Shattered Vows(16)

‘Yes?’

‘Let me love you, truly love you. As a young lover would. Forget my age. I won’t hurt you, lass.’ His cheeks became darker than ever.

Alfwold was blushing. Rosamund fought to keep her emotions hidden. This was worse than she had imagined. He cared for her. This squat, ugly man actually cared for her. Her wish had been granted. She should accept his terms, she really should. Hadn’t she prayed for just such a man with whom she could share her life?

What more did she want?

Her gaze fell on a wayside shrine at the turn in the road. It was dedicated to Our Lady. A posy of forget-me-nots lay next to a brightly painted statuette. Her stomach lurched.

‘Rosamund.’ Voice hoarse, Alfwold gripped her hands. ‘Let me show you what it can be like,’ he said, kneading her fingers. ‘Tonight. I’ll be staying at the mill. We can be wed next week. There’s no shame in us anticipating our vows by a day or two.’

‘A week? So soon? Alfwold, I cannot,’ her voice cracked.

The calloused fingers tightened, she couldn’t have pulled away even if she tried.

‘You refuse me?’

Pulse skittering, she searched his eyes – brown eyes – they looked solid and dependable. Warm. And shadowed by a terrible hurt. It was in her power to chase that hurt away. He really did care, it was all she could hope for.

The lump in her throat almost choked her, but she forced out the words. ‘I will wed you, Alfwold. However, there’s one thing...’

Alfwold’s eyes glowed. She felt as though frost had crawled through her skin and paralysed her. She was frozen. Numb.

‘My sweet lass.’ Raising her hands to his lips, he kissed them.

‘The one thing...?’

‘Anything.’

She stared past him at the statue of the Virgin. ‘You’re right in assuming that I’m chaste, I am.’ It was the truth and Alfwold was nodding and smiling at her, he had no difficulty accepting it. Now for the lie. ‘But it’s no accident that I remain a maid. I have taken a solemn vow to Our Lady, that I shall preserve my virgin state till after my wedding.’ So far so good, he was still nodding and smiling. ‘So please, Alfwold, don’t press me to lie with you. Not until after the ceremony.’

She glanced hesitantly at him, half-expecting him to fly into a rage. If he honoured her ‘vow’, she’d have more time to become accustomed to the idea of bedding him.

‘Rosamund, my sweet lass, of course I understand. I think it’s a fine thing in you to have sworn this oath. I’ll help you honour it.’

‘Thank you.’ This time her smile was genuine, the relief was too strong to hide. ‘You won’t regret it. I’m sure it will help me prepare myself for our wedding day.’ And, hopefully, to come to terms with it, she added to herself.

‘I’m glad that’s sorted,’ Alfwold said, smiling. ‘Now, how long is it since I last dressed those stones for your father? He’ll be thinking I’m not coming if we dawdle much longer.’

***

Oliver descended the spiral stairway to the great hall and found that once again, folk were sleeping late at Ingerthorpe Castle.

Tate the cook’s boy was curled so close to the hearth, he was almost in it. The fire had been banked down last night – the boy must have edged nearer the cooling embers in his sleep. No-one would be able to re-build the fire until he’d been roused.

Suppressing a sigh, Oliver ran weary eyes around the hall. The air was stale. He could smell sour wine, spilled ale, rancid fat and dog. His nostrils flared. It was well past cock-crow and his cousin’s retainers were still sleeping – they were sprawled about the floor like lumpy sacks of grain. The rushes were choked with yesterday’s leavings. Even the hunting dogs seemed to be in stupor, save one which had found a bone and was gnawing on it.

It would take some getting used to the way his cousin ran his castle. A fortnight was clearly not long enough.

Ingerthorpe Castle was a far cry from Lord Robert’s well-ordered establishment in the south. At this hour Mass would have been said; everyone would have been fed; the dogs would be yelping for their exercise...

His stomach knotted in a spasm of homesickness. Oliver squared his shoulders. He must think of the future, there was nothing to be gained in maudlin reflection. The uncle who had treated him as a father was dead, and his aunt had seen fit to send him here, to his cousin.

‘Baron Geoffrey needs a squire, Oliver,’ his widowed and grieving aunt had announced. ‘I know you’ll be a boon to him, for my beloved Robert has taught you all the knightly skills. Lord Robert would have given you your knighthood in time, for he doted on you. You know we have never let your birth affect the way we have treated you...’