Shattered Vows(82)

‘Was it really, my love? I confess I am instantly reassured by your protestations.’ He gave a heavy sigh. ‘Now, much as I admire the charm of Angel Falls, it’s time to go. Do you think you could set your mind to finding that encampment?’

Anger flared inside her. ‘If you think so badly of me, why on earth did you stop Alfwold taking me back to the mill?’

His eyes were as hard as slate. He gestured towards the ledge. ‘The direction of the rebel camp?’

‘Don’t use that tone on me, I’m not one of your men.’

‘No, you’re not are you?’ His gaze swept her from head to toe. She was conscious of the spray dampening her pink gown. When dry it was the most modest of garments, but it was clinging to her shape in a way she was sure was revealing. She tightened the strings of her cloak and hunched herself more securely inside it. Oliver’s lips twitched, but she could take no comfort from that – his eyes remained stony.

‘The camp?’

‘I’ll show you, although there’s no need for us to get drenched, I can point it out from this side of the river.’

‘Oh?’

‘We’re on foot and it’s easier to reach the castle if we stay on the north bank. Follow me.’ She pushed between some bushes and onto the path and Oliver followed. The roar of the falls faded and she became aware of other sounds – the cry of a hawk, the chatter of a wren. The river was close, she could hear it as it bubbled towards her father’s millpond. She could hear the squabbling of gulls and the everyday sounds of villagers at work on their strip fields – voices, oxen clinking in their yokes.

Rosamund knew this area like the back of her hand. Ahead, the river Esk flowed through the village which had been her home for every one of her sixteen years. It wound on from there to mingle with the waters of the sea and she could visualise it every foot of the way. It seemed strange that everything remained the same. She had changed so much in these past few days, she half expected everything else to have changed too.

She could feel Oliver’s breath on her neck. ‘Mind you don’t tread on my heels.’

‘I like to have you within arms’ length, my love.’

Her stomach fell. He really didn’t trust her. He feared she might betray him and he wanted her within reach. Her nose inched up. ‘We’re almost at the camp,’ she said, quietly. ‘Then we’ll take the cliff path to the castle. It’s by far the most direct route.’

‘How good of you to tell me. Is that to put me off my guard?’

She looked over her shoulder and the glare she sent him should have burnt him to a cinder. He smiled calmly back. She huffed out a breath and kept going. She wasn’t going to look his way again.

***

They had passed the mill and climbed the rise, and were cutting across the cliff-top towards the castle. There was little in the way of cover. There were no shrubs – just some tussocky grass and a scattering of thrift bobbing in a brisk breeze. A straggling line of misshapen, wind-bent trees told those who had eyes to see that, up here, the east wind reigned supreme.

The sea air had swept away the cobwebs – Oliver’s head was no longer throbbing in that thought-hobbling way. His energy had returned and he was striding easily, confidently. He felt almost relaxed.

He was remembering. Slowly, far too slowly for his liking, but his memory was returning. When Rosamund had pointed out the direction of the rebel encampment, he’d been able to work out its location in relation to the castle. As they’d marched past her father’s mill the sense of urgency had permitted only the most cursory of glances. But it had been enough to set his spirits soaring – he recognised it. And something had shifted in the back of his mind, clicking into place. Something which had him turning instinctively for the shortcut to Ingerthorpe Castle.

He altered his stride to avoid stumbling in a cluster of rabbit holes. A pair must have escaped the Abbey’s coney garth – this was a flourishing warren. And a poacher’s paradise. A tell-tale net lay tangled and torn by one of the rabbit-holes. The fibres were rotting and in need of repair. Had it been forgotten? Or had the poacher been caught by the baron’s warrener? Though the rabbits were wild, by rights they belonged to the lord – anyone taking them would be accused of poaching.

Oliver’s gaze sharpened and he cocked his head to one side. A troop of horse-soldiers was galloping along the cliff-top. Pennons streamed out behind them. Steel flashed.

‘Horses,’ he said, tersely.

Rosamund caught his arm. ‘They’re charging straight at us!’

He thrust her behind him and stood, legs braced slightly apart, facing the oncoming troop. His hand hovered over his sword hilt. One of the pennons was red and gold, the other blue and black. The ground shook. Hell burn it, he couldn’t recall Baron Geoffrey’s colours!