Shattered Vows (18 page)

Chapter Six

‘C
ousin!’ Sir Geoffrey was on the dais, deep in discussion with the captain of the guard. The moment Oliver stepped into the hall, he was beckoned over. ‘I’m glad you’re back, lad,’ Geoffrey said. ‘Come with me, I would have speech with you in the solar before the council meeting.’ He looked at his captain. ‘You too, Ned. You can be witness.’

Witness? More than a little puzzled, Oliver followed his cousin up the curling stairs to the solar. Lady Adeliza was sitting by the fire with one of the ladies, Oliver got the distinct impression she’d been waiting for them.

‘You’ll serve me better as a knight, cousin,’ the baron said briefly. ‘Kneel. Come on, man, kneel.’

Bemused at the lack of ceremony, Oliver knelt, bent his head and received the token buffet.

‘Arise, Sir Oliver. Here, take you these.’ Casually, Geoffrey threw a pair of golden spurs, the coveted badge of knighthood, at him. He grinned. ‘Anything amiss?’

‘Why, no,’ Oliver said, a stunned smile belatedly curving his lips as he blinked at the spurs.
Sir Oliver. At last!
‘Thank you, sir, it is just that I never expected...not tonight...’

‘Never mind that, I need all the support I can muster. We can’t have Lord Gilbert thinking my knights are all bumbling fools and beardless boys. Accompanying Lord Robert to the East has served you well – you have experience under your belt and it shows.’ Sir Geoffrey put an arm around his shoulder and they headed for the door. ‘There’s a fine sword for you in the armoury, should be just your weight. I’ll send Ned for it.’

‘You’re very kind, cousin.’

‘Pssht! Kindness has nothing do with it. It’s part of the game. Tell me, sir, what do you make of Gilbert Hewitt?’

Geoffrey took precedence on the winding stair and Oliver replied to his balding head. ‘I only know of him by repute, so I couldn’t say. I shall consider him during the meeting.’

‘Do that,’ the baron flung over his shoulder. ‘He’s a man I’d rather have as friend than a foe. I’d rather like to put the seal on this blossoming friendship – I’ve a mind he might do for Blanche.’

‘I thought Lady Blanche was promised elsewhere?’

‘Nothing’s been written in stone. Anyhow, I want your view of Hewitt.’

‘Of course.’

‘And, cousin, don’t be forgetting you will be expected to fulfill your part of the bargain regarding my other sister,’ Geoffrey said, pushing through into the great hall.

Oliver gave a stiff little bow of acknowledgement and stepped onto the dais with his kinsman to take his seat at the council table. Ned went to find his new sword.

***

Night hung dark as death over Ingerthorpe Castle. The council meeting between Lord Geoffrey Fitz Neal and his ally, Lord Gilbert of Hewitt, had come at length to a close. Though no action would be taken until the morrow, friendships had been forged and strategies decided upon.

Seeking what respite they could, bone-weary men sought their pallets, mumbling and muttering among themselves as they scrambled for places. There wouldn’t be space for a mouse in the hall that night. There’d be no hard floor for Sir Oliver de Warenne, thankfully, the bedchamber was to remain his.

Oliver yawned as he headed for the spiral stairs. As he went up the first turn, he was absurdly conscious of the golden spurs tinkling at his heels. He was absurdly proud of the sword swinging at his hips – the steel came from the forges of Toledo, and the scabbard was made from Spanish leather. As it scraped against the wall he put his hand to the hilt to steady it.

The wall torches were burning low and he knew they’d be lighting a face that was grey with fatigue. He had no idea of the hour and felt he could sleep for a week, but there was little chance of that. They’d rouse him before cockcrow.

Thank God, his bedchamber hadn’t been allocated to one of Lord Gilbert’s comrades. A night with the rest of the men on the hall floor would be penance indeed. His mouth lifted at the corners. As one of his cousin’s household knights, he’d been given charge of leading a party to search for the traitor’s encampment. Thus, the small chamber in the tower was his to keep. They wanted him well rested, the better to fulfil his commission.

He’d reached the top. Softly, he lifted the latch. There was no need to waken Rosamund, though he had to admit he wanted to tell her his news. How would she react when she learned he’d been knighted? Most maids would be proud to have their lover elevated, but Rosamund was not like most maids. His unpredictable, unbiddable Rosamund...

He frowned. In the bailey she’d threatened to leave. She didn’t mean it, she would have forgotten their quarrel by now. An image of her naked body, all warmth and womanly curves, flashed through his mind – it was accompanied by an odd ache in his chest. Curse the girl, she was almost too distracting. Their disagreement had left him at odds with himself. He’d not been able to give the rebels the consideration they’d merited for thinking of her.

The bedchamber was empty and so was the bed. He shrugged, likely she was in the privy down the corridor. He unbuckled his swordbelt and peeled off his tunic. Settling on the bed, he leaned against the headboard to wait for her. His weariness had left him. If Rosamund was awake, he intended to make the most of it. If he took her again, he’d be better able to concentrate on the morrow. He wanted his mind clear – he must prove his worth and earn his knighthood. Sir Oliver de Warenne hadn’t been given a sinecure, he must work for his honour.

Minutes passed. Scrubbing his face, he glowered at the door. Devil take it, what was keeping her? He stared at his coffer – he’d flung his tunic on the top and Rosamund’s blue gown was peeping out from beneath it. The other gowns Lady Adeliza had given her were hanging on a hook, he could see the rose colour which she favoured, and a green gown she’d not yet worn, and...

A prickle of foreboding ran down his neck. Pushing from the bed, he strode over to the gowns and rifled through them. They were all there, there was nothing amiss. So why did he have a sick feeling at the pit of his stomach?

‘
Mon Dieu
!’ The realisation hit him like a blow from a quintain. Rosamund might be bold as brass in his bed, she might doff her clothes for him, but she wouldn’t dream of stepping half-dressed into the corridor. He was the only man to have seen her naked. Her loving had been as innocent as it was generous, and he knew with an almost savage pride that it had been for him alone.

She’d gone.

He stalked to the door and was down the corridor, wrinkling his nose at the stench in the garde-robe. It was as he suspected, the closet yawned emptily at him.

Rosamund had gone.

Storming back to the bedchamber, he snatched at her gowns. Lady Adeliza’s cast-offs. With an exasperated sigh he threw them aside. They were all there, every last one. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. What had she been wearing when she’d been brought to the keep? He’d never seen that dress for they’d bathed and changed her. He’d assumed that someone in the keep had burned her peasant’s clothes but...

Vaguely, he remembered seeing a pink bundle jammed into the corner of his travelling chest.

He flung back the lid and it cracked against the wall. Yes, he’d seen her wearing a gown of just that pink. It had been darned at the elbows. He could see her smooth arms and her hands as she picked up tiny whorled stones from the beach. May Day. She’d said it was her best. Yes, that fitted, she would have worn her best gown for her wedding. She’d come to the castle dressed in her finest. Proud as a peacock.

Frantically, he disembowelled the chest, tossing aside spare tunics, chausses, his old cloak, a battered scabbard...

If a rose-coloured gown had been put among his things, there was no trace of it. Sitting back on his heels, he stared into the empty chest. There was no rose-coloured gown. She’d gone. But why leave her new gowns behind? She’d never see their like again, it didn’t make sense.

Unless – he expelled a breath – that pride of hers. He’d seen it in her eyes often enough, though he’d discounted it because of her humble background. Her pride had served to amuse him.

He remembered her expression earlier as she’d waited for him outside the stables. She’d wanted him to escort her across the bailey yet she’d been reluctant to ask. She’d talked about leaving and he’d not listened. He’d ordered her to stay. He’d assumed she would obey. Weren’t peasants bred to obey, as he had been bred to command?

Jesu, he’d been a fool. Blind, arrogant...

Getting to his feet, he dragged on his tunic, fumbling the buckle of his sword belt in his haste. What a fool. He groped for his spurs, a wild, unsettling thought sounding a frantic alarm. Rosamund was undefended. She’d gone into the darkness alone, on a night when outlaws were known to be abroad. She might encounter anything – Angevin rebels? Wolves? An image of her lying torn and broken in a ditch flashed through his mind and he groaned aloud.

He snatched at the door latch. His cousin had talked about fitting him out with some decent armour on the morrow – a padded helmet, some chainmail. He swore. No matter, he couldn’t wait. He must find her tonight, before some terrible ill befell her. And then, by the Rood, he’d teach her the wisdom of obedience.

***

The guard stared with a slackened jaw at the fury in the eyes of the man astride the grey destrier. Like flint they were. He took note of the glinting yellow spurs that proclaimed that Oliver de Warenne was no longer the lord’s squire. He’d been knighted.

A man might expect that a newly dubbed knight would be in a happy frame of mind. However, the guard knew better than to comment on the wayward moods of his betters. It was odd though, because earlier that evening he had seen Oliver –
Sir
Oliver – ride through the arch with his lover set before him. He’d been as merry as any village lad with his lass.

‘She...she said you’d finished with her, sir,’ the guard said, shaking his head. He’d misjudged the girl. The moment she’d offered him the ring to let her out, he’d thought he had her pegged. He’d thought she must have been well paid to be throwing rings about – he’d taken her for a whore.

He’d been so certain that he’d made it plain he’d let her out without payment if she’d grant him but a few moments’ joy. But the girl had stuck her nose up in the air. Now he understood it. She’d been spoiled by the attentions of Sir Oliver de Warenne. She thought herself above pleasuring a mere sentry.

‘Finished with her?’ Sir Oliver’s lips thinned. ‘I hadn’t begun!’

‘She gave me this to open the road.’

The guard held out his hand, palm up, and Oliver stared. Rosamund’s brass wedding ring winked up at him.

The guard sniffed. ‘I thought you must’ve paid the lass well for her to be giving the likes of me this.’

Oliver’s stomach twisted into a painful knot. ‘Lift the portcullis.’

‘But...but, sir...the rebels! Anyway, by now she’s sure to warming someone else’s bed.’

Oliver felt a muscle twitch in his jaw.

‘Pick another, lass, me lord,’ the guard was saying. ‘If you ask me, there’s nothing to choose between them. Come to think of it, there’s plenty of willing women in the castle. Why traipse all the way to the village? I can recommend-’

‘That girl’s no whore.’ Oliver dug his spurs into Lance’s side and the stallion, unused to such cavalier treatment jibbed, stamping his hooves an inch from the guard’s boots.

The guard paled and scrambled back.

‘Open up. Now.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Oliver could waste no more time, he must find her and bring her back. He must be back before reveille. He’d not taken his oath of fealty lightly, and the idea that he might be forced to break his knightly oath because he was looking for Rosamund sent cold sweat trickling down his spine.

At the council meeting he’d undertaken to lead the search parties. When dawn came, he must be hunting for the traitors’ encampment. Should he not be back at the castle by then...

The word ‘deserter’ jumped into his mind. It was an ugly word. No baron gave his vassals licence to shirk their obligations. His kinship to Sir Geoffrey wouldn’t help him if he weren’t back in time. An example would have to be made.

He scowled at the portcullis – it was taking an age to lift. ‘A snail would leave you standing, man, move!’

The portcullis creaked ponderously up and he spurred through the gap.

***

Rosamund hesitated. The planks of the mill door were rough beneath her fingers. There were no welcoming chinks of light shining through the cracks. The mill looked deserted. Taking a breath, she balled her fist and hammered on the door.

‘Father? Father!’

When nothing happened, she tried again.

‘Father? Aeffe? It’s Rosamund, open up!’

She strained her ears at the door. She heard a thud and then, but for the wind in the trees, silence.

‘Father?’

She glanced anxiously over her shoulder. An owl hooted. She didn’t like being out alone at night. Hitherto her mind had been closed to everything but her need to escape the castle, sheer determination had kept her going. It was strange though, now she was within feet of safety her mind had opened to the sinister aspect in every shifting shadow. She was alarmingly aware of her vulnerability.

‘Father?’ Her voice cracked.

She heard another thud, and this time – thank the Lord! – light crept under the door. When the door swung open, she stumbled over the threshold.

‘Rose.’ Her father was holding a smoking candle. ‘Has he finished with you? Are you back to stay?’

The ungracious, callous greeting had her stiffening. ‘I chose to leave, Father. I need to speak to Alfwold.’

She didn’t know why she hadn’t thought of this earlier, but her marriage to Alfwold hadn’t been consummated. Perhaps he’d agree to an annulment. She had to speak to him, she had to ask him. Annulments were common amongst the nobility, Rosamund couldn’t recall hearing about a peasant having their marriage annulled, but it might be possible...

‘Alfwold’s not here,’ her father said, handing her the candle. He was already turning for the steps and a ring of light upstairs, where a lantern was wavering in Aeffe’s grasp. ‘Bolt up when you’re done, Rose.’