The Rose of Blacksword (Loveswept)

by Becnel, Rexanne

  “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.

  “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 pr
otectively 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!”