‘For our sakes, the sooner he goes the better,’ Lufu said, bluntly.
Rosamund stared pensively into the fire. ‘I don’t think much of the castle. It’s full of schemers.’
‘Eh, lass, and what have you become? One day there and you’re tarred with the same brush. You’ve changed. The Rose I know wouldn’t dream of messing with the likes of him; she wouldn’t dream of breaking her vows.’
‘You’re right.’ She took a deep breath. ‘If there was only Oliver and I to consider, I might get away with it. But there’s his oath to his lord. His honour. I can’t wreck his future. And there’s you and Edwin. I shouldn’t have involved you – Sir Geoffrey might take it out on you...aiding and abetting or some such thing. I see I must tell him the truth.’ She bit her lip and looked anxiously towards the bed. ‘He will recover, won’t he? Why doesn’t he waken?’
‘He’s warm isn’t he?’
Leaning over, Rosamund touched his brow. ‘Yes.’
‘No longer feverish?’
Oliver’s eyelids flickered and her breath caught. ‘Lufu, did you see? He moved! I swear he moved...’
Lufu’s smile was reassuring. ‘He’s sleeping himself better. He’ll waken soon.’
‘And then I’ll tell him,’ Rosamund said, heart cramping. I will have to tell him. I cannot cause him to break his bond with his lord.
‘Aye,’ Lufu nodded. ‘That you will.’
***
Rosamund scoured Oliver’s face for the slightest sign of consciousness. Dark stubble shadowed the lean cheeks. His skin was cool to the touch and his colour was returning, but he had yet to stir. A sharp draught pulled her gaze to the door. Edwin had returned.
‘Edwin, there’s a draught. Please shut the door.’
Edwin gave her the oddest of looks and an ugly premonition made the hairs rise on the back of her neck. ‘Edwin?’
Edwin’s gaze shifted from Rosamund to Oliver and back to Rosamund. ‘Someone’s come to see you,’ he said.
Rosamund’s skin prickled. Slowly, she got to her feet.
Alfwold came in.
She stared at him, speechless with a sickening mix of guilt and dismay. This man with brown, bloodshot eyes and lank hair was her husband. His tunic was shiny with grease and his hose were soiled and torn. She had mended them only the day before their wedding. He’d been drinking again. Sleeping in the ditch. His scarred face was dripping with sweat, the climb from the village had winded him. She held herself stiff as a poker and tried not to shudder. It was impossible to smile.
‘Good day, Rosamund,’ Alfwold said, calmly.
He was keeping his distance, though a gleam in his eyes warned her that this might change at any moment. Rosamund rounded on Lufu. ‘You knew Edwin had gone for Alfwold!’
‘No...no.’ Lufu’s face was blank with astonishment. ‘I had no idea.’
Silence hung in the cottage like a tangible thing. It was bitter. Ugly. On the moor, a lamb bleated for its mother. A seagull mewed.
Rosamund could hardly bear to look at her husband’s work-ravaged face. He was staring at the man in the bed and her stomach lurched. He knows I love Oliver. She didn’t like to think how he knew, but she was in no doubt that Alfwold realised she’d given her heart to Oliver de Warenne.
She sent Edwin a barbed glance. She was angry with him for bringing Alfwold, even though she understood why he had done it. Edwin knew Alfwold and I had to speak. That’s why he brought him.
Nevertheless, she wished he hadn’t, particularly when Oliver was here. Alfwold turned back to her and for a moment his eyes – empty, dead – reminded her of the outlaw, Wulfric.
She lifted her chin. ‘Good day, Alfwold.’
They stared at each other for the space of several heartbeats. Her cheeks scorched, confirming her guilty love more eloquently than words ever could. Alfwold gave her a smile so twisted it was like a gargoyle’s.
‘So it’s true,’ he said. ‘He didn’t force you.’
It was strange how quickly you could become used to things. Alfwold’s voice sounded coarse after Oliver’s. Not long ago it had been Oliver who had sounded foreign.
Her face burned. ‘I wasn’t forced.’
‘So he didn’t hurt you?’
‘No.’
‘I’m glad of that, lass.’ She could hear no feeling in his voice and she wondered if he was lying. Expression brightening, he stepped closer. ‘And were you willing to bide at Ingerthorpe with him? After that first night, I mean? Or did they force you to that?’
She looked at him, not knowing what to think. Perhaps he did care. She was assuming that the lifeless look in Alfwold’s eyes meant that he felt nothing. Guilt burned in her guts – what if she was wrong?
‘I was willing,’ she said, and watched his face collapse. ‘I never asked to be taken there in the first place, but I was willing to stay. Alfwold, forgive me. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I...I thought God was offering me a chance at a little happiness. But I was wrong. I found...I found I couldn’t stay without speaking to you first. I went back to the mill to find you.’ She gestured at the bed. ‘Oliver came after me and there were strangers in the village. They attacked and wounded him. I couldn’t desert him, so we came here.’
Alfwold looked intently at her. ‘You were coming back to me?’
‘I wanted to speak to you. I wanted to ask for an annulment.’
‘An annulment?’ He clenched his fists. ‘You don’t love me.’
She hesitated, searching for words that wouldn’t hurt. Oliver stirred and muttered. Bending over him, she stroked his temple.
Alfwold’s lip curled as he watched her. ‘You want an annulment.’ He shook his head. ‘Rosamund, before you say anything else, you’d best listen to this. I’ve news. I’m not sure how you’ll take it, not now, but...’ His voice faded.
His restraint was as puzzling as his diffidence. Rosamund hadn’t looked forward to facing his anger, but surely he should be greeting his wife – his erring wife – with more passion than this? She’d just admitted that she’d been willing when she’d sinned against him. She’d been an adulteress and not a victim. Husbands didn’t generally accept the sins of their wives with such meekness. Alfwold would be within his rights to chastise her and if he chose to beat her no-one would lift a hand to stop him. She felt suddenly light-headed.
Would he refuse to give her an annulment?
‘Alfwold, go on – your news...’
‘I went to the abbey and I’ve seen Abbot William.’ Alfwold’s pock-marked skin was mottled, as if he were labouring under some great emotion. ‘I have to tell you that he denies all knowledge of the priest, Eadric.’
Rosamund looked blankly at him. ‘Abbot William can’t know every priest in the diocese. Didn’t Father Eadric come from York?’
‘Eadric didn’t come from York.’
‘What are you saying?’
Alfwold cleared his throat, his mouth was grim. ‘Eadric’s not a priest, he’s an impostor.’
Lufu gasped.
‘An impostor,’ Alfwold repeated. ‘The man’s in the pay of the Angevins. Eadric’s been sent to England to make trouble for King Stephen. To pave the way for Mathilda’s son, Henry. He stole his habit from the rightful owner of that document I told you about. You remember, Rose? The one hung about with wax seals.’
‘I remember.’ Rosamund’s throat was so dry she could hardly get the words out.
‘The naked body of a man has been found on the moor, on the road from York. It’s likely that he was rightful holder of the parchment. The rebels must have killed him.’
‘Lord have mercy,’ Lufu said, crossing herself.
Edwin put an arm about her shoulders and cleared his throat. ‘Eadric used his stolen identity to gain the confidence of the villagers in Ingerthorpe. Rose, the point is that you and Alfwold are not married. The ceremony Eadric presided over was a sham. You’re not married.’
Rosamund’s legs gave way and she groped for the bed. Plumping herself down
on the edge of the mattress, she buried her face in her hands.
I’m not married to Alfwold, there’s no need to beg for an annulment.
She lifted her head. ‘You’re saying that I’m free? That I haven’t broken holy vows?’
‘You have it aright,’ Edwin said, nodding. ‘Abbot William was clear – there’s no priest named Eadric. The abbot told me he knew of a priest named Eadmer whom he thought would get the appointment, but no Eadric.’
‘Eadric, Eadmer,’ Rosamund murmured. ‘The names are very like.’
Alfwold came closer. ‘The document was in Eadmer’s name. When I met Eadric he was waving it about as though it was the key to St. Peter’s gate, and my unlettered eyes saw the name Eadric. I have no learning, and Eadmer and Eadric are scripted almost the same. They’re easy to confuse.’ A broad, blackened hand reached for her. ‘Rose...?’
Rosamund was staring at Oliver and didn’t hear him. Her heart thudded. I’m not married. I’m free. She felt giddy with relief. Stooping over, she stroked that wayward lock of hair from Oliver’s forehead. Her lips curved.
‘Rose?’ Lufu tapped her on the shoulder.
‘Mmm?’
‘Don’t even think it,’ Lufu said.
Rosamund turned innocent eyes on her friend. ‘Think what?’
‘You know what I’m talking about,’ Lufu said, quietly. ‘I can see it in your face. You’re free, and you’re changing your mind about telling him who he is.’ Lufu shook her head. ‘You’re hoping that if he believes himself your equal, he will offer you marriage.’
Rosamund put a hand on her heart. ‘Lufu, I swear no such thought entered my mind – but now that you mention it, I confess the idea has appeal. He might offer for me.’
‘Where are your wits?’ Lufu made a sound of exasperation. ‘He’s a knight. You’re worlds apart.’
Tears stung at the back of Rosamund’s eyes.
Lufu jabbed a work-worn finger at Oliver. ‘This man – this knight – isn’t for you. Lord, it’s bad enough that you were considering keeping his identity from him, but to be thinking about marrying him – why, that’s twenty times worse! What about Lady Cecily? He’s promised to wed her. What you’re thinking about is probably a hanging offence – you can’t deceive a knight into marriage and hope to get away with it!’
Rosamund’s throat closed. ‘He might have learned to love me by the time he finds out.’
Lufu watched her, shaking her head.
‘Lufu, he might. And if he does, he’ll forgive me.’ She gripped Lufu’s sleeve. ‘I shall make him love me.’
‘Lord, the girl’s wits have cracked,’ Edwin said. He glanced at Alfwold who was staring at a hole in his boots and continued. ‘Knights are bred to fight. They love power and position. Riches. They don’t love simple peasant lasses, even if they like them in their beds.’ He raised his voice. ‘You warm his bed, girl, that’s all. Do you hear me?’
She gave him a sad smile. ‘I should think they’d hear you down at the quayside.’
‘Aye, well, you make me mad, Rose,’ Edwin said. ‘You can’t deceive him.’
Alfwold looked up. ‘No, she can’t,’ he said. ‘It would be best if she married me, in truth. That would put a stop to all this nonsense. Rose, you put more than your own life in jeopardy with this foolish fancy of yours. You must wed me and forget this knight.’
‘Forget him?’ I can’t!
The bed creaked as Oliver rolled onto his side. There was an appalled silence. Edwin was gaping, ludicrous in his dismay. Lufu went white and even Alfwold was pale beneath his stained skin. Rosamund was tempted to laugh. Except it wasn’t funny – if Oliver was awake, he would have heard everything.
‘His eyes are shut,’ she whispered. ‘His breathing’s regular.’
‘No, no, he’s awake! He’s listening,’ Lufu muttered.
‘Lufu, he sleeps.’
Alfwold caught her arm and drew her to the doorway. ‘Rose, you must marry me,’ he said, glancing uneasily at the bed.
‘No.’
‘I’ll not ask anything of you. Give up this folly, marry me. I’ll clean myself up. I won’t touch another drop of ale. A man gets to need some comfort when he’s alone in the world, and with you as my wife we’ll both of us be safe at the mill. Rose?’
‘I won’t marry you.’
Rosamund found herself looking at Alfwold’s pock-marked face with new eyes. His mention of the mill struck an odd note. All the world knew that he tramped the highways, travelling from mill to mill to ply his trade. Was he attracted to her personally, or was his attraction solely due to the fact that she was Osric’s only child, and marrying her would be a way to secure a roof over his head? She had thought he loved her a little, but perhaps she’d been wrong. Alfwold was getting older, it could be that he wanted her purely for the security she could bring him. He had mentioned something of this before but she hadn’t heard him. Back then, she’d wanted his love. Had she wanted to be loved so badly that she’d imagined him to be in love with her?
Alfwold doesn’t love me at all. He’s never loved me. He wants the mill.
‘Alfwold, is it me you want, or the mill?’
‘Rose?’
‘I thought you loved me.’
‘I do,’ Alfwold said, tightening his grip on her arm. ‘You know I do.’
Slowly, she shook her head. ‘No, I don’t think you do.’
Breaking eye contact, she gazed through the door at a clump of purple heather outside. How foolish she’d been. How vain. Alfwold didn’t love her any more than her father loved her. He wanted her for the mill. He valued her no more than her father, she was simply a means to an end. And to think she’d been worrying about upsetting him!
‘I won’t marry you Alfwold. I’m sorry.’
Alfwold dropped her arm as Edwin joined them by the door. A muscle was jumping in his cheek. ‘You are a stupid wench,’ he said, in a cold voice. ‘You’d kill us all and think nothing of it.’
‘That’s not true,’ Rosamund said, startled to see him so angry. ‘I’ve not said that I...Edwin, whatever’s the matter?’
Taking her wrists, Edwin manhandled her to the threshold. Alfwold kept close.
‘Edwin, let go!’
Edwin thrust her at Alfwold so roughly, she staggered. Alfwold’s arm snaked around her waist. She stiffened and tried to step aside but Alfwold came with her. He smelled vile, far ranker than she remembered. Her nose wrinkled. A cloud of stale sweat, sour ale and onions seemed to hang about him – it was so powerful she almost gagged. Her stomach churned as she struggled to break free.
‘Take her back to the mill, Alfwold,’ Edwin said. ‘She’s your responsibility.’
‘Edwin!’ Lufu glared at her husband. ‘What on earth...?’
‘She goes.’ Edwin folded his arms across his chest.
Rosamund bit her lip. ‘Edwin, you can’t-’
‘I can and I will. You’re going back to the mill.’
Lufu put her hands on her hips. ‘Edwin, what are you doing? Rose is our friend. In any case, how can Alfwold make her stay at the mill if she’s a mind to leave?’ Two spots of colour flared in her cheeks.
Edwin looked coldly at Rosamund. ‘Wife, you miscall her. We cannot call Rose our friend, no friend would risk our necks as she is doing. Alfwold can tie her up and starve her until she agrees to wed him, I care not. I want her to go.’ He jerked his head at the bed. ‘As for this knight-’
‘You won’t harm him?’ Rosamund’s stomach cramped.
‘Of course not, I’m not eager to hasten my end. I’ll take him to the castle and dump him at the gates. Never fear, Rose, your lover won’t die, at least not by my hand. But he’ll live where he belongs, up at the castle. I’ll not have our house fouled with his noble presence a moment longer.’
Rosamund gaped to hear the vehemence in Edwin’s voice and then it dawned on her. It wasn’t vehemence she was hearing, it was fear. Edwin was afraid.
‘Edwin,’ she said, gently. ‘Ther
e’s no need to worry, Oliver’s a good man. He wouldn’t stoop to petty revenge.’
Edwin glowered at her. ‘And what do you know of knightly ways?’
She lifted her shoulders, ‘Not much, I admit, but I do know that he is a good man.’
Edwin raised his eyes heavenwards. ‘Alfwold, I pray you, get this madwoman out of my sight before I change my mind and find I’ve done murder this day.’
She dug in her heels and looked to Alfwold for help, but his face was as hard as mill-stone grit. He was dragging her through the door, she could feel the wind as it swept over the heather.
‘No. No! Alfwold, I beg you, no!’
But Alfwold was deaf to all pleading and edged forwards, relentless. He wasn’t as tall as Oliver, but he had the strength of the devil and she soon found herself standing on the edge of the moor, screwing up her eyes against a shaft of sunlight. Lufu followed, wringing her hands.
Beads of sweat started on Alfwold’s forehead. ‘Holy Mother, save us,’ he said, looking back at the hut
Rosamund followed the direction of his gaze. After the dazzling brightness of the sun it was difficult to pick out what was happening inside, but a tall man stood by the box-bed, chest bare and clad only in his braies. Oliver was awake. Her heart jumped, she could see him dragging on his tunic. He took his time reaching the door, and when he got there he stopped to lean his shoulders against the door frame. He buckled on his sword belt and his grey eyes lifted.
Alfwold released her and stepped back.
‘Oliver!’ She stumbled towards him.
He looked drawn. The dark growth of his beard was masking his pallor. His mouth was set in a grim line and his eyebrows were drawn together. Was he in pain? When her eyes rose finally, inevitably, to meet his, she saw that he was examining her as minutely as she’d been examining him. The breath caught in her throat. There was something else, something lighting his eyes which she thought she recognised, for since meeting him, she had felt it herself often enough. He looked vulnerable, full of longing.
Her fingers itched to touch him, to smooth the crease from his brow, but she curled her fingers into her palms and steeled herself to resist. For all that she liked to dream, and for all Edwin’s misreading of her motives, she couldn’t deceive this man. And she knew that if she touched him without telling him that he was a knight, and thus was as far above her as the stars, she would be lost forever.
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