Shattered Vows

By Carol Townend

Trapped! Can love free her?
Rosamund Miller longs for the lord's handsome squire, but is forced to wed another. And now she must face the dreaded custom of droit de seigneur, the lord's right to bed a new bride in King Stephen's England.
Warrior Oliver de Warenne is determined to become a knight, to gain wealth and power by wielding his sword. And he has hardened his heart against all else, including the lovely miller's daughter.
Then one night changes everything for them both...

This is a revised edition of a book originally published by Mills & Boon in 1989.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Carol Townend
• Release date: Jan 2, 2019
• ISBN: 9781783012121

Carol Townend

Carol Townend writes historical romances set in medieval England and Europe. She read history at London University and loves research trips whether they be to France, Greece, Italy, Turkey… Ancient buildings inspire her. Carol’s idea of heaven is to find the plan of a medieval town and then to wander around the actual place dreaming up her heroes and heroines. Visit her website/blog: https://caroltownend.co.uk/

Book preview

Chapter One

May Day: The Year of Our Lord 1149

Rosamund had almost reached the beach. As she worked her way down the cliff path, stones skittered down the track ahead of her. There was a horse on the sand, a grey stallion. A destrier. Even from this distance, it was clear the saddle and harness were fit for a knight. There was no sign of any knight though, the rest of the beach looked empty. How strange to leave a horse like that unguarded.

Since it was May Day – a Holy Day – Rosamund was wearing her rose-coloured gown, the one usually reserved for Sundays. She didn’t want to rip it. Lifting her skirts clear of rocks and scree in the manner of the ladies at the castle, she continued down the path. Seagulls screeched overhead, bright arcs of light that flashed across a cloudless sky.

If she tore the gown her stepmother, Aeffe, would be furious. Aeffe had had to be bribed to give it to Rosamund. Even though she’d had it for years, she’d been reluctant to part with it until Rosamund’s father had promised compensation in the form of a new one.

Between them, her father and stepmother made Rosamund feel like a beggar. As if she hadn’t earned Aeffe’s wretched cast-offs ten times over! If it weren’t for the fact that her other gown had been in rags, she’d have flung the rose one back in Aeffe’s face. Still, she’d never had a better gown...

Warily, she looked at the destrier. She shrugged, it was only a horse. Carefully, she continued picking her way down the path, one hand holding her skirts, the other occasionally clutching at a rock for balance. Gulls screamed over the whooshing waves. She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, oblivious of the trail of dust smearing across her brow. Her hair was loose, long honey-brown hair that was crowned with a circlet of forget-me-nots, made especially for the holiday.

The horse’s ears had pricked, he was looking her way. Rosamund had come to the beach to be alone, but the horse was a pleasant distraction. ‘Hello. You’re a beauty, and far too fine to be left unattended. You’d fetch a king’s ransom at the market. Are you from the castle?’

The warhorse snickered softly in reply and watched her with huge eyes. His reins were looped round a large boulder.

The incline of the cliff path was less steep at the bottom and Rosamund came onto the beach at a run. The on-shore breeze lifted her hair and it swirled about her.

There had been a recent rock fall. A great chunk of the cliff lay on the beach – grass was growing in the sandy earth that had come down with it. This place was dangerous – children were warned to avoid it. Nearby was another pile of boulders that had tumbled down last autumn. A violent rainstorm had sent water cascading down the cliff. Waves the size of Ingerthorpe Castle had beat against the rocks. Unable to withstand the assault, the cliff walls had been breached and the boulders had thundered onto the sands with a roaring that had sounded like a million ravening beasts. The resulting rubble all but blocked this part of the beach off from the fishing village. It was high and difficult to scale. You could only skirt round it when the tide was at its lowest – as now.

But Rosamund wasn’t interested in walking to the village today. She’d no wish to take part in any May Day celebrations – she had nothing to celebrate. Everyone would be drinking and the main street would be a river of spilled ale by nightfall. The Maypole would be set up near the harbour wall. There’d be coloured ribbons floating in the breeze. There’d be mountebanks, fairings and trinkets. She wasn’t in the mood.

She eyed the grey as she tugged off her boots and dropped them onto the sand. He was a regal beast, nothing like the bony carters’ nags who shifted the sacks of flour to and from Baron Geoffrey’s mill. Their coats were dull with dust and lack of care, this creature had flanks which gleamed white in the bright sunlight. Rosamund wanted to touch him to see if he were real.

The warhorse snorted and blew through his nose. His ears were not angry, nor his eyes...

Slowly, she moved towards him. He was real. Warm to the touch. Flesh and blood like her. The grey dwarfed her, but she was unafraid.

‘I wish I’d known you’d be here,’ she said, stroking the finely arched neck. ‘I would have brought you something to eat. Do you like apples? We have a few left at the bottom of the barrel. They’re wrinkled, it’s true, but they taste sweet.’

The grey nuzzled her ear. Her smile faded as her crown of flowers was snatched from her.

‘No! Stop that!’

Too late. In a swift movement, the destrier had tugged the garland free. Slowly, he began to chew.

Rosamund grabbed for her circlet, but the stallion whipped his head out of reach. His ears pricked forwards, alert. He had heard something. A man was clattering towards them over the smashed rocks. His movements were angry. Instinctively, Rosamund backed a pace or two closer to the cliff path.

‘Get back!’ The newcomer – a young man she didn’t recognise – was shouting. His voice was harsh over the cry of the gulls. ‘Don’t touch that animal!’ His tone was imperious and his accent aristocratic. Foreign.

She’d done nothing wrong – there was no need to feel afraid. ‘I mean no harm,’ she said, clearing her throat as he sprinted towards her. ‘I’ve not hurt him.’ In comparison to the stranger, she was conscious that her northern accent sounded thick and clumsy.

Steely fingers clamped round her arm. The stranger’s eyes were grey and hard as flint. Narrowing, they looked her over and then scoured the beach and cliffs.

‘Who’s with you?’

‘No-one. Ow! That hurts!’

‘And will continue to do so unless you tell me the truth. Who’s with you? Where were you going to take him?’

‘No-one’s with me. I weren’t taking him anywhere,’ she said, and noticed his lips twitch. ‘I were...’ swiftly, she corrected herself ‘...I was just talking to him. Then he ate my garland, and then you appeared, and now you are near breaking my arm.’

‘He ate what?’ The stranger sounded incredulous.

Rosamund gestured at the shingle. ‘See for yourself, you’re standing on it.’

Wintry eyes glanced down and a lock of dark hair fell over his brow. He relaxed his hold, but he didn’t release her.

‘Forget-me-nots,’ he murmured, as if puzzled. He sounded almost human.

‘Aye. At least they were forget-me-nots this morning, they have suffered much since then.’ Rosamund was still wary, but she sensed from the change in the young man’s demeanour that he no longer suspected her of trying to steal his horse.

Who was he? His voice was so strange. His was no rough country dialect, but a polished, cultured voice. His clothes were fine enough to mark him noble and if this was his stallion...

‘What’s your name?’ he asked abruptly.

‘Rosamund. Rosamund Miller.’

Impatiently, he brushed back dark, wind-ruffled hair. Hair that was clean, not matted and knotted like Alfwold’s.

‘I thought so, I’ve seen you at the mill,’ he said. ‘You’re the miller’s daughter?’

She nodded, he was easier to understand when he wasn’t shouting at her.

‘Your father Osric is not a popular man,’ he added bluntly, watching her reaction.

Rosamund lifted a shoulder, she didn’t want to talk about her father, it embarrassed her. The whole village knew he returned short measures of milled grain, sifting off a little from each milling for his own profit. Her father’s dishonesty had always rankled with her, but he never heeded her objections. ‘And you? Am I to know who you are, sir?’

He released her arm. ‘My name is Oliver.’

Which told her nothing. Rosamund was about to pose another question, but the young man parried it with one of his own.

‘Are you dishonest like your father, I wonder?’

‘I...no!’

A cool gaze swept her up and down. Rosamund bristled.

He sighed. ‘No, I don’t think you are. At least not to the extent of being a horse thief. Forgive me my suspicions, this horse is all I have.’

It seemed politic to ignore the insulting thought that this Oliver considered her capable of some dishonesty – even if he didn’t believe she was out to steal his horse.

She smiled tentatively up at him, she would far rather have him for a friend than a foe. He was tall, over six feet, and strongly built. Was he a knight? There was a determined cast to his jaw and he was watching her closely through slate grey eyes which seemed to miss not a detail.

She felt very conscious of her hair hanging down about her face in rats’ tails, tangled by the climb down the cliff and the sea breezes. She flicked it back over her shoulder, suddenly not so sure of herself, though Oliver’s stance had not changed. He said he had seen her before, but she couldn’t recall having seen him. The only time anyone had passed the mill mounted on such a fine horse, they had been in the company of Baron Geoffrey Fitz Neal. Was Oliver part of the baron’s retinue?

He was staring at her with such a supercilious expression on his face. Was he laughing at her?

Rosamund forgot her resolve to smile, she forgot the probable difference in their class and responded as she often did when uncertain of herself. She attacked. ‘There’s no need to stare at me as though I had crawled out of the midden. I haven’t. And there’s no need to look down that long nose of yours at my gown as though it were rags. It’s me – my – best. At least I’ve made more of an effort for the festival than you. Look at you, all plain, dull colours.’

Oliver didn’t rise to the bait as Aeffe would have done. He glanced down at his brown tunic and fingered the clean cream sleeve of his undershirt. ‘Festival? What festival?’

‘You can’t be that ignorant, you must know what day it is.’

He folded his arms across his chest. ‘Remind me.’ He sounded mildly interested, as though he were addressing a fractious child.

Rosamund frowned, his condescension irritated her. ‘It’s May Day.’

‘May Day. Ah, I see,’ he glanced at the trampled flowers and smiled. ‘These were for your sweetheart and Lance and I between us have ruined them. I see I must make reparation.’

Rosamund’s heart gave a little jump. There were two reasons for this and both astonished her. The first was that when Oliver smiled, the hard, bitter lines on his face were erased. His appearance changed to such an extent that she quite forgot how alarming he’d looked, bellowing at her from across the rockfall. He was no longer a frowning, suspicious nobleman, one whom she must outwit if she were to escape a beating. She looked at him with new eyes and saw a young and handsome man who was quite unlike any of the village lads. He was clean for one thing. He didn’t smell. As far as she could see, his only flaw was that one of his teeth had a small chip in it – the chip was only visible when he smiled.

But the second, most extraordinary thing, was that he seemed to be apologising to her. No man had ever apologised to her. Had she thought about it, she would have supposed it an impossibility. Men didn’t apologise. They might beat, they might cajole, they might even seduce, but they didn’t apologise. Men were never wrong. She goggled up at him, speechless with surprise. She must be dreaming. But she could feel the wind lifting her hair, playing with it. This was happening. She was standing on the edge of the beach, she could feel shingle beneath her bare feet, she could hear the waves. And this proud man, no peasant’s son, was apologising to her, to Rosamund the miller’s daughter.

She could forgive him anything after this. Even that irritating air of condescension. She wanted to savour this. Lord, the man was apologising to her.

Watching her staring at him with her mouth agape, Oliver decided the girl – Rosamund, her name was Rosamund – must be simple. He reached out and put a finger under her chin to close her mouth.

‘How may I make amends?’ he asked softly. ‘What would you have me do?’

She may be lacking in wits, but he’d no wish to startle her. It was such a pity she was simple, for she was uncommonly pretty with fathomless blue eyes and glorious honey-coloured hair. Did she have a sweetheart? And how would he treat her, this lover of hers? Would he be gentle with her, or would he take advantage of her simple nature and use her before casting her aside?

Rosamund blinked, Oliver’s gentleness was yet another novelty. ‘You want to make amends?’

She felt like pinching herself. He would surely prove to be like other men – he couldn’t be real. Men didn’t apologise, men weren’t usually gentle. His behaviour was so outside her experience, so unlike her father...

Oliver made her spine tingle, it was as though he were a spirit. He wasn’t real. Real men didn’t look so strong, so handsome, or so clean. Used as she was to downtrodden, humble peasant men who hadn’t the means to wear fine, clean clothes, this man seemed to shine.

With a sudden shiver of excitement, Rosamund felt that she had recognised the truth. He was a spirit. Someone so handsome couldn’t be human. Had he been summoned up for her as part of this magical day? One of her last days as an unmarried woman...

Her superstitious mind latched onto the thought and embellished it. The grey of the sea was reflected in his eyes. Yes, now she understood, May Day belonged to the old gods and they had brought him to her. The old gods had sent him riding in from the sea on his great horse and for today he was hers. It wasn’t something to consider too closely, lest he vanish like the morning mists. She smiled up at him, delighted with her fantasy.

‘What reparation shall I make?’ Oliver asked, bending to pick up the forget-me-nots so he could give himself time to accustom himself to her smile.

Oliver couldn’t remember when a maid had looked at him like this, she was staring at him as though he were a god and he was human enough to enjoy it. She was completely natural, there wasn’t a trace of artifice or malice in that smile. And her eyes met his directly. She couldn’t be more different from the simpering, scheming ladies he’d met since his return to England. Their eyes never fell on him without reminding him of his mother’s shame. There’d been scorn and pity in their every glance. He’d heard the titters as they’d whispered about him behind their hands and he’d forced himself to affect insouciance, though he felt like throttling them all.

But now, here he was on the beach with the miller’s daughter – a peasant girl – and she was making him feel things he thought he had suppressed long ago. This girl was filling him with longings he would never act on. He couldn’t afford to. Acting on such desires would be bound to upset the carefully plotted course of his life.

‘You will do anything?’ she asked.

Against his better judgement, Oliver nodded.

‘I’d like you to be my escort,’ she said. Her voice was low and melodious. ‘Just for today, of course.’

Her dialect was less pronounced than it had been even moments ago. It was as though she were imitating him. Who was it had told him that peasants could be splendid lovers but should never be encouraged to talk? They had never heard this girl speak.

‘It would be my pleasure,’ he heard himself say.

She gave him another of those innocent, devastating smiles. The bright day had caught him in its net. Hell, why not? He would let a shy, admiring smile and honest eyes seduce him from his path. Gladly. But only for a day. That was all she asked. She didn’t seem to expect or want more, this simple maid.

He would forget who he was and what he was, while basking in the pleasure of her smile. For a day. And tomorrow...tomorrow he would return to Geoffrey. His new lord. His cousin, Sir Geoffrey Fitz Neal.

Geoffrey would taunt him if he could see how easily a pair of smiling rosy lips had entranced him. With such ammunition, his cousin’s baiting would know no bounds. The thought of Geoffrey’s mocking face as he had last seen it, laughing with his fellows, twisted Oliver’s stomach into an angry knot. The stallion at his side shifted, dragging a hoof through the sand. No, he’d bury his anger, forget his cousin for a while, and enjoy the company of the miller’s daughter.

She must have picked up on his flare of anger for she had stepped back, and taken her bottom lip between her teeth. She looked timid, even frightened.

Firmly, Oliver banished the fury from his mind and eyes. He found a smile and watched, bemused, as her eyes lit up. Mon Dieu, if he didn’t watch out for her, a less scrupulous man might come upon her and...

She wasn’t fit to be abroad on her own if she smiled at every man she met in such a fashion – particularly on May Day.

He would see her safe till eventide and return her to the mill. Knowing Osric Miller’s reputation, her father would be out enjoying the festival, there would be no-one at the mill to keep an eye on her until later tonight. Tomorrow the girl would be safely back at work, thankfully she’d be too busy to be wandering unprotected all over the countryside.

Today she would be safe – with him.

***

‘I love these little stones,’ Rosamund said, pointing at the broken rocks and shingle brought down by the cliff fall. ‘I spend hours here when I can get away. I collect them.’ She spoke slowly – she was making a fair attempt to mimic his mode of speech.

Oliver looked askance at the untidy heap of rocks. ‘What, these?’

She laughed. ‘Oh, not just any old stone. The special ones.’

‘Of course,’ Oliver smiled, he supposed he ought to humour her. It was such a waste of a pretty maid...

‘No, no,’ she surprised him by saying. ‘I can see you don’t understand. Look.’ Catching his hand, she pulled him over to the nearest pile of rubble. She bent and began to sort through the small stones, setting a few to one side.

Oliver sat back on his heels and watched her, sifting sand through his fingers. Rosamund’s rich, earthy beauty fascinated him almost as much as her smile. At times, she had the bearing of a queen. Rich, golden-brown hair flowed about her shoulders and down her back, a shiny mass swaying in the wind. The elbows of the pink gown were darned and she had pushed up the sleeves to reveal delicate, feminine arms. He wanted to touch them, but instead he sifted through the sand and watched the way her work-scarred but nimble fingers picked out a few particular stones. He could see little to distinguish the ones she had chosen from the ones she had rejected. Such a pity...

‘Look.’ She held out a grey stone. ‘No, really look at it. I don’t believe you even glanced at it.’

Obediently, he took the stone from her palm, dropping his eyes from hers. The stone was about an inch wide, almost round. Clearly marked across its surface was a ridged pattern in a spiral shape.

Their eyes met over the stone.

‘You see! There are lots like this. You have to search hard to find them, but once you know where to look, there are dozens, just waiting to be found.’

Oliver reached past her and chose another stone, a tiny one, from her collection. It had the same markings, like a spiral. As did they all. It was merely the size that varied. So there was some method in it...

‘There’s a story...’ she hesitated, flushing.

‘Yes?’

‘The village priest – Father Cedric – told it to me before he died, it’s an ancient story. It goes back to the days before the Sea Raiders came.’

‘Go on.’

‘It’s only a tale for children, I’ve been told I shouldn’t listen to such...’ Rosamund hesitated, but Oliver’s smile was encouraging. That chipped front tooth was visible, she found it oddly attractive. This strong young man was not invulnerable, his broken tooth proved his humanity.

She smiled back. ‘A holy lady lived high up on the cliffs. A saint, named Hilda. She was renowned for her goodness and wisdom. Saint Hilda wasn’t a hermit, and she didn’t scorn the common people – everyone came to her for help. The world brought her their woes. She would see anyone, rich or poor, and it was said that she could solve any problem, however dire.

‘One day the countryside around was visited by a terrible scourge – a plague of poisonous snakes overran the village. The snakes were everywhere and there was no escaping them. They hid in lofts and barns and cottages. Many people died.

‘Some believed that the devil had sent the snakes to torment them. Others thought God was punishing them for their wickedness. The people set traps for the snakes and they killed scores of them. But more snakes appeared, and then more, it seemed there was no end to them. No-one was safe.

‘Finally the villagers went to Saint Hilda and begged for help. She went down into the village, and started driving the snakes before her with her staff. She herded them up to the top of the cliff as though they were sheep and commanded them to go over the edge. They obeyed. Every last snake met its death at the bottom of the cliff.’

Oliver rested his chin on his hand. His gaze was intent, thoughtful. She noticed that the grey in his eyes was outlined with a soot-black ring.

‘Is that it?’ he asked, with a puzzled frown.

‘Not quite. These...’ she gestured at the tiny, swirled stones ‘...these are said to be the snakes. Father Cedric explained it. He told me that when the snakes fell, they curled up tight as hedgehogs so they could roll safely down the cliff. But the tide was in, so they