‘No?’
Rosamund shook her head, she was reluctant to elaborate on the reasons behind her father’s betrayal.
‘Go on, girl.’
‘After the wedding I was brought here. Baron Geoffrey and several other men – I don’t know their names – locked me in a bedchamber with Oliver de Warenne. I gather it was a drunken joke. I was to be freed this morning. Except my lord has changed his mind, he refuses to release me. And Oliver does nothing!’
Marie’s eyes were round. ‘The squire’s to keep you?’
‘Apparently. He wants his knighthood and Sir Geoffrey has promised to knight him if he fulfills a request.’
‘A request...? What request?’
Rosamund bit her lip as it dawned on her that it might not be wise to mention the extraordinary conversation Sir Geoffrey had had with Oliver concerning Lady Cecily. ‘I...I’m not certain. All I know is that Baron Geoffrey has said that if Oliver keeps his part of the bargain, I am to remain here for...for Oliver.’ Her eyes stung. She had never felt so angry and helpless in her life.
‘A stolen bride!’
Rosamund blinked away a sheen of tears. ‘I don’t find it amusing, I can assure you.’
‘Don’t come the noble lady with me, lass, I have eyes. You like that boy. One sight of the way you and that squire keep staring at each other – he fascinates you as much as you fascinate him.’
Rosamund’s stomach cramped. As far as she could see Oliver was taking no notice of her. ‘I’m married to Alfwold and I ought to go home. I’m being treated as though I were a sack of flour to be traded at will.’
‘That’s the nobility for you,’ Marie said, nodding. ‘They’ve no respect for anyone’s dignity but their own. Remember this, my girl, as far as they’re concerned, we’re little more than cattle. If you expect to be treated any different to the dogs scavenging under the table, you’ll be sorely disappointed.’ She jerked her head towards Oliver. ‘And don’t expect any help from that quarter. He’s got pride, that lad. He won’t settle for anything less than a knighthood. It helps that he’s hot for you and that you like him, but-’
Rosamund shook her head in denial, but Marie swept on.
‘You like him. My advice is make the most of it. It won’t last forever, it never does. When he’s finished with you, you’ll be sent packing. He’ll forget he ever knew you because he’s of their blood and they don’t have hearts. Cold as ice, the lot of them. So if you like him, my girl, make the most of it.’
Somehow Rosamund managed to keep the smile pinned on her face. She felt torn. It was immoral of her lord to force her to stay, and it was wrong of Oliver to have agreed, but she couldn’t deny that she liked him. And she did find him attractive.
She glanced uneasily towards Inga. Perhaps the woman was in the right, perhaps she was a whore. Guilt twisted inside her. She liked Oliver more than she’d ever liked Alfwold. How could that be?
‘Thank you, Marie, I’ll try and remember your advice.’ She sighed. ‘And now it’s your turn. I’d be grateful if you could tell me who everyone is. If I’m to stay here, I think I should find out as much as possible.’
‘Brave lass.’ Marie’s bosom heaved as she twisted to face the high table. ‘My lord you know already. The lady next to him is his wife, Lady Margaret.’
Lady Margaret Fitz Neal was arrayed in a gorgeous red gown which seemed to have snatched the colour from her face. The hair beneath her veil was blonde.
‘And the lady at Sir Geoffrey’s other side is his mother, Lady Adeliza. My lord takes more heed of her than he does of his wife. If Lady Adeliza takes against your remaining at the castle, you’ll be out of here faster than the winking of an eye.’
The resemblance between Lady Adeliza and her son was startling. Sir Geoffrey must have inherited his tendency to corpulence from her. She sat tall, but there was no hiding her large frame. Their faces had a similar bone structure – they were both long in the jaw and both were dark-eyed. There was something almost masculine about her.
‘I thought ladies were always delicate,’ Rosamund murmured.
Marie laughed. ‘Not that one, she’s tougher than a team of oxen. She’ll live to fourscore years, I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘And the young woman next to her?’
‘Lady Blanche.’
‘Lord Geoffrey’s sister,’ Rosamund said, heart sinking. This was the sister Oliver wanted. ‘How old is she? She’s lovely.’
‘Fifteen. And aye, she’s a beauty, but too much so for her own good.’