Shattered Vows(5)

‘There’s a story...’ she hesitated, flushing.

‘Yes?’

‘The village priest – Father Cedric – told it to me before he died, it’s an ancient story. It goes back to the days before the Sea Raiders came.’

‘Go on.’

‘It’s only a tale for children, I’ve been told I shouldn’t listen to such...’ Rosamund hesitated, but Oliver’s smile was encouraging. That chipped front tooth was visible, she found it oddly attractive. This strong young man was not invulnerable, his broken tooth proved his humanity.

She smiled back. ‘A holy lady lived high up on the cliffs. A saint, named Hilda. She was renowned for her goodness and wisdom. Saint Hilda wasn’t a hermit, and she didn’t scorn the common people – everyone came to her for help. The world brought her their woes. She would see anyone, rich or poor, and it was said that she could solve any problem, however dire.

‘One day the countryside around was visited by a terrible scourge – a plague of poisonous snakes overran the village. The snakes were everywhere and there was no escaping them. They hid in lofts and barns and cottages. Many people died.

‘Some believed that the devil had sent the snakes to torment them. Others thought God was punishing them for their wickedness. The people set traps for the snakes and they killed scores of them. But more snakes appeared, and then more, it seemed there was no end to them. No-one was safe.

‘Finally the villagers went to Saint Hilda and begged for help. She went down into the village, and started driving the snakes before her with her staff. She herded them up to the top of the cliff as though they were sheep and commanded them to go over the edge. They obeyed. Every last snake met its death at the bottom of the cliff.’

Oliver rested his chin on his hand. His gaze was intent, thoughtful. She noticed that the grey in his eyes was outlined with a soot-black ring.

‘Is that it?’ he asked, with a puzzled frown.

‘Not quite. These...’ she gestured at the tiny, swirled stones ‘...these are said to be the snakes. Father Cedric explained it. He told me that when the snakes fell, they curled up tight as hedgehogs so they could roll safely down the cliff. But the tide was in, so they drowned. And here they are. Still curled up. Turned to stone.’

‘And you collect them,’ Oliver said.

‘Yes. You have your horse, he is your finest treasure, is he not?’

Oliver nodded.

‘Well, these are my treasures. They have such a pretty pattern on them. They have no real value, I know, but they are all mine,’ her voice trailed off and her cheeks scorched.

Now the tale was done, Rosamund felt embarrassed. How he must be laughing at her! ‘You must think me very foolish,’ she said, avoiding that cool, penetrating gaze. ‘It’s only a tale, I know, but...’ she shrugged. She wasn’t often allowed out from the mill, and was conscious that one of the reasons she valued these stones was that to her they represented freedom. But she couldn’t expect this man to understand that.

When he caught at her hand she risked a glance and caught a glimpse of his broken tooth. It only showed when he smiled...

‘I’ve not heard that story. I like it.’ His thumb moved gently across her fingertips. Her hand trembled and she withdrew it, heart jumping.

‘I...I’m thirsty,’ she said, her eyes going to the leather bottle hanging from the warhorse’s saddle.

‘Help yourself. When you’ve finished, bring me the flask, I’m parched too.’

Feeling as though he’d been wrong-footed, Oliver sat on the sand and watched her patter over to Lance and unhook the flask. Had his assessment of this girl been too hasty? She didn’t drink but brought the bottle straight back to him.

‘After you,’ Oliver said, smiling at her rigid sense of class. ‘Today I am your squire, am I not?’

‘Ye...es,’ she said, doubtfully.

‘Then you shouldn’t wait on me. Drink. Rosamund, what age are you?’

‘Sixteen.’

She sipped and offered him the bottle, and a gust of wind cloaked both hand and flask with long, silken tresses. She laughed, tossing her head in a vain attempt to control her hair, but the breeze wouldn’t release it and it floated about her – a cloud of rich, honey-brown.

‘My hair’s writhing about like those snakes,’ she said. ‘They’ve been brought back to life.’

Oliver pushed to his feet, and looked down at her. He put up a hand and slowly lifted a windswept lock aside. When his other hand met hers on the flask, her laughter died.

He shook his head slowly. ‘It looks nothing of the kind.’