The Rose and the Shield

by Sara Bennett

  His gaze followed the prettiest of the Somerford wenches, the cook, Eartha, as she made her way to Rose. Just now the woman’s ready smile was missing, as she bent and began murmuring in her lady’s ear with an intensity that spiked Gunnar’s interest.

  The atmosphere in the hall had been merry verging on hysterical ever since Steven had come to share the good news. And it was good news. Gunnar was very glad to hear that Lily was well, and that Radulf and his wife now had a son to add to their little daughter. He had been puzzled at first as to why Radulf had sent Steven, his favorite young knight-in-training, but Steven’s steady gaze in his direction had made it clear enough. He was to let Steven know what was happening so that he could report back to Radulf. Even at such a moment as this, the King’s Sword was watching his enemies—maybe Lily’s safe delivery of an heir made him even more determined to keep the peace at Crevitch. Men like Fitzmorton and Miles de Vessey did not understand that—they lived for war.

  And just as well, Gunnar told himself bracingly. If there were no wars and no squabbles between the great of this land, he would be without a job. And it seemed as if he would be needing work now that his dream of owning his own land was receding. Maybe Radulf could keep him permanently at Crevitch? Then he would be close by Somerford, if—Gunnar cut the thought off there. No, to stay would remind him of all he might have had. It would be better to get as far away from Somerford as possible, into the north, and forget he had ever seen the Lady Rose.

  Eartha was still whispering. Rose nodded, head bent, her grave, beautiful face in shadow. Gunnar could not help but examine the graceful curve of her neck, the hollow near her jaw where he had kissed her last night—one of the many places he had kissed her last night. Was there a faint blue bruise against the pale honey of her skin? Had anyone else noticed? He would have to be more careful next time…

  Gunnar almost groaned aloud. Next time! She had not spoken a word to him, and tried her best not to look at him, and he still believed there would be a next time. Was she ashamed of what they had done, or just ashamed that she had done it with him? Was he a complete fool, as Ivo had warned him, and was she playing a double game with him? Could she be planning to rid herself of Arno by using Gunnar? Was she that devious?

  He did not think so—and he was usually a good judge of character—but he supposed it was possible. Anything was possible. And he was certainly not as clear-headed as he would have liked.

  Gunnar could not hear what they were saying, but Eartha’s whispering went on and now the lady’s back had stiffened, her fingers turning white as she gripped her chair arm. Eartha stepped back and, with a sketchy curtsy, went on her way. Rose did not move, continuing to stare down at her plate, deep in thought. Now her fingers were tracing the carvings on the arm of her chair, and it was more like a caress than an idle touch.

  Gunnar hid a smile. He had examined the chair himself the day after his arrival. It was Norse, he had no doubts about it, and very old. Maybe some enterprising Englishman had stolen it from a Viking invader, or one of those invaders had thought to set up his own little kingdom, and had this throne carved for himself. Whoever and wherever it had come from, it was not the sort of chair he would have expected the Lady Rose to be seated upon. Had she ever truly examined the carvings on it? Maybe he should enlighten her…

  Abruptly she rose to her feet. Her smile was vague and strained—she was pretending all was well, but she didn’t fool him as she stepped down from the dais, saying, “Please, do not stop the celebration. I will be but a moment.”

  Arno did not need any encouragement, it was debatable whether he even heard her. Brother Mark continued to stuff himself in a most ungodly manner, but Gunnar was not surprised, he had already concluded the good brother was no more a priest than he was. Only the old woman, Constance, was observing her lady. Here, at least, was someone with her wits about her. As Gunnar watched, Constance gathered together her wily strength, preparing to rise and follow Rose.

  “Lady Constance.” Her head swung around at the sound of her name in his quiet voice. “Do not disturb yourself. Ivo will see that no harm comes to her.” Even as he spoke, the big man was rising from one of the tables below and ambling after Rose on her journey across the crowded room.

  The woman Eartha was waiting by the door that led from the great hall into the bailey, and when Rose reached her they went out together. In a moment, Ivo had followed with a deceptively leisurely grace.

  Constance looked at Gunnar and smiled, but her eyes were sharp. “I will keep her safe,” Gunnar heard himself saying, and the words made him go still with surprised dismay.

  Did it matter so much to him that she was safe? His body was aching from last night, the memory of it like a whip to his flesh. He needed release, and he was well aware that he had only to glance about this hall and he could find it a dozen times over. But not from her, the one woman he really wanted. The ache in his body was for the Lady Rose, and no one else would do.

  And what does that mean?

  It means I lust after her, nothing more, he told himself reasonably. Gunnar knew he was very good at being reasonable.

  Lust? Are these tender feelings for her really lust?

  Desire, lust, it means the same. What do you call it?

  The voice sniggered, and held its tongue.

  Gunnar allowed that to go unanswered. What he felt, he told himself, was unimportant. What was important was that Lord Radulf be made aware of the situation here at Somerford Manor, before Lord Fitzmorton arrived and it was too late. What would having the land matter to him if the blood of the Somerford people was soaking into it, and the beautiful Lady of Somerford was dead or forcibly wed to a man like Miles de Vessey? Gunnar knew well enough what happened to women when Miles was weary of them.

  Constance was smiling and nodding at him, as if he had spoken aloud. A burst of noise from down in the hall blotted out her words, but Gunnar saw her lips move. He thought she said, “You are the one,” but that made no sense. Aye, he must have been mistaken, decided Gunnar, and returned to his silent brooding.

  Chapter 11

  “Harold?”

  A large hand clenched about the bars on the window in the door of the cell. A torch flickered in the draft, deepening the shadows. Harold the miller, pale and woebegone, peered out at them.

  “Lady?” whispered Harold, seeing Rose. “You have come to free me?”

  The hopeful spark in his eyes was tentative at best, and when she didn’t answer it died into dull acceptance. Harold had prepared himself for death. Rose knew then that Eartha had been right in insisting that she come to see the miller.

  “Aye, how can you?” he was answering his own question. “I killed a Norman and I must hang. ’Tis the law.”

  “Norman law!” spat Eartha, and gave Rose a half-frightened, half-defiant look.

  “You forget yourself, Eartha,” reproved Harold. “Lady Rose is our lady. Norman or English, she has always taken care of us, watched over us. It is not her fault that I killed a man.”

  “Yes, but it is why you killed him!” Eartha declared. “Should you die for saving your daughter, sweet Millisent?”

  Rose came closer, meeting his gaze through the cell bars. “Eartha has spoken to me about letting you go free, Harold. She says that you promise, if I do, I will never see you again. Is that what you want? To run and hide for the rest of your life? Never to see your children again?”

  Harold glanced into her eyes, and then sighed and shook his head. His own eyes filled with tears. “No, lady, it isn’t what I really want. But neither do I want my children to see their father hanged. To run and hide seemed to be best of a bad lot.”

  Eartha shook her head. She had spoken long and eloquently in the great hall, asking Rose to set Harold free. He would vanish, she had said, he would hide. They could pretend he had escaped and no one need ever know, and no one would ever find him.

  Rose knew of other escapees from Norman justice. Freedom might be a much lauded thing, but where
was the freedom in hiding in caves and forests, forever fearing that the next person you met could be there to drag you back to face your Norman masters?

  She could not see Harold—thoughtful, careful Harold, who loved his children—living such a life. She could not reduce a decent, honest man to such a fate. But neither could she see him hanged.

  Suddenly it seemed a simple matter to obey her heart and ignore the warnings her mind was screaming at her. Rose reached up to the bars, and her voice was firm and authorative, as if she really was in control of the situation. “I will not allow you to die for a man like Gilbert, Harold. You were justified in what you did, and so I will tell Lord Fitzmorton. But…” She took a deep breath. “If he is not to take matters into his own hands, we must win Lord Radulf to our side. I will send word back to him with his messenger. At such a time as this, he will be in a mood to grant favors.”

  Harold looked away, but she had already seen the grave doubts in his eyes. “There is danger for you in that, lady,” he murmured uneasily. “Are you sure—”

  “Aye! She must send word to Lord Radulf!” Eartha was breathless with her enthusiasm, her pretty face aglow. “He is a man, and only men have power over life and death.

  “Women, too,” said Rose. “Remember, tonight we celebrate the birth of Lady Lily’s son.”

  But Eartha seemed incapable of making the connection, far too single-minded. She came forward to the little barred window. “I will tell Millisent. Fear not, Harold, I will care for her and Will. You were always kind to me and my little boy, and now I will repay that kindness.”

  Watching them, Rose felt hollow. Lord Radulf might well grant her her wish, but he would no longer see her as a safe vassal to hold Somerford. He would speedily replace her, and how could she blame him? She would save Harold’s life, but at the expense of saving herself.

  Rose stumbled as she climbed the last step from the cell, her legs heavy, her heart heavier. Would Radulf return her to her father or would he marry her to another of his vassals? Whatever fate he decided for her, it amounted to the same. She would be given away like a counter in a game. A game she had tried so hard to play to the advantage of her people, and had now lost.

  She remembered again her father’s face, half illuminated by the candles upon the table.

  “You will marry this Edric, although he is not worthy of you. Radulf and I have agreed upon it.”

  “And you swear to leave me be, Father? You swear you will not use me in your games?”

  “Games?” he mocked. “War is no game!”

  “I want to live my life quietly. I want to pretend I am no longer your daughter.”

  He laughed harshly, and she might have thought she had hurt his feelings.

  If he had a heart.

  “Lady?”

  Rose started. Turning swiftly, she found one of the mercenaries standing behind her, a shadow in the shadows. Gunnar? The longing in the thought shocked her, and she tensed defensively, drawing herself up to play the part of indifference. But it was not Gunnar who came toward her with intent dark eyes.

  “Ivo? What do you here?”

  “I am obeying Captain Olafson’s orders, my lady.”

  Rose frowned, trying to ignore the manner in which he towered over her—why did all these mercenaries have to be so tall! “And what orders are they, Ivo?”

  “I am to keep you safe, lady.”

  Something trickled through her, something warm and comforting and completely unfamiliar. Gunnar Olafson wanted her safe.

  Of course he does! Fool. You are paying him to keep you safe!

  The mocking voice brought her feet back to the bailey with a jolt. Ivo was watching her with a carefully blank look in his eyes that made her wonder whether she had just given herself away.

  “I doubt I will be carried off in the midst of my own keep,” she said coolly. “Your captain would do better trying to catch the attackers than watching me.” And she set off briskly back toward the great hall.

  But Ivo simply ambled along beside her. “He has his reasons, lady, and I would trust him above all other men. He is good at what he does.”

  Rose glanced at him curiously. There had been a great deal of admiration in Ivo’s voice but, more than that, there had been affection. The question was out before she could stop it. “You have known him for a long time, Ivo?”

  He smiled—he had a nice smile. It completely transformed the fierce angles of his face. “He saved my life, lady. I would be dead now if it were not for Gunnar. The others will say the same, Alfred and Sweyn, Ethelred and Reynard. He has saved all our lives, in different ways. We would give those lives back, if it meant saving his.”

  He was completely serious, thought Rose with wonder. What sort of man was this, to inspire such complete and total loyalty?

  “You were in Wales before you came here.” It was not really a question.

  Ivo nodded. “Wild country and wild people. Somerford is better, even if my brother is here.” He stopped, as if he had said more than he wanted.

  “Your brother? Who is your brother?”

  Ivo took a deep breath. For such a fearsome-looking man, he had very soulful eyes. “Miles de Vessey, lady. He is my brother, although I wish it were not so. He is not to be trusted, ever.”

  “Oh? Is he so bad, Ivo?”

  Ivo held up his hand, the one he wore the glove or gauntlet upon. “Lady, Miles did this when we were boys. He thought to cripple me so that never again would I best him at swordplay.”

  Rose’s throat felt dry. “And did you?”

  A smile glinted in Ivo’s dark eyes. “Aye.”

  They had reached the hall and Ivo was bowing as she moved on past him, into the smoky, noisy warmth.

  Rose was relieved to see that Arno had moved to one of the tables in the body of the hall, and was playing a drunken game of dice with the two fair-headed mercenaries, Sweyn and Ethelred. Brother Mark had gone and Constance, too, had retired for the night. Gunnar Olafson and Steven were standing together, heads close. The expressions on their faces belied any pretense at polite conversation. Gunnar made an angry gesture and Steven nodded, his brown hair flopping forward over his eyes.

  In a moment Rose knew she would be near enough to hear what they were saying. She quickened her step.

  As if sensing her presence, Gunnar glanced up. His expression changed, the calm mask slipping over the anger, his eyes growing cool and watchful. At the same time, Steven bowed and backed away, merging into the shadows by the dais, and leaving them as private as they could be in the crowded hall.

  “What were you speaking of?” Rose said sharply, close enough now that they could not be overheard.

  “Of Wales, lady. Steven’s family hold lands on the Marches.”

  He was lying and she knew it, but what could she do? If she accused him he would laugh in her face. Too late she remembered last night in the stairwell and felt a low, deep ache in her belly. Why had she not walked straight through the hall and taken herself to the safety of her chamber?

  “There is no need to set your men to watch me, Captain,” she said grumpily.

  He raised his eyebrows. “I seek to protect you, lady.”

  “It feels like watching.” Her voice was icy polite, although her cheeks felt over-hot. She was disturbed, agitated by his presence. The memories of last night had risen up between them, and Rose was finding it difficult to breathe.

  And he was aware of it. He must be. How could he not be? There he was, standing before her, broad-shouldered, legs set firmly, his mouth saying one thing while his eyes said another. And Rose understood with a growing sense of despair that last night in the stairwell hadn’t been enough. She wanted him again. Tonight.

  Time for them was running out. When she did as she had promised Harold, and sent word to Radulf…

  Gunnar smiled, a tug at the corners of his lips. He was beyond handsome, and she had to stop herself from swaying toward him. Without taking his eyes from hers, Gunnar indicated the chair upo
n the dais. “Tell me about this chair, Lady Rose.”

  The change of subject confused her, but she was happy to follow it. Her chair seemed a far safer direction for the conversation to take than the images swirling through her head.

  “If you like, Captain. This is the Somerford chair, and it is very old. An ancestor of my husband’s brought it here, and it has been treasured ever since. There is a legend…”

  “Tell it to me.”

  That sounded more like a command than a request, but Rose let it pass. She was happy to talk about the chair if it would take her mind off her fears for her future, and the hot, passionate memories probing at the edges of her mind.

  “It is said the chair came to Somerford by itself, floating across the Mere and washing up on the shore. Before that…’tis a mystery.”

  He nodded, but his eyes were aglow. As if he were aware of a secret, as if she amused him. Defensively Rose crossed her arms and frowned.

  Again Gunnar smiled, that breathtaking smile. “Let me show you something,” he said, and he held out his hand.

  She did not want to take it, truly she did not, but somehow she already had. His fingers closed over hers, large and warm and strong, and he led her up onto the dais and around the table, to her chair. Bemused, Rose stood and watched as he crouched down on his haunches, closely examining one of the side panels. Her eyes flicked over the muscles of his thighs, the way the stuff of his breeches strained over all that hard flesh, the way his hair fell forward as he leaned toward the carvings, gleaming with a mixture of bronze and gold and chestnut.

  Touch him. See if he feels as good as he looks. As good as you remember.

  This time the whispering voice in her head bore a remarkable resemblance to Constance’s. Rose swallowed and managed to ignore it.

  “Look,” he said softly, forcing her to lean closer to hear him. She followed the movement of his finger as he swept it across a swirl of tendrils and vines, and rested it lightly, almost affectionately, on one of the cleverly wrought little creatures.