Shattered Vows (2 page)

But the second, most extraordinary thing, was that he seemed to be apologising to her. No man had ever apologised to her. Had she thought about it, she would have supposed it an impossibility. Men didn’t apologise. They might beat, they might cajole, they might even seduce, but they didn’t apologise. Men were never wrong. She goggled up at him, speechless with surprise. She must be dreaming. But she could feel the wind lifting her hair, playing with it. This was happening. She was standing on the edge of the beach, she could feel shingle beneath her bare feet, she could hear the waves. And this proud man, no peasant’s son, was apologising to her, to Rosamund the miller’s daughter.

She could forgive him anything after this. Even that irritating air of condescension. She wanted to savour this. Lord, the man was apologising to her.

Watching her staring at him with her mouth agape, Oliver decided the girl – Rosamund, her name was Rosamund – must be simple. He reached out and put a finger under her chin to close her mouth.

‘How may I make amends?’ he asked softly. ‘What would you have me do?’

She may be lacking in wits, but he’d no wish to startle her. It was such a pity she was simple, for she was uncommonly pretty with fathomless blue eyes and glorious honey-coloured hair. Did she have a sweetheart? And how would he treat her, this lover of hers? Would he be gentle with her, or would he take advantage of her simple nature and use her before casting her aside?

Rosamund blinked, Oliver’s gentleness was yet another novelty. ‘You want to make amends?’

She felt like pinching herself. He would surely prove to be like other men – he couldn’t be real. Men didn’t apologise, men weren’t usually gentle. His behaviour was so outside her experience, so unlike her father...

Oliver made her spine tingle, it was as though he were a spirit. He wasn’t real. Real men didn’t look so strong, so handsome, or so clean. Used as she was to downtrodden, humble peasant men who hadn’t the means to wear fine, clean clothes, this man seemed to shine.

With a sudden shiver of excitement, Rosamund felt that she had recognised the truth. He was a spirit. Someone so handsome couldn’t be human. Had he been summoned up for her as part of this magical day? One of her last days as an unmarried woman...

Her superstitious mind latched onto the thought and embellished it. The grey of the sea was reflected in his eyes. Yes, now she understood, May Day belonged to the old gods and they had brought him to her. The old gods had sent him riding in from the sea on his great horse and for today he was hers. It wasn’t something to consider too closely, lest he vanish like the morning mists. She smiled up at him, delighted with her fantasy.

‘What reparation shall I make?’ Oliver asked, bending to pick up the forget-me-nots so he could give himself time to accustom himself to her smile.

Oliver couldn’t remember when a maid had looked at him like this, she was staring at him as though he were a god and he was human enough to enjoy it. She was completely natural, there wasn’t a trace of artifice or malice in that smile. And her eyes met his directly. She couldn’t be more different from the simpering, scheming ladies he’d met since his return to England. Their eyes never fell on him without reminding him of his mother’s shame. There’d been scorn and pity in their every glance. He’d heard the titters as they’d whispered about him behind their hands and he’d forced himself to affect insouciance, though he felt like throttling them all.

But now, here he was on the beach with the miller’s daughter – a peasant girl – and she was making him feel things he thought he had suppressed long ago. This girl was filling him with longings he would never act on. He couldn’t afford to. Acting on such desires would be bound to upset the carefully plotted course of his life.

‘You will do anything?’ she asked.

Against his better judgement, Oliver nodded.

‘I’d like you to be my escort,’ she said. Her voice was low and melodious. ‘Just for today, of course.’

Her dialect was less pronounced than it had been even moments ago. It was as though she were imitating him. Who was it had told him that peasants could be splendid lovers but should never be encouraged to talk? They had never heard this girl speak.

‘It would be my pleasure,’ he heard himself say.

She gave him another of those innocent, devastating smiles. The bright day had caught him in its net. Hell, why not? He would let a shy, admiring smile and honest eyes seduce him from his path. Gladly. But only for a day. That was all she asked. She didn’t seem to expect or want more, this simple maid.

He would forget who he was and what he was, while basking in the pleasure of her smile. For a day. And tomorrow...tomorrow he would return to Geoffrey. His new lord. His cousin, Sir Geoffrey Fitz Neal.

Geoffrey would taunt him if he could see how easily a pair of smiling rosy lips had entranced him. With such ammunition, his cousin’s baiting would know no bounds. The thought of Geoffrey’s mocking face as he had last seen it, laughing with his fellows, twisted Oliver’s stomach into an angry knot. The stallion at his side shifted, dragging a hoof through the sand. No, he’d bury his anger, forget his cousin for a while, and enjoy the company of the miller’s daughter.

She must have picked up on his flare of anger for she had stepped back, and taken her bottom lip between her teeth. She looked timid, even frightened.

Firmly, Oliver banished the fury from his mind and eyes. He found a smile and watched, bemused, as her eyes lit up.
Mon Dieu
, if he didn’t watch out for her, a less scrupulous man might come upon her and...

She wasn’t fit to be abroad on her own if she smiled at every man she met in such a fashion – particularly on May Day.

He would see her safe till eventide and return her to the mill. Knowing Osric Miller’s reputation, her father would be out enjoying the festival, there would be no-one at the mill to keep an eye on her until later tonight. Tomorrow the girl would be safely back at work, thankfully she’d be too busy to be wandering unprotected all over the countryside.

Today she would be safe – with him.

***

‘I love these little stones,’ Rosamund said, pointing at the broken rocks and shingle brought down by the cliff fall. ‘I spend hours here when I can get away. I collect them.’ She spoke slowly – she was making a fair attempt to mimic his mode of speech.

Oliver looked askance at the untidy heap of rocks. ‘What, these?’

She laughed. ‘Oh, not just any old stone. The special ones.’

‘Of course,’ Oliver smiled, he supposed he ought to humour her. It was such a waste of a pretty maid...

‘No, no,’ she surprised him by saying. ‘I can see you don’t understand. Look.’ Catching his hand, she pulled him over to the nearest pile of rubble. She bent and began to sort through the small stones, setting a few to one side.

Oliver sat back on his heels and watched her, sifting sand through his fingers. Rosamund’s rich, earthy beauty fascinated him almost as much as her smile. At times, she had the bearing of a queen. Rich, golden-brown hair flowed about her shoulders and down her back, a shiny mass swaying in the wind. The elbows of the pink gown were darned and she had pushed up the sleeves to reveal delicate, feminine arms. He wanted to touch them, but instead he sifted through the sand and watched the way her work-scarred but nimble fingers picked out a few particular stones. He could see little to distinguish the ones she had chosen from the ones she had rejected. Such a pity...

‘Look.’ She held out a grey stone. ‘No, really look at it. I don’t believe you even glanced at it.’

Obediently, he took the stone from her palm, dropping his eyes from hers. The stone was about an inch wide, almost round. Clearly marked across its surface was a ridged pattern in a spiral shape.

Their eyes met over the stone.

‘You see! There are lots like this. You have to search hard to find them, but once you know where to look, there are dozens, just waiting to be found.’

Oliver reached past her and chose another stone, a tiny one, from her collection. It had the same markings, like a spiral. As did they all. It was merely the size that varied. So there was some method in it...

‘There’s a story...’ she hesitated, flushing.

‘Yes?’

‘The village priest – Father Cedric – told it to me before he died, it’s an ancient story. It goes back to the days before the Sea Raiders came.’

‘Go on.’

‘It’s only a tale for children, I’ve been told I shouldn’t listen to such...’ Rosamund hesitated, but Oliver’s smile was encouraging. That chipped front tooth was visible, she found it oddly attractive. This strong young man was not invulnerable, his broken tooth proved his humanity.

She smiled back. ‘A holy lady lived high up on the cliffs. A saint, named Hilda. She was renowned for her goodness and wisdom. Saint Hilda wasn’t a hermit, and she didn’t scorn the common people – everyone came to her for help. The world brought her their woes. She would see anyone, rich or poor, and it was said that she could solve any problem, however dire.

‘One day the countryside around was visited by a terrible scourge – a plague of poisonous snakes overran the village. The snakes were everywhere and there was no escaping them. They hid in lofts and barns and cottages. Many people died.

‘Some believed that the devil had sent the snakes to torment them. Others thought God was punishing them for their wickedness. The people set traps for the snakes and they killed scores of them. But more snakes appeared, and then more, it seemed there was no end to them. No-one was safe.

‘Finally the villagers went to Saint Hilda and begged for help. She went down into the village, and started driving the snakes before her with her staff. She herded them up to the top of the cliff as though they were sheep and commanded them to go over the edge. They obeyed. Every last snake met its death at the bottom of the cliff.’

Oliver rested his chin on his hand. His gaze was intent, thoughtful. She noticed that the grey in his eyes was outlined with a soot-black ring.

‘Is that it?’ he asked, with a puzzled frown.

‘Not quite. These...’ she gestured at the tiny, swirled stones ‘...these are said to be the snakes. Father Cedric explained it. He told me that when the snakes fell, they curled up tight as hedgehogs so they could roll safely down the cliff. But the tide was in, so they drowned. And here they are. Still curled up. Turned to stone.’

‘And you collect them,’ Oliver said.

‘Yes. You have your horse, he is your finest treasure, is he not?’

Oliver nodded.

‘Well, these are my treasures. They have such a pretty pattern on them. They have no real value, I know, but they are all mine,’ her voice trailed off and her cheeks scorched.

Now the tale was done, Rosamund felt embarrassed. How he must be laughing at her! ‘You must think me very foolish,’ she said, avoiding that cool, penetrating gaze. ‘It’s only a tale, I know, but...’ she shrugged. She wasn’t often allowed out from the mill, and was conscious that one of the reasons she valued these stones was that to her they represented freedom. But she couldn’t expect this man to understand that.

When he caught at her hand she risked a glance and caught a glimpse of his broken tooth. It only showed when he smiled...

‘I’ve not heard that story. I like it.’ His thumb moved gently across her fingertips. Her hand trembled and she withdrew it, heart jumping.

‘I...I’m thirsty,’ she said, her eyes going to the leather bottle hanging from the warhorse’s saddle.

‘Help yourself. When you’ve finished, bring me the flask, I’m parched too.’

Feeling as though he’d been wrong-footed, Oliver sat on the sand and watched her patter over to Lance and unhook the flask. Had his assessment of this girl been too hasty? She didn’t drink but brought the bottle straight back to him.

‘After you,’ Oliver said, smiling at her rigid sense of class. ‘Today I am your squire, am I not?’

‘Ye...es,’ she said, doubtfully.

‘Then you shouldn’t wait on me. Drink. Rosamund, what age are you?’

‘Sixteen.’

She sipped and offered him the bottle, and a gust of wind cloaked both hand and flask with long, silken tresses. She laughed, tossing her head in a vain attempt to control her hair, but the breeze wouldn’t release it and it floated about her – a cloud of rich, honey-brown.

‘My hair’s writhing about like those snakes,’ she said. ‘They’ve been brought back to life.’

Oliver pushed to his feet, and looked down at her. He put up a hand and slowly lifted a windswept lock aside. When his other hand met hers on the flask, her laughter died.

He shook his head slowly. ‘It looks nothing of the kind.’

‘No?’ Her voice was husky.

‘No.’ Oliver shook his head on a sigh. Her hair ran over his palm, like a caress. His gut clenched. ‘It’s a lover’s place to whisper compliments...and I am no maid’s lover.’ He looked down at the hand covering hers on the flask. Then he took the bottle and turned his back on her.

‘Why not?’ Rosamund had to ask. The bright day had made her bold. Today was not a normal day, if it were she wouldn’t so much as look at him, he was far, far above her. A bird soaring over a lowly worm. But today... ‘Why are you no maid’s lover?’

He laughed. It was a bitter sound. ‘No-one would have me.’

‘Why not?’

He swung round. ‘I live in the castle, it’s a different world in there. You know nothing of it and it is best it remains so.’ He scrubbed at his forehead. ‘You are not as I had imagined, you are quite able to take care of yourself. I should take my leave.’

Rosamund felt her face fall. He was angry, her impertinent question had angered him. ‘Please stay. I won’t pry. Please?’

Oliver caught up the reins, preparing to mount. Seeing her crestfallen expression, he felt himself weaken even though he knew he should be on his way. He couldn’t afford to become involved with this girl. But those eyes! The unguarded way they gazed at a man, as though he were the answer to her prayers...

Don’t look at her
. He thrust his foot into the stirrup and threw himself into the saddle. He had no room in his life for someone like Rosamund, even if she did possess the most alluring eyes he’d ever seen. He must go.