‘Aye, you are a strange maid. Most ladies would twist their lips and turn away from a mere squire, but you-’
‘You’re a squire? Sir Geoffrey’s squire?’
‘Aye.’
‘From your manner I thought you to be a leper at the very least. But a squire...you really are Sir Geoffrey’s squire? I am honoured!’ She attempted a mocking little curtsy, but the effect was rather spoiled as Oliver hadn’t let go of her waist.
‘You don’t know the worst of it,’ he said. His eyes were full of shadows.
‘Oliver, don’t. You’re set on souring the dream and I won’t let you. Can’t you accept today for what it is? It’s May Day – we can surely be ourselves for one day? Our real selves, as we are deep down. Forget that you’re a squire. Forget that I’m the miller’s daughter. We have no duties today.’
Even as Rosamund spoke, thoughts of Alfwold turned her heart to lead. She’d finally given Alfwold her pledge, albeit that he was not her choice. Hastily, she pushed her forthcoming marriage to the back of her mind. Alfwold had no part in a May Day dream, he belonged in the real world and she wouldn’t allow him to step into this fantasy and spoil it, any more than she’d allow Oliver his gloomy thoughts.
‘Yesterday and tomorrow have no place in our dream,’ she said, firmly. ‘Our dream is now, that’s all that matters.’
Oliver pulled her against him and stroked the hair from her face. His fingers lingered and her belly clenched. She rubbed her cheek against his hand.
‘Rosamund, you child.’
Heart thumping, she turned her head into his palm and kissed it.
Oliver snatched his hand away. ‘Don’t.’ His voice was gruff. ‘You know nothing about me.’
‘I don’t have to.’ She waited a moment or two, holding her breath while behind her the waves broke on the shore in an endless, steady beat. He was going to kiss her, she knew it. When nothing happened, she looked up. ‘When are you going to kiss me?’
‘I’m not.’ He shifted, putting her at arm’s length. His eyes were like flint.
She had shocked him. Who was she, a peasant girl, to speak to her lord’s squire in such a way? Cheeks scalding with shame, she covered her face with her hands. ‘I am sorry,’ she muttered, ‘I’m not normally like this. I’m not a...a...’ She couldn’t bring herself to say it. She risked a glance through her fingers. He was smiling, almost. Yes, he was smiling – she could see that broken tooth.
‘Rosamund.’ He shook his head on a sigh, but the way he spoke her name made her sound important. She knew then that he would let her have her way.
Oliver wouldn’t sour the dream but neither must she.
***
They removed their boots and followed the crescent curve of the cliffs, one on either side of the grey stallion. The sun warmed their faces. The waves hushed and the air tasted of salt. Rosamund loved the feel of the gently warming sand beneath her feet, but Oliver rolled up his chausses and waded calf-deep through sea foam.
‘Does Lance mind the waves?’
‘Not at all, though I warrant that by now he’d relish fresh water. We’d best find a stream.’
Rosamund pointed. ‘Over there. Our river divides up in the hills, and part of it runs into the sea yonder.’
‘Our river?’
‘The one that turns my father’s millwheel.’
Oliver grunted and turned for the stream.
‘There are more snake-stones here,’ Rosamund said. ‘I found a fair number of them at the end of last summer.’ Her stomach rumbled and she wrapped her arms about her middle to muffle the sound. Sad to say, she was always hungry.
‘You need food,’ Oliver said, with a grin. He secured Lance’s reins loosely so the horse was free to graze on the riverbank or drink the clear mountain-water. ‘Here, catch.’
He threw a saddlebag at her and unhooked the water-bottle. Not liking to pry into belongings, she hesitated.
‘Open it,’ he said. ‘There’s bread and meat inside, we’ll share it.’
She found a place on the edge of the riverbank, where her feet could swing over the rushing water. The saddlebag contained a fresh-baked loaf, some cheese wrapped in fine muslin, a wedge of meat, a couple of wrinkled russet apples, and a wine-skin.
Her mouth watered. She was ravenous. She tore the loaf in two and bit into her half. The bread was soft and fresh and she moaned her delight. ‘This was made with the best flour. We send most of it to the castle, so I don’t often taste it. It’s fit for the King.’ This last was spoken with her mouth full and it was a few seconds before she saw the amusement in Oliver’s eyes. He had splashed water over himself, it was dripping from his face and hands.
‘Don’t you usually wash before you eat?’ he murmured, coming to sit beside her.
‘I...I was merely tasting the bread.’ Curling up with shame, she dropped the bread and hopped into the shallows. She paddled right in, holding her skirts with one hand and splashing somewhat ineffectively with the other. The water was so icy, her feet ached.
Oliver leaned on his elbow and his eyes never left her. Absently, he broke the bread, and she did her best to ignore him.
‘Don’t forget your forehead,’ he said. ‘There’s an interesting streak smeared right across it. It’s been there all morning.’
Rosamund glared. More water showered through the air.
‘I washed my face in May-dew this morning,’ she said.
‘With May-dew? What in the name of all that’s holy is May-dew?’
‘You may live in the castle, but you don’t know it all, do you?’
‘Rosamund.’ He shook his head, and smiled. With his eyes.
Her stomach lurched, she must be hungrier than she thought. She started to babble. ‘It’s said that if May-dew is collected early on May day, and you wash in it, it’ll keep your skin free of blemishes and bring beauty for the whole year. It’ll bring you luck. And you can wipe that horrible smile from your face.’ Giving her face a last frantic dab, she paddled to the bank and wished her tongue didn’t have a tendency to run away with itself when she was discomposed.
Oliver offered her his hand to help her to her place. His eyes danced. ‘Tell me, does washing in May-dew mean you don’t need to wash for the rest of the year?’
She scowled and said nothing. He had cut several neat slices of meat, and laid them out on the muslin cloth. It was yet another reminder of the gulf that existed between them. Her father would have shredded the meat, he would never have arranged slices so daintily on the muslin...
Courteously, he gestured at the meat. And Rosamund’s stomach let her down a second time, it growled like a wolf. She ground her teeth together and turned her head so she didn’t have to look at him.
‘Rosamund, eat.’ Something stroked the back of her hand. A caress? Angrily, she shrugged it away.
‘Rosamund,’ he said, softly. He took her fingers lightly between his – it was a delicate, courtly gesture, more fitted for a lady than a miller’s daughter.
She steeled herself to try and meet his eyes but it was impossible. ‘I’m surprised you want to eat with a peasant like me,’ she muttered. ‘We’ve nothing in common. We speak differently and watching me eat will probably put you in mind of a pig at a trough.’
A firm hand took hers, he pressed bread into it. ‘Your speech is as clear as a lady’s when you put your mind to it. Eat.’ Then to her intense relief, he turned his attention to the food and cut into the cheese.
Rosamund was acutely conscious of the gulf which yawned between them. Socially they were miles apart. She didn’t want to disgust him. She ate the bread and meat more slowly than she had ever eaten in her life. She copied the way he took small bites, and the way he chewed his food for longer. It was hard, for she was hungry and it seemed to take an age before she had blunted the edge of her appetite.
‘Better?’ His deep voice startled her.
Reluctantly, she put the heel of the loaf back into the saddlebag. ‘My thanks, yes. I was very hu
ngry.’
‘So I saw.’
She shot him a sharp look, but his eyes were friendly and she relaxed. ‘I thought, for a moment, that our dream was to be shattered.’
He smiled. ‘I know you did, but it wasn’t.’
‘No.’ Returning his smile, she leaned back in the grass. He stretched out beside her and picked up a strand of her hair, idly twirling it round his forefinger. A distant bell tolled and a bee buzzed past them, lost and heading for the sea.
His lips twisted. ‘It cannot last.’
Rosamund frowned. She would have touched his face but, recalling his reaction the last time she reached out to him, she let her hand fall back.
‘We cannot live out our dream, you must know that.’ His voice was husky.
‘We have until sunset.’
‘That would be a great folly.’ His voice was kind, but firm. ‘I want to...but no.’
There was a light in his eyes that belied the firmness in his voice. Rosamund’s lips curved. ‘Want to...what, Oliver?’ Reaching up, she touched his cheek. He had high cheekbones. Beneath her fingertips she felt the slight abrasion of a growing beard. This time, he made no move to reject her, but lay quite still.
‘Oliver? What do you want? Is it this?’ Boldly, her hand slipped up and round his neck and then his mouth was on hers. It would have been impossible to say which one of them had moved to close the gap and she didn’t care. His mouth felt welcoming. Warm. His lips moved slowly and gently across hers.
Rosamund had tried to imagine this kiss. Some deep, primitive instinct had known Oliver’s kiss wouldn’t be like anyone else’s. She had known she wouldn’t shrink from the touch of Oliver’s hands on her body. But her wildest imaginings hadn’t prepared her for reality. She hadn’t had the experience to know a kiss could be like this. Purest pleasure. She had never felt anything like it.
A tingling tide – delight – was flooding her veins, and at the same time a hungry yearning sensation was centred somewhere in her stomach. She wanted to press her body closer to his, much closer. He could ease that yearning inside, it was sharp, so sharp. It felt very much like hunger...
She ran a thumb over a high cheekbone and heard him murmur something she couldn’t quite catch. She felt the weight of his long, lean body shift in the sweet spring grass. But he was drawing away. No! She wanted to feel him pushing her deep into the turf. She wanted to prolong this wondrous feeling of enchantment. She tugged at his shoulder. ‘Come back.’
‘Rosamund,’ he whispered, shaking his head. But again his eyes betrayed him. He was no longer moving away.
She smiled mistily up at him. He returned her smile and his palm cupped her face.
If she kissed his hand now, he wouldn’t reject her. She turned her head and the caress fell on his wrist. The sense of wonder increased when she saw the effect it had on his eyes.
‘They’ve gone almost blue, like the sky.’
His brow wrinkled. ‘Blue?’
‘Your eyes, I can’t tell whether they’re blue or grey.’
He held her gaze a moment longer and sat up.
‘Oliver?’ She squeezed his shoulder.
‘No more.’ He combed his fingers through his hair.
There was a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach. ‘No more?’
‘You understand me. No more. I knew it would be folly to live out this dream.’ He huffed out a breath and she saw that his eyes were the colour of flint. How could she have thought them touched with blue?
She twisted a strand of hair round her finger. ‘You dislike me, I am too bold.’
‘No,’ he said, pushing to his feet and going towards the destrier.
‘What then?’
He must have enjoyed their kiss. It wouldn’t felt so moving if he hadn’t enjoyed it too.
He didn’t answer, he was glaring at the remnants of their meal, strewn about the grass. Flinging what was left into his saddlebag, he jerked on the strap to secure it.
‘You’re ashamed to have kissed a peasant maid,’ she said, getting up and going over to him.
Oliver frowned. ‘No.’
Stomach churning, she had to clench her fists to stop herself from reaching out to him. She must assume some pride. Oliver would expect it – pride meant something to those in his class. They lived on it. Rosamund had never been able to understand it, let alone afford it.
Pride was a luxury for the rich. Wasn’t it also a deadly sin? She sighed. Life was so complicated.
What mattered was that Oliver was about to leave. It seemed that for the next few moments, she would have to pretend that she had some pride.
‘Farewell, my Rosamund.’
She stared at him in silence, drinking in the sight of him. His height...the width of his shoulders...the strong, lithe body. He was so handsome with his dark hair ruffled by the wind. Her heart squeezed.
‘You’ve had a lucky escape,’ he said, vaulting into the saddle. ‘You should be pleased.’
She cleared her throat. ‘How so?’ Her voice was hollow with regret.
‘I’m baseborn. Rosamund, even a peasant maid couldn’t relish the thought of being kissed by one such as me.’
‘I...I don’t understand.’
‘I’m illegitimate,’ he said bluntly. ‘A bastard. How looks your dream now? Shattered, I’ll warrant.’
‘How little faith you have in dreams. Nothing can damage a dream. Oliver, I care not for your birth.’
He stared and an expression – pain? regret? – washed over his face. It was gone so swiftly she thought she must have imagined it. ‘Farewell,’ he repeated, in the soft voice he’d used when he’d kissed her.
‘Farewell.’
He clapped his heels into Lance’s sides and the horse leaped away.
Rosamund took one or two faltering steps and found herself on the sands staring after them. And then they were gone and all she could hear was the cry of the gulls, and the slow beat of sea against sand. A line of hoof prints led away from her.
A wave ran up the beach and frothed about her feet. The tide was coming in – the tracks wouldn’t last long. As the next wave seethed its way towards her, a blob of blue caught her eyes. Her May Day circlet. The next wave moved inexorably towards it and neatly, tidily, picked it up and carried it away. The sea would take it into the deep ocean where the dragons lived. Eyes smarting, Rosamund watched it go and the thought that she had managed to keep at the back of her mind for most of the day, finally broke free.
I am going to marry Alfwold.
She stood motionless at the water’s edge as the shadows lengthened. Her eyes strained out to sea and the tide crept up the shore, until at last she stood thigh-high in the cold water. The pink robe was drenched, heavy with salt, and she didn’t care. As the lowering sun dipped behind the cliffs, the rocks made weird, spiky shadows. When at length a dusky shadow fell over her, she shook herself. She felt as though she had been asleep for a thousand years and had awoken in a foreign land.
The sea had filled the bay, the hoof prints had been washed away. Slowly, she waded up the sloping shore. She shivered and headed for home.
Chapter Two
‘Move, you lazy wench!’ It was barely dawn, and in the mill Rosamund’s father Osric was already at work. He was in a dark mood. He had locked the gears into position and was watching with careful, if bleary, eyes as the mill wheels began to turn. The mill was made entirely of wood. It had two floors and Osric was on the lower level, ensuring that the mechanism ran smoothly.
Rosamund was on the higher level, the ‘stone floor’, frantically sieving grain. The grain belonged to widow Eva. Eva’s strength was waning and as a result the grain had been poorly winnowed. It was full of chaff and grit. If it wasn’t sifted properly, both her father’s grindstone and Eva’s flour could be spoiled.
Set in the middle of the boarded floor on this upper level were the two pairs of grindstones. They were almost worth their weight in gold. Rosamund sent some grain pouring down the shoe and wat
ched as one of the top stones – the runner – began to rotate over the stationary bedstone. She and her father would only be working with one pair of millstones today. The other pair was ground out and awaiting Alfwold’s return.
At the top of the mill, a raised platform was used for both storage and sleeping. The sacks of milled flour were hoisted up at the end of each day. They were safe high up, well out of the way of thieves, be they rodent or man. The miller slept next to the grain sacks alongside his wife and daughter.
Aeffe, Rosamund’s stepmother, was yet to come down. Aeffe was rarely up when the mill began the daily grind and, of the three members of the family, she was the only one who could sleep through the clattering it made.
‘Rosamund!’
Osric’s voice was almost drowned out by the rising chatter of wooden cogs and turning wheels, but Rosamund had learned to jump at his slightest whisper. She dropped the sieve, cursing softly as a fistful of grains rattled like hail onto the wooden boards. She hoped her father hadn’t heard, surely the wooden cogs made more noise than a few specks of grain... If he hadn’t barked like that, she wouldn’t have spilt it.
Today her hair was bound into a thick braid. Flicking it over her shoulder, she poked her head through the trapdoor.
‘Father?’
He was staring morosely into an empty meal bin. His shoulders were hunched, he was angry again. Lord, was he going to be moody all day? A couple of loose grains tumbled through the trapdoor and Rosamund grimaced as they fell onto his bald head and bounced into the empty meal bin.
A pair of bloodshot brown eyes turned up to her. ‘Wastrel!’ Thin lips twisted. ‘Do we have so much grain that you must toss it about?’
‘I’m sorry, Father, it won’t go to waste. I’ll sweep it up. Did you want me to balance the grindstone?’
‘Aye. And if you want to keep the birch off your hide, you’d better make a better job of it than you did last time.’
She stifled a sigh. Given the state her father and Aeffe had been in when they had returned from the evening’s revels at the hostelry, she wasn’t surprised at his ill temper. It was not uncommon and she’d learnt that the best way to avoid a birching was to rush to do her father’s bidding.
Shattered Vows Page 3
