The Rose of Blacksword (Loveswept)

by Becnel, Rexanne

  Rosalynde spun slowly around on her heels, taking in the oddly shaped chamber to which she had returned. The room was quite the same as she recalled: rough stone walls built at flat angles to make almost a circle; six tall narrow windows so that a view of nearly the entire countryside could be had. Each window was set back into a recess, just the right size for a child to curl up in—or for a woman to sit back in, holding a fretting babe or comforting an ailing child.

  For a long moment she stared around her, seeing the dusty plank floor, the plain high bed, and the slightly worn tapestry that hung above the bed. Yet what she saw in her mind’s eye was a far different scene entirely. Oh, the chamber was much the same, but in her imagination it held a certain glow, a satisfying warmth. How happy she’d been then, she recalled as bittersweet memories tugged at her. How completely and utterly happy. She wiped away a stray tear, then stared around her as reality intruded once more. There was no warm glow now, though a small blaze fought the evening chill away. There was no happiness either. The room was the same except for the accumulated dust and its decidedly shabby appearance. But nothing else was the same.

  With a deep breath she tried to shake off such depressing thoughts. It did no good to dwell on the past, she told herself as she rubbed her hand aimlessly across a sturdy wooden trunk. She frowned at the thick gray dust on her palm, then brushed her hand clean. When her mother had lived, the castle had shone like a rare gold coin. Now it was dark and dirty and sad.

  Rosalynde squared her shoulders as she crossed to the door. If nothing else she could at least set the place to rights. She could see Stanwood dusted and scrubbed and clean once more. She might not be able to restore it to happiness—who could possibly know how to accomplish such a thing? But the rest of it she could handle. After all, managing a large household was precisely what her aunt had trained her to do.

  Feeling somewhat better for having at least some course of action open to her, Rosalynde banked the fire, pulled the wood shutters tight across the windows, then finally left her chamber and headed for this next meeting with her father. They had seemed to have a confrontation every time they’d met so far. But this time she was determined it not be so. After all, she reasoned, there was no longer any cause for it. He already knew about Giles, and although she still felt the dire weight of responsibility for her younger brother’s loss, she also knew there was nothing to be done for it. Time was the best healer for such pain, although in her father’s case it seemed he’d not yet even recovered from his wife’s death. Still, she thought as she moved silently down the steps, there was nothing she could do about that either.

  The other matter of discord between them, that of the treatment of Blacksword, would also resolve itself, she hoped. She’d watched from a window in her chamber as the guards had untied him and led him away from the clearly disappointed crowd. Her relief had been immediate and overwhelming. He would not be killed! Yet fast on the heels of relief came a new fear. What might he reveal now that his life was spared? She had promised him a reward—a horse, weapons, even gold. But her father had made it clear he would not reward a man he considered a base scoundrel. However, despite her father, it would be in her best interests to find Blacksword some sort of reward, if only to buy his silence. Now that he had narrowly escaped with his life, he must realize how foolish it would be for him to claim her as his wife. Her father wouldn’t hesitate to kill him if he knew all that had passed between them in the woods. No, she reassured herself, Blacksword would take whatever she could find for him as a reward and flee.

  Rosalynde stopped at the base of the dim stairwell, absently noting how many torch bases were broken or simply not replenished with tallow-dipped rushes. But her concentration remained on Blacksword and how she should deal with him. Foremost among her worries was the condition of his cruelly flogged back. If it was not to fester it must be properly tended, and she was the best person to do it. But once again she was certain her father would object.

  By rights she should not care if he suffered from his punishment. He’d behaved abominably toward her. But every time she thought of him suffering because of her, she cringed inside. It did not matter that their handfast vow and her promise to reward him were the only choices open to her at the time, nor that he had benefited far more than she had. She nevertheless could not completely absolve herself of the guilty feelings that consumed her.

  He ruined me, she reminded herself harshly. He did it knowing that she would be ruined and knowing that their handfasting was not a marriage at all. He did it only to satisfy his own lust and greed. Yet when she thought of that despicable moment, when she remembered the degrading way he had used her for his own selfish pleasure …

  A tremor rippled through her, dredging up unwanted feelings and stirring a shameful heat deep in her belly. Her entire body reacted most traitorously, tensing and warming in her most private places, tingling with remembrance all over. She steadied herself against a solid stone column as a faintness stole over her.

  Oh, but she was too, too wicked, she berated herself, a shameful hussy to have this disgusting response to such a man as Blacksword. Yet no amount of self-reproach could alter the undeniable facts. She had heard of the sin of lust. It had been a common theme among the priests who visited Millwort. But she’d never truly understood precisely what lust was. It had been easy to nod and agree with the priests as they’d condemned those who sinned so wickedly. Only now was she beginning to understand the power of such feelings, the overwhelming pull of one body to another.

  She took a shaky breath, willing calmness back to her still-trembling limbs. After the evening meal ended she would retire to the chapel, she decided. With fervent prayer and the help of the Blessed Virgin she would surely be able to conquer these sinful feelings. She would pray for forgiveness, and pray for strength. And she would pray especially that Blacksword would keep his silence.

  “Eat, daughter. Eat,” her father encouraged her as he piled his own trencher high.

  “I will,” she replied, but with little enthusiasm. Even if the food had been appetizing, she was too worried about Blacksword’s condition—and how she would see to his wounds without her father’s knowledge—to eat.

  In her honor the meal was intended to be a feast, and she had smiled warmly and spoken graciously to the several servants and numerous men-at-arms to whom she’d been introduced. But now that they were at the high table, all appearances of a celebratory feast ended, at least to her mind. As her father immersed himself in food and conversation with Sir Roger, who sat to his left, so also did the outside steward and Cedric, the seneschal, turn their attention to food and hearty conversation. Soon the entire hall reverberated with loud and raucous discourse and the constant clunk of wooden cups against wooden tables. As she stared around, completely ignored by the men who by far made up the bulk of the diners, she was consumed with a crushing loneliness. Even Cleve, whom she spotted at the far end of the hall seated with the other pages once the serving was done, clearly found no fault with the casual method of dining. At that moment she would have given anything to be with her dear lady aunt Gwynne, comfortably seated at the high table at Millwort.

  She stared down at the unappealing meat and let herself succumb to homesickness for Millwort. There they did not rush to eat like swine to the trough. There each meal was a gracious occasion, complete with orderly servings and soothing music. At Millwort conversation was polite and subdued. But here! She cringed as a particularly foul oath floated up from the masses below. Here no one cared the least for proper deportment. She cast an irritated glance at her father. No one cared the least because the lord of the castle did not care either.

  But she cared.

  Her aunt had drummed the lessons into her head. But it was the example of good housewifery she’d set that had impressed Rosalynde the most. With a sudden gleam in her green and gold eyes, she stared in renewed interest about the hall.

  As in the stairwell, fully a quarter of the wall-mounted torches wer
e unlit due to unrefreshed rushes in tallow. The walls were grimy with soot and dirt and cobwebs. The floor was strewn with rushes that had twice outlived their usefulness. Old rushes meant table leavings, dog droppings, and a host of crawling and hopping vermin. And then there were the tables themselves. No cloths to cover them and none too clean. A sticky wine stain marred the oak trestle table she sat at. Crumbs marked the joints in the wood and nicks of various sizes gave evidence that many a knife had been crudely stuck upright on the surface. By every right they should have been immaculate and draped with pristine white cloths.

  Her jaw jutted forward in righteous anger as she viewed the scene before her. Stanwood had not been so while her mother had lived. In the intervening years it had clearly become a man’s abode, with no consideration for those comforts dear to a woman’s heart. But now that she was here, Rosalynde intended to set things to right. And perhaps in the process she might be able to attend Blacksword.

  Renewed by that prospect, she turned her determined gaze on her father. He was chewing vigorously, gesturing with his knife, which boasted the leg of a chicken on its greasy point.

  “Father,” she said as she mentally plotted out her course of action. “Father,” she called a little louder, plucking at his sleeve. “Father!”

  At that Sir Edward turned to face her. “You needn’t shout at me, child—”

  “Oh, but ’tis clear I must. How else might I be heard in this din?” Then at his disapproving look she hastily changed her sharp tone. “It’s just that I’m not accustomed to such a rowdy meal. And … and … the table was not even washed.”

  Her father glanced down at the table, then out over the boisterous group who peopled the hall. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then slowly closed it and stared about him even more intently.

  “ ’Tis a trifle untidy. I’ll warrant you that,” he finally conceded. “And as for their rowdy manner, well, ’tis only right considering the days of searching for you. They celebrate now in your very honor.”

  Rosalynde was wise enough to look suitably humbled, and to her relief he appeared somewhat mollified. He laid his knife down and took up his goblet instead, drinking deeply before he spoke again.

  “I’ll see that Cedric has the tables cleaned.” He gave her a long look. “And the rushes refreshed.” He met her steady gaze once more, then let out a loud sigh. “It shall all be cleaned. I’ll see to it.”

  “Perhaps you would let me see to it.” She held her breath, hoping he would agree.

  “Cedric is the seneschal. ’Tis his place.”

  “A good housewife runs her own household. This is what Lady Gwynne has prepared me for.”

  He seemed to take that in well enough and even nodded his head twice as he considered her words. “But you are not a wife yet, are you?”

  Rosalynde’s eyes widened at his casually stated words, and for a moment her heart leapt in fear. Only by the most stringent exercise of self-control was she able to calm her rapid pulse. He did not know, she told herself firmly. He did not know the truth, that she was by rights wife to Blacksword.

  “No,” she said, slowly and carefully. “I am not precisely a housewife, but I have the skills nonetheless. I would gladly take over the keys to Stanwood, Father, if you would but let me.”

  When his grin of approval came, followed promptly by a fatherly pat on her hand, Rosalynde felt a heady burst of power. She was to run a household of her own at last! And though he’d balked at her initial outburst, her father had willingly succumbed to her meekly worded request. So that was the lay of the land, the realization dawned on her. That was the way to best achieve her ends. Was that how her mother had handled her intimidating husband, through mildness and sweetness? As she finished her meal in companionable silence with him, she vowed to curb her too-quick tongue and stifle her often-hasty temper. If it meant killing her father with kindness to see Stanwood Castle set to rights, she would do it. Though he agreed now, she did not doubt that he would balk later, for it was more than cleaning she intended. Uniforms, fresh linens, new tapestries—these and more would be required to see Stanwood attain its deserved glory. He would mislike the inconvenience and complain of the cost, no doubt, but in the end he would be pleased. And he would be proud of her as well.

  Rosalynde did not give her father the opportunity to forget or to renege on his promise. No sooner was the meal done and the men’s gaming and gambling begun than she cornered him.

  “There’s much to plan and much for me to see before I can begin my work. How would you have me proceed, Father?”

  Sir Edward looked down at her sincere face then glanced distractedly about the teeming hall. “The rushes, I suppose. Cedric will see that fresh ones are cut. And the tables, of course—”

  “No, no. I do not mean what must be done. I’ve faith enough that I can find those necessary tasks. No, what I mean is, will you tell Cedric and the cook that they must consult now with me? And will you give their keys over into my keeping?”

  At first he appeared very prone to balk, and words of argument rose in her throat. But she determinedly smiled up at him, a hopeful, enthusiastic expression on her face. Finally he expelled a great gust of air and rubbed his chin absently. “Can it not wait till the morn?”

  “I would like to plan this evening so that I may begin the work at dawn’s light.”

  Once again he sighed and this time he nodded. “As you wish, Rosalynde. Come along then, let’s be done with it so I may all the sooner retire to my games.” He had a disconcerted expression on his face as they left the hall, but Rosalynde was smiling broadly.

  The cook was resistant although he did not say a word as Sir Edward took his keys and handed them to Rosalynde. However, she could see the displeasure at being usurped written clearly in the stout fellow’s eyes. Cedric, by contrast, seemed almost relieved. He untied the metal ring of keys from his girdle and handed them over to her with a shy grin and several bobs of his head. Reassured by his acceptance, she laid a hand on his arm before he could follow her father back to the great hall.

  “Could you perhaps show me to the stillroom? Healing is a particular interest of mine, and I thought I might begin by inspecting the supplies kept there.” She started forward, allowing him no time to protest. “And along the way you could tell me which key opens which door.”

  The bailey was cloaked in darkness by the time Rosalynde finally exited the stillroom. She had long before sent Cedric off, and as she’d examined the pouches of dried leaves and ground roots and mentally catalogued the valuable vials of essences and tinctures, the time had sped by unnoticed. But that was to the good, she decided as she hurried across the grassy yard with the concoction she had prepared held tight in her hands. Since most of the castlefolk had already sought their beds and pallets, perhaps she would not encounter any opposition to her desperately conceived plan.

  Ever since she’d seen Blacksword led away, the condition of his sorely abused back had tortured her. Throughout the tiresome afternoon and the dismal evening meal she had been consumed with both guilt for her part in his flogging and concern for the cruel injury he still suffered from the whip’s vicious bite. She’d been determined to see to his wounds, but she’d been equally certain that her father would not approve. It was only when her father had agreed to let her run the household—and had given her all the keys—that she had come up with this idea. Now, with a wash of goldenrod and a decoction of milfoil mixed with boiled and cooled tallow to form an ointment, she meant to seek Blacksword out, see to his wounds, and somehow convince him to keep their secret to himself.

  She was not precisely sure where to look. She had managed to get some information from Cedric under the guise of general inquiries about the organization of the castle. She learned that unmarried male servants slept in the great hall during cold weather, or else in several of the stairwell niches. But in the warmer months many of them slept in the stables. The pages slept in a group adjacent to the knights’ quarters. What few women servants
there were slept either adjacent to the kitchens or near the areas of their particular duties. She had not seen Blacksword anywhere near the great hall. In addition, logic told her that her father would not allow a man he considered dangerous to roam the castle freely. For despite her father’s grudging assent to spare Blacksword’s life, Rosalynde knew he would be watching and waiting for him to make a mistake. Under the circumstances, it was most likely that Blacksword was consigned to some corner of the stables.

  Her heart began to pound as she neared the black shadow that was the main stable building. A single light glowed weakly from an opened shutter, but all else lay still and dark as she felt her way along the wood-timbered building. When her fingers felt the rough frame of the opening, she paused and took a shaky breath.

  You have nothing to fear from him, she tried to reassure herself. In her home castle her safety was assured. He would not dare to harm her.

  But it was not the threat of harm that had her trembling so, a small voice taunted her. His hands had not hurt her at all, but instead had caressed her with exquisite tenderness. God save me from just such caresses, she prayed with quickening breath. It was only the fearful knowledge that he must be in terrible pain that forced her to step cautiously into the stable opening. Neither revenge nor passion would be on his mind this night, she told herself bravely. Relief was what he would want most, and she carried the promise of relief in her own hands.

  The stable was feebly lit by a lone flickering candle in a scraped-hide lantern. Unsure where exactly to look, Rosalynde was drawn to the weak golden light. Past the stalls of the great destriers she crept on silent feet. The lantern was hung at the entrance of the last stall, and when she reached it she stopped. A few low murmurs had already alerted her that someone was about. Despite her tiny tremor of fear, she crept farther until her eyes were able to fully take in who was occupying the stall. Even in the full gleam of the flickering light she could hardly believe her eyes. Blacksword sat on an overturned hay bier, bare to the waist, and some hussy had her hand on his bare shoulder. Even worse, the tart was bending forward, providing him a clear view down her loose blouse of the cleavage between her overdeveloped breasts!