Shattered Vows (3 page)

There’d been no danger while he had thought her simple – no danger for either of them. She could be as beautiful as an angel, she could gaze on him like that forever, and he would never have touched her. An innate sense of chivalry that Oliver hadn’t even known he possessed would have saved them. But he’d been wrong about her – this girl was as sane and intelligent as he. With no disparity of mind to keep them safely separate, there was danger, definite danger.

He’d have the devil’s own job resisting the admiration in those eyes. It was candid and unashamed. Purely pagan. She was too much of a temptation. He must leave. Now.

He gestured along the distant shoreline. ‘What about your lover? Isn’t he waiting further down the beach?’ Lord, this girl made no attempt to shield her feelings, everything was scripted with painful clarity across her face. She didn’t want him to go.

‘My lover?’

‘The man you were thinking about when you made the garland.’

‘I don’t have a lover,’ Rosamund said. Her voice sounded flat, she couldn’t help it. Stooping, she scooped the trampled circlet from the ground and stared sadly at it. Alfwold didn’t count, he wasn’t her lover. And he never would be, not even when they were wed and he had the right to...to...she held back a shudder. Alfwold was kinder than most men, it wasn’t his fault she didn’t warm to him.

A few forget-me-nots had escaped ruination – the starry golden centres seemed to wink at her. Carefully, she twisted them from the garland.

‘Then why the garland?’ he asked.

Making sure both her expression and her voice were under control, she raised her eyes. ‘It was only a dream, a golden fantasy for a warm spring day. Here, take these, I think you need to dream a little too.’

Oliver found himself swallowing as, gracefully, she offered him a sprig of flowers. She had poise this peasant maid, he’d give her that. Glad she wasn’t going to make difficulties, he leaned out to accept it. Briefly, he carried her hand to his lips. ‘Farewell, Rosamund, I have enjoyed our little dream.’

‘And I.’ She peeped up at him through her eyelashes. ‘Oliver, do we have to awaken so soon? We both know it is just a dream....what harm?’

‘Rosamund...’ Oliver’s voice held warning, even as he found himself staring at her mouth. She had such pretty lips...

‘What harm?’ She tipped her head to one side. ‘I swear not to anger you – I won’t pester you with questions. You were happy enough to keep me company till then.’

‘It wasn’t your questions that spurred me to leave.’

‘What then?’ She caught hold of his stirrup, it really was quite flattering the way she wanted him to stay.

‘I thought you needed my protection,’ he admitted, stiffly.

The blue eyes went wide. ‘Why should I need protecting?’

‘I...oh, why indeed? Her hand was resting on his boot. It looked small. Feminine. ‘More likely I need protection from you. I neither want nor need a clinging vine.’

Her eyes filled with reproach and her chin lifted. ‘Just for today,’ she said. ‘You agreed. And it’s only a dream, remember?’

He looked at her. The wind was whipping her hair about her head and with the sun streaking it with gold, she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. ‘And tomorrow?’

‘You will be back at the castle and I shall be back at the mill. We will have woken.’

She said it so simply. Oliver saw her eyes flicker over the blue flowers in his hand.

‘And those will have faded.’ She shrugged.

Oliver’s hand crept to the pouch at his belt and he dropped the flowers inside. Smiling, he looked down at her bare feet. ‘Come then, find your boots. You can ride Lance.’

***

Rosamund didn’t like it. It was fast, frightening and uncomfortable. The destrier’s hooves beat like a drum on the damp, compacted sand. Oliver’s arm was tight about her waist, and she was confident that he wouldn’t let her fall, but the sand looked very hard – people weren’t born to ride these huge creatures.

The saddle had been designed for a knight in battle. It was shaped so the pommel rose up in front of the rider, and this was no doubt useful if the knight was wounded and needed something to hang on to. It certainly hadn’t been created for two and although Oliver had shifted back – she rather thought he was perched on his saddlebag – she found the saddle a great trial. She was sliding all over the place. The pommel chafed. Wondering if they could exchange places, she twisted to look over her shoulder.

‘What’s the matter?’ His voice warmed her ear and they slowed to a bouncing, jarring trot.

She grimaced, leaning against his arm to look past him. Her heart thudded. ‘I am sure you could be dead in this saddle and still stay on, but I don’t feel safe.’

‘Impertinent wench,’ he said cheerfully. Sliding off the horse, he started walking beside her.

‘Oliver!’ Even though he still had the reins, her stomach turned to water. A sandfly flew past, and the horse tossed his head. ‘He’ll have me off!’

‘Not Lance.’ Oliver’s tone was soothing. ‘He’s trained to suffer the heat of battle, your screams are nothing after what he’s seen and heard.’ Slate grey eyes held hers. ‘However, not all horses are so well trained. One of the first things you must learn when riding is not to make unexpected or violent sounds.’ He grinned.

‘I’m not like to ride again. Riding is for fine ladies, not peasant girls. Get me off, for pity’s sake.’

Oliver’s grin widened, but she was too busy clinging to the saddle to notice. He continued, almost on a monotone as if chanting plainsong. ‘The second thing to learn is to sit properly. Move back.’

Leather creaked as she shifted to obey him. It was that or take a tumble.

‘That’s better. Let me adjust the stirrups.’

‘Oliver, I beg of you, get me down. There’s no point you trying to teach me.’

He ignored her. He had her seated to his satisfaction with both feet in the stirrups, and before she could protest was leading her along the beach. She gripped the leather pommel until her knuckles went white and scowled at the back of his head. He was giving her no choice but to accept the strange motion of the horse.

After some minutes, she discovered it was easier than she’d expected. The saddle was holding her in place, and the horse – Lance – wouldn’t bolt with Oliver at the reins. A seagull shrieked above them and she spared it a glance.

Oliver noticed. ‘There! I knew you’d like it, it can’t be that terrifying if you’re looking at the gulls.’

‘You’re right, it isn’t. It was the saddle – it felt wrong before.’

‘It’s a soldier’s saddle.’

‘I know.’ Rosamund bit her lip. Only knights had such saddles and a girl of her station really ought not to be talking to a knight, particularly in so familiar a manner. ‘Oliver?’

‘Mmm?’ He patted Lance’s neck.

‘Are you a knight?’

His mouth thinned. ‘No, I borrowed the saddle.’ He gestured at his boots. ‘My spurs are of base metal, knights bear gilded ones.’

She felt herself relax. ‘That is a relief.’ Lance’s ears twitched. ‘Your horse looks as though he’s listening to us.’

‘He probably is.’

‘It must be wonderful to control him. You must feel – invincible. For myself, it’s still a little worrying, I’ve had enough. Oliver, I pray you, help me down.’

He moved to her side and pulled her foot from the stirrup. ‘You’ve done well, we’ll make a lady of you yet,’ he said, lightly. ‘Kick the other foot free.’ He had a strange look on his face.

‘It’s free,’ she said, holding out her arms.

Taking her by the waist, he set her down. Still with that look on his face. He didn’t release her immediately, and his eyes wandered slowly over her. Rosamund’s breath caught, and she became conscious of her hands resting on his forearms. It was hard to breathe.

‘You are an unusual maid,’ he said, softly. His gaze was lingering on her mouth.

Her cheeks burned. ‘Am I?’ The wool of his tunic was soft to the touch and the body beneath felt strong. Oliver was certainly as strong as Alfwold. Yet she felt no urge to wrench herself out of his hold as she had that day last autumn, when Alfwold had sealed their pledge with his kiss.

What would Oliver’s kiss be like? It wouldn’t be rough and crude and careless of her distaste, nor would it be tainted with yesterday’s fare and reeking of onions.

Oliver’s kiss would be clean and sweet...

‘Aye, you are a strange maid. Most ladies would twist their lips and turn away from a mere squire, but you-’

‘You’re a squire? Sir Geoffrey’s squire?’

‘Aye.’

‘From your manner I thought you to be a leper at the very least. But a squire...you really are Sir Geoffrey’s squire? I am honoured!’ She attempted a mocking little curtsy, but the effect was rather spoiled as Oliver hadn’t let go of her waist.

‘You don’t know the worst of it,’ he said. His eyes were full of shadows.

‘Oliver, don’t. You’re set on souring the dream and I won’t let you. Can’t you accept today for what it is? It’s May Day – we can surely be ourselves for one day? Our real selves, as we are deep down. Forget that you’re a squire. Forget that I’m the miller’s daughter. We have no duties today.’

Even as Rosamund spoke, thoughts of Alfwold turned her heart to lead. She’d finally given Alfwold her pledge, albeit that he was not her choice. Hastily, she pushed her forthcoming marriage to the back of her mind. Alfwold had no part in a May Day dream, he belonged in the real world and she wouldn’t allow him to step into this fantasy and spoil it, any more than she’d allow Oliver his gloomy thoughts.

‘Yesterday and tomorrow have no place in our dream,’ she said, firmly. ‘Our dream is now, that’s all that matters.’

Oliver pulled her against him and stroked the hair from her face. His fingers lingered and her belly clenched. She rubbed her cheek against his hand.

‘Rosamund, you child.’

Heart thumping, she turned her head into his palm and kissed it.

Oliver snatched his hand away. ‘Don’t.’ His voice was gruff. ‘You know nothing about me.’

‘I don’t have to.’ She waited a moment or two, holding her breath while behind her the waves broke on the shore in an endless, steady beat. He was going to kiss her, she knew it. When nothing happened, she looked up. ‘When are you going to kiss me?’

‘I’m not.’ He shifted, putting her at arm’s length. His eyes were like flint.

She had shocked him. Who was she, a peasant girl, to speak to her lord’s squire in such a way? Cheeks scalding with shame, she covered her face with her hands. ‘I am sorry,’ she muttered, ‘I’m not normally like this. I’m not a...a...’ She couldn’t bring herself to say it. She risked a glance through her fingers. He was smiling, almost. Yes, he was smiling – she could see that broken tooth.

‘Rosamund.’ He shook his head on a sigh, but the way he spoke her name made her sound important. She knew then that he would let her have her way.

Oliver wouldn’t sour the dream but neither must she.

***

They removed their boots and followed the crescent curve of the cliffs, one on either side of the grey stallion. The sun warmed their faces. The waves hushed and the air tasted of salt. Rosamund loved the feel of the gently warming sand beneath her feet, but Oliver rolled up his chausses and waded calf-deep through sea foam.

‘Does Lance mind the waves?’

‘Not at all, though I warrant that by now he’d relish fresh water. We’d best find a stream.’

Rosamund pointed. ‘Over there. Our river divides up in the hills, and part of it runs into the sea yonder.’

‘Our river?’

‘The one that turns my father’s millwheel.’

Oliver grunted and turned for the stream.

‘There are more snake-stones here,’ Rosamund said. ‘I found a fair number of them at the end of last summer.’ Her stomach rumbled and she wrapped her arms about her middle to muffle the sound. Sad to say, she was always hungry.

‘You need food,’ Oliver said, with a grin. He secured Lance’s reins loosely so the horse was free to graze on the riverbank or drink the clear mountain-water. ‘Here, catch.’

He threw a saddlebag at her and unhooked the water-bottle. Not liking to pry into belongings, she hesitated.

‘Open it,’ he said. ‘There’s bread and meat inside, we’ll share it.’

She found a place on the edge of the riverbank, where her feet could swing over the rushing water. The saddlebag contained a fresh-baked loaf, some cheese wrapped in fine muslin, a wedge of meat, a couple of wrinkled russet apples, and a wine-skin.

Her mouth watered. She was ravenous. She tore the loaf in two and bit into her half. The bread was soft and fresh and she moaned her delight. ‘This was made with the best flour. We send most of it to the castle, so I don’t often taste it. It’s fit for the King.’ This last was spoken with her mouth full and it was a few seconds before she saw the amusement in Oliver’s eyes. He had splashed water over himself, it was dripping from his face and hands.

‘Don’t you usually wash before you eat?’ he murmured, coming to sit beside her.

‘I...I was merely tasting the bread.’ Curling up with shame, she dropped the bread and hopped into the shallows. She paddled right in, holding her skirts with one hand and splashing somewhat ineffectively with the other. The water was so icy, her feet ached.

Oliver leaned on his elbow and his eyes never left her. Absently, he broke the bread, and she did her best to ignore him.

‘Don’t forget your forehead,’ he said. ‘There’s an interesting streak smeared right across it. It’s been there all morning.’

Rosamund glared. More water showered through the air.

‘I washed my face in May-dew this morning,’ she said.

‘With May-dew? What in the name of all that’s holy is May-dew?’

‘You may live in the castle, but you don’t know it all, do you?’

‘Rosamund.’ He shook his head, and smiled. With his eyes.

Her stomach lurched, she must be hungrier than she thought. She started to babble. ‘It’s said that if May-dew is collected early on May day, and you wash in it, it’ll keep your skin free of blemishes and bring beauty for the whole year. It’ll bring you luck. And you can wipe that horrible smile from your face.’ Giving her face a last frantic dab, she paddled to the bank and wished her tongue didn’t have a tendency to run away with itself when she was discomposed.