Shattered Vows

by Carol Townend

  ‘Wulfric!’ Someone called from the campfire. ‘Be sure to lock that door.’

  Wulfric swore and his grip slackened. Muttering under his breath, he bent to wrench at Oliver’s bonds, checking they held firm. As he straightened, he gave her a look that made her feel he’d ripped the clothes from her back. When he reached the door, the lamplight turned his hair to fire and he gave her a mocking bow. ‘Until tomorrow, ma dame. When the ransom’s been paid, we’ll see who’s to have you. Eadric owes me and I’ve a mind to collect.’

  The door groaned and he was gone.

  Quivering inside, Rosamund listened. She didn’t trust him not to come back as soon as she moved away from Oliver. Low-voiced mutterings and unruly bursts of laughter were coming from the fire-pit. Would they really keep her here? Were they talking about what they were going to do with her after Oliver had returned to the castle?

  God help her, she was never going to escape them. Father Eadric had tried to warn her. Her nose wrinkled, she could still smell fox. They would never release her, she’d seen too much. Holy Mother, help me.

  Oliver! She glanced down, the blood on his tunic looked black in the lamplight. She had to help him. His head...

  She examined the supplies. One jug looked as though it held ale – tentatively she sniffed and tasted it. It was ale, sour ale. The other jug held water. It looked and smelt reasonably fresh, but there was nowhere near enough and there were no bandages, not even a cloth. Sighing, she glanced at the door. She must make do with what was here, plainly, she would gain nothing but trouble by complaining.

  Placing the lamp next to Oliver, she angled his face to the light. He’d been unconscious for so long. Was he dying?

  Rosamund’s knowledge of healing was limited. She knew how to cope with everyday cuts and scrapes. She could make sleeping draughts and ointments. She’d even helped one of the monks mend a broken leg. But Oliver hadn’t moved since he’d been hit. His face was the colour of tallow and his skin felt clammy. If his skull was broken, there was little she could do but pray.

  Gently she pushed his hair aside, muttering a litany under her breath as she felt for swellings. ‘God save him, let him wake up. God save him, let him wake up. Let him be whole.’

  There was a lump at the back of his head, but other than that, nothing. Her examination complete, she sank back onto her heels. Why wasn’t he waking? Why was he so still? Her eyes prickled. His eyelashes lay dark against ashen cheeks. On his jaw and chin, she saw the shadow of a new beard, it was rough to the touch. She didn’t think he’d been badly hurt, but why was he so still?

  She sighed. She would have to let him wake naturally. And that would be soon, surely? Then they would escape this filthy place. In the meantime, she would try and make him more comfortable. She would clean the blood from his hair and skin. She would keep him warm.

  Lifting the hem of her gown, she tore off a strip of fabric, dipped it into the water and set to work. At length she set the bloodied rag aside, Oliver was as clean as she could make him. Unfortunately, he’d not moved a muscle and his skin still had that waxen look. He felt cold.

  A quick glance revealed nothing in the hut that remotely resembled bedding. At one time, the floor seemed to have been covered in rush matting. What was left of it was thick with mud and smelt of mildew. Huffing out a breath, she stretched out alongside him and cocooned them in her cloak – his had vanished. Stolen most likely. Nuzzling close, she wound her arms about him and began to pray.

  She prayed that he would regain consciousness. Soon.

  She prayed that they might find a way to escape. Together.

  Most of all, she prayed to regain his goodwill. She hadn’t betrayed him, and when he woke he must be made to understand. She hadn’t betrayed him.

  Heart-sick, aching inside, she held him to her and tried to sleep.

  Chapter Seven

  Oliver woke to a crashing headache. He’d no idea where he was and there was no light, not even a glimmer. Wondering if he’d been struck blind, he tried to move and fiery darts of pain shot down his neck.

  ‘Mon Dieu.’ When he tried to lift his hands to examine the source of the pain – a relentless throbbing at the back of his skull – he couldn’t. He was bound hand and foot and he must have been for some while – his fingers were numb.

  What in hell is going on? Where am I?

  He couldn’t seem to think. Fortunately, there didn’t seem to be anything wrong with his hearing. He heard a small gasp and something rustled close by. Something – someone – was so close he could feel their warmth. His guts turned to water as he peered vainly into the gloom. Who is it?

  The delicate scent of roses hung in the air. He felt himself relax and wondered why. There was a rusty squeak and a cloudy light leaked from a horn lantern. The window of the lantern was yellow with age and caked with filth.

  ‘Oliver?’

  A gentle hand touched his arm and his jaw slackened. He was gazing at a young girl. Her face was tight with fear, but none the less she was achingly beautiful. She had large blue eyes and long, honey brown hair which was twisted into an untidy knot at her neck. Several strands had escaped and were straying about her face – they shone like silk in the lamplight.

  When he didn’t immediately reply, she snatched back her hand and looped her hair over her ear. She was trembling. Whoever she was, she was terrified.

  Of him? How could that be? Lord, but she was pretty...

  His nostrils flared – as soon as the girl had pulled back, the scent of roses had been replaced with other, less pleasant smells. Mould. Rotting vegetation.

  ‘Are you in pain? Oliver?’

  Her voice was soft and feminine. She sounded afraid. Of him? He waited for her to make the next move. After all, he was the one who was trussed up like a chicken.

  Tentatively, her hand came out again. She brushed his cheek and despite his predicament warmth rushed through him. She was simply lovely. Who is she?

  ‘Oliver, say something. W...won’t you even speak to me?’

  His brows knotted, his head thumped. Is she talking to me? Twisting with difficulty, he peered over his shoulder. There was no-one behind him. Those blue eyes were fixed on him, she was definitely talking to him. He ransacked his brain to recall her name, but his mind was blank. He could remember nothing. Not a single thing. His heart began to beat in slow, heavy strokes. The throbbing in his head was overwhelming, but he managed a cautious smile. ‘You’re not afraid of me.’

  She set the lantern down on matting so encrusted with filth that it should have been burnt years ago. It stank. In truth, the entire place smelt like a sty, there must be other horrors hidden in the gloom. Wherever they were, the place reeked of squalor.

  A tiny line appeared on her brow. ‘I’m not afraid of you, not exactly. I was concerned you might be angry. You mustn’t be angry, I didn’t do it.’

  His head pounded, he was becoming more confused by the minute. ‘Didn’t do what?’

  ‘Betray you.’

  ‘That’s reassuring,’ he said, playing for time. The abominable headache told him that he’d been hit on the skull. The blow seemed to have cracked his wits – he hadn’t the faintest idea what she was talking about. It was plain she knew him, but he couldn’t for the life of him place her. How could he have forgotten such a face? The face of an angel. An angel...

  A half-remembered emotion stirred in the back of his mind but he couldn’t grasp it, it was like clutching at mist. His head ached. ‘Did you tie me up?’

  ‘Hardly. Look, they tied me too.’ She drew his attention to a thick cord round her ankle.

  Lord, she was roped to the central post. His legs were fastened in the same way. He studied their bonds and the post, assessing their chances of breaking free. The post held up what passed for a roof in this misbegotten hovel. It looked depressingly strong. However, with a bit of work they might be able to dig down round the base of the post – of course, the whole structure would likely collapse but...


  He glanced at the girl. Who had put them here? How trustworthy was she? She wasn’t tied as securely as him and she had mentioned betrayal. Might she be one of them? Whose side was she on? He smiled as engagingly as he could.

  ‘Is there anything to drink?’

  She pulled a face. ‘That depends on how thirsty you are. There’s sour ale.’

  ‘Any water?’

  She shook her head. ‘You’d be mad to risk drinking that. I used most of it to wash the blood from your head.’

  He summoned up another smile. ‘Then sour ale it will have to be. Could you...?’ Grimacing, he gestured at his bound hands.

  She didn’t hesitate. Taking the jug in one hand, she slipped the other beneath his neck and held the jug to his lips. He kept his gaze on her face and watched with relief as a flush rose to her cheeks. She’d been so pale when he’d come back to himself. The flush told him she didn’t fear him, she’d not be handling him so willingly if she did.

  ‘Thank you,’ he murmured when he’d quenched his thirst. ‘I suppose we should be grateful they left your hands free.’

  ‘It was in their interests to do so. I’m meant to be looking after you. I’m keeping you alive until-’

  ‘I trust you,’ he said, speaking to himself more than to her.

  She drew her head back. ‘I should think so. Especially after I stayed here, risking life and limb for you.’

  ‘Lord, I meant no offence, come back.’ He gave her a rueful smile. ‘You’re the sweetest smelling thing for miles, I want you near. Tell me, what’s your name?’

  Ale slopped over the rim of the jug.

  ‘Oliver, this is no time for childish games. We’re prisoners. We might be killed-’

  ‘I’m not playing games,’ he said, flatly. ‘I gather that you know me, and that you expect me to know you-’

  ‘Know me? Merciful Heaven-’

  ‘-But I don’t. The blow to my head has knocked my senses to the devil. I don’t remember anything.’

  Her mouth fell open. ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t remember anything. Nothing at all.’

  Carefully, she set the jug to one side. ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘It’s the truth.’

  ‘Your name, tell me your name.’

  He smiled. ‘That I do know, it’s Oliver.’

  ‘There, that proves it – you haven’t lost your memory.’

  ‘The only reason I know my name is because you used it. I know nothing more. I feel I should know you-’ he ignored her indignant splutter and swept on ‘-and I may wish that I did, but I’ll swear any oath you like, if it will help you believe me. I can’t remember who you are. I can’t remember anything about myself.’ He paused, she was chewing her forefinger. ‘Believe me. Tell me your name. Please.’

  She muttered something under her breath.

  ‘What?’

  ‘My name, as you well know, is Rosamund. But if you must play your foolish games, I am Rosamund. There, has that pleased you?’

  ‘Rosamund.’ The name rose easily to his lips. I know this girl. ‘Do you think you could unfasten my hands?’

  ‘I’ll try, the rope is very tight.’

  He let out a short laugh. ‘My hands have lost all feeling.’

  ‘Like your heart,’ she murmured.

  ‘What’s that?’

  Colouring, she bent over his bonds. ‘You warned me that you could never feel affection, but I never thought you’d go as far as this in your efforts to deny it. I can only wonder why you bothered to come after me.’ She tugged and pulled at the ropes. ‘There, it’s coming loose, only a moment...’

  The rope fell away and briskly he shook his hands. The blood flowed back, bringing pain in its wake. Wincing, he flexed his fingers. She watched him from under her eyelashes.

  ‘We’re lovers then,’ he shot at random.

  Her nose lifted, she looked away.

  He grinned. ‘I see I found the mark with that. Well, I’ve learned one thing about myself – I know a good woman when I see one.’

  She huffed out a breath. ‘Oliver, this is no laughing matter. We’re held by a mob of Angevin rebels who seem likely to cut our throats.’

  ‘Angevin rebels? Are you sure? I seem to recall something.’ He rubbed his temples. ‘Hell and damnation, the pain cripples all thought.’

  Her eyes were huge in the lamplight. Her chest heaved. ‘Saints, I do believe you’re telling the truth. You really can’t remember.’

  ‘Finally, she believes me.’

  ‘I believe you.’ The hut door rattled and she went white. Oliver flicked the lantern shut, plunging them into sooty blackness. ‘It’s best our jailors think I’m out of it.’

  ‘Your hands,’ she breathed. ‘They’re bound to notice.’

  ‘Shield me. Stay close.’ Pulling her down beside him, he lightened his tone. ‘Lord, Rosamund, the feel of you. Later, you’ll have to refresh my memory on certain...er...aspects of our relationship.’

  The door grated. Someone was creeping towards them.

  ‘Wake up, girl.’ A harsh voice cut through the dark like a knife. ‘Wulfric’s here.’

  Rosamund went rigid, she couldn’t help it. She clung to Oliver and his arms tightened about her. She could hear the thudding of his heart. He wouldn’t let the outlaw take her – he might have lost his memory but his nature wouldn’t have changed. He would protect her.

  ‘Hey, lass, come here. Get away from that dog.’ A hard boot thudded into her thigh.

  ‘Is he armed?’ Oliver muttered, soft as a sigh.

  She nodded. ‘A sword and a dagger,’ she murmured. Oliver’s sword and dagger, if he did but know it.

  ‘Lead him on.’ Oliver’s breath warmed her ear and his arms fell away. ‘He must be disarmed. Mind you stay close.’

  Her skin crawled, though she knew this was a chance they had to take. She stirred and stretched as though waking from sleep. ‘Wulfric?

  A skin-shrivelling hand found her waist. She allowed the outlaw to roll her onto her back, almost gagging at the sour stink of his sweat. Her hands came up to fend him off before she’d thought to stop them.

  ‘You want it rough?’ Slapping her hands aside, the man caught her by the hair, using it to pin her to the ground. Tears started to her eyes. He was fumbling at her breasts – clumsy, bruising, sickening caresses. As she tried to jerk out of reach his nails dug into her, gouging her skin through the stuff of her gown. Panting, she held back a moan. She couldn’t endure this much longer. He was pushing up her skirts, moving over her...

  ‘No!’

  A hard hand cracked against her cheek. ‘You do want it rough.’

  She caught the sound of a sharply indrawn breath. Not Wulfric’s. Nudging Oliver with her foot, she fought for calm.

  ‘Wulfric, I won’t fight you, but you must be gentle. And do, pray, remove your sword – the hilt’s digging holes in my hip.’ She squirmed, praying that Oliver had enough sense left in his head to follow her lead. Wulfric was suffocating her. He stank. She was about to be sick...

  Wulfric grunted and eased away. She felt him twitch and a strangled cry came at her through the dark.

  ‘Oliver?’

  She heard a choking gasp – someone was fighting for air. It couldn’t be Oliver, for he’d had surprise on his side. Wits in turmoil, praying she was right, she strained her ears.

  Panting. Threshing. Grunts...

  The lamp – where was the lamp?

  They crashed into her, knocking the breath from her body. Rolling away, she scrabbled desperately for the lantern. The noises were chilling but muted – thuds, groans, gasps. A sickening drumming sound. She was cold to the bone.

  What’s happening?

  She found the lantern and wrenched open the shutter. Oliver sat astride Wulfric, who had a rope round his neck. Rosamund stared, frozen with horror, as Wulfric clawed frenziedly at the rope. His face was purple and the veins in his neck engorged. He was kicking like a madman.

  Shaking inside, s
he staggered to the central beam and covered her face with her hands. The dreadful choking stopped and someone touched her gently on the shoulder. She flinched and the hand was removed. Oliver was beside her, sword firm in his grasp. His legs were free of the tether.

  ‘Is...is he dead?’

  He made an impatient sound. ‘You can’t be sorry for that animal. You know what he’d have done to you if I’d been unconscious?’

  ‘I know, but...’ her voice wavered ‘...but to die for it?’

  Oliver’s eyes were sombre. He trailed a finger down her cheek and she was startled to see that it wasn’t quite steady. ‘He’s not dead. Though I’m angry enough to murder an army. You must indeed be close to my heart to arouse such a fury – the thought of him molesting you almost drove me berserk.’

  Rosamund stared. Never in a thousand years had she expected Oliver to make such an admission. And he was looking at her in such a way...

  Her breath stopped. The warmth in his eyes...the old Oliver wouldn’t dream of looking at her like that. She stepped towards him and laid her head against his broad chest. At once, his arms enfolded her, pulling her tight against him. Their bodies touched from chest to thigh. She sighed and raised her head. ‘I knew you’d save me.’

  He touched her brow with his lips. ‘Even though I do not know you?’ His voice was teasing.

  ‘Your head might have forgotten me, but your heart has not.’

  He shrugged. ‘Possibly.’

  Her spirits rose.

  ‘Rosamund? Why the smile?’

  ‘No reason.’

  He kissed her nose and her fingers curled into his tunic. ‘Do you mind a man without a memory kissing you?’

  ‘Not if it’s you,’ she laughed. ‘In truth, I’m thankful you’ve lost your memory.’

  ‘Thankful?’

  She tipped her head to one side. ‘Do you think it’s best to win a man’s head or his heart? I think his heart is worth most, don’t you?’

  ‘You make no sense.’ He glanced at the unconscious man. ‘We have to get out of here. First, we free you, then I shall gag and bind our friend over there.’