The Rose and the Shield (Medieval 2)

Puzzled, Gunnar turned to his friend and saw the sparkle of wicked laughter in his eyes.

“Back there you were so hot for the lady, I thought it might have melted in its sheath. I have never seen you so struck by a woman—usually ’tis the other way around.”

Gunnar’s smile was grim—had it been so obvious? “I would that my sword had melted, Ivo. Then my problem would be solved.”

Ivo snorted a laugh. “And disappoint so many wenches? Their wailing would be heard throughout the land.” He gave Gunnar a considering look. “It would be amusing if this one did not fall into your hand as easily as all the others.”

Amusing for you, thought Gunnar. “Women are a pleasant diversion. But I am working, Ivo; even if she is as sweet and innocent as the flower she is called after, I would have no time for the Lady Rose.”

He spoke the words so confidently, even he believed them.

Chapter 3

Rose felt rattled; she needed time by herself.

Captain Olafson had upset her in ways she did not understand—did not want to. He was a cold and dangerous savage, and on the outside she had responded to him warily. And yet, underneath, her senses were quivering like a harp’s plucked strings. As if something unseen were happening between them, deep below the surface. As if, thought Rose shakily, the raw, sensual power of the mercenary had found a willing partner in her.

She was more than rattled; Rose was afraid.

Aye, she needed time alone.

Slowly, she began to climb the stone stairs to her own private chamber—her solar. The solar was a Norman lady’s sanctuary, the place where she could be alone or with her ladies, where no one must disturb her without her permission. Edric had given her her solar.

When he and Lord Radulf had built Somerford Keep, they had built it of stone. Stone keeps were still a rarity in England, especially on the smaller manors. But Somerford was unique, standing as it did on the very edge of the vast Crevitch estates, and abutting the lands of two other very powerful barons.

Lord Radulf had felt a stone keep was as necessary as a stout wall, and Edric had been eager to please his overlord, not least because he stood in awe of him. The cost of the building had been enormous, and Radulf had supplied the stone and workmen, and asked for additional costs to be sent to him. But Edric was an elderly Saxon husband with a young, noble wife, and he had wanted to indulge her. He had insisted she have a solar in the new keep, a private room for her own use. And he had insisted that he would pay the extra expense of it—and this had turned out to be more than he had ever imagined, but he had never blamed Rose.

Edric, in his sixtieth year when he died, had been a kind and courteous man. Rose knew she had been lucky in him, luckier than her own mother.

Rose paused halfway up the stairs, her hand on the cold wall.

From early childhood she had watched her mother’s wild and destructive love for her father, watched him take pleasure in hurting her with his indifference, watched all that vitality slowly wither and die. When it came time to have a husband of her own, Rose had been terrified. Not for the usual reasons expressed by other young girls—that he might be cruel or he might be old or he might be mean. No, Rose’s real fear was that she might fall in love with the man chosen for her. It was love that ruined lives, love that could ruin her life, just as her father had ruined her mother’s life.

But Edric, a wily Saxon widower looking to please his new overlords by taking one of their own for wife, wasn’t a man to inspire passionate love. He had never made her burn for him, not even a little. He had consummated their marriage matter-of-factly with only a slight discomfort, and for that Rose had been grateful, as she was grateful for his easy kindness and consideration, and the pleasure he found in her conversation and company.

A shy and gentle girl who had grown up in a frightening and violent household, Rose had entered into her marriage well trained as a housekeeper but with few other skills. It was Edric who gave her the confidence to grow into her position as the Lady of Somerford. And as time passed, she realized that despite what her father and mother and brother had told her, it was in her power to control her own destiny. When Edric died last year, Rose discovered the courage to rule alone.

Now, once more, she felt the old fear stirring.

Not just because of the problems they were having with the merefolk, although these were certainly troublesome. Not because of the lack of money, although this kept her awake at nights. Not because Lord Radulf, as her overlord, could take Somerford Manor from her, his vassal, if she displeased or failed him. Edric had sworn fealty to Radulf, as had Rose, but that did not make Somerford Manor entirely secure—s

he tried not to think of this. And not because the mercenaries she had hired to solve their problems with the merefolk were so much more…more savage than she had imagined—Arno had been right there, they were no tame cats to stroke and pet.

No, Rose was afraid of herself.

Afraid of what was lurking in her soul.

That in some secret chamber within, a hidden room of shadows, was a deep, dark, emotional well, just waiting to be tapped. And once broached, the black waters would rush out, unstoppable, drowning her, destroying her, just as her mother had been destroyed in the same flood. Breathless, she remembered again that dizzy, heady feeling she had experienced in the bailey when she first saw Captain Olafson. The thump of her heart, the tremble of her legs, the tightening in her belly…

Such a thing had never happened to her before, and she would not allow it now. Rose straightened her back, lifted her chin, and took a deep breath of the chilly, damp air in the stairwell. It cleared her head. Mayhap this had been a momentary thing? Some problem with the phase of the moon and her monthly cycles? For how could she even contemplate making wild, passionate love with a rude…heartless…conscienceless…Viking savage?

When Rose reached the solar she found it was not empty as she had hoped. Constance sat on a stool mending a well-worn linen chemise, diligently attempting to prolong its life. New clothing was becoming an urgent necessity, but Rose did not feel she could buy for her own back when her people went without. After the harvest, she hoped for the hundredth time, there would be coin and more for all that.

Constance was staring up at her, old eyes sharp with curiosity. “Have you spoken to the mercenaries?”

“I have.” Rose wouldn’t meet her gaze. “Sir Arno is taking them to stable their horses. They will probably eat their heads off.”

Constance’s lips twitched. “The horses, do you mean? Or the mercenaries?”