“But not with his life,” she pleaded in a voice gone softer with her rising fear for Blacksword.
Her father did not respond for a long moment, and in the nerve-racking silence Rosalynde considered the wisdom of confessing all to him. If he knew the man was her husband then perhaps … She pressed her fingers to her mouth as she struggled to decide. Perhaps he would free him, she hoped. But the stubborn frown on her father’s face held more promise of dire consequences to the man who dared compromise his one daughter than it did reward. No matter that pagan ritual of marriage—if her father was angry now, he would be uncontrollable if she was to tell him everything that had happened. No, she decided reluctantly, she must never reveal her secret, for that would be the final death sentence for Blacksword. Yet even so it seemed he faced much the same fate unless she could somehow convince her father to spare him.
With a vow to remain calm and unemotional no matter what, Rosalynde lifted a reasonable expression to her father. “Cleve has told you grim tales of Blacksword. I know he has. But you must understand—”
“What sort of name is that anyway? Blacksword, indeed. ’Tis the name of a ruffian, a knave, and only confirms what the boy has said.”
“His name is Aric,” Rosalynde put in. “He is from a place called Wycliffe.”
Her father stared at her with narrowed eyes. “He told you this?”
Rosalynde nodded and stepped nearer to him. “He did not deny that he had an unsavory past, but he agreed to help us. And he was most solicitous. He even built a sling to carry Cleve in.”
“A sling?”
At her father’s curious tone, Rosalynde felt a faint spark of hope. “Didn’t Cleve tell you? He was hurt and unable to walk. Blacksword—I mean, Aric—built a clever frame so that he could pull Cleve to safety.” She watched as her father digested that bit of news and thoughtfully pulled at his chin. Then before he could dismiss that information she continued. “He hunted for us and kept us fed. He even made me a pair of slippers from the two rabbit skins.”
Her father pursed his lips and looked away from her. When he finally returned his gaze to her, his face was still suspicous.
“The boy said that the man was struggling with you. That he had to protect you from—” He halted abruptly, clearly loathe to bring up the one possibility he wished not to think about.
“Cleve misunderstood.” The lie slipped softly from her lips and she cringed inside at the unfair light she cast Cleve in. She would make it up to him, she promised herself. But she just could not let Blacksword die. “Cleve was still groggy from the wound to his head. He was suspicious of the man. He—he was perhaps a little ashamed that he was unable to provide for me.”
Rosalynde held her breath, fearful to hope, yet unable to discount the considering expression on her father’s face. Please, God, she earnestly prayed, please let him spare Blacksword.
There was a short silence before Sir Edward cleared his throat. In his solemn eyes Rosalynde fancied she could see his need for vengeance warring with a desire to be fair. Then he spoke and her hopes plummetted. “He is still a self-proclaimed murderer. A thief. A blackguard.” He spat the word out in disgust. “The name Blacksword no doubt was earned through less than noble endeavors.”
“But … but …” Rosalynde fumbled for words. “He wants to change. I know he does. If you could just give him a chance …” She trailed off despairingly.
“Mother of God, but you ask much of me!” he muttered with a scowl. Then he sat down in a sturdy chair and glowered over at her. “He’s been flogged.” He stopped. Then he took a slow breath and Rosalynde knew he had made up his mind. One way or the other, he had decided Blacksword’s fate. “He’s been flogged but he stood it well. I’ll spare his life, Rosalynde. I’ll spare his life. But that’s all I’ll do. There’ll be no reward for him, only a hard job under a watchful eye. He’ll be fed but he’ll work strenuously for his due. Then when he proves himself—if he proves himself … Well, we’ll see what happens then.”
At this unexpected compromise, Rosalynde was completely taken aback. He would spare Blacksword’s life! Blacksword would live! In a rush of heartfelt emotions, relief foremost among them, Rosalynde flew to where he sat. “Thank you, Papa. Oh, thank you,” she cried as she hugged him fiercely. Then, when he stiffened in surprise, she stumbled back, embarrassed by her demonstrative outburst. But it was her turn to be surprised, for her father was staring up at her with a face suddenly stripped of any protective expression. For the span of less than a second he was not the strong father, the invincible man she’d always known. She saw a softness there, something touched by her spontaneous display of affection. In that instant she was reminded of the father he had been in her early years. Before everything had happened. But then he blinked and the father of the past eight years returned.
They stared at each other without speaking until he rose and dismissed her with a nod. For another moment Rosalynde lingered, still staring at him, but hesitantly now. Then she gave him a wavering smile and murmured another quick “Thank you,” before she turned and walked away on legs that trembled. She did not see the bittersweet expression of both longing and sadness that swept over his face, nor the way his eyes followed her out of sight.
But her heart was lighter than it had been in a very long time.
Aric was dizzy from the pain, yet he refused to yield to it. In red-hot waves it washed over him. Every beat of his heart drove fresh daggers of fire into his back; every least trickle of sweat stung him with new and cruel agony. Flies buzzed around his head and settled on his tortured flesh, and he was torn between the excruciating torment of shrugging them off and the unbearable misery of letting them stay.
Christ’s blood! When would this accursed waiting end? He’d stood the ungodly flogging, refusing to break no matter what torture her father meted out. He would die on his feet without a whimper or moan if it was his last act on this earth! But then the flogging had abruptly halted and he’d been left now, these long, agonizing minutes, to stand in the glaring sunlight, surrounded by the restless castlefolk, waiting for God only knew what would come next.
He closed his eyes against the bead of sweat that traversed his brow, then he shook his head sharply to clear his vision. Only by the most stringent exercise of willpower was he able to suppress the groan of pain that immediately rose to his lips, and he trembled from the very exertion of it. Once more he considered revealing the truth to her father. Maybe if he knew they were wed. Maybe if he knew she could already be carrying the fruit of his seed … Maybe there was still a way to save himself. Yet Aric was not so blinded by the painful blows to his back to realize the absolute futility of that line of reasoning. He gave a frustrated tug at each of the ropes tied so snugly at his wrists, then clenched his jaw in anger. She had probably run straightaway to her father with her tale of woe, painting him as foul a blackguard as she could. No doubt this flogging—and now this interminable wait—could be traced directly to her lily-white hands.
He swung his head slowly from one side to the other, searching among the faces that waited for the culminating of this public punishment. There were tradesmen and serfs there, men-at-arms and servants. Children crowded in among the women, clinging to their skirts as they peered in round-eyed awe at him. One little girl off to his left did not look afraid, however, only curious, and for some reason Aric stared at her. But then her mother grabbed the child and hustled her behind her skirts. “The devil dwells in those eyes,” she hissed at her daughter and for everyone else’s benefit. “Don’t stare at him over long.”
It was this which irritated Aric the most. He was beneath the contempt of every soul present. Even the little children were frightened of him, for their parents made certain of it. God, what hope was there for anything but a quick and merciful end to his suffering? Then a commotion rippled through the crowd and he braced himself against the expected resumption of the vicious flogging.
But to his surprise four burly men-at-arms approached h
im, and he was unexpectedly released from his helpless position. Quickly, before he could react to his sudden freedom, they tied his arms behind him. Then he was led across the bailey, through the crowd, which murmured now in bewilderment equal to his own, and hustled back down into the gloomy, foul-smelling donjon. His arms were untied and he was shoved painfully into the same fetid cell. Only then did one of the four guards say anything that shed a small light on these new goings-on.
“Use the water to make yourself presentable. Sir Edward will speak to you directly.”
The door screeched shut, the bar was lowered with a hollow thud, and Aric heard the tramp of the men’s footsteps as they ascended from the dank donjon. He stood there in the chill air, his damp skin shivering and lifting in goose bumps, and his mind filled with a myriad of questions. He did not know what was going on, nor why he was to be brought before her father, Sir Edward. Perhaps it was a miraculous reprieve.
More likely the man wished to cast the killing blow himself, he thought sourly. But then, why have him wash? It made no sense at all. Still, whatever the reason, Aric took some solace that he was at least to have a chance to face the man who would decide his fate. How he would proceed, what he would say, how he could defend himself against the accusations cast at his door, he could not yet predict. That would depend on the nature of the accusations and the temperament of the accuser. But she would not escape the truth with an accusation of rape, he vowed as he reached for the bucket of water. He grimaced in pain as his tortured flesh pulled against the muscles of his back. If she cried rape he would reveal the marriage. Though either of those was sufficient to condemn him, he would not let her escape unscathed.
The treachery was hers. She must suffer the consequences as well.
Sir Edward did not look up when the group of men approached. He sat at his huge table with papers and quills, ink and blotting sand strewn in seeming confusion before him. He remained purposefully absorbed in the boring list of fields and tenants and crop assignments as the men came to a clattering halt before him. Let the knave squirm, he thought as he moved his finger quite deliberately down the parchment. It would do him good. Yet honesty demanded that Sir Edward admit, at least to himself, that he was nearly as uncomfortable with this interview as this cursed fellow no doubt was.
His finger paused and a frown emphasized the creases of his deeply lined face. Christ’s blood, but it would be easier to just stretch the man’s neck. But in a moment of weakness he’d promised otherwise to his daughter, and now he found himself in an untenable position. In unfamiliar frustration his mind veered from fury to bewilderment, from absolute conviction to total bafflement. It was not his way to be indecisive. By God, when a man made a decision he must be true to his gut feelings and stick closely to his words! To punish the man who mistreated his only daughter had taken no great struggle of conscience. Yet Rosalynde’s pleadings on the man’s behalf had created an unwelcome debate between his need for revenge and his need for justice. Between his common sense and his emotions.
For a moment he saw how she’d looked up at him, with her eyes so huge and her face so pale. How like her mother she was, he thought. It was what he’d feared when he’d sent her away those many years ago—to be reminded every time he gazed upon her of the wife he’d lost. Yet now he found an unexpected comfort in it. Like her mother she was fair and sweet, like any rose, yet not so fragile as she appeared. The same lips that had trembled with emotion were as likely to thin with anger and purse with displeasure, he realized. His frown eased as his own wife’s face came back to him. She had possessed those very same lips that had been just as prone to smile with tenderness and laugh with joyous abandon. He’d never been able to deny the Lady Anne a thing. Was it any wonder he could not deny their daughter?
One of the men shifted restlessly and Sir Edward came back to the present with a blink of his suddenly mist-filled eyes. His hand trembled slightly as he put the ledger page from him. But he firmly buried the image of his wife as he attended the unpleasant business before him. She’d been gone from him these eight long years. The fact that Rosalynde had her mother’s same lustrous mahogany hair and that her mouth was cast from the identical mold changed nothing. He was still without his wife, though it pained him every day of his existence. But now he had his daughter back and he would be a good father to her. He was still Lord of Stanwood, however. No matter his promise to his beloved daughter, he still must ensure the safety of his people, her included. The hard-eyed brute before him would not be hanged; he’d already said as much. But as Sir Edward slid his narrowed gaze over the arrogant-looking knave, his resolve hardened. He would not be hanged. But he would damn well be brought to heel.
Sir Edward leaned his elbows on the table and made a steeple of his fingers as he watched the man closely. “You survived the flogging well enough, I see.”
The man met his gaze evenly. “Aye.”
Sir Edward’s chin raised a notch. Too arrogant by half, he decided with grim amusement. But that would not last. He picked up the quill and dipped it into a pottery dish of ink. “Your name?”
There was a brief hesitation, just enough for Sir Edward to wonder if the answer given was a truthful one. “I am Aric.”
“Aric.” Sir Edward stared steadily at him. “From whence?”
Again the hesitation. “Wycliffe.”
This one would be trouble, Sir Edward decided on the instant. On the pretext of writing down that information, he turned his eyes away from the even stare of the man before him. He was trouble and he would bear watching. But he was big and looked strong as an ox. It was a rare thing to find a man of such physique. Even among his own knights few appeared his match. There was only one thing for it, Sir Edward decided. The man would be worked dawn to dusk, at the hardest, most taxing and menial of jobs. If he were bone-tired and dog-weary he could cause no mischief. Work and sleep would become the whole of yon Aric’s life. He would either rise to it or bolt. At that moment Sir Edward was hard-pressed to decide which eventuality he would prefer.
“So, Aric of Wycliffe.” He threw the quill down and leaned back in the heavy hide-covered chair. “You’ve taken your flogging well. Another less-just lord would have seen you hanged as well. However, since there is some doubt as to the precise extent of your crimes, I have decided to offer you a choice.” He smiled slightly, pleased by this brilliant ploy he’d just thought of. “You may choose to work in my employ—to prove yourself, as it were. Or you may be treated as are all outlaws, and hanged.”
His brows lifted in wry amusement when the man’s jaw tightened at his words. “So, what say you to this? You bear the brunt of your own decision.”
For a long moment the man did not reply. The silence stretched out so unnervingly that a blood vessel began angrily to throb in Sir Edward’s temple. But just as he was about to leap from his chair in a fury over the man’s outrageous effrontery, the huge brute gave a barely perceptible nod of his head.
“I thank you for making the choice my own,” he said stiffly. He raised his chin and stared boldly at Sir Edward. “I accept your offer to work in your service. You may count me among your loyal subjects.”
Sir Edward had to stifle an amazed chuckle as the man was escorted off by the four frowning guards. By God, but the knave made it seem he’d been the one to confer the favor instead of the other way around! And now he would be a most loyal subject? There was scant chance of that. A week of working with his back still afire from the flogging would test that loyalty well. Added to that, the grim dislike of the castle guard and the fear and contempt of the castlefolk would very likely see him straining in the harness.
Sir Edward felt well pleased with himself as he pushed away from the table and the remainder of his unfinished work. That fellow was too cocksure of himself to long endure such ignominy. Eventually he would break, and when he did the penalty would be great. No leniency would be forthcoming for even his least infraction of any castle rule. The man had been given his one and only chance. I
f he stretched the boundaries even the smallest bit, Rosalynde would not be able to object or intercede on his behalf.
13
Despite her all-consuming worry about Blacksword’s condition, Rosalynde knew she must prepare for the evening meal—and her next meeting with her father—with great care. At midday, given all the commotion caused by the flogging, and then her own public display of temper, there had been no meal other than the hasty distribution of broken meats, bread, and cheese. Even the ale had been consumed on the run as men-at-arms, servants, and tradesmen alike had hurried from Sir Edward’s furious path. But now the castle was calmer and a proper meal was called for. Accordingly she buried her concerns for her outlaw protector as best she could. She donned one of the several gowns her father had given her—gowns that had once been her mother’s—and combed her long hair until it gleamed. To calm the rebellious waves she pulled two long tendrils back from either side of her brow and wove them together down the back of her head until she could not reach any farther. Then she took a short bit of cord and tied the strand securely, adding a sprig of lavender into the knot for good measure.
She had none of her ornaments, no jewels or ribbons, nor gowns of silk bedecked with braided trim. Yet she did not mourn their loss, for such items seemed quite insignificant to her now. Life was what mattered, she told herself as her thoughts once more veered to the man who had saved her at Dunmow. Being alive, being safe—those were the important things. The most sumptuous gown made from cloth of gold, worked entirely with silver threads and sparkling pearls and caught up in a girdle of the finest golden links, would mean far less to her than simply being able to breathe deeply and without fear, secure in the bosom of her own home.
The Rose of Blacksword (Loveswept) Page 17