by Sara Bennett
“He was in the north. Why has he come here now?”
“I don’t know, Ivo.”
“Will he turn Fitzmorton against us?”
“He will try.”
“And d’Alan?”
Gunnar rubbed his shoulder, still aching from Ivo’s blow. “Arno d’Alan spoke to me tonight after the meal. Miles had told him not to trust me so I told him it was Miles who was not to be trusted.”
Ivo grunted. “So we keep on with our mission?”
“Aye, for now. Just stay out of Miles’s way.”
“Why does he always reappear like this, just when I think I am free of him?” There was true anguish in Ivo’s voice, a depth of despair almost beyond Gunnar’s understanding. Gunnar had lost friends in battle, he had seen things that would make other men curl up and ask to die, but he had not watched a beloved sister destroyed in the hands of evil. Such a memory was Ivo’s burden—his sister’s death at the hands of Sir Miles, his half-brother.
“Maybe,” he suggested softly, “you will never be free of him, until you finish with him.”
Ivo’s dark eyes were reddened with lack of sleep, and maybe more than that. He held up his gloved hand—the deformity was not evident through the leather, but Gunnar had seen the missing fingers. “Until I kill him, do you mean? I tried once, remember? Miles is my brother, my own flesh and blood! I hate him, Gunnar, but he is my brother.”
Lord Fitzmorton had said that—flesh and blood. It had not made sense; it still did not.
Gunnar had never had a brother, but he understood the ties and bonds of family. Even hate could be a bond.
Ivo looked away, his mouth a thin, tight line.
Gunnar pretended to stretch and yawn. “Miles might not come back. Fitzmorton might send him north again.” He shrugged, “I am not always right, my friend.”
Ivo managed a faint smile. “Neither are you always so modest.” His eyes narrowed, as if something had suddenly occurred to him. “Where were you? I waited for hours. Have you found a woman? Of course.” He shook his head in resignation, his wild hair dancing about it like a black halo. “Gunnar Olafson always has a woman in his bed, wherever he goes. If you were in hell, my friend, an angel or two would follow you down.”
Gunnar managed a laugh. “Not this time. I was keeping watch on Lady Rose. She is in danger, Ivo. Her knight is untrustworthy, and now she knows it.”
“But are they not lovers?”
Gunnar kept his face smooth and expressionless, but there must have been something in his eyes to give him away. As Ivo’s pale face broadened into a wide smile, transforming his fierce features, Gunnar cursed himself for a fool.
“You do want her for yourself. And you are jealous of every other man on Somerford Manor. Ah, Gunnar, take her body if you must, but do not seek to own her every word, her every look. You will go mad.”
Gunnar lay back down and closed his eyes. “You do not understand,” he said coldly. “She is not what you think. She is an honest woman caught in an intolerable situation. I must save her, Ivo.”
Ivo took a moment to think this over. “I do not doubt you will save her, Gunnar—if anyone can, it is you. But if you rescue the lady, you will lose the land.”
“Why would I want land?” he mumbled, closing his eyes again. “We still have the whole of Wales to subdue, my friend…”
Ivo laughed softly, and then his voice grew serious again. “Be careful. Men have been blinded before when it comes to the woman they lust after. Is she really what you think her, Gunnar, or has your desire turned you into a fool?”
But Gunnar kept his eyes closed, pretending to be asleep. After a pause Ivo returned to his own bed, settling noisily for a few moments of rest before they were all due to rise.
Gunnar knew well enough he would lose the land, but then it had never truly been his. It had always belonged to Rose, and now that he knew what she was, he could not see himself stealing it from her and being able to live with himself.
When she had asked him last night whether his conscience kept him awake at night, he had not told her the truth. It did. Not because of the men he had killed and the blood he had spilled, but because he knew in despair that he could not have what he dearly wanted. A haven, land for himself and his men, a chance to put his skills to a use other than killing for coin. He would have been a good lord, but now he could not take Somerford without losing his honor. And what would he be without that? He would be like Miles de Vessey and Lord Fitzmorton—men without souls.
Honor is all very well, Gunnar, but can you touch honor? Can you eat it and drink it? Can you ease yourself upon it at night?
The voice was his mother’s, but it was gentle, understanding, accepting. Gudren knew her only son too well.
“I am an old woman,” she had informed him, her pale eyes all but closed in the smoky room at Crevitch. “I have had five children, but only one lived beyond the birthing. You are all I have, Gunnar. I need grandchildren, my son. And you need a wife. You will grow bitter and nasty, like Forkbeard. You do not want that, Gunnar, do you?”
As Forkbeard was his mother’s worst-tempered billy goat, Gunnar had assured her that he did not. “But wives do not like their husbands going away to fight and not coming home for months, sometimes years,” he had reminded her. “What wife would put up with that, my mother?”
“Have you tried asking?” she had retorted, half smiling.
“I know the answer already.”
“Then if you have not tried, you have not met the woman you want to ask.”
“You are a maze, Mother, and I cannot find my way to the point you make.”
Gudren had laughed and hugged her big son, and pride and love, mingled with exasperation, shone in her eyes.
Gunnar wondered what she would think of him now, if she knew that he hungered after a Norman lady. A lady whom Radulf believed treacherous, a lady whose land he could be master of, if he proved her so. And then he wondered what Rose would do, if he asked her to wait for him while he went off fighting—for weeks, months, and maybe even years. Would she laugh in disbelief, or turn her back on him in disgust?
Gunnar rolled over again on his thin mattress, and knew Ivo was right. He was a fool.
Rose squeezed her fingers hard against the carvings on the armrest of her chair. The lord’s chair, the Somerford chair. The serpents and twining vines, the little mocking faces and strange animals, they seemed to grow warm and come to life beneath her touch. Her head ached but she did not believe that anyone watching her would know that. She had on her cold and regal face, as she sat on the dais in the great hall, sat on the chair that had resided there at Somerford in stone keep and timber hall, and long before anyone could remember.
The meal was not sumptuous. Food stocks were low. If it were not that one of the mercenaries—Ivo, the big, dark one with the gauntlet—had had a successful hunting foray into the woods, they would have been dining tonight on salted fish. However, the lack did not appear to upset Brother Mark, who tucked into his meal, grease to his elbows, making noises Rose thought were made only by pigs.
“I did not think priests ate like beasts,” she said, and delicately sipped at her wine.
He looked up at her warily, dislike in his eyes. “I see no harm in enjoying my food,” he announced, licking his fingers.
“No, Brother, and nor is there,” called Arno from Rose’s other side. “Lady Rose is out of sorts and vents her spleen on others.”
“Shall I pray for you, lady?” Brother Mark asked slyly.
Rose forced back her anger. “I thank you, Brother Mark, but there are others more in need of your prayers, I am sure.”
Arno snorted laughter in a way designed to hurt her, while Brother Mark smirked and fell silent. Rose sipped her wine and ignored them both. Since yesterday, in the village, Arno’s friendship and loyalty had turned to hate—or at least, that was how it felt. It was as if he wanted to make her miserable, mayhap as miserable as himself.
Rose wished now that
she had sent a messenger to Lord Radulf, as she had planned to last night. But somehow, this morning, everything had appeared brighter and she had reestablished her confidence in her own ability to unravel this mess. No, no, she had thought, she would not throw herself upon Radulf’s mercy. That way lay the repossession of her lands. Instead she would hold her manor court and clear Harold of blame, and then if Lord Fitzmorton’s man dared question her judgment, she would send him off with a pithy but ladylike speech about honor and decency.
She must have been light-headed. She knew now that it was madness to believe she could drive off a man like Miles de Vessey with a few well chosen words. And what of Fitzmorton himself? She shivered. He was not some beardless boy who would simply stand and allow her to castigate him. He was a vicious and warlike baron, and one who was more likely to slam his fist into her face than listen to her carefully prepared speech.
Surely she knew that better than anybody?
It was all the fault of the mercenary, of Gunnar Olafson. He had made her as dizzy as a summer bee. He had made her believe the impossible was possible.
Rose was very aware of him, seated beyond Arno. Not once had she looked directly at him, and yet she knew that he wore a brown tunic over a white linen shirt, washed thin with age, and that both fit him very well. She had not looked at him, because she did not think she could meet his eyes without her face catching fire. The memory of last night had burned into her like a brand; she had been reliving those hot, sweet moments over and over again throughout the long day.
And he would know it if he gazed into her eyes.
Rose sipped her wine again, watching as her people ate. The women were as fascinated as ever with Gunnar Olafson. Eartha had already been to fill his goblet, and several of the other serving girls had arrived to make certain only the finest morsels were on his plate. As if he couldn’t do such things very well for himself!
Mayhap, incredible as it seemed, she was jealous.
She wanted Gunnar Olafson for herself.
And the awful thing was, how did she know for certain that he had not done the same to any one of them as he had done to her? She would be foolish indeed to think she was different in his eyes from any of the other women in this hall. The men Rose had known best, her father and brother, would not let the fact that she was a Norman lady bother them, or influence their actions. A woman was a woman, and a man did not care what was in her head or in her heart, only what was between her legs.
Her mother had come to believe that, just before she died. She had warned Rose again and again, full of remorse for her own blind actions, hoping her daughter could steer a safer course. Those had been days of bittersweet reconciliation between mother and daughter, and her death had been all the more unbearable because of it.
Remembering now those terrible times, Rose asked herself how she could be such a simpleton as to believe a word Gunnar told her. With such a warning as her mother’s misery before her, why had she allowed him to hold her in his arms like a lit candle in the darkness of the stairwell? And why had she been remembering it ever since?
“Lady?” Arno was staring at her curiously. Rose realized he had spoken to her several times and she had not heard him once. Now that he had her attention, Arno nodded into the body of the hall.
Following his direction, Rose saw that Edward was walking toward her, his old face beaming. People moved aside to allow him passage, their voices drifting to an uneasy silence. Behind Edward was another, younger man, and he was wearing Lord Radulf’s colors.
Dizziness swept over her, dimming her vision, making her skin prickle.
Lord Radulf has come to take Somerford from me.
And then, far worse, Lord Radulf has sent word that the Lady Lily is dead.
But, if that were so, why was Edward smiling as if King Alfred had returned from the Mere to lead the English once more to victory?
“Lady Rose, it be good news!” Edward cried, and then flushed at the loudness of his own voice in the hush. He turned to the other man, jabbing at him with his bony elbow. “Tell them then, Steven, tell them!”
The man—he was only just old enough to be graced with that title—stepped forward with a smile as broad as Edward’s. He was dust-stained from travel, and his brown hair was darkened with sweat. He had ridden swiftly to Somerford, and it was clear he bore only good tidings.
“Lady Rose, I have come bearing news of Lady Lily. She has been delivered of a fine son, an heir for Lord Radulf!”
The hall resounded to loud cheers, mingled with the drumming of heels on the floor and the slamming of palms on the trestle tables. Not everyone at Somerford was particularly fond of Lord Radulf, but they all admired his lady—besides, good news had been sparse of late.
Rose patiently allowed her people to show their pleasure, before holding up a slender hand to quiet them. The noise dropped away, and all was hushed once more. “This is wonderful!” she told Steven, her voice ringing with genuine relief and pleasure. “We will all give thanks that Lady Lily has been safely delivered of a son and heir. Lord Radulf must be mightily relieved.”
“Aye, lady, so he is.” Steven grimaced. “And so are we all at Crevitch, for he has been raging about for weeks, consumed with worry.”
Rose smiled. “Then I am doubly glad for your sake, Steven.”
Whatever she feared for herself from that mighty baron, she knew full well that he loved his wife, and treasured her beyond all else. Such marriages were rare and precious in King William’s England. An uncharacteristic spike of jealousy tore at her, and Rose was ashamed of herself. From what she knew of Lily, that lady richly deserved her good fortune. Had Rose really expected to find similar happiness to that of Lily and Radulf? She had never sought it, preferring to keep such dangerous emotion at a distance. Love was like the toss of a dice, too unpredictable to take a wager on.
“Lord Radulf commands all of his vassals, and all of their people, to give thanks and celebrate his good fortune.”
“There is no need to command,” Rose declared, raising her goblet. “To Lord Radulf and Lady Lily, and the heir to Crevitch!”
The toast was repeated throughout the great hall, and drinks were duly raised and drunk.
’Twas a relief to hear good news among all the bad, thought Rose once more. She glanced about her, and noticed that Arno was staring sullenly into his goblet. Her elation evaporated—it must be true, then. Arno was Fitzmorton’s man, and Fitzmorton coveted Somerford Manor. It appeared she now had no choice. Her situation was dangerous indeed. Before Steven left she would write him a message to take back with him to Crevitch. A request for help, and a plea for understanding. Perhaps, in his moment of great joy, Radulf would see fit to forgive her her lack of honesty and come to her aid. Mayhap he would not take Somerford from her, a weak woman, and hand it over to one of the strong and violent men who held difficult stretches of this country. Someone who would keep Fitzmorton on his side of the border, and treat her people abominably…
The messenger, Steven, was still standing before her, a goblet in his hand, but he was looking further along the table. With a jolt Rose wondered whether he might have taken note of Arno’s less than exuberant face and be preparing to report it back to his lord. But it wasn’t Arno he was staring at. It was Gunnar Olafson.
Even as Rose turned in his direction, they were breaking eye contact, pretending their attention was elsewhere. But not before she had seen Gunnar nod his head, just the barest of movements, and noted Steven’s half grimace in reply. It happened so swiftly she might have imagined it…but she hadn’t.
They knew each other.
She dared not begin to consider what that might mean. There were too many other problems consuming her. Later, she would think of it later, when she was alone in her solar.
“You must eat and drink, too, Steven.” Constance’s voice, full of innuendo, broke in on Rose’s silence. “I do not think this will be our last celebration—Lord Radulf is a virile man. His lady will have many chil
dren.”
“Is that a prediction, old witch?” Arno sneered. He was drunk, but not so drunk as the night of the attack, and his mood this time was corrosive. Rose wished he would drink enough so that he passed out under the table, and then they could all be more comfortable.
“I am not a witch.” Constance gave him a scornful look. “Anyone with the eyes to see knows it will be so. Lord Radulf is happy with what he has…he does not hunger for what he has not.”
Arno’s face flushed an unpleasant red. “Aye, well, old woman, we all hunger sometimes. Even you.” And he laughed as if he had made a joke, and elbowed Brother Mark into joining in. The priest smiled reluctantly, eyes flicking uneasily around the table.
Beyond Arno, Gunnar Olafson’s eyes met Rose’s. She found herself caught and held by their calm, still blue. All around them people shouted and celebrated, Arno and Constance argued, Brother Mark gorged, and the serving women ogled. None of it mattered. Rose felt that she and Gunnar had their own special silence, and they existed only within it.
And then Steven raised his goblet and spoke in a clear voice. “To my lord and lady. Long may they live.”
The special moment was broken.
As Rose turned away, Gunnar leaned back, feeling light-headed, his tired eyes stinging from the smoke that swirled about the hall. He was tired, aye, but not tired enough evidently. His body hardened, desire singing through him. She only had to look at him with those deep, dark eyes and he wanted her. And she wasn’t even aware of it.
One of the Somerford hounds slunk under a table, scrounging for scraps. It reminded him of Sir Arno—sly-eyed, groveling to the powerful, but always willing to turn on anything weaker. Like Arno, the creature would find little joy—food stocks at Somerford were low until the harvest was in and the animals that had been fattened over the summer could be killed in the autumn. Ivo would have to go out hunting again tomorrow.
