The Rose and the Shield (Medieval 2)

“Nay! They be too clever for that, lady. Hergat’s dead, the old whip-tongue.” Her eyes stared, unblinking, more surprised than sorrowful.

“I know. I’m sorry to hear it.” Rose leaned closer, ignoring the snuffling of a small spotted piglet confined in a willow basket. “Grandmother, have you lately seen any Normans in the village?”

“Apart from yourself, lady, and Sir Arno? Not I.”

“Did you see Harold the miller last night?”

“I heard his daughter scream,” she said helpfully.

Rose nodded and touched the woman’s bony shoulder. “Rest now. Drink your milk.”

But the old woman hadn’t finished. “He be a fine man, that Captain,” she said, her pale eyes gleaming in a manner quite unbefitting her age and situation—almost lasciviously.

“Is he?” Rose replied, pretending disinterest. To her dismay she felt blood heat her cheeks.

“Oh, aye, lady!” she was assured. “Every woman in this keep would welcome him under her blankets! But maybe ’tis not the same for the nobility…?” The old one bowed her head and coughed, disguising a chuckle.

Rose straightened, well aware of her flaming face and rigid bearing. Thankfully, before she had to think of a reply, one of her servants approached, eyes lowered respectfully. Or mayhap, Rose thought in mortification, she was chuckling, too!

“My lady, we are in sore need of more clothing.”

Relieved at the chance to escape, Rose answered swiftly. “Constance will know what we can spare. I will go and ask her.”

Once again Rose set off in search of the inner quiet she seemed to have lost since Gunnar Olafson came to Somerford. This time she climbed the stairs to the solar, where she knew Constance would be at this hour.

The ancient crone’s insolence had been unbearable! And yet it was not normal for her to be so upset at what was only a bit of risqué joking. Life in the keep was close lived and there were few secrets between its walls. Men and women were attracted to one another, and were rarely coy about it or the subsequent couplings. Why had she not laughed back, made a jest about Gunnar’s handsome looks? Joined in? It was true enough that all the Somerford women were enamored of the mercenary. Why could she not have pretended that she was, too?

Because for her it was no jest.

Slowly she continued up the stairs, wondering once again how she was going to face Gunnar Olafson. Perhaps she could hide herself away in her chamber? she thought feverishly. Pretend she was ill? But her people were depending on her in this time of hardship, and Rose had never been a coward.

Bleakly, she glanced from one of the arrow slits that had been built into the thick wall of the keep. The day beyond looked a fair one, and as expected, Arno’s young recruits were training. The boys, stripped to their waists, thin chests shining with sweat, were practicing with wooden swords and shields. Arno was striding up and down, shouting instructions. By the gate, Edward stood on guard duty in his antiquated helmet and padded vest.

All was as normal; it was almost as if last night had never happened.

If only that were so, thought Rose with a sigh, and continued on her way.

It was near to darkness when the mercenaries finally rode back to Somerford Keep. As the gate was heaved open for them, the cry went up that they had a prisoner, and soon news spread from the bailey to Rose, sewing by the light of one of her own candles. She hurried out to see for herself.

The mercenaries’ horses drew to a tired, clattering halt. The animals were dusty, their coats flecked with sweat; the mercenaries were not much better. Gunnar Olafson dismounted from his gray stallion, spoke briefly to Ivo, and then turned toward Rose. The dusk gave him an eerie look. With his pale face and dark eyes, he was a creature of dreams, not flesh and blood at all.

He stopped within two feet of her, so close she could feel him. Just as she had when he came upon her last night.

His gaze was like the thrust of a sword, intent and unswerving. Even had she wanted to avoid it, he would not have allowed her to.

At some point during the long day, Rose had finally managed to find peace. She had done it by convincing herself that the feelings she had experienced when he kissed her, looked at her, touched her, were naught but the fantasies of a weary and worried widow. He was very handsome, and such an attraction was to be expected. She had simply allowed her loneliness to turn that attraction into something that didn’t really exist.

Like her dream warrior.

But now, one look from Gunnar and the harsh truth stripped bare every lie she had worked so hard to make herself believe. This was no fantasy, this was real. Rose wanted to close the small distance between them, to lean into him and feel the hard heat of his body against hers. To lift her face and close her eyes, and feel the eager press of his mouth on hers. Her breathing quickened, her skin felt as if it were too tight, her clothing abraded her breasts and thighs.

Pretense was pointless. Whether this feeling was lust or desire or simply bedazzlement, Rose wanted Gunnar Olafson.

Stop it, stop it now!

The voice came to her rescue again. Resolutely, Rose forced her eyes away from the mercenary, and instead turned to the figure that had been lifted down from one of the horses. Harold the miller, his clothing stained and dirty, had his head bowed in despair. He stood as if he were all alone and not at the center of such a noisy crowd. If he was not a guilty man, Rose thought in dismay, then he was certainly giving a good impression of one.

She approached, ignoring the warning murmur from Arno, who was following behind her. “Harold?” She spoke his name quietly, gently.