Chapter 22
Rosalyne stepped back and carefully eyed her work. After studying the king’s portrait a few moments, she dipped her brush into the tempera paint again and swept a few more strokes onto the wood.
“Perfect,” she said aloud, a satisfied smile crossing her lips.
The past week had passed quickly. Edward spent his days finishing up his commitment to the royal guard, returning each night to Sir Harry’s—and their bed.
Rosalyne learned several ways in which she could please her husband. He, in turn, had pleasured her beyond her wildest dreams. It still amazed her how much a simple, tender touch could move her. Every day, she fell more deeply in love with her handsome, thoughtful husband.
Now that King Richard’s portrait was completed in the time he had requested, they could take it to the palace tomorrow and finally leave London behind. She thought the country air would be better for Uncle Temp and hoped Lady Merryn’s array of herbs would be able to help his hands and balance.
Her only regret would be leaving Uncle Benedict behind. They had met daily since her wedding. Rosalyne would paint most of the day and her uncle would arrive to see what she had accomplished. Afterward, they would wander the streets of London for an hour, getting to know one another, before returning to Sir Harry’s.
Learning about her parents brought deep satisfaction to her. Uncle Benedict told stories of her grandparents and her father as a boy. The two brothers had fostered together and Rosalyne learned more about that custom.
But most of all, she treasured the stories about her mother. Having grown up without a mother, she had longed for female companionship. Uncle Benedict had loved her mother so much and what he shared with Rosalyne about Lara Parry made her feel as though she understood herself better now, knowing more about the woman who gave birth to her.
A knock sounded at the door and Rosalyne went to answer it.
“Am I too early?” Uncle Benedict asked. “I don’t wish to interrupt your time to work.”
“Nay, Uncle. Come in. I am pleased to tell you that I have finished.”
His eyes lit up. “May I see it?”
“Of course.”
Normally, she and Uncle Temp never shared their art with anyone who was not the subject of the portrait. But this man was part of her family. She enjoyed seeing his reactions and asking his opinion.
“Simply outstanding, Rosalyne,” declared Uncle Benedict. “I see the king when I am at court, so I am familiar with his looks. You have captured his dignity and strong presence yet at the same time you have given him an approachable air. He is definitely portrayed as a man meant to rule but there is a remarkably human aspect to him.”
“He warned me that I must make him appear regal, probably because he is still so young. I hope he will not be upset that I also included vulnerability since I did see some in him when we spoke.”
“King Richard will be astounded. So will the queen.” He paused. “I am eager for you to work on painting me someday.”
Rosalyne had promised to paint her uncle when she and Edward visited him at Shallowheart in the future.
“I also look forward to that—and seeing the place of my birth.”
“I hope it will be soon,” Benedict said. “From what your husband tells me, Shallowheart is but a day and a half’s ride west from Kinwick. You know, I actually met Lord Geoffrey and Lady Merryn here at court, though I have never been a guest at their estate.”
“Truly?” Her uncle had not reveled this in any of their previous conversations. “What are they like?”
“Sir Edward is much like his father. He has Lord Geoffrey’s height and build. I have noticed his hair appears dark till he stands in the light and it becomes a burnished red. That comes from his mother, who has long, thick, chestnut hair that many women envy. I would say the de Montforts are very kind people. Both are intelligent and well thought of by others. I know the old king favored them and made several visits to Kinwick during his summer progress over the years.”
“Aye, Edward told me a bit about that. He said his parents named him in honor of their friendship with the old king.”
She brushed a lock of hair from her cheek. “Would you like to go for our late afternoon stroll? I could use some air and would enjoy stretching my legs.”
He offered her his arm. “Lead the way, Niece.”
They left Sir Harry’s house and walked slowly through the streets, reaching a local market where goods and food were peddled. Uncle Benedict had learned of her sweet tooth and bought her a sweetmeat as a treat. She thanked him for it and said she would always think of him when she ate one.
“I saw Sir Harry when I arrived today. He asked me to dine with you tonight. Harry favors pike, so I told him I would purchase some while we were out.”
Benedict led her to a stall and said, “The fishmongers’ guild was one of the earliest guilds established in London. They have existed in the city for over a hundred years. Thanks to the guild, prices and sales are watched carefully to ensure freshness and quality.”
It amazed her how much her uncle seemed to know about many topics.
While Uncle Benedict looked at the fish on display, Rosalyne glanced around and saw a booth that sold spices. She thought she might bring a gift to Lady Merryn and touched her uncle’s sleeve.
“I want to look at the spices for sale to take some to Kinwick.”
He nodded and she wandered over, seeing the woman had everything available from cloves and pepper to mace and cinnamon. She would need to see if Uncle Benedict would buy some for her and have Edward reimburse him tonight.
Someone brushed against her. Rosalyne glanced to her right and saw a man with a dirty cloth wrapped around his head, dipping low to hide one eye and his cheek. It bothered her that he stood so close and made no effort to take a step away. Since his presence made her uncomfortable, she decided to make her way back to Uncle Benedict.
As she turned to leave, an arm suddenly went about her and something sharp pressed into her waist.
“Walk with me, my lady, else you’ll have a hole in your side.”
Rosalyne chastised herself for being so careless. Edward had warned her to be wary of cutpurses that stalked the London streets.
“I have no coin on me,” she informed him, hoping he would release her.
“Move,” he ordered, his voice low so others would not hear. “Do not speak.”
“I could give you my wedding ring,” she offered, naming the only thing of value that she wore. Though Rosalyne would hate to part with it, she would rather lose the ring than her life.
“I said move.” The thief’s fingers dug into her, while the blade pricked her side. “And don’t call out, or you and your uncle will be dead.”
The man nudged the blade against her again. Rosalyne knew that if she screamed or brought any attention to herself, he would make good on his threat and shove the dagger into her. She would be dead before she hit the ground.
Reluctantly, she began walking, allowing him to guide her through the crowds. With each step away from Uncle Benedict, fear multiplied within her. She hoped this man would be satisfied to take her ring and set her free without further harm.
The robber led her down a narrow alleyway. Rosalyne heard the sounds of a wailing babe as rats scurried in front of them. She would meekly submit while he held the weapon against her side and wait till he lowered it to make her escape. As they shuffled along, she looked around for anything she could use to grab and strike him.
They arrived at a doorway. He opened the door and roughly shoved her inside the dark abode. Rosalyne fell on her hands and knees. A dreadful stench made her gag as she pushed herself from the floor.
Then pain coupled with a wave of dizziness forced her back onto all fours as the man struck her. The back of her head felt split in two. Vaguely, she was aware of being dragged along the floor and propped against a wall.
She must have passed out, for when she awakened, she couldn’t move her hands. Glancing down brought a sharp wave of pain, so she raised her head and leaned it against the wall. The hard wall hurt the tender spot on her scalp but having her head upright again lessened the ache.
Rosalyne pulled on her hands and found her wrists bound tightly together with rope. Her legs, stretched out in front of her, were also shackled at the ankles. Cold sweat broke out along her hairline. She glanced around the shadows falling about the room and saw the stranger lurking, watching her.
“What do you want?” she asked warily.
He lit a candle and came closer to her. She placed his age at a few years shy of two score. His scraggly hair fell into his uncovered eye, which stared at her in hate.
“What do I want?” he growled. “I want my life back, Lady Rosalyne.”
So he knew her. This had been no random robbery.
“Are you from Canterbury?” she asked, hoping to discover who this man was and why he had taken her.
“Am I from Canterbury?” He laughed harshly then glared at her. “I used to own Canterbury,” he roared.
Without being told, Rosalyne guessed who the stranger before her was.
“You are Perceval Rawlin.”
Astonishment crossed his face. “You know me?”
“I know of you. That you worked for Lord Botulf on the reconstruction of the wall surrounding the city. That you cheated the Crown, keeping ill-gotten gains for yourself and awarding half to Lord Botulf.”
He crossed his arms over his thick chest. “And what if I did? I came from nothing and had to fight for everything I got.”
“Whether you earned it or not.”
He slapped her.
Rosalyne felt the sting of his hand printed against her face.
“I had to be cunning,” he said. “I wanted to keep it all for myself, but Lord Botulf was too wily. When he discovered what I did, he demanded that I keep doing it—only if he could share in the enormous profits.”
Rawlin rubbed his chin. “And then I lost everything, thanks to your husband.”
Fear knotted in her belly. “Taking me is about revenge?” she asked.
“What do you think?” he asked. Slowly, he unwound the cloth from his head. Dropping the fabric to the floor, he raised his head and stared at her.
She gasped.
As Rosalyne suspected, he was missing one eye. The side of his face was still raw, with angry new scars laced into it.
“Why didn’t Sir Edward come to me first?” Rawlin mused. “But he didn’t. He and Botulf cut a deal between them, dooming me.”
“You make it sound personal. Edward represented the king. He arranged for Lord Botulf to pay for ten years of the wall’s construction from his own funds. If the nobleman took out his anger on you, it wasn’t at my husband’s request.”
His face came within inches of hers, his breath hot and fetid. “Lord Botulf tortured me,” Rawlin ground out. “By the end, he knew where every pence I had lay. He took my home. My furnishings. My lands. My gold. I was left with nothing but a ruined reputation.”
Rawlin stroked his chin again. “He took my eye. Ripped it from its socket. Shoved a poker into the hole. But that wasn’t enough for the rich bastard, to steal from me. While I screamed, he watched his men cut off my very manhood. Then his soldiers dragged me outside the city gates and left me to die.”
Rosalyne thought she might be sick. Though this man had done an immense wrong, he should have been imprisoned for his crimes, not cruelly tortured and maimed. And she guessed the money Lord Botulf took would be what paid for all of the construction, keeping his own funds intact.
An evil smile turned the corners of Rawlin’s mouth upward. “Before he ordered me from his sight, Botulf assured me none of it would have happened if he hadn’t needed everything I owned to pay for the wall. He named Edward de Montfort as the cause, Lady Rosalyne, and told me if I wanted to hurt Sir Edward as I had been hurt, the best way to do it was through you.”