‘This is the miller’s daughter,’ the priest said, releasing her hair with a flourish. ‘We can’t afford to offend the villagers, it’s difficult enough to get enough supplies as it is. Go home, girl.’
Two men, their faces indistinguishable because of their hoods, grasped Oliver by the shoulders and feet, lifting him. Taking him away. She darted forward. ‘Mind his head!’ As she reached out to steady him, it dawned on her why they were taking him prisoner. ‘You’re going to ransom him! That’s why you’ve not killed him.’
‘Maybe we are and maybe we’re not,’ Father Eadric said. ‘Mark my words, girl. If you value your skin, you’ll go back to the mill and you’ll say nothing of what you’ve seen.’
Rosamund’s head throbbed. Go back to the mill? Say nothing? He was asking the impossible.
‘You won’t take care of him,’ she said, pointing at the ominous dark stain on Oliver’s tunic. Words poured out of her. ‘Look at him, there’s blood all over the place. You won’t get a penny if he dies. Take me with you. I’ll bandage him up, I’ll make sure that he lives and you’ll get your ransom.’
Oliver was being carried up a slope away from the river. She lurched after him, determined not to lose him. Behind her, she could hear the harsh breathing of the priest.
‘Very well,’ Father Eadric said. ‘Come with us, but don’t come whining to me if you’re unlucky enough to get raped. I’ve better things to do than act as wet-nurse to a blunt-witted wench.’
Rosamund held her damp skirts clear of the dew and hurried on. ‘Thank you.’
Father Eadric’s laugh was exasperated. ‘You won’t be thanking me when you see our encampment. Ingerthorpe Castle it isn’t.’
‘I’ll survive.’
‘We’ll have to see about that, won’t we?’
Her skin prickled. A threat? It certainly sounded like one. She gripped her skirts and pressed on. Whatever happened, she refused to be separated from Oliver. Never mind what Father Eadric and his men were up to, she couldn’t abandon him.
***
Lantern in one hand, the priest wrenched at the hovel door. Warped wood groaned. Rosamund had been tied by her ankle to wooden post and Oliver had been dumped, bound and unconscious, on the floor nearby. He too was roped to the post.
‘You’re leaving us in this shack?’ she asked.
The priest’s smile was chilling. ‘Looks that way, doesn’t it?’
Through the door, Rosamund could see several men hunched round a glowing fire-pit. In all, there were dozens of them. A small army. They’d built their fire in a pit so the flames wouldn’t be visible beyond the encampment. Were these the Angevin rebels the local lords had been so concerned about earlier? Were they trying to raise money for their cause? Sweet Mother, had it really only been that evening when she’d been in the bailey, edging past Lord Gilbert’s horses? It seemed a lifetime ago.
Gripping the lantern, the priest made to leave. He’d brought them to what must be the most ruinous hut in England. The floor dipped alarmingly in the centre and the air smelt of damp. Of rot.
‘Wait!’ She bit her lip, unable to hide the shiver that went through her at the thought of being left in such a place. ‘Don’t leave us in the dark.’
Indifferent eyes met hers.
‘I...I need water to bathe Sir Oliver’s head,’ she said, making a point of stressing Oliver’s title. ‘And light to see by. And bandages. Something to drink. And-’
‘Yes, ma dame.’ His mocking laugh chilled her to the marrow.
She put up her chin, determined he wouldn’t see how afraid she was. ‘I’m to care for him, remember?’ Oliver, wake up. Please wake up.
The door grated and the light retreated. The fire-pit and the rebels were lost to sight. She heard a rasping noise – a lock was being fastened. Metal chinked. The air was sweet with decay. The room was full of silence – a black, impenetrable silence. Her brief sight of the hut hadn’t been encouraging, they’d been buried alive.
Smiling grimly, she gave the rope about her ankle an experimental tug. She grimaced, the place was falling apart but the central post was sound. And that, naturally, was the one they were bound to. Whoever they were, these men were well-prepared. They might not be Angevins, it was entirely possible they were outlaws happy to use the Angevin cause to plunder and pillage.
She couldn’t hear anything except the pounding of her heart. Oliver hadn’t moved. She groped her way to him and gave him a little shake.
‘Oliver?’
Nothing.