The Rose and the Shield (Medieval 2)

His mouth twitched as he bowed his head, but she spun around and was gone. Halfway up the stairs to the solar, she became aware of Constance tugging at her sleeve. The old woman was particularly persistent tonight.

“Have done, old woman,” she begged. “What is it now?”

But Constance had no intention of “having done.” “He is a fine man.”

“Who is a fine man?” Rose retorted and kept climbing, hoping to outpace Constance. “Surely you have not followed me to tell me that!”

“The mercenary,” Constance panted. “Captain Olafson. He is a fine man. He will make you a fine lover.”

Rose blinked at her incredulously. “You speak of fine men and lovers at a time like this? He is a mercenary, a soulless creature who would kill for a coin. I have other worries—”

“Maybe, but that does not alter the fact that he is very handsome and you enjoy looking. I saw you just now, lady, and last night. He kissed you and you were not loath to kiss him back.”

“You saw us?” Rose choked, and then slumped against the cold stone of the stairwell. “Of course you did! You would never miss such a thing.”

Constance stopped in front of her, chest heaving, and her expression became sly. “Why do you not take him to your bed, Rose? Have him while he is here? Enjoy him and yourself. He is yours to command, and no one would blame you for commanding him into your bedchamber.”

“You are wanting in your wits, old woman!” Rose cried, but to her horror her voice lacked conviction.

“If you do not take him then another will,” Constance went on blithely.

“Then they are welcome to him.”

“Huh! We shall see how you stare when Eartha is clinging to his arm, rubbing her big chest up against him. You will be cross then, lady, and I will know why. You should take him now. Why not? If you were a man, a lord, you would not hesitate to pick the best bedfellow for yourself. Why should a woman’s lot be any different?”

“Because it is! Now go, Constance, and take your nonsense with you. I cannot listen to any more!”

Constance muttered her way slowly back down the stairs. Rose stared after her, breathing quickly. Harold the miller was to come before her manor court to be charged with the murder of a mystery Norman, and probably, to appease her Norman overlord and her king, she would have to sentence him to be hanged; the village was half destroyed and must be rebuilt before the harvest; the merefolk were on the rampage and might attack again at any time; and now Constance had run mad with lust.

And not even lust for herself, but proxy lust on Rose’s behalf!

Why was it then that a tiny voice at the back of her mind was whispering to her that Constance was right?

What the old woman had said was in part truth. If Rose were a man she would be free to take any woman she desired and no one would say her nay, or even raise an eyebrow. It was accepted that that was the way of things. Gunnar Olafson desired her. She saw it in his eyes. Felt it in his kisses. If she commanded him, it would not be as if she were forcing him to do something he did not wish to do. And God help her but she was in desperate need of a pair of strong, warm arms about her in these troubled times! Perhaps for one night, just one, and then all would return to normal?

“And mayhap I have run mad, too!” Rose gasped, shaking her head, and turning wearily to climb the remaining stairs.

The solar was warm and she was past tired. Swiftly Rose undressed and climbed into her bed, drawing the curtains to shield her from drafts and—she hoped—bad dreams. In another moment she was asleep.

The dream started as usual, with her approach on foot to Burrow Mump and then the warriors springing forth from the earth. Only this time, as she turned to run, she realized that one of the horses was known to her. A gray stallion, fine and strong. With a cry she tried to lengthen her strides, her heart pounding, but it was already too late. A muscular arm folded about her waist and lifted her up. Hard flesh, surrounding her, safe and yet very dangerous.

“Mine.” His whisper brushed her cheek, warm and scented with cloves.

Chapter 8

Rose awoke, bleary-eyed, to begin her day. As she dressed and allowed Constance to brush the tangles from her hair, she listed in her mind the many duties she had to perform. It was something she did every morning, and yet today, with every task she listed, her spirits sank a little lower. She glanced toward the shuttered window, where the sun was leaking through the gaps. It seemed to beckon to her.

“Where are the mercenaries, Constance?”

The old woman didn’t pause. “They have ridden out, lady. I know not where.”

So Gunnar Olafson was hunting again.

“I shall go to the village this morning,” Rose announced, and braced herself.

As expected, Constance began to splutter like an overfull pot. “But lady, it is not safe! You cannot go into danger!”

“I am not going ‘into danger.’ I want to see the damage that has been done in my village. If I were Edric you would not be making feeble excuses to prevent me from going.”