The Rose and the Shield (Medieval 2)

“My lady,” he went on earnestly, his rather blunt fingers clasped before him. Rose’s dazed eyes noted the priest also had battle scars on his hands—unusual, surely, for a man of God? “We have spoken before of the need for a new church.”

“I remember.” They had indeed spoken of it, but there was no money for more building. Brother Mark seemed to believe that a new church should come before food and warmth and clothing. Rose, practical woman that she was, did not.

Brother Mark proceeded to tell her exactly what he wanted. It sounded like a smaller version of the cathedral at Wells—and not that much smaller. Rose nodded, pretending to listen, but in truth she was more interested in what was happening further down the table.

Jesu! She blinked. Here was yet another serving wench approaching them, and bearing yet another full jug of wine! Were they all completely empty-headed? Perhaps she should give an order that none should look at the man, for their own safety!

The girl drew closer. How would Gunnar Olafson react?

Before she could stop herself, Rose glanced again toward the mercenary. Yes, she noted, his goblet was still topped to the very brim with good red wine. What would most men do in such a situation? Rose had known only a small number of men really well—Edric, her father, her brother. Edric, kind though he was, would have laughed and made the wench feel foolish. Rose’s father would have been angry, her brother, too, for they were not even-tempered men.

She paled. What if Gunnar Olafson were to draw that frightening sword of his and threaten the wench with it? Or cry out a pagan oath? Or maybe he would guzzle down what he already had, so that his goblet was empty? She tensed, waiting.

Arno was holding out his goblet to be filled—yet again. The knight, his voice noticeably slurred, was boasting about his powerful relatives in Normandy, and seemed hardly to notice the simpering girl. She moved on to Gunnar and waited expectantly, hopping from one foot to the other as if it were impossible for her to keep still in the presence of so impressive a man.

Rose held her breath, expecting the worst.

Gunnar Olafson gave the girl a calm smile and shook his head. It was done so unobtrusively that probably no one but Rose noticed. The girl blushed, smiled back, and retraced her steps.

Kindness, even disinterested kindness, was a rarity in the harsh world where Rose dwelt. To see it now, from a man she had wanted to believe incapable of any of the softer emotions, shook her to the core. Tears stung her eyes and she bowed her head, desperate to hide her own lack of control.

She was the Lady of Somerford Manor—she could not afford to be a woman, afflicted with womanly feelings.

Gunnar Olafson had explained to them why he had saved the boy’s life—it was a pagan thing. Rose had been relieved to hear his reason was as unfeeling as she had told herself it must be. For Constance must be wrong; how could such a man as this be a hero? Heroes were not men with hair like fire and steely muscles and scarred hands. They did not own swords near to four feet long called Fenrir and wear shields painted with snarling wolves. And certainly they did not kill for coin!

And yet now, just when she was feeling justified in her initial judgment of him, he acted in a way that could only be called kind. Thoughtful. Even honorable.

What was happening?

Rose clutched the arms of her chair with the sensation that she, and it, were adrift on the sea. And then, thankfully, doubt and scorn came to her rescue, making her rethink her conclusions.

How could a Viking savage be kind? Sometimes her father and brother had been kind, but it was all a trick, a way to manipulate, to get their own way. That must be what Gunnar Olafson was doing. Storing up favors for weeks and weeks to come. A wench for every night!

For what woman would be able to resist him, Rose thought bleakly, if he were kind as well as handsome?

She lifted her goblet and gulped a mouthful of wine, promptly choking on it.

“Lady?” Brother Mark was eyeing her reddened face curiously.

“Rose?” On her other side, Arno dared give her a disapproving stare. In his inebriated state he had again forgotten the respect due her.

Despite streaming eyes, Rose reminded him. “It is Lady Rose, Sir Arno.”

Arno d’Alan stiffened, his face pinched, brown eyes narrowed. He looked…not amused, not angry, not anything she recognized. Sullen, certainly, but something more tha

t was unfamiliar. It disturbed her—a trickle of ice in her backbone—for the brief moment before she dismissed it. If she had hurt Arno’s feelings, Rose told herself firmly, it was for the best—he seemed far too sure of himself these days, and she had allowed him to go on doing so without checking him.

“My apologies, lady,” he said now, pretending contrition, but his voice was thick with drink and mockery.

“Do you always have such a serious effect upon womenfolk, Captain?”

The question came from Constance, and suddenly Rose had a new worry. Jesu, let the old woman not mention her hope of finding Rose a lusty man!

Gunnar Olafson had turned to Constance and was thus looking past Rose. His face was once more expressionless, as blank as if it had been carved from a block of wood, albeit an extremely handsome block of wood. Why, thought Rose, did she feel as if so much was going on behind it?

“There is something about me that women like—” He spoke the simple truth. “So I do not gainsay them the pleasure of looking.”

Pleasure of looking! What arrogance, what conceit!