Shattered Vows

by Carol Townend

  Geoffrey would taunt him if he could see how easily a pair of smiling rosy lips had entranced him. With such ammunition, his cousin’s baiting would know no bounds. The thought of Geoffrey’s mocking face as he had last seen it, laughing with his fellows, twisted Oliver’s stomach into an angry knot. The stallion at his side shifted, dragging a hoof through the sand. No, he’d bury his anger, forget his cousin for a while, and enjoy the company of the miller’s daughter.

  She must have picked up on his flare of anger for she had stepped back, and taken her bottom lip between her teeth. She looked timid, even frightened.

  Firmly, Oliver banished the fury from his mind and eyes. He found a smile and watched, bemused, as her eyes lit up. Mon Dieu, if he didn’t watch out for her, a less scrupulous man might come upon her and...

  She wasn’t fit to be abroad on her own if she smiled at every man she met in such a fashion – particularly on May Day.

  He would see her safe till eventide and return her to the mill. Knowing Osric Miller’s reputation, her father would be out enjoying the festival, there would be no-one at the mill to keep an eye on her until later tonight. Tomorrow the girl would be safely back at work, thankfully she’d be too busy to be wandering unprotected all over the countryside.

  Today she would be safe – with him.

  ***

  ‘I love these little stones,’ Rosamund said, pointing at the broken rocks and shingle brought down by the cliff fall. ‘I spend hours here when I can get away. I collect them.’ She spoke slowly – she was making a fair attempt to mimic his mode of speech.

  Oliver looked askance at the untidy heap of rocks. ‘What, these?’

  She laughed. ‘Oh, not just any old stone. The special ones.’

  ‘Of course,’ Oliver smiled, he supposed he ought to humour her. It was such a waste of a pretty maid...

  ‘No, no,’ she surprised him by saying. ‘I can see you don’t understand. Look.’ Catching his hand, she pulled him over to the nearest pile of rubble. She bent and began to sort through the small stones, setting a few to one side.

  Oliver sat back on his heels and watched her, sifting sand through his fingers. Rosamund’s rich, earthy beauty fascinated him almost as much as her smile. At times, she had the bearing of a queen. Rich, golden-brown hair flowed about her shoulders and down her back, a shiny mass swaying in the wind. The elbows of the pink gown were darned and she had pushed up the sleeves to reveal delicate, feminine arms. He wanted to touch them, but instead he sifted through the sand and watched the way her work-scarred but nimble fingers picked out a few particular stones. He could see little to distinguish the ones she had chosen from the ones she had rejected. Such a pity...

  ‘Look.’ She held out a grey stone. ‘No, really look at it. I don’t believe you even glanced at it.’

  Obediently, he took the stone from her palm, dropping his eyes from hers. The stone was about an inch wide, almost round. Clearly marked across its surface was a ridged pattern in a spiral shape.

  Their eyes met over the stone.

  ‘You see! There are lots like this. You have to search hard to find them, but once you know where to look, there are dozens, just waiting to be found.’

  Oliver reached past her and chose another stone, a tiny one, from her collection. It had the same markings, like a spiral. As did they all. It was merely the size that varied. So there was some method in it...

  ‘There’s a story...’ she hesitated, flushing.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘The village priest – Father Cedric – told it to me before he died, it’s an ancient story. It goes back to the days before the Sea Raiders came.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘It’s only a tale for children, I’ve been told I shouldn’t listen to such...’ Rosamund hesitated, but Oliver’s smile was encouraging. That chipped front tooth was visible, she found it oddly attractive. This strong young man was not invulnerable, his broken tooth proved his humanity.

  She smiled back. ‘A holy lady lived high up on the cliffs. A saint, named Hilda. She was renowned for her goodness and wisdom. Saint Hilda wasn’t a hermit, and she didn’t scorn the common people – everyone came to her for help. The world brought her their woes. She would see anyone, rich or poor, and it was said that she could solve any problem, however dire.

  ‘One day the countryside around was visited by a terrible scourge – a plague of poisonous snakes overran the village. The snakes were everywhere and there was no escaping them. They hid in lofts and barns and cottages. Many people died.

  ‘Some believed that the devil had sent the snakes to torment them. Others thought God was punishing them for their wickedness. The people set traps for the snakes and they killed scores of them. But more snakes appeared, and then more, it seemed there was no end to them. No-one was safe.

  ‘Finally the villagers went to Saint Hilda and begged for help. She went down into the village, and started driving the snakes before her with her staff. She herded them up to the top of the cliff as though they were sheep and commanded them to go over the edge. They obeyed. Every last snake met its death at the bottom of the cliff.’

  Oliver rested his chin on his hand. His gaze was intent, thoughtful. She noticed that the grey in his eyes was outlined with a soot-black ring.

  ‘Is that it?’ he asked, with a puzzled frown.

  ‘Not quite. These...’ she gestured at the tiny, swirled stones ‘...these are said to be the snakes. Father Cedric explained it. He told me that when the snakes fell, they curled up tight as hedgehogs so they could roll safely down the cliff. But the tide was in, so they drowned. And here they are. Still curled up. Turned to stone.’

  ‘And you collect them,’ Oliver said.

  ‘Yes. You have your horse, he is your finest treasure, is he not?’

  Oliver nodded.

  ‘Well, these are my treasures. They have such a pretty pattern on them. They have no real value, I know, but they are all mine,’ her voice trailed off and her cheeks scorched.

  Now the tale was done, Rosamund felt embarrassed. How he must be laughing at her! ‘You must think me very foolish,’ she said, avoiding that cool, penetrating gaze. ‘It’s only a tale, I know, but...’ she shrugged. She wasn’t often allowed out from the mill, and was conscious that one of the reasons she valued these stones was that to her they represented freedom. But she couldn’t expect this man to understand that.

  When he caught at her hand she risked a glance and caught a glimpse of his broken tooth. It only showed when he smiled...

  ‘I’ve not heard that story. I like it.’ His thumb moved gently across her fingertips. Her hand trembled and she withdrew it, heart jumping.

  ‘I...I’m thirsty,’ she said, her eyes going to the leather bottle hanging from the warhorse’s saddle.

  ‘Help yourself. When you’ve finished, bring me the flask, I’m parched too.’

  Feeling as though he’d been wrong-footed, Oliver sat on the sand and watched her patter over to Lance and unhook the flask. Had his assessment of this girl been too hasty? She didn’t drink but brought the bottle straight back to him.

  ‘After you,’ Oliver said, smiling at her rigid sense of class. ‘Today I am your squire, am I not?’

  ‘Ye...es,’ she said, doubtfully.

  ‘Then you shouldn’t wait on me. Drink. Rosamund, what age are you?’

  ‘Sixteen.’

  She sipped and offered him the bottle, and a gust of wind cloaked both hand and flask with long, silken tresses. She laughed, tossing her head in a vain attempt to control her hair, but the breeze wouldn’t release it and it floated about her – a cloud of rich, honey-brown.

  ‘My hair’s writhing about like those snakes,’ she said. ‘They’ve been brought back to life.’

  Oliver pushed to his feet, and looked down at her. He put up a hand and slowly lifted a windswept lock aside. When his other hand met hers on the flask, her laughter died.

  He shook his head slowly. ‘It looks nothing of the kind.’
>
  ‘No?’ Her voice was husky.

  ‘No.’ Oliver shook his head on a sigh. Her hair ran over his palm, like a caress. His gut clenched. ‘It’s a lover’s place to whisper compliments...and I am no maid’s lover.’ He looked down at the hand covering hers on the flask. Then he took the bottle and turned his back on her.

  ‘Why not?’ Rosamund had to ask. The bright day had made her bold. Today was not a normal day, if it were she wouldn’t so much as look at him, he was far, far above her. A bird soaring over a lowly worm. But today... ‘Why are you no maid’s lover?’

  He laughed. It was a bitter sound. ‘No-one would have me.’

  ‘Why not?’

  He swung round. ‘I live in the castle, it’s a different world in there. You know nothing of it and it is best it remains so.’ He scrubbed at his forehead. ‘You are not as I had imagined, you are quite able to take care of yourself. I should take my leave.’

  Rosamund felt her face fall. He was angry, her impertinent question had angered him. ‘Please stay. I won’t pry. Please?’

  Oliver caught up the reins, preparing to mount. Seeing her crestfallen expression, he felt himself weaken even though he knew he should be on his way. He couldn’t afford to become involved with this girl. But those eyes! The unguarded way they gazed at a man, as though he were the answer to her prayers...

  Don’t look at her. He thrust his foot into the stirrup and threw himself into the saddle. He had no room in his life for someone like Rosamund, even if she did possess the most alluring eyes he’d ever seen. He must go.

  There’d been no danger while he had thought her simple – no danger for either of them. She could be as beautiful as an angel, she could gaze on him like that forever, and he would never have touched her. An innate sense of chivalry that Oliver hadn’t even known he possessed would have saved them. But he’d been wrong about her – this girl was as sane and intelligent as he. With no disparity of mind to keep them safely separate, there was danger, definite danger.

  He’d have the devil’s own job resisting the admiration in those eyes. It was candid and unashamed. Purely pagan. She was too much of a temptation. He must leave. Now.

  He gestured along the distant shoreline. ‘What about your lover? Isn’t he waiting further down the beach?’ Lord, this girl made no attempt to shield her feelings, everything was scripted with painful clarity across her face. She didn’t want him to go.

  ‘My lover?’

  ‘The man you were thinking about when you made the garland.’

  ‘I don’t have a lover,’ Rosamund said. Her voice sounded flat, she couldn’t help it. Stooping, she scooped the trampled circlet from the ground and stared sadly at it. Alfwold didn’t count, he wasn’t her lover. And he never would be, not even when they were wed and he had the right to...to...she held back a shudder. Alfwold was kinder than most men, it wasn’t his fault she didn’t warm to him.

  A few forget-me-nots had escaped ruination – the starry golden centres seemed to wink at her. Carefully, she twisted them from the garland.

  ‘Then why the garland?’ he asked.

  Making sure both her expression and her voice were under control, she raised her eyes. ‘It was only a dream, a golden fantasy for a warm spring day. Here, take these, I think you need to dream a little too.’

  Oliver found himself swallowing as, gracefully, she offered him a sprig of flowers. She had poise this peasant maid, he’d give her that. Glad she wasn’t going to make difficulties, he leaned out to accept it. Briefly, he carried her hand to his lips. ‘Farewell, Rosamund, I have enjoyed our little dream.’

  ‘And I.’ She peeped up at him through her eyelashes. ‘Oliver, do we have to awaken so soon? We both know it is just a dream....what harm?’

  ‘Rosamund...’ Oliver’s voice held warning, even as he found himself staring at her mouth. She had such pretty lips...

  ‘What harm?’ She tipped her head to one side. ‘I swear not to anger you – I won’t pester you with questions. You were happy enough to keep me company till then.’

  ‘It wasn’t your questions that spurred me to leave.’

  ‘What then?’ She caught hold of his stirrup, it really was quite flattering the way she wanted him to stay.

  ‘I thought you needed my protection,’ he admitted, stiffly.

  The blue eyes went wide. ‘Why should I need protecting?’

  ‘I...oh, why indeed? Her hand was resting on his boot. It looked small. Feminine. ‘More likely I need protection from you. I neither want nor need a clinging vine.’

  Her eyes filled with reproach and her chin lifted. ‘Just for today,’ she said. ‘You agreed. And it’s only a dream, remember?’

  He looked at her. The wind was whipping her hair about her head and with the sun streaking it with gold, she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. ‘And tomorrow?’

  ‘You will be back at the castle and I shall be back at the mill. We will have woken.’

  She said it so simply. Oliver saw her eyes flicker over the blue flowers in his hand.

  ‘And those will have faded.’ She shrugged.

  Oliver’s hand crept to the pouch at his belt and he dropped the flowers inside. Smiling, he looked down at her bare feet. ‘Come then, find your boots. You can ride Lance.’

  ***

  Rosamund didn’t like it. It was fast, frightening and uncomfortable. The destrier’s hooves beat like a drum on the damp, compacted sand. Oliver’s arm was tight about her waist, and she was confident that he wouldn’t let her fall, but the sand looked very hard – people weren’t born to ride these huge creatures.

  The saddle had been designed for a knight in battle. It was shaped so the pommel rose up in front of the rider, and this was no doubt useful if the knight was wounded and needed something to hang on to. It certainly hadn’t been created for two and although Oliver had shifted back – she rather thought he was perched on his saddlebag – she found the saddle a great trial. She was sliding all over the place. The pommel chafed. Wondering if they could exchange places, she twisted to look over her shoulder.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ His voice warmed her ear and they slowed to a bouncing, jarring trot.

  She grimaced, leaning against his arm to look past him. Her heart thudded. ‘I am sure you could be dead in this saddle and still stay on, but I don’t feel safe.’

  ‘Impertinent wench,’ he said cheerfully. Sliding off the horse, he started walking beside her.

  ‘Oliver!’ Even though he still had the reins, her stomach turned to water. A sandfly flew past, and the horse tossed his head. ‘He’ll have me off!’

  ‘Not Lance.’ Oliver’s tone was soothing. ‘He’s trained to suffer the heat of battle, your screams are nothing after what he’s seen and heard.’ Slate grey eyes held hers. ‘However, not all horses are so well trained. One of the first things you must learn when riding is not to make unexpected or violent sounds.’ He grinned.

  ‘I’m not like to ride again. Riding is for fine ladies, not peasant girls. Get me off, for pity’s sake.’

  Oliver’s grin widened, but she was too busy clinging to the saddle to notice. He continued, almost on a monotone as if chanting plainsong. ‘The second thing to learn is to sit properly. Move back.’

  Leather creaked as she shifted to obey him. It was that or take a tumble.

  ‘That’s better. Let me adjust the stirrups.’

  ‘Oliver, I beg of you, get me down. There’s no point you trying to teach me.’

  He ignored her. He had her seated to his satisfaction with both feet in the stirrups, and before she could protest was leading her along the beach. She gripped the leather pommel until her knuckles went white and scowled at the back of his head. He was giving her no choice but to accept the strange motion of the horse.

  After some minutes, she discovered it was easier than she’d expected. The saddle was holding her in place, and the horse – Lance – wouldn’t bolt with Oliver at the reins. A seagull shrieked above them and she sp
ared it a glance.

  Oliver noticed. ‘There! I knew you’d like it, it can’t be that terrifying if you’re looking at the gulls.’

  ‘You’re right, it isn’t. It was the saddle – it felt wrong before.’

  ‘It’s a soldier’s saddle.’

  ‘I know.’ Rosamund bit her lip. Only knights had such saddles and a girl of her station really ought not to be talking to a knight, particularly in so familiar a manner. ‘Oliver?’

  ‘Mmm?’ He patted Lance’s neck.

  ‘Are you a knight?’

  His mouth thinned. ‘No, I borrowed the saddle.’ He gestured at his boots. ‘My spurs are of base metal, knights bear gilded ones.’

  She felt herself relax. ‘That is a relief.’ Lance’s ears twitched. ‘Your horse looks as though he’s listening to us.’

  ‘He probably is.’

  ‘It must be wonderful to control him. You must feel – invincible. For myself, it’s still a little worrying, I’ve had enough. Oliver, I pray you, help me down.’

  He moved to her side and pulled her foot from the stirrup. ‘You’ve done well, we’ll make a lady of you yet,’ he said, lightly. ‘Kick the other foot free.’ He had a strange look on his face.

  ‘It’s free,’ she said, holding out her arms.

  Taking her by the waist, he set her down. Still with that look on his face. He didn’t release her immediately, and his eyes wandered slowly over her. Rosamund’s breath caught, and she became conscious of her hands resting on his forearms. It was hard to breathe.

  ‘You are an unusual maid,’ he said, softly. His gaze was lingering on her mouth.

  Her cheeks burned. ‘Am I?’ The wool of his tunic was soft to the touch and the body beneath felt strong. Oliver was certainly as strong as Alfwold. Yet she felt no urge to wrench herself out of his hold as she had that day last autumn, when Alfwold had sealed their pledge with his kiss.

  What would Oliver’s kiss be like? It wouldn’t be rough and crude and careless of her distaste, nor would it be tainted with yesterday’s fare and reeking of onions.

  Oliver’s kiss would be clean and sweet...