The Rose and the Shield (Medieval 2)

“If they want to go. It is for their homes and their children’s lives that they would fight.”

“Maybe that is so, lady.” His agreement pleased her, but his next words froze any pleasure. “Sometimes it is necessary for women and children to fight. And to die.”

There was something uncivilized in those eyes, thought Rose. Something wholly savage. Something soulless. Had she really felt desire for such a creature? Perhaps she had confused lust with fear.

He is not like us.

How could she think to control such a man? A man who would let children die in the wars of men? A shiver ran through her. Surely they would be better off facing their problems on their own, or begging Lord Radulf for help, whatever he might think of her for doing so? Even if he takes Somerford from you and sends you back to your father? Yes, even then! Rose looked toward Arno, sure that he, too, must have come to this conclusion, but to her consternation he refused to meet her glance.

“Women do not understand war,” he said, but in such a fond, patronizing voice Rose longed to scream. As it was she gritted her teeth and turned back to the mercenary. With a curt gesture of her hand she drew his attention to their surroundings.

“Our defenses are strong—after the English uprising, Lord Radulf helped my husband to increase our strength. If there is an attack, everyone will come and shelter inside. If there is a siege, we have a deep well for water and, after the harvest, we will have food enough to keep us for many months. Although I have no doubt that long before we ran out Lord Radulf would have heard of our plight and sent us help.”

“That may be so, Lady Rose, but—”

“Sir Arno should have explained to you that you are here for show, Captain Olafson. Nothing else. The people from the Mere have been stealing from the village, but they are more of a nuisance than a serious threat. At the moment they think us easy pickings, but when they have seen you and your men they will go elsewhere. That is all we require of you, Captain. To scare the merefolk away. And indeed, you are well qualified for that!”

He let that pass, replying dismissively, “If these merefolk are allowed to steal from your village then you have let your people grow fat and lazy.”

Once again Rose felt the color come stinging into her cheeks. It was an insult. As if he could do better. Despite her resolution to be calm, her dark eyes flashed up at him. “Somerford has been at peace for four years, and if we have used that time to remember what it is like not to guard our backs at every waking moment, then I say that is a good thing.”

“It is never a good thing to be unprepared. Death awaits at every man’s shoulder.”

“Mayhap death awaits at some shoulders more than others!” she retorted. “You have it wrong, Captain. You are mistaken. The merefolk are not vicious raiders. They have hurt no one”—well, apart from a pig—“and once they hear of your arrival, they will leave us be.”

Captain Olafson smiled, but there was no warmth in it. “If they are clever they will leave, if they are not they will die.”

A murmur of agreement rose from the creatures behind him. Like a pack of wolves barely held in check, they shuffled closer.

Rose wanted to tell them to leave; she wanted to declare that such men were not welcome at Somerford Manor. This was a peaceful place; there would be no fighting or slaughter. But they were here now, and however different she might wish things to be, in her heart she knew she needed them. So, instead of sending them on their way as she longed to do, Rose said quietly, “This is not war, Captain.”

He looked thoughtful, his gaze fixed on some point far beyond her. “Your gate was open.”

Frowning, Rose glanced to Arno and back again. “Open?” she repeated, puzzled. “But…the merefolk have been causing problems. It was necessary to leave the gate open in case the villagers needed to seek protection. There is no danger in it, surely?”

Arno had told her that and given the order, yet now, when she looked to him for confirmation, he carefully avoided her eye, uneasy again.

“If I am to stay here and protect you, lady, the gate will remain closed unless I give orders for it to be opened. Is that clear?”

“I don’t see—”

“If we had been enemies of Somerford you would all be dead now. We would have ridden in at a gallop with no one to stop us, my men would have killed everyone here in the bailey, Ivo would have taken care of Sir Arno before he could draw his sword, and I would have come for you…lady. Now do you see?”

Arno was blustering, but no one paid him any heed. The Viking savage was staring at her fixedly now, and as if he had placed it there, Rose saw the scene he described in unrelenting detail. People running, screaming…She, alone in her solar, hearing his approach up the stone stairs, the door crashing open…He filled the doorway, dazzling her frightened eyes with the vivid colors of his hair and eyes. And then he strode forward toward her, drawing that wicked sword from its sheath…

Although—and now confusion replaced fear—the sword part didn’t seem quite right. She could imagine him striding toward her, but after that it seemed much more natural that he should leave the sword where it was and pull her into his arms, claiming her mouth with his.

Rose found her head nodding of its own volition. She felt dizzy, every bit of her tingling…some bits more than others. Stop this, stop it now! She forced her voice out, forced it to obey her.

“Very well, Captain Olafson. The gate stays closed.”

Her reply was his cue to turn his back on her.

Again.

At least, thought Gunnar, he had won that point, although it was clearly difficult for her to concede to him. She had nearly choked on the words, but the gate would remain safely shut from now on. There were other questions he needed to ask, other points to be made, but he decided it was better to leave it there, since he had the advantage.

Standing face-to-face with her, staring into her eyes, Gunnar had found himself imagining things that had more to do with satisfaction than safety. Even with his back turned, he could smell her sweet scent. Almost, he could taste her on his tongue. Quite suddenly he did not trust his normally reliable self-control.