Lady Adeliza never troubled to disguise the affection she had for her surviving son. She had two daughters still living, but her love was all hoarded for her son.
As he sat down again, Geoffrey’s scowl returned. His mother had been sister to de Warenne’s mother – a kinship so close that he could name him cousin. His lady mother had been pleased to ally herself with the Fitz Neal family, despite their descent from an illegitimate line. He would teach his arrogant cousin a lesson, once and for all, and it would also serve as his initiation to the Castle. A jest of some sort...
It would have to be large to serve its purpose. Spectacular. And then, after the game was played out, he would show his cousin he meant to do well by him. Good men were hard to come by.
Chapter Three
‘Hurry up with the stew, Rosamund,’ Aeffe said, calling out from the mill doorway where she was combing her yellow hair with her favourite ivory comb. ‘I’m famished!’
From the cookhouse across the yard, Rosamund sent her stepmother a look of exasperation. Twilight was falling and she was being as quick as she could, she hated cooking in the dark. ‘If you stopped preening and came to help, it wouldn’t take so long.’
Aeffe scowled and opened her mouth to reply, but just then Alfwold and Osric appeared and she folded her lips together. Even from across the yard, Rosamund could see Aeffe’s eyes glittering with dislike. She’d have to pay for that unguarded remark, albeit not with Osric and Alfwold watching, Aeffe was too clever for that. She would bide her time and it would be done in such a way that no-one knew what she was about.
‘That smells good,’ Alfwold said. He came to stand on the cookhouse threshold, as oblivious of the undercurrents flowing between the two women, as he was of the fact that he was blocking Rosamund’s light. ‘So good that it distracted me and made me lay aside my tools too early for your father’s liking.’ Squeezing into the tiny cookhouse, he craned his neck to peer into the blackened pot hanging from the central roof beam.
Rosamund smiled and went on stirring the stew.
‘Have you done, girl?’ Osric called from across the yard, he sounded as impatient as his wife. ‘Why isn’t it ready? I thought fish was quick to cook.’
Under her breath Rosamund muttered, ‘It is when it’s not been dried as hard as a board.’ Aloud she said, ‘Almost.’ She was grateful the fishing season had started, cooking fish-meat that bore the texture of leather was a thankless task in Osric’s mill. She’d not be the only one to welcome fresh fish.
‘Bring it over then, for pity’s sake,’ Osric said. ‘And then you can go and fetch a pitcher of ale, I’ve the thirst of the devil. Take the large pitcher, mind.’ He wound his arm about his wife’s waist and they disappeared into the mill.
Rosamund sighed.
‘I’ll go to the alewife,’ Alfwold said.
‘Thank you, but they want me to go.’
‘Give me a kiss, and I’ll do it. You’ve done enough today, my lass.’
Rosamund willed herself not to flinch as he brought his scarred face closer. Fingers clutching the wooden spoon, she offered him her cheek.
‘That’s all I get?’ he said.
‘M...my vow.’ Her eyes avoided his.
‘Oh, aye, the vow. For a moment I forgot. Where’s the jug?’
Rosamund pointed at it and bent her head over the thick stew. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him hesitate in the doorway. Reluctantly, she looked across. ‘Alfwold?’
‘When we are wed, Rosamund, I shall expect you to be more...demonstrative. You must be prepared to give me more than a peck.’
‘I know. I will. But you must wait until after the wedding.’ She turned back to the pot, and stirred vigorously. The pot swung to and fro on its chain.
‘We’ll be eating pulp at that rate,’ Alfwold said, gently.
‘What?’
He smiled. ‘The pottage.’
‘Oh!’ Rosamund snatched the spoon from the cauldron and the light strengthened. Alfwold had gone.
***
‘Tomorrow I’ll go to up to the castle and ask Baron Geoffrey how much merchet he’ll be wanting for the wedding,’ Osric said, speaking through a mouth full of stew.
Rosamund paused in the middle of serving Aeffe’s portion. ‘Merchet?’
‘Aye, you half-wit.’ Aeffe’s voice held a sneer. ‘Merchet. Though it doesn’t seem fair that we should pay for the privilege of seeing you wed.’
The family was seated round a trestle table next to the millwheel gearing on the ground floor. Alfwold had yet to return from the tavern. They were wearing their cloaks – Osric wouldn’t allow anyone to light a fire in his mill. They’d heard about another mill which had caught alight – there’d been an explosion and the miller and his family had been killed.
‘The merchet.’ Rosamund’s heart sank. ‘You mean the maiden rent.’
‘At last, it takes a while, but she gets there in the end,’ Aeffe said. She was still dragging the comb through her hair.
Osric grunted and paused with his spoon half way to his mouth. ‘Where’s Alfwold with my ale?’
‘Here, Aeffe, your supper.’ Rosamund slid a bowl across.
Her stepmother looked at it down her nose. ‘You call that supper?’ She was using what Rosamund thought of as her ‘lady of the manor voice’ and just then her comb caught in a knot. ‘Holy Mother,’ Aeffe said, giving it a sharp pull.
The comb snapped. Rosamund hid her mouth with her hand and Aeffe rounded on her.
‘Wretch. You’ve been using my comb...’
‘I haven’t! You pulled too hard and-’
‘Don’t argue!’ Aeffe’s lips tightened as she stared at the once-beautiful ivory comb. Several tines were missing. ‘You must have been using it. It wasn’t made for thick, coarse hair like yours; it was made fine, delicate tresses.’ Aeffe smoothed her hair lovingly and looked winningly at her husband. ‘Look, dearest, my comb has broken.’
‘I’ll buy you another, my love,’ Osric said. ‘But you’ll have to wait. The bride fine must be paid.’
Aeffe glowered at Rosamund.
The door banged.
‘About time, here’s Alfwold with the ale.’ Osric reached for a cup. ‘Pass it over, lad.’
Rosamund smiled thankfully at her betrothed – perhaps the novelty of his presence would stop Aeffe needling her. She ladled out his portion and passed it to him.
‘You’d think they were wed already,’ Aeffe said, sneeringly.
Her father grinned. ‘They soon will be, that’s for certain.’
Rosamund bit her lip.
‘Osric, dearest,’ Aeffe sighed. ‘I wish we didn’t have to pay the merchet. Isn’t there any way to avoid it?’
‘Not that I know of. Every man must pay the lord to see his daughter wed. Yours did.’
Aeffe pouted. ‘The pedlar had some lovely combs last time he came, though I admit they were costly. Must we spend everything on seeing her wed?’
‘My love, if I could avoid paying the merchet, I would. But Rosamund must be wed.’
Shaking her head, Aeffe picked up her knife and speared a chunk of fish.
Alfwold cleared his throat. ‘Osric, I want all to be right in my marrying of Rosamund. If it’s any help, I’ll pay the maiden rent. I have enough.’
‘Ooh.’ Aeffe’s face lit up. ‘Will you?’
Osric shifted in his seat. ‘I...I don’t think-’
‘Osric, think,’ Aeffe said, leaning her elbow on the table and pointing with her knife. ‘He’s the one who wants your daughter. Why should you pay to be rid of her?’
Rosamund sat bolt upright on the bench, she’d never felt so humiliated in her life. Every father must pay to see his daughter marry and if Osric tried to wriggle out of it...
Please, Father, please don’t accept.
She stared straight ahead, mouth clamped tight as a clam.
Osric cleared his throat. ‘They’ll be staying here after their marriage, my love. Rosamund won’t be moving awa
y.’
‘Yes, yes, but why should you pay the merchet when Alfwold has offered?’ Aeffe fingered the broken comb. ‘Take it, take Alfwold’s money.’
Rosamund leaned forward. ‘No, Father, please don’t. It’s customary for the bride’s father to pay, not the husband. Will you deny me what little pride I have?’
‘Osric,’ Aeffe said. ‘I warn you...’
Osric grinned at his future son-in-law. ‘Alright. It’s a deal.’
The two men struck hands and Rosamund pushed her bowl aside. She felt sick with shame.
Aeffe chewed her fish. ‘I didn’t think you were so hot for our Rosamund, Alfwold,’ she said, slowly. Her look was knowing, her tone suggestive.
Alfwold’s swarthy skin darkened and he looked guiltily at Rosamund.
‘Aeffe, please!’ Rosamund wanted to curl up with embarrassment, but Aeffe was enjoying herself.
‘Did you know, Alfwold, that yesterday our Rosamund made a garland and went in search of a May Day lover?’
Rosamund’s breath caught. ‘Aeffe, that’s not true. I made a garland because the others were making them. Don’t you remember? Lufu was here with Edwin – we made them together. After they’d gone, I went for a walk. For a walk. I didn’t go to meet anyone.’ And that was the truth. Her meeting with the lord’s squire had been pure chance, even if in her mind’s eye, she could still see slate grey eyes smiling down at her.
‘No?’ Aeffe’s smile was sweet as honey. Except she was being far from sweet, she was deliberately stirring up trouble. Saints, was her stepmother trying to wreck her marriage before it had begun? ‘You chose forget-me-nots,’ Aeffe went on, thoughtfully. ‘Why pick those if you had no lover in mind?’
‘I like forget-me-nots,’ Rosamund said. She was cold with dread at what Aeffe might say next. ‘There was no other reason.’
‘No?’
‘No!’ It was true, she hadn’t gone to the beach to meet anyone. She hadn’t known that Oliver de Warenne was going to be there. She’d never spoken to him before and she’d never speak to him again.
Alfwold reached for Rosamund’s hand. ‘I know about the flowers.’
Aeffe reached for her ale-cup. ‘Oh...?’
‘They were an offering. I saw them on the shrine where Rosamund put them. She has made a vow.’
Slowly, Rosamund exhaled. Maybe it would be alright...
‘A vow?’ Osric held his cup out for more ale. ‘What nonsense is this?’
‘I haven’t told my family, Alfwold.’ Rosamund looked an appeal at the grindstone dresser. ‘It’s a secret.’
Alfwold’s eyes searched hers. It was difficult to meet his gaze but she managed it. ‘I’ll honour your secret, lass. It will be safe with me.’
‘What’s going on?’ Osric’s voice was testy as he rattled his cup against the board. ‘Would you mind telling me what you’re talking about?’
Alfwold slapped her father on the back and winked at his betrothed. ‘Nothing, Osric. Just a private matter between Rosamund and myself, you understand. More ale?’
Osric gave a derisive snort. His nose was red with the quantity of ale he’d already drunk, and no sooner had his cup been filled than he was tipping it down his throat.
Rosamund glanced guiltily at her betrothed. Thank God someone had put that posy in the shrine and that he’d noticed. He’d assumed that she’d put it here. She didn’t want to deceive him but better a little deceit than have Aeffe sour her marriage.
I never intended to meet Oliver at the beach...
Dear God, it was bad enough to have to marry Alfwold but the alternatives were worse. At least with a husband to stand by her she might have a half-decent life. She wasn’t going to allow Aeffe to wreck that.
While she’d been thinking, Osric and Alfwold had been talking softly together. They seemed to have firmed up on their arrangement over the paying of the bride fine.
‘Right then,’ Osric lifted his cup. ‘You’d best come with me to see Sir Geoffrey. We’ll go in the morning.’
‘Agreed.’ Alfwold grinned. ‘The sooner we’re wed the better.’
A trickle of ale ran down Osric’s chin. ‘If you want the wedding to be soon, you’d best visit Abbot William in the morning.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Our village priest Father Cedric died some weeks back. Dropped dead while working his field strip. We’ve been waiting for the bishop to send another priest and in the meantime Abbot William is handling church affairs.’
Alfwold grinned and looked at Rosamund. ‘There’s no need for me to go the monastery, the new priest’s arrived – I’ve met him.’
Rosamund’s heart, which had risen at the thought of a reprieve, however temporary, sank like a stone. ‘Where did you meet him?’
‘He was in the alehouse. Name of Father Eadric. The bishop’s given him a parchment to mark his appointment.’
Rosamund’s eyebrows lifted. ‘I didn’t know you could read.’
Alfwold leaned back and the bench creaked. ‘I can’t, lass, but I saw the seals on the document. Bright red they are, dangling on blue ribbons.’
‘So Father Eadric will wed us?’
‘That he will. All we need is the lord’s permission and Father Eadric will wed us at the church gate.’ His eyes brightened and he jerked his head at the jug of ale. ‘That new priest can certainly put away his ale. I’ve never seen a man of the cloth sink a jar so fast.’
Rosamund pinned on a smile and took the hint. She passed the brew over to her betrothed.
***
Three evenings later.
Rosamund’s head was pounding, but at least it was over. She and Alfwold were married and she was walking home from church in her pink gown. Her husband had her by the arm, and her father and stepmother were walking alongside.
Father Eadric had rushed the ceremony, gabbling the words, and for that mercy she was thankful – the ordeal hadn’t lasted long. It was over. She was married and it was Alfwold rather than Osric whose authority she must now heed.
She thought about the rushed ceremony. It was likely that Father Eadric had no more learning that she did. The Latin words were probably as incomprehensible to him as they were to everyone else. Father Cedric hadn’t bothered with the pretence of understanding them either. Only a handful of very holy men – the abbot, the bishop – understood the language of God.
She rubbed her brow with the back of her hand. She felt as though the devil had set up an anvil in her brain and was forging chains in there. Through the banging, she had picked up that Osric and Alfwold were talking about taking her up to Ingerthorpe Castle. She struggled to understand what they were saying.
‘What...what did you say? I don’t think I can have heard you aright.’
‘You did,’ Osric said grimly. ‘You did.’
Aeffe sniggered and Rosamund felt a prickle of foreboding. Aeffe hadn’t looked so pleased since Osric had bought the cloth for her last gown...
‘What’s amiss? Why are you all looking at me so oddly?’ Something was very wrong. ‘Alfwold?’ Her fingers clenched on the folds of the rose pink gown.
Alfwold shut his eyes and it came to her that he couldn’t bear to look at her. Why? What was going on?
Aeffe smiled. ‘You’re to go straight to the castle.’ Her eyes were bright, she was inordinately pleased about something – so pleased that she had forgotten her ‘lady of the manor’ voice and was speaking in as broad an accent as Osric. This, rather than her actual words, sent a shiver down Rosamund’s spine.
‘The castle? Why?’
Aeffe giggled. ‘Sir Geoffrey’s taken a fancy to you. He’s waived the wedding fine on condition that you spend the first night of your married life in his chambers.’
Rosamund froze. It couldn’t be true, she doubted Sir Geoffrey even knew what she looked like. ‘Alfwold?’ But Alfwold was staring fixedly at an oak tree. She turned to her father. ‘F..father?’
Osric shrugged. His face was set, like a stone. ‘Alfwold is to
accompany you. He’ll leave you at the castle and he’ll fetch you back in the morning.’
Rosamund’s tongue seemed to have stuck to her palate.
‘Alfwold will come for you after Sir Geoffrey has finished with you,’ Aeffe added.
‘I don’t believe you!’ Rosamund almost choked. ‘If this is your idea of a game, Aeffe, I don’t think much of it.’
‘Mind your mouth.’ Osric gave her a black look. ‘You forget yourself. This was none of your stepmother’s doing. You’re expected at the castle.’
‘Alfwold, tell me it isn’t true.’
Her husband stared at the tree. ‘It’s true.’
‘No. No! Alfwold, tell me you’ll stand by me – you won’t let them send me to Sir Geoffrey – you’re my husband, for pity’s sake!’
At last Alfwold looked at her. ‘Rosamund,’ he said, sadly.
And then she knew her husband would send her to the castle. He wouldn’t stand by her. He would let Baron Geoffrey waive the merchet and buy her body for the night and he would do nothing. He would do nothing because he was only a millstone dresser and if he was to settle in Ingerthorpe, Sir Geoffrey would be his liege lord. He must obey him.
‘There must be a way out of this! You can’t let him buy me as if I was a...a whore!’
‘Aren’t you?’ Aeffe whispered under her breath.
Rosamund glared at them. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about this before the ceremony?’
‘It would have made no difference, lass,’ Alfwold said. Of the three faces turned her way, his was the only one to be creased with concern. ‘You’d simply have fretted for longer.’
‘You should have told me! You should have given me a choice – particularly since it’s my body that you’ve sold!’
Osric snorted, and turned away. ‘Alfwold, you sort her out, she’s your wife. Come, Aeffe, let’s get to the tavern, I could do with wetting my lips.’
‘Father, you can’t just-’
Aeffe laughed and took Osric’s arm. ‘See you tomorrow, Rosamund, my dear.’
Rosamund watched in disbelief as her father and Aeffe turned their backs on her and walked away. ‘My God,’ she spoke through gritted teeth. ‘My God.’
Shattered Vows Page 6
