“You are not Edric.”
“Well then! Send an order to have my mare saddled. I will set out immediately.” Her voice was firm and authorative—her lady-of-the-manor voice.
Constance knew better than to argue with her when she was in this autocratic mood. But she didn’t have to like it.
“Aye, my lady-stubborn,” the old woman muttered, and stomped off unwillingly to do her bidding.
Rose settled her veil firmly on her hair, straightening the metal circlet that held it in place. She was looking forward to escaping the confines of the keep. Of course, her work was important, but what was the point of making candles and sorting through their limited stock of food when a man’s life rested in her hands? Harold the miller was locked up for killing a man, and if she did not find a way to save him, he would be hanged.
How could Gunnar Olafson care about a man he did not know? And Arno would not show sympathy for an Englishman accused of murdering a Norman. Who else was there to do it but Rose? She wanted to see the setting of Harold’s crime with her own eyes.
Aye, thought Rose smugly, she would cast her eye over the scene, and offer her people what consol
ation she could on the destruction of their village, and be back in the keep by midday.
It was not that simple.
Arno was horrified by the very idea. “My lady, you cannot go to the village! You will be placing yourself in danger.”
Rose stood her ground. “I have made up my mind, Sir Arno. I will ride this morning.”
He narrowed his eyes at her, but Arno, like Constance, had learned when she could be turned from her course and when she could not. “Very well, lady,” he said through thinned lips. “But I will accompany you.”
Rose opened her mouth.
“Whether you wish it or not!”
Rose sighed and managed a resigned smile. “Then I wish it, Sir Arno, and thank you.”
They set out, clattering across the bridge. Rose lifted her face to the sun and wished her journey was one of pleasure. It seemed a very long time since she had done anything for pleasure. Beside her, Arno was looking from side to side, his hand firm on the hilt of his sword, obviously ready to do battle for her if the need arose. Here was loyalty, whatever Constance might say and think.
Rose recalled the scene at Edric’s deathbed a year past. Edric had been determined to speak to Arno, no matter his own weakness. When Arno had come to his bedside, Edric had grasped his hand, pulling him nearer as his eyesight failed. The old man had seemed shrunken with illness, diminished, yet oddly determined.
In contrast, Arno had appeared reluctant, uneasy, as if he would rather have been anywhere other than by Edric’s deathbed.
“Swear your allegiance to my wife, Sir Arno,” Edric had croaked insistently. And, when Arno was still hesitant, perhaps unbelieving that Edric was really dying: “On your knees, sir, and swear!”
Arno had dropped down immediately, and his voice had shaken with emotion as he had sworn his allegiance to Rose. When it was done, Edric had fallen back, satisfied, and slept. He had never awakened.
Remembering the moment now, Rose was certain Arno would never betray her. He might have his faults, but he was loyal. Rose refused to believe otherwise.
The burned village was a grim place beneath the blue summer sky. Rose rode slowly through stark reminders of the tragedy. Despite their predicament, her people gave her a ragged cheer, followed by respectful bows or curtsies. So much lost, she thought hollowly.
“What will we do, Sir Arno?” She spoke without really expecting an answer. “How will we rebuild all this before the harvest is due to be brought in?”
“It is time to look to your friends for help, lady,” he said soberly, an unfamiliar gleam in his eye.
“I don’t know if I would call Lord Radulf my friend,” she replied slowly. “Lady Lily has always been my patron, but she is unwell, Sir Arno, and I cannot turn to her. And you know I don’t want Lord Radulf to believe I am weak. He will take Somerford from me.”
Arno pulled a face, his fingers clenching and unclenching his reins in an oddly nervous manner. “Maybe there are others who would listen more favorably to your cry for help, Rose. Lord Radulf is not the only powerful man here in the southwest of England.”
Surprised, Rose turned in her saddle to face him. “Arno? Are you counseling me to treason?” She managed a shaken laugh. “You are jesting me! We will manage somehow.”
Arno looked away from her searching gaze, his hands suddenly still, and then, as if coming to a decision, nodded to himself. “Lady, you and I have been together much this past year, since Edric died. I have been patient. But now, I want you to consider—”
A commotion at the farther end of the village brought Rose’s head around, and she stopped listening. A big man on a gray horse was galloping swiftly toward them. Rose felt her surroundings tilt momentarily as her dream world and the real world collided, and then she tightened her grip on herself.
Beside her, Arno swore under his breath. “’Tis our brave mercenary captain,” he said, with such bitterness that Rose recoiled.