The Rose and the Shield (Medieval 2)

They stood a moment together in thoughtful silence. Of all his men, Ivo was closest to Gunnar. A former Norman knight himself, though now disgraced and outcast, Ivo had found a haven in Gunnar’s little mercenary band. In character he was Gunnar’s direct opposite: passionate where Gunnar was calm, hasty to act where Gunnar was deliberate. And yet they were like brothers, and Gunnar had no doubt they were presently turning the very same thoughts over in their heads.

“What do you think it means?” Ivo could bear the silence no longer.

“I smell treachery, Ivo.”

“Aye,” said Ivo grimly, “so do I.”

Rose had been unable to rest.

After she and her servants had settled the fleeing villagers in the great hall—tending to those with cuts or burns, feeding those who were hungry, and finding them comfortable places to sleep—she had sought the sanctuary of her solar. But she had been too restless to perform any of the tasks required of her, and instead paced back and forth before her unshuttered window, which afforded her a view of the smoky haze by the river Somer that had been her village.

Sleep was impossible, so Rose didn’t even try. She decided she would await the return of the mercenaries and learn what she could of this latest attack by the merefolk. Sir Arno had already retired, too drunk to take charge of these matters for her, and Brother Mark had long since scuttled away to his own bed.

She was alone again.

Rose had never been one to fear solitude. To be alone in the crowded, tense home of her childhood, or the crowded, busy keep of her marriage, was a privilege indeed, and she had always looked forward to the few moments of solitude. But not tonight, not now. Suddenly Rose knew she would give much to have someone to turn to, to hold, to…love?

Rose shivered. Love destroyed! To wish for it was to invite her own downfall.

“You are cold?” Constance’s voice came from the doorway, its very familiarity comforting. “Close the shutters and go to bed.”

Rose shook her head. “I cannot. They are not yet returned.”

“Where is your knight—Arno? He should be down there now, ordering his garrison.”

Rose wrapped her arms about herself and gave a wry smile. “Arno is presently beyond anything but snoring sleep. Do you know, Constance, I find myself wishing Edric were here. He would have known what to do in such a situation, and his people loved him, trusted him. Instead I must put my faith in a Viking savage who may very well have more in common with the attackers than with me and my people.”

Not true! cried a voice in her head. He gave you his word…

“Your husband was a silly old fool,” Constance said dryly. “If you need help, go to Lady Lily.”

There was a fur-lined cloak laid over a chest by the wall, and Constance took it up and came to smooth it about Rose’s shoulders.

Rose smiled her thanks, but her answer was firm. “You know I cannot. I will not run to Lord Radulf and Lady Lily whenever I have a problem. Sir Arno has the right of it there when he says they will think me weak and incapable of ruling Somer—”

Constance interrupted. “Sir Arno! That knight knows well how to play with you, child. Like a fish he tugs you in slowly, slowly. One day he will land you and that will be that.”

Rose looked at her with genuine amusement. “Arno a fisherman? Whatever do you mean? I know you do not like him, Constance, but you are seeing that which is not there. Arno is loyal to me. If he is arrogant sometimes, well…he cannot help what he is.”

Constance gave her a baleful glare. “I pray it is as you think, lady, but I fear one day you will discover your loyal knight is not quite so loyal. He lusts after you, do you know that?”

Startled, Rose turned to stare at the old woman. “He does not! And besides—”

“Besides, you are not interested,” Constance finished for her. “Still, he looks at you with hot longing, lady, for all that you are untouchable to him. ’Tis not just me who has noted it.”

Rose laughed nervously. “I think you are wandering in your wits.”

“And I think you are lonely, my lady. Twenty-five years old and so fair.” She clucked her tongue. “Lord Radulf should find you another husband, a proper one this time, a lusty one. ’Twas his headstrong wife stopped him. I warrant I know who wields the sword in that household!”

“Constance, hush! What are you saying? I do not want another husband. What if he should beat me? Or you?” she added, hiding a smile.

What if I should fall in love with him?

The smile trembled and died, and

Rose wrapped her cloak more closely about herself, as if she really were cold.

“I doubt it would come to that,” the old woman replied mildly.