Shattered Vows(75)

She lifted her chin. ‘Good day, Alfwold.’

They stared at each other for the space of several heartbeats. Her cheeks scorched, confirming her guilty love more eloquently than words ever could. Alfwold gave her a smile so twisted it was like a gargoyle’s.

‘So it’s true,’ he said. ‘He didn’t force you.’

It was strange how quickly you could become used to things. Alfwold’s voice sounded coarse after Oliver’s. Not long ago it had been Oliver who had sounded foreign.

Her face burned. ‘I wasn’t forced.’

‘So he didn’t hurt you?’

‘No.’

‘I’m glad of that, lass.’ She could hear no feeling in his voice and she wondered if he was lying. Expression brightening, he stepped closer. ‘And were you willing to bide at Ingerthorpe with him? After that first night, I mean? Or did they force you to that?’

She looked at him, not knowing what to think. Perhaps he did care. She was assuming that the lifeless look in Alfwold’s eyes meant that he felt nothing. Guilt burned in her guts – what if she was wrong?

‘I was willing,’ she said, and watched his face collapse. ‘I never asked to be taken there in the first place, but I was willing to stay. Alfwold, forgive me. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I...I thought God was offering me a chance at a little happiness. But I was wrong. I found...I found I couldn’t stay without speaking to you first. I went back to the mill to find you.’ She gestured at the bed. ‘Oliver came after me and there were strangers in the village. They attacked and wounded him. I couldn’t desert him, so we came here.’

Alfwold looked intently at her. ‘You were coming back to me?’

‘I wanted to speak to you. I wanted to ask for an annulment.’

‘An annulment?’ He clenched his fists. ‘You don’t love me.’

She hesitated, searching for words that wouldn’t hurt. Oliver stirred and muttered. Bending over him, she stroked his temple.

Alfwold’s lip curled as he watched her. ‘You want an annulment.’ He shook his head. ‘Rosamund, before you say anything else, you’d best listen to this. I’ve news. I’m not sure how you’ll take it, not now, but...’ His voice faded.

His restraint was as puzzling as his diffidence. Rosamund hadn’t looked forward to facing his anger, but surely he should be greeting his wife – his erring wife – with more passion than this? She’d just admitted that she’d been willing when she’d sinned against him. She’d been an adulteress and not a victim. Husbands didn’t generally accept the sins of their wives with such meekness. Alfwold would be within his rights to chastise her and if he chose to beat her no-one would lift a hand to stop him. She felt suddenly light-headed.

Would he refuse to give her an annulment?

‘Alfwold, go on – your news...’

‘I went to the abbey and I’ve seen Abbot William.’ Alfwold’s pock-marked skin was mottled, as if he were labouring under some great emotion. ‘I have to tell you that he denies all knowledge of the priest, Eadric.’

Rosamund looked blankly at him. ‘Abbot William can’t know every priest in the diocese. Didn’t Father Eadric come from York?’

‘Eadric didn’t come from York.’

‘What are you saying?’

Alfwold cleared his throat, his mouth was grim. ‘Eadric’s not a priest, he’s an impostor.’

Lufu gasped.

‘An impostor,’ Alfwold repeated. ‘The man’s in the pay of the Angevins. Eadric’s been sent to England to make trouble for King Stephen. To pave the way for Mathilda’s son, Henry. He stole his habit from the rightful owner of that document I told you about. You remember, Rose? The one hung about with wax seals.’

‘I remember.’ Rosamund’s throat was so dry she could hardly get the words out.

‘The naked body of a man has been found on the moor, on the road from York. It’s likely that he was rightful holder of the parchment. The rebels must have killed him.’

‘Lord have mercy,’ Lufu said, crossing herself.

Edwin put an arm about her shoulders and cleared his throat. ‘Eadric used his stolen identity to gain the confidence of the villagers in Ingerthorpe. Rose, the point is that you and Alfwold are not married. The ceremony Eadric presided over was a sham. You’re not married.’

Rosamund’s legs gave way and she groped for the bed. Plumping herself down on the edge of the mattress, she buried her face in her hands.

I’m not married to Alfwold, there’s no need to beg for an annulment.

She lifted her head. ‘You’re saying that I’m free? That I haven’t broken holy vows?’