Rosamund’s lips twisted. ‘I had to bribe a guard to let me out.’
Aeffe had put her head to one side and smiled. ‘Listen...I can hear hoofbeats. He’s not here yet, but someone is approaching fast on the road from the castle.’
Rosamund froze. Oliver.
‘Are you going to let him take you back?’
‘No, I really must speak to Alfwold.’ She snatched up her cloak. Heart thumping, she unbarred the door.
‘Don’t be a fool!’ Aeffe’s voice followed her outside. ‘He’ll not be back this way again. His sort don’t ask twice, he’ll find someone else!’
With Aeffe’s warning ringing in her ears, Rosamund picked up her skirts and raced across the mill yard. The moon was lighting her way, but if it was bright enough for her to see, it was would also be bright enough for Oliver.
The hoofbeats were getting louder. It sounded as though he’d reached the shrine, in a couple of moments he’d round the bend and she’d be in his line of sight. Casting about for cover, she flung herself off the track and into the shrubs and reeds growing on the riverbank.
Panting, she peered through the branches of a coppiced willow. She could see the path. And Oliver. He was a dark warrior on a silver horse bearing down on the sleeping mill. His hair gleamed like jet in the moonlight. His features looked set, as though carved from granite. Swooping from the saddle, he dived at the door.
The crash and slam made her start. And then there was only Lance. A horse fit for a king was standing unattended in her father’s mill yard, in the place where the carter’s nags came to collect grain for market. His reins caught the light as they swung to and fro.
Blood pounding in her ears, Rosamund left the shelter of the willows and reeds and crept around the mill. She must get to the stepping stones beyond the millpond, she must cross them before he came out of the mill. She had no clear goal in mind, all she knew was that she must escape him and this was the only path open to her. She couldn’t simply return to the castle as Oliver’s lover, she must consider Alfwold.
Her thoughts raced. She couldn’t hide in the village, Oliver would find her too easily, no-one could keep secrets in Ingerthorpe. And she refused to return to the castle until she’d spoken to Alfwold. Which left the moorland road to York. It was new territory for her, but Lufu and Edwin lived in a hut on the edge of the moor. With luck she’d find them. They were old friends, they wouldn’t turn her away.
The breeze was rattling the reeds. Glancing over her shoulder as she ran, Rosamund cursed the clear night. The millpond looked glassy, the moon and stars shone like silver in the black water. Her throat dried. When Oliver came out, he couldn’t fail to see her.
She skirted the pond, a few more paces and she’d reach the crossing. The path on the other side of the river was flanked by a thick screen of flowering hawthorn and shrubby bushes. If she got that far, Oliver might not be able to see her. She would have a chance.
Ahead, the stepping stones gleamed white like an ivory necklace. Praying that God would grant her a second or two to cross the stream, Rosamund felt her way out over the water. Her legs were trembling. One stone, two, three...
Her fingers became thumbs and she dropped her skirts into the water. With a groan, she hitched them up again. She heard a crash that could only be the mill door. Her heart jumped and she almost missed her footing. She couldn’t see the yard from here, the building and the shrubs stood between them. Her skirts flapped coldly round her calves. Another step, another...
Sobbing with relief, she stumbled onto the bank. She was across! Setting her back resolutely to the mill and the pond, she forced herself to take deep, even breaths. She must pace herself. It was no use running herself into the ground – she’d go fast, but steady. The track between the bushes was thin as a ribbon and she’d be hard to see.
A distant rumble of thunder rolled in from the coast. She forced her feet to settle into a steady rhythm. Her banging heart set the pace. Every breath seemed to scour her throat. Lord, if only she’d managed to rest at the mill. Then she’d have been able to run without her chest feeling as though it was about to tear apart.
The earth shook. A sea-storm was approaching. A sea-storm? There wasn’t a cloud within ten miles. She checked, glanced at the glittering stars, and the thunder stopped. She could hear splashing, and a low, urgent voice. ‘Steady, Lance, steady, it looks shallow here. That’s it, well done, boy.’
Her blood chilled. It hadn’t been thunder – she’d been hearing hoofbeats. Oliver would bear down on her with that warhorse of his, he’d...