Shattered Vows (8 page)

‘I like forget-me-nots,’ Rosamund said. She was cold with dread at what Aeffe might say next. ‘There was no other reason.’

‘No?’

‘No!’
It was true, she hadn’t gone to the beach to meet anyone. She hadn’t known that Oliver de Warenne was going to be there. She’d never spoken to him before and she’d never speak to him again.

Alfwold reached for Rosamund’s hand. ‘I know about the flowers.’

Aeffe reached for her ale-cup. ‘Oh...?’

‘They were an offering. I saw them on the shrine where Rosamund put them. She has made a vow.’

Slowly, Rosamund exhaled. Maybe it would be alright...

‘A vow?’ Osric held his cup out for more ale. ‘What nonsense is this?’

‘I haven’t told my family, Alfwold.’ Rosamund looked an appeal at the grindstone dresser. ‘It’s a secret.’

Alfwold’s eyes searched hers. It was difficult to meet his gaze but she managed it. ‘I’ll honour your secret, lass. It will be safe with me.’

‘What’s going on?’ Osric’s voice was testy as he rattled his cup against the board. ‘Would you mind telling me what you’re talking about?’

Alfwold slapped her father on the back and winked at his betrothed. ‘Nothing, Osric. Just a private matter between Rosamund and myself, you understand. More ale?’

Osric gave a derisive snort. His nose was red with the quantity of ale he’d already drunk, and no sooner had his cup been filled than he was tipping it down his throat.

Rosamund glanced guiltily at her betrothed. Thank God someone had put that posy in the shrine and that he’d noticed. He’d assumed that she’d put it here. She didn’t want to deceive him but better a little deceit than have Aeffe sour her marriage.

I never intended to meet Oliver at the beach...

Dear God, it was bad enough to have to marry Alfwold but the alternatives were worse. At least with a husband to stand by her she might have a half-decent life. She wasn’t going to allow Aeffe to wreck that.

While she’d been thinking, Osric and Alfwold had been talking softly together. They seemed to have firmed up on their arrangement over the paying of the bride fine.

‘Right then,’ Osric lifted his cup. ‘You’d best come with me to see Sir Geoffrey. We’ll go in the morning.’

‘Agreed.’ Alfwold grinned. ‘The sooner we’re wed the better.’

A trickle of ale ran down Osric’s chin. ‘If you want the wedding to be soon, you’d best visit Abbot William in the morning.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Our village priest Father Cedric died some weeks back. Dropped dead while working his field strip. We’ve been waiting for the bishop to send another priest and in the meantime Abbot William is handling church affairs.’

Alfwold grinned and looked at Rosamund. ‘There’s no need for me to go the monastery, the new priest’s arrived – I’ve met him.’

Rosamund’s heart, which had risen at the thought of a reprieve, however temporary, sank like a stone. ‘Where did you meet him?’

‘He was in the alehouse. Name of Father Eadric. The bishop’s given him a parchment to mark his appointment.’

Rosamund’s eyebrows lifted. ‘I didn’t know you could read.’

Alfwold leaned back and the bench creaked. ‘I can’t, lass, but I saw the seals on the document. Bright red they are, dangling on blue ribbons.’

‘So Father Eadric will wed us?’

‘That he will. All we need is the lord’s permission and Father Eadric will wed us at the church gate.’ His eyes brightened and he jerked his head at the jug of ale. ‘That new priest can certainly put away his ale. I’ve never seen a man of the cloth sink a jar so fast.’

Rosamund pinned on a smile and took the hint. She passed the brew over to her betrothed.

***

Three evenings later.

Rosamund’s head was pounding, but at least it was over. She and Alfwold were married and she was walking home from church in her pink gown. Her husband had her by the arm, and her father and stepmother were walking alongside.

Father Eadric had rushed the ceremony, gabbling the words, and for that mercy she was thankful – the ordeal hadn’t lasted long. It was over. She was married and it was Alfwold rather than Osric whose authority she must now heed.

She thought about the rushed ceremony. It was likely that Father Eadric had no more learning that she did. The Latin words were probably as incomprehensible to him as they were to everyone else. Father Cedric hadn’t bothered with the pretence of understanding them either. Only a handful of very holy men – the abbot, the bishop – understood the language of God.

She rubbed her brow with the back of her hand. She felt as though the devil had set up an anvil in her brain and was forging chains in there. Through the banging, she had picked up that Osric and Alfwold were talking about taking her up to Ingerthorpe Castle. She struggled to understand what they were saying.

‘What...what did you say? I don’t think I can have heard you aright.’

‘You did,’ Osric said grimly. ‘You did.’

Aeffe sniggered and Rosamund felt a prickle of foreboding. Aeffe hadn’t looked so pleased since Osric had bought the cloth for her last gown...

‘What’s amiss? Why are you all looking at me so oddly?’ Something was very wrong. ‘Alfwold?’ Her fingers clenched on the folds of the rose pink gown.

Alfwold shut his eyes and it came to her that he couldn’t bear to look at her. Why? What was going on?

Aeffe smiled. ‘You’re to go straight to the castle.’ Her eyes were bright, she was inordinately pleased about something – so pleased that she had forgotten her ‘lady of the manor’ voice and was speaking in as broad an accent as Osric. This, rather than her actual words, sent a shiver down Rosamund’s spine.

‘The castle? Why?’

Aeffe giggled. ‘Sir Geoffrey’s taken a fancy to you. He’s waived the wedding fine on condition that you spend the first night of your married life in his chambers.’

Rosamund froze. It couldn’t be true, she doubted Sir Geoffrey even knew what she looked like. ‘Alfwold?’ But Alfwold was staring fixedly at an oak tree. She turned to her father. ‘F..father?’

Osric shrugged. His face was set, like a stone. ‘Alfwold is to accompany you. He’ll leave you at the castle and he’ll fetch you back in the morning.’

Rosamund’s tongue seemed to have stuck to her palate.

‘Alfwold will come for you after Sir Geoffrey has finished with you,’ Aeffe added.

‘I don’t believe you!’ Rosamund almost choked. ‘If this is your idea of a game, Aeffe, I don’t think much of it.’

‘Mind your mouth.’ Osric gave her a black look. ‘You forget yourself. This was none of your stepmother’s doing. You’re expected at the castle.’

‘Alfwold, tell me it isn’t true.’

Her husband stared at the tree. ‘It’s true.’

‘No.
No!
Alfwold, tell me you’ll stand by me – you won’t let them send me to Sir Geoffrey – you’re my husband, for pity’s sake!’

At last Alfwold looked at her. ‘Rosamund,’ he said, sadly.

And then she knew her husband would send her to the castle. He wouldn’t stand by her. He would let Baron Geoffrey waive the merchet and buy her body for the night and he would do nothing. He would do nothing because he was only a millstone dresser and if he was to settle in Ingerthorpe, Sir Geoffrey would be his liege lord. He must obey him.

‘There must be a way out of this! You can’t let him buy me as if I was a...a whore!’

‘Aren’t you?’ Aeffe whispered under her breath.

Rosamund glared at them. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about this before the ceremony?’

‘It would have made no difference, lass,’ Alfwold said. Of the three faces turned her way, his was the only one to be creased with concern. ‘You’d simply have fretted for longer.’

‘You should have told me! You should have given me a choice – particularly since it’s my body that you’ve sold!’

Osric snorted, and turned away. ‘Alfwold, you sort her out, she’s your wife. Come, Aeffe, let’s get to the tavern, I could do with wetting my lips.’

‘Father, you can’t just-’

Aeffe laughed and took Osric’s arm. ‘See you tomorrow, Rosamund, my dear.’

Rosamund watched in disbelief as her father and Aeffe turned their backs on her and walked away. ‘My God,’ she spoke through gritted teeth. ‘My God.’

‘Come, lass,’ Alfwold said, very gently. ‘I’ll take you to the castle.’

Rosamund felt him take her by the hand and pull her towards the turn in the road. She must be in shock, she couldn’t believe this was happening.

‘There must be a way out, what if I refuse to go?’

He gave her a straight look. ‘They’ll probably hang me for breaking my oath to Sir Geoffrey.’

‘Oh.’

She believed him. It wasn’t fair, but Rosamund knew that an ordinary man like Alfwold could do nothing against the might of a lord. It was the way of the world. There was a short silence while they walked through the violet evening light. Overhead, a house martin arched through the darkening skies.

‘Alfwold, whose idea was it?’

‘Not mine, you can be certain of that.’

‘Aye, but whose? Was it Aeffe?’

He shook his head. ‘This had nothing to do with Aeffe. Osric and I went to the castle alone. Sir Geoffrey was in the hall at the head of the table. His chair had a back on it like a throne. We went up to him and he asked us our business. Osric told him. The baron asked your name and Osric told him. Baron Geoffrey asked if you are comely.’

Rosamund almost tripped. ‘What?’

‘You heard. I told him you are very comely and he gave a little smile. Seemed to think it amusing.’

‘Amusing!’

Alfwold’s chest heaved. ‘Then Sir Geoffrey told us that he’d let your father off paying the merchet if we brought you straight to the castle after the ceremony. He said that he’d never claimed the right of the first night before, but that he was going to do it today.’

‘The right of the first night?’ She stared. ‘Isn’t that a myth?’

‘Not according to Sir Geoffrey.’

‘And you accepted it,’ Rosamund said, bitterly. ‘Without a word.’

Alfwold swung round to face her. ‘Not at first I didn’t. You must know me better than that. But Baron Geoffrey was dead set on having you...er...on you going up to the castle. Rosamund, lass, I had no choice. You’re not the first person in the world to have things foisted on you.’

She put her head in her hands. ‘I wish you’d warned me...’

He pulled her hands from her face and steered her inexorably on. Towards the castle.

‘Rosamund, I know this must grieve you, especially with that vow you have made.’

‘Vow?’ Her brows knotted, and then she remembered the lie she had fabricated and laughed aloud. ‘Oh, aye. My vow.’

‘I wanted to marry you, lass. I won’t hold it against you that you do not come a virgin to our marriage bed.’

‘How kind.’

Her sarcasm was lost on him. ‘Well, my lass,’ he said reasonably, ‘I don’t see how I can blame you. It’s not your fault. The baron will only have tonight. We’ll have the rest of our lives.’

Already, they had reached the castle footbridge. In another moment or two they would have passed the sentries and she’d be inside. At the mercy of Baron Geoffrey of Ingerthorpe whose whim it was that she should spend the first night of her marriage with him and not with her husband. He even thought it funny.

God save her.

***

Rosamund lay quaking in bed. Waiting.

She was so full of anger and fear that she was oblivious to the luxury of her surroundings. She could hear, floating up from the hall below, gales of drunken laughter. What kind of a monster was Baron Geoffrey that he should decide to take, sight unseen, an unwilling girl to his bed?

She hadn’t had to face the devils carousing in his great hall. The porter at the castle entrance had dismissed Alfwold and summoned an elderly woman. The woman’s face, if Rosamund been able to see past her fury, had been kind and full of sympathy. She had been led up a wide, twisting stairway past the hall, and higher still. She had been taken along a cold, dank and badly-lit corridor between the castle walls. To this bedchamber.

She had been bathed and scrubbed white in a large wooden tub. They’d brought hot water. And as if that were not extravagance enough, the water had been fragrant with the scent of the wild roses which would soon be blooming in the hedgerows. A fragrance she would normally have favoured.

Rosamund had barely noticed. She had withdrawn into herself, away from a grim reality where a girl could be taken against her will and put in a man’s room and no-one, not even her husband, would lift a finger to help her.

Her limbs had felt stiff. She had allowed the woman to dry her. She had allowed her to comb out and dry her long, honey-brown hair, and tie it loosely with a white silk ribbon. She had allowed herself to be dressed in a soft blue gown which had gold threads running through it. She hadn’t lifted a finger to help.

And now she lay waiting, numb in mind and body, with her eyes fixed on a flickering candle in the wall sconce. A burst of crude laughter drew her gaze to the door – it was solid oak, and studded with nails. There was no key.

Was it her imagination or were there voices approaching? As sounds ebbed and flowed, she tried to force her muscles to ease. Her nails were ploughing furrows in her palms. Deliberately she unclenched her fingers and willed herself to relax.

What was she going to do? Fight her liege lord?

Then she heard it again – another wave of sound. Footsteps were surging up the steps. Towards this chamber. She shrank under the fine linen and dragged the furs over her head to muffle the shouting. It didn’t work. Someone roared with laughter, a deep belly laugh which rumbled through the air and brought into her anguished mind the image of a bear of a man with a large paunch. She thought she heard a shout of anger. Then her mind went blank and she could not for a moment recall what Sir Geoffrey Fitz Neal looked like.

She burrowed deep under the coverings and curled into a ball like a hedgehog. She had never felt such dread. She knew she was a coward for she couldn’t bring herself to peer out and look at her would-be seducer.

Rigid with apprehension, she heard the door slam. A key grated in the lock. There were more shouts of mocking laughter from the drunks in the corridor. And another of those curt, angry responses which Rosamund had half-heard a moment ago.