The Rose of Blacksword by Rexanne Becnel Page A

againstthe stout hemp ropes, his every muscle and sinew stood out in sculpted detail. He was a full head taller than any other man on the platform, and for the space of two heartbeats Rosalynde wondered how such a fine specimen of a man could ever have come to so poor an end.
    The crowd was silent, in awe of the man who, even as he approached his death, could be so fearsome, so intimidating. Then the man straightened a little, and with a contemptuous glance at the men who’d tried to hold him, he moved of his own accord to stand beneath the third noose.
    There was in that move an odd sort of nobility. Where the other men were broken and afraid, he was proud and brave. Clearly he did not wish to die, but he seemed to have accepted his end with the dignity of a prince, Rosalynde thought. He did not meet any eye after that, but only stared grimly toward the horizon.
    “Now there’s a bloke worth having,” Rosalynde heard a woman somewhere near her murmur.
    Yes, she silently agreed. There indeed was a man worth having. If only he’d been at the river with them yesterday. If only he’d been there to stop that pair of ruffians from manhandling her and chasing her as a thief! She was so desperately frightened, yet he seemed afraid of nothing. Not even death. If only she could hire him to see her home.
    On that wishful thought she suddenly froze. He could get her home if he was free. And she could set him free if she would agree to be handfasted!
    She shook her head in confusion, aghast at such a preposterous idea. Claim him for her husband in this heathen ritual? She must be mad to even think such a thing. And yet a part of her was mad, she admitted to herself, as she stared wildly around her, still fearing to be caught by thetwo bullies. She was mad with fear and mad with desperation. Could she afford to wait for another way home?
    She stared up at the man once more. He might be a criminal, but there was something oddly noble in his bearing. She was convinced he could get her home safely. But would he? And could she take such a foolhardy chance?
    She was still staring at him, dumbfounded and wondering what he looked like beneath the week-old beard and long hair plastered damply to his head, when she realized the mayor was again speaking.
    “… the three prisoners. Tom Hadley.” He pointed to the miserable young man at the end whose head hung down pitifully. “Tom Hadley for thieving and murder, on the King’s Road to London. Roger Ganting for hunting within the Bishop of Shortford’s preserve and for attacking the Bishop’s guard and killing one man.”
    The mayor started to move nearer the big man but then clearly thought better of it. “And then this fellow, known only as Blacksword since he has not revealed his Christian name—very likely he’s not even Christian! Blacksword, also for thieving and murder. On the King’s Road to London, on the highway to St. Edmonds, and in the village of—” He stopped abruptly when the man slowly turned his head and gave him a cold stare.
    “The—the village of Lavenham,” the mayor concluded quickly. Then he took another step back from the menacing prisoner. “They’ve all been tried and found guilty. Now we’re to see ’em hanged.”
    “Wot about the han’fastin’?” a man beyond Rosalynde called.
    “Aye! Where’s the maid willin’ to rescue one of these fine upstandin’ lads from the noose?” an old man shouted.
    Rosalynde did not pause to reason out what she did next. She had heard the charges against him, yet sheharshly cast them from her mind. She had been horrified at the suggestion that some maiden be handfast wed to one of this murderous group. Yet now she clung to the idea as her only salvation. She had been disgusted by the crowd’s perverse interest in seeing these men hanged or else wed to some unlucky woman, and yet … And yet the logic that prompted those earlier emotions fled when she once more spied the drunken visage of the man who’d