by Sara Bennett
“Over here, Captain.” And Alfred led the way around the cottage to the far side. He held the flaring torch over something on the ground, and Gunnar dismounted.
The body lay just outside the charred remains of what had once been the cottage wall, and although the face and upper torso had been burned away, the legs and feet were strangely whole and untouched. Obviously this had been a man, and an unusually large one.
Gunnar dropped to one knee, noting the finely wrought sword scabbard—the sword was missing—and the fine leather of the boots. There were no spurs, but there was a leather cord attached to the heel of one of the boots, as though a spur had once been attached there. The breeches were muddy, and there was a tear at the thigh where something sharp and deadly had been thrust through, into the flesh.
Alfred shuffled impatiently behind him.
Gunnar ignored him, leaning closer to examine the ragged hole in the man’s thigh. A lance or spear wound maybe, which had crippled the dead man sufficiently to allow him to be bested. Who had attacked him and why? And who was he?
“Is this the miller?” he asked quietly, knowing it was not. The clothing told him little, but the sword scabbard was Norman. As far as Gunnar was aware, the miller was an Englishman.
Alfred released his breath. “No, Captain. No one I have asked in the village knows him, and yet there are none unaccounted for, apart from Harold the miller. I do not understand it.”
“So he must be one of the attackers?”
“He is not from the Mere, Captain. His clothing is wrong, and besides, the merefolk are small. This man does not seem to belong to either side.”
“I suppose if he was murdered, the villagers might be trying to hide it. His face and hands have been burned. Maybe he didn’t fall into the fire accidentally; maybe he was thrown into it so that we would not know who he was.”
As he spoke, Gunnar became aware of an inner ripple of unease. He had seen situations such as this before. In the England of William of Normandy, if a man was found dead, it was necessary for those in the vicinity to prove he was an Englishman. A dead Englishman was unimportant, and the villagers could deal with his death in their own way. But if the dead man should prove to be a Norman, then that was different. Then the truth must be ferreted out at all costs and the guilty one punished.
Normans were murdered by Englishmen, rightly or wrongly. If it was possible to disguise such a death, to make their overlords believe the body was in fact that of an Englishman, then it would be done. Gunnar had seen all manner of unpleasant acts performed to hide a clean-shaven Norman face or a short Norman haircut. Clothes were exchanged, boots were stolen, faces staved in…Sometimes the measures taken were successful, sometimes they were not, and then the Norman overlords would demand justice.
A life for a life.
If this man is not a villager and not from the Mere, then who is he? Why is his sword scabbard of Norman design, and why is it empty? And if he is a Norman soldier, what is he doing here on the very night of the merefolk’s attack?
A vision of Lady Rose’s luminous dark eyes blotted out the scene of fire and death before him. Was she behind this? Was this part of her plot? And if so, was she playing the game alone? And why, if that wasn’t the case, did she need to pay for lowly mercenaries like Gunnar Olafson?
Suddenly the chilly night vanished, and Gunnar was once more fresh from Wales and seated before the roaring fire in the great hall at Crevitch Castle. Replete with good food and wine, and good company. Opposite him sat Lord Radulf, for whom Gunnar’s father was armorer, and a man Gunnar knew and admired.
“I need a strong man at Somerford. A man I can trust.”
“And you do not trust Sir Arno d’Alan?” Gunnar asked bluntly, without need for prevarication, for they had long been friends.
“He appears loyal, and yet…He is Lady Rose’s man—he is loyal to her. I cannot believe he would act without her consent.” Radulf moved restlessly in his chair, a favorite hound at his feet. “Why would they be looking to hire mercenaries? Men whose only allegiance is to the coin they are paid and without any scruples about what they will do for that coin? Do they plan to start a war? And why send the letter to my enemy Fitzmorton, why ask Fitzmorton for help in the matter? Why not me, when I am Somerford’s overlord?”
“This letter that was intercepted on its way to Fitzmorton, was written for Lady Rose with d’Alan’s full knowledge? It mentions him? And sealed with the Somerford seal? It would seem as if they are in this together then. Surely he would not turn traitor against you for the sake of his lady?” Gunnar found such a notion strange and incomprehensible—but he had not then met Lady Rose.
“There are rumors he is her leman, though Lily does not believe them. I have…wondered, I admit it. He is very attentive.”
In Gunnar’s opinion, Radulf seemed unusually loath to act in a matter that had a simple solution. “Then replace her, and him, now! “’Tis your right to do so. Why send my men and me to Somerford to catch them out in their plotting? We will arrest them and bring them back to you, and you can throw both the lady and her knight into your dungeons.”
But Radulf fingered his clean-shaven jaw uneasily, the hawk ring on his finger flashing blood red. “’Tis not so simple, Gunnar. Lily has taken a liking to this Rose. She will hear naught against her, and now, when she is so near her time, I dare not upset her. I must satisfy my doubts cautiously.”
The puzzlement cleared from Gunnar’s face, and he grinned.
“I know, I know.” Radulf’s sigh was irritable. “You think me a fool. But if you had a wife, my Viking friend, you would not be so smug!”
Gunnar laughed, but he thought then—with surprise—that the King’s Sword had changed. The bitterness that before he had always worn like a second skin had vanished, and in its place had grown contentment.
Although contentment brought its own burdens. Gunnar had noted the concern darting through Radulf’s dark eyes.
Lord Radulf was worried for his wife, Lily, who was heavily pregnant with their second child. Here was a man, Gunnar thought in amazement, who had great estates, the king’s friendship and wealth beyond imagining, and yet it was none of those things he feared losing.
No, he was worried about a woman!
Gunnar recalled the scene now, and his bewildered amusement at Radulf’s predicament. His own way of life had never been suitable for a wife, or so he had always told himself. Would she traipse about the countryside with him while he hired himself out for war? Or would she wait at home for months at a time, never knowing whether he lived or died?
Land, my friend, Radulf had said. Yours for the taking, if you can prove that Lady Rose of Somerford is plotting against me. There are reasons why it would please me to be rid of her, though I cannot yet share them with you. Aye, give me the lady, and I will give you her manor. ’Tis a fair exchange, Gunnar, and I will have a man there who I know I can trust.
With the offer of land of his own, Gunnar’s vision of his future had begun to change. Was it possible there was a woman for him who would be as Lily was to Radulf? Someone who would fuel his deepest desires physically, emotionally, and intellectually. Who would fit against him as if she had been born to be there…
“Captain?”
Alfred was looking at him strangely. Gunnar frowned, as if his abstraction was all to do with the present situation, and silently cursed himself for his lack of concentration. A dead man lay before him, and he was dreaming of taking a wife!
“Did the miller’s family see this man before he died?”
While Gunnar had been occupied, the girl and the child had crept closer. Now Alfred beckoned them to join him, and Gunnar saw that the girl had long tangled hair and a slim body beneath her ruined clothes—the front of her gown was badly torn, and she held it in place with her hand. The child had the same tawny hair and eyes.
“These are the miller’s children, Millisent and Will,” Alfred said.
Gunnar nodded and rose to his full, formid
able height. The miller’s children stiffened, their eyes widening, but they did not back away, although they looked as if they wanted to. He noticed the girl’s hands were blistered from her attempts to put out the fire, and there was a bloody scratch on her throat. In comparison the boy seemed unscathed.
“Where is your father?”
They glanced at each other and then the girl answered, her French awkward and interspersed with English. “He has gone. I don’t know where. Maybe to Lady Rose’s keep.”
Gunnar had had plenty of experience with liars, and this girl was lying. Either she knew exactly where her father had gone, and why, or she knew something of the dead man.
“Your father would leave you alone here?”
“We were…parted. Perhaps he believed we had already gone.”
“Perhaps.”
Surprise flickered in her eyes that he should believe her so readily.
“Do you know this man?” He gestured to the body, keeping his eyes on her face.
She didn’t look at the dead man, but instead turned away and shook her head. “No. He is a stranger here.”
“You didn’t see him when he was alive?”
Again the shake of the head, her mouth stubbornly firm, but tears shone in her eyes.
Obviously there was nothing to be gained from questions now, Gunnar decided, if he did not want a reputation as an ogre. If the dead man was a Norman, he would find out the truth tomorrow, or the day after.
“Alfred, we will take Millisent and her brother to the keep. They will be safe there. And send me Ivo.”
He deliberately spoke in rapid French, and now the girl looked startled, turning to Alfred for an explanation. Alfred stepped closer, almost protectively. She eyed his scarred face curiously, but she seemed too dazed by what was happening to be repulsed. When Alfred shepherded her away, she came meekly, her brother’s hand still gripped in hers.
Gunnar stayed, staring down at the body. A dead stranger in an English village, possibly a Norman stranger. Was it murder? This was a serious matter for all at Somerford Manor. Should he inform Radulf? The answer was clearly yes, and yet he was loath to do so. There was a puzzle here, and Gunnar was keen to solve it. Besides, if Radulf came now, the chance to gain Lady Rose’s land would be lost to him. Lady Rose herself would be lost to him…
His body tightened at the thought of her.
He had not known himself capable of such heat.
The sound of Ivo’s approach stilled his imaginings, and he waited while his second-in-command came to a halt.
“What is it?” Ivo asked, swiftly dismounting.
“A dead man no one wants to claim.”
Ivo knelt down for his own inspection and, when he had finished, raised his brooding dark eyes to Gunnar’s calm blue ones. “What will you do?”
“Stow his body safely for now. We need to find out who he was and who killed him. The miller has run away, I think. We will start there. In daylight.”
Ivo nodded.
“Are we finished here?”
“The fires we could put out are out. The villagers who want to stay have found themselves somewhere to sleep; the rest are on their way to the keep for the night.”
“Good. No sign of any merefolk?”
“Nothing. The attack was swift and silent, the damage was done before anyone knew what was happening, and by then it was too late. They all blame the people from the Mere but no one actually saw them.”
They stood a moment together in thoughtful silence. Of all his men, Ivo was closest to Gunnar. A former Norman knight himself, though now disgraced and outcast, Ivo had found a haven in Gunnar’s little mercenary band. In character he was Gunnar’s direct opposite: passionate where Gunnar was calm, hasty to act where Gunnar was deliberate. And yet they were like brothers, and Gunnar had no doubt they were presently turning the very same thoughts over in their heads.
“What do you think it means?” Ivo could bear the silence no longer.
“I smell treachery, Ivo.”
“Aye,” said Ivo grimly, “so do I.”
Rose had been unable to rest.
After she and her servants had settled the fleeing villagers in the great hall—tending to those with cuts or burns, feeding those who were hungry, and finding them comfortable places to sleep—she had sought the sanctuary of her solar. But she had been too restless to perform any of the tasks required of her, and instead paced back and forth before her unshuttered window, which afforded her a view of the smoky haze by the river Somer that had been her village.
Sleep was impossible, so Rose didn’t even try. She decided she would await the return of the mercenaries and learn what she could of this latest attack by the merefolk. Sir Arno had already retired, too drunk to take charge of these matters for her, and Brother Mark had long since scuttled away to his own bed.
She was alone again.
Rose had never been one to fear solitude. To be alone in the crowded, tense home of her childhood, or the crowded, busy keep of her marriage, was a privilege indeed, and she had always looked forward to the few moments of solitude. But not tonight, not now. Suddenly Rose knew she would give much to have someone to turn to, to hold, to…love?
Rose shivered. Love destroyed! To wish for it was to invite her own downfall.
“You are cold?” Constance’s voice came from the doorway, its very familiarity comforting. “Close the shutters and go to bed.”
Rose shook her head. “I cannot. They are not yet returned.”
“Where is your knight—Arno? He should be down there now, ordering his garrison.”
Rose wrapped her arms about herself and gave a wry smile. “Arno is presently beyond anything but snoring sleep. Do you know, Constance, I find myself wishing Edric were here. He would have known what to do in such a situation, and his people loved him, trusted him. Instead I must put my faith in a Viking savage who may very well have more in common with the attackers than with me and my people.”
Not true! cried a voice in her head. He gave you his word…
“Your husband was a silly old fool,” Constance said dryly. “If you need help, go to Lady Lily.”
There was a fur-lined cloak laid over a chest by the wall, and Constance took it up and came to smooth it about Rose’s shoulders.
Rose smiled her thanks, but her answer was firm. “You know I cannot. I will not run to Lord Radulf and Lady Lily whenever I have a problem. Sir Arno has the right of it there when he says they will think me weak and incapable of ruling Somer—”
Constance interrupted. “Sir Arno! That knight knows well how to play with you, child. Like a fish he tugs you in slowly, slowly. One day he will land you and that will be that.”
Rose looked at her with genuine amusement. “Arno a fisherman? Whatever do you mean? I know you do not like him, Constance, but you are seeing that which is not there. Arno is loyal to me. If he is arrogant sometimes, well…he cannot help what he is.”
Constance gave her a baleful glare. “I pray it is as you think, lady, but I fear one day you will discover your loyal knight is not quite so loyal. He lusts after you, do you know that?”
Startled, Rose turned to stare at the old woman. “He does not! And besides—”
“Besides, you are not interested,” Constance finished for her. “Still, he looks at you with hot longing, lady, for all that you are untouchable to him. ’Tis not just me who has noted it.”
Rose laughed nervously. “I think you are wandering in your wits.”
“And I think you are lonely, my lady. Twenty-five years old and so fair.” She clucked her tongue. “Lord Radulf should find you another husband, a proper one this time, a lusty one. ’Twas his headstrong wife stopped him. I warrant I know who wields the sword in that household!”
“Constance, hush! What are you saying? I do not want another husband. What if he should beat me? Or you?” she added, hiding a smile.
What if I should fall in love with him?
The smile trembled and died, and
Rose wrapped her cloak more closely about herself, as if she really were cold.
“I doubt it would come to that,” the old woman replied mildly.
Constance’s thoughts were less ordered. What a shame that such loveliness should be wasted, or broken upon a weak and inflexible man like Arno. Constance sighed. She was old and could not live much longer. If only she could find a man—a strong and lusty man—a man who understood her lady and who saw her gentleness not as a weakness to be trampled upon, as did Arno, but as a strength. A gift. A strong man’s love was what Rose needed. If Constance could find such a man, then she knew she would gladly entrust her lady to him.
“Mayhap you are right,” Constance agreed at last. “You do not need another husband. A lover would do. Aye, a protector.”
“Constance, I want no man—lover, husband, or anything else! I am content with my…with what I have.” Rose turned again to her window. She had been about to say she was content with her dreams, but Constance did not know of them, nor would she. Her eyes strayed now, across the flat Levels, toward the dark bulk of Burrow Mump.
Marriage, she thought savagely. What was that? A contract for making money and gaining power, for making children to gain more money and more power. Lust? Why, any animal could feel lust. And love? Love was a dream, a fantasy…a ghostly warrior without a face.
And you are content with that?
Yes, Rose told herself desperately, I am.
The sound of men approaching the gate drew her back to more immediate matters. Big men on horseback, their chain mail gleaming in the torchlight, were clattering over the wooden bridge spanning the ditch. The mercenaries had returned. Rose pressed her hands against the cold stone sill, counting their heads. One, two, three, four!
Two were missing.
Her breath fluttered in her throat, but even as the unwanted fear gripped her, she heard his voice calling for the gate to be opened.
Gunnar Olafson had returned.
It was more difficult than it had ever been to turn herself into her depiction of the lady of the manor. To calmly turn and face Constance when her heart was pounding and her throat was dry. To say, in a voice that trembled only the slightest bit, “They are back. I will go down and meet them. It is time to learn the worst.”
