The Rose of Blacksword (11 page)

He’d thought it a stroke of genius when he’d decided to catch the “outlaws” who had been terrorizing the area. Not only would he ingratiate himself with the local populace, but he also had rid himself of those thieves operating outside his own hand-picked ring. How the people at Dunmow had fawned over him when he’d brought that pair of pitiful scum in!

But his greatest pleasure had been in bringing down that bastard knight.

An evil smile lit his face as he curled his hand around the intricately formed handle of the beautiful black sword. That would teach the fool not to humiliate Sir Gilbert Poole in the lists. No mere bastard could be allowed to unseat him in a tournament. No unknown, landless knight-errant could get away with breaking the newest Lord of Duxton’s arm before London’s finest nobility.

But he’d made him pay, Gilbert gloated. And most appropriately, at that. He’d killed two birds with one stone when he’d accused the man as an outlaw. A gold coin or two and that fat mayor had jumped at the chance to hang
the man, no questions asked. By now the arrogant cur was tried and hanged and rotting in some ditch. Gilbert’s only disappointment was that the presumptuous fool had not known who it was who had plotted his demise. That would have been too chancy.

He laughed aloud, the sound echoing darkly across the cold, empty chamber. Everything was falling into place. That fool—Sir Aric was his name—was taken care of. The authorities would now relax, thinking that the outlaws had been captured. Now that he was Lord of Duxton, it might be time for him to disassociate himself entirely from his band of outlaws, for he was able to avail himself of his demesne’s riches as he wished now, without answering to anyone. It only remained for him to get himself a wife—a rich wife. Then he would be well fixed once and for all. She could bear him his requisite heirs while he enjoyed life at court.

Once more he picked up the fine weapon and admired it with a hard, assessing gaze. Too bad it was such a distinctive blade. He would like to have used it the next time he fought a tourney, but that might be too dangerous, at least in London. But elsewhere …

With a self-satisfied smile he picked up the sword and slid it into a leather-and-steel scabbard that hung from a wall peg. The blade was handsome, but it was only a symbol of his success. Then he filled his goblet with wine once more and toasted his own good fortune.

Demons plagued her. Faceless marauders hunted her down only to dissolve into horrible visions of grisly choking faces. She was hunted unmercifully, trapped in a hole with no way out, only to then be toasted and cheered by leering drunken faces. Far away she heard a child’s voice calling. Giles, she thought in a moment of sudden joy. But
when she turned, his pale face floated away from her to be replaced by Cleve’s suffering features.

“Cleve …” she whimpered aloud, trying to reach him as he continued to cry out for her. “Cleve!”

But when she reached for him, it was not Cleve at all. The face that turned to her was harsher, and although he smiled, seeming almost to beckon to her, she knew she must go no nearer. She turned around to run away but he was there before her, blocking her path. Once more she turned, her heart racing now in terrible fear, but just as before, he was there. His smile was wider now, but his eyes were clear and watched her with uncanny perception. Lucifer, she thought as she flailed away from him. Lucifer.

Rosalynde sat up abruptly. Her heart thundered in her chest and every fiber in her being was tense and rigid with panic. Her eyes stared wildly about for the dreaded apparition, the pair of devil’s eyes that seemed more dangerous than all of the other creatures who had crowded her nightmare. But there was no one there. She gulped two harsh breaths, fighting to control her skittering emotions. But as she looked about it seemed that her reality was almost as horrid as her terrifying dream. They were still hiding in the ruined castle. Cleve was sorely wounded although he seemed to be sleeping peacefully enough. And they were still far from home.

Her eyes widened at once as everything came back to her in a violent rush. Where was he? Where was the man she had claimed, the man who had agreed to see them safe? She scrambled to her feet as the sleep-induced cobwebs fled her brain. Where was he!

In the dense gray light of dawn, Rosalynde could see very little. The fire had burned down to a few glowing embers. Cleve was still huddled beneath her cloak, but his
breathing came easy. When she touched his head, she was hugely relieved to feel only a normal, healthy warmth. But the place against the wall where that man had leaned—that Blacksword—was empty. Only a depression in the drift of leaves that had collected there gave any indication he had ever been there at all.

He had abandoned them! Disbelief and despair overwhelmed her as she stared panic-stricken about her. In spite of everything—the handfasting, the promise of reward—he had abandoned them. In utter hopelessness Rosalynde staggered the few steps to the storeroom opening, then leaned heavily against the rubble wall. What would she do? How would she and Cleve ever find their way safely to Stanwood? Tears started in her eyes, tears of helplessness and frustration and terrible, terrible fear. In anger she thrust them away, wiping fiercely at them with one small fist. She turned back to stare at Cleve, trying hard to contain the awful trembling that gripped her. Once more she had failed, she berated herself. If she’d picked one of those other men … If she’d not insisted on making this journey … If she had been able to save Giles …

If, if, if! She shook her head hard, then resolutely wiped the remnants of her tears away. It did no good to wish for what might have been, just as it did no good to cry, she told herself soberly. She looked again at the sleeping page. Maybe he would be better today, enough for them to venture out. Maybe if they kept to the forest and traveled by night they could make their way safely. Maybe …

She sighed deeply, daunted anew by their dire predicament. There was little she could do at the moment, yet to do nothing at all was to give all her fears free rein. Grimly she suppressed her fears. Cleve needed food and more of the healing herbs, she decided. At the moment fetching
water and wood and preparing some sort of meal would have to be her first priority. She would worry about getting home after that.

Resolved, she stepped from the tumbled-down building, determined to be strong and brave for Cleve’s sake. But with every bit of wood she picked up, she cast the vilest aspersions upon the ungrateful brute who had so callously abandoned them. He was a miserable wretch, she fumed as she found solace in her anger. An ungrateful cur with the morals of a serpent. As her ire increased, so did the pile of sticks and kindling grow until she had the beginnings for a veritable bonfire. Then she picked up the crockery and set off for the well, all the while vilifying the dishonorable ruffian, wishing vehemently that she had let him swing with those other two men. He was no doubt the ringleader, she decided bitterly, just as that old man had speculated. And she was a twice-cursed fool to have ever thought such a man might feel anything approaching gratitude.

She was in high dudgeon, searching her mind for any foul oath she had ever overheard to heap upon hind. Although she’d never been one to curse—nor even to comprehend why some people did—she now understood completely. As she approached the well she was so caught up in her resentful thoughts that she was almost upon him before she realized it.

“Dear God!” The exclamation escaped her lips as she came to an abrupt stop. Her eyes grew as round as saucers as she stared dumbly at the scene before her. For his part, the man she knew only as Blacksword seemed completely unfazed by her unexpected appearance, as well as her undisguised staring. He only paused for a moment, sending her a hard look over his broad shoulder, then continued scraping his face with the sharp edge of the dagger.

Rosalynde’s consuming fury over his cowardly abandonment of her was squelched at once. Clearly he was here; therefore all her suspicions were for naught. Yet now, as he calmly continued to wash himself, she felt a new kind of heat suffuse her. It was anger too, she told herself. Anger at him for scaring her so, and now anger at his utter lack of embarrassment to be caught in such an intimate act. And with his entire upper torso bared to her view! Yet despite the heat that crept up her neck to color her face, she continued to stand there, with her mouth opened in a little “O” and her eyes still wide and unblinking.

He had shed his torn tunic and his ripped chainse, and stood now in the chill early-morning air, bare to the waist. He lowered the bucket into the well, then, when he pulled it up, dumped it over him. As the water coursed over his hair, down past his shoulders, chest, and back, then along his arms, she only stared dumbfounded, unable to say or even think one intelligent word. He picked up a piece of soaproot sitting on the rim of the well and began to lather himself vigorously with it. And still she only stared.

She had known he was a powerful man, broad shouldered and hard muscled. He was big and menacing-looking, and that was why she had claimed him in that pagan ritual. But she was nonetheless unprepared for the pure animal virility of him. He was like some magnificent wild creature, possessed of a primitive sort of power that sent a new type of fear skittering up her spine. Instinctively she stepped back, clutching the pottery container to her chest. But she was unable to look away. As the thin lather slowly slid down his body in dirty white rivulets, he flexed and stretched like some great beast of prey, confident of its own prowess. Then another time the bucket splashed into the well, and this time when he doused himself, a new man began to emerge.

She saw him shiver slightly. He shook his head, sending a spray of water flying around him. Only then did he turn to face her. He thrust his hands through his long hair, pushing it back from his face as he gave her a considering look. “Could it be you are waiting for someone to draw your bath, milady?”

The words were spoken in a most courtly manner, and for an instant Rosalynde was gratified that he at least acknowledged her rank. But she also recognized the sarcastic edge in his voice, and when his eyes flicked lightly over her, she understood his double meaning. She was filthy. Her clothes were torn and stained, her hair was grimy and tangled, and she hated to think how soiled her face must be. Self-consciously she tucked one long knotted tendril behind her ear, but she was irritated by his condescending attitude. He was a common criminal, she reminded herself, while she was a lady of the realm, despite her current shabby appearance.

“At the moment bathing seems a most frivolous occupation,” she muttered in annoyance. “I’ve Cleve to attend. And you—” She gave him her most contemptuous glare. “You should be plotting our escape from this vile place.”

But he ignored her ill-humored jibe and only bent down to remove his soft hide boots. “I know ’tis common for the nobility to anoint themselves with perfumed oils to cover the stink of their own bodies.” He gave her a telling look. “I prefer to wash the dirt away.”

So did she. But Rosalynde was in no mood to be conciliatory. “If you don’t mind, I need water to cleanse Cleve’s wounds.” She took a deep breath then bravely came nearer him, determined not to appear afraid. He admitted she was a lady, despite her pitiful appearance, and he
had
stayed. Clearly he wanted the reward she’d promised. It followed, then, that he was working for her. It also behooved
her to make sure he knew it. “Would you please draw a bucket of water up for me?” she asked in her coolest, most ladylike tone.

His answer was only a cynical look. But to her huge relief he did toss the bucket down into the deep well. As he pulled up the laden bucket she could not help but notice the smooth workings of the immense muscles of his arms and shoulders. She knew for herself how hard it was to draw the water up, for she had strained to do it the day before. With the well’s cranking mechanism gone it was no mean feat. She had barely succeeded, yet he made it look easy.

Once the bucket was settled on the rim of the well, she handed him the pottery container so that he might fill it. But he only set it down beside the bucket and commenced to unlace the braies that hugged his hips so revealingly.

“You’ll get your water when I finish my bath,” he said shortly. Then without the least hesitation he began to draw the braies down.

Rosalynde was so horrified she could barely move. She stared aghast as the linen fabric slid low, revealing a few crisp curls of dark hair above his groin area. Then she abruptly whirled around, almost choking with shock and fear. He was truly a heathen! she thought in complete horror. A common criminal. An unconscionable murderer. And very likely capable of rape—

That thought caused her mouth to close with a snap and her stomach to lurch. Unwilling to run and thereby reveal how intimidated she was, she commanded her legs to walk stiffly away from him. If he meant to harm her, running would not help. Yet it took all her strength to maintain her dignified retreat. She kept thinking that any man who could murder—who could live by stealing from others, who could calmly undress before a stranger—was hardly
likely to be above rape. At any moment she feared to hear his footsteps or feel his hands upon her.

Finally, near a section of crumbled wall, she paused long enough to glance fearfully behind her. To her enormous relief he had not pursued her, but what she saw at the well was no less unnerving. He had stripped off his hose and braies and stood now completely naked. His back was to her as he doused himself once more, and the early-morning light gleamed off his wet body. His legs and buttocks were paler than his upper body, she saw as her eyes widened in awe. But they were equally muscled, thick and strong, bunching and stretching as he bent forward to wash.

How long she stood thus, poised to flee yet staring boldly at him, she did not know. It was only when he straightened and looked over his shoulder to meet her gaze that she was shocked into motion. With a swift jerk, she turned and ducked behind the wall. But as she hurried back to Cleve’s side, she could not banish Blacksword’s image from her mind’s eye.