The Rose and the Shield

by Sara Bennett

  “Good,” said Sir Arno. “As long as you don’t kill anyone without orders.”

  Ivo made a soft sound of disgust.

  Gunnar’s hand clenched more firmly on the hilt of his sword, but otherwise he made no movement. So far Sir Arno had done nothing wrong. Arrogance and cruelty coupled with complacency weren’t treasonable offenses.

  “Captain?”

  Ivo’s voice was not raised or markedly different, and yet there was something in it, a hint of surprise or perhaps warning. Gunnar looked up quickly.

  And felt his wits dissolve in a hot shower of lust.

  She was walking toward them.

  Her madder-red gown was made of fine wool, and it molded to her tall, shapely body. A plaited gold girdle clung about her hips, a purse and various keys and gewgaws fastened to it. He could see the shape of her, the long length of thigh, the curve of full breast. Her face was a pale oval within the soft fluttering folds of her white veil. Dark eyes, lush mouth, skin like milk with the slightest hint of honey.

  He had thought his body jaded—there were always women wherever he went, too many, and when he was hungry for them he supped. And yet now that same body reacted like that of an untried youth, startling him, jerking him from his complacency. He wanted to reach out and lift her across his saddle. He wanted to fasten his mouth to hers, taste her, drink of her lips.

  For a man of such rigid calm, he felt raw and wild and out of control in a way he had not felt for years.

  Maybe ever.

  Great Odin, let her not be the Lady Rose! But even as the prayer passed his lips, he knew Odin had denied him, for Sir Arno lifted his head and murmured, “’Tis Lady Rose. A word of warning, Captain. You will not mention who it was that sent you? The lady does not like to declare her business before strangers.”

  Gunnar barely acknowledged the caution. His eyes were fixed on the approaching woman.

  It was the last thing he needed at this time and in this place, with so much at stake. Gunnar groaned softly to himself. Had he really believed his final undertaking would be easy?

  The vision of sweet beauty approaching them was none other than the wanton and treacherous Lady Rose of Somerford Manor—the woman he had come to destroy.

  Rose had not seen the mercenaries arrive.

  She had been down to the storeroom, looking over a suspect barrel of salted meat. The meat smelled, but Rose had learned caution in her four years at Somerford Manor, one of them as sole ruler. It was prudent to keep everything, even smelly meat, until better could replace it. Besides, there were ways of making bad good again. Washing the meat thoroughly in vinegar, for instance, or burying it in the earth for a day or two. Still, they would not eat it, not yet, not unless they had no option. And even then—Rose wrinkled her nose—the situation would need to be desperate!

  And then she reminded herself that it was desperate. They were undermanned and therefore vulnerable to attack from anyone who had the will to do so. And of late someone wanted very much to see the people of Somerford brought low.

  Their troubles had begun with some pilfering in the village and escalated to a woodpile burned, a hoe stolen, a pig slaughtered and the choice bits taken off. And then last month some strangers had appeared in the village in the night and frightened the villagers badly by throwing stones upon their thatches, shouting and laughing all the while.

  The villagers blamed the merefolk. Rose knew her people were superstitious, and since the troubles had begun they had grown worse. Sullen, afraid, angry. Like a bubbling cauldron filled with centuries of animosity, the situation had become too volatile. Rose had realized it was time to do something more than talk.

  It was she who had put forward the suggestion of employing mercenaries, persuading Sir Arno they had no other choice.

  “If we had some experienced men, Sir Arno, or at least men who appear to be experienced, I am sure that would settle the matter. These mischief makers, be they merefolk or whoever, would vanish back to where they came from and we would never be troubled again.”

  Arno looked pained. “I am training our men, my lady. They will be ready soon.”

  “Yes, but they are raw troops, Sir Arno! Boys, most of them. We have barely enough soldiers to guard our gates; how can we frighten off an attack, if one should come?”

  Sir Arno d’Alan had shrugged, clearly wounded by her lack of faith in him. Rose bit her lip, wondering how she could win this argument without hurting her knight’s feelings.

  “It will be only for a short time. Until this problem is solved.”

  “And Lord Radulf? Have you mentioned your plans to him?”

  Rose had pretended to examine her nails. “Not yet, no.”

  “My lady—”

  Rose made an exasperated sound. “How can I tell Lord Radulf? He will think me incapable of managing Somerford. That I am too weak. A weak and feeble woman! You have warned me of that often enough, Sir Arno. He will take Somerford from me, and then what will become of me?”

  She knew what would become of her. She would be thrown back into her father’s care—a burden. An unwanted burden. It was not something she could think of for long before cold beads of perspiration dampened her skin.

  Arno had looked sympathetic but there had been a gleam in his eyes. Almost as if he were enjoying her discomfiture, though surely that was impossible. “You think Lord Radulf is watching you, judging you?”

  Rose was sure of it. She could almost feel Radulf’s dark eyes fixed on her from five leagues away at Crevitch Castle. Although Radulf’s wife, Lady Lily, had always supported her, she was presently occupied with her own troubles. And besides, Rose could not be always begging for her assistance. She must manage on her own. If she could just have the use of some mercenaries for a short time, she could sort out the problems at Somerford and everything would be well again. And best of all, Lord Radulf need never know.

  “Mercenaries are not tame cats,” Arno had warned her. “They will not purr and do as you bid if you stroke their fur.”

  Rose’s eyes flashed. “No, but they will learn to jump for their supper or else they will not be fed! Don’t worry, Sir Arno, I will manage the mercenaries, all you have to do is find me some.”

  And so he had—once Brother Mark had written the letter and Rose had sealed it, Arno had sent it off. And now word had come that the mercenaries were on their way. Although Rose had thought the offer of five marks excessive, Arno had assured her that was the standard fee in such cases. Still, she resented paying out such a sum when financially they were so stretched. Even though this summer’s harvest looked to be a good one—the best in several years—and when the shearing was done there would be wool to sell, one never knew what might occur to upset one’s plans. In the four years she had lived at Somerford, Rose had learned that much. You just never knew what new catastrophe was ahead. That money could be needed for medicines, for food, for warm clothing, and she resented using it to pay for men with swords.

  With problems like hers, it was no wonder she sometimes woke full of anxiety in the darkest part of the night.

  The smell of the bad meat was turning her stomach—that barrel was most definitely off.

  Rose locked the storeroom door firmly behind her with one of the keys hanging from her gold plaited girdle, and climbed the narrow twisting stairs from the cellars to the kitchen.

  It was warm there, the smells of bread still mouthwateringly in evidence. Rose noted that the gray kitchen cat had had her kittens and was ensconced in a cozy corner by the oven. Surely there was time to check on them? Just a moment. Kittens were always so tempting…

  But that was when Constance found her.

  “Lady!”

  Rose jumped like a guilty child and looked up. “Constance? What is it?”

  “Those men are come, Lady Rose. Sir Arno is speaking with them now. If you want to be certain they understand it is you who is the master here, you’d best get yourself down to the castle yard right smartly.”

  Frowning,
Rose smoothed her red gown and settled her white veil so that it completely covered her dark hair. Constance, her wrinkled face and wizened body a disguise for her still sharp and youthful mind, shuffled closer and peered up at her. The old woman was tiny, but Rose was tall—it was a matter of wry amusement to her that her eyes were level with those of every one of the men on Somerford Manor.

  “The mercenaries are here?” Rose repeated nervously.

  Reading her perfectly, Constance touched her arm for courage.

  “You are right,” Rose murmured, stiffening her back. “I must go and meet them. Who knows what Arno is saying to them, offering them? He has no sense where money is concerned. If he believes it due to his self-importance to offer them double the marks we have agreed upon, then he will do so!”

  It was Rose’s aim to keep the mercenaries’ promised wages as low as possible.

  “Then go, lady, and don’t dither,” Constance chastised her. “You are master here, are you not?”

  Rose raised her chin. “I am indeed, Constance.”

  And taking a deep breath, she hurried from the kitchen into the bailey.

  It was very quiet.

  Why was the bailey, usually a bustle of activity, so quiet? And yet it was not empty; people stood about. The silence was very odd. Her eyes flicked over the pale and frightened faces, seeking a reason, and were captured by a group of mounted men who were clearly the center of attention.

  Tough and dangerous.

  Those were the words that occurred to Rose as she looked at them. As if they were used to facing death every day. Which, of course, if they were mercenaries, Rose reminded herself impatiently, they were. Their clothes were chosen for warmth and protection rather than for appearance; the men wore chain mail or heavy leather tunics studded with rings. The big dark one had a thick cloak made of animal pelts—wolf, probably. And they were armed with a veritable bristle of weapons. Swords, shields, and axes. And their leader…but there Rose’s thoughts lost all clear structure.

  Her eyes widened in awe.

  Their leader was like no man she had ever seen before. He was strange and exotic, and yet extraordinarily masculine. A dulled and shortened chain mail tunic covered his broad shoulders and chest; the metal was decorated with numerous dents as though he had lately fought hard for his life. A round shield hung across his back and one shoulder, the red background painted with the snarling form of a black wolf. His legs were encased in tight dark breeches, each powerful muscle of his thighs outlined as he gripped his big gray horse, forcing it to an unnatural stillness. Hair of dark copper fell long to his shoulders, two thin braids hanging either side of his face and giving him the look of a barbarian.

  Or a Celtic warrior, or a…a…

  “Viking.”

  Rose whispered the word, her breath squeezed in her throat. His appearance was barbaric and savage, but—and this was the most surprising thing of all—he was also the most handsome man she had ever seen. The strong set of his jaw, the sun brown of his skin, the unflinching blue of his eyes. It seemed inconceivable that a man such as this should be so handsome. He should be scarred and ugly, and that he wasn’t must be a trick of nature, to dull the senses and bemuse the unwary, so that he could pounce. Or strike like a viper.

  He is not like us.

  Rose shivered. What had she been thinking to hire such men as this? To bring them onto her manor among the very people she was trying to protect!

  Dear God, have I done the right thing?

  “Sir Arno?” Her voice was breathless, possibly from her hurry across the bailey, but she did not think so. Fear and apprehension had tightened like bands about her chest.

  Arno smiled his usual smile, and Rose felt suddenly wildly disoriented. Arno was the same and yet he seemed to pale into insignificance beside the mercenary. This was Arno, unswervingly loyal Arno, her husband Edric’s friend, the man he had trusted completely—on his deathbed, and before witnesses, Edric had sought Arno’s promise to obey and protect Rose.

  Then why didn’t Rose feel her usual confidence when she looked at him? Why did the familiar no longer seem so safe?

  It was the fault of the mercenary leader.

  He was so unfamiliar, this utterly foreign creature. He had turned her perceptions upside down, and, shockingly, his very strangeness drew her to him. It was an attraction against her will, but she knew it was there. Like, Rose told herself, a foolish fascination for an animal one knows is dangerous.

  Rose took a long, slow breath, calming herself. Stop this! She was no silly wench thrown into a state by a handsome face; she never allowed men to rule her by her senses. She was Lady Rose of Somerford, a thoughtful woman, a practical woman, a woman of good sense. This nonsensical behavior had gone far enough.

  After a brief pause, Rose felt collected enough to be able to meet the mercenary’s blue eyes.

  A mistake.

  They were the blue of summer seas with the hint of an approaching storm. Piercing in his hard, handsome face, they delved into hers. Despite her preparation, Rose felt her stomach plummet. She was drowned in a hot wave of feeling that until now she had always believed…hoped to be foreign to her. Shocked, her thoughts spiraled, and she lost her emotional footing for the first time in her life. The whisper in her head was one of startled disbelief.

  Is this…can this be desire?

  Chapter 2

  “My lady!”

  Arno. Good, reliable Arno. With a dizzy sense of relief Rose broke eye contact with the mercenary and turned to her knight. She must have held out her hand, although she didn’t remember it, for she felt his fingers on hers as he bent to press his lips to her skin. Struggling with the inappropriateness of her feelings, she forced herself to pay attention.

  “Lady Rose, these are the mercenaries.”

  “So I see, Sir Arno. Are they…that is, do they speak—”

  “Captain Olafson!” Arno was frowning up at the mercenary leader. “Dismount and show some respect. This is Lady Rose of Somerford!”

  He spoke as if to a recalcitrant child who needed a lesson in manners. The hush, that had already fallen about them deepened markedly. Clearly everyone was wondering whether the handsome mercenary would respond to Arno’s reprimand…or slit his throat.

  Rose’s own heart began a labored bumping, but from what cause she couldn’t say for certain. It might have been Arno’s tone, or it might have been the fact that she was once more staring up into those sea-blue eyes. Only this time she was aware, shockingly aware, that despite their pretty color they were the coldest, the most emotionless eyes she had ever encountered.

  Captain Olafson clearly wasn’t angered by Arno’s words. They were nothing to him. With a shrug, he swung down from his gray horse—superbly graceful for a big, strong man—and stood before them.

  Too close, she thought instantly, moving to step back. And catching herself in time. No, it would not be a good idea to show this man she was afraid of him. If he were even half as savage as he looked, he would enjoy her fear.

  Even Arno appeared momentarily taken aback by the mercenary captain’s size, and now the rest of them were dismounting with a muted rattling of harness and clink of wood and steel. They stood in the castle yard like a pack of wild and shaggy beasts. A child cried out, a woman hushed it. Rose realized that her people were afraid to make a sound in case it drew the mercenaries’ attention to them, and their wrath down on them.

  She also realized that, for the first time in a long time, she had to look up to see into men’s faces.

  Not an entirely comforting sensation.

  Again she asked herself whether they would slaughter the occupants of Somerford while they slept. Would the promise of payment truly fix their loyalty? Indeed, were such men as these inclined to take orders from anyone, apart from whatever pagan gods they worshipped?

  Rose drew a deep, sustaining breath. Well, it was up to her to see that they did! She was the lady of this manor, she had fought hard to retain her title, and while they
were there they would listen to what she had to say.

  She held her head high, cold dignity in place, and before she could think twice stretched out a hand that trembled only the merest hint. “I am Lady Rose,” she informed them calmly. “Somerford Manor is mine, and while you are here I shall tell you what you can and can’t do. Is that understood?”

  Captain Olafson looked down at her hand as if he had never seen one before. Rose had a shocking thought that perhaps there was a reason that women did not trust him with their limbs, but before she could change her mind and withdraw the hand, he had swallowed it up in his own.

  His fingers were startlingly warm.

  Why had she thought they would be cold?

  Again she would have pulled away, but by then it was too late and he held her fingers captive in his. He felt her slight tug—the knowledge registered in his eyes—but he did not release her; if anything his grip tightened. Apart from indulging in an undignified struggle, Rose could do nothing but stand and allow him his will.

  The big, dark man behind him was smiling, though attempting to hide it. Did they find this amusing? Were good manners so foreign to them that they found them laughable?

  Rose flushed angrily and tugged again, but it was too late. There was the sensation of firm, dry lips pressed to her fingertips, the soft brush of his long hair against her skin. Unwillingly she looked down as Captain Olafson unbent his big body, his narrow braids swinging back into place, the fair stubble on his jaw glinting in the sunlight, and his teeth white as he gave a satisfied smile.

  “You are more than welcome to tell me what I can and can’t do…my lady,” he murmured in perfect French.

  Anger shot through her, hot and satisfying. He had just humiliated her, made fun of her for his and his men’s amusement, and she no longer cared whether he read the emotion in her eyes.

  Sir Arno made a sound very like a growl. “Your manners, Captain!”