‘No, no! That was Lufu’s thought, not mine.’
‘Was it really, my love? I confess I am instantly reassured by your protestations.’ He gave a heavy sigh. ‘Now, much as I admire the charm of Angel Falls, it’s time to go. Do you think you could set your mind to finding that encampment?’
Anger flared inside her. ‘If you think so badly of me, why on earth did you stop Alfwold taking me back to the mill?’
His eyes were as hard as slate. He gestured towards the ledge. ‘The direction of the rebel camp?’
‘Don’t use that tone on me, I’m not one of your men.’
‘No, you’re not are you?’ His gaze swept her from head to toe. She was conscious of the spray dampening her pink gown. When dry it was the most modest of garments, but it was clinging to her shape in a way she was sure was revealing. She tightened the strings of her cloak and hunched herself more securely inside it. Oliver’s lips twitched, but she could take no comfort from that – his eyes remained stony.
‘The camp?’
‘I’ll show you, although there’s no need for us to get drenched, I can point it out from this side of the river.’
‘Oh?’
‘We’re on foot and it’s easier to reach the castle if we stay on the north bank. Follow me.’ She pushed between some bushes and onto the path and Oliver followed. The roar of the falls faded and she became aware of other sounds – the cry of a hawk, the chatter of a wren. The river was close, she could hear it as it bubbled towards her father’s millpond. She could hear the squabbling of gulls and the everyday sounds of villagers at work on their strip fields – voices, oxen clinking in their yokes.
Rosamund knew this area like the back of her hand. Ahead, the river Esk flowed through the village which had been her home for every one of her sixteen years. It wound on from there to mingle with the waters of the sea and she could visualise it every foot of the way. It seemed strange that everything remained the same. She had changed so much in these past few days, she half expected everything else to have changed too.
She could feel Oliver’s breath on her neck. ‘Mind you don’t tread on my heels.’
‘I like to have you within arms’ length, my love.’
Her stomach fell. He really didn’t trust her. He feared she might betray him and he wanted her within reach. Her nose inched up. ‘We’re almost at the camp,’ she said, quietly. ‘Then we’ll take the cliff path to the castle. It’s by far the most direct route.’
‘How good of you to tell me. Is that to put me off my guard?’
She looked over her shoulder and the glare she sent him should have burnt him to a cinder. He smiled calmly back. She huffed out a breath and kept going. She wasn’t going to look his way again.
***
They had passed the mill and climbed the rise, and were cutting across the cliff-top towards the castle. There was little in the way of cover. There were no shrubs – just some tussocky grass and a scattering of thrift bobbing in a brisk breeze. A straggling line of misshapen, wind-bent trees told those who had eyes to see that, up here, the east wind reigned supreme.
The sea air had swept away the cobwebs – Oliver’s head was no longer throbbing in that thought-hobbling way. His energy had returned and he was striding easily, confidently. He felt almost relaxed.
He was remembering. Slowly, far too slowly for his liking, but his memory was returning. When Rosamund had pointed out the direction of the rebel encampment, he’d been able to work out its location in relation to the castle. As they’d marched past her father’s mill the sense of urgency had permitted only the most cursory of glances. But it had been enough to set his spirits soaring – he recognised it. And something had shifted in the back of his mind, clicking into place. Something which had him turning instinctively for the shortcut to Ingerthorpe Castle.
He altered his stride to avoid stumbling in a cluster of rabbit holes. A pair must have escaped the Abbey’s coney garth – this was a flourishing warren. And a poacher’s paradise. A tell-tale net lay tangled and torn by one of the rabbit-holes. The fibres were rotting and in need of repair. Had it been forgotten? Or had the poacher been caught by the baron’s warrener? Though the rabbits were wild, by rights they belonged to the lord – anyone taking them would be accused of poaching.
Oliver’s gaze sharpened and he cocked his head to one side. A troop of horse-soldiers was galloping along the cliff-top. Pennons streamed out behind them. Steel flashed.
‘Horses,’ he said, tersely.
Rosamund caught his arm. ‘They’re charging straight at us!’
He thrust her behind him and stood, legs braced slightly apart, facing the oncoming troop. His hand hovered over his sword hilt. One of the pennons was red and gold, the other blue and black. The ground shook. Hell burn it, he couldn’t recall Baron Geoffrey’s colours!
‘You can see my lord’s colours?’
‘The red and the gold?’ she asked. He could feel her hanging onto his tunic. ‘Yes. The black gelding at the head belongs to Sir Brian Martell, he’s my lord’s youngest knight.’
‘Keep your head up, angel,’ he said. ‘We must brazen this out. I don’t want them mistaking fear for guilt.’ Gently, he peeled her hand from his tunic.
‘I’m afraid,’ she whispered.
‘Don’t be. Stand firm, I’ll-’
Great hoofs drummed, casting up clods of turf. There was a jingle of spurs and harness and with a flourish the troop drew rein a sword’s length away.
‘Good day, Sir Brian.’ Oliver inclined his head and hoped he looked calmer than he felt. His heart was thudding, he was well aware that his absence from the castle might have been misconstrued as desertion.
‘De Warenne.’ Sir Brian gave him a terse nod.
The man was bright as a poppy with his scarlet surcoat over his chainmail. When he didn’t lift his visor, tension coiled in Oliver’s guts. Rosamund had said that Sir Brian was young, but with his hair and features concealed in his helmet, he looked every inch the implacable knight. Oliver’s recollection of him was still vague. However, he hadn’t missed the fact that Sir Brian had avoided using Oliver’s title. And because of that helm, he couldn’t see enough of his face to judge whether the omission had been accidental or deliberate. He decided to let it pass. He also decided to speak in English for Rosamund’s benefit.
‘You’re in command of these men, Martell?’
Sir Brian nodded and – thank Heaven! – doffed his helmet. Balancing it on his pommel, he pushed back his mail coif. He was indeed young and a mixture of expressions flitted across his face. Embarrassment. Discomfort. It came to Oliver that though Sir Brian knew that he should make the next move, he was uncertain as to what to do.
That weakness might be used to Oliver’s advantage...
Oliver ran an experienced eye over the steaming horses. Their chests were heaving after their gallop along the cliff-path. He shook his head. ‘If you plan to return my cousin’s horses to the stable in the same condition as they left it, you might take some heed of the terrain.’
Sir Brian’s jaw dropped. ‘Eh?’
Oliver gestured at the honeycomb of rabbit-holes. ‘The warren, man. One false step and you’ve got a screaming horse with a broken leg.’
Sir Brian’s face went the colour of his surcoat. He seemed to recollect that it was he who should be taking the initiative, for he drew himself up and opened his mouth.
Oliver got in first. ‘I don’t expect you’ve had the pleasure of finishing off a horse, have you?’ he asked, quietly.
‘No.’
‘It’s not the easiest task.’ He grimaced. ‘Very unpleasant. Messy. And, Brian, lad?’
‘De Warenne?’ Sir Brian, red to his ears, eyed him warily.
‘Never lead a troop of horses to a flat-out gallop unless it’s absolutely vital. Think of the poor beasts labouring under the combined weight of you and your armour. You exhaust their reserves and when you come to need it most, you’ll find they don’t have a trot left in
them, never mind a gallop.’
Sir Brian cleared his throat and glanced at the rest of the troop as though drawing strength from their presence. ‘De Warenne, these knights owe fealty to Lord Gilbert Hewitt. We have combined forces and we’re charged with the task of finding you and bringing you in.’ Leather creaked as he shifted in his saddle. He looked as though he was sitting on a thistle.
‘Bringing me in? Surely you’re not asking me to surrender my sword?’ Oliver held the young man’s gaze. ‘Is there a charge against me?’
Martell’s eyes slid away. ‘No, no charge. But...but you were missing at reveille, and before my lord was wounded he commanded-’
Oliver snatched at the bridle of Martell’s gelding. ‘My cousin is hurt, you say?’
‘Aye.’
‘Badly?’
‘I...I...think so. Lady Margaret was so distraught that her babe has started, and it’s not her full time.’
‘I need a horse,’ Oliver said, quickly running his gaze over the troop. Two of the men were youths, they wore no mail and their arms were light. One was riding a stocky-looking roan. ‘You, sir. You’re a knight?’
‘I’m a squire, sir.’
‘I’m borrowing your mount.’ His lips twisted. ‘I mustn’t offend a fellow knight by taking his, must I, Martell?’
Sir Brian made a choking sound.
Oliver flung himself into the saddle and turned the roan’s head towards the castle. ‘You can follow on foot,’ he said to the squire.
‘Yes, sir.’
The youth saluted and moved towards Rosamund. He was eyeing her with definite interest. Oliver’s stomach tightened. Her honey-brown hair had been whipped into tangles by the breeze, a breeze that had pinked her cheeks and tugged open her cloak.
‘Oliver?’ Huge blue eyes watched him. ‘I’m to follow you?’
‘Yes, you follow-’ He broke off. The squire was only a lad, but the way he was studying the curves revealed by Rosamund’s damp, clinging gown... Oliver felt a muscle flicker in his jaw. ‘No.’ He reached down his hand. ‘You ride with me.’
Chapter Nine
The troop rattled into a bailey crammed with soldiers and Oliver cut through them, drawing rein by the steps at the entrance to the keep. Lady Adeliza – clad in black from head to toe – was standing at the top of the first flight of steps, talking to Sir Gerard. Sir Gerard’s face was pinched. Although he was opening and shutting his mouth, Rosamund suspected he wasn’t actually saying anything.
Rosamund’s jaw dropped as she assimilated the changes in Lady Adeliza. Lord Geoffrey’s mother was wringing veined hands at her breast, her eyes were wild, and her black veil flapped untidily about her. She looked like an elderly rook whose rookery was being threatened by the woodcutter’s axe.
A squire stood at Sir Gerard’s elbow, plucking his sleeve. The squire was gabbling like a madman, he seemed to have forgotten his polished French phrases and was expressing his agitation in his native tongue. Never had Rosamund seen a knight look more harassed – Sir Gerard’s grizzled head moved from side to side as he listened first to Lady Adeliza...then his squire...then Lady Adeliza again. When another man emerged from the seething yard and came to join them, Sir Gerard put his hand to his greying head and she heard him say, ‘Must think. Strategy, that’s what we need. Must think. Need a minute to think.’
Sir Brian reined in, jumped from his mount, and executed a courtly bow.
‘Merciful Heavens, what now?’ Lady Adeliza said. Her veil snapped in the breeze.
‘I’ve found your nephew, my lady,’ Sir Brian said.
Behind her, Rosamund felt Oliver slide from the saddle and her fingers tightened on the pommel. Her pulse thudded, the ground seemed further away than it had done a moment ago.
‘My lady.’ Oliver bowed. ‘How fares my cousin?’
‘He lives, but no thanks to you, you traitor.’
Oliver’s shoulders stiffened and his face went curiously blank.
Sir Brian made a swift negative gesture. ‘My lady, that is not proven.’
‘Not proven? My poor son has barely dubbed him and he’s consorting with rebels in the woods!’
‘No!’ Rosamund burst out before she could stop herself. Several heads turned curiously in her direction and she moderated her tone. ‘It wasn’t like that. My lady, he was ambushed and taken prisoner.’
‘Who dares interrupt?’ Lady Adeliza said, impaling Rosamund with a well-tried glare.
Rosamund subsided, face hot. She wanted to hide, but that was impossible – she was stranded high and dry on the back of the roan, afraid to move, afraid to breathe...
Lady Adeliza turned back to Oliver. ‘De Warenne, you’re a disgrace to your name.’
‘My lady, I swear on my honour, I haven’t betrayed our house.’
Lady Adeliza made a sound that was suspiciously like a snort. ‘It’s strange how your arrival in the North coincided with the first sighting of these rebels. Two weeks you’ve been here, and my lord of Hewitt tells me that his men first heard Angevins were in the area two weeks ago.’ She lifted an enquiring eyebrow. ‘Coincidence?’
‘I knew nothing of them till last eve,’ Oliver said, firmly.
Lady Adeliza’s eyes glittered. ‘The attack on Geoffrey this morning must have been carefully calculated. It was almost as though they had first-hand knowledge of Ingerthorpe – as if someone had gone over to them with information.’
‘My lady, I swore an oath to your son and I mean to honour it,’ Oliver said, stiffly.
‘Were you hurt in this...ambush?’
Oliver grimaced and fingered the back of his head. ‘A little.’
‘Hmm.’ Lady Adeliza looked thoughtful. ‘Did you talk?’
Oliver drew himself to his full height. ‘My lady? I think I misunderstand you.’
‘I think not, de Warenne,’ replied his aunt. ‘Well? Did you?’
Oliver’s set expression had Rosamund leaping to his defence. ‘He didn’t betray you, he would never betray you. Didn’t the rebels bring a ransom demand? Didn’t they send you his spurs as a sign that they had captured him?’
Lady Adeliza’s black eyes lingered pointedly on Rosamund’s tangled hair, on her torn gown. Rosamund held onto the pommel and glared back. Thank God, the roan stood firm. Lady Adeliza’s expression was proud. Unreadable. She lifted a wrinkled white hand to hide a quiver of her lips and to Rosamund’s surprise she was favoured with a reply.
‘There was a ransom demand. However, after the attack in which my son was wounded, some suspected the demand was a ruse. It was suggested that my nephew had thrown his lot in with the rebels.’ Lady Adeliza’s lips twitched as she cocked an eyebrow at Oliver. ‘You have a fierce ally in that wench of yours, de Warenne.’
Oliver shrugged. ‘It seems the maid is struck with the notion of having a knight as a lover. It’s not in her interests to see me disgraced.’
Rosamund glared at him. ‘Oliver!’
Grey eyes met hers. ‘It will save you the trouble of finding another protector, especially since we find you are not wed after all.’ He reached up and lifted her to the ground, slapping her dismissively on the buttocks. ‘Get to the ladies’ chamber. My lady will need your help.’
Gritting her teeth, she smiled sweetly at him. ‘And which lady do you mean me to help, sir? Lady Margaret or your Lady Cecily?’
‘Whoever needs it the most, of course.’ Oliver turned on his heel, leaving her to scowl at his broad back. ‘Sir Gerard, your report, please. Where do we stand with these rebels?’
Sir Gerard glanced at Lady Adeliza.
Lady Adeliza sighed. ‘Tell him, Gerard, and for God’s sake give him back his spurs. Someone has to take command. My son cannot be moved and Lord Hewitt has not yet returned. No-one else is fit for command.’
Sir Gerard puffed out his chest. ‘But, my lady-’
‘Take over, de Warenne.’ Lady Adeliza gave him a thin smile. ‘I trust you’ll not disappoint your aunt.’
‘Your servan
t, as ever, my lady,’ Oliver said, inclining his head.
Rosamund felt two inches high. He had time to play the gallant with his aunt, while she was dismissed with an insulting slap on the buttocks. Was this how it was going to be now he knew she was unwed? He had taken her maidenhead – in a sense he had ruined her. She was a fallen woman and no-one, not even Oliver who knew she had been innocent when she met him, respected a fallen woman.
‘Come, Gerard...’ Oliver was entirely focused on his fellow knight ‘...accompany me to the armoury. What was their strength when they attacked? How many men did we lose? And where the devil is Hewitt?’ His voice held authority. His demeanour, as he started for the armoury, was calm.
She shivered. So cool. So controlled. The old Oliver was back. Had the Oliver she had glimpsed in the past few hours – warm, loving – simply been a figment of her imagination?
His height and his dark hair made it easy for her to follow his progress. A group of archers parted to let him pass. Sir Gerard was hopping alongside him, stammering into one ear, whilst the squire who’d lately clung to Sir Gerard was busily filling Oliver’s other ear. Oliver directed an order at the squire. The lad flashed him a look of intense relief and his face split into a smile. Then he was off, keen as hound racing to do his master’s bidding. A groom panted up and he too claimed Oliver’s attention.
And he hadn’t given her so much as a backward glance. It was clear that until this crisis was ended, she would be forgotten. There was an ache in her heart, but she couldn’t look away. His callous dismissal had hit her like a spear thrust through her vitals. He must have heard every word she’d uttered in Lufu’s hut. If only she’d kept her foolish fantasies to herself. Then he wouldn’t have given ear to Lufu’s suggestion that she should try and trick him into marriage. He thinks all I care about is feathering my nest. He doesn’t trust me.
Had she admitted that she loved him? It was a struggle to remember her exact words – she was too agitated to think straight. Even if she had admitted that she loved him, in his present frame of mind he’d likely think it was a ploy to trap him into marriage. He wouldn’t believe her. And if he did believe her, would he care? She stared blindly at the ground.
Shattered Vows Page 22
