Shattered Vows

by Carol Townend

  ***

  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.’

  Aeffe smothered a yawn, her face was pale, her hair tousled. ‘Is Alfwold back so soon?’

  ‘It’s Rose,’ her father said, mounting the stepladder as Rosamund bolted the door.

  ‘I’m surprised she dare show her face here,’ Aeffe murmured. ‘In the village they said that she was only too happy to pay the price of her merchet. Lady Adeliza gave her pretty gowns, and the baron’s squire loaded her with jewels that he brought all the way from Constantinople.’ Aeffe paused, and a wheedling tone entered her voice. ‘See if she’ll show them to us, my love.’

  ‘Shut up, wife, I’m for bed. If you want speech with Rose, that’s up to you.’

  Rosamund heard Aeffe’s indignant indrawn breath and set the candle on the trestle. She’d wait for Alfwold and let him in when he returned. She really needed to talk to him.

  The flickering light revealed pieces of bread – crumbs and lumps of stew left to rot on the boards. Her nose wrinkled. She’d been gone just over a day and already the mill showed signs of neglect. The floor hadn’t been swept. There was a pale smear on the boards where wasted grain and flour had been trampled in with the food. The mill would be heaving with mice and ants in no time.

  ‘Well, girl?’ Aeffe stood before her, hands on her hips. ‘Aren’t you going to show me your earnings?’

  Rosamund gave a tired smile and shook her head.

  Aeffe took a pace forward. She was toying with her plait. ‘You are a whore,’ she said softly. ‘Where are the jewels?’

  Rosamund spread her hands. ‘There are no jewels, someone’s been spinning you a tale.’

  Aeffe’s eyes filled with disbelief. Lurching forward, she wrenched at Rosamund’s cloak and there was a ripping sound as the clasp tore the fabric. Aeffe flung the cloak aside.

  Clenching her teeth, Rosamund gestured at her unadorned neck. ‘See? No jewels. Aeffe, there are no jewels.’

  ‘You crafty weasel, you must have hidden them. You’ve come back dressed in that rag to deceive me.’

  ‘Holy Virgin, give me strength. Aeffe, there are no jewels. I’m not a whore, I haven’t been paid for anything. Let me be, for God’s sake. I’m tired.’

  ‘Whore.’

  Rosamund had come to the end of her tether. She’d walked for miles in the dark to get home, she was exhausted and she wouldn’t be insulted by this woman. ‘Who are you to call me a whore? You are no better than a whore yourself.’

  ‘What?’ Aeffe’s voice rose to a shriek. ‘You ungrateful slut – who kept you on here, though you should have been wed years ago? I did. And what do I get for it...?’

  Rosamund’s nails curled into her palms. ‘You kept me on because you wanted an unpaid scullion. All you ever wanted to do was to take your ease. Think about it.’ She waved a hand at the filthy floor. ‘What do you do to earn your keep?’

  Aeffe’s pale eyes stared blankly at Rosamund. Abruptly, her shoulders s
lumped, and her eyes slid away. She gave a long, shuddering sigh.

  ‘I earn my keep, that I do,’ she muttered, flinging back her plait. Her face was haggard. ‘You think I don’t pay for the things Osric gives me? I pay. I pay with my body and my hands. Doing things that please him. I pay a heavy price for my keep, but earn it I do. Every last morsel. And maybe you’re right, maybe that does make me a whore, but what else can I do? Your father’s the richest man in the village and I aim to keep him.’

  Rosamund was unable to turn away from the appeal in Aeffe’s pale, sad eyes. Suddenly, she was no longer listening to the stepmother who’d never tried to win a place in her lonely step-child’s heart. She found herself gazing instead at a once-lovely woman who’d got her way for years on the strength of her looks. Those looks were fading, and Aeffe was terrified – she feared for her future.

  Rosamund was put in mind of someone else. Lady Cecily. Baron Geoffrey’s sister had worn such a look, though her terror must have a very different root. But to see Aeffe with her defences down, to see her admitting her vulnerability in this way...

  With a glance at the stairway – her father was nowhere to be seen – Rosamund lowered her voice. ‘I...I... had no idea. I thought you were fond of him.’ Aeffe’s swift, negative gesture twisted her heart. She touched Aeffe’s arm. ‘Aeffe, I’m sorry-’

  Aeffe blinked rapidly and shook her head. Lifting her chin, she glanced at the hand on her sleeve as though surprised to see it there. ‘Don’t waste your sympathy on me, girl, you’ve better things to do.’

  ‘Aeffe?’ Slowly, Rosamund removed her hand.

  Aeffe arched an eyebrow at her. ‘Tell me, are there really no jewels?’

  ‘There are no jewels.’

  Aeffe’s chest heaved. ‘Then you must love that squire, if you did it for nothing. Holy Mother, girl, get back to him. Do it now, before he finds you’re gone and thinks you false. Get back to the castle while there’s time.’

  ‘I need to speak to Alfwold.’

  Her stepmother an impatient sound. Taking Rosamund’s hand, she touched the finger where the ring had been. ‘You didn’t wear his ring for long, did you?’

  Rosamund’s lips twisted. ‘I had to bribe a guard to let me out.’

  Aeffe had put her head to one side and smiled. ‘Listen...I can hear hoofbeats. He’s not here yet, but someone is approaching fast on the road from the castle.’

  Rosamund froze. Oliver.

  ‘Are you going to let him take you back?’

  ‘No, I really must speak to Alfwold.’ She snatched up her cloak. Heart thumping, she unbarred the door.

  ‘Don’t be a fool!’ Aeffe’s voice followed her outside. ‘He’ll not be back this way again. His sort don’t ask twice, he’ll find someone else!’

  With Aeffe’s warning ringing in her ears, Rosamund picked up her skirts and raced across the mill yard. The moon was lighting her way, but if it was bright enough for her to see, it was would also be bright enough for Oliver.

  The hoofbeats were getting louder. It sounded as though he’d reached the shrine, in a couple of moments he’d round the bend and she’d be in his line of sight. Casting about for cover, she flung herself off the track and into the shrubs and reeds growing on the riverbank.

  Panting, she peered through the branches of a coppiced willow. She could see the path. And Oliver. He was a dark warrior on a silver horse bearing down on the sleeping mill. His hair gleamed like jet in the moonlight. His features looked set, as though carved from granite. Swooping from the saddle, he dived at the door.

  The crash and slam made her start. And then there was only Lance. A horse fit for a king was standing unattended in her father’s mill yard, in the place where the carter’s nags came to collect grain for market. His reins caught the light as they swung to and fro.

  Blood pounding in her ears, Rosamund left the shelter of the willows and reeds and crept around the mill. She must get to the stepping stones beyond the millpond, she must cross them before he came out of the mill. She had no clear goal in mind, all she knew was that she must escape him and this was the only path open to her. She couldn’t simply return to the castle as Oliver’s lover, she must consider Alfwold.

  Her thoughts raced. She couldn’t hide in the village, Oliver would find her too easily, no-one could keep secrets in Ingerthorpe. And she refused to return to the castle until she’d spoken to Alfwold. Which left the moorland road to York. It was new territory for her, but Lufu and Edwin lived in a hut on the edge of the moor. With luck she’d find them. They were old friends, they wouldn’t turn her away.

  The breeze was rattling the reeds. Glancing over her shoulder as she ran, Rosamund cursed the clear night. The millpond looked glassy, the moon and stars shone like silver in the black water. Her throat dried. When Oliver came out, he couldn’t fail to see her.

  She skirted the pond, a few more paces and she’d reach the crossing. The path on the other side of the river was flanked by a thick screen of flowering hawthorn and shrubby bushes. If she got that far, Oliver might not be able to see her. She would have a chance.

  Ahead, the stepping stones gleamed white like an ivory necklace. Praying that God would grant her a second or two to cross the stream, Rosamund felt her way out over the water. Her legs were trembling. One stone, two, three...

  Her fingers became thumbs and she dropped her skirts into the water. With a groan, she hitched them up again. She heard a crash that could only be the mill door. Her heart jumped and she almost missed her footing. She couldn’t see the yard from here, the building and the shrubs stood between them. Her skirts flapped coldly round her calves. Another step, another...

  Sobbing with relief, she stumbled onto the bank. She was across! Setting her back resolutely to the mill and the pond, she forced herself to take deep, even breaths. She must pace herself. It was no use running herself into the ground – she’d go fast, but steady. The track between the bushes was thin as a ribbon and she’d be hard to see.

  A distant rumble of thunder rolled in from the coast. She forced her feet to settle into a steady rhythm. Her banging heart set the pace. Every breath seemed to scour her throat. Lord, if only she’d managed to rest at the mill. Then she’d have been able to run without her chest feeling as though it was about to tear apart.

  The earth shook. A sea-storm was approaching. A sea-storm? There wasn’t a cloud within ten miles. She checked, glanced at the glittering stars, and the thunder stopped. She could hear splashing, and a low, urgent voice. ‘Steady, Lance, steady, it looks shallow here. That’s it, well done, boy.’

  Her blood chilled. It hadn’t been thunder – she’d been hearing hoofbeats. Oliver would bear down on her with that warhorse of his, he’d...

  ‘Psst!’

  Rosamund’s head snapped round. A hawthorn rustled.

  ‘Psst!’ Someone gave a hiss of indrawn breath. ‘Blast these spikes!’

  The man’s accent was foreign, but Rosamund had heard that voice before. She struggled to place him, and his face danced out of reach.

  More splashing pulled her gaze back to the crossing point. Lance wouldn’t need the stepping stones, by now he would surely be across...

  ‘Psst!’ The man hissed again. ‘You want to get away?’

  She hesitated, whoever he was, he was shrouded by leaves and shadows. ‘Who are you? How do I know I can trust you?’ She found herself backing towards the river – Oliver, even when in a rage, was preferable to a nameless, faceless man.

  She heard a short laugh. ‘It’s Father Eadric. Daughter, have you forgot so soon the priest who wed you?’

  ‘Father? What are you doing?’

  ‘Trying to save your immortal soul. I’ve been watching you. You’re trying to escape your noble lover. I doubt you’ll outrun him on this road.’ The bushes parted and a cowled figure stepped onto the track. He flung back his cowl and the moonlight played over his face. It was indeed Father Eadric.

  Her breath came out in a rush. ‘Father! Thank God.’


  ‘Amen to that,’ Father Eadric replied, voice dry.

  ‘Father?’

  ‘Come, my child. Follow me.’

  He melted into the bushes with scarcely a rustle and she plunged after him. Hawthorns snatched at her damp skirts and she jerked them free. She was beyond caring about rips and snags in the pink fabric.

  ‘No horse will get through the scrub,’ the priest said. ‘I doubt your lover’s seen you, but if he has, he’ll have to dismount. Keep to the path. It winds by the river, heading west. You’ll be safe. When you reach the bridge, join the road to the moor at the crossroads.’

  Rosamund came to a dead stop. Something felt wrong. Father Eadric seemed to have everything mapped out and all she had was questions. Was he really going to leave her?

  ‘Can’t you show me the way? Father, if the moon goes in, I’m bound to get lost. And what-?’

  ‘God be with you, my child.’ The priest sketched the sign of the cross in the air, and she bent her head as she crossed herself.

  When she looked up again, Father Eadric had gone. The scent of hawthorn hung in the air. The branches were still swaying where he had pushed them aside. What an odd man. She was alone. Standing by the river bank, quite alone.

  Except...she wasn’t quite alone, there was a crashing in the bushes behind her.

  ‘Rosamund!’ It was Oliver. He sounded furious. ‘Rosamund!’

  How had he found her? He couldn’t have seen her coming this way, for he’d not left the bank when she’d followed the priest. Yet here he was at her heels.

  Turning, she fled down the track, her hair unravelling as she went. Desperately, she shoved it over her shoulder. Thorns and nettles bit through her stockings. Her cloak caught on a branch and the clasp – already weakened by Aeffe – gave way with a pop. Her cloak fell away. There was no time to collect it, Oliver was gaining on her, she could hear him. She could visualise that well-honed warrior’s body tearing grimly along behind her.