‘He is.’
Lufu snorted. ‘What do you think he will do when he discovers you’ve deceived him? I doubt he’ll be thanking you.’
Rosamund’s needle went still.
‘Aye, think on that,’ Lufu said, darkly. ‘You’d be forcing him to break his vow to Lord Geoffrey.’
Rosamund hesitated, she could remember Oliver talking about the importance of honour – about the importance of keeping his vows. ‘The baron can’t hold him responsible if he’s lost his memory!’
‘Can’t he? And what about you, what will the baron do to you?’ Lufu leaned closer. ‘Rose, Oliver is a knight, you are Alfwold’s wife. He belongs at the castle, you at the mill.’
‘You don’t have to remind me.’ Rosamund felt her shoulders droop. ‘In truth, I think he might be beginning to remember already. Last evening, I let slip something about the castle and he went very quiet. Lufu, I do know he’ll have to go back.’
‘For our sakes, the sooner he goes the better,’ Lufu said, bluntly.
Rosamund stared pensively into the fire. ‘I don’t think much of the castle. It’s full of schemers.’
‘Eh, lass, and what have you become? One day there and you’re tarred with the same brush. You’ve changed. The Rose I know wouldn’t dream of messing with the likes of him; she wouldn’t dream of breaking her vows.’
‘You’re right.’ She took a deep breath. ‘If there was only Oliver and I to consider, I might get away with it. But there’s his oath to his lord. His honour. I can’t wreck his future. And there’s you and Edwin. I shouldn’t have involved you – Sir Geoffrey might take it out on you...aiding and abetting or some such thing. I see I must tell him the truth.’ She bit her lip and looked anxiously towards the bed. ‘He will recover, won’t he? Why doesn’t he waken?’
‘He’s warm isn’t he?’
Leaning over, Rosamund touched his brow. ‘Yes.’
‘No longer feverish?’
Oliver’s eyelids flickered and her breath caught. ‘Lufu, did you see? He moved! I swear he moved...’
Lufu’s smile was reassuring. ‘He’s sleeping himself better. He’ll waken soon.’
‘And then I’ll tell him,’ Rosamund said, heart cramping. I will have to tell him. I cannot cause him to break his bond with his lord.
‘Aye,’ Lufu nodded. ‘That you will.’
***
Rosamund scoured Oliver’s face for the slightest sign of consciousness. Dark stubble shadowed the lean cheeks. His skin was cool to the touch and his colour was returning, but he had yet to stir. A sharp draught pulled her gaze to the door. Edwin had returned.
‘Edwin, there’s a draught. Please shut the door.’
Edwin gave her the oddest of looks and an ugly premonition made the hairs rise on the back of her neck. ‘Edwin?’
Edwin’s gaze shifted from Rosamund to Oliver and back to Rosamund. ‘Someone’s come to see you,’ he said.
Rosamund’s skin prickled. Slowly, she got to her feet.
Alfwold came in.
She stared at him, speechless with a sickening mix of guilt and dismay. This man with brown, bloodshot eyes and lank hair was her husband. His tunic was shiny with grease and his hose were soiled and torn. She had mended them only the day before their wedding. He’d been drinking again. Sleeping in the ditch. His scarred face was dripping with sweat, the climb from the village had winded him. She held herself stiff as a poker and tried not to shudder. It was impossible to smile.
‘Good day, Rosamund,’ Alfwold said, calmly.
He was keeping his distance, though a gleam in his eyes warned her that this might change at any moment. Rosamund rounded on Lufu. ‘You knew Edwin had gone for Alfwold!’
‘No...no.’ Lufu’s face was blank with astonishment. ‘I had no idea.’
Silence hung in the cottage like a tangible thing. It was bitter. Ugly. On the moor, a lamb bleated for its mother. A seagull mewed.
Rosamund could hardly bear to look at her husband’s work-ravaged face. He was staring at the man in the bed and her stomach lurched. He knows I love Oliver. She didn’t like to think how he knew, but she was in no doubt that Alfwold realised she’d given her heart to Oliver de Warenne.
She sent Edwin a barbed glance. She was angry with him for bringing Alfwold, even though she understood why he had done it. Edwin knew Alfwold and I had to speak. That’s why he brought him.
Nevertheless, she wished he hadn’t, particularly when Oliver was here. Alfwold turned back to her and for a moment his eyes – empty, dead – reminded her of the outlaw, Wulfric.