Why even this curtain...it was covered with red and blue flowers and doubtless it had been embroidered by Lady Adeliza’s most talented needlewomen. It told of the Fitz Neal family’s wealth and standing. Here was the finest wool, the most costly silk...
And yet...she bent to peer at a red flower. Yes, it was unraveling. In truth, close to, she could see many hanging threads. Some patches were threadbare – any former brightness was faded with grime.
She thought of the cobweb high among the beams in the solar and frowned. How very strange. The Fitz Neals wore the finest clothes – lack of money couldn’t be the cause of the decay. In truth, everyone in the castle, from her liege lord down to the lowliest scullion were well clothed and well fed, but now she thought about it, there were signs of neglect in the castle itself. Here, the landing needed sweeping – dust balls had gathered at the side of the doorway. The door curtain needed to be hung outside and beaten. Why hadn’t the ladies repaired it? She grimaced, none of this should matter to her. In any case, notwithstanding the decay, Ingerthorpe Castle was still the most magnificent place she’d ever seen.
It was odd to think how she’d longed for a taste of life in the castle. She’d cast envious glances up at it on the top of the cliff and she’d wondered what it would be like living with the ladies inside. She’d tried to imagine sleeping on a real featherbed; she’d tried to imagine how an undergown made of the finest linen would feel next to her skin. All her life she’d listened to tales of noisy feasts and glittering banquets, and she’d wished with all her heart that she belonged there, high up in Ingerthorpe Castle. Now she was inside the castle and...
I really don’t like it.
From the solar, Lady Adeliza’s imperious voice broke into her thoughts.
‘Cecily, my dear...Oliver de Warenne....’
The words fell like stones – the introductions were being made. Rosamund shut her ears and struggled to pick up the thread of her thoughts. Why did she feel so ill-at-ease? What was the matter with her? She’d been presented with a chance most girls in the village would leap at. She ran her hands down the delicate stuff of the blue gown. Her friend Lufu would be most envious of it. What would Lufu say when she heard that she’d slept on a featherbed, and had had as handsome a lover as one could wish?
Rosamund’s mind, though nimble, was untaught. She was fumbling with concepts beyond her reasoning. She knew she should be back at the mill with Alfwold, yet she was here at her lord’s behest. What could she do? She hadn’t asked to stay. She couldn’t fight her lord.
And as for Oliver...she couldn’t help but like him. She liked him much more than Alfwold. She pulled a lose thread from a flower on the curtain. On the one hand she wanted Oliver to set her free, but on the other hand she – God have mercy – she wanted to stay. Even though she didn’t like it here.
His deep voice floated out of the solar, and her breath caught. Lord, he was speaking French. If she were to stay, she must get Marie to teach her some of the more important words. Not that that would help at this moment, for Oliver was speaking so quietly she doubted even those in the solar could hear him. She edged closer to the door and carefully drew the curtain aside...
He was down on one knee on the tiled floor. Her heart contracted. That dark head was bent over a slender, white hand. A hand that had never done a proper day’s work – a lady’s hand. He kissed it.
Lady Cecily wore a light, filmy veil which was held in place with a silver circlet as befitted her status as sister of a baron. Her gown was green. This was Oliver’s betrothed. Rosamund’s mind seemed to cloud. She felt anger at what was being forced upon her. She felt disappointment – Oliver was turning out to be as manipulative and self-serving as everyone else. Above all, there was a bitter taste in the back of her mouth. This is Oliver’s betrothed.
She forced herself to study Lady Cecily and gradually the mist cleared. Sir Geoffrey’s sister was a wraith of a girl – slimmer than a wand. She was far too slender to be healthy. No-one could be so pale and live. Her skin was almost translucent and it was stretched tight across her cheekbones.
Oliver spoke again and Lady Cecily’s empty eyes focused on him. She scarcely seemed aware of the man kneeling in homage at her feet. Then she gave a little start. In a heartbeat, Marie and Lady Adeliza were at her side. Steadying her. Lady Cecily moaned, shifting from one foot to the other.
Rosamund’s heart sank. Lady Cecily was not being steadied – on the contrary, she was being restrained. Her mother and Marie were fettering her with their bare hands. The poor girl was no match for them.