Shattered Vows (13 page)

‘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 the 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.’

Lady Adeliza’s dark eyes narrowed. Rosamund didn’t think she was angry. Startled, but not angry.

‘Do you like children, girl?’

Rosamund’s brow wrinkled, she couldn’t see where this was leading. ‘Yes, my lady. And my name is Rosamund.’

Alfwold gasped. ‘Rosamund, for pity’s sake, remember who you’re speaking to.’

Rosamund kept her gaze on Lady Adeliza which was why she saw her lips twitch. Yes, Lady Adeliza was amused. Her spine stiffened. She and Alfwold were nothing but a source of amusement to these people. Marie was right, they had no hearts.

‘Good,’ Lady Adeliza said, briskly. ‘You are refreshingly direct, vaguely intelligible and fairly presentable. You’ll do. Marie will show you your duties. Away with you.’ Waving a hand in the direction of the lower trestle, she turned back to her son. ‘Geoffrey, I can’t say I was pleased when I heard what you’d done. But on reflection, I think you may be right.’ She shook her head. ‘Although part of me can’t help thinking that you’ve always been too soft with Cecily, she should have been sent to a convent years ago...’

‘Mother, what happened was my fault, I’ll not have her dropped in a well and forgotten.’

Lady Adeliza put her hand on her son’s arm. ‘Very well, Geoffrey, I have agreed. There, are you happy?’

Rosamund stepped forward. ‘My lady?’

Lady Adeliza’s dark eyes went wide. ‘I thought I ordered you to return to your place?’

‘You did, my lady, but I cannot obey. I’m married to Alfwold.’

‘You are married to Alfwold.’

‘Yes, my lady.’

Lady Adeliza’s breast heaved. ‘You – Alfwold!’

‘M..my lady?’

‘I need your wife as a...nurse within the castle. She is required to live here. You will be paid for her services and should she be dismissed for any reason, I will make certain she is brought back safe to you. Satisfied?’

‘But, my lady, Rosamund is my wife. Am I never to see her?’

‘Enough!’ Sir Geoffrey thumped his goblet down and ale showered onto the snowy linen. ‘The girl was my vassal long before she became your wife. Her father owes his position at the mill to my favour. Should I give the word, there are plenty other villagers who’d be more than happy to take over from him.’

Alfwold flinched.

‘The point has gone home, my son,’ Lady Adeliza murmured.

Sir Geoffrey looked consideringly at Alfwold. ‘I wonder? The man looks something of a clod to me.’

‘My lord!’ Fists clenched, eyes anguished, Alfwold strained to be free. ‘Call off your hounds, I can do you no harm.’

The baron nodded and the guards stood back. They remained watchful – should the need arise they would be at Alfwold’s throat in a heartbeat.

‘My lord,’ Alfwold licked his lips. ‘My marred skin proclaims my trade.’

‘You’re a stone dresser.’

‘Yes, my lord. And in pursuing my trade, I get to travel more than most. I’ve seen more than most too. And I see that this warring among factions is used as an excuse for much lawlessness on the part of certain barons.’

‘Alfwold, no!’ Rosamund wrung her hands. The baron’s face had stiffened, and Lady Adeliza had gone very still. Everyone was listening. She held her breath, she had never thought to see such passion in Alfwold, nor so much anguish.

‘Wife, I will speak.’ Visibly trembling, Alfwold ploughed on. ‘I’ve seen some cruel things. But never have I seen a man, noble or peasant, who dared to separate a man and his wife. You put your soul at risk, my lord. God will damn you for this, He will damn you.’

The baron jerked to his feet, and his chair tipped back with a crash. ‘God’s Blood, you upbraid me at my own table? I’ve had men flogged for less.’

A flogging? Rosamund flinched. Whatever happened, Alfwold didn’t deserve a flogging. ‘My lord, Alfwold must have drunk too much ale last night. He’s a good man, not one to flog. If you flog him he won’t be able to work for a week, and we’ll have no flour in Eskdale-.’

‘Quiet, wife,’ Alfwold said. He seemed oblivious to the dangers of contradicting the Lord of Ingerthorpe. ‘I’ll have Sir Geoffrey know I’m going to the abbot.’

‘No. Alfwold, for pity’s sake, no. Do you want a flogging?’

A movement from the high table caught her eye, Lady Margaret had risen. Delicately, deliberately, she laid a slender white hand on her swollen belly. She turned to her husband. ‘My dear, this anger unsettles me.’

Lady Margaret was far gone in pregnancy, the red gown strained at the seams and hid nothing. She looked strained and frail – barely strong enough to survive the rigours of child-bearing. As all knew, Lady Margaret had been a widow when she had married Sir Geoffrey. She was some years older than her husband. The villagers believed he had married her for her dowry.

‘Oh, my dear.’ Lord Geoffrey was the image of contrition. ‘Please, sit down, you must be calm.’

‘My lord, such anger, such violence.’ His wife sighed.

With a grunt, the baron nodded and pointed his eating knife at Alfwold. ‘Count yourself lucky, my man, that I have a delicate and compassionate wife, whose whim I must heed. For her sake, I will spare you the lash. Although mark you, it is only my lady’s request that has kept you from the whipping post.’ My lord raised his voice. ‘Sergeant!’

‘
Mon seigneur
?’

‘Remove this man. Escort him past the gates. And if you see as much as a hair of his head again, I’m to know immediately.’

‘As you wish, my lord.’

Alfwold’s eyes gleamed. ‘I’m going to Abbot William!’

Rosamund held down a groan. ‘Alfwold, have you no sense? Be quiet!’

Alfwold’s jaw jutted as he struggled against his captors. ‘I’ll not let them steal you. You’re my wife! Holy Church doesn’t permit any man, not even a lord to-’

‘Silence!’ The sergeant gave him a cracking blow.

Blood trickled down the side of Alfwold’s mouth. Rosamund tried to catch his gaze. ‘For God’s sake, go. They haven’t hurt me, but you will if you anger them and they punish you. What’s the point getting yourself killed? This isn’t worth dying for. Go, please.’