The Rose of Blacksword (Loveswept)

by Becnel, Rexanne

Yet all the logical reasoning and good sense in the world could not completely bury the resentment she felt toward the arrogant criminal, Blacksword. He might have agreed to get them to Stanwood, but only for the reward. He felt not the slightest bit of gratitude to her for saving him from the gallows. Why, he would have deserted her at the first chance if she hadn’t been so persistent! She needed his help and so she must suffer his presence, she knew. It was even more galling to think that they were handfast wed. But that was only a temporary arrangement until they each went their own way. Until then, however, she had to keep the peace as best she could. But, oh, how she looked forward to seeing the last of him.

  Even the way he pulled the crude contraption he had made annoyed her. He led the way with Cleve stretched out on the sling while she followed behind. As he forged through the forest’s undergrowth, he seemed hardly strained at all, as if he were unaffected by the heavy load he dragged along. Indeed, as she took a deep breath and struggled to keep up with him, she began to wonder if he were completely tireless. He probably was, she fumed silently. He was Lucifer incarnate, devoid of any conscience or feelings whatsoever. Lucifer would not feel pain or weariness. He would just go on and on and on.

  As they continued beneath the towering canopy of oaks and beeches, under stands of giant chestnuts, elms, and yews, she became increasingly tired. Her feet hurt, for unprotected by the slippers she’d lost in the attack and subsequent escape, her toes seemed to catch every branch and find every stone. By the time he stopped beside a particularly dense stand of cedar trees, she had a pronounced limp.

  “Why are we stopping?”

  At Cleve’s irritated tone Rosalynde gave him an exasperated look.

  “Because we’re tired,” she answered crossly. She sat down where she stood and rubbed first her left foot and then her right. “And because my feet hurt,” she added under her breath.

  At once Cleve’s petulant expression altered. “I’m sorry, milady. It should be you who rides in this infernal sling, not I.”

  “Don’t be silly, Cleve,” she replied. She was sorry now for her short temper with him, for she knew he was only feeling the effects of his unaccustomed confinement. “I’ll be rested soon enough—”

  “We’ll stay here until nightfall.”

  At this, the first words Blacksword had spoken since they’d begun their trek, both Rosalynde and Cleve looked up. But he had gone deeper into the densely grown thicket. Taking advantage of this first opportunity to speak privately to Cleve, Rosalynde quickly moved nearer the boy.

  “Please, Cleve, do not antagonize this man.” She raised her hand, forestalling his quarrelsome reply. “Just trust me when I say that there was no one else who would come to our aid.”

  “But, milady,” he whispered back most urgently. “He’s an outlaw, you said, just like the men who attacked us. A murderer! He preys on those weaker than himself. And that’s near everybody, from what I can tell,” he added morosely.

  “But he has agreed to help us.”

  “So he says. But why is he doing it?”

  “I-I promised him a horse. And weapons too. I’m sure my father will honor my vow.”

  Cleve gave her a disbelieving stare. “A man like that agreed to help you merely for a promise? Where did you find him anyway?”

  Rosalynde was so relieved that he had not waited for her to answer the first question that she rushed headlong into the second. “Dunmow. The village was called Dunmow and no one there would … could …” She faltered as she cast about for some believable explanation that had nothing to do with the handfasting. Then she remembered one of the fair’s activities and she took a great breath.

  “There was a festival, you see. And everyone was drinking. And … and placing bets,” she added, trying hard to make her story sound true. “The mayor … well, he was too far gone in his cups to be much help.” That at least was not a lie. “Then I saw this huge fellow betting on the bearbaiting.”

  “This Blacksword,” Cleve cut in, saying the name as if it tasted bad in his mouth.

  “He’d lost everything,” she hurried on, consoling herself that this too was not precisely a lie. “But even then everyone was afraid of him. So, I thought … that is, I asked him if he would help me and he agreed to the terms.”

  Cleve stared at her, clearly hard-pressed to believe such a far-fetched tale. Yet Rosalynde knew the truth was far less believable even than her lie. Plus, the truth complicated things terribly. It was best for everyone involved if her handfast vow to one Blacksword was kept entirely secret.

  “He agreed,” Cleve repeated. Then he let out a great sigh and rested his head on the crook of his arm. “ ’Tis still a puzzle why he agreed. If he’s such a bold outlaw, why didn’t he just rob someone and get what he needed?”

  “Perhaps he wants to mend his ways,” Rosalynde answered, biting her lower lip as she did so. “Perhaps he wearies of such a lawless life.”

  “Perhaps he plans to rob your father once he gets into his good graces,” Cleve countered darkly.

  “You are too suspicious by half,” she replied in a huff. “We are hardly in a position to be particular.”

  “Hardly,” a deep voice echoed from behind them.

  With a guilty jump Rosalynde turned to look up at their dubious savior. He had come out of the thicket without a sound, and she wondered how much of their whispered conversation he had overheard. But if he was aware that she had deliberately lied—she preferred to think that she had just withheld the truth—he gave no indication of it. Still, she knew she must somehow speak to him privately about keeping the circumstances of how they met a secret.

  To her vast relief, Blacksword did not pursue their line of conversation. Instead, he once more picked up the pointed end of the carryall and dragged it forward. But this time he pulled it directly into the dense green thicket with a curt order to her to “Come on.”

  She did not argue with his arrogant command, for she knew it would be pointless. But she wanted to. Cleve also kept his peace, but she knew by his tightly compressed lips that he too chafed under the imperious attitude of their murderous escort. Just suffer his arrogant superiority, she told herself in resignation. It’s only for a short while. Once he got them to Stanwood she would ask her father to pay him and then send him far, far away. But that day could not come soon enough to suit her.

  “Do you know where we are?” she asked in a subdued tone.

  “East Anglia,” he replied being deliberately vague. Then he seemed to relent. “The forest ends shortly. We’ll have to cross a wide wasteland, and then fields beyond. We’ll do it at night.”

  She could not argue with that sound bit of reasoning. Besides, Rosalynde doubted her sore feet could go any farther without a rest. With a weary sigh she sat down and then pulled out the supply of herbs she had taken from the ruined castle as well as the broken bit of crockery.

  “Is there any water nearby?” She looked at the man who was standing now, staring at her. An odd little shiver snaked down her spine but she firmly thrust it aside. “A river perhaps? Or a brook?”

  With a gesture of his head he indicated an area beyond them. “There’s a spring. And a pool. Shall I show you?”

  Rosalynde hesitated at this unexpectedly cordial response. A part of her wondered why he now asked instead of ordered. But she needed that water, both for Cleve’s medicine as well as to refresh herself, and with only the briefest hesitation she agreed. “Is it far?”

  “No.” He watched her closely as she crossed the clearing to him. “The boy will be safe here.”

  Indeed, Cleve was already dozing off, quite clearly exhausted by his awkward ride. With one last glance at him Rosalynde turned back to the intimidating Blacksword and took a deep breath. Although Cleve was no protection against him, the thought of being completely alone with this man was nonetheless unnerving. Still, she did want to bathe her face and arms. And also to soak her sore feet. With the bit of pottery clutched tightly in her hands, she proceeded down th
e meager trail he indicated.

  In the early-afternoon sunshine, the woodlands were still shaded and cool. The heavy canopy of trees allowed only the occasional shaft of sunlight to pierce to the pleasant gloom of the forest floor. A soft light permeated everywhere, casting a peaceful green shade over all. Through this strangely tranquil scene they moved with a minimum of sound, slipping without speaking along a narrow path that wound between low rises and giant trees, steadily angling downhill.

  When they finally came upon the spring it was almost a surprise, for there was no warning trickle of water spilling forth. Instead it gurgled up from a crevice of rocks, forming a small, still pond that then overspilled its banks to give birth to a thin sparkling brook. Sedges and ferns lined the banks, and white willows bent gracefully over the slow-moving water. All in all, it was a quiet, pristine scene, and they both automatically paused when they saw it. Then with a glad cry Rosalynde moved forward.

  The man stood back, just watching as she knelt at the edge of the pond and filled the broken bowl with water. Then she placed that aside and pushed her sleeves up so that she could submerge her arms up to her elbows. Her thick, tangled hair fell alongside her face when she bent forward, hiding it from his view. But it was clear she was splashing her face and neck now, and that she was taking great pleasure from it. A sigh of pure contentment escaped her, and that simple sound commanded his attention.

  She was a strange little flower, this Rose who had miraculously plucked him from the hangman’s clutches. He’d thought her a bold and sassy urchin, and yet she was also as timid as a mouse, starting every time he moved too quickly. He knew she had every cause to react so to him. He was, as far as she knew, a notorious outlaw and cold-blooded killer. And he’d not done anything to lessen her fear. He’d deliberately taken a menacing tone with the two of them if only to keep them quiet and completely responsive to his commands.

  He’d not truly expected her story to be true. Had it not been for his guilty stab of conscience, he would have left her at the first safe village. Only she had turned out to be a lady, and then he’d felt honor-bound to return her to the safety of her own castle.

  But had it truly been honor that compelled him? he wondered in a moment of honest self-examination. Had it been honor or the thought of reward? Christ’s blood! he thought as a frown creased his face. What difference did it make why he was doing it? The fact was, it was none of his business how she’d come to be in such dire straits, just as it was no one’s business why he was helping her. All he had to do was get her to her father’s house safely and collect his reward. She would gladly be quit of him and he would be as happily rid of her. Then he could see to his other quest, his need for revenge against the unknown men who had conspired to have him hanged.

  At the memory of his close brush with death, Aric’s thoughts focused once again on just how he would satisfy himself on his unknown enemies. During his long hours in Dunmow’s gaol, he’d had sufficient time to ponder his accusers’ purpose. Innocent as he was of the crimes attributed to him, he had at first been sure that the local authorities had been looking for any stranger whom they might hang, in order to appease the terrorized populace. But as he had thought more on it, he realized that it might just as easily have been the bandits themselves who had wanted him hanged—to divert the search from themselves for a while. Now, however, the fact that the mayor had allowed him to be freed in the ritual celebration made it highly unlikely that it was the authorities who had wanted him framed for the crimes. No, it seemed obvious that it was the bandits themselves who’d sought a scapegoat. Whoever it was who led the villains in their reign of terror was clearly smart enough to know when to lay low and how to turn attention away from himself and his gang of cutthroats.

  Still, even that did not explain everything. The night he had been taken he’d been riding from London, half asleep on the unfamiliar road to Lavenham and an upcoming tournament. He’d never even seen the blow coming. At one moment he’d been nodding in the saddle, exhausted from the long ride, and the next he’d been struck from behind with what had felt like a tree trunk. He’d hit the ground with a bone-jarring crash, but even in those first groggy minutes he’d heard what was said.

  “Grab his sword!” The shout had come as innumerable men had swarmed over him. “Get his sword and bring it to me!”

  Despite his valiant struggle, he’d been overpowered. His weapons had been confiscated and he had been bound with his arms behind his back and a cloth over his head. Then he’d been rudely pushed up onto a horse and brought into Dunmow. He’d never seen his captors, never put a face to the voices who congratulated themselves on the success of their plot. And even the voices would be hard to identify, for with a harshly barked “Keep quiet, fools!” one of the men—presumably their leader—had silenced them all.

  Even now the ignominy of it caused his blood to heat in anger. They had trussed him up like a goose for the roasting and handed him over to the authorities as an outlaw known only as Blacksword.

  Blacksword! he thought bitterly. It was that which bothered him most, for it indicated their vile deed had been well planned. And he’d ridden right into it. Yet if it was the outlaws, why not simply kill him and bring his body in to the authorities? Why have him killed by so roundabout a way as hanging?

  Try as he might, he could not identify anyone with such a grudge against him as to plot so furtive an act. As a knight-errant he had ridden for any number of lords. In turn for an agreed-upon scutage fee, he performed their knight service due to their own leige lords. In between such service he rode in tournaments, earning his way through winner’s tokens. Yet nothing in that would seem to warrant such animosity. Why did someone want him dead, and in such an unwieldy manner? There was a sinister quality to the entire affair that seemed to go beyond common outlawry.

  Aric’s fists clenched in frustrated fury. Why they wanted him dead did not matter so much as who the villains were, for he was determined to find the cowardly knaves and exact a terrible vengeance on them. Whoever it was, they had made a grave mistake when they selected Sir Aric of Wycliffe as their target, he vowed with a fierce scowl.

  It was as he was scowling thus, still staring at the girl, albeit unseeingly, that she looked over at him. At the sudden fear on her face he came alert, mindful of how menacing he must appear. But when he took a step nearer, she jumped up in fright and splashed ankle deep into the water. He stopped at once, unwilling to frighten her further, but as he stared at her, a sudden unwonted thought leapt into his brain.

  She was poised somewhere between flight and fury. Her body was tensed, ready to spring away and run for her life. But her face showed clearly her wrath as well as her disdain for him. Standing in the stream with her sleeves pushed up and her skirt dragged down by its now-soaked hem, she appeared young and slender, and yet he could see she possessed a woman’s fullness. His eyes moved over her, noting the curve of hip beneath her sturdy wool gown and the press of youthful breasts against the unfitted bodice. Then he studied her face and his idea became more insistent.

  She had washed away the days of grime. Her skin glowed with the soft health of youth, pale yet with a fair blush of pink in her cheeks. Sparkling drops of water clung to her, glistening like jewels against her skin and reflecting tiny sparks of sunlight where they clung to her thick lashes. Caught as she was in a single shaft of golden sunshine, she might have been a wood nymph, childlike yet womanly, frightened yet bold, unable to be caught and yet goading him relentlessly to pursue her. Then she blinked and he focused once more on her wide eyes.

  They were unusual eyes. Startling, in fact. The centers were both yellow and green, a clear shade that seemed ever to change. But they were edged with a darker color, almost indigo it was so intense, and it was this that made them so mesmerizing. How had he not noticed them before? He took a step forward as the seeds of an idea began to take root in his mind. But she took two steps back, then glanced wildly about, searching for an escape.

  “I do
not mean to harm you, Mistress Rose.”

  She looked warily at him, distrust etched clearly in her face. “You’ve made a life of harming people,” she countered, but the belligerence in her tone was belied by the fear in her expressive eyes.

  “I would not harm one who saved my life.”

  He saw the disbelief in her face; he saw how she stared at him, then looked away, only to turn a half-curious, half-skeptical gaze back on him. But despite her obvious doubt, he was more and more sure that his idea could work. She was heaven-sent! He turned and walked nonchalantly toward the deeper end of the pool. There he squatted beside the silently bubbling spring and carelessly picked up several pebbles, which he idly tossed in one at a time. It would do no good to frighten her away, not when she might help him find the revenge he sought. Yet seeing how she remained tensed, ready to flee at the least provocation, he knew he would have to work hard to undo the poor image she had formed of him.

  “Tell me of the robbers who attacked your party near Dunmow.”

  Her expression changed then from suspicion of him to angry remembrance of the deed that had turned her life upside down.

  “Were they your men?” she asked accusingly.

  “No.”

  “But only because you were all in the gaol. Otherwise you would not have hesitated to do the selfsame thing.”

  “Those other two men on the gallows were not known to me.” He gave her a calm and even stare. “And it’s not my way to attack innocent women and untried youths.”

  She digested that for a moment. Then her eyes narrowed. “Are you saying you’re not a thief and murderer?” Her dark brows lifted a fraction. “That you are innocent of the charges that brought you to the gallows?”

  Her skepticism brought a faint smile to his lips. “Would you believe me if I said I was?”

  She lifted her chin a notch and stared back at him with ill-disguised contempt. “No, I would not believe that.”

  His smile faded. Of course she would not. No one could possibly see a knight in his present guise as a condemned criminal. But instead of dowsing his fledgling idea, her scorn only strengthened his conviction. The time would come when she would not dismiss him so easily. “The subject doesn’t bear discussing, then,” he said, shrugging indifferently.