Anne O'Brien - Conquering Knight, Captive Lady

‘Yes,’ he stated. ‘The accommodation is limited here. There’s only one private chamber. It’s not convenient to me for you to occupy it.’

‘There are five towers around the court, all with chambers, all suitable! I know. I slept in one last night.’ Her face paled and her heart thudded, but whether with anger at his presumption or the sudden fear that he had the power to do exactly as he threatened—to turn her out—she was unsure.

‘This is no place for you, lady.’

‘I will not go.’

He turned from the mutton with a deep sigh, giving her his full attention, making no attempt to curb his impatience as he clapped his dagger down on the board. ‘I am giving you no choice. I will send an escort with you as far as Hereford, if that is what you wish, if you fear to travel. Although you got yourself here unaided without difficulty … From Hereford you can make your own way home. I expect you’ll be well received at Salisbury.’ He shrugged again as if it did not matter unduly to him.

‘But I cannot go back there.’ Her voice fell to almost a whisper as the uncertain future beckoned with all its horrors.

‘Why not? Would your brother not receive you?’

‘Yes. Of course he would. It’s not that …’

Rosamund’s ability to muster an argument vanished as the image of Ralph de Morgan came forcibly into her mind. If she returned to Gilbert’s jurisdiction … For a painful moment she swallowed, closed her eyes against the corpulent figure of Ralph with his ageing and unwashed body, suppressed a shudder. Marriage to him would be a thing of unending horror, of disgust. Her only knowledge of marriage was from the sad experiences of her mother, always discreet, but her sufferings were clear enough. One husband, her own father, a disgracefully uncouth knight with no polish and less breeding, who had treated Petronilla little better than a servant in his Hall. The other had all the polish and style any woman could want, but had been as cold as a fish, without the ability to love. Petronilla had had a lifetime of unhappiness. Did Rosamund want that? A life of hidden tears, of carefully controlled emotions that no one might guess at? A loneliness that was bone deep? All this would be hers. And then, worse then all the rest, there was the loathsome rankness of the man she would be forced to marry. She could not tolerate that. But nor could she explain why it was impossible for her to leave Clifford. It would destroy her pride to have this man look at her with pity in his face. Rosamund shook her head.

‘I won’t go,’ was all she could find to repeat. And, clenching her skirts, would have stalked from the dais except that Fitz Osbern, with the reflexes of a hunting hawk, put out a hand as she passed and grasped her wrist, firm as a vice. His voice was as harsh as his grip; once more his predatory eyes fixed on her face.

‘Lady. Do not mistake my intent. You’ll leave tomorrow if I have to lift you bodily into the wagon with all your possessions. Be ready at daybreak.’

Without success, Rosamund tried to yank her wrist free. The dread of the absent Ralph was immediately replaced by hatred of the terrifyingly present Fitz Osbern, and it drove her into speech, without thought or consideration for the outcome. With an impulsiveness that Lady Petronilla recognised all too well and made her heart sink, Rosamund uttered the first thought that came into her head.

‘If you do that, my lord, if you use physical force against me, I shall camp outside these gates until you either let me in again or I die from exposure to the rain and cold.’

‘Ha! A foolish idea! The empty threat of a thwarted child who wants her own way!’ A bark of laughter shook him, full of sheer incredulity. ‘How would you think of so outrageous an action? You won’t persuade me, whatever empty threats you make. I warned you not to resist me, did I not?’

‘Rosamund …’ murmured Lady Petronilla, who saw Fitz Osbern’s dark brows snap together and immediately dreaded the outcome.

‘No, Mother.’ Rosamund did not spare Petronilla even a glance. All her attention was centred on this man who would rob and ridicule her. ‘I will not be disinherited by this man. I will not be sent away from what is my own.’

‘Of course you will,’ Fitz Osbern replied. ‘When you have taken time to think of the advantages of your home, you’ll see the wisdom of it. A border fortress is no place for a woman alone, so you’ll be a sensible girl and take yourself back to Salisbury. In a month you’ll thank me for showing you the error your pride might have forced you to make.’ A condescending smile touched the firm lips. Which made matters even worse.

‘Oh, no!’ She braced her wrist against his powerful fingers, but he did not let go. ‘I shall sit outside my gates for as long as it takes. And if I do indeed die of cold, my death will be on your head. Are you willing to risk it, my lord?’ Her mouth curved with the challenge.

Which brought him up short. His fingers tightened. ‘Don’t question my authority, lady!’

‘Don’t you push me into defiance, my lord!’ And, snatching her wrist from his hold, Rosamund de Longspey swept from the dais and up the stairs to the solar without a backward glance. They watched her depart, her head held high. Until her mother, after a moment of pregnant silence, stood to follow with an apologetic smile.

‘I think I should warn you, sir.’ Her calm eyes were austere as they rested on Fitz Osbern. ‘It is unwise to underestimate my daughter. She tends to do exactly as she says.’

‘She’ll not defy me,’ Fitz Osbern remarked.

‘I’d not wager on it,’ Lady Petronilla replied over her shoulder. ‘She can’t afford to allow you to win.’

And then the Marcher lords were alone.

‘I think Lady Petronilla’s right, Ger. The girl might just do it, you know. She’s in the mood to.’ Hugh watched the final departing twitch of silk skirts around the turn in the stairs with serious contemplation and the faintest smile of admiration. ‘Are you, as the girl said, indeed willing to risk it?’

‘Risk? Nonsense.’ Gervase turned his attention back to the neglected food and used his dagger to slice into the mutton. ‘ I wager it’ll rain tomorrow. A thorough drenching will spur her on her way quicker than any words of mine. And thank God for it! I suspect she’d be more troublesome to me than all the vermin in this place.’

Hugh de Mortimer was of a mind to agree. In his experience, women could be very tricky, and, he suspected, the daughter trickier than most. As for the widow … After her initial attack in the bailey, when her opinion of him appeared to be lower than if he were the rat just now scurrying along the edge of the wall toward the door, her composure in the circumstances was admirable. But what he would care to discover—he poked at some unappetising and unrecognisable dish of stewed vegetables—was what had put the depth of sadness in the widow’s eyes. He turned his attention back to the meat. But of course it was none of his affair.

It proved to be an uneasy night in varying degrees for all.

Hugh de Mortimer consigned his musings of the widow to a pleasant dream that could never be fulfilled, wrapped himself in his cloak in one of the vacant tower rooms and slept the sleep of the untroubled.

Fitz Osbern, with the experience of soldiering that enabled him to sleep anywhere, in any discomfort, was none the less kept awake by a range of insistent thoughts. No one ignored his wishes. No one! Not since he had come of age and taken over control of the Monmouth lands. Lady Maude, his forthright mother, had learnt that quickly enough when she had thought to order his affairs as she had done her husband’s. But that damned girl had. Defiant to the last, despite the fragility of the bones of her wrist under his fingers. And then there had been that definite mark of fear imprinted on her face, in those marvellous green eyes, when he had ordered her return to Earl Gilbert’s house, before the hot fury took over when she spat her defiance at him. He would not consider that.