The Rose of Blacksword (46 page)

“The thing is,” Cleve continued, gathering courage and momentum from Sir Edward’s amiable reception. “Even though she is only a woman, she is quite remarkable. She has said you allow her a choice in the selection of a husband. But I would implore you, as one who knows her well, not to be too harsh on her should her choice seem ill-advised.”

Sir Edward eyed him curiously. “First of all, young Cleve, I must thank you for your continued concern for
my only child. However, I must correct a misunderstanding on your part. Her choice of a husband is from among a prescribed cadre of acceptable lords.”

“Yes, milord. I realize that, milord,” Cleve stammered. “Only the Lady Rosa—”

“I have no doubt she would extend her choice wider,” Sir Edward interrupted him. “Like her mother before her, Rosalynde would convert each one of my concessions to encompass much more, and use my own indulgence toward her against me.” He gave Cleve a keen look but his eyes held a gleam of understanding. “No doubt there is many a young man would willingly have such a maid as she to wife. You can understand, I am sure, that it remains for me to limit her choice to those men I deem right for her.” He pushed his heavy chair back, then stood up and smiled at Cleve. “Take heart, lad. In the years to come you shall come across many a fair face and soft voice. But you cannot have them all, so you’d best learn that lesson now.” So saying, he gave Cleve a stern look before turning and walking away.

Cleve stared after Sir Edward, his mouth still opened to protest. It wasn’t himself he’d referred so obliquely to, but Aric. Yet no matter the man involved, it was clear Sir Edward had no intention of granting Rosalynde more than the most minimal choice in this very important matter. With a sigh Cleve picked up Sir Edward’s empty cup and turned to take it and the ewer back to the buttery. He had been a fool to approach Sir Edward in such a presumptuous fashion, and he was grateful the man had not called him to task for it. Once again he thanked his patron saint for landing him in the service of such a fair-minded lord as Sir Edward of Stanwood.

But fair-minded would only carry so far, he knew. Lady
Rosalynde had best resign herself to her fate, for no matter how the morrow resolved itself of the bad blood between Sir Gilbert and Aric, her father would have the final word in the choice of her husband.

25

The halls and yards of Stanwood Castle were alive with activity even before the sun crept over the eastern horizon. The meadows were still damp with dew beneath a dark-mauve sky when the villagers began streaming toward the pavilions set around the tournament lists and battlefield. Since the day before, whole pigs and calves had cooked in covered pits, and now an army of eager laborers dug away the dirt to get at the well-charred carcasses. Dogs were underfoot everywhere, waiting for their portion of the feast to come, and from the opened gates of the castle itself a constant flow of carts, pedestrians, and riders moved back and forth.

Rosalynde had also been up before dawn, directing the conveyance of the various foods to the designated area near the games. She was more than ever thankful for Cedric’s calm nature, for he was seeing to the many butts of ales and wines. As she watched the armloads of breads, the huge wheels of cheeses, and the baskets of fruits loaded into the wagons, she knew she should feel relieved to have that job done, for she trusted Edith and Maud to take over from here and coordinate the serving from the many plank tables that waited in the fields. Yet Rosalynde could not take much pleasure from the completion of the main portion of her work. Indeed, as she faced the fact
that there was nothing left for her to do now, except to dress herself, she heartily wished for a long list of details to attend. At least if she were busy she would not be able to dwell on the many terrifying possibilities that had tormented her all night. But Rosalynde knew that busy or idle, she would not be able to avoid the realities that awaited. Somehow, in some way, Blacksword would make his move against Sir Gilbert, and when he did, nothing she could say or do would save him from the certain explosion that would follow.

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?”

Cleve 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.