A flogging? Rosamund flinched. Whatever happened, Alfwold didn’t deserve a flogging. ‘My lord, Alfwold must have drunk too much ale last night. He’s a good man, not one to flog. If you flog him he won’t be able to work for a week, and we’ll have no flour in Eskdale-.’
‘Quiet, wife,’ Alfwold said. He seemed oblivious to the dangers of contradicting the Lord of Ingerthorpe. ‘I’ll have Sir Geoffrey know I’m going to the abbot.’
‘No. Alfwold, for pity’s sake, no. Do you want a flogging?’
A movement from the high table caught her eye, Lady Margaret had risen. Delicately, deliberately, she laid a slender white hand on her swollen belly. She turned to her husband. ‘My dear, this anger unsettles me.’
Lady Margaret was far gone in pregnancy, the red gown strained at the seams and hid nothing. She looked strained and frail – barely strong enough to survive the rigours of child-bearing. As all knew, Lady Margaret had been a widow when she had married Sir Geoffrey. She was some years older than her husband. The villagers believed he had married her for her dowry.
‘Oh, my dear.’ Lord Geoffrey was the image of contrition. ‘Please, sit down, you must be calm.’
‘My lord, such anger, such violence.’ His wife sighed.
With a grunt, the baron nodded and pointed his eating knife at Alfwold. ‘Count yourself lucky, my man, that I have a delicate and compassionate wife, whose whim I must heed. For her sake, I will spare you the lash. Although mark you, it is only my lady’s request that has kept you from the whipping post.’ My lord raised his voice. ‘Sergeant!’
‘Mon seigneur?’
‘Remove this man. Escort him past the gates. And if you see as much as a hair of his head again, I’m to know immediately.’
‘As you wish, my lord.’
Alfwold’s eyes gleamed. ‘I’m going to Abbot William!’
Rosamund held down a groan. ‘Alfwold, have you no sense? Be quiet!’
Alfwold’s jaw jutted as he struggled against his captors. ‘I’ll not let them steal you. You’re my wife! Holy Church doesn’t permit any man, not even a lord to-’
‘Silence!’ The sergeant gave him a cracking blow.
Blood trickled down the side of Alfwold’s mouth. Rosamund tried to catch his gaze. ‘For God’s sake, go. They haven’t hurt me, but you will if you anger them and they punish you. What’s the point getting yourself killed? This isn’t worth dying for. Go, please.’
Alfwold looked at her, mouth working.
‘Alfwold, I mean it, I’ll not have your death on my conscience. Please, please, go.’
‘But you’re my wife!’
‘Yes, I’m your wife.’ Rosamund jerked her head towards the high table. ‘And he is Lord of Ingerthorpe. We can do nothing. Go, I tell you!’
As the guards marched Alfwold through the curtain and onto the landing, the sound of scuffling came back into the hall. Of a muffled thud.
‘I’ll to the abbot-’ Alfwold’s voice cut off with a grunt.
Chilled to the bone, Rosamund stared at the swinging curtain. The sounds moved off. A door slammed. She was a prisoner. Bewildered, she looked back at the dais. Sir Geoffrey was raising his wife’s hands to his lips in true courtly manner. He looked so concerned, so loving. Watching him it seemed incredible that he would separate her from her husband. Yet not only had he done that, but he’d threatened Alfwold with a flogging and her father with the loss of his mill. To be sure, she hadn’t been chained in the dungeon. She hadn’t been maltreated, she was fed and clothed – but for all that she remained his prisoner. His to command.
Blindly, she found her way to her place on the lower trestle. When she stumbled, someone steadied her.
‘There, lass.’ Marie’s voice penetrated the haze. They were all staring at her. ‘It’s over. Let’s leave these clods to entertain each other.’
Rosamund leaned gratefully on Marie’s arm, tensing when she saw that she was being steered back to the high table.
‘Baron Geoffrey?’ Marie curtsied.
‘Marie?’
‘If it pleases you, my lord, I’ll show the girl to her duties. May we have your permission to leave?’
The baron waved a careless hand. ‘Go. Most likely Cecily will be hanging about near the stables.’ A thought seemed to strike him and he fixed Rosamund with a look. ‘You don’t ride, do you, girl?’
An image of her sitting astride Lance as he walked along the beach flashed into her head. She’d never ridden before and she wasn’t likely to do so again. ‘No, my lord, I don’t ride.’