Always

by Lynsay Sands

  Aric glanced back toward the horse and went suddenly still, his mouth working, but nothing came out of it. His friend was right. That was his hat perched on the animal's head! His brand-new hat. He was still standing there a moment later when Rosamunde came jogging lightly down the stairs, her attention on the stockings she was slipping off of her hands.

  "Here we are, then. These should help keep your feet warm. Not a hole in the bunch," she sang out cheerfully as she reached the bottom of the steps and crossed the hall toward the bundled animal. "Now, we shall just get these on your feet." Stopping beside the animal, she bent to run her hand over one of the horse's fetlocks. The horse raised his foot at once, apparently willing to cooperate, and that was when Aric found his voice, managing to draw her attention to their presence with a bellow.

  "Wife!"

  Dropping the horse's hoof, Rosamunde straightened abruptly, her eyes wide with horror as she spotted the crowd standing near the trestle table. "Husband! You are returned!" she cried with dismay, then suddenly stepped in front of the horse as if she thought she might be able to hide its great bulk behind her own small frame. "What are you doing here?"

  "What am I..." Aric began with disbelief, then, "What the devil is he doing here?"

  "Who?" she asked innocently as he started across the room toward her. As if she thought, for one bloody moment, that they all could not see the horse standing behind her, he thought with amazement.

  The animal was now nuzzling her shoulder as if trying to remind her of its presence and pointing out that he was the "who" in question.

  "Wife," he began again.

  Shoulders slumping at his warning growl, Rosamunde sighed, then stomped the floor impatiently with one dainty foot. "You were not supposed to be back so early. You did not return until sup yestereve, and I thought sure that you would be late again today. I would have had him moved somewhere else by then," she complained, somehow making it sound as if this were all his fault. Then her gaze slid to the two men accompanying him and her eyes widened slightly. "Oh! Lord Shambley. Hello again. Welcome to Goodhall!" A bright smile on her face, she hurried forward to offer her hand as if nothing were amiss.

  Ignoring a fuming Aric, Robert took her hand in his, bowed gallantly, and pressed a kiss to her fingers. "My lady," he greeted, his eyes sparkling with humor. "'Tis a pleasure to see you again." Then, straightening, he turned slightly to introduce the older man at his side. "I do not believe you have met Aric's father, Lord Burkhart. Lord Burkhart, may I introduce Lady Rosamunde, your new daughter-in-law."

  Smiling reassuringly into Rosamunde's horrified face, the older man stepped forward, taking her hand from Robert's. "It is a pleasure to welcome you to the family, my dear. I hope Aric does not prove a difficult husband for you--"

  Aric snorted at that and shook his head. "Me difficult? Excuse me, but does no one recall there is a horse in my great hall?" Another burst of escaping air from the animal in question made him stiffen, straighten, and correct himself. "There is a farting horse in my great hall."

  "Husband!" There was no mistaking the reprimand in her voice, and it made Aric gape at her as she hurried over to soothe the animal lest it become offended. "You shall embarrass him. 'Tis not his fault that he has the flatulence. He is ill."

  "Ah, 'tis a he," Lord Burkhart murmured with a nod. When Rosamunde peered at him curiously, he explained. "We were not sure. He is wearing both gowns and brais, you see."

  Missing the teasing laughter in his eyes, Rosamunde frowned as she considered that fact. "You do not think it shall cause him embarrassment or confusion, do you?"

  Robert and Gordon laughed gently and shook their heads. Aric was less amused. "Wife. Get this horse out of my keep."

  "Nay."

  His eyes widened incredulously at her rebellion. It was the first time she had said nay to him. "What?"

  Biting her lip, Rosamunde briefly considered the fact that she was disobeying her husband--despite the vow she had made to obey, both to God during the wedding ceremony and then to her father afterward. But then she decided that since it wasn't for her own benefit, or out of some whim for her own pleasure, it was all right. After all, the matter affected the horse's life. Besides, quite simply, her husband was wrong! Surely she wasn't expected to obey when he was so obviously wrong?

  Her conscience salved by this reasoning, she forced a smile and endeavored to explain the situation so that he would see the error of his decision and hopefully change it so that she need not continue to disobey. "He is ill, my lord. He has a cold, which he got from those damp and drafty old stables." The words came out a bit snappishly, since the building's state was wholly his fault for not listening to her. Regaining her temper, she continued, "He must be kept warm and dry. The only place to do that is here in the keep, by the fire. 'Sides," she added quickly as he opened his mouth to shout again. "'Tis not just any horse. 'Tis Black."

  Aric's eyes shot to the clothing-covered beast with alarm, but it was his father who moved over and lifted the material from around his face. "Aye," Gordon said with surprise. "'Tis Black! I did not recognize him in disguise."

  Robert gave a laugh at that, but Aric moved quickly to the horse, examining the beast's weeping eyes with dismay, then jumping back with a curse as Black suddenly drew his head up and sneezed squarely in his master's face.

  "You must leave him covered," Rosamunde chided, hurrying forward to rearrange the clothing she had wrapped around his head. Aric wiped his face with disgust. The horse suffered her ministrations without fussing, and even leaned its head into her shoulder as if to thank her. This was not Black's typical behavior. Normally he liked no one but Aric. He tended merely to suffer anyone else's presence.

  "How ill is he?" Aric asked, concerned now, but keeping his distance.

  "He has a bad cold." Rosamunde gave the horse a soothing pat as he sniffled miserably from under his coverings, then bent again, urging his front leg up so that she might tug a stocking onto the hoof. "He will recover if handled gently. But if you put him back in those damp stables, he could worsen, get the lung complaint, and die."

  "Die?" Aric asked worriedly, then frowned as he got a good look at what she was doing. "Are those my stockings? By God, they are!" he said incredulously, gaping at her where she knelt. "Madam, you are putting a stocking on a horse. My stockings on my horse, in fact."

  "Aye, 'tis fitting, do you not think?" Rosamunde murmured with an absent-minded smile, straightening and moving to the next leg to repeat the action.

  "Fitting? Fitting?"

  Frowning over her shoulder at him, Rosamunde slowly stood. "There is no need to shout, my lord. I am standing right here. Besides, you shall disturb Black." As if on cue, the great black beast gave a sniffle, followed by a pitiful whinny. Rosamunde turned to run a soothing hand down his neck. "There, there. You shall feel better soon." Peering back at her husband, she smiled angelically, distracting him briefly until her words sank. Then he recalled he was upset. "You see? He does not feel well at all."

  "Fine! He is ill. But that does not mean you needed to bring him in here, stand him by the fire, and dress him in my great cape," Aric protested, but some of the bite had gone out of his tone.

  "I needed something to keep him warm," she explained patiently. "I can always wash your cape, my lord. But I cannot produce another fine horse like Black out of the air." Finished with the stockings, Rosamunde straightened and started toward the front of the horse, where Aric now stood glaring at the beast. She paused, however, to smile at a young servant girl who hurried out of the kitchens to hand her a pail.

  "Thank you, Maggie," she murmured, accepting the bucket and pausing to dip a finger into its contents before turning with satisfaction to hold it up for the horse.

  "What the devil is that mush you are feeding him?"

  Rosamunde grimaced at his choice of words. "It is porridge, my lord. Blackie shouldn't eat anything hard while he is ailing. The soft food will be easier on his digestion, allowing his body to concentr
ate most of its effort on fighting the cold."

  "That explains the stomach staggers," Robert murmured from where he stood some distance away, Lord Burkhart beside him.

  Aric ignored the comment in favor of frowning at his wife. "His name is Black, not Blackie. And I want him out of here ere the sup," he said grimly. Then, turning on his heel, he strode toward the keep door.

  "Where are you going?" Robert asked, hurrying after him.

  "To set some men to build the new stables."

  "That is probably for the best," his father murmured, beginning to follow.

  "Aye," Aric agreed dryly, casting a pointed look over his shoulder at where Rosamunde stood feeding his horse. Then he added, "Then I am going down to the village, where I can enjoy an ale and some food without this stench."

  Grinning, Robert glanced back toward the table. "Lord Spencer? Bishop Shrewsbury? Shall you join us?"

  "Certainly, certainly. It will be a pleasure," the blind man murmured, rising and moving forward with the aid of Joseph. Shrewsbury, too, rose.

  Rosamunde watched the men slip out of the keep, then glanced back at Black with a sigh. "Ah, well, never fear, Blackie. I will stay here with you." A gaseous emission from the horse in response made her wrinkle her nose. "But you are a stinker."

  Sucking in some fresh air, Rosamunde smiled slightly, then sank onto the keep steps with a sigh. She had come outside to get a few moments away from the stink and heat in the keep. Between Black's flatulence and the heat pouring off of the inferno she had built in the fireplace to sweat out some of the chills the horse was suffering, it was a mite uncomfortable in there just now. She planned to allow the flames to die down and move Black an hour before the sup to allow the room to air out, but was still not yet sure to where she would move the horse. The kitchen would be nice and warm, but she did not think Cook would appreciate it--and he did seem the irascible sort. Mayhap she could persuade Black to mount the stairs and get him into one of the empty bedchambers.

  She was distracted from her thoughts by the sound of a child's sobbing. Frowning, Rosamunde allowed her eyes to focus on the bailey before her, concern tugging at her lips as she spied a small boy moving past the steps, stumbling under the weight of a dog he carried. The animal was unconscious, blood matting its normally brown fur. Standing abruptly, Rosamunde started down the stairs, hailing the boy as she went. "Boy? Boy! What has happened?"

  Halting, the lad turned to stare at her, tears streaming down his face. He hitched his awkward burden higher in his arms and watched her approach.

  Pausing before him, Rosamunde reached out to smooth some of the coarse fur away to get a better look at the animal. She had at first thought it a full-grown dog because of its size, but up close she could see that it was really just a rather large pup. Its paws and head were larger than the body deserved; the animal had not yet grown into them. The animal was hardly breathing.

  "What happened?" she repeated, frowning over the injury to its throat and side.

  "The bull," he answered dully. "Laddie got in the paddock with him. He was just playing. He's a pup and don't know better. I should have trained him better, kept a closer eye on him. Now he's dead." His voice broke on a heartfelt sob, and the boy gasped through his tears. "Da says I should bury him outside the gates."

  Rosamunde took in the guilt and grief struggling on the child's face and felt her heart tighten. "What is your name, lad?"

  "Jemmy," he got out somewhere between a hiccup and a sob.

  "Well, Jemmy, you had best not be burying your friend there too quick. He is not dead."

  "He isna?" The boy gaped as she took the pup from him. "But...he looks dead."

  "Looking is not always being," Rosamunde assured him, turning toward the keep steps with her burden. "Come along. Let us see what we can do."

  An hour later, after laboring tirelessly over the small dog, Rosamunde was satisfied with her efforts. She had cleaned his wounds, bandaged him, wrapped him in a blanket to ward off the shock he was suffering, and the puppy was now awake and staring around in confusion. He was in a lot of pain, and it would take a while for the pup to recover, but recover he would.

  Beaming with relief and pleasure, Jemmy threw his arms around her in a spontaneous show of gratitude, not even minding that she insisted his pup must stay in the keep so that she might keep an eye on his injuries. The boy then rushed out of the keep to tell his father that she had "brought my dog back from the dead."

  Between Jemmy and Stablemaster Smithy chattering away to everyone about her work with Black, word spread quickly that the keep's new lady had a special way with ailing beasts. Before Rosamunde knew what was about, she found herself besieged by peasants. Pigs, goats, sheep, and dogs were paraded into the keep. Chickens, hawks, cats, and kittens were carried in. Even a mule and a couple of cows. The great hall filled up quickly, and Rosamunde found herself knee-deep in animals by late afternoon.

  "With all the men you've assigned to this, it should not take more than a couple days to finish the new stables."

  Aric glanced at his father as they crossed the bailey toward the keep. "Aye, and you can stop your fussing. I am no longer angry at my wife." A wry smile twisted his lips. "I should not have lost my temper in the first place. She was only trying to save Black. I was just a bit overset. When I said Smithy could consult her, I did not expect her to take it to mean he should bring the horses into the keep."

  "Aye, well." Robert laughed. "Once the stables are up, she will most likely leave the horses there. Although..."

  Aric stiffened slightly, his eyes narrowing on his friend.

  "Although it does seem to me that much of this could have been avoided. Had you just allowed her access to the stables, I suspect she may have just bundled Black up there and stayed nearby to keep an eye on him."

  "And when you are married, you may decide how you deal with your wife! In the meantime, pray do not try to tell me how to handle mine," Aric interrupted, starting up the keep steps.

  "As you wish, my lord," Robert said a touch dryly, then jogged lightly up the stairs. Reaching the keep doors, he pulled one open, made a snappy little bow, then held the door as a servant might do. Aric ascended the steps toward him.

  He was nearly at the top when Shambley suddenly stiffened, cocking his head briefly as if trying to discern the source of some sound, then turned his head to glance sharply into the great hall. In the next moment, Robert slammed the door shut and threw himself before it.

  "What is it?" Aric asked suspiciously as he paused before him, frowning.

  "Nothing," he said quickly. But the fact that the word was squeaked out in an uncustomarily high voice, as if he were choking on it, made it hard for either Aric or his father to believe. Especially when Robert added in a desperately cheerful voice, "Say! Why do we not go have another ale in the village?"

  Taking in Shambley's expression, Lord Burkhart frowned, then peered briefly toward the door the younger man was blocking. Suddenly he nodded. "Mayhap that is not such a bad idea. I could use--"

  "Move." It was one word and said pleasantly enough, but the hard look in Aric's eye said more than the word could.

  Heaving a sigh, Shambley stepped out of the way. "Just remember, you are the one who refused to allow her the stables."

  Aric reached for the door, suddenly positive that Rosamunde had neglected to move Black, and that the farting horse was still ensconced by the fire. He prepared himself for just such a sight as he slowly opened the door, determined that he would remain calm. He would not lose his temper. He would simply tell her in a reasonable tone of voice to move the animal and she would--

  His thoughts stopped dead at the sight that met his eyes as he stepped inside the great hall--or what used to be the great hall. This could not be Goodhall's great hall, he assured himself. This was the great hall of another castle. Somehow they had lost their way on their return from the village and left his land. This room, filled with twenty or so people and twice as many animals--all milling, c
lucking, squawking, or quacking about--was some other poor lord's great hall, and he really should turn around and make his way back to Goodhall now, he thought faintly. But then there was a shifting of the people and animals, and he saw the chair at the head of the trestle table. Yes, that definitely looked like his chair at the head trestle table in his great hall. In fact, he was suddenly quite positive that that was his chair, and that this was his great hall.

  What made him so positive, despite the animals that he was certain he had not made welcome in his dining area?

  Well, it would be the fact that there was presently a hawk perched on the back of that head chair at the trestle table in this great hall, and that that hawk was presently relieving itself on the chair. Yes. And there was only one person Aric could think of who might see it as acceptable to allow a hawk to relieve itself on her lord and husband's chair. The same person who thought it was quite alright to dress a horse in her lord and husband's clothes, cape, and cap and coddle him by her lord and husband's fire. And that person would be his--

  "Wife."

  The roar had barely left his lips when Aric found himself grabbed from behind and dragged back out of the keep by both his father and Shambley. The outer doors slammed closed and Aric began to swear and shout in earnest as he was dragged backward down the stairs.

  Bishop Shrewsbury, Lord Spencer, and Joseph all paused at the foot of the steps they had just reached--as usual, they had been slightly slower in their return--and gaped after him briefly as he was carted bodily across the bailey toward the stables. Then Lord Spencer murmured something. Shrewsbury shook his head, then hurried up the stairs to the keep doors. He opened one, stuck his head in, then pulled it back out, slamming the door again as he whirled back around. He hurried back down the stairs and past Lord Spencer and Joseph. Shouting something to the others that Aric couldn't hear, the bishop hurried across the bailey after them. Grabbing Joseph, Lord Spencer quickly began to follow as Shambley and Lord Burkhart dragged Aric into the ramshackle old stables.