The Rose of Blacksword (Loveswept)

by Becnel, Rexanne

  It was the right thing to say—he saw that at once in the uncertainty that swept over the boy’s face. “I will leave after the tourney if her father will not accept my suit for her hand. In the days ’tween now and then, I’ll not seek her out. On this and the name of God I swear.”

  Cleve’s agreement was most reluctant. But when the boy finally departed through the gloom of the heavy mist, Aric felt a surge of relief. This was a small victory, he knew. And there was much that remained yet subject to chance. It was a mortal error to underestimate your enemy. Besides Sir Gilbert, he had also to deal with the dubious certainty of both Rosalynde’s and her father’s feelings toward him. Where once he’d been more sure of the maiden, now he felt easier on the father’s response. That one, at least, respected skill and integrity, and would give him honor when his true identity was made clear. But Rosalynde …

  His satisfaction dimmed when he thought of their last confrontation. She wished him gone, she’d said, for he was beneath her. Though by rights he should not expect more of a noblewoman, somehow he did expect better from her. He’d hoped, foolishly it now seemed, that she could cleave to him for the man he was, without title or fortune to commend him. To win her love had seemed a real possibility until she had spurned him so coldly.

  Aric thrust one hand through his damp hair, raking it back from his brow. He should be twice damned for the fool he was! She was a noblewoman, and, like most of her ilk, to be valued only for the property that came with her hand in marriage. Her comeliness was simply a thing of good fortune—no more, no less.

  And yet that fair face—coupled with her desperate bravery in saving him from the gallows—had set her apart in his mind. In all honesty, he knew that his decision to honor their handfast vow had been based only on logic, and perhaps a little greed. A well-propertied wife was more than a bastard knight-errant such as himself could have hoped for. But he’d quickly come to value her for more than just the demesne attached to her. Now, however, it was clear he’d been swayed by the sharp flare of desire that crackled between them.

  He pulled his hood over his head and peered out through the dreary fall of rain. As his wife, her delectable young body would be his for the taking. His passion would be well slaked upon her and he would have the castle as well. But it was the opportunity for vengeance against his newly identified foe that he must focus on now, he told himself. That was what would afford him his greatest pleasure. His challenge to Sir Gilbert would be played out before Sir Edward, and in that one moment of revenge he would obtain all he wanted.

  He hunched his shoulders and moved out into the damp. At long last Sir Gilbert would be his. Stanwood too would be his. And, whether she liked it or not, the Lady Rosalynde would also be his.

  Rosalynde drew her hand back from Sir Gilbert’s too-firm kiss and sent him a nervous smile. First Aric. Then Cleve. Now she must deal with Sir Gilbert’s unwelcome suit, meanwhile maintaining every appearance of graciousness under her father’s expectant gaze. Saints preserve her, but she wished this day were done! Yet she concealed her shattered nerves behind a facade of polite welcome, hoping her jumpiness would only be attributed to a normal, maidenly shyness.

  “Sit, sit.” Sir Edward gestured for Sir Gilbert to take the seat of honor at his right hand. Before he could turn to her, Rosalynde quickly slid into the chair at his left, keeping her father squarely between her and the smooth Sir Gilbert.

  “ ’Tis very long since I partook of Stanwood’s hospitality,” Sir Gilbert said most agreeably as he lifted a cup, brimful of red wine, to his lips.

  “I had not thought to play the host in the years after my wife died,” Sir Edward admitted. “However, my daughter’s presence here now demands it. I would not have her locked away from youthful companionship and the courting due her.”

  “Ah, and such courting there shall be.” Sir Gilbert supplied the right response without hesitation. His pale eyes flicked over her, appreciation apparent in their blue depths. “I am hopeful, however, that she will find my suit the most welcome.”

  Rosalynde replied with a weak smile, then hastily lowered her eyes. His suit was not welcome at all. Very likely, no man’s would be if she perversely continued to compare every one of them to Aric. However, she must give every appearance of welcoming his pursuit if Aric was to be discouraged. Yet even that tack seemed hopeless now, given Blacksword’s strange reaction to the knowledge that Sir Gilbert was here.

  She nodded at Cedric, signaling for the food to be brought in, though all the while her mind struggled to find a solution to this newest dilemma. Oh, where was Cleve? she wondered desperately. What had come of his confrontation with Blacksword?

  The first round of serving had very nearly reached the squires’ table before she had the answer to her first question. As trays and platters of roasted pork and lamprey in raisin sauce were passed around, Cleve slipped past the tall oak doors and made his way to his place among the other squires. There was some good-natured shoving—and some not so good-natured—as he slid onto the bench. Rosalynde suspected that he might be a while earning the acceptance of the other lads for whom becoming a knight had always been a given. Cleve’s questionable birth and late arrival in their midst had spawned some ugliness, but by and large she thought he had fit in. Now, however, it was not his well-being that concerned her. He obviously was all right. But where was Aric?

  At that moment Cleve’s head raised and his gaze swept the high table. Their eyes met and held, and across the sea of faces, Rosalynde sought desperately for an answer in his expression. To her complete bewilderment, however, all she received was an odd little smile and a courteous nod. But other than that, nothing.

  Confused beyond belief, and troubled anew, Rosalynde sat back in her hide-upholstered chair. What had transpired between those two that Cleve could look so noncommittal? A frown marred her brow as she tried to reason it out. Then another figure entered the teeming great hall, and her attentions were drawn away from Cleve.

  Aric’s hair was damp, she noted as he pushed his hood back. He paused at the door, a tall, imposing figure as he surveyed the scene before him. Then his gaze stopped and she frowned again when she recognized the focus of his stare. Cleve stared right back at him, not smiling, but for once not frowning his dislike either. Something passed between the two, some private understanding, before the look shifted. When Aric’s eyes found her she glanced quickly away. But just as quickly her gaze returned to him, drawn by the same powerful attraction that tortured her endlessly. Aric’s gaze, however, was hardly as civil as Cleve’s. She sensed the fury that burned behind that cool, restrained gaze. And the contempt. Then his eyes flicked casually to Sir Gilbert, and Rosalynde felt a sudden, stinging shame.

  To her dismay, her ploy had not worked. She’d rejected him as beneath her, then flaunted Sir Gilbert’s presence at Stanwood in the hope that Aric would save himself and flee the castle. It was clear now that her rejection had hit the mark, but instead of fleeing, he appeared, perversely, quite prepared to do battle for her. Like the boy-king of legend and his circle of gallant knights, Aric seemed plagued with a sense of honor—and of right—that was unaffected by practicality. Sir Gilbert was a powerful knight, quite able to have Aric imprisoned and hanged for his original crimes. Yet Aric seemed almost to dismiss his threat as inconsequential. It was that accursed handfast vow that he clung to, and she was convinced now that nothing would swerve him from his goal.

  When Aric’s eyes left Sir Gilbert and met her gaze, she felt his scorn as clearly as if he accused her with words. His curt nod to her was an insulting dismissal. Then he found a vacant spot, served himself, and began to eat with good appetite.

  The subsequent courses came. Food was served and eagerly consumed. Ale and wine flowed often and well. Sir Gilbert sought in vain to draw her into conversation while her father sent her several telling stares. But Rosalynde was too worried about Cleve and Aric to do much more than reply vaguely to their conversation and poke at her food. She could not fully
participate in the meal. Something was afoot, she fretted, sending furtive glances toward the two sitting so far below. Something was going on. But until she could corner Cleve and Aric, she would just have to suffer her fears in silence.

  21

  It was morning before Rosalynde was able to pull Cleve aside. He was in the midst of preparing to ride out with the hunt, a singular honor as evidenced by his eager manner and excited expression. He flashed her a broad grin as he led two horses from the stable out into the watery sunlight of early morn. But a restless night’s sleep and her gnawing fear would not allow Rosalynde to return the smile, and under her serious stare his grin faded.

  “What has happened?” she began without preamble. Then, when he only shot her an aggrieved look and continued on with the horses, she fell in beside him. “I know you’ve done something, now tell me what it is.”

  “I took care of things,” he snapped. “You couldn’t—or wouldn’t—so I did. He’ll not bother you again.”

  Rosalynde’s heart began to pound, and without thinking, she grabbed the lead rein of the horse nearest her, forcing Cleve to a halt. “And how did you do that? Did you tell my father? Or Sir Gilbert?”

  Cleve drew himself up angrily, and she vaguely noted that he had finally surpassed her in height. Then he spoke and she recognized too the new manly ring to his voice. “There was no need to threaten him with your father’s wrath. As for Sir Gilbert, I’ve no concern with him at all. ’Tis only your safety—and good name—that I have a care for. Even though you clearly do not.”

  “But … but what did you do? Why will he not—”

  “He and I have agreed,” the boy interrupted her. With a yank he snatched the reins from her hands and started forward angrily. “He will stay through the tourney—I allowed him that much. But after that he will leave here, never to return again.”

  Rosalynde heard his words as he strode away. She understood what he said and yet it made no sense at all. How had Cleve convinced Aric to leave? And then, given that, why had the boy agreed to let him linger another fortnight at Stanwood? There was no logic in it whatsoever, and yet as she watched his stiff departure across the muddy bailey, she knew she would get no clearer answers from him.

  Baffled, she made her way slowly back to the kitchens. She must see a cart stocked with provisions for the hunt, for her father would entertain Sir Gilbert in the forests today. Yet as she instructed that a butt of wine be loaded into the conveyance along with linen-wrapped breads and cheeses and a basket of dried fruits, her mind would not let go of this latest turn of events.

  Aric was not a man to back down from any threat. And yet Cleve, a green boy, had somehow managed it. There was no sense in it whatsoever. With a frown marring her brow she ordered pewter mugs and wooden cups added to the cart as well as several woven rugs. Then, when the clarion call came for the hunters to assemble, she wiped her hands on the linen cloth she’d tucked into her girdle and laid the rag aside. She smoothed her hair back, tucking one damp and curling tendril behind her ear. Then, as most of the other castlefolk were doing, she made her way toward the assembly of men and horses near the gatehouse.

  Rosalynde had dressed with especial care this day. Her father had been displeased with her behavior last night, although he’d not said as much in words. Still, her reticence with Sir Gilbert had been all too obvious, and it was her wish to appease her father now. She did not want to anger him. After all, he had said she would be allowed some voice in the selection among the men he would present to her. During the long, worrisome hours of the night she had recognized the foolishness of her earlier behavior. Now she vowed to be pleasant and accommodating. She would be polite and gracious to all whom her father recommended to her. She would do whatever she must to keep her father content, but she would reserve the choice of a husband for herself. The summer, the fall, the winter, and most of another spring must pass before the handfast vow she’d taken could be set aside. Only then could her choice be made.

  But even then she would not be able to choose the one man she would truly want as husband.

  With a sigh and a silent vow to put that thought from her mind, she held her skirts carefully above the muddy yard. Her new gown was a lovely piece of work, indeed, and she would not see it ruined. She had remade it from another of her mother’s older gowns, fitting it well to her body, then letting the skirts flare wide about her ankles. The fine Raynes linen was light, woven of the finest threads and cut on the bias so that it moved in the most graceful manner when she walked. The color had been one unknown to her, somewhere between the rich purple of royal garments and the brilliant blue of the sky, only softer—somewhat like ripened plums, wet from the rain. She felt quite lovely in it despite the fact that it was simply adorned. The neckline lay just beneath her collarbones, showing only the faintest hint of her kirtle beneath it. A plain silver woven braid decorated the neckline as well as the snugly laced wrists. Besides that, only her long silver-worked girdle broke the simplicity of the gown.

  To make up for the unornamented style, she had labored long over her hair. The dark waves lay loose and shining about her back and shoulders. A length of silver chain lay across her brow, then caught the hair from her crown and wove down her back in a loose braid, a style seen often among unmarried maidens.

  She felt a certain guilt to wear her hair in such a virginal style, although she knew no one else would note it, save for Aric. And Cleve. But even that guilty thought was banished by her recollection of Aric’s hand stroking down her back, along the freed length of her hair. “You have beautiful hair,” he’d whispered. “Beautiful hair.” Against all logic she wondered if he would think so today.

  “By the blood of the saints!” she muttered under her breath. Why must he always creep into her thoughts? She did not care if he liked her hair or not.

  Or at least, she should not care.

  But the sad fact was, she did care. She cared about what he thought, where he was, and what he did to an inordinate degree. It was shameful, and terribly unwise, but it was nonetheless true.

  With a sigh she stepped up onto a square stone block that had once served as a mounting block for her when she’d been but a child. Now it served nicely as a dry spot from whence to watch the men’s departure for the hunt. Her father was easily recognizable in his tunic of green and gold. He was without a hood, and his graying head showed well among the younger men. His chestnut gelding was a tall steed, and Rosalynde felt a glimmer of fond pride to see him so handsomely mounted. Then her eyes focused on Sir Gilbert and her smile faded. He too rode a fine horse and was outfitted most handsomely, as was appropriate to his station. She had no doubt that under differing circumstances, she would have been quite flattered by his suit for her hand and perhaps, after but a brief hesitation, would have accepted his proposal and thought herself the most fortunate of maidens. He was young, handsome, and courtly. What more was there to ask?

  Yet when compared to another taller form, one strongly muscled and forged as if of steel, Sir Gilbert of Duxton came off a distant second. As she shaded her eyes against the strengthening sun, she sternly reminded herself that at least Sir Gilbert was suitable. He was a nobleman, and he did not shirk his responsibilities if his determined pursuit of the outlaws was any indication. Perhaps when her year was done she might find him acceptable.

  But Rosalynde knew deep in her heart that she could never find Sir Gilbert acceptable. There was something about him that made her skin crawl. And above all else, she knew he would not hesitate to have Aric slain if he were to identify him. That made him her foe too.

  Upon spying her, Sir Gilbert cantered over, then leaned down with one elbow on his knee to address her.

  “ ’Twould be a pleasure, indeed, if you were to accompany us to the hunt, my Lady Rosalynde.”

  “My thanks, Sir Gilbert. But I’ve much to oversee this day. No doubt the hunt will bring us much game to be prepared. I must be certain the fires and the pits are made ready.”

  Hi
s watchful eyes swept over her, then briefly down to her breasts before raising once more to her eyes. He gave her a smooth smile. “Perhaps it is all to the good, for your fair face and form already dazzle these eyes of mine. I’d be sorely distracted from the hunt should you accompany us.”

  They were pretty words, a compliment that should have brought a blush to her cheeks and a stammer to her words. But Rosalynde was unaffected by his remark save perhaps for a delicate shiver of distaste. However, she hid that unwarranted emotion behind a determinedly pleasant smile. To her relief, she was saved the necessity of response by her father’s approach.

  “Your captain begs a word with you, Gilbert,” he said. Then as Gilbert cantered away, he turned with a smile to his daughter. His eyes sparkled with good humor, and his face was animated. “So, Rosalynde, you still decline to join us. I had hoped you might become better acquainted with Sir Gilbert—under my watchful eye, of course.”

  As much as she knew that such an “acquaintance” was impossible, Rosalynde nevertheless could not help but smile at the thought of her father playing the part of chaperon. A mother, yes. A trusted maid, of course. But having neither of those, Sir Edward became the only logical choice, no matter how poorly suited to the part he was.

  “I’ve enough and more to keep me busy here. Besides, the hunt is not a favored activity of mine. I’ll be more content to attend my daily routine.”

  “You won’t forget your other task? The one I charged you with?”

  “Other task? Oh.” Her smile faded as her father’s meaning became clear. He’d asked her to learn something of Aric’s past, something that would help him to rest easier at the thought of the man fighting at his back.

  “He was … that is … he won’t—” She took a nervous breath and started again. “I’ve learned very little, only what you already know. He’s from a place called Wycliffe. Oh, and he is the youngest son, although he has said little of his parents,” she added, remembering Aric’s words once before.