Shattered Vows (7 page)

‘Enough!’ Baron Geoffrey Fitz Neal, Lord of Ingerthorpe Castle had entered. As he crossed the hall, his footsteps echoed on the wooden boards. Sir Geoffrey was a large man whose girth matched his height. His brown hair was thinning on the top, like a monk’s tonsure.

‘Good day, cousin,’ he said, genially. He clapped Oliver on the shoulder. ‘Are these pests annoying you?’

‘They’re easily brushed aside.’

Perceptive dark eyes took in Oliver’s set shoulders and tight mouth. ‘Are they, cousin?’ he murmured, softly. ‘I thought, for a moment, Matthew had scored a hit.’ His gaze settled on Matthew. ‘You! Scullion!’

‘My lord?’

‘You forget your station. Every man has his place, and you’d do well to remember yours. Leave it to the women to bitch, God knows there are enough of them here.’

Oliver made a dismissive movement. ‘My lord, I don’t need your assistance.’

‘I know that, lad.’

Oliver gave a little smile at the way his cousin addressed him. Geoffrey was but two years his senior, yet he made it sound as if he were Oliver’s grandsire.

‘Matthew’s done no harm,
mon seigneur
,’ Oliver said, jerking his head at Matthew’s white face. ‘You’ve terrified the boy.’

His cousin grinned. ‘He does right to be terrified. Anyone who doesn’t know their rightful place needs to be reminded of it. You may be acting as my squire, but you are of my blood and I won’t permit anyone to forget it. It’s not their place to mock you. Do you hear me, Matthew?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘Good lad. Now – what about breaking our fast?’ he said, turning wide eyes on the trestles stacked around the wall. The boys sprang into action.

Oliver stared thoughtfully at his cousin. ‘
Mon seigneur
-’

‘Cousin, you know my name. Use it.’

‘My thanks. Geoffrey, you say it is not their place to make a game of me. It sounds as though you have plans in that direction...?’ Oliver arched a brow. He’d heard talk in the armoury – his cousin was known for his wicked sense of humour.

‘Aye, I claim that right. If anyone mocks you, it must be me.’ Geoffrey laughed. Turning for the dais where John was setting up a trestle, he sank onto a cushioned chair. It was Baron Geoffrey’s privilege to be seated in a chair, most people made do with benches. ‘Fetch me my ale, squire, and bring bread. I would break my fast.’

Geoffrey followed his cousin with his eyes as he left the hall. Thoughtfully, he rubbed the bridge of his nose. Geoffrey was proud of his birthright. He couldn’t begin to comprehend the resentment that Oliver must feel at being mocked at for his illegitimacy, but he felt impelled to try. He liked the look of him and he hoped he’d become a loyal comrade. A friend. His cousin had a strong, upright bearing and, if the exchange he had just witnessed was anything to go by, he had command of his temper. In short, Oliver de Warenne seemed to have all the makings of a knight.

His fingers drummed on the trestle. The lads were ribbing his cousin to test his mettle – as they always did with newcomers. It was an initiation ceremony of sorts, and it was essential if de Warenne was to be accepted at Ingerthorpe. But, hell burn it, the man was of his blood. If anyone was to rib him, it should be Geoffrey – no-one else had the right.

If Oliver did have a flaw it was that he had too much pride, he took himself far too seriously. A man might almost think he thought himself above the sins and failings to which other humans succumbed. Was that his weakness? Perhaps.

Geoffrey scratched his scalp, it appeared that his cousin had forgotten the Fitz Neals were a bastard breed. It was there for all to see in their name. Fitz. That was what it meant. Some forgotten Norman baron called Neal had fathered a whelp out of wedlock, and their line sprang from that illegitimate child. Everyone knew it and no-one taunted him because of it. His family had proved their worth and Geoffrey was proud of his ancestry. It was up to him to remind Oliver of that small but vital point.

Geoffrey’s brows lowered. His cousin needed to be brought down a notch or two. He needed a lesson in humility. In touching on Oliver’s bastardy, Matthew had instinctively found a chink in his cousin’s armour. Oliver was sensitive about his birth. And he thought himself immune to human weakness...

The baron’s musings halted as the stair door grated open. There was a little flurry of activity as a tall, well-built lady of elderly years glided into the hall. She was closely followed by a female attendant so quiet and self-effacing that she might as well have been invisible.

With a gentility that sat oddly on his large, untidy frame, Geoffrey rose and went to kiss the lady’s hand.

‘Good morrow, Mother.’

‘Geoffrey.’ Lady Adeliza smiled, and let him lead her to her place on the high table.

Lady Adeliza never troubled to disguise the affection she had for her surviving son. She had two daughters still living, but her love was all hoarded for her son.

As he sat down again, Geoffrey’s scowl returned. His mother had been sister to de Warenne’s mother – a kinship so close that he could name him cousin. His lady mother had been pleased to ally herself with the Fitz Neal family, despite their descent from an illegitimate line. He would teach his arrogant cousin a lesson, once and for all, and it would also serve as his initiation to the Castle. A jest of some sort...

It would have to be large to serve its purpose. Spectacular. And then, after the game was played out, he would show his cousin he meant to do well by him. Good men were hard to come by.

Chapter Three

‘H
urry up with the stew, Rosamund,’ Aeffe said, calling out from the mill doorway where she was combing her yellow hair with her favourite ivory comb. ‘I’m famished!’

From the cookhouse across the yard, Rosamund sent her stepmother a look of exasperation. Twilight was falling and she was being as quick as she could, she hated cooking in the dark. ‘If you stopped preening and came to help, it wouldn’t take so long.’

Aeffe scowled and opened her mouth to reply, but just then Alfwold and Osric appeared and she folded her lips together. Even from across the yard, Rosamund could see Aeffe’s eyes glittering with dislike. She’d have to pay for that unguarded remark, albeit not with Osric and Alfwold watching, Aeffe was too clever for that. She would bide her time and it would be done in such a way that no-one knew what she was about.

‘That smells good,’ Alfwold said. He came to stand on the cookhouse threshold, as oblivious of the undercurrents flowing between the two women, as he was of the fact that he was blocking Rosamund’s light. ‘So good that it distracted me and made me lay aside my tools too early for your father’s liking.’ Squeezing into the tiny cookhouse, he craned his neck to peer into the blackened pot hanging from the central roof beam.

Rosamund smiled and went on stirring the stew.

‘Have you done, girl?’ Osric called from across the yard, he sounded as impatient as his wife. ‘Why isn’t it ready? I thought fish was quick to cook.’

Under her breath Rosamund muttered, ‘It is when it’s not been dried as hard as a board.’ Aloud she said, ‘Almost.’ She was grateful the fishing season had started, cooking fish-meat that bore the texture of leather was a thankless task in Osric’s mill. She’d not be the only one to welcome fresh fish.

‘Bring it over then, for pity’s sake,’ Osric said. ‘And then you can go and fetch a pitcher of ale, I’ve the thirst of the devil. Take the large pitcher, mind.’ He wound his arm about his wife’s waist and they disappeared into the mill.

Rosamund sighed.

‘I’ll go to the alewife,’ Alfwold said.

‘Thank you, but they want me to go.’

‘Give me a kiss, and I’ll do it. You’ve done enough today, my lass.’

Rosamund willed herself not to flinch as he brought his scarred face closer. Fingers clutching the wooden spoon, she offered him her cheek.

‘That’s all I get?’ he said.

‘M...my vow.’ Her eyes avoided his.

‘Oh, aye, the vow. For a moment I forgot. Where’s the jug?’

Rosamund pointed at it and bent her head over the thick stew. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him hesitate in the doorway. Reluctantly, she looked across. ‘Alfwold?’

‘When we are wed, Rosamund, I shall expect you to be more...demonstrative. You must be prepared to give me more than a peck.’

‘I know. I will. But you must wait until after the wedding.’ She turned back to the pot, and stirred vigorously. The pot swung to and fro on its chain.

‘We’ll be eating pulp at that rate,’ Alfwold said, gently.

‘What?’

He smiled. ‘The pottage.’

‘Oh!’ Rosamund snatched the spoon from the cauldron and the light strengthened. Alfwold had gone.

***

‘Tomorrow I’ll go to up to the castle and ask Baron Geoffrey how much merchet he’ll be wanting for the wedding,’ Osric said, speaking through a mouth full of stew.

Rosamund paused in the middle of serving Aeffe’s portion. ‘Merchet?’

‘Aye, you half-wit.’ Aeffe’s voice held a sneer. ‘Merchet. Though it doesn’t seem fair that we should pay for the privilege of seeing you wed.’

The family was seated round a trestle table next to the millwheel gearing on the ground floor. Alfwold had yet to return from the tavern. They were wearing their cloaks – Osric wouldn’t allow anyone to light a fire in his mill. They’d heard about another mill which had caught alight – there’d been an explosion and the miller and his family had been killed.

‘The merchet.’ Rosamund’s heart sank. ‘You mean the maiden rent.’

‘At last, it takes a while, but she gets there in the end,’ Aeffe said. She was still dragging the comb through her hair.

Osric grunted and paused with his spoon half way to his mouth. ‘Where’s Alfwold with my ale?’

‘Here, Aeffe, your supper.’ Rosamund slid a bowl across.

Her stepmother looked at it down her nose. ‘You call that supper?’ She was using what Rosamund thought of as her ‘lady of the manor voice’ and just then her comb caught in a knot. ‘Holy Mother,’ Aeffe said, giving it a sharp pull.

The comb snapped. Rosamund hid her mouth with her hand and Aeffe rounded on her.

‘Wretch. You’ve been using my comb...’

‘I haven’t! You pulled too hard and-’

‘Don’t argue!’ Aeffe’s lips tightened as she stared at the once-beautiful ivory comb. Several tines were missing. ‘You must have been using it. It wasn’t made for thick, coarse hair like yours; it was made fine, delicate tresses.’ Aeffe smoothed her hair lovingly and looked winningly at her husband. ‘Look, dearest, my comb has broken.’

‘I’ll buy you another, my love,’ Osric said. ‘But you’ll have to wait. The bride fine must be paid.’

Aeffe glowered at Rosamund.

The door banged.

‘About time, here’s Alfwold with the ale.’ Osric reached for a cup. ‘Pass it over, lad.’

Rosamund smiled thankfully at her betrothed – perhaps the novelty of his presence would stop Aeffe needling her. She ladled out his portion and passed it to him.

‘You’d think they were wed already,’ Aeffe said, sneeringly.

Her father grinned. ‘They soon will be, that’s for certain.’

Rosamund bit her lip.

‘Osric, dearest,’ Aeffe sighed. ‘I wish we didn’t have to pay the merchet. Isn’t there any way to avoid it?’

‘Not that I know of. Every man must pay the lord to see his daughter wed. Yours did.’

Aeffe pouted. ‘The pedlar had some lovely combs last time he came, though I admit they were costly. Must we spend everything on seeing her wed?’

‘My love, if I could avoid paying the merchet, I would. But Rosamund must be wed.’

Shaking her head, Aeffe picked up her knife and speared a chunk of fish.

Alfwold cleared his throat. ‘Osric, I want all to be right in my marrying of Rosamund. If it’s any help, I’ll pay the maiden rent. I have enough.’

‘Ooh.’ Aeffe’s face lit up. ‘Will you?’

Osric shifted in his seat. ‘I...I don’t think-’

‘Osric, think,’ Aeffe said, leaning her elbow on the table and pointing with her knife. ‘He’s the one who wants your daughter. Why should you pay to be rid of her?’

Rosamund sat bolt upright on the bench, she’d never felt so humiliated in her life. Every father must pay to see his daughter marry and if Osric tried to wriggle out of it...

Please, Father, please don’t accept.

She stared straight ahead, mouth clamped tight as a clam.

Osric cleared his throat. ‘They’ll be staying here after their marriage, my love. Rosamund won’t be moving away.’

‘Yes, yes, but why should you pay the merchet when Alfwold has offered?’ Aeffe fingered the broken comb. ‘Take it, take Alfwold’s money.’

Rosamund leaned forward. ‘No, Father, please don’t. It’s customary for the bride’s father to pay, not the husband. Will you deny me what little pride I have?’

‘Osric,’ Aeffe said. ‘I warn you...’

Osric grinned at his future son-in-law. ‘Alright. It’s a deal.’

The two men struck hands and Rosamund pushed her bowl aside. She felt sick with shame.

Aeffe chewed her fish. ‘I didn’t think you were so hot for our Rosamund, Alfwold,’ she said, slowly. Her look was knowing, her tone suggestive.

Alfwold’s swarthy skin darkened and he looked guiltily at Rosamund.

‘Aeffe, please!’ Rosamund wanted to curl up with embarrassment, but Aeffe was enjoying herself.

‘Did you know, Alfwold, that yesterday our Rosamund made a garland and went in search of a May Day lover?’

Rosamund’s breath caught. ‘Aeffe, that’s not true. I made a garland because the others were making them. Don’t you remember? Lufu was here with Edwin – we made them together. After they’d gone, I went for a walk. For a walk. I didn’t go to meet anyone.’ And that was the truth. Her meeting with the lord’s squire had been pure chance, even if in her mind’s eye, she could still see slate grey eyes smiling down at her.

‘No?’ Aeffe’s smile was sweet as honey. Except she was being far from sweet, she was deliberately stirring up trouble. Saints, was her stepmother trying to wreck her marriage before it had begun? ‘You chose forget-me-nots,’ Aeffe went on, thoughtfully. ‘Why pick those if you had no lover in mind?’