Shattered Vows

by Carol Townend

  Running his finger down her cheek – his touch was light, but it burned – he turned his back on her.

  She didn’t need to be told twice. Yanking the gown over her head, she scrambled up, shaking out the full skirt to remove the creases. She started at the side lacings.

  ‘Oliver, what will you do? You can’t keep me here, I’m a married woman, and my duty is to my husband.’

  ‘Your obedience to your lord comes first.’

  ‘How can that be? I’m not a serf, I was born a free woman. My father was given his freedom when he got tenancy of the mill.’

  Oliver turned and frowned at her. ‘Hurry up, what’s taking so long?’

  ‘It’s the lacings. They’re awkward to get at, and I’ve never worn a gown with such long sleeves, they’re getting in the way.’

  ‘Allow me.’

  Rosamund held still as Oliver tightened up the fastenings, jerking and jolting her in his impatience. She watched him out of the corner of her eye – he was wearing his distant look.

  ‘It matters not that you are a freewoman,’ he said. ‘If the lord commands you, you must obey. Baron Geoffrey’s word is law.’

  She shook her head. ‘Fine lord he is. He snatches me from my husband and my maidenhead is stolen. I’m insulted. He threatens me himself. And if that weren’t enough, he rubs salt into the wound by offering me to you as part of a bargain whereby you achieve your knighthood.’ Her voice rose. ‘He threw me in with the deal in very much the same way as he throws largesse to the children after the harvest supper. And you-’

  ‘Aye, Rosamund, what did I do that was so very wrong?’ Oliver asked. There was a strange glint in his eyes.

  ‘You accepted his terms without so much as a murmur of protest! Holy Mother, where’s your sense of justice?’ She put scorn into her voice. ‘I judged you to be upright, to be honest – but you’re worse than a cheating whore, far worse.’ Striving for calm, she took the comb from the coffer, divided her hair, and deftly braided it.

  ‘How so?’ His voice was cold.

  ‘Whores don’t tend to involve others in their sordid little deals. You, however-’

  ‘Enough!’ He raked back his hair. ‘If I hadn’t intervened, you might have found yourself Geoffrey’s leman. I thought I did right by stepping in. Maybe I misread you, maybe you are angry at a lost opportunity.’ His lip curled. ‘After all, who would bed with a mere squire when they might bed their liege lord instead?’

  ‘Why you...you...’ Words failed her.

  Grey eyes bored into her. ‘As for this choice you seem so intent on...if you put your wits to some use, you’d see that I have no choice either. I refuse to end my days as a squire, I will be knighted. I am new to Ingerthorpe but my cousin is giving me a chance. What kind of a fool would I be to let a peasant maid come between me and a knighthood?’ He sighed. ‘Rosamund, it was not at my instigation that you were included in the deal. So, think again, angel, before you cry to me that this is not to your liking.’

  Rosamund glared up at him, she was shaking with anger. ‘At least we know where we stand. And what to expect from each other.’ She tossed her braids over her shoulders. ‘Hadn’t you better escort me to the hall?’ She gave him a sweet smile. ‘I hope I don’t shame you, for I’m a low-born peasant, and I’ve never broken bread in a castle before.’

  She laid her hand on his arm, for all the world a grand lady and started to the door. She didn’t see the grudging admiration lighting his eyes.

  ***

  Oliver led Rosamund to a place on one of the trestles, and his fingers tightened briefly on hers. A caress? She looked up in time for him to drop her hand, give her a formal bow, and stride off to the high table on the dais where Sir Geoffrey sat with his family and intimates.

  A few cursory introductions were made. Rosamund sat stiffly on the bench, hoping she would remember the names. She felt very out of place. The Great Hall was huge, as large as the village church, and she was hemmed in on one side by a black-eyed ladies’ maid called Inga, and on the other by a plump, red-cheeked nurse whose duty it was to keep an eye on the lord’s son and heir, Henry. The nurse’s name was Marie.

  ‘I don’t know what the world’s coming to,’ Inga said, looking down her nose at Rosamund.

  ‘What’s that?’ Marie asked, speaking through a mouth crammed with fresh bread.

  Inga made an extravagant gesture which dug Rosamund in the ribs and almost had an ale jug fly off the trestle.

  Grabbing the jug, Rosamund pushed it safely to the middle of the board.

  Inga leaned in and lowered her voice. ‘Sir Geoffrey’s taken to throwing peasant’s wives at his squires...’

  Rosamund’s jaw tightened, and her cheeks scorched.

  ‘...And then they are brought to table, stinking from the midden and we must break bread with them. Marie, I don’t know how you can enjoy your meat sitting next to her. She’s a whore, a verminous whore.’

  The nurse glanced at Rosamund, and wiped the back of her mouth with her sleeve. ‘Pot calling the kettle black, is it?’ she remarked lightly.

  Inga’s face froze. She hunched her shoulder on them and turned huffily to a groom seated at her other hand.

  ‘Pass the loaf,’ Marie said, winking at Rosamund. ‘Thank you, love. Don’t pay no mind to Inga. She’s not wed, and I can tell you she’s no innocent. Saints, there’s not much I can’t stomach, but hypocrisy sticks in my gullet.’ Settling more comfortably on the bench, Marie picked up her cup. ‘This is a good brew, you should try it. Here, take some bread. You’ve got to eat, girl.’

  Rosamund found herself warming to Marie. She took a chunk of bread, and managed a smile.

  ‘That’s better,’ Marie grinned. ‘Never let them see that they’ve got to you, it only encourages them. What you need is some good meat inside you – build up your strength.’

  Maybe Marie was right. After a few mouthfuls Rosamund was better able to take stock of her surroundings. Last night she had been blind to everything but her own terror.

  Ingerthorpe Great Hall was famed for miles about because rather than being rectangular it was round. It was large and airy and magnificent. The roof beams arched up and met at a central point. They were painted in deep blues and reds. On the walls, every available inch of plaster had been decorated with murals and patterns. It was true that the murals lay beneath a light film of dust and soot, but none the less Rosamund had never broken bread in anywhere half as grand.

  Baron Geoffrey’s servants and retainers were ranged about on trestles set up in the central space. The high table overlooked all from a dais in front of the wide fireplace, so those privileged enough to sit there had the warmth of the fire at their backs. Not so Rosamund. Her table was at right angles to the raised high table, and everyone sitting with her had to suffer the draughts from two stairheads.

  Oliver was in earnest conversation with his neighbour, he didn’t look her way.

  The rushes rustled and something warm brushed across Rosamund’s feet. Rats? With a shudder, she leaned back to peer beneath the board.

  ‘It’s only the hounds. Throw them a lump of gristle and they’ll go on to the next person,’ Marie said. With a contented sigh, she pushed the bread away. ‘That’s better, I was so hungry, I couldn’t think. Tell me about yourself. What do they call you?’

  ‘Rosamund. I’m Osric Miller’s daughter.’

  ‘Talk right pretty don’t you, for the miller’s lass?’

  ‘I copy what I hear...’ she indicated Oliver with her eyes ‘...I didn’t want his mockery. And now I suppose I’ll have the mockery of my fellows instead.’

  The nurse smiled. ‘I make no judgements.’

  ‘Thank you. None of this is my fault, and frankly, I can’t believe it’s happening – it’s all so unfair.’

  ‘You expect life to be fair?

  ‘I...yes!’

  ‘Go on. What happened?’

  Rosamund took a deep breath. ‘Yesterday I was wed to Alfwold – he’s a grindsto
ne dresser. Baron Geoffrey decreed that instead of my father paying the bride fine I should be brought here, to wait upon his pleasure. I suspect my father didn’t object very strongly.’

  ‘No?’

  Rosamund shook her head, she was reluctant to elaborate on the reasons behind her father’s betrayal.

  ‘Go on, girl.’

  ‘After the wedding I was brought here. Baron Geoffrey and several other men – I don’t know their names – locked me in a bedchamber with Oliver de Warenne. I gather it was a drunken joke. I was to be freed this morning. Except my lord has changed his mind, he refuses to release me. And Oliver does nothing!’

  Marie’s eyes were round. ‘The squire’s to keep you?’

  ‘Apparently. He wants his knighthood and Sir Geoffrey has promised to knight him if he fulfills a request.’

  ‘A request...? What request?’

  Rosamund bit her lip as it dawned on her that it might not be wise to mention the extraordinary conversation Sir Geoffrey had had with Oliver concerning Lady Cecily. ‘I...I’m not certain. All I know is that Baron Geoffrey has said that if Oliver keeps his part of the bargain, I am to remain here for...for Oliver.’ Her eyes stung. She had never felt so angry and helpless in her life.

  ‘A stolen bride!’

  Rosamund blinked away a sheen of tears. ‘I don’t find it amusing, I can assure you.’

  ‘Don’t come the noble lady with me, lass, I have eyes. You like that boy. One sight of the way you and that squire keep staring at each other – he fascinates you as much as you fascinate him.’

  Rosamund’s stomach cramped. As far as she could see Oliver was taking no notice of her. ‘I’m married to Alfwold and I ought to go home. I’m being treated as though I were a sack of flour to be traded at will.’

  ‘That’s the nobility for you,’ Marie said, nodding. ‘They’ve no respect for anyone’s dignity but their own. Remember this, my girl, as far as they’re concerned, we’re little more than cattle. If you expect to be treated any different to the dogs scavenging under the table, you’ll be sorely disappointed.’ She jerked her head towards Oliver. ‘And don’t expect any help from that quarter. He’s got pride, that lad. He won’t settle for anything less than a knighthood. It helps that he’s hot for you and that you like him, but-’

  Rosamund shook her head in denial, but Marie swept on.

  ‘You like him. My advice is make the most of it. It won’t last forever, it never does. When he’s finished with you, you’ll be sent packing. He’ll forget he ever knew you because he’s of their blood and they don’t have hearts. Cold as ice, the lot of them. So if you like him, my girl, make the most of it.’

  Somehow Rosamund managed to keep the smile pinned on her face. She felt torn. It was immoral of her lord to force her to stay, and it was wrong of Oliver to have agreed, but she couldn’t deny that she liked him. And she did find him attractive.

  She glanced uneasily towards Inga. Perhaps the woman was in the right, perhaps she was a whore. Guilt twisted inside her. She liked Oliver more than she’d ever liked Alfwold. How could that be?

  ‘Thank you, Marie, I’ll try and remember your advice.’ She sighed. ‘And now it’s your turn. I’d be grateful if you could tell me who everyone is. If I’m to stay here, I think I should find out as much as possible.’

  ‘Brave lass.’ Marie’s bosom heaved as she twisted to face the high table. ‘My lord you know already. The lady next to him is his wife, Lady Margaret.’

  Lady Margaret Fitz Neal was arrayed in a gorgeous red gown which seemed to have snatched the colour from her face. The hair beneath her veil was blonde.

  ‘And the lady at Sir Geoffrey’s other side is his mother, Lady Adeliza. My lord takes more heed of her than he does of his wife. If Lady Adeliza takes against your remaining at the castle, you’ll be out of here faster than the winking of an eye.’

  The resemblance between Lady Adeliza and her son was startling. Sir Geoffrey must have inherited his tendency to corpulence from her. She sat tall, but there was no hiding her large frame. Their faces had a similar bone structure – they were both long in the jaw and both were dark-eyed. There was something almost masculine about her.

  ‘I thought ladies were always delicate,’ Rosamund murmured.

  Marie laughed. ‘Not that one, she’s tougher than a team of oxen. She’ll live to fourscore years, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  ‘And the young woman next to her?’

  ‘Lady Blanche.’

  ‘Lord Geoffrey’s sister,’ Rosamund said, heart sinking. This was the sister Oliver wanted. ‘How old is she? She’s lovely.’

  ‘Fifteen. And aye, she’s a beauty, but too much so for her own good.’

  ‘Oh?’

  Marie refused to be drawn. ‘And then there are my lord’s knights. Sir Gerard is the older one, he’s sire to that lad sat next to little Henry. Sir Brian’s the one talking with Oliver de Warenne.’ Marie cocked her head at her. ‘You know all about the new squire, don’t you?’

  Outside the main doorway, a dog began to bark.

  Ignoring Marie’s probing, Rosamund scoured the high table. She couldn’t help but notice that someone was missing – Lady Cecily, Oliver’s betrothed. ‘Where’s Lady Cecily?’

  Marie’s eyes were quickly veiled. ‘She’ll be down later. Gracious, listen to those dogs. Methinks it’s time the baron had a cull. They’re forever scrapping over the smallest crumb.’ She bent to squint under the table.

  ‘Marie, that barking’s coming from the entrance.’

  Marie lifted her head. ‘You’re right, I can hear the porter arguing with someone. It’s a mite early for petitioners...’

  Inga jabbed Rosamund in the ribs, her smile was malicious. ‘Maybe our peasant cockerel has come to claim his hen.’

  Rosamund swallowed down a gasp. Holy Mother, Inga was right, that was Alfwold’s voice! He was shouting and...

  There was a thud and a scuffle and Alfwold flew into the hall. Under the scarred, pitted skin, his face was blood red.

  Rosamund leaped to her feet, her insides a knot of guilt and shame. The hall went pin-drop quiet.

  ‘Ugh!’ Inga’s mocking laugh rang out. ‘The cockerel’s been wallowing in the mire, look at his fouled feathers.’

  Someone tittered.

  Shooting Inga a glance which should have felled her, Rosamund took a step towards her husband. Her feet seemed weighted with lead. Alfwold started towards her, but the guards sprang to life and wrestled him to the ground.

  ‘Rosamund!’ Alfwold’s voice broke as he struggled.

  A guard hit him across the face with the back of his hand. ‘Quiet! You were anxious to see Sir Geoffrey...well, now you shall, my fellow, now you shall.’

  Rosamund could only watch as Alfwold was dragged to the dais.

  What kind of a place was this? Were she and Alfwold the only ones to see the wrong here?

  She could feel Marie tugging insistently at her gown, trying to make her sit down again. Impatiently she tugged free.

  ‘Captain, must you interrupt my break fast?’ Sir Geoffrey asked, leaning back in his chair.

  ‘My apologies, my lord, but this man insists on speaking to you. He claims you are holding his wife.’

  ‘Holding?’ Sir Geoffrey narrowed his eyes on Alfwold. ‘Are you implying that I have imprisoned the woman?’

  Alfwold’s mouth opened and closed. ‘I...I...’

  ‘Come, come, speak up. Do you not see her over there? Is she in chains? Does she languish in the dungeon?’ He laughed and his sister Lady Blanche joined in.

  ‘You mock me, my lord,’ Alfwold muttered stiffly.

  Oliver couldn’t tear his eyes from Rosamund’s husband. He was an ugly brute, the scars of his trade had marred his skin more than most – his face...his hands. What was his name? Alfwold. Oliver knew that Alfwold couldn’t help having scars, no stone-dresser ever escaped them, yet the thought of those calloused hands touching Rosamund filled him with revulsion.

  None t
he less, this man was her husband, he had accepted responsibility for her in a way that Oliver never could. Oliver was surprised to discover that he felt some sympathy towards the man. Perhaps if he were to make a public denial of interest in Rosamund, then his cousin would be forced to release her and she could return home. He hadn’t known Geoffrey for long and it was hard to judge whether he would hold to the arrangement regarding his knighthood. Maybe he would, maybe he wouldn’t. Either way...

  Rosamund was biting her finger, she looked utterly miserable.

  Oliver pushed to his feet.

  ‘Oliver,’ Geoffrey’s voice held a warning. ‘We have an agreement, and I want you to honour it. Sit down.’

  Oliver remained standing.

  ‘De Warenne! Am I to clap you in the dungeon? Obey your lord!’

  Oliver was achingly aware of a pair of blue eyes staring at him from across the hall. Rosamund’s face had lost its healthy glow, she was as pale as ivory, but her eyes blazed. Surely she would welcome his repudiation, if it meant she regained her freedom...

  ‘My lord, I must speak.’

  Baron Geoffrey’s face was stony. ‘Hold your tongue, de Warenne. You will honour our agreement. Captain?’

  ‘My lord?’

  ‘Your men will escort my cousin to his bedchamber. He wishes to meditate on the advantages of a knight honouring his agreements.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  Rosamund sucked in air. Her gaze followed Oliver’s broad, well-muscled back as, head high, he passed through the curtained doorway and was escorted out of sight. Dimly, she was conscious of an excited buzz starting up around her. Speculative eyes shifted from Alfwold, to her, and then back to Baron Geoffrey.

  Her lord was muttering in French to his mother. Lady Adeliza nodded and lifted her head. She beckoned imperiously. ‘Girl! You may approach the board.’

  Rosamund’s jaw dropped for Lady Adeliza had addressed her in English, in flawless English. Heart pounding, she went to the dais.

  ‘Closer, girl, I would see your features.’ Lady Adeliza said, looking her over from top to toe. ‘You don’t seem afraid.’

  Rosamund swallowed. ‘Fear is not uppermost in my mind, my lady.’