The Rose of Blacksword (Loveswept)

by Becnel, Rexanne

  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.

  She clutched at her cloak as she watched them shamble to stand beneath the waiting nooses, a burly guard on each side of them. Their feet were linked by heavy lengths of rope. Their arms were bound behind their backs. It was only by reminding herself that they were very likely murderers, of the same ilk as the deadly gang of cutthroats that had attacked her and her unsuspecting group yesterday, that she was able to fight back tears of sympathy.

  Then there was another disruption at the stairs, and, with a loud outcry from the crowd, the third man was dragged up onto the gallows.

  Rosalynde’s eyes were as round and staring as everyone else’s when the fellow found his footing and then shook his would-be captors off. Like the others he was bound hand and foot. But unlike those other hapless men, his bindings did not begin to lessen the threat he presented. Like a cornered wolf, beleaguered yet no less dangerous, he held the nervous men at bay, seeming almost to dare them to approach.

  He was a big man—huge, Rosalynde noted—with massive shoulders and powerful arms. His tunic had been ripped and partially torn away, and as he strained against the stout hemp ropes, his every muscle and sinew stood out in sculpted detail. He was a full head taller than any other man on the platform, and for the space of two heartbeats Rosalynde wondered how such a fine specimen of a man could ever have come to so poor an end.

  The crowd was silent, in awe of the man who, even as he approached his death, could be so fearsome, so intimidating. Then the man straightened a little, and with a contemptuous glance at the men who’d t
ried to hold him, he moved of his own accord to stand beneath the third noose.

  There was in that move an odd sort of nobility. Where the other men were broken and afraid, he was proud and brave. Clearly he did not wish to die, but he seemed to have accepted his end with the dignity of a prince, Rosalynde thought. He did not meet any eye after that, but only stared grimly toward the horizon.

  “Now there’s a bloke worth having,” Rosalynde heard a woman somewhere near her murmur.

  Yes, she silently agreed. There indeed was a man worth having. If only he’d been at the river with them yesterday. If only he’d been there to stop that pair of ruffians from manhandling her and chasing her as a thief! She was so desperately frightened, yet he seemed afraid of nothing. Not even death. If only she could hire him to see her home.

  On that wishful thought she suddenly froze. He could get her home if he was free. And she could set him free if she would agree to be handfasted!

  She shook her head in confusion, aghast at such a preposterous idea. Claim him for her husband in this heathen ritual? She must be mad to even think such a thing. And yet a part of her was mad, she admitted to herself, as she stared wildly around her, still fearing to be caught by the two bullies. She was mad with fear and mad with desperation. Could she afford to wait for another way home?

  She stared up at the man once more. He might be a criminal, but there was something oddly noble in his bearing. She was convinced he could get her home safely. But would he? And could she take such a foolhardy chance?

  She was still staring at him, dumbfounded and wondering what he looked like beneath the week-old beard and long hair plastered damply to his head, when she realized the mayor was again speaking.

  “… the three prisoners. Tom Hadley.” He pointed to the miserable young man at the end whose head hung down pitifully. “Tom Hadley for thieving and murder, on the King’s Road to London. Roger Ganting for hunting within the Bishop of Shortford’s preserve and for attacking the Bishop’s guard and killing one man.”

  The mayor started to move nearer the big man but then clearly thought better of it. “And then this fellow, known only as Blacksword since he has not revealed his Christian name—very likely he’s not even Christian! Blacksword, also for thieving and murder. On the King’s Road to London, on the highway to St. Edmonds, and in the village of—” He stopped abruptly when the man slowly turned his head and gave him a cold stare.

  “The—the village of Lavenham,” the mayor concluded quickly. Then he took another step back from the menacing prisoner. “They’ve all been tried and found guilty. Now we’re to see ’em hanged.”

  “Wot about the han’fastin’?” a man beyond Rosalynde called.

  “Aye! Where’s the maid willin’ to rescue one of these fine upstandin’ lads from the noose?” an old man shouted.

  Rosalynde did not pause to reason out what she did next. She had heard the charges against him, yet she harshly cast them from her mind. She had been horrified at the suggestion that some maiden be handfast wed to one of this murderous group. Yet now she clung to the idea as her only salvation. She had been disgusted by the crowd’s perverse interest in seeing these men hanged or else wed to some unlucky woman, and yet … And yet the logic that prompted those earlier emotions fled when she once more spied the drunken visage of the man who’d chased her. If she did not act right now, she might not get another chance to save herself and Cleve.

  As she raised her voice and fought her way forward, she knew he was the only man strong enough—and sober enough—to help her and Cleve. He was the only man with a reason to take her seriously. He had nothing to lose and everything to gain. Surely out of gratitude he would see her safely to Stanwood.

  “I will be handfasted!” she cried, shoving her way past a stout village woman and her half-grown son. “I will have him to husband!”

  At first the mayor did not hear her. There was too much noise from the restless spectators who surrounded the platform. But the people around her heard, and before she could reconsider her rash actions, she was pushed along, grabbed at roughly, and propelled forward until she stumbled to a halt at the foot of the crude stairway.

  For a heart-stopping moment Rosalynde hesitated. All around her people stared and laughed. A new chant was springing up: “Handfast! Handfast!” She suddenly wanted no more than for the earth to swallow her up and deliver her from this hell she’d plunged herself so precipitously into. She looked wildly about for escape, but there was none. Before her a sea of avid faces swam, some malicious, some compassionate, others only eager for a new and novel entertainment. She had wanted to remain hidden and unnoticed, but now she was the center of everyone’s attention.

  She was shaking with fear as she tried to step back away from them all. But her heel struck against the rough wooden stairs and her hand bumped against the railing.

  It was that rail that decided her, that gave her the strength to follow through on her mad and ill-advised scheme. Beneath her hand it was solid despite its rough texture and the splinters it promised. When she thought she would fall from the sheer fright of everything, the rail held her up. Although it made no sense—she knew it was only a desperate wish on her part—she kept thinking that this man might be like the rail: hard and strong, and prickly too. But beneath it he might be steady and reliable.

  They need only be handfasted for a year and a day as the mayor said, she reminded herself. If she appealed to his better nature, he might help her. If she saved his life, he might feel obligated to her.

  If she offered him a reward, he might do it.

  She closed her eyes and tightened her grip on the wood. Then she took a slow, steadying breath, and with a fervent prayer for divine help, she turned and mounted the stairs.

  “Well, well. What sport have we here?” the mayor leered as Rosalynde reached the top of the scaffold. “Come here. Come here,” he gestured, clearly pleased that he’d been successful in enlarging on the-day’s entertainments.

  Once she stood beside him he tugged down her hood, revealing her dark tangled hair and her dirty, frightened face. “What? No suitors of your own?” he scoffed, to the enormous pleasure of the raucous onlookers. When she didn’t answer he prodded her forward, forcing her nearer the three condemned men. “So, what’s yer pleasure, m’ fresh young bride? Which of these earnest young grooms pricks yer fancy?”

  “They’ll prick her fancy, all right,” one drunken fellow guffawed. “That, an’ plenty more!”

  “Pick the little one,” an old woman shouted her advice. “Ye can keep ’im in line easier.”

  “The big un’ll tear such a little thing to pieces in the bed,” another one warned.

  “Bet he’d fit you just fine,” the malicious retort came right back from another bystander.

  With catcalls and whistles, hoots and shouted advice, the crowd worked itself into a frenzy of anticipation. The day of drunken merriment topped off by a handfasting and public hanging! It was a day the people of Dunmow would long recall with considerable relish. But for Rosalynde it was a nightmare too awful to be believed.

  She ignored the crude advice and taunts from the people in the crowd. With a shudder of revulsion she slipped away from the vulgar pressure of the mayor’s hand on her shoulder. In doing so, however, she placed herself directly before the last of the three prisoners, the one who had prompted her to take such a mad course of action.

  She was terrified as she slowly raised her eyes to him. He was so big. So powerful and clearly dangerous. As her gaze raised timorously from the tall boots that encased his feet and calves, then farther, past his muscular thighs wrapped in what once had been fine linen braies, she became even more unnerved than she already was. This was like no man she’d ever seen before. There was a brutal strength evident in both his magnificent physique and his proud carriage. His tunic was half torn from him, as was his shirt, and she saw a raw scrape where a portion of his chest was exposed. His hands were still bound, yet the muscles of his arms bulged agai
nst the rough rope.

  Finally, when she could bear the suspense no more, she lifted her gaze to his face.

  Rosalynde wasn’t sure what to expect. He was younger than she had first supposed, perhaps a half score years her elder. He was dirty, of course. Filthy. His unkempt hair was plastered to his skull, and she could not have guessed its true color. His jaw was stern and rigid, his nose straight save for a crook where it might have once been broken. All in all, however, he would probably be quite acceptable to the eye once cleaned and properly dressed.

  But none of those things mattered to Rosalynde. He was a thief and a murderer. And yet he perversely seemed the only one who could help her. She had it within her power to save him, it appeared. Would he return the favor? It was that which she hoped to determine as she met his ferocious stare.

  But the very fury in his eyes took her completely aback. He would as happily strangle her as look at her, she thought with a gasp of dismay. For an endless frozen moment she stared at him, her eyes wide with fear and desperation. Then he spoke, although it sounded more a low, menacing snarl.

  “Begone from here, madame. I do not like your game!”

  He had all his teeth, she noted obliquely. And better speech than she would have guessed. She shook her head sharply, trying to focus on the very real problem at hand.

  “ ’Tis no game,” she whispered urgently.

  But he only raised one of his straight eyebrows mistrustfully as his jaw tightened. “Then what? Why choose a husband from the gallows—”

  “Is this the man you choose? Blacksword?” the mayor interrupted imperiously, although he did not venture too near. “You know, you might find one of the others a bit more biddable.”

  At this the crowd erupted in laughter, and he paused to take another gulp from the skin at his side.

  “I want him,” Rosalynde answered, raising her head to stare at the man known only as Blacksword. Her eyes searched his face for some sign that she was making the right decision, some reason to believe she wasn’t delivering herself into the hands of the devil himself.