Shattered Vows by Carol Townend Page A

and the people he loved as his own. There’d been no point pleading with his aunt let him stay, she had grief enough to cope with without him whining about his fate.
    And now he was looking down the length of his cousin’s hall, counting the sleeping men, all of them strangers. Strangers who, he suspected, resented his appearance at the castle.
    He’d known this wasn’t going to be easy. It wasn’t just that there were no familiar faces. He hadn’t yet got to grips with the local dialect. And his cousin’s retainers were testing him – setting little traps for him to see how he would react. Teasing him, pushing his temper to the limits. So far, he’d kept himself in check. He’d told himself they would accept him in time. And then his mother’s sin would no longer be something to mock at.
    He would be accepted and he would win his golden spurs.
    Oliver went to stand over two of the younger lads and prodded them awake with his boot. ‘John? Matthew? What’s this? Didn’t you tell me you planned to join Baron Geoffrey’s guard? No guard I know of would sleep so long.’
    Muffled groans and stirrings came from the floor and a boy emerged from within his cloak. He was about fourteen years of age. He peered at Oliver through lank and tousled yellow hair.
    ‘De Warenne, have some pity. We must have downed a barrel last eve.’
    Oliver hesitated, the boy’s northern accent was thick, and it took a moment for him to absorb the meaning. The girl Rosamund had been easier to understand. He shrugged. ‘Work needs to be done. No matter if you’d downed a dozen barrels. Get up, or the only thing you’ll ever guard is swine. You know your duties. Wake everyone. Get the trestles set up. Baron Geoffrey will soon be down.’
    He gave the boys another nudge with his boot. He had to bite the inside of his cheek to hide his smile as the boys, still grumbling, moved reluctantly to obey him.
    ‘My poor head.’ John groaned.
    The other lad, Matthew rubbed his face with grimy hands. ‘My eyes are full of grit. Only a peasant would wake so early. Go away. Let me be.’ The boy gave a start of surprise, as if he’d only just noticed Oliver standing over them. Wine-fuddled eyes gleamed. ‘Oh, it’s you. Can’t say I’m surprised. Get you gone, de Warenne. If it weren’t for the fact that you’re Fitz Neal’s cousin I’d...’ Matthew trailed off as Oliver’s set expression penetrated.
    ‘Aye?’ Oliver said, hooking his thumbs into his belt. ‘What would you do, Matthew? Pray enlighten us.’
    Matthew lifted an eyebrow at John and seemed to take courage from the attention he was receiving. ‘Mind that you asked for this, de Warenne,’ he said, eyes bright with malice. ‘I’d call you by your real name, the one your mother got you. You’re a bastard in more ways than one. Only a misbegotten churl would kick us awake so soon after the May Day revels. A cold, unfeeling bastard who was probably sired in a barn and that by a pedl-’
    A muscle flickered in Oliver’s jaw and his lips thinned. That was all, but the boy saw it.
    Matthew’s eyes gleamed. ‘Ha, I’ve managed it, I said I would! John, you owe me a penny. Did you see the chink in his armour? He has feelings!’
    ‘Barely,’ John muttered.
    John didn’t meet Oliver’s eyes as he climbed out of his cloak, he looked very ill-at-ease. It was plain he misliked Matthew’s goading, but hadn’t the will to stand up to him. It had certainly gone on long enough. Oliver was wondering how much more he’d have to endure, when John bent and dragged Matthew’s blanket from him.
    ‘Come on, Matthew, you heard the new squire,’ John said. ‘We’ve work to do.’
    Oliver turned on his heel. He’d leave them to it and ignore the baiting as he’d done for the past couple of weeks. Matthew was a boy and this was only a game – he’d soon tire of it.
    ‘Tate?’ Oliver poked the boy nearest the fire. ‘You too. Up with you. You need to go to the kitchen to see