Always by Lynsay Sands Page A

you may be right,” he agreed with amazement as he peered at the horse’s tightly closed mouth. “Aric!”he called, as the second man returned to the clearing with more branches. “Come here. My horse is ailing.”
    Setting the branches down by the others, Aric moved to join them. “What is it?”
    â€œRosamunde thinks ’tis the lockjaw.”
    His eyebrows rising, Aric performed the same action Robert had, and the animal pulled his head up and back at once. “It could be. What makes you think—?”
    â€œHe shied away every time Robert got too close to his head while preparing him for the night, then would not eat or drink with your horse, though he must be starved.”
    Aric peered at the horse consideringly. “Still, it could be—”
    â€œThere is also a festering scratch on his hindquarters. And look at his eyes.”
    Sighing, Aric grimaced. “The lockjaw.”
    â€œAye,” Robert agreed unhappily. “I shall see to it.”
    Taking the reins, he led the horse silently into the forest. Rosamunde watched them go silently, then turned to Marigold, giving her a soothing pat. Whether it was meant to soothe Marigold or herself, she was not sure. Robert was going to kill the horse. He had no choice. The lockjaw would kill the animal, but in its own good time, and not until after subjecting the poor beast to horrendously painful muscle spasms and starvation. It was cruel to do anything but put the animal down. She knew that. Still, it was hard to accept.
    â€œIt looks as if Marigold will have a rider on the morrow.”
    â€œAye,” Rosamunde murmured solemnly.
    Aric shifted slightly; he could see that she was upset about Robert’s mount but knew not how to comfort her. “’Twill be for only a little ways.”
    She glanced at him curiously, and he explained, “We are little more than half an hour from the village we first traded our mounts at. They are keeping them for us tocollect on the way back. He will most likely ride his own mount from there.”
    â€œI see.”
    Nodding, Aric glanced away, then turned irritably toward the fire. “Come. I will build a fire; ‘tis dark enough now and there is a chill in the air this night.”
    Sighing, Rosamunde followed him back to the camp. Seating herself on a handy log, she reached automatically for the small sack that contained the last of the rabbit meat, bread, cheese, and fruit they had. Her ears straining to hear any telltale sounds from the woods around them, she began to unpack the meal as her husband started the promised fire.
    It was quite a while before Robert returned. His expression was grim when he did. Rosamunde felt a twinge of sympathy. The task he had performed would not have been an easy one. She remained silent as they began to eat, but once finished, she began to get fidgety. The men were both silent, staring into the fire with similarly thoughtful expressions, but Rosamunde was ready to go insane from the lack of activity. First she’d bobbed quietly about on a horse’s back all day, now this. It was drawing on her nerves.
    â€œWhat is the matter?”
    Rosamunde stiffened, her nervous shifting coming to a halt at her husband’s rather annoyed question. Sneaking a quick peek at his face, she grimaced, then cleared her throat. “Not a thing, my lord. What would make you think that there was anything wrong?”
    â€œYou keep sighing.”
    â€œDo I?” Frowning slightly, she shifted and started to sigh again, then caught herself. “Where are we headed, my lord?” she blurted, almost desperate for conversation.
    â€œTo Shambley.”
    Rosamunde accepted those words with interest. “Why?”
    â€œTo collect my men.”
    â€œOh,” she murmured. “Then where shall we go?”
    â€œTo Goodhall.”
    â€œIs that where you live?”
    â€œâ€™Tis where we shall live,” he