Shattered Vows

Chapter One


May Day: The Year of Our Lord 1149

Rosamund 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.