by Anne O'Brien
‘No. No thought at all.’
On which bleak acceptance, there seemed no more to say, for either of them.
The escort was moving into the distance now at a fair clip. Soon they would be swallowed up by a sturdy stand of trees. Rosamund strained to see through the wet that had eased to a thin drizzle. To see that one of the party had stopped in the road and wheeled his horse to look back. She knew who it was. Could recognise that dark bay stallion, the hound at his heels. On impulse Rosamund lifted her hand in recognition, unsure whether he would see her. But he did. Or even if he didn’t, he gave his own sign of farewell. Even at that distance she saw the glint of light along metal. He had drawn his sword and raised it in some formal salute. Before wheeling and cantering after his men.
‘He has gone,’ Petronilla observed.
‘Yes. What could I have done, other than what I did?’
‘Nothing. It is not in your nature.’
Rosamund stepped close and rubbed her cheek against her mother’s shoulder. Spoke from the heart. ‘If I had the time again, from the beginning, I would do it differently.’
The castle settled silently, chillingly around the undisputed Lady of Clifford, but she was not content. As if to mirror Rosamund’s mood, gales blew in from the west, carrying a burden of rain. The courtyard showed a tendency to flood again. Sir Thomas proved to be astonishingly amenable to carrying out her commands. It almost made her think that Fitz Osbern had…But no. He had no more to do with Clifford. It would be best if she did not allow her thoughts to stray in that direction.
But they refused to be drawn into line. Her Wild Hawk simply would not be banished. She missed him inordinately, a raw wound of misery that would not heal. And she was lonely. How was it possible that she should miss him so? A man who had deliberately misled her into believing him capable of any rough sin, any coarse behaviour, so that she would abandon her property and retreat to safety in Salisbury. A man who had taken her in his arms, stripped her, kissed her, and reduced her to a pleasure she could never have imagined. Tears came easily in the night when she was alone.
Sometimes, frequently, she was moved to take the one tangible reminder she had of him from the bodice of her robe. To smooth the creased and well-blotted parchment. He had left it for her, for her to find in the west tower. Black angular writing to express so brief a farewell.
Rose,
There was no dishonour between us. Your gift moved me beyond words. I will treasure the memory for ever.
It is not my wish to leave you but the King’s word is the law.
Your servant, Gervase Fitz Osbern
Furious with herself, Rosamund wept again, smearing the ink into illegible blots.
Sometimes Rosamund found within the routine of the day that it was necessary for her to go to the rooms of the west tower that he had occupied. She opened the door and stood in the silent stillness. It brought her no comfort. The rooms had been swept clean, restored to their unused state. Only the furniture that had been moved in remained as evidence that anyone had lived there within the last ten years.
It was almost as if he had never been there at all.
Chapter Eleven
A thundering on the door of the solar woke Rosamund in her bedchamber. Dragged from sleep, she sat up, reaching to grab her robe as she heard Edith shuffle, yawning, to demand from the owner of the fist if the castle was burning down around their ears. It was barely dawn, the dark hardly touched with shades of grey. Rosamund shivered at the prospect of another damp day. Edith arrived at her door as she pushed her feet into clammy shoes.
‘What is it?’ She laced her over-gown clumsily, loosely.
‘Sir Thomas, my lady. He says you need to come and look.’
‘At what?’
Edith shrugged at the habitual rude demands of the commander. ‘He says it’s urgent. It must be, to get us from our beds when not even the cockerel’s crowing…’ She went off muttering to build up the fire in the solar.
Not waiting to hear more, Rosamund wrapped a mantle around her and pulled the hood over her disordered hair. If Sir Thomas thought she needed to be there, then she must. No one was more acutely aware than she of the meagre number of her garrison if the Welsh should mount a determined attack on Clifford. Of course they would keep a poorly equipped raiding party at bay, but nevertheless…Sir Thomas had already gone. She shivered as she crossed the Great Hall, the fact that its usual snoring occupants had already left their beds intensifying her fears, and picked her way across the bailey, around icy puddles, toward the gatehouse where she could see activity and the light of torches. Then up the steps to the battlements, where the wind caught her in a blast and made her shiver more. But nothing like the shudder that shook her from head to foot as she looked out to the expanse of flat ground between her gates and the road.
‘By the Virgin!’
‘Its Fitz Osbern, my lady.’ Sir Thomas loomed to inform her, a morbid satisfaction in his voice.
‘So I see,’ she snapped. There in the greying light floated the familiar dragon-like creature, silver on black, on banner and pennon. Emotions surged in her breast, almost choking her. He had come back. She would see him again…But not like this! The heat of fury momentarily burned away the liquid spurt of desire. She leaned forward, concentrating on what she could see below as hard-edged lines gradually emerged from the soft grey.
A tidy little force was camped before her castle. Tents were already pitched. Horse lines stretched out of sight, the sound of the animals stamping and snorting reaching her on the still air. She knew, she just knew there would be troops on the other side of the castle as well, between her walls and the river. A hammering began over to her right. If she were not mistaken, her guests were constructing a siege tower. Yes, there they were. Men were already dragging lengths of timber. Piles of hides lay on the ground to clothe it in damp leather in case she was of a mind to destroy it with fire-arrows. Meanwhile, campfires were being stirred into life. The smell of boiling mutton smote her senses unpleasantly. Voices intensified and carried easily. Banners lifted and snapped in the wind. And somewhere—somewhere!—in the midst of that atrociously busy scene was Gervase Fitz Osbern!
Her lover. Her heart’s desire. The man who had come once again to rob her of what was hers!
‘The King told him his claim had no validity. Henry told him to leave!’ Rosamund did not know which emotion was uppermost as they all clamoured for her attention. Fury that he should disobey the King. A leaping, uncontrollable joy that he was there, almost within her touch. Admiration at his deplorably cunning tactics, to obey the letter of the law, then as soon as the King’s back was turned, to come back and snatch what he considered his. She could imagine him, even now, grinning if he could read her thoughts. Fury won. ‘Henry told him to go!’
‘Well, he did,’ Sir Thomas observed with a grim smile. ‘No faulting that. And now he’s come back.’
‘He’s laid a siege.’ Leaving her garrison on full alert, Rosamund detoured to her mother’s chamber on her way to take stock of the store rooms.
‘He’s done what?’ Petronilla blinked, disbelieving. She still sat against her bank of pillows, sipping a cup of ale—until the news arrived and she halted, her lips barely on the cup, whilst Edith brushed out her gown for the day.
‘Fitz Osbern. Siege.’ Rosamund paced the width of the chamber, kicking her skirts from her path as she turned at the wall and paced back to stand by the bed. Her eyes glittered in the light of the candles. Her hands were clenched at her sides. ‘We’re surrounded. We’ve got water, but there’ll be no more supplies getting in. He means to starve us out. Or launch an attack. Would you believe? The man’s building a siege tower!’
Petronilla’s eyes widened. ‘I don’t believe it.’
‘Then go and look for yourself. And if I’m not mistaken, I see de Mortimer’s standard keeping company with Fitz Osbern’s. As brigands they’re as bad as each other.’ Rosamund made another circuit of the room.
‘Really?’ The
Countess sipped the ale slowly to hide a little smile. ‘How ridiculous!’
‘You seem remarkably untroubled about this!’
‘I can’t believe for one moment that Gervase would harm you.’
‘Gervase, is it? I see where your sympathies lie! He wants my castle!’
‘My sympathies, as you put it, are all with you, dear Rose. Gervase might want your castle, but not at the cost of your life. I can’t believe he’ll carry out a bloody attack on us.’
‘So why the siege tower? And you might not be so sanguine after any number of weeks on short rations, when you’re eating the stable rats for want of anything else.’
‘Ugh. I won’t.’
‘Do you think the heroic Lord Hugh will come to your rescue, a chivalrous knight for his lady?’
‘Well, I hope so…’ She coloured rosily under her daughter’s eagle eye, but laughed as she pushed back the bed covers. ‘You know that I think no such thing. Are you sure you won’t give in and come to terms?’
‘I will not! What are you smiling about?’
‘I was just wondering. Does he want the castle? Or does he want you?’
She stared at her mother. ‘The castle, of course. No doubts on that score.’ And as her mother dissolved into laughter, Rosamund stalked to the door. ‘When you have recovered from your inexplicable amusement, perhaps you would talk to Master Pennard about siege rations. I shall be in the store rooms!’
Rosamund was furious as she tallied the barrels and stores that would keep them through a siege. How dare he! How dare he obey the King, meek as a milkmaid in one breath, then camp on her castle foregate, as bold as you like, to force her obedience. And this time, when—if—he was successful, the last thing he would accept was Rosamund de Longspey as a permanent occupant.
She frowned at the dried joints of mutton hanging from the row of hooks in the cellar, conscious of the beginnings of a headache. As soon as he got his hands on Clifford, he would pack her and her possessions into her baggage wagons and see her on the road to Salisbury. Well, she would not make it easy for him. They were well supplied now. She would hold out for ever and show him that she was not a woman to be trifled with. Her blood rippled and raced through her body, with a sparkle that had been entirely lacking in recent days. She would not think of the heat of his hands around her waist. The way his fingers discovered sensitive spots she had never known. The delicious sensation of his mouth on her throat to make her shiver with longing. Never! If he wished to parley she would listen to what he had to say, she would consider his offers. And then refuse outright. It would give her the greatest of pleasure.
She came to a halt in her counting, dropping the tally sticks on to the top of a barrel of ale as she lifted her wrist to her face to remove the cobwebs. A tremor of regret. She had a fair idea of what amused her mother. Petronilla thought Fitz Osbern had a care for her, and perhaps he did. Certainly she did not fear death at his hands. But she feared his feelings for her went no deeper then a mild attraction. For he had never mentioned love, had he?
Satisfied with the disposition of his troops, Gervase rubbed the crumbs of bread and meat from his fingers and emptied the ale cup. Around him his men were doing the same, preparing for a day of planned inactivity. All he had to do now was wait. He knew the state of the supplies in the store rooms of Clifford. Had he not overseen their improvement, the storing of flour and hams, of ale? He also knew the weakness in the castle, the wooden palisade being the primary target for any man intent on capture. He could reduce it to capitulation within a matter of weeks.
But there was the crux of the problem. He eyed the partially built walls, the rough wood of the new palisade. Whatever robust advice the King might have given, it went against the grain with him to force the woman he loved into ignominious surrender. He could not. It did not sit well in his gut. How could he force so spirited a lady as Rosamund de Longspey into starvation—for he had no doubt that she would resist him—and then in the next breath tell her that he loved her beyond sense and wanted her hand in marriage? Not for the convenience of her value as a chatelaine for his numerous castles, but because he had discovered to his intense discomfort that life without her lacked an edge. Lacked seasoning, like meat without salt. He loved every inch of her and could not imagine life without her at his side. Yet here they were, separated by the walls of Clifford Castle and a degree of stubbornness on both sides.
Gervase stared at the obstacle as if sheer will power would make it disappear. Well, he might be throwing down the gauntlet to Rosamund de Longspey, as Henry had advised, but the siege would be conducted on his, Gervase Fitz Osbern’s, terms, not the King’s.
‘Now what?’ Hugh pulled up a stool beside him and stretched for a leather bottle of ale. ‘You’re not really going to starve her out, are you?’ unconsciously echoing Gervase’s thoughts.
‘Not unless I have to. I take it you’re not keen.’ Gervase glanced up. The Mortimer lord had an edge of frustration about him this morning.
‘Not very,’ Hugh confirmed bleakly. ‘It’s not siege weather.’
‘I was surprised you offered your support. Not that I’m not grateful…I suspect you have an ulterior motive.’ Gervase abandoned any attempt to disguise his humour as flags of colours flashed across the grizzled features. ‘If you had not already discovered for yourself, which I am sure you have, the widow is of a managing nature beneath those beguiling blue eyes. She’ll have you in her bed, Hugh, if you don’t watch out. Even shackle you into matrimony.’
‘That’s the point. I don’t think she wants any man in her bed!’
Morosely, lapsing into brooding silence, Hugh contemplated the lady’s reluctance. Time had dragged heavily on his hands of late. In the bustle and chatter of Hereford, in the comfort of his home, with servants to answer his every need and friends and family to visit, Hugh had discovered that his habitual haunts and work did not fill his time. Or they filled his time well enough, but left his mind free to wander. If his family found him poor company, they had put it down to the eccentricities of increasing years.
Unconsciously Hugh bared his teeth as he recalled their concerns. Perhaps he should not tax himself so heavily with the King’s work, should think twice before riding the length of the March on royal business. Until, drawing himself to his full height, and with a sharper tone than his family usually heard, Hugh had informed his opinionated son that age was not an issue and to keep his advice to himself. Furthermore, Lord Hugh would be more than grateful if his elder son would keep his officious nose out of his father’s affairs! After which, leaving the Mortimer heir open mouthed and lost for words, Hugh had stomped off, realising that for the first time in his life he was lonely.
Now he ran his fingers through his damp hair and turned his attention back to the immediate. ‘I suppose you couldn’t just admit defeat and go home, Ger.’
‘No.’
‘Henry will be on your trail, breathing fire, when he hears.’
‘Ha! Henry was destined for Anjou, leaving Eleanor in London. We’ll not be seeing the King in the Marches for some time.’ Gervase cut a glance to his friend. ‘After threatening me with severe retribution, Henry suggested I overrun the fortress and force her into marriage!’
‘It’s in character, I suppose. Act first and repent later. Not that it’s in Henry’s nature to repent at all.’ Hugh pursed his lips distastefully. ‘It would not be my advice. And will you do it?’
‘Force her? No.’
‘Well, then?’
In reply, with a sardonic curl to his mouth, Gervase summoned Owen, who was hovering with his horse, already saddled and bridled, beside Fitz Osbern’s tent. He looked the lad over more critically than might have been expected in the middle of a siege. The squire’s livery was impeccably turned out, the dragon shining, as if he expected to be sent on an important mission.
‘Well, you’re smart enough to do the trick, Owen,’ Fitz Osbern observed. ‘You know what you have to do? What you must say?’
/> ‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Then take this.’ He handed over a flat packet.
‘She won’t imprison me, will she, my lord?’
‘If she does, I promise to rescue you.’
‘Or worse…’ Owen ran his tongue over dry lips.
‘If it’s worse, I’ll tell your mother you died bravely in my service.’ Gervase chuckled as Owen’s face drained of blood. ‘No, lad. She’ll not harm you in my name. She might take a dagger to me when my back is turned, but you need have no fears. Off you go, now.’ He gave a helping hand to lift the young squire on to his horse and watched as he cantered toward the castle, the pennons of his little escort fluttering bravely to announce their visit to the unsuspecting lady.
‘I still don’t understand.’ Hugh frowned, impatient.
‘A little subterfuge that might just work. Although I wouldn’t wager my inheritance on it. Still…’ Gervase watched as he saw a familiar figure appear on the battlements, to lean over to look down. There was no mistaking her energetic actions, the proud tilt of her head, even at this distance. He could even imagine the red-gold of her hair glowing in the grey light, the shine of her eyes as curiosity brought her to investigate. A chancy escapade, of course. If she was not amenable, he might be driven to Henry’s advice after all. Yet surely there would be no need. When Gervase recalled the heady beat of her blood beneath his mouth, it sent one message to him.
Her heart was there for him to win.
Rosamund leaned over the battlements. So he would parley, would he?
‘Well?’ She frowned down at the three riders and the hound. Not Fitz Osbern!
‘A message from my Lord of Monmouth. For the Lady of Clifford.’ A youthful voice, with a tremble.
‘Owen? Why does he not come himself?’
‘I am to deliver the message and take back your reply, my lady.’
It seemed innocuous enough. Fitz Osbern’s squire, two soldiers as escort to give him an importance as a messenger, and the ever-inquisitive Bryn. And all very smart, Owen’s livery remarkably clean. She signalled to open the gates and went down to meet him.