Shattered Vows
Authors: Carol Townend
Shattered Vows
Carol Townend
New Revised Edition
Copyright 2013 by Carol Townend
(First Edition published in 1989 by Mills & Boon Limited)
All rights reserved.
Published by Carol Townend 2013
ISBN: 978-1-78301-212-1
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Table of Contents
Description
G
IVEN TO THE LORD’S SQUIRE. . .
Rosamund Miller enjoys a chance May Day encounter with Oliver de Warenne, a squire from the castle. The attraction is mutual and instant but Rosamund is already betrothed, and Oliver’s heart is set on becoming a knight. He knows the chaos of King Stephen’s reign will give him plenty of chances to prove himself. He can’t marry a lowly miller’s daughter.
Rosamund marries. Then, to her horror, her overlord Sir Geoffrey Fitz Neal decides to exercise the little-known
droit de seigneur
– the lord’s right to take a bride on her wedding night. When the man entering the bedchamber turns out to be Oliver, Rosamund is relieved.
The problem is that Oliver is the only man she has ever wanted. Can she trust herself?
Author’s Note
Shattered Vows
was originally published in 1989. The 2013 New Revised Edition has been updated but the story remains broadly the same.
Chapter One
May Day: The Year of Our Lord 1149
R
osamund had almost reached the beach. As she worked her way down the cliff path, stones skittered down the track ahead of her. There was a horse on the sand, a grey stallion. A destrier. Even from this distance, it was clear the saddle and harness were fit for a knight. There was no sign of any knight though, the rest of the beach looked empty. How strange to leave a horse like that unguarded.
Since it was May Day – a Holy Day – Rosamund was wearing her rose-coloured gown, the one usually reserved for Sundays. She didn’t want to rip it. Lifting her skirts clear of rocks and scree in the manner of the ladies at the castle, she continued down the path. Seagulls screeched overhead, bright arcs of light that flashed across a cloudless sky.
If she tore the gown her stepmother, Aeffe, would be furious. Aeffe had had to be bribed to give it to Rosamund. Even though she’d had it for years, she’d been reluctant to part with it until Rosamund’s father had promised compensation in the form of a new one.
Between them, her father and stepmother made Rosamund feel like a beggar. As if she hadn’t earned Aeffe’s wretched cast-offs ten times over! If it weren’t for the fact that her other gown had been in rags, she’d have flung the rose one back in Aeffe’s face. Still, she’d never had a better gown...
Warily, she looked at the destrier. She shrugged, it was only a horse. Carefully, she continued picking her way down the path, one hand holding her skirts, the other occasionally clutching at a rock for balance. Gulls screamed over the whooshing waves. She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, oblivious of the trail of dust smearing across her brow. Her hair was loose, long honey-brown hair that was crowned with a circlet of forget-me-nots, made especially for the holiday.
The horse’s ears had pricked, he was looking her way. Rosamund had come to the beach to be alone, but the horse was a pleasant distraction. ‘Hello. You’re a beauty, and far too fine to be left unattended. You’d fetch a king’s ransom at the market. Are you from the castle?’
The warhorse snickered softly in reply and watched her with huge eyes. His reins were looped round a large boulder.
The incline of the cliff path was less steep at the bottom and Rosamund came onto the beach at a run. The on-shore breeze lifted her hair and it swirled about her.
There had been a recent rock fall. A great chunk of the cliff lay on the beach – grass was growing in the sandy earth that had come down with it. This place was dangerous – children were warned to avoid it. Nearby was another pile of boulders that had tumbled down last autumn. A violent rainstorm had sent water cascading down the cliff. Waves the size of Ingerthorpe Castle had beat against the rocks. Unable to withstand the assault, the cliff walls had been breached and the boulders had thundered onto the sands with a roaring that had sounded like a million ravening beasts. The resulting rubble all but blocked this part of the beach off from the fishing village. It was high and difficult to scale. You could only skirt round it when the tide was at its lowest – as now.
But Rosamund wasn’t interested in walking to the village today. She’d no wish to take part in any May Day celebrations – she had nothing to celebrate. Everyone would be drinking and the main street would be a river of spilled ale by nightfall. The Maypole would be set up near the harbour wall. There’d be coloured ribbons floating in the breeze. There’d be mountebanks, fairings and trinkets. She wasn’t in the mood.
She eyed the grey as she tugged off her boots and dropped them onto the sand. He was a regal beast, nothing like the bony carters’ nags who shifted the sacks of flour to and from Baron Geoffrey’s mill. Their coats were dull with dust and lack of care, this creature had flanks which gleamed white in the bright sunlight. Rosamund wanted to touch him to see if he were real.
The warhorse snorted and blew through his nose. His ears were not angry, nor his eyes...
Slowly, she moved towards him. He was real. Warm to the touch. Flesh and blood like her. The grey dwarfed her, but she was unafraid.
‘I wish I’d known you’d be here,’ she said, stroking the finely arched neck. ‘I would have brought you something to eat. Do you like apples? We have a few left at the bottom of the barrel. They’re wrinkled, it’s true, but they taste sweet.’
The grey nuzzled her ear. Her smile faded as her crown of flowers was snatched from her.
‘No! Stop that!’
Too late. In a swift movement, the destrier had tugged the garland free. Slowly, he began to chew.
Rosamund grabbed for her circlet, but the stallion whipped his head out of reach. His ears pricked forwards, alert. He had heard something. A man was clattering towards them over the smashed rocks. His movements were angry. Instinctively, Rosamund backed a pace or two closer to the cliff path.
‘Get back!’ The newcomer – a young man she didn’t recognise – was shouting. His voice was harsh over the cry of the gulls. ‘Don’t touch that animal!’ His tone was imperious and his accent aristocratic. Foreign.
She’d done nothing wrong – there was no need to feel afraid. ‘I mean no harm,’ she said, clearing her throat as he sprinted towards her. ‘I’ve not hurt him.’ In comparison to the stranger, she was conscious that her northern accent sounded thick and clumsy.
Steely fingers clamped round her arm. The stranger’s eyes were grey and hard as flint. Narrowing, they looked her over and then scoured the beach and cliffs.
‘Who’s with you?’
‘No-one. Ow! That hurts!’
‘And will continue to do so unless you tell me the truth. Who’s with you? Where were you going to take him?’
‘No-one’s with me. I weren’t taking him anywhere,’ she said, and noticed his lips twitch. ‘I were...’ swiftly, she corrected herself ‘...I was just talking to him. Then he ate my garland, and then you appeared, and now you are near breaking my arm.’
‘He ate what?’ The stranger sounded incredulous.
Rosamund gestured at the shingle. ‘See for yourself, you’re standing on it.’
Wintry eyes glanced down and a lock of dark hair fell over his brow. He relaxed his hold, but he didn’t release her.
‘Forget-me-nots,’ he murmured, as if puzzled. He sounded almost human.
‘Aye. At least they were forget-me-nots this morning, they have suffered much since then.’ Rosamund was still wary, but she sensed from the change in the young man’s demeanour that he no longer suspected her of trying to steal his horse.
Who was he? His voice was so strange. His was no rough country dialect, but a polished, cultured voice. His clothes were fine enough to mark him noble and if this was his stallion...
‘What’s your name?’ he asked abruptly.
‘Rosamund. Rosamund Miller.’
Impatiently, he brushed back dark, wind-ruffled hair. Hair that was clean, not matted and knotted like Alfwold’s.
‘I thought so, I’ve seen you at the mill,’ he said. ‘You’re the miller’s daughter?’
She nodded, he was easier to understand when he wasn’t shouting at her.
‘Your father Osric is not a popular man,’ he added bluntly, watching her reaction.
Rosamund lifted a shoulder, she didn’t want to talk about her father, it embarrassed her. The whole village knew he returned short measures of milled grain, sifting off a little from each milling for his own profit. Her father’s dishonesty had always rankled with her, but he never heeded her objections. ‘And you? Am I to know who you are, sir?’
He released her arm. ‘My name is Oliver.’
Which told her nothing. Rosamund was about to pose another question, but the young man parried it with one of his own.
‘Are you dishonest like your father, I wonder?’
‘I...no!’
A cool gaze swept her up and down. Rosamund bristled.
He sighed. ‘No, I don’t think you are. At least not to the extent of being a horse thief. Forgive me my suspicions, this horse is all I have.’
It seemed politic to ignore the insulting thought that this Oliver considered her capable of some dishonesty – even if he didn’t believe she was out to steal his horse.
She smiled tentatively up at him, she would far rather have him for a friend than a foe. He was tall, over six feet, and strongly built. Was he a knight? There was a determined cast to his jaw and he was watching her closely through slate grey eyes which seemed to miss not a detail.
She felt very conscious of her hair hanging down about her face in rats’ tails, tangled by the climb down the cliff and the sea breezes. She flicked it back over her shoulder, suddenly not so sure of herself, though Oliver’s stance had not changed. He said he had seen her before, but she couldn’t recall having seen him. The only time anyone had passed the mill mounted on such a fine horse, they had been in the company of Baron Geoffrey Fitz Neal. Was Oliver part of the baron’s retinue?
He was staring at her with such a supercilious expression on his face. Was he laughing at her?
Rosamund forgot her resolve to smile, she forgot the probable difference in their class and responded as she often did when uncertain of herself. She attacked. ‘There’s no need to stare at me as though I had crawled out of the midden. I haven’t. And there’s no need to look down that long nose of yours at my gown as though it were rags. It’s me – my – best. At least I’ve made more of an effort for the festival than you. Look at you, all plain, dull colours.’
Oliver didn’t rise to the bait as Aeffe would have done. He glanced down at his brown tunic and fingered the clean cream sleeve of his undershirt. ‘Festival? What festival?’
‘You can’t be that ignorant, you must know what day it is.’
He folded his arms across his chest. ‘Remind me.’ He sounded mildly interested, as though he were addressing a fractious child.
Rosamund frowned, his condescension irritated her. ‘It’s May Day.’
‘May Day. Ah, I see,’ he glanced at the trampled flowers and smiled. ‘These were for your sweetheart and Lance and I between us have ruined them. I see I must make reparation.’
Rosamund’s heart gave a little jump. There were two reasons for this and both astonished her. The first was that when Oliver smiled, the hard, bitter lines on his face were erased. His appearance changed to such an extent that she quite forgot how alarming he’d looked, bellowing at her from across the rockfall. He was no longer a frowning, suspicious nobleman, one whom she must outwit if she were to escape a beating. She looked at him with new eyes and saw a young and handsome man who was quite unlike any of the village lads. He was clean for one thing. He didn’t smell. As far as she could see, his only flaw was that one of his teeth had a small chip in it – the chip was only visible when he smiled.