The Rose and the Shield (Medieval 2)

He was dressed.

He turned to face her, and now he was again that calm, distant man she had grown to know…and God help her, to trust.

“Sleep, lady,” he said. “’Tis early yet, and you are weary.”

Before she could answer he strode to the door, lifting the bar and opening it a crack to look out. Evidently there was no one about, for he slipped quietly through and closed it behind him without a backward glance. There was silence, but a silence more complete than any Rose had ever experienced.

He was gone.

Rose closed her eyes, stubbornly vowing not to think of him. Today she must write a message to give to Steven, a call for help to Lord Radulf. She must sign over her own fate for the good of her people and Harold’s life. Today she must put aside her own happiness for the sake of others.

But at least, Rose told herself, she had had last night. The wild pleasure that Gunnar had given her in the hot darkness was more than she could ever have imagined. It would live with her forever, no matter what became of her. A talisman against the frightening days ahead.

And then she gave a bitter laugh, for despite her vow she had thought of him after all.

“I saw them over there, Captain. Three full days before the village was burned. Half a dozen men, maybe more. I didn’t think to mention it until now…there was so much talk of merefolk, and these men weren’t.”

Edward pointed with a steady finger, his stumpy legs planted on the firm ground at the Mere’s edge. Gunnar narrowed his eyes. Water and mud and islands, nothing more. If the men Edward had said he saw came from out there then they were long gone.

“What were these men doing, Edward?”

The old man answered readily enough. “They met with someone, Captain. They all stood about a moment and argued and waved their arms, and then the men got back in their boats and paddled away. The someone they met with walked off toward the keep.”

“And you did not recognize who this was?”

“Whoever it was was cloaked from head to toe, Captain, but ’twasn’t a big figure. Shortish for a man, or…mayhap even a woman.”

Rose.

The name came to him instantly, and all his old mistrust rose up. At the same time pain curled deep in his belly, as if he had eaten something rotten. Could Rose have been meeting with these men, plotting with them to burn down her own village?

“I’m near enough to certain the men with the boats weren’t merefolk,” said Edward.

“What did they look like?”

“It was dark.” Edward was cautious.

Gunnar turned and fixed his calm gaze on the old man. “Were they Normans?”

Edward was no match for Gunnar Olafson. “They looked like soldiers, sir.”

Probably Lord Fitzmorton’s men, hiding out in the Mere, ready to attack. Rose had met with them, and they had planned the details of the assault, and then she had gone home.

It did not ring true.

Gunnar looked out again, across the watery levels toward one particular island of dark, brooding appearance. He was weary from last night. His body was finally relaxed after days of rigid tension and he wanted nothing more than to sleep, but there was to be no sleep for him yet. He had questions to answer, and Somerford to take care of.

If not Rose, then who could it have been that night? Not Arno—to put himself in a position of possible capture or disclosure was not in his nature. Nay, more like he would send a note. Or a messenger. Would Arno have sent someone in his stead, someone he trusted, who was party to his treason against Somerford and Lord Radulf? Did Arno have such an ally at Somerford Manor?

“Could it have been Brother Mark?” Gunnar asked quietly, and watched Edward’s wrinkled face.

The old man thought hard, and then nodded uncertainly. “Aye, ’tis possible, Captain. Brother Mark be shortish, and he wears a cloak. Aye, mayhap ’twere Brother Mark.”

Gunnar nodded with a sense of satisfaction. Another mystery solved. Arno and Mark were friends, and they were both in the plot with Fitzmorton to take Somerford. Probably Arno had only brought Mark there for that reason—the man was certainly no priest. He bore the scars of battle upon his hands and his knowledge of priestly matters was abysmal. Not that that prevented him from being a priest, for Gunnar had met some poor excuses for priests, but there was something cunning about the man, something base that gave the lie to his claims of piety.

“Thank you, Edward,” Gunnar said at last, and smiled. “You have helped me much and I will not forget it when the time comes.”

Edward glanced up at him sharply, perhaps hearing some note in his voice he did not like. “You do be on the Lady Ro