The Rose of Blacksword (47 page)

“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.

“Get back with the others!” he barked angrily.

“Not now,” Aric replied grimly, shaking off the other’s hold.

“Bedamned if you are not more trouble than ever you
are worth!” Roger swore. “I’ll not have a man in my service who does not follow orders!”

But Aric was not there to hear the threat. With a sudden charge he met Sir Gilbert at the edge of the fighting, and all else was forgotten. His wicked black blade, retrieved from the stables, came down with deadly accuracy at Gilbert, but that one also was no novice at swordplay. With a cry of absolute fury he met the formidable attack, turning the strike back with a powerful thrust of his own. His eyes glittered with icy hatred as he glared at Aric.

“I should have stayed to watch you hang!” he said with a growl as they grappled then fell back.

“A mistake you shall not live long enough to regret,” Aric answered in a cold, controlled tone.

“I’ll see you skewered and roasted in hell first!” So saying, Gilbert swung his own sword, beginning an expert attack that forced Aric back. But Aric had waited too long for his revenge to allow Gilbert even the smallest sense of victory. He met the other man’s hard sweeping thrusts with all the strength in his arms and wrists, checking the vicious chops on the cross-guard of his black sword, then thrusting his weight forward in an attempt to unbalance Gilbert. It was a daring move, for it brought him within easy reach of the other man’s weapon. But as Gilbert faltered, Aric knew it had been a worthwhile risk. He pulled the heavy blade back, hearing the slither of steel upon steel, ready now to strike a death blow.

From the covered pavilion Rosalynde watched the sudden turn of events on the field in sinking desperation. Even knowing he planned to confront Gilbert had not adequately prepared her for the violent fear she felt for Aric. Gilbert might kill him! And even if he didn’t, the other men surely would!

Across the yard, half hidden by the churning dust, the
two figures were hardly discernible as they struggled together. But she saw well the long, dark blade in Aric’s hands, and even in her fear she wondered where he’d found it.

It was clear she was not alone in that. The other fighting—done in sport—abruptly ceased as this battle raged in earnest. Sir Gilbert’s men surged forward in anger to defend their lord, but it was Sir Roger who reached the two men first. With a furious cry he thrust his own sword between them before Aric’s blade could strike, then, with a barked command, he shoved himself between Gilbert and Aric, protecting Gilbert even as he faced Aric himself.

“Damn you to hell for the surly bastard that you are!” he cried, clearly outraged at such a breach of conduct at a sporting event. He gestured to Stanwood’s men-at-arms who still stood uncertainly behind Aric. “By Christ! I said to take him!”

Had she not been gripping the tent post so fiercely, Rosalynde would surely have fainted. As it was, she could only stare in horror, unable to make out all that was said. She saw the men-at-arms crowd behind Aric. She heard Sir Gilbert’s angry voice raised in accusation.

“—unholy bastard we caught at Dunmow!… deserved to be hanged there! I demand he be hanged now!”

It was that which forced Rosalynde to move. She did not think or plan as she dashed from the viewing tent. She was unmindful of the murmurs of the bewildered crowd. One thought only consumed her: to save the man she loved! Her father was among the men who surrounded Gilbert and Aric. Perhaps he would accede to her desperate please for leniency. Perhaps when he knew this was his son-in-law!

But in her heart Rosalynde knew it would not help. Then she saw the huge war-horse that Aric had groomed—Gilbert’s
steed. With a swift change of direction she ran for the unattended animal, not hesitating even when it flattened its ears defensively. She untangled the long reins, but before she could urge the unwilling beast forward, a long, low whistle pierced the air.

At once the magnificent destrier tensed. His ears pricked forward as his intelligent eyes sought the source of the sound. Then with a low whicker, he bounded past her, yanking the reins from her hands, heading straight for the tense group in the middle of the field.

What Rosalynde saw as she stared after the horse in astonishment filled her with both fear and awe. Aric was held by four men, although he yet gripped the black sword belligerently. But Gilbert lurched forward, past Sir Roger and her father, clearly intent on striking a killing blow while Aric was helpless to defend himself. Had the horse not scattered the men with his unexpected charge, the conclusion would have been inevitable. As it was, Gilbert’s broadsword was turned somewhat to the right. When the animal thundered past him, Aric leapt wildly for him.

Rosalynde screamed in horror, certain he must be trampled beneath the churning hooves of the heavy steed. In the field men lay sprawled everywhere from their terrified dash away from the huge horse. But then she saw Aric swing himself onto the destrier’s back as he thundered toward the forest, and her heart leapt with joy.