The Rose and the Shield (Medieval 2)

At least the mercenaries did not eat like wild animals, Rose thought, watching them as she sat picking at her own food.

The main table stood upon a dais and ran sideways to the rest of the great hall, and from her place on it, Rose could see everyone. Below her, in the body of the hall, the mercenaries ate among the castle folk and yet in an island of their own. The Somerford people eyed their new guests with a mixture of suspicion and fascination, while the mercenaries spoke among themselves, often laughing loudly, clearly unfazed by their enforced isolation.

Mayhap they were used to it.

They still appeared very exotic to Rose, but she was becoming more used to the look of them. The big, dark-haired man with the single black glove had removed his fur cloak and now wore a plain tunic and breeches; now and again she would find him watching her, his gaze so fiercely intense it made her uncomfortable. The fair Dane with the lazy grin was telling a joke, while the other fair-haired man was laughing, in between yawns. The Englishman they called Alfred, with the ruined face, stared moodily at his meal, while a swarthy fellow named Reynard seemed content to listen. They were all big, strong men whose attributes Rose imagined would make them invaluable in their work.

It seemed more than likely the troublesome merefolk would take one look at them and flee for their lives back into their watery marshes.

Furtively, unable to prevent herself, Rose glanced sideways. Of all his men, Captain Olafson was the only one seated at the main table. Sir Arno had invited him there. Such an action had seemed out of character, until Arno—seated on Rose’s right—murmured to her that he would rather have the man where he could see him. Rose, who would rather have had Captain Olafson at the farthest end of the hall, reluctantly agreed.

Brother Mark sat on her left. A middle-aged, taciturn man who seemed to have his head closer to earth than heaven, Brother Mark had come from Wells six months ago at Arno’s request, when the old priest had died. Brother Mark was not a warm man, and the people of Somerford did not like him; Rose did not like him much herself. Too often she found him gazing at the gold goblet Lord Radulf had given Edric, which held a position of pride on the shelf behind the main table. Sometimes she wondered if the glint in his eye was entirely appropriate for a spiritual man.

Constance, the steward’s widow, sat beyond Brother Mark, at the end of the table. Her eyes were fixed on the mercenary captain, though not with the blank, dazed look that filled the eyes of most of the other women. Constance stared with bold curiosity, as if she were trying to see inside him.

But what is there to see within that pretty wrapping? Rose asked herself, glancing again in the mercenary’s direction. Are there any deeper levels or twists to his character? He is nothing more than a Viking savage, and that is the beginning and the end to it.

But she was deluding herself, as that annoying voice in her head immediately reminded her.

What about saving the child? Why would a Viking savage play the hero?

Why indeed?

She ran her fingers restlessly along the arm of her chair. High-backed and sturdy, it had been Edric’s and was now hers. Such an item of furniture was only to be used by the Lord or Lady of Somerford Manor—the rest of the folk in the hall sat upon stools or benches, or stood if there was nowhere to sit. The chair was a symbol of power.

There were carved panels on its back and sides, swirling tendrils of vines and plants, intermingled with strange beasts and serpents, all in a curling, writhing mass. The old priest had been prone to eyeing the chair uneasily and asking if it was pagan. Edric would laugh and tell him the chair had come from Wales in the possession of a distant ancestor. It had been a bride gift. Then some devilment would always make him add that there was a tale the chair had floated across the Bristol Channel by itself, fetching up on the shoreline to the north before continuing on its lonely travels across the Mere to Somerford.

Brother Mark was helping himself to a piece of succulent pork from a platter, and at the same time muttering Latin under his breath. He spoke Latin in a manner Rose had never heard before, but still, she was no scholar…Guiltily, she was aware that her dislike of him colored her feelings toward him.

Rose turned back to Sir Arno. He was speaking in his usual plausible and confident manner about Somerford’s defenses; Arno always inspired confidence, even when sometimes he did not deserve to. But tonight he had been drinking before the meal arrived, and the wine was already affecting him. As she listened to their conversation, Rose realized that Arno was repeating her own earlier words: the mercenaries had been hired for show only.

“I believe the troublemakers are the folk from the marsh—the Mere, as they call it here,” he said, his voice louder than normal. “They live hard lives, and if a chance came for them to make it easier, then I believe they would take it. I am sure that once they realize you and your men are here, captain, they will leave us in peace.”

Arno sensed her attention and turned with an ingenuous smile. “Money well spent, do you not think so, Rose?”

Arno was normally a genial man, and it was a strong woman who resisted a smile like that. Rose had never had trouble resisting it, but she was annoyed by his familiarity in front of this stranger. She glanced warningly toward the mercenary and then frowned at Arno with a severity unusual for her. There was a brief flicker in the knight’s eyes—annoyance, irritation, maybe both. His color heightened.

“Wine, girl!” he shouted, and held out his goblet to be refilled.

He was drinking more than normal. Perhaps Rose would not have noticed under other circumstances, or would not feel the need to reprove him for it. Tonight she did. It was the contrast, she realized, with surprise. For while Sir Arno drank

steadily, with an almost careless disregard for his position and duties, Captain Olafson drank hardly at all.

He had barely sipped at his wine, although Rose knew it was good. Instead his serious gaze roamed over the hall, searching out its doors and dark corners, and resting often on the faces of its occupants, as if he wished to read their minds. He was watching, assessing, and yet if Rose had not in turn been watching him she would not have noticed the tension in him.

What did he presume would happen? Rose asked herself uneasily. The merefolk would burst in on them and steal their supper?

Captain Olafson appeared to be looking for treason at the very least, but if he thought to find it at Somerford he was sadly mistaken. It was too much…he was too much. Such a simple task required a simple solution—a couple of armed men would have done, not this battle-hardened crew and their barbarian of a leader. It would be like smashing an ant with an anvil.

Deep in her own thoughts, Rose nibbled on a pie, enjoying the rich and succulent taste. They had eaten sparingly for so long that tonight’s supper had been an excuse to gorge. Tomorrow, she told herself firmly, they would resume their austere and sensible habits.

Rose let her gaze wander about her hall, automatically noting if anyone was lacking food or wine, and directing her servants in their direction. And then she saw Eartha and frowned. Eartha, as mistress of the kitchen, rarely showed her face in the great hall at mealtimes. That she should now be standing in the doorway with a jug of wine in her hands seemed strange…out of place.

As Rose watched, the woman began making her way through the great hall, dodging a groping hand here, a reaching arm there. Eartha’s husband had died during the English uprising. An earthy, buxom woman with flaxen curls and angry blue eyes, Eartha was attractive; since her widowhood the men of Somerford had favored her and Eartha had not been reluctant to accept their offers. Although, to give her her due, Eartha was choosy, and she was a good mother to her little boy.

She was approaching the main table now, the wine jug clasped to her breast. ’Twas a wonder, Rose thought wryly, that with her eyes fixed unwaveringly on Captain Olafson she could find her way without stumbling.

But so were the eyes of all of the other women in her hall!