Alfwold doesn’t love me at all. He’s never loved me. He wants the mill.
‘Alfwold, is it me you want, or the mill?’
‘Rose?’
‘I thought you loved me.’
‘I do,’ Alfwold said, tightening his grip on her arm. ‘You know I do.’
Slowly, she shook her head. ‘No, I don’t think you do.’
Breaking eye contact, she gazed through the door at a clump of purple heather outside. How foolish she’d been. How vain. Alfwold didn’t love her any more than her father loved her. He wanted her for the mill. He valued her no more than her father, she was simply a means to an end. And to think she’d been worrying about upsetting him!
‘I won’t marry you Alfwold. I’m sorry.’
Alfwold dropped her arm as Edwin joined them by the door. A muscle was jumping in his cheek. ‘You are a stupid wench,’ he said, in a cold voice. ‘You’d kill us all and think nothing of it.’
‘That’s not true,’ Rosamund said, startled to see him so angry. ‘I’ve not said that I...Edwin, whatever’s the matter?’
Taking her wrists, Edwin manhandled her to the threshold. Alfwold kept close.
‘Edwin, let go!’
Edwin thrust her at Alfwold so roughly, she staggered. Alfwold’s arm snaked around her waist. She stiffened and tried to step aside but Alfwold came with her. He smelled vile, far ranker than she remembered. Her nose wrinkled. A cloud of stale sweat, sour ale and onions seemed to hang about him – it was so powerful she almost gagged. Her stomach churned as she struggled to break free.
‘Take her back to the mill, Alfwold,’ Edwin said. ‘She’s your responsibility.’
‘Edwin!’ Lufu glared at her husband. ‘What on earth...?’
‘She goes.’ Edwin folded his arms across his chest.
Rosamund bit her lip. ‘Edwin, you can’t-’
‘I can and I will. You’re going back to the mill.’
Lufu put her hands on her hips. ‘Edwin, what are you doing? Rose is our friend. In any case, how can Alfwold make her stay at the mill if she’s a mind to leave?’ Two spots of colour flared in her cheeks.
Edwin looked coldly at Rosamund. ‘Wife, you miscall her. We cannot call Rose our friend, no friend would risk our necks as she is doing. Alfwold can tie her up and starve her until she agrees to wed him, I care not. I want her to go.’ He jerked his head at the bed. ‘As for this knight-’
‘You won’t harm him?’ Rosamund’s stomach cramped.
‘Of course not, I’m not eager to hasten my end. I’ll take him to the castle and dump him at the gates. Never fear, Rose, your lover won’t die, at least not by my hand. But he’ll live where he belongs, up at the castle. I’ll not have our house fouled with his noble presence a moment longer.’
Rosamund gaped to hear the vehemence in Edwin’s voice and then it dawned on her. It wasn’t vehemence she was hearing, it was fear. Edwin was afraid.
‘Edwin,’ she said, gently. ‘There’s no need to worry, Oliver’s a good man. He wouldn’t stoop to petty revenge.’
Edwin glowered at her. ‘And what do you know of knightly ways?’
She lifted her shoulders, ‘Not much, I admit, but I do know that he is a good man.’
Edwin raised his eyes heavenwards. ‘Alfwold, I pray you, get this madwoman out of my sight before I change my mind and find I’ve done murder this day.’
She dug in her heels and looked to Alfwold for help, but his face was as hard as mill-stone grit. He was dragging her through the door, she could feel the wind as it swept over the heather.
‘No. No! Alfwold, I beg you, no!’
But Alfwold was deaf to all pleading and edged forwards, relentless. He wasn’t as tall as Oliver, but he had the strength of the devil and she soon found herself standing on the edge of the moor, screwing up her eyes against a shaft of sunlight. Lufu followed, wringing her hands.
Beads of sweat started on Alfwold’s forehead. ‘Holy Mother, save us,’ he said, looking back at the hut
Rosamund followed the direction of his gaze. After the dazzling brightness of the sun it was difficult to pick out what was happening inside, but a tall man stood by the box-bed, chest bare and clad only in his braies. Oliver was awake. Her heart jumped, she could see him dragging on his tunic. He took his time reaching the door, and when he got there he stopped to lean his shoulders against the door frame. He buckled on his sword belt and his grey eyes lifted.
Alfwold released her and stepped back.
‘Oliver!’ She stumbled towards him.
He looked drawn. The dark growth of his beard was masking his pallor. His mouth was set in a grim line and his eyebrows were drawn together. Was he in pain? When her eyes rose finally, inevitably, to meet his, she saw that he was examining her as minutely as she’d been examining him. The breath caught in her throat. There was something else, something lighting his eyes which she thought she recognised, for since meeting him, she had felt it herself often enough. He looked vulnerable, full of longing.