashed her back haunches free of the stream bed, and took off as if the devil himself were prodding her tail with his pitchfork. Roseanna was splattered from head to foot, and she was very angry. She staggered from the water up onto the bank, and for a moment she was disoriented. She didn’t see which way the horse had gone; she didn’t even know which side of the stream she had entered. It was unbelievable the way the day had turned out after such a promising beginning. Even her lovely gown with its subtle shade of green was now a colorless, sodden rag. She had no horse, no boots, and she harbored a suspicion that she just might be lost.
After almost two hours of wandering around, her anger melted away and was gradually replaced by apprehension, approaching fear. These great forests of Sherwood were alive with wild beasts, and although she was fairly safe during daylight hours when on a good mount, such was not the case when she was alone, on foot, as the evening shadows approached. Firmly she put the picture of wolves, boars, and wild bulls from her mind and cupped her hands on either side of her mouth. She called, “Hello? Hello?”
To her amazement she heard a horse approach through the trees. A male voice, filled with amusement, said, “Well, what quarry do I have here?”
She saw a handsome young lord whose white teeth flashed in his dark face and whose eyes fairly danced with mischief under heavy black brows. He was leading a second horse that carried a very bloody wild boar across its saddlebow.
“I’m lost,” she blurted.
“Not anymore, sweetheart.” He grinned with a leer.
Roseanna was instantly wary and drew her dignity about her. “I am the Lady Roseanna Castlemaine. I—”
He threw back his head and laughed with glee, “You’re a liar, little wench!”
She said stiffly, “I beg your pardon?”
“Pardon freely given, sweetheart. Do you often suffer from delusions of grandeur?” He grinned.
By God, the laughing, gaping oaf didn’t believe her! She almost threw at him that she was the daughter of the King, so stung was she by his laughter. She caught sight of the hunting horn slung at his side, and anger gripped her. “Your stupid screeching through that horn is what frightened off my horse! Who are you?” she demanded.
He bowed gravely from the saddle. “Tristan Montford, and you are? Oh yes, I forgot, you are the Queen of Sheba.”
She was so angry, she trembled. He mistook it for a chill. For a peasant girl she was exquisite beneath the grime. His eyes traveled from her bare feet up her body and rested on her stubborn, tempting mouth.
“Where are you bound, my queen?”
She didn’t answer him. Then she realized he was her only means of deliverance. “I am on my way to Belvoir.”
His eyes began to dance again. “No doubt by special invitation from Baron Ravenspur.”
“Yes. No—I mean, yes, that is who I wish to see.”
He dismounted. “Come, I’ll take you up before me. He will be delighted with you.”
Her cheeks flamed with embarrassment now that he had drawn close, for the thin material of her gown clung wetly across her breasts. Though she tried to stand with her chest in as concave a manner as possible, her breasts thrust up impudently between them, causing his devil’s grin to widen.
“I’ll not ride with you,” she said, lifting her head high.
He mockingly indicated the packhorse with its bloody burden. “Take your choice.”
“I prefer this boor,” she said acidly.
One heavy eyebrow slanted with appreciation at her stinging wit.
She mounted behind the carcass and glared daggers as Tristan looked his fill at her shapely legs. Soon she was chagrined to find out that she had been very close to Belvoir. She could have gotten there without this imp of Satan if she had only known.
Tristan turned the horses over to a groom and led her through an archway into the rambling lodge. She resolutely ignored the stares of two young squires and followed Tristan up a winding stairway to a chamber on the upper level. Thankfully, there was a fire, and Roseanna stepped toward it gratefully.
“I’ll find you something dry to wear,” said Tristan, going to another chamber door and calling, “Cassandra, come and see what I’ve found.”
Knowing the young knave was referring to her, she whirled toward him with a mouthful of invective, but the words dissolved as she stared at the most vividly flamboyant creature she’d ever seen. She wore a low-cut gown of shining gold material that revealed rather than concealed her breasts. Her hair also was a most unreal shade of blond; it looked as if it had been sprinkled with gold dust. To top it off, she wore face paint—her lips were brightly crimson, her eyelids gilt.
The woman appraised Roseanna carefully as Tristan approached them. “I thought she’d make a unique present for Roger.”
Roseanna had had enough. She sprang at him. “You bastard!” she cried, punching him until he grabbed her by the arms.
“Before you give her to Roger, best draw her sting, darling,” Cassandra whispered. She passed Tristan a tiny vial of sleeping drops distilled from the poppy, then left him to it.
“For God’s sake, settle down,” Tristan said. “No harm will come to you.” He moved a huge armchair before the fire and poured her a goblet of wine. Then he pulled off the voluminous silken tapestry that served as a bedcover and handed it to her. “Take off that wet rag, and I’ll go find you a gown. Then I’ll take you to Ravenspur, if that’s what you want.”
“It is, you grinning goat!” Roseanna glared at him.
He closed the door behind him, and she stood immobile, determined not to remove one stitch. Then she caught sight of herself in the mirror and gasped in horror. Her appearance was a thousand times worse than she had imagined. She was in rags, she was dirty, and her hair was in such wild disarray, it fell down her back in a tangled mass of curls that looked as if a brush and comb hadn’t touched it since birth.
Quickly she washed her hands and face, then her feet and legs. She stripped off what used to be her gown and wrapped herself in the silken tapestry. There was no hairbrush in the room, but if he could produce a gown, a hairbrush should be possible, too, she mused. She sat down before the fire to wait and drained the goblet of wine.
When Tristan returned with a couple of items of female attire draped over his arm, he found her asleep before the fire. The empty goblet was on the rug, where it had rolled from her hand. Christ! The sleeping potion had worked faster than he thought. He hoped he hadn’t given her too much. He took Roseanna’s chin in his hand and lifted it. God, she was lovely! It had been so long since he’d seen a woman without face paint, he was enthralled. The natural texture of her skin seemed as luminous as a pearl, and her lips were like soft pink velvet. The tapestry fell away to reveal a luscious pink-tipped breast. She was a prize indeed, and by God, he knew exactly how he was going to present her to Roger.
The feast below in the dining hall of the King’s hunting lodge was sumptuous. All the game that had been bagged the day before had been roasted for tonight’s banquet. Roger Montford, Baron of Ravenspur, sat on the small raised dais with Cassandra at his side. He was as dark as his name implied, an older, broader version of Tristan. But instead of open humor, his dark eyes held cynicism. Where Tristan’s mouth lifted in laughter, Roger’s was hard and masculine. In fact, everything about Roger was more vivid, more pronounced, more striking than his younger brother.
Forty of his favored knights who had served him well in Wales sat along two rows of trestle tables facing each other. The tables groaned beneath the platters of game and venison and the flagons of wine and ale.
Between every pair of men sat a young woman; there were twenty in all for their enjoyment. As the evening progressed, the drinking was deep and the atmosphere grew louder and more bawdy with each drained goblet. The women also were well-flown with wine; one stood on a table and performed an erotic version of
the dance of the seven veils to enthusiastic shouts from the men.
When this performance finished, there was a natural lull in the proceedings. Tristan chose his moment well. He strode into the hall with the silk tapestry rolled up and draped over his arms. He stopped before Roger and bowed. “We have a special prize for the man who bagged the most game on this hunt.” All eyes went to Ravenspur, since everyone present knew their lord always took the most game. Roger looked on, amused and curious as to what the young devil was up to now.
Tristan went down on one knee and gently rolled out the silken tapestry. Whistles and shouts broke out as the naked maid was revealed. Only her dark mane of hair provided cover from the men’s avid eyes.
The smile was instantly wiped from Roger’s face. “Who is she?” he demanded.
“A peasant girl,” said Tristan, feeling the back of his neck prickle because his brother was not pleased.
Roger stood up and swore. “Jesus Christ, you’ll get us all hanged before you’re finished! These peasants are not ours, Tristan. They belong to the King. You young fool— sometimes I think your brains must be in your arse! Is it not enough for you that I brought along Madame Cassandra and these young ladies from her riding academy?” he asked with cutting sarcasm.
It always annoyed Roger that although Tristan had a lovely young wife and child, that didn’t keep him from whoring. He took up his cloak and stepped down from the dais. He bent and wrapped the maid in his mantle, picked up her limp form, and handed her back to Tristan. His dark eyes bored into his brother’s and he said firmly, “Put her in my chamber until she recovers. Lock it!” Tristan left without a word, but he wondered what the hell was up with Roger that he spoiled all the fun. He must be getting old, Tristan decided.
Cassandra soon coaxed Roger’s sense of humor to return by regaling him with the details of an evening’s entertainment in honor of the Archbishop of York that she and her girls had attended. She had dressed her girls as nuns, and the romp that ensued had almost caused a scandal when the Archbishop’s brother, the great Warwick, heard of it.