Shattered Vows

by Carol Townend

‘I think so. You’re saying that you would still wed me,’ she said, in a low voice.

  ‘Aye, lass, that I would. I’ve no young man’s passion that you’d want to share. Not now. But if you would try to accept me, I will guard you and keep you safe. I would look after you, and in return...’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Let me love you, truly love you. As a young lover would. Forget my age. I won’t hurt you, lass.’ His cheeks became darker than ever.

  Alfwold was blushing. Rosamund fought to keep her emotions hidden. This was worse than she had imagined. He cared for her. This squat, ugly man actually cared for her. Her wish had been granted. She should accept his terms, she really should. Hadn’t she prayed for just such a man with whom she could share her life?

  What more did she want?

  Her gaze fell on a wayside shrine at the turn in the road. It was dedicated to Our Lady. A posy of forget-me-nots lay next to a brightly painted statuette. Her stomach lurched.

  ‘Rosamund.’ Voice hoarse, Alfwold gripped her hands. ‘Let me show you what it can be like,’ he said, kneading her fingers. ‘Tonight. I’ll be staying at the mill. We can be wed next week. There’s no shame in us anticipating our vows by a day or two.’

  ‘A week? So soon? Alfwold, I cannot,’ her voice cracked.

  The calloused fingers tightened, she couldn’t have pulled away even if she tried.

  ‘You refuse me?’

  Pulse skittering, she searched his eyes – brown eyes – they looked solid and dependable. Warm. And shadowed by a terrible hurt. It was in her power to chase that hurt away. He really did care, it was all she could hope for.

  The lump in her throat almost choked her, but she forced out the words. ‘I will wed you, Alfwold. However, there’s one thing...’

  Alfwold’s eyes glowed. She felt as though frost had crawled through her skin and paralysed her. She was frozen. Numb.

  ‘My sweet lass.’ Raising her hands to his lips, he kissed them.

  ‘The one thing...?’

  ‘Anything.’

  She stared past him at the statue of the Virgin. ‘You’re right in assuming that I’m chaste, I am.’ It was the truth and Alfwold was nodding and smiling at her, he had no difficulty accepting it. Now for the lie. ‘But it’s no accident that I remain a maid. I have taken a solemn vow to Our Lady, that I shall preserve my virgin state till after my wedding.’ So far so good, he was still nodding and smiling. ‘So please, Alfwold, don’t press me to lie with you. Not until after the ceremony.’

  She glanced hesitantly at him, half-expecting him to fly into a rage. If he honoured her ‘vow’, she’d have more time to become accustomed to the idea of bedding him.

  ‘Rosamund, my sweet lass, of course I understand. I think it’s a fine thing in you to have sworn this oath. I’ll help you honour it.’

  ‘Thank you.’ This time her smile was genuine, the relief was too strong to hide. ‘You won’t regret it. I’m sure it will help me prepare myself for our wedding day.’ And, hopefully, to come to terms with it, she added to herself.

  ‘I’m glad that’s sorted,’ Alfwold said, smiling. ‘Now, how long is it since I last dressed those stones for your father? He’ll be thinking I’m not coming if we dawdle much longer.’

  ***

  Oliver descended the spiral stairway to the great hall and found that once again, folk were sleeping late at Ingerthorpe Castle.

  Tate the cook’s boy was curled so close to the hearth, he was almost in it. The fire had been banked down last night – the boy must have edged nearer the cooling embers in his sleep. No-one would be able to re-build the fire until he’d been roused.

  Suppressing a sigh, Oliver ran weary eyes around the hall. The air was stale. He could smell sour wine, spilled ale, rancid fat and dog. His nostrils flared. It was well past cock-crow and his cousin’s retainers were still sleeping – they were sprawled about the floor like lumpy sacks of grain. The rushes were choked with yesterday’s leavings. Even the hunting dogs seemed to be in stupor, save one which had found a bone and was gnawing on it.

  It would take some getting used to the way his cousin ran his castle. A fortnight was clearly not long enough.

  Ingerthorpe Castle was a far cry from Lord Robert’s well-ordered establishment in the south. At this hour Mass would have been said; everyone would have been fed; the dogs would be yelping for their exercise...

  His stomach knotted in a spasm of homesickness. Oliver squared his shoulders. He must think of the future, there was nothing to be gained in maudlin reflection. The uncle who had treated him as a father was dead, and his aunt had seen fit to send him here, to his cousin.

  ‘Baron Geoffrey needs a squire, Oliver,’ his widowed and grieving aunt had announced. ‘I know you’ll be a boon to him, for my beloved Robert has taught you all the knightly skills. Lord Robert would have given you your knighthood in time, for he doted on you. You know we have never let your birth affect the way we have treated you...’

  ‘I know, aunt, and I am grateful for it,’ Oliver had said stiffly.

  Even then he had known, as had his aunt, that it wouldn’t be the same in his cousin’s household. Oliver’s experiences abroad had taught him that the tolerance he took for granted in his late uncle’s establishment was far from universal. His aunt’s words were meant as a warning, but the fact that they had to be uttered at all branded him as different.

  There was a sense in which Oliver was an outcast and whilst most of society might pretend to his face that it made no difference, he had seen the furtive glances. He had heard the sniggers behind his back. He would never be able to take a lady to his wife.

  A knighthood would have proved his worth, but Robert de Warenne was dead, which meant that Oliver must begin all over again. He must convince his cousin, Baron Geoffrey Fitz Neal, that he would bring honour and not shame to the knightly estate. It might not be easy – Sir Geoffrey’s officers might see his arrival at Ingerthorpe as a threat.

  When discussing his future with his aunt, Oliver had struggled to keep her from seeing his misgivings.

  The Lady Maud de Warenne had looked at him with shadowed eyes that were filled with the shock and grief of her bereavement. ‘I see your cousin Claire in you more and more,’ she said.

  Oliver’s throat had worked. He’d never liked the way Lady Maud pretended, for form’s sake, that his mother was his cousin. ‘Claire was my mother, my lady, my mother.’

  A sad smile played across Lady Maud’s lips. ‘If only she’d confessed who it was she’d loved, I’ve always wondered. But she never breathed a word. I liked her, very much. Claire would have been thrilled to see you knighted, Oliver, but...’ Lady Maud shook her head, and her voice faded.

  ‘Aunt?’

  Lady Maud’s smile was sad. ‘I truly regret that it is not within my power to dub you knight. Your cousin Geoffrey will give you another chance to earn your place. I fear twenty-four is somewhat old for a squire, but it will do you no lasting harm. Take Robert’s destrier, I know you love that animal. Robert would want you to have him.’

  Oliver’s jaw had dropped. ‘Take Lance, my lady?’ A warhorse of Lance’s quality was worth a king’s ransom. ‘Are you certain?’

  ‘What should I do with a warhorse?’ She sighed. ‘Robert should have taken the brute on crusade, it wasn’t easy exercising him with both of you fighting in the Holy Land.’

  ‘There wasn’t much that was holy about that campaign,’ Oliver muttered.

  ‘Oliver?’

  ‘Nothing, my lady.’ Oliver had smiled. ‘Lord Robert didn’t want to risk Lance on the journey.’

  ‘So he told me. Instead he risked himself and I shall never see him again.’

  Oliver winced, he was uncomfortably aware that in his aunt’s view, the wrong man had returned.

  Lady Maud made an impatient gesture and smiled, a shade too brightly. ‘I cannot alter the past. Nor can I help but think that if Robert had taken Lance he wouldn’t have fallen.’ She cleared her throat. ‘O
liver, you will take him?’

  ‘Thank you, my lady, I would be honoured.’

  ‘That is a relief – every time I look at him I’m reminded of Robert. Of the hours he spent honing his skills. And all for nought.’ A delicate hand covered her eyes. ‘Farewell, my boy. Take Lance and go. Go. Before I shame us both by weeping. Farewell.’

  So Oliver de Warenne had ridden away from the place and the people he loved as his own. There’d been no point pleading with his aunt let him stay, she had grief enough to cope with without him whining about his fate.

  And now he was looking down the length of his cousin’s hall, counting the sleeping men, all of them strangers. Strangers who, he suspected, resented his appearance at the castle.

  He’d known this wasn’t going to be easy. It wasn’t just that there were no familiar faces. He hadn’t yet got to grips with the local dialect. And his cousin’s retainers were testing him – setting little traps for him to see how he would react. Teasing him, pushing his temper to the limits. So far, he’d kept himself in check. He’d told himself they would accept him in time. And then his mother’s sin would no longer be something to mock at.

  He would be accepted and he would win his golden spurs.

  Oliver went to stand over two of the younger lads and prodded them awake with his boot. ‘John? Matthew? What’s this? Didn’t you tell me you planned to join Baron Geoffrey’s guard? No guard I know of would sleep so long.’

  Muffled groans and stirrings came from the floor and a boy emerged from within his cloak. He was about fourteen years of age. He peered at Oliver through lank and tousled yellow hair.

  ‘De Warenne, have some pity. We must have downed a barrel last eve.’

  Oliver hesitated, the boy’s northern accent was thick, and it took a moment for him to absorb the meaning. The girl Rosamund had been easier to understand. He shrugged. ‘Work needs to be done. No matter if you’d downed a dozen barrels. Get up, or the only thing you’ll ever guard is swine. You know your duties. Wake everyone. Get the trestles set up. Baron Geoffrey will soon be down.’

  He gave the boys another nudge with his boot. He had to bite the inside of his cheek to hide his smile as the boys, still grumbling, moved reluctantly to obey him.

  ‘My poor head.’ John groaned.

  The other lad, Matthew rubbed his face with grimy hands. ‘My eyes are full of grit. Only a peasant would wake so early. Go away. Let me be.’ The boy gave a start of surprise, as if he’d only just noticed Oliver standing over them. Wine-fuddled eyes gleamed. ‘Oh, it’s you. Can’t say I’m surprised. Get you gone, de Warenne. If it weren’t for the fact that you’re Fitz Neal’s cousin I’d...’ Matthew trailed off as Oliver’s set expression penetrated.

  ‘Aye?’ Oliver said, hooking his thumbs into his belt. ‘What would you do, Matthew? Pray enlighten us.’

  Matthew lifted an eyebrow at John and seemed to take courage from the attention he was receiving. ‘Mind that you asked for this, de Warenne,’ he said, eyes bright with malice. ‘I’d call you by your real name, the one your mother got you. You’re a bastard in more ways than one. Only a misbegotten churl would kick us awake so soon after the May Day revels. A cold, unfeeling bastard who was probably sired in a barn and that by a pedl-’

  A muscle flickered in Oliver’s jaw and his lips thinned. That was all, but the boy saw it.

  Matthew’s eyes gleamed. ‘Ha, I’ve managed it, I said I would! John, you owe me a penny. Did you see the chink in his armour? He has feelings!’

  ‘Barely,’ John muttered.

  John didn’t meet Oliver’s eyes as he climbed out of his cloak, he looked very ill-at-ease. It was plain he misliked Matthew’s goading, but hadn’t the will to stand up to him. It had certainly gone on long enough. Oliver was wondering how much more he’d have to endure, when John bent and dragged Matthew’s blanket from him.

  ‘Come on, Matthew, you heard the new squire,’ John said. ‘We’ve work to do.’

  Oliver turned on his heel. He’d leave them to it and ignore the baiting as he’d done for the past couple of weeks. Matthew was a boy and this was only a game – he’d soon tire of it.

  ‘Tate?’ Oliver poked the boy nearest the fire. ‘You too. Up with you. You need to go to the kitchen to see what’s left after last night’s feast. I’ll accompany you.’

  He was half-way to the door when behind him Matthew cleared his throat. ‘I saw you on the beach, de Warenne,’ he said.

  Oliver checked mid-stride before continuing towards the kitchen. His reaction must have been almost imperceptible, but others in the hall were waking and several pairs of sharp Yorkshire eyes were on him. He gritted his teeth, he was determined not to be drawn.

  Matthew’s mocking voice followed him. ‘Was she pretty, that wench?’

  Rosamund. His stomach tightened.

  Someone guffawed. ‘De Warenne met a maid? What maid would be foolish enough to meet him? Who was it?’

  Doubtless revelling in the attention his announcement had won him, Matthew pressed on. ‘I never said she were a maid. No lass with what she had to offer could possibly still be a maiden. They were together for an age. I didn’t get too close, for I was on the cliff, but it was de Warenne right enough. He has the only grey destrier for miles.’ Matthew lowered his suggestively. ‘Was the girl good de Warenne? Does she have a liking for the kisses of a bastard? How much did you have to pay her?’

  ‘Enough!’ Baron Geoffrey Fitz Neal, Lord of Ingerthorpe Castle had entered. As he crossed the hall, his footsteps echoed on the wooden boards. Sir Geoffrey was a large man whose girth matched his height. His brown hair was thinning on the top, like a monk’s tonsure.

  ‘Good day, cousin,’ he said, genially. He clapped Oliver on the shoulder. ‘Are these pests annoying you?’

  ‘They’re easily brushed aside.’

  Perceptive dark eyes took in Oliver’s set shoulders and tight mouth. ‘Are they, cousin?’ he murmured, softly. ‘I thought, for a moment, Matthew had scored a hit.’ His gaze settled on Matthew. ‘You! Scullion!’

  ‘My lord?’

  ‘You forget your station. Every man has his place, and you’d do well to remember yours. Leave it to the women to bitch, God knows there are enough of them here.’

  Oliver made a dismissive movement. ‘My lord, I don’t need your assistance.’

  ‘I know that, lad.’

  Oliver gave a little smile at the way his cousin addressed him. Geoffrey was but two years his senior, yet he made it sound as if he were Oliver’s grandsire.

  ‘Matthew’s done no harm, mon seigneur,’ Oliver said, jerking his head at Matthew’s white face. ‘You’ve terrified the boy.’

  His cousin grinned. ‘He does right to be terrified. Anyone who doesn’t know their rightful place needs to be reminded of it. You may be acting as my squire, but you are of my blood and I won’t permit anyone to forget it. It’s not their place to mock you. Do you hear me, Matthew?’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  ‘Good lad. Now – what about breaking our fast?’ he said, turning wide eyes on the trestles stacked around the wall. The boys sprang into action.

  Oliver stared thoughtfully at his cousin. ‘Mon seigneur-’

  ‘Cousin, you know my name. Use it.’

  ‘My thanks. Geoffrey, you say it is not their place to make a game of me. It sounds as though you have plans in that direction...?’ Oliver arched a brow. He’d heard talk in the armoury – his cousin was known for his wicked sense of humour.

  ‘Aye, I claim that right. If anyone mocks you, it must be me.’ Geoffrey laughed. Turning for the dais where John was setting up a trestle, he sank onto a cushioned chair. It was Baron Geoffrey’s privilege to be seated in a chair, most people made do with benches. ‘Fetch me my ale, squire, and bring bread. I would break my fast.’

  Geoffrey followed his cousin with his eyes as he left the hall. Thoughtfully, he rubbed the bridge of his nose. Geoffrey was proud of his birthright. He couldn’t begin to comprehend the resen
tment that Oliver must feel at being mocked at for his illegitimacy, but he felt impelled to try. He liked the look of him and he hoped he’d become a loyal comrade. A friend. His cousin had a strong, upright bearing and, if the exchange he had just witnessed was anything to go by, he had command of his temper. In short, Oliver de Warenne seemed to have all the makings of a knight.

  His fingers drummed on the trestle. The lads were ribbing his cousin to test his mettle – as they always did with newcomers. It was an initiation ceremony of sorts, and it was essential if de Warenne was to be accepted at Ingerthorpe. But, hell burn it, the man was of his blood. If anyone was to rib him, it should be Geoffrey – no-one else had the right.

  If Oliver did have a flaw it was that he had too much pride, he took himself far too seriously. A man might almost think he thought himself above the sins and failings to which other humans succumbed. Was that his weakness? Perhaps.

  Geoffrey scratched his scalp, it appeared that his cousin had forgotten the Fitz Neals were a bastard breed. It was there for all to see in their name. Fitz. That was what it meant. Some forgotten Norman baron called Neal had fathered a whelp out of wedlock, and their line sprang from that illegitimate child. Everyone knew it and no-one taunted him because of it. His family had proved their worth and Geoffrey was proud of his ancestry. It was up to him to remind Oliver of that small but vital point.

  Geoffrey’s brows lowered. His cousin needed to be brought down a notch or two. He needed a lesson in humility. In touching on Oliver’s bastardy, Matthew had instinctively found a chink in his cousin’s armour. Oliver was sensitive about his birth. And he thought himself immune to human weakness...

  The baron’s musings halted as the stair door grated open. There was a little flurry of activity as a tall, well-built lady of elderly years glided into the hall. She was closely followed by a female attendant so quiet and self-effacing that she might as well have been invisible.

  With a gentility that sat oddly on his large, untidy frame, Geoffrey rose and went to kiss the lady’s hand.

  ‘Good morrow, Mother.’

  ‘Geoffrey.’ Lady Adeliza smiled, and let him lead her to her place on the high table.