Shattered Vows (27 page)

She tore herself out of his arms. The breeze pulled on her hair and she looped it back over her ear. ‘I wouldn’t have deceived you. It wouldn’t have been right.’

‘Why not?’ he asked, eyes watchful.

‘Because...because I want...Sweet Mother, I can’t tell you,’ she muttered. ‘Don’t press me on this, I beg you, for I cannot say.’ She hunched her shoulder on him and stared into the foaming water.

‘Very well.’

She thought she heard a sigh, although his next words were prosaic enough to dispel the idea that he cared enough to be interested in her answer. ‘Come, my angel, lead me to that encampment. We’ve rested enough.’

She didn’t want to leave the falls. Once they reached the castle, Oliver’s old life would rush back at him – his oath to Baron Geoffrey, Lady Cecily – and Rosamund would be shoved aside.

‘I like it here. Don’t you?’

‘It’s very beautiful, but I have to redeem myself at the castle if I want to keep my position.’

‘It’s known as Angel Falls.’

‘Lead on, if you please,’ he said, taking her hand. He was looking downstream, assessing the lie of the land, she’d lost his attention.

She ignored the pull on her hand. ‘Do you know why it’s Angel Falls?’

‘Tell me later.’

‘I’ll tell you now,’ she said, wrenching free.

His lips tightened. ‘Rosamund?’

‘I’d like to tell you now. A beautiful lady with the face of an angel once lived at the top of the falls. She fell in love-’

‘
Mon Dieu
, this is no time for telling tales!’ He took her wrist and hauled her towards the pool. ‘Where’s that ledge?’

She hung back and the words tumbled out. ‘The lady fell in love with a humble suitor, but their love was doomed because her father was very ambitious. He separated the lovers and forced the lady to marry a wealthy merchant from Scarborough.’

Oliver made a movement of exasperation.

‘I’m nearly done. Please, Oliver?’

He crossed his arms. ‘Lord, if you must tell this tale, hurry up. We need to be on our way.’

‘Thank you. The lovers couldn’t bear to be parted. They met secretly at the base of the falls. The merchant found out. He swore to kill the lady’s penniless lover. He laid a trap, and concealed himself over there.’ She pointed. ‘The lovers agreed to meet at noon to say a last farewell. The merchant waited.’ She glanced at him from under her lashes, he was listening despite himself.

‘Go on.’

‘The tryst went ahead only this time they met at the top.’

Oliver looked up the frothing cascade to the summit. Then he glanced back at her, frowning. ‘Rosamund?’

She smiled. ‘Eventually the merchant found them at the bottom of the pool. Their bodies were entwined together so tightly they couldn’t be separated. That’s why at noon on a hot and sunny day, like the one on which they died, it’s said that you can see angel’s wings shining through the spray. Angel Falls. It’s God’s memorial to true love.’

His frown deepened. ‘What are you trying to say?’

‘Why nothing, Sir Oliver,’ she made her voice light. ‘It is but a pretty story, I thought you should hear it.’

Shaking his head, he hustled her towards the ledge.

‘I like the story of Angel Falls,’ she said, lifting her voice over the rush of the water. ‘Aren’t you moved by the thought that two people might prefer to die together rather than live apart?’

‘I’ve never heard anything more ridiculous in my life. I swear you made it up.’ He gave her a little push. ‘Get along with you. Heaven help me that I am forced to put my trust in you!’

‘But you do trust me?’

‘What alternative do I have?’ he said, with devastating frankness.

A lump formed in her throat.

He huffed out a breath. ‘I have a hazy recollection of meeting a young maid on a beach. It was like a dream, a fevered imagining I had while I was out of my head. Allow me to tell it to you. You can judge whether it’s true or not.’ He picked up a strand of her hair and weighed it idly in his palm. His eyes were as cold as the water in the pool behind them. ‘She was most comely, the maid on the beach. Her robe was pink, like yours. She had rich honey brown hair which flowed like silk and the body of an angel. But it was her eyes which lingered in the mind.’ He looked deep into the eyes in question and lowered his voice. ‘Huge blue eyes, bright as jewels, but lovelier than any gem.’ He released her hair and scowled at the churning water in the pool. ‘Those eyes lie.’

She swallowed. ‘They lie?’

‘Aye. Most prettily, but they lie. For although the maid had all the beauty a woman could wish for, most of it lay in those honest, smiling eyes.’ He whirled round and hard fingers bit into her shoulders. ‘In my dream, I had given up hope of finding a woman I might trust. Until then I had seen many things in women’s eyes – scorn, calculation, greed, indifference – but never such honesty. Coupled with your innocence, you all but unmanned me.’

‘You do remember,’ she said, speaking through stiff lips. His anger confused her.

‘I remember the beach. And you. Your eyes and your innocence. I wanted to keep you by me.’ He took a breath. ‘I don’t want to find that you’re no different from the rest. Rosamund, would you lie and cheat to gain your ends?’

Her heart sank like a stone. ‘Didn’t you hear me tell Lufu I would be honest with you? Didn’t you?’

He watched her with eyes that seemed a million miles away. ‘That was when you thought yourself married to the stone-cutter. You changed your tune as soon as you thought you had a chance of snaring a knight.’

‘No, no! That was Lufu’s thought, not mine.’

‘Was it really, my love? I confess I am instantly reassured by your protestations.’ He gave a heavy sigh. ‘Now, much as I admire the charm of Angel Falls, it’s time to go. Do you think you could set your mind to finding that encampment?’

Anger flared inside her. ‘If you think so badly of me, why on earth did you stop Alfwold taking me back to the mill?’

His eyes were as hard as slate. He gestured towards the ledge. ‘The direction of the rebel camp?’

‘Don’t use that tone on me, I’m not one of your men.’

‘No, you’re not are you?’ His gaze swept her from head to toe. She was conscious of the spray dampening her pink gown. When dry it was the most modest of garments, but it was clinging to her shape in a way she was sure was revealing. She tightened the strings of her cloak and hunched herself more securely inside it. Oliver’s lips twitched, but she could take no comfort from that – his eyes remained stony.

‘The camp?’

‘I’ll show you, although there’s no need for us to get drenched, I can point it out from this side of the river.’

‘Oh?’

‘We’re on foot and it’s easier to reach the castle if we stay on the north bank. Follow me.’ She pushed between some bushes and onto the path and Oliver followed. The roar of the falls faded and she became aware of other sounds – the cry of a hawk, the chatter of a wren. The river was close, she could hear it as it bubbled towards her father’s millpond. She could hear the squabbling of gulls and the everyday sounds of villagers at work on their strip fields – voices, oxen clinking in their yokes.

Rosamund knew this area like the back of her hand. Ahead, the river Esk flowed through the village which had been her home for every one of her sixteen years. It wound on from there to mingle with the waters of the sea and she could visualise it every foot of the way. It seemed strange that everything remained the same. She had changed so much in these past few days, she half expected everything else to have changed too.

She could feel Oliver’s breath on her neck. ‘Mind you don’t tread on my heels.’

‘I like to have you within arms’ length, my love.’

Her stomach fell. He really didn’t trust her. He feared she might betray him and he wanted her within reach. Her nose inched up. ‘We’re almost at the camp,’ she said, quietly. ‘Then we’ll take the cliff path to the castle. It’s by far the most direct route.’

‘How good of you to tell me. Is that to put me off my guard?’

She looked over her shoulder and the glare she sent him should have burnt him to a cinder. He smiled calmly back. She huffed out a breath and kept going. She wasn’t going to look his way again.

***

They had passed the mill and climbed the rise, and were cutting across the cliff-top towards the castle. There was little in the way of cover. There were no shrubs – just some tussocky grass and a scattering of thrift bobbing in a brisk breeze. A straggling line of misshapen, wind-bent trees told those who had eyes to see that, up here, the east wind reigned supreme.

The sea air had swept away the cobwebs – Oliver’s head was no longer throbbing in that thought-hobbling way. His energy had returned and he was striding easily, confidently. He felt almost relaxed.

He was remembering. Slowly, far too slowly for his liking, but his memory was returning. When Rosamund had pointed out the direction of the rebel encampment, he’d been able to work out its location in relation to the castle. As they’d marched past her father’s mill the sense of urgency had permitted only the most cursory of glances. But it had been enough to set his spirits soaring – he recognised it. And something had shifted in the back of his mind, clicking into place. Something which had him turning instinctively for the shortcut to Ingerthorpe Castle.

He altered his stride to avoid stumbling in a cluster of rabbit holes. A pair must have escaped the Abbey’s coney garth – this was a flourishing warren. And a poacher’s paradise. A tell-tale net lay tangled and torn by one of the rabbit-holes. The fibres were rotting and in need of repair. Had it been forgotten? Or had the poacher been caught by the baron’s warrener? Though the rabbits were wild, by rights they belonged to the lord – anyone taking them would be accused of poaching.

Oliver’s gaze sharpened and he cocked his head to one side. A troop of horse-soldiers was galloping along the cliff-top. Pennons streamed out behind them. Steel flashed.

‘Horses,’ he said, tersely.

Rosamund caught his arm. ‘They’re charging straight at us!’

He thrust her behind him and stood, legs braced slightly apart, facing the oncoming troop. His hand hovered over his sword hilt. One of the pennons was red and gold, the other blue and black. The ground shook. Hell burn it, he couldn’t recall Baron Geoffrey’s colours!

‘You can see my lord’s colours?’

‘The red and the gold?’ she asked. He could feel her hanging onto his tunic. ‘Yes. The black gelding at the head belongs to Sir Brian Martell, he’s my lord’s youngest knight.’

‘Keep your head up, angel,’ he said. ‘We must brazen this out. I don’t want them mistaking fear for guilt.’ Gently, he peeled her hand from his tunic.

‘I’m afraid,’ she whispered.

‘Don’t be. Stand firm, I’ll-’

Great hoofs drummed, casting up clods of turf. There was a jingle of spurs and harness and with a flourish the troop drew rein a sword’s length away.

‘Good day, Sir Brian.’ Oliver inclined his head and hoped he looked calmer than he felt. His heart was thudding, he was well aware that his absence from the castle might have been misconstrued as desertion.

‘De Warenne.’ Sir Brian gave him a terse nod.

The man was bright as a poppy with his scarlet surcoat over his chainmail. When he didn’t lift his visor, tension coiled in Oliver’s guts. Rosamund had said that Sir Brian was young, but with his hair and features concealed in his helmet, he looked every inch the implacable knight. Oliver’s recollection of him was still vague. However, he hadn’t missed the fact that Sir Brian had avoided using Oliver’s title. And because of that helm, he couldn’t see enough of his face to judge whether the omission had been accidental or deliberate. He decided to let it pass. He also decided to speak in English for Rosamund’s benefit.

‘You’re in command of these men, Martell?’

Sir Brian nodded and – thank Heaven! – doffed his helmet. Balancing it on his pommel, he pushed back his mail coif. He was indeed young and a mixture of expressions flitted across his face. Embarrassment. Discomfort. It came to Oliver that though Sir Brian knew that he should make the next move, he was uncertain as to what to do.

That weakness might be used to Oliver’s advantage...

Oliver ran an experienced eye over the steaming horses. Their chests were heaving after their gallop along the cliff-path. He shook his head. ‘If you plan to return my cousin’s horses to the stable in the same condition as they left it, you might take some heed of the terrain.’

Sir Brian’s jaw dropped. ‘Eh?’

Oliver gestured at the honeycomb of rabbit-holes. ‘The warren, man. One false step and you’ve got a screaming horse with a broken leg.’

Sir Brian’s face went the colour of his surcoat. He seemed to recollect that it was he who should be taking the initiative, for he drew himself up and opened his mouth.

Oliver got in first. ‘I don’t expect you’ve had the pleasure of finishing off a horse, have you?’ he asked, quietly.

‘No.’

‘It’s not the easiest task.’ He grimaced. ‘Very unpleasant. Messy. And, Brian, lad?’

‘De Warenne?’ Sir Brian, red to his ears, eyed him warily.

‘Never lead a troop of horses to a flat-out gallop unless it’s absolutely vital. Think of the poor beasts labouring under the combined weight of you and your armour. You exhaust their reserves and when you come to need it most, you’ll find they don’t have a trot left in them, never mind a gallop.’

Sir Brian cleared his throat and glanced at the rest of the troop as though drawing strength from their presence. ‘De Warenne, these knights owe fealty to Lord Gilbert Hewitt. We have combined forces and we’re charged with the task of finding you and bringing you in.’ Leather creaked as he shifted in his saddle. He looked as though he was sitting on a thistle.

‘Bringing me in? Surely you’re not asking me to surrender my sword?’ Oliver held the young man’s gaze. ‘Is there a charge against me?’

Martell’s eyes slid away. ‘No, no charge. But...but you were missing at reveille, and before my lord was wounded he commanded-’

Oliver snatched at the bridle of Martell’s gelding. ‘My cousin is hurt, you say?’

‘Aye.’