‘I am Rosamund de Longspey. Let me make you known to my mother. Lady Petronilla de Longspey, Dowager Countess of Salisbury.’
‘We welcome your hospitality, lady. Smell’s good after a morning’s work.’ It was de Mortimer who responded, rubbing his hands together, his first words for Rosamund, but then his interest centred on the widow. ‘I knew your husband a little, my lady. I last met him at the coronation of King Henry four years back. I heard of your loss. You must regret his untimely death.’
‘Yes. Thank you. It was unexpected.’ The Countess accepted the condolences with unruffled grace.
‘I thought your daughter must have been younger. That you had not been married to Salisbury for so very long.’ There was a decided twinkle in de Mortimer’s eye. ‘I did not think you old enough to have a daughter of marriageable age herself.’
To her astonishment, Rosamund watched her mother’s face grow pink, her eyes hidden by a down-sweep of fine lashes. Rosamund did not think she had ever seen her mother react in such a charmingly self-conscious manner. But Petronilla’s reply was quite composed as she saw fit to explain. ‘Rosamund is not of Salisbury’s blood, my lord, but my daughter of my first marriage to John de Bredwardine. I was married at a very young age, you see. It is simply that she took my lord of Salisbury’s name on my marriage. Earl William … well, he insisted on it.’
‘I see. You have my sympathies, lady.’ De Mortimer’s response was brusque in words, but gentle in tone. ‘As I recall, the Earl was always a man to get his own way.’
Petronilla smiled hesitantly. ‘Indeed, sir, I …’
Rosamund could wait no longer. She must stake her claim to her position in this castle immediately. With a stern glare at her mother, who promptly lapsed into a flushed silence, Rosamund gave a signal to her steward, Master Pennard, to begin the meal. Jugs of ale were brought in, the large platters of food. Master Pennard, with weighty ceremonial, carried in the lord’s goblet, a poor pottery affair with a chipped edge. Rosamund watched with narrowed eyes. To whom would he present the goblet? The steward hesitated. His glance edged nervously from one to the other, then, with supreme tact, placed it with a little bow before her. Without expression, Rosamund inclined her head at the minor victory, then turned her attention to the man who sat beside her. He was already watching her with a sharp awareness in his eyes.
‘We have much to discuss, sir.’ She addressed herself directly to Fitz Osbern, who began to apply himself to the meal with enthusiasm after such an active morning. He was already tearing apart a circular loaf of bread, when he looked up.
‘There’s nothing to discuss, lady, as I see it. Except for your imminent departure from this place. I have ordered your horses and your travelling wagon to be made ready at first light tomorrow morning. It’s too late now—it’ll be dark within two hours. First light tomorrow will enable you to reach Hereford with comfort during the day. And then you can travel on to Salisbury at your leisure.’
Rosamund stared her amazement. So immediate. So damnably peremptory! So unfeeling of her plight. She leaned forward. ‘I think you do not understand, sir. This is my inheritance from Earl William for my dower. I have all the legal documents to the land.’
‘But as I explained, the castle was stolen by Salisbury from my father. So if we are talking legality here, the castle is mine.’
‘And you would actually turn me out?’
Unable to sit calmly, Rosamund stood, forcing Fitz Osbern to look up. Their eyes met and held, fiery green locked with wintry grey, with no understanding between them. Fitz Osbern raised his shoulders and turned his attention back to a steaming platter of roast mutton, drawing his dagger from the sheath at his belt.
‘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