Shattered Vows

by Carol Townend

  Once she had tried defiance – about two years ago, she had run away. Osric had caught her and hauled her back, and he’d beaten her so hard she hadn’t slept for a week. Rosamund had little love for the man who’d sired her and if a real chance of escape had presented itself, she’d have flown the coop years ago. Her fists clenched as she recalled that beating. Aeffe’s barbed remarks had stung as much as her chastised body. However hard Rosamund tried to please – and she did try – it would seem she could do no right.

  ‘The devil finds work for idle hands,’ Aeffe had sneered, her eyes bright with malice. ‘Laziness, my Osric, has twisted your daughter’s mind. She’s a wicked, wicked girl. Keep her busy, Osric, my love, and she won’t have time for foolish fancies. I’ll teach her where her duty lies. And think how our profits will rise...’

  Aeffe had smiled winningly at Osric. Osric, who denied Aeffe nothing, and his daughter everything. Osric, who never asked his wife to lift a finger if she didn’t want to, but who only had to look at Rosamund to set her racing hither and yon. She frowned, wishing it could be otherwise.

  Naturally, her father noticed the frown. ‘I’ll have none of your lip, girl, get to work.’

  Rosamund scurried to obey. The plain truth was that her father didn’t love her. She had to make the best of it. She might have been born the daughter of a freewoman, but that didn’t mean she could really run off and leave. Where should she go? What should she do? She held in a sigh. What use was freedom if you could do nothing with it? She was tied to Ingerthorpe and the mill in much the same way as the peasant farmers were tied to the land.

  At least her father never starved her. He needed her strong to work. I expect if I could work on nothing, he would give me nothing, she thought bitterly. Notwithstanding, she kept trying to please him. She worked hard, hoping that if she was good, if she pleased him, he’d learn to love her.

  She tilted her head to one side and with an expert eye examined the level of the grindstones. She shifted one of the weights. No, that was no better. She shifted another. Nor that. ‘Father?’

  ‘What?’ Her father was clutching his forehead, his expression pained. He was nursing a monumental hangover and it looked as though Rosamund was going to suffer the consequences of his excesses. His usually florid face was the colour of flour paste. His head probably felt as though a warhorse had done a dance on it. An image took shape in Rosamund’s mind – she could see a great grey stallion called Lance and his handsome rider, tall and straight and...she could feel a smile forming. Quickly, she concealed it.

  ‘Father?’

  Her father groaned. ‘There’s no need to shriek like a fish-wife.’

  ‘These grindstones aren’t balancing any better than the others.’

  ‘Saints, you’re useless. Can you do nothing?’ Osric stumped towards the ladder and climbed up, muttering curses with every step.

  ‘It’s not my fault,’ Rosamund said, as her father shoved her unceremoniously out of the way and bent to peer at the stones. ‘The furrows need re-cutting. Same as those.’ She pointed at the millstones currently out of use. ‘It’s a good while since Alfwold was here and until he dresses the stones, they’ll only get worse. Where is he? Wasn’t he due a month back?’

  Her father gave her a sly grin and pinched her cheek. It wasn’t a loving gesture and it hurt.

  ‘Longing to see your betrothed, are you?’

  ‘No!’ She swallowed. ‘Normally, Alfwold comes to dress the stones before May Day. Has anything happened to him? Shouldn’t he be here by now?’ Rosamund didn’t want to see Alfwold, but she knew it was inevitable. She’d rather know when the meeting was to be, than have it sprung on her when she wasn’t braced for it.

  Osric grunted, he was frowning as he moved the weights on top of the runner, first one way, then another. He didn’t seem to have heard her. It struck her that he had grown almost ugly. Perhaps she wasn’t the only one to suffer the consequences of her father’s excesses, he looked completely wrecked. He was over-weight and his chins wobbled when he shook his head. He was unusually pasty today, though she had seen those jowls darken to purple when he was enraged. There were great lines and wrinkles in his forehead – lately he seemed to be wearing a permanent frown. His eyes were shifty, but that wasn’t surprising given what Aeffe had him do. Rosamund couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen his eyes look clear. He hadn’t always been like this...

  Osric looked up from the runner. ‘Where’s Aeffe?’

  ‘Still abed,’ Rosamund replied, giving him a tentative smile.

  The smile was a mistake. Osric’s face darkened. ‘Watch your lip, girl. Your stepmother had a busy time yesterday, she’s resting.’ He bent over the stones.

  With his back stooped and his belly hanging over his belt, her father was round as a wheel. What had happened to the tall man who walked through her memory? What did Aeffe see in him?

  Aeffe was a pretty woman – she might have had almost any of the village freemen for her husband. But she had chosen Osric. Rosamund thought she knew why. Looks had nothing to do with it, nor a good nature. It was money Aeffe craved. Her father’s pilfering of the villagers’ grain – a handful here, a handful there – kept her well supplied.

  ‘Bone idle, that’s what you are. Bone idle,’ he muttered.

  ‘Father, that’s not true! I’ve been sieving the grain, so it would be ready when-’

  ‘Blast this stone!’ His voice was tight with anger. ‘And blast Alfwold. He swore blind he’d be here at daybreak. Where the hell is he? If I’ve managed to get to my feet, then by Christ, so should he!’

  Rosamund’s heart cramped. ‘Alfwold’s in Eskdale?’

  ‘I thought that news might wake you.’

  Rosamund’s father knew she had no particular liking for Alfwold, the betrothal had been Aeffe’s idea. It was a business deal, pure and simple. As far as Osric was concerned, his daughter didn’t need to like the man. What mattered was that Osric liked him. They had something in common – Alfwold knew how to put back his ale. Aeffe liked Alfwold too, she enjoyed hearing the stories he’d picked up on his travels. That was enough.

  If Osric and Aeffe could put up with the thought of Alfwold sharing the upper chamber with them, that was what counted. Rosamund’s likes and dislikes were considered irrelevant. Petty. Business was business, and her father had said more than once that Aeffe was right to put it first. He was nearing forty, he was already old. With no son he needed someone reliable to take over the mill. Aeffe had pointed out to him most clearly that he should be thinking ahead.

  Osric had never chastised his wife for forcing him to ponder on the problems that befell a man in his declining years. He had said he wasn’t afraid to think about dying. In his view, Aeffe was quite right, someone did have to think about these things, it wasn’t the least bit morbid. Aeffe was so much younger than he. Osric had smiled fondly. He was proud to have her – a mere child of eight and twenty and still a beauty, by God! He was a lucky man.

  Osric grunted and moved a weight one last time. His brow furrowed as he thought about his plans for the mill. Aeffe was right, he would be dancing with Death before she. She did right to look to her future. With Alfwold running the mill as he, Osric, would teach him, Aeffe would be safe. Aye, it was only natural for a woman to plan ahead in this way.

  ‘It’s no good.’ He shook his head. ‘We really need Alfwold. I thought we’d get another day’s work out of these stones, but they’re ground out. Where the devil has he got to?’

  Rosamund turned and stared blindly through the window slit overlooking the millpond. It was as though a fog had blown in off the sea, she saw nothing – not the dawn light shining in the millpond, not the road past the mill. Nothing.

  ‘Rosamund?’ Her father’s voice finally penetrated. ‘Rosamund?’

  Her eyes refocused. ‘Father?’

  ‘Well? Do you see him?’

  She tried to gather her wits. What had her father been asking? His words seemed to drift pas
t, as vague and insubstantial as dandelion seeds. ‘See who?’

  ‘Heaven help me, the Lord has seen fit to bless me with a lackwit instead of a daughter!’ He gave a heavy sigh. ‘I thought you were looking out for Alfwold. Do you see him?’

  The path running past the mill was empty. ‘There’s no sign of him, Father.’ Her lips felt oddly stiff, as if they didn’t belong to her.

  Osric made an impatient noise, like a growl. ‘Go down the road a ways and see if you can find him. Drag him from the hostelry if needs be, that man of yours has work to do.’

  Rosamund closed her eyes.

  ‘Did you hear me, Rosamund?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’ She put her foot onto the top rung of the ladder.

  ‘And Rosamund?’

  ‘Father?’

  ‘Be nice to Alfwold. You know what I mean. Nice. He told me how much he’s been looking forward to seeing you, don’t disappoint him.’

  ‘No, Father,’ she said, outwardly the dutiful daughter. Inwardly...

  Be nice to Alfwold. She went down a step. She knew what that meant. Another step. Being nice to Alfwold meant doing all those things that Aeffe did for Osric in the still reaches of the night. She wasn’t sure she could be nice to Alfwold.

  Last week she would have taken it for granted. Even the day before yesterday. She hadn’t been brimming with joy at the thought of marrying him, but she’d managed to accept it. She’d told herself there was a chance that, given time, Alfwold would come to like her and that he’d treat her well. That he’d act as a buffer between her and her father...

  Leaving the mill, Rosamund set off down a road rutted by cartwheels. She was making for the tavern situated a little downstream. The sun was painfully bright after the shade of the mill. She screwed up her eyes, inhaled deeply, and told herself it was another beautiful day.

  However, today wouldn’t be like yesterday, it would be like all the other days – the ordinary, dreamless, hopeless days. A blackbird was singing in a nearby hawthorn bush, it was a happy sound, promising warmth in the coming summer. But Rosamund was not of a mind to listen to blackbirds, she was steeling herself to meet Alfwold.

  If Alfwold liked her, he might cherish her. After all, even her father cherished Aeffe. In return, Rosamund would care for Alfwold. A little cherishing wouldn’t go amiss, it had been a long time since she had had any cherishing. Not since her mother died of the coughing sickness. Her eyes prickled and the path blurred. Rosamund frowned, she couldn’t abide self-pity. Blinking hard, she shook the image of her mother’s face out of her mind, and continued down the way.

  Until yesterday, she’d imagined that if she succeeded in pleasing Alfwold, they might find love. Alfwold wasn’t handsome – with his features ravaged by flying stone chips, how could he be? But how many men were handsome? Not many, life left its marks on everyone one way or another. She thought of the widow Eva and the way poverty and grief had eaten away at her. She thought of her father – fat and ugly with greed and guilt. In drowning his sins in ale, her father had set out to dull the sharp edges of his mind – he had ended up blurring the contours of his body as well.

  No, she hadn’t been brought up to expect a handsome husband. She hoped for a companion who might come to care for her. A friend.

  The face of a young man with blue-black hair and sombre grey eyes flashed unasked-for into her mind. Rosamund stopped mid-stride and stood like a statue in the middle of the road. Yesterday had been a dream. Dreams weren’t supposed to invade one’s waking hours, they should know their place. It would seem that this particular dream was unruly. It had walked unbidden into the present.

  There was a faint rustling in the ditch, it was probably a field mouse. She huffed out a breath. She felt very ill-at-ease and that wretched dream was to blame. If only she’d gone into the village yesterday instead of heading for the beach. Meeting Oliver had somehow made it more difficult to accept what must be. Oliver-

  She felt sick. Until yesterday, she had been resigned to the thought of marrying Alfwold. Now the very thought turned her stomach – they’d probably have to carry her kicking and screaming to the church door...

  A hacking cough broke into the thread of her thoughts. It was coming from the ditch.

  Someone was watching her. Someone who had spent the night in the ditch at the side of the road and was lying there even now. Dark eyes were peering eagerly out of a face that had been pitted by flying stone chips. Alfwold’s trade had left its scars.

  ‘Alfwold!’ The shock of seeing him had her lurching into speech. The poor man was so ill-favoured. ‘Osric sent me to find you. The millstones need dressing, but you know that already, don’t you?’ Try as she might, she couldn’t invest the right amount of pleasure into her voice. She knew she must sound cold and unwelcoming.

  Alfwold stretched and some of the light went from his eyes. Rosamund looked away. She couldn’t help it if she didn’t love him. She must try. I will try.

  He rubbed his scarred chin with hands that were as pockmarked and blackened as his face, and looked at her, almost shyly. ‘You’ve grown prettier since last I saw you.’

  ‘Have I? Th...thank you.’ She could find nothing else to say, and fiddled with her belt.

  Alfwold climbed out of the ditch. ‘Is there no kiss for your betrothed?’ he asked. ‘No warm welcome after these long weeks apart?’

  Rosamund bit back the denial that rose to her lips. She felt stiff as a wooden doll, but she managed to halt her retreat. The past winter hadn’t treated him well. His scarred, dirty-looking face was tired. The lines and wrinkles were deeper. His hair was ragged and there were silver threads running through it that hadn’t been there before.

  She must remember, she had vowed to please him. This was reality and she must make the best of it. Alfwold could, if he chose, ease the misery of her slave-like existence with Osric and Aeffe. What use was a mere dream?

  Finding a smile, Rosamund held out her hand. The swarthy face lit up and blunt fingers closed over hers. He pulled her close and she gasped, fighting the instinct to draw back. She wasn’t ready. A strong stench of sour ale assailed her.

  ‘What’s amiss?’ he asked, kindly enough.

  ‘Nothing.’ She stared at the ground.

  He misread the reason for her downcast eyes. ‘It seems your father was right,’ he said, in a pleased voice. ‘He swore you were chaste. Seeing you’re so comely, I found that hard to believe, but maybe he’s in the right.’

  Rosamund nodded, she was chaste, that at least was no lie. What could she do? She could hardly confess that the real reason for her lowered eyes was that he revolted her?

  ‘Now, Rosamund, your kiss, if you please.’

  She shut her eyes and angled her head to his. She held her breath.

  The kiss was horrible. She’d known it would be, but mercifully he released her quickly. And now it was he who wouldn’t meet her eyes. His expression was carefully blank. Holy Mother, he knew how she felt.

  Stepping back, Alfwold silently began brushing bits of leaf and grass from his worn grey tunic and hose. Coarse, workaday fabric. Rosamund stared at a large rent in one of his sleeves and her heart twisted. Her inability to respond to his kiss had betrayed her. There was but one tiny spark of hope remaining. Alfwold wasn’t cruel. Would he release her from her promise?

  With a grunt, he heaved up his pack of tools and shouldered it. ‘Lead on, lass. We’d best go and see how much work your father has for me.’

  ‘It’s the same as ever, both sets of millstones have lost their furrows.’ Her lips twisted. ‘They’re as impossible to keep balanced as father’s temper.’

  ‘Come then, we’ll talk as we go,’ Alfwold said, giving her a quiet smile.

  She could sense no passion in him. Let him release me from my promise, please, Lord, let him release me.

  Side by side, they turned for the mill.

  Alfwold was a stocky man, his height was equal to Rosamund’s, but no more. All his strength lay in his hands and arms
and shoulders. Dressing millstones was punishing work – it could take up to a fortnight to finish a difficult pair. It wasn’t like whittling a child’s toy from wood. Stone dressing built up the muscles. Alfwold was generally reckoned as strong as an ox.

  As they walked, Rosamund sent covert glances in his direction. His face and hands had suffered the most. Years of chiselling and hammering had sent thousands of stone and steel darts flying into him, scarring his skin and turning it dark, like a tattoo. He’d also been hit in the right eye, it was always bloodshot. The black scarring on his skin made him look permanently dirty. It wasn’t his fault. But did he have to reek of the tavern? And surely he could wash occasionally?

  Surreptitiously, she glanced at her hands. They were clean and white. Work-worn, to be sure, but clean and white compared to Alfwold’s. They were shaking. She curled her fingers so the nails bit into the palm of her hands. She saw him glance at her and dredged up a smile.

  ‘I missed you, lass, these past weeks.’

  She said nothing.

  ‘Lass, there are a number of reasons why I want to wed you. Will you listen if I tell them to you?’

  She nodded and matched her pace to his.

  ‘The road I tread is a hard road. You’re always on the move from mill to mill with never a place to call your own. I’m not asking for pity, Rosamund, but I want you to know. Mine’s a fine trade to ply when you’re young, and the lust for travel runs fast in your blood. When you’re free and proud to own no man your master. The highways stretch out before you and you feel as though the world is at your feet. That you can do anything.’ Alfwold’s gaze went back to the mill and, grimacing, he adjusted his pack. ‘That time passed for me a few years since. My blood runs more slowly and the opportunities that I’d hoped for are long forgotten.

  ‘I need a place to settle. This past winter near turned me to ice. I thought that I could never be warm again, but with you, with you...’ He cleared his throat. ‘Do you understand what I’m saying?’