She thought of the cobweb high among the beams in the solar and frowned. How very strange. The Fitz Neals wore the finest clothes – lack of money couldn’t be the cause of the decay. In truth, everyone in the castle, from her liege lord down to the lowliest scullion were well clothed and well fed, but now she thought about it, there were signs of neglect in the castle itself. Here, the landing needed sweeping – dust balls had gathered at the side of the doorway. The door curtain needed to be hung outside and beaten. Why hadn’t the ladies repaired it? She grimaced, none of this should matter to her. In any case, notwithstanding the decay, Ingerthorpe Castle was still the most magnificent place she’d ever seen.
It was odd to think how she’d longed for a taste of life in the castle. She’d cast envious glances up at it on the top of the cliff and she’d wondered what it would be like living with the ladies inside. She’d tried to imagine sleeping on a real featherbed; she’d tried to imagine how an undergown made of the finest linen would feel next to her skin. All her life she’d listened to tales of noisy feasts and glittering banquets, and she’d wished with all her heart that she belonged there, high up in Ingerthorpe Castle. Now she was inside the castle and...
I really don’t like it.
From the solar, Lady Adeliza’s imperious voice broke into her thoughts.
‘Cecily, my dear...Oliver de Warenne....’
The words fell like stones – the introductions were being made. Rosamund shut her ears and struggled to pick up the thread of her thoughts. Why did she feel so ill-at-ease? What was the matter with her? She’d been presented with a chance most girls in the village would leap at. She ran her hands down the delicate stuff of the blue gown. Her friend Lufu would be most envious of it. What would Lufu say when she heard that she’d slept on a featherbed, and had had as handsome a lover as one could wish?
Rosamund’s mind, though nimble, was untaught. She was fumbling with concepts beyond her reasoning. She knew she should be back at the mill with Alfwold, yet she was here at her lord’s behest. What could she do? She hadn’t asked to stay. She couldn’t fight her lord.
And as for Oliver...she couldn’t help but like him. She liked him much more than Alfwold. She pulled a lose thread from a flower on the curtain. On the one hand she wanted Oliver to set her free, but on the other hand she – God have mercy – she wanted to stay. Even though she didn’t like it here.
His deep voice floated out of the solar, and her breath caught. Lord, he was speaking French. If she were to stay, she must get Marie to teach her some of the more important words. Not that that would help at this moment, for Oliver was speaking so quietly she doubted even those in the solar could hear him. She edged closer to the door and carefully drew the curtain aside...
He was down on one knee on the tiled floor. Her heart contracted. That dark head was bent over a slender, white hand. A hand that had never done a proper day’s work – a lady’s hand. He kissed it.
Lady Cecily wore a light, filmy veil which was held in place with a silver circlet as befitted her status as sister of a baron. Her gown was green. This was Oliver’s betrothed. Rosamund’s mind seemed to cloud. She felt anger at what was being forced upon her. She felt disappointment – Oliver was turning out to be as manipulative and self-serving as everyone else. Above all, there was a bitter taste in the back of her mouth. This is Oliver’s betrothed.
She forced herself to study Lady Cecily and gradually the mist cleared. Sir Geoffrey’s sister was a wraith of a girl – slimmer than a wand. She was far too slender to be healthy. No-one could be so pale and live. Her skin was almost translucent and it was stretched tight across her cheekbones.
Oliver spoke again and Lady Cecily’s empty eyes focused on him. She scarcely seemed aware of the man kneeling in homage at her feet. Then she gave a little start. In a heartbeat, Marie and Lady Adeliza were at her side. Steadying her. Lady Cecily moaned, shifting from one foot to the other.
Rosamund’s heart sank. Lady Cecily was not being steadied – on the contrary, she was being restrained. Her mother and Marie were fettering her with their bare hands. The poor girl was no match for them.
Oliver caught the Lady Adeliza’s eye and gave a swift headshake.
Rosamund stifled a laugh that was tinged with hysteria. The ugly surge of resentments and anger had vanished and she felt only a deep pity. Lady Cecily was beautiful, but it was not a beauty that belonged on earth. Death sat in her eyes. The blacksmith’s little boy had worn just a look and he’d not lived out last winter’s frosts. Lady Cecily was dying. They were giving Oliver a dying girl.
Allowing the curtain to swing back into place, she turned instinctively for the nearest lancet. The stone embrasure was cold and hard and the air pouring through it was cool and salty. Outside, the seagulls were screaming as they soared over the cliffs. If she closed her eyes, she could call to mind a sandy beach washed by the outgoing tide; she could see the gulls; she could feel the sun on her face.
She had to get away. Somehow, anyhow, she would get away. It didn’t much matter where she went, but even a life of toil at her father’s mill would be better than life in a castle filled with sick intrigues. People weren’t counters in a game that they could be moved hither and yon.
How can they do that to him? To her?
And how can he agree?
It had to be better at the mill. Her father’s ill-humour and Aeffe’s selfishness were as nothing compared to what went on in the castle. An image of the cobweb in the solar filled her mind and it wouldn’t leave her. Turning for the stairs, she reached for the rope rail.
Somehow, she would get out of here. She’d not gone more than a couple of steps when there was a rush of air. Behind her the curtain rings rattled. and Oliver loomed, large in the half-light. With his back to the window-slit, she couldn’t read his mood. He stared at her for several heartbeats and silently held out his hand.
Fool! Fool! A voice in Rosamund’s head screamed as she placed her hand in his. Then his tall, strong warmth enveloped her and he was hugging the breath from her lungs.
‘Oliver, I shall suffocate!’
‘Not you, my Rosamund. Thank God, you are made of sterner stuff.’ His grip eased. He pressed a burning, biting kiss on her neck and his tongue flickered over her, tasting the skin beneath her ear.
Heat flooded through her, he needed her. ‘You’re alright then,’ she said, discovering to her shame that her fingers had tangled in his hair.
He lifted his head, his eyes fixed on her mouth. ‘Kiss me and I shall be.’
He needed her.
She lifted her mouth and allowed her body to soften against him. His low groan was echoed in her heart and she knew then that she couldn’t escape the castle. Not while Oliver needed her. Not while he wanted her. The castle had spun a web for her and she was caught fast.
‘Rosamund?’ Marie’s voice made them spring apart. ‘Come on, lass, Lady Adeliza’s waiting.’
‘Pity.’ Oliver ran his hand down her arm, and lightly squeezed her fingers. ‘Until later, my angel.’
He clattered down the stairs whistling, looking as though he hadn’t a care in the world. Had she just responded to a need that didn’t exist? Did Oliver de Warenne really need her? Did he need anyone?
‘Rosamund?’ Marie stuck her head through the curtain and beckoned.
‘I’m coming.’
For a moment she’d thought she’d got past his shield. Saints. Her chest heaved, she must have been mistaken – he’d run jauntily enough down the stairs...
‘Rosamund!’
She pushed the curtains aside and went into the solar.
There was no sign of Lady Cecily, but Lady Margaret was leaning awkwardly against the studded door, rubbing her belly. She was staring at her mother-in-law, her pale brows puckered.
Rosamund stood by the door and waited for instructions. Lady Adeliza was surrounded by her ladies – with their heads bent diligently over their work, they made a pretty vision of domesticity. Bees in a hive, obe
ying their queen. She glanced at the cobweb up in the rafters, and shuddered. No, not bees. They were flies, caught in a web. Whatever they were working on, it wasn’t the castle furnishings. Lady Cecily’s bride clothes?
Lady Margaret moved to the trestle, she seemed to have come to some decision. ‘Lady Adeliza?’ Her voice was soft and hesitant. To Rosamund’s relief, she was speaking in English.
Lady Adeliza didn’t so much as lift her eyes from her work, but she replied in the same tongue. ‘Margaret. What is it?’
‘I...I am afraid...’
Lady Adeliza’s head shot up. ‘Holy Virgin, preserve us. Margaret, it’s not your first. There’s no reason to suppose it will be as hard as last time. Didn’t the midwife explain that it gets easier with each confinement? Why, when I had Blanche it was over in a couple of hours.’ Her voice bristled with impatience, and she gestured at her ladies. ‘If you kept yourself busy and saw to your duties, you’d not have time to dwell on such maudlin thoughts.
‘There’s plenty for you to do. I’ve seen how slack things have become since you took over as chatelaine.’
Lady Margaret flinched, but she ignored the criticism. ‘My lady, I am not referring to my confinement.’
The silver needle stilled. ‘No?’
‘No, my lady. It’s for Cecily that I’m afraid. She’s not up to this wedding, and you know it.’
‘My son wishes her to marry,’ Lady Adeliza said, curtly. ‘He wants to make amends for causing her fall, he feels responsible.’
Lady Margaret’s crimson skirts swept the floor and she sank onto a stool next to her mother-in-law. ‘I understand that. However, you must see that this marriage cannot take place. My lady, Geoffrey is not unreasonable. He can be persuaded. If you and I were united in our condemnation of the match, then he would-’
‘I doubt it. There’s more to this than Cecily’s wedding.’
‘I don’t see it. He could send her to a nunnery and-’
‘You think Cecily’s delicate constitution would thrive in a nunnery? Margaret, I appreciate your concern but Geoffrey is set on this. Wild rumours are flying the length and breadth of the kingdom – rumours concerning the Angevin cub. Our King is being tested. There’s trouble brewing and my son wants to be prepared. Oliver de Warenne is a godsend and this marriage would bind him to us.’
‘There are others at Ingerthorpe and they are knights already,’ Inga put in jerkily. When both ladies turned their heads in her direction she flushed and muttered an awkward apology.
Catching Marie’s eye, Rosamund was amused to see the nurse put a finger to her lips. She was already holding her breath and needed no warning to remind her that if either of the ladies’ eyes fell on her, they would cut short their conversation or else complete it in French.
Lady Adeliza was raising an eloquent eyebrow. ‘There is, of course, Sir Gerard, but he’s living in the past. As for Sir Brian...’ her lip curled.
There was a smothered gasp and one of the women lifted her head from her work. It was Lady Adeliza’s other daughter, Lady Blanche. Her eyes blazed with such naked hostility that Rosamund almost echoed Blanche’s gasp with one of her own. Clearly, Lady Blanche did not share her mother’s view of Ingerthorpe’s youngest household knight.
Lady Adeliza ignored her daughter and patted Lady Margaret’s arm. ‘Our cousin de Warenne’s arrival here was most timely. Geoffrey will knight him, and when he’s married to Cecily, the bond with our family will be unbreakable. With the trouble that’s coming, we need a man with real experience.’
Lady Margaret searched the older woman’s face. ‘And you would sacrifice Cecily in this cause, your own daughter?’
‘The girl ceased being my daughter the day her wits were knocked from her skull.’
Lady Blanche winced, but her head didn’t lift from her needlework.
Lady Adeliza made a clucking sound. ‘God’s Bones, Margaret, we’re speaking English! What are you up to?’
Lady Margaret’s eyes flickered briefly towards Rosamund. ‘I was worried lest Cecily should hear us and be distressed,’ she said, lightly.
With a jolt, Rosamund realised that Lady Margaret wanted her to understand what was being said. Why? Did she believe she could influence Oliver? Did she want her to ask him not to marry Lady Cecily?
Lady Adeliza snorted. ‘Small matter that would be. Girl?’ She looked expectantly at Rosamund.
‘My lady?’
Lady Adeliza’s wave encompassed Lady Margaret’s distended stomach. ‘Since Marie will soon be too busy caring for a real infant to have time for a full-grown one, you are to care for my daughter, Lady Cecily’
‘As you wish, my lady.’
Marie gestured at the closed door and Rosamund went towards it.
‘Girl?’ Lady Adeliza’s imperious voice held her back, and for a moment her dark eyes looked almost vulnerable. ‘My oldest daughter might be...different, but I’ll not have you make a mock of her. I would have you remember she’s a Fitz Neal. And she’s very sick. Maybe mortal sick.’
Rosamund swallowed down an unexpected lump in her throat, and nodded. It would seem her judgement of Baron Geoffrey’s mother might have been a little hasty. Lady Adeliza was not as hard-hearted as she would like to make out.
***
Her evening meal finished, Rosamund set down her empty ale pot and left the trestle. On the dais, Oliver was laughing at some comment of Sir Brian’s. Out of the corner of her eye she could see his dark head was flung back, his face was creased with merriment.
Her duties with Lady Cecily were over for the day, so she was free to explore. As she wandered past the other trestles, heading for the main entrance, a castle guard snatched at her skirts. His eyes were glazed with too much ale, and his smile was more leer than smile.
‘Don’t scowl at me, my lass.’ His speech was slurred. ‘I know how to bring a smile to those blue eyes. I’m as good as the next man.’ He grinned and winked pointedly at the dais. ‘In truth, I’m better than the next man.’
Rosamund wrenched her skirts free, side-stepped another determined grab at her skirts, and hurried towards the entrance hall. If this was going to be the way of things, she didn’t think she could stomach it for long. She needed fresh air.
Her admirer stumbled after her.
‘No, Edgar.’ Another guard was manning the hall door, and he held out his arm to bar his fellow from following her. ‘That lass is spoken for,’ he said, firmly.
She smiled gratefully, ran down the steps and out into the deserted bailey.
The night air was cool. It made a welcome change after the stuffy atmosphere of the hall and the ladies’ solar. Torches lit the walkway that ringed the top of the curtain wall. Noticing a ladder, she headed straight for it. There was no moon and it was doubtful she would be able to glimpse the sea, but she wanted to try. Carefully lifting her skirts in one hand, she climbed the ladder. At the top, her feet rang hollow on the board walk.
A lookout challenged her. ‘Who’s there? Who gave you leave to come up here?’
‘I’m Rosamund and-’
A footstep behind her had her catch her breath. Had the guard from the hall followed her? She swung round. Oliver. He was swathed in a thick, fur-lined cloak.
Oliver nodded at the watchman. ‘I gave her leave.’
‘Very good, sir.’ The watchman saluted and moved off.
Taking Rosamund’s elbow, Oliver steered her towards the eastern tower where the battlements overlooked the sea. The wind grew stronger with every step, it snatched her breath away. She glanced through a crenel towards the sea, but it was lost in a vast, wind-filled blackness.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, lifting her voice over the wind. ‘I didn’t realise I wasn’t allowed up here.’
‘If everyone decided to stroll about the battlements, there’d be no room for guards.’ Oliver frowned at her. ‘I thought you were in trouble and might need rescuing.’
‘Trouble?’
‘One of the guards has been ogli
ng you all night.’
Rubbing her arms against the cold, she looked thoughtfully at him. Oliver couldn’t be worried about her reputation – given what had passed between them it was rather too late for that. And in any case, surely a man who expected to marry his lord’s sister wouldn’t think the miller’s daughter had a reputation worth losing! ‘I’m a fallen woman. From now on, whenever anyone looks at me, all they will see is a fallen woman.’
A sharp gust of wind snatched his reply. He raised his voice. ‘Come with me.’ Looping his arm firmly about her waist, he walked her back to the stepladder. A guard marched past, his boots drumming on the boards. ‘We can’t talk here, what with the wind and...’ he jerked his head at the guard ‘...other distractions. Down you go. I’ll steady the ladder.’
At the bottom, he pulled her across the yard towards the stables.
‘No.’ Rosamund hung back. ‘Not Lance. Please. Oliver, I don’t like riding. It was so uncomfortable with you on that saddle, and I couldn’t ride alone.’
He drew her inexorably past the brewhouse and paused beneath a flaring torch. ‘I’d like to speak with you away from the castle. Never fear, I shan’t use my uncle’s saddle, we’ll go bareback. Angel, it’s time you mastered your fear of horses – a squire’s lady should learn to ride.’
Rosamund stared. ‘You’re forgetting my lowly origins. I’m no lady, I’m one of your cousin’s humblest vassals.’
Oliver’s eyes gleamed and he cursed under his breath. ‘Very well, if you expect to be treated like a baggage.’ He marched her into the stables. ‘Stay there, and don’t move.’
Briefly, Rosamund thought about disobeying him. But where would she go? The castle gates would be shut until morning. She could hunt out a hiding place, but Oliver had been here longer than she had – he’d be sure to find her. She watched him slip Lance’s bit and bridle on. Here in the castle, she was no match for him. Outside it, however...
He led Lance into the bailey and swung easily into the saddle. He reached for her and dragged her up before him, impatiently arranging her skirts to preserve her modesty. Lance’s coat felt harsh through her stockings and gown.
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