All through the night she had prayed—and cried—and prayed again, until her eyes had burned. Her fingers were numb from her rosary of wooden beads—surely worn from overuse. More than once she had risen from her unhappy bed, determined once and for all to seek out her father and reveal everything to him. Yet she had hesitated each time, as much because she feared he would retaliate against Aric as because she knew Aric would never forgive her interference. She would not be able to forgive herself if any harm came to him; but he would never forgive her if she stole his chance for vengeance from him. Even if he failed in his quest and her father somehow spared his life, she knew well enough that Aric would still not leave Stanwood—not without his vengeance on Sir Gilbert and not without proclaiming her his wife.
As she made her weary way back to her private chamber, she reluctantly accepted the grim fact that this day’s doings were out of her hands. Aric and Gilbert would clash. It was inevitable. Her role would be to patch up the pieces afterward. But it seemed impossible that there would be anything left of Aric to patch up: if he vanquished Sir Gilbert, he would be swiftly cut down by her father. And if Sir Gilbert defeated him …
Unable to face either eventuality, Rosalynde retreated into the protection of emotional numbness. Like a frozen doll, she let herself into her chamber, then automatically removed her work gown. She splashed water from a metal ewer into a shallow pan, then bathed quickly, standing in the pan and washing herself with a small portion of soft soap. Her hair she combed herself, leaving it long and loose. The tunic she donned over a fresh kirtle was another of her mother’s, a gown made to be worn on only the most important of occasions. The fabric was a tightly woven linen, dyed the darkest of blues. In the light it alternately shimmered between a gleaming black and the color of the evening sky. It was laced with gold and silver cords, and fitted tightly to her body. Around the set-back neckline a wide band was embroidered so that she appeared to wear a magnificent necklace that reached the full width of her shoulders. With her silver-worked girdle and keys in place, she knew she looked almost a queen in her royal home.
Yet Rosalynde felt more a slave than a queen, for she knew—as all noblewomen must know, she realized—that she was but a pawn in a man’s world. Whether she was dealing with her father or Aric or Gilbert—or even Cleve—her wishes would ever take second place to their own. She smoothed her hair back from her brow, then gnawed at her lower lip. Even a queen, no doubt, was but a pawn in the king’s royal games.
A knock on her door interrupted her dark musings.
“The cart awaits, milady. Are you ready to depart?”
“I’m ready, Cedric,” she answered with a fortifying breath. Then, with her head high and her back stiff, she stepped forward to watch her one true love meet his fate.
“ ’Tis grand, is it not?” Cedric gushed as he drove her in the small cart toward the main pavilion. But he was too overawed by the noise and activity and crowds of people to note her lack of response.
“Edith and Maud have the kitchen well in hand. The pages have their instructions to maintain a watchful eye and keep order wherever they go. Father Henry and the two other itinerant clerics have a tent for the injured—I’ve two barrels of water and an abundance of linen wrappings on hand there,” he rattled on. “The squires are all with the horses, of course, and setting the weapons out.”
“Is it likely anyone will be hurt?” Rosalynde asked softly.
Cedric gave her a quick look, then shrugged. “With the jousting one can never tell. A bad fall, a poorly placed lance … But the melee.” He paused as if he considered his words carefully. “The melee is but a game—as close to real battle as can ever be portrayed among friendly barons. But in the midst of it all, well, sometimes tempers rise—that, and the men’s natural lust for battle. These men are all trained for war. Once the melee begins ’tis inevitable that blood will be let. But ’tis rare that a man is lost,” he added by way of reassurance.
But Rosalynde was not reassured. When she stepped down from the cart and made her way toward the tented viewing stand, her legs were trembling and her stomach was clenched in a knot. It was not, however, the melee that was her primary worry. She had faith that both Aric and her father were skilled enough to protect themselves relatively well from the overeager opponents they would face. But the melee could very easily provide Aric with the access he wished to Gilbert. It also would provide Gilbert and his cadre of knights the opportunity for the same.
Had Rosalynde not been so consumed with worry, she might actually have enjoyed the jousting. One by one each of the men her father considered worthy of such a prize as his daughter urged his horse down the long course. Thundering hooves and the cries of the watching multitude culminated each time in a resounding crash. Oftimes a lance would shatter. Generally one of the knights was unhorsed, falling heavily to the dusty earth, unable to move—whether due to injury or simply the weight of his mail and armor—until two squires hurried to his aid. The victor rode off to await his next challenge.
Slowly, methodically, the field of riders was narrowed down until only two remained. With a headache pounding cruelly behind her eyes, Rosalynde watched as the two mighty knights prepared for their final run. They were well hidden by their chain-mail hoods and hard steel helmets, yet she knew them by the colors they flew. Sir Edolf wore blue and gold and rode a heavy bay destrier; Sir Gilbert wore gold and black and rode the tall black steed that Aric had groomed but yesterday.
She was not aware that Cleve had come up behind her. She did not hear young Margaret’s prayer that her brother win the day. She only knew that if Gilbert was unhorsed—and perhaps hurt, but not too badly, of course—he might not fight in the melee. And if he did not fight there, then he and Aric might not confront one another! Her hands tightened on the arms of her chair as she leaned forward, her entire being rigid with tension.
At the sound of a horn, the two horses leapt forward, muscles bunching as they strained to reach their top speed. The two men catapulted toward one another, shields at the ready, lances lowered menacingly. They met with a crash of wood upon steel and the cries of a hundred throats. In less than a second the winner was clear to all, yet as Rosalynde watched Sir Edolf’s stocky frame lurch back in the saddle, then slide upside down over the rump of his stunned horse, it seemed to take forever.
“No!” she cried, pounding her fists futilely on the chair. “No!”
“Edolf!” Margaret cried at the same time, jumping up in alarm.
“Hush, he’ll be fine,” Cleve told the child, catching her before she could hurry to her fallen brother.
“Let me go!” she pleaded tearfully, struggling in his firm hold.
“Would you humiliate him further by rushing to his side? Think you he wants a girl fussing over him now?”
Even as he spoke, Edolf rolled over. Then with stiff jerky movements and the help of a squire, he managed to rise to his feet.
“You see,” Cleve said as he released Margaret. “He is fine.” As the girl slowly sat down, surreptitiously wiping at the tears that had spilled onto her cheeks, Cleve turned his attention to Rosalynde.
“Milady?” he asked when he spied her pale face and still-staring eyes. Then a frown shadowed his face when he followed her gaze to the triumphant Gilbert. He moved nearer her. “Milady, did you so hope Sir Edolf would be champion in the lists today?”
At his words Rosalynde started, unaware until now that he was even there. “Sir Edolf?” she repeated in confusion. “No … that is …” She sighed and glanced once more to Sir Gilbert, who was accepting the hearty congratulations from a throng of men including her father. “I had only hoped that Sir Gilbert would lose,” she murmured.
“Aye, you’re not alone in that,” Cleve muttered in obvious anger, and it was this unexpected emotion from him that finally drew her full attention. She made sure Margaret was well distracted before she addressed him.
“Is there something of Gilbert that displeases you?”
Clev
e shrugged, not sure he ought to confide in her something that should rightfully come from another source. “There is that about him which does not inspire my respect,” he answered enigmatically.
“And yet he is a knight, well respected and a great fighter.”
“There is more to a man than that,” the boy replied. “I am not convinced of his honor.”
His honor. The words brought a fragment of memory to Rosalynde’s mind. She’d accused Aric once of having no honor. It had been an accusation born of fear and anger. But he had countered that she was the one lacking in honor for not living by her vow at the handfasting ceremony. Perhaps in their accusations they had each been a little right and a little wrong. But now, although she had no firm reason, she was as certain as was Cleve that Sir Gilbert was a man possessed of no honor whatsoever.
“Regardless of that, he is the victor now. As such, he will no doubt be at the forefront of the melee,” she murmured unhappily.
“Yes, the melee,” Cleve repeated darkly, again piqueing Rosalynde’s interest.
“Is there something about the melee that you know?” she asked hesitantly. “Is something planned—some dire deed?” Her voice trailed off in fear.
Cleve stared a long time at the field where the melee would occur before looking back at her. In the shade of the tent he somehow appeared older to her, more a man now than a boy. When he spoke it was with a mature inflection and a protective tone.
“What will be, will be, Lady Rosalynde. You cannot expect a man to be other than he is, nor expect him to do less than what he must.” Then, in a surprising move, he took her hand and bent low to kiss it. “By your leave, duty calls me.” But before he strode off, he gave her a last anxious glance, and once more he was the boy she had known for so many years. “Try not to worry, milady. ’Twill do no good.”
“And will prayers do no good either?”
He shrugged. “ ’Tis hard to say. But they cannot hurt.”
If the jousting had been met with enthusiasm by both castlefolk and villagers alike, the prospect of the melee raised their excitement to a fever pitch. Around the broad field of battle the various pennants snapped in a quickening breeze: Sir Virgil of Rising’s red and white; Sir Edolf Blackburn’s gold and blue; Sir Gilbert’s gold and black; and her father’s green and gold. Knights gathered alongside men-at-arms, for this melee would be fought entirely on foot in order that more men could participate in the sport.
Even from her position across the field, Rosalynde could easily identify Aric among her father’s men. His great height and broad frame were a magnet for her eyes, and yet seeing him garbed in the leather tunic of battle only increased the terrible turmoil that gripped her. No good could come of this, she knew. Only disaster.
But all the worrying in the world could not prevent the progression of events to come. A shrill horn sounded and the several armies drew back behind their flags, ready for the battle to begin. Any lingerers at the food tables quickly stuffed their mouths then hurried to find a good spot for viewing the games. Then another deeper horn carried its note across the yard, and after a momentary silence, the field erupted with sound.
Rosalynde could not stay in her chair as the opposing groups of men surged forward, weapons drawn and voices raised in the battle cries of their respective houses. When the first crash was heard of metal upon metal, sword upon sword, and staff upon staff, she clasped her hands together, sick with horror and fear. Yet she could not tear her eyes away as the waves of men met in a great willing crush of human flesh. Although innumerable serfs had carted buckets of water to wet down the field earlier, dust nevertheless rose in billows as the armies sought to pierce their opponents’ defenses. Rosalynde knew that the various armies sought only to capture one another’s flags, thereby sending the vanquished armies to the sidelines until only one remained victorious. Yet she knew that between at least two of the combatants, the battle would be no game.
At the beginning of the melee, she saw Aric off to the right of her father, working his staff with devastating results. But as the dust rose and the battle thickened, she lost sight of him and nearly panicked. Only the sight of Gilbert’s pennant and cluster of men on the far side of the field, not yet clashing with Stanwood’s forces, reassured her that the inevitable battle between Gilbert and Aric had not begun.
In the midst of the excited yet good-natured men, Aric’s mind also was on the coming fight with Gilbert. But he felt neither fear nor terror at the prospect. Indeed, he was so eager to confront the dishonorable cur who’d plotted his death that it was all he could do to restrain himself from truly hurting the men he now battled. With a drop of his right shoulder he caught the long sword of one of Rising’s knights on his oak shaft. Then with an ease come of many years’ experience, he shifted his weight, lunged toward the man, and jerked the staff up sharply, forcing the sword to pop from the man’s surprised grip.
As the man scrambled to reclaim the sword, Aric tripped him with a sharp crack to the shins, then pressed the squared-off end of his weapon to the man’s chest.
“I claim you a captive of Stanwood,” he said tersely to the downed knight. But Aric did not linger long enough to be sure the man left the field as was required, for he had another, more vital game to play out than this.
As he surged forward to meet his next victim, he noted with grim satisfaction that Gilbert’s gold and black pennant also was making progress toward midfield. To his left Sir Edward wreaked havoc among the men he fought, and this fired Aric to even greater aggression. He knocked one man off his feet with a stiff elbow to the fellow’s middle, then sidestepped another’s rush and tripped him with the staff. With lightning-fast moves he pressed the mock-death blow to their chests, stepped over their prone forms, and forced his way farther, toward his nemesis.
As Sir Virgil’s ranks gave beneath Aric’s fierce assault, Stanwood’s forces veered somewhat to the right—away from Sir Gilbert, who fought Sir Edolf’s men now. In frustration Aric stared across the field, toward the one he was so determined to fight. But his, murderous thoughts were intercepted by Sir Edward’s barked commands.
“Right flank! Circle out and around. Cut off Rising’s retreat while we go straight at the flag!”
For a moment Aric did not respond, but only stared fiercely toward the bobbing gold and black pennant of Duxton. He patted the sheathed sword at his side, Then Sir Roger shoved him roughly. “Go on, man! Do as you’re told!”
It took all Aric’s willpower not to turn his deadly staff on the glaring captain of arms. But Roger was not his foe, he knew. In frustration he clenched his jaw and turned toward the task at hand.
“Ho! We have them now. We have them now!” Sir Edward’s cry rang out as his two lines pressed Sir Virgil’s dwindling forces between them. As if in confirmation, Sir Virgil’s standard-bearer stumbled back, still surrounded by sweating, fighting men. But from behind him Aric’s staff snaked forward, drawing one man’s sword down then suddenly up. As the man’s grip faltered, Aric pressed forward, grappling with the fellow for possession of the blade. Then he had it and with a triumphant cry he was through the line. With one mighty swipe of the sword he severed the pole, toppling the pennant to the ground.
One of Sir Edward’s knights grabbed it, then went down as Sir Virgil himself tackled him for possession of the coveted flag. But as Stanwood’s standard fluttered safely surrounded by men lined three deep in defense, Sir Virgil’s fate was inevitable. When he finally rose without the flag, and lowered his weapon in defeat, the rest of his men slowly conceded as well.
In jubilation Sir Edward raised his sword, for this was the one man he most wished to defeat this day. He beamed at his circle of men. “Fine work, my lads!” he cried, breathless from his own efforts. “But there’s not a moment to spare—”
Before his words were done there was a savage push from behind.
“ ’Tis Sir Andrew of Billingham!” Sir Roger’s choked cry came. Then there was no more conversation as Stanwood’s forces
staggered under the fierce attack, only muffled oaths and vicious curses. To a man Sir Edward’s forces felt the brunt of the determined assault. But their long-awaited victory against Sir Virgil of Rising was too fresh in their minds to allow them to go down easily in defeat.
At the first wave of the rush Aric swiftly took stock of the situation. Gilbert’s men were beyond Sir Andrew, gamely fighting Sir Edolf’s forces. If he was to have his just revenge, Aric knew Stanwood must not go down. After only a moment’s hesitation, he pulled back from the fight and edged around the perimeter. Sir Andrew’s standard of blue and white was well protected to the fore, but behind only three men covered it. With a savage cry he launched himself at them, crashing into one man as he laid another low with one sweep of the staff. The third man turned, as did the standard-bearer, but by then it was too late. The staff came down hard on the knight’s shoulder, numbing his arm, and with that defense gone, the standard-bearer fell back, colliding with his own people. The flag wavered a moment longer. Then Aric swung the long oak staff once more and the entire flag pole toppled backward. Innumerable hands grabbed at it—Stanwood hands—and in a moment the victory was secured.
Aric did not pause to savor his triumph, for now nothing stood in the way of his revenge. Across the short, dusty space his eyes found Sir Gilbert boldly leading his men in a relentless attack on Sir Edolf’s flag. For an instant Gilbert lifted his head and stared back at him; their eyes met for a fleeting moment. Aric knew the other man intended only to judge the status of the other armies in the melee. But then Gilbert stiffened, and Aric sensed at once his recognition. He did not need to see Gilbert’s scowl beneath his helmet, nor hear his muttered curse to know that the truth was out.
Without hesitation Aric threw his staff down and drew out the broadsword that hung waiting in the scabbard at his side. He lifted the long, dark blade in menacing salute then started forward to meet his foe. But Sir Roger prevented his attack with a tight grip on his forearm.
The Rose of Blacksword (Loveswept) Page 35