So saying, he turned and left her there, wondering at his own perversity for lingering even this long near the cursed village of Dunmow.
It did not take him long to gather sufficient wood and build a small fire in the sheltered lee of the wall. He brought her water as well. Then as she began the difficult task of ministering to the injured boy, he settled back against a far wall, watching her as she worked. His stomach growled with hunger and the night air was cold where his arms and chest were exposed. But he suffered his discomforts willingly. Gladly. By every right he should be dead now, hanged by the neck, choking and writhing until his eyes bulged and his face grew mottled, like those other poor bastards today. But he was alive. Alive! And by the damnedest bit of good fortune imaginable.
He shifted against the cold stone wall, seeking a more comfortable position as he watched his curious savior. What had possessed her to claim him in such a way? he wondered as he took a bite of a bruised and overripe pear. Even with the ailing boy and the distance she yet had to travel, her gamble was still a foolish one. Were he even half the villain he was accused of being, he would not hesitate to slit her throat, and the boy’s too. She was blessedly lucky to have selected him and not that vermin Tom Hadley who’d swung today. That slack-jawed coward had babbled incessantly last night, confessing to anyone who would listen every black-hearted, cold-blooded deed he had done in his brief but effective career as a highwayman. As if his confession at this late date could save his immortal soul.
He took a last bite of the pear and tossed the remains into the fire with a snort of disgust. If she had picked Tom to save her, she would be raped and left for dead by now.
At the sudden flare of the fire she glanced up at him, clearly startled. Although their eyes met only briefly before she returned her attention to bandaging the boy’s head, there was no mistaking the fear in her eyes.
Smart girl, he thought cynically. It was best that she maintain a healthy fear of him and follow his orders without question if she expected him to get her to Stanwood Castle. The promise of reward—a horse and weapons—was sufficient motivation for him to do as she asked. He owed her that much. But he would be damned if he’d risk losing the opportunity for revenge that he had so unexpectedly been handed.
Yet the fear in her eyes bothered him. If she knew he was not what he seemed …
He killed that thought before it could properly develop. No one in Dunmow had believed he was a knight—why should he think she would?
In London he’d been filled with his own success after winning that prized black sword at the King’s tourney. Yet not three days later he’d been named a thief and thrown into that hole at Dunmow. It was bad enough to have fallen into such humiliating circumstances—to be brought so low as to be condemned as a common runagate! But now that he was freed, there was no reason for anyone else to know of it. Besides, until he knew for sure why he had been singled out and thrown in that gaol, it behooved him not to trust anyone in East Anglia.
He focused once again on the girl across the fire. Yes, he would take her to her father’s castle and he would collect his reward. Although it rankled him to waste the time necessary to see her home, he knew his chances of finding his accusers were next to nothing without weapons to challenge them. It might take longer now—he would have to backtrack to the beginning and hunt them down—but he would not rest until he had found and killed the men who had used him as their pawn. He’d lost his well-trained destrier, his pack horse, his tournament weapons, and the black sword. That magnificent black sword.
His jaw tightened as he thought again how close he’d come to losing his life as well. Whether she was a thorny little Rose, or the Lady Rosalynde as the boy had called her, she had saved his neck to be sure. But gratitude was a poor second to the vengeance that consumed him now. Once these two were out of the way, he could get on with his need for revenge, he vowed. Once he had repaid his debt to her and collected his reward, he would then be better able to hunt down the men who had hoped to see him hanged.
And when he found them, he would kill them, and take complete pleasure in the doing of it.
6
Sir Gilbert Poole, newest Lord of Duxton, quaffed the remainder of his wine, then banged the heavy tankard down on the littered table with his one good arm. The cruel scowl on his face caused the man who stood before him to take a nervous step backward.
“Idiot! D’you think I gave the orders to cease the raids lightly? D’you think when I told you to lay low, it was not well considered?” In a fury he flung the metal tankard at the now-cringing man. “For your stupidity and greed you may have ruined everything! Everything!”
From his crouched and cowering position the man peered warily at his enraged lord. “But ’twas such easy gleanings. You see what we brought in. All that wine. The fine clothes you can—”
“That’s a pittance compared to what I seek! For this meager gain—no gold!—we make richer travelers even more cautious! ’Twas no easy thing to lay a trap for that meddlesome knight, curse his hide. And then to bribe the mayor to forgo the trial and hasten the hangings. When word of this latest attack is heard—”
“N-no one will ever know. There was no one left among them to tell,” the man stammered in self-defense. “We killed them all.”
At that the furious Sir Gilbert’s eyes narrowed. “All of them? You’re certain?”
“Every one of them.” The man did not hesitate to lie if it meant saving his own skin.
“What of the bodies?”
“We threw ’em in the river. They’re half the way to the sea, like as not.”
There was a tense silence. Finally the still-angry Gilbert rose from his seat and began to pace the chamber, rubbing his aching arm, which was bound tightly to his side. When he turned, he fixed his pale-blue gaze on the other man. “You’ll receive only half of your portion of the profits this time. The rest is forfeit to me—to remind you not to make the same mistake again.” Then, as if he anticipated the larger man’s objection, he picked up a long sword that rested across the top of a wooden trunk and appeared to admire the fire-tempered blade.
“We’ve both benefited handsomely the past months. You need me to sell your ‘goods,’ and I need you to supply them. I see no need to quarrel over this matter.” He paused and smiled coldly. “Do you?”
The other man opened his mouth as if to speak, but then his eyes fell to the sinister blade in Gilbert’s hand. In the torch-lit room the rare black blade had a strange ebony sheen. The devil’s own blade, it appeared. He clenched his jaw, then met Gilbert’s cold, expectant stare.
“I’ll not quarrel with you, milord,” he reluctantly conceded. “But I cannot hold off much longer. My men grow restless. They cannot remain hidden in the hills forever.”
“Did I say it would be forever! Dunmow has by now hanged its outlaws. We’ve nothing to fear there.” Once again the young Lord Duxton twisted the sword so the magnificent black blade caught the light. “ ’Tis time we moved our trade to fresher markets.” Then he let out a dark malevolent laugh and struck out at the air with the razor-sharp sword. “Yes, ’tis time we seek riches farther afield.”
After his minion left the room, Sir Gilbert laid the heavy sword across the table and rubbed his broken arm once more. Soon he would not need to soil his hands with the likes of such vermin, he thought as he stared at the wicked blade. That man and the others like him whom he employed had their uses, to be certain. He had kept his pockets well lined and himself well fixed in London while they’d ransacked the Essex and East Anglian countrysides at his direction. But now that his accursed father had finally died and he himself was ensconced at the castle in Duxton, he must be more cautious.
He’d thought it a stroke of genius when he’d decided to catch the “outlaws” who had been terrorizing the area. Not only would he ingratiate himself with the local populace, but he also had rid himself of those thieves operating outside his own hand-picked ring. How the people at Dunmow had fawned over him
when he’d brought that pair of pitiful scum in!
But his greatest pleasure had been in bringing down that bastard knight.
An evil smile lit his face as he curled his hand around the intricately formed handle of the beautiful black sword. That would teach the fool not to humiliate Sir Gilbert Poole in the lists. No mere bastard could be allowed to unseat him in a tournament. No unknown, landless knight-errant could get away with breaking the newest Lord of Duxton’s arm before London’s finest nobility.
But he’d made him pay, Gilbert gloated. And most appropriately, at that. He’d killed two birds with one stone when he’d accused the man as an outlaw. A gold coin or two and that fat mayor had jumped at the chance to hang the man, no questions asked. By now the arrogant cur was tried and hanged and rotting in some ditch. Gilbert’s only disappointment was that the presumptuous fool had not known who it was who had plotted his demise. That would have been too chancy.
He laughed aloud, the sound echoing darkly across the cold, empty chamber. Everything was falling into place. That fool—Sir Aric was his name—was taken care of. The authorities would now relax, thinking that the outlaws had been captured. Now that he was Lord of Duxton, it might be time for him to disassociate himself entirely from his band of outlaws, for he was able to avail himself of his demesne’s riches as he wished now, without answering to anyone. It only remained for him to get himself a wife—a rich wife. Then he would be well fixed once and for all. She could bear him his requisite heirs while he enjoyed life at court.
Once more he picked up the fine weapon and admired it with a hard, assessing gaze. Too bad it was such a distinctive blade. He would like to have used it the next time he fought a tourney, but that might be too dangerous, at least in London. But elsewhere …
With a self-satisfied smile he picked up the sword and slid it into a leather-and-steel scabbard that hung from a wall peg. The blade was handsome, but it was only a symbol of his success. Then he filled his goblet with wine once more and toasted his own good fortune.
Demons plagued her. Faceless marauders hunted her down only to dissolve into horrible visions of grisly choking faces. She was hunted unmercifully, trapped in a hole with no way out, only to then be toasted and cheered by leering drunken faces. Far away she heard a child’s voice calling. Giles, she thought in a moment of sudden joy. But when she turned, his pale face floated away from her to be replaced by Cleve’s suffering features.
“Cleve …” she whimpered aloud, trying to reach him as he continued to cry out for her. “Cleve!”
But when she reached for him, it was not Cleve at all. The face that turned to her was harsher, and although he smiled, seeming almost to beckon to her, she knew she must go no nearer. She turned around to run away but he was there before her, blocking her path. Once more she turned, her heart racing now in terrible fear, but just as before, he was there. His smile was wider now, but his eyes were clear and watched her with uncanny perception. Lucifer, she thought as she flailed away from him. Lucifer.
Rosalynde sat up abruptly. Her heart thundered in her chest and every fiber in her being was tense and rigid with panic. Her eyes stared wildly about for the dreaded apparition, the pair of devil’s eyes that seemed more dangerous than all of the other creatures who had crowded her nightmare. But there was no one there. She gulped two harsh breaths, fighting to control her skittering emotions. But as she looked about it seemed that her reality was almost as horrid as her terrifying dream. They were still hiding in the ruined castle. Cleve was sorely wounded although he seemed to be sleeping peacefully enough. And they were still far from home.
Her eyes widened at once as everything came back to her in a violent rush. Where was he? Where was the man she had claimed, the man who had agreed to see them safe? She scrambled to her feet as the sleep-induced cobwebs fled her brain. Where was he!
In the dense gray light of dawn, Rosalynde could see very little. The fire had burned down to a few glowing embers. Cleve was still huddled beneath her cloak, but his breathing came easy. When she touched his head, she was hugely relieved to feel only a normal, healthy warmth. But the place against the wall where that man had leaned—that Blacksword—was empty. Only a depression in the drift of leaves that had collected there gave any indication he had ever been there at all.
He had abandoned them! Disbelief and despair overwhelmed her as she stared panic-stricken about her. In spite of everything—the handfasting, the promise of reward—he had abandoned them. In utter hopelessness Rosalynde staggered the few steps to the storeroom opening, then leaned heavily against the rubble wall. What would she do? How would she and Cleve ever find their way safely to Stanwood? Tears started in her eyes, tears of helplessness and frustration and terrible, terrible fear. In anger she thrust them away, wiping fiercely at them with one small fist. She turned back to stare at Cleve, trying hard to contain the awful trembling that gripped her. Once more she had failed, she berated herself. If she’d picked one of those other men … If she’d not insisted on making this journey … If she had been able to save Giles …
If, if, if! She shook her head hard, then resolutely wiped the remnants of her tears away. It did no good to wish for what might have been, just as it did no good to cry, she told herself soberly. She looked again at the sleeping page. Maybe he would be better today, enough for them to venture out. Maybe if they kept to the forest and traveled by night they could make their way safely. Maybe …
She sighed deeply, daunted anew by their dire predicament. There was little she could do at the moment, yet to do nothing at all was to give all her fears free rein. Grimly she suppressed her fears. Cleve needed food and more of the healing herbs, she decided. At the moment fetching water and wood and preparing some sort of meal would have to be her first priority. She would worry about getting home after that.
Resolved, she stepped from the tumbled-down building, determined to be strong and brave for Cleve’s sake. But with every bit of wood she picked up, she cast the vilest aspersions upon the ungrateful brute who had so callously abandoned them. He was a miserable wretch, she fumed as she found solace in her anger. An ungrateful cur with the morals of a serpent. As her ire increased, so did the pile of sticks and kindling grow until she had the beginnings for a veritable bonfire. Then she picked up the crockery and set off for the well, all the while vilifying the dishonorable ruffian, wishing vehemently that she had let him swing with those other two men. He was no doubt the ringleader, she decided bitterly, just as that old man had speculated. And she was a twice-cursed fool to have ever thought such a man might feel anything approaching gratitude.
She was in high dudgeon, searching her mind for any foul oath she had ever overheard to heap upon hind. Although she’d never been one to curse—nor even to comprehend why some people did—she now understood completely. As she approached the well she was so caught up in her resentful thoughts that she was almost upon him before she realized it.
“Dear God!” The exclamation escaped her lips as she came to an abrupt stop. Her eyes grew as round as saucers as she stared dumbly at the scene before her. For his part, the man she knew only as Blacksword seemed completely unfazed by her unexpected appearance, as well as her undisguised staring. He only paused for a moment, sending her a hard look over his broad shoulder, then continued scraping his face with the sharp edge of the dagger.
Rosalynde’s consuming fury over his cowardly abandonment of her was squelched at once. Clearly he was here; therefore all her suspicions were for naught. Yet now, as he calmly continued to wash himself, she felt a new kind of heat suffuse her. It was anger too, she told herself. Anger at him for scaring her so, and now anger at his utter lack of embarrassment to be caught in such an intimate act. And with his entire upper torso bared to her view! Yet despite the heat that crept up her neck to color her face, she continued to stand there, with her mouth opened in a little “O” and her eyes still wide and unblinking.
He had shed his torn tunic and his ripped chainse, and stood now in
the chill early-morning air, bare to the waist. He lowered the bucket into the well, then, when he pulled it up, dumped it over him. As the water coursed over his hair, down past his shoulders, chest, and back, then along his arms, she only stared dumbfounded, unable to say or even think one intelligent word. He picked up a piece of soaproot sitting on the rim of the well and began to lather himself vigorously with it. And still she only stared.
She had known he was a powerful man, broad shouldered and hard muscled. He was big and menacing-looking, and that was why she had claimed him in that pagan ritual. But she was nonetheless unprepared for the pure animal virility of him. He was like some magnificent wild creature, possessed of a primitive sort of power that sent a new type of fear skittering up her spine. Instinctively she stepped back, clutching the pottery container to her chest. But she was unable to look away. As the thin lather slowly slid down his body in dirty white rivulets, he flexed and stretched like some great beast of prey, confident of its own prowess. Then another time the bucket splashed into the well, and this time when he doused himself, a new man began to emerge.
She saw him shiver slightly. He shook his head, sending a spray of water flying around him. Only then did he turn to face her. He thrust his hands through his long hair, pushing it back from his face as he gave her a considering look. “Could it be you are waiting for someone to draw your bath, milady?”
The words were spoken in a most courtly manner, and for an instant Rosalynde was gratified that he at least acknowledged her rank. But she also recognized the sarcastic edge in his voice, and when his eyes flicked lightly over her, she understood his double meaning. She was filthy. Her clothes were torn and stained, her hair was grimy and tangled, and she hated to think how soiled her face must be. Self-consciously she tucked one long knotted tendril behind her ear, but she was irritated by his condescending attitude. He was a common criminal, she reminded herself, while she was a lady of the realm, despite her current shabby appearance.
The Rose of Blacksword (Loveswept) Page 8