“No matter the reason, ’tis time I went home. Even if my father does not want me there, that household no doubt needs a woman’s hand.”
Rosalynde knew that was one argument her aunt could not reason against, for she had many times voiced the same thought. Nevertheless, the older woman could only give her niece a watery smile and then pat her cheek one last time.
“Be a good girl,” she instructed, though tears streamed down her lined face. She tucked Rosalynde’s maidenly plait into the hood of her forest-green wool cloak. “Be a good girl and remember everything you’ve been taught.”
“I will,” Rosalynde reassured the dear woman as she gave her a tight hug. “Thank you. Thank you for everything—” Her voice caught on a sob as she realized she truly was leaving. “I won’t let you down,” she whispered through her tears.
“I doubt you could, even if you wanted to.” Lady Gwynne gave a sad laugh as she squeezed her young charge’s hand.
“And don’t be fearing your father, young lady.” Lord Ogden gave her a brief awkward hug, then stepped hastily back from her, uncomfortable with his own emotions.
“He’s a difficult man. Perhaps he doesn’t meet the expectations of a young girl like yourself. But he’s your father and you owe him your duty.”
“I know that,” Rosalynde murmured. “And I’ll not disappoint you.” She gave a sad smile to her aunt and uncle. Could she ever thank them enough for how good they had been to her and Giles? She stared at their downcast faces and bit her lower lip against the terrible sorrow that threatened to overwhelm her. How she would miss them.
Then her cream-colored palfrey was led around, and before she was quite prepared to go, she was mounted and everyone was ready to leave. Lord Ogden had a few last-minute instructions for the men-at-arms who would be her escort. She was to ride in their midst, never ahead or behind them. Because her regular maid was with child, another was to accompany her, but in addition to the reluctant maid, Rosalynde had asked for Cleve to come with her to Stanwood, and in a weak moment Lord Ogden had acquiesced. Now as the gangling youth guided his sturdy mount beside her mare, he gave her an encouraging look.
“It will be all right, milady. You’ll see.” Then he grinned, obviously excited at the prospect of the journey to his new home. He had never been off the Millwort holdings except for one brief trip to Abingdon Abbey. Now he was to go five days’ journey east to Stanwood, and he could not contain his exuberance. If for no other reason than that, Rosalynde was pleased to have him along. A faint smile lifted her piquant features as she fell in line with two knights before her, another two following, and the pair of two-wheeled carts trailing behind with her maid, her belongings, and the necessary provisions for the journey.
“It appears that you are as anxious to leave as I am anxious to stay.” She gave Cleve a rueful glance. “Have you no regrets at all to be leaving your home?”
“None,” he answered at once. “But you needn’t go, Lady Rosalynde. You needn’t. The messenger can carry the news to your father. It need not be you who tells him.”
“Oh, but it must,” she answered with a faraway look in her amber-green eyes. “I’m all that’s left to my father, whether he cares or not. I was to look after Giles, and I’m the one to tell him of our loss.”
She was silent after that and the boy decided it best not to press her. As time went by she would come out of this sadness that weighed so heavily upon her. Once she arrived at her father’s home and gave him the sad news, she would begin to feel a little better. He maneuvered his pony as ordered by one of the knights but he kept his dark-brown eyes on his mistress’s preoccupied face.
It was not like her to be so somber, so subdued. Her grief for her little brother affected Cleve sorely, for she of all people did not deserve such sorrow. He had always thought Lady Rosalynde the most beautiful, the most delightful maiden in the land. Or at least the fairest that he had ever seen. But it went far beyond the lustrous mahogany gleam of her long thick hair and the luminous glint in her unusual golden-green eyes. Any other maiden might have been quite vain to be possessed of such a slender yet curvaceous figure. Any other might have preened over such a translucently pale complexion, which still showed the bloom of roses in her cheeks.
But his mistress always thought of others before herself. She saw beauty all around her and goodness where it might otherwise go undetected and, in so doing, never saw what he and everyone else so clearly recognized. She was a jewel among common river rocks, a sparkling gem set amid pebbles of lesser worth. Where she walked the sun shone brighter, the grass grew greener, and the birds sang far sweeter.
He shook his head at his own poetic nonsense. He was halfway to being in love with her—so were most of the other serving lads at Millwort Castle, for she did not put herself too high to have a pleasant word for whomever crossed her path. But she surpassed his sixteen years by another three, and as for her social ranking, what hope had a mere page when it came to a lady of the realm? Still, that did not prevent him from enjoying her company whenever she required something of him. She might be far beyond him, but he only admired her the more for it. He would be willing to do anything for his Lady Rosalynde.
Now as he stared at her she straightened, inadvertently causing the dark-green hood to slip down from her head. In the crisp morning light her dark hair gleamed like a halo. Cleve blinked his eyes hard as he stared at her fragile beauty. Then she spoke and her voice, though soft and small, had the musical lilt of an angel’s.
“We’d best not dawdle. The journey shall be long enough, and my father must be told.”
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 rub
ble. “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.
The Rose of Blacksword (Loveswept) Page 2