The Rose and the Shield (Medieval 2)

With the burden of her father removed from her, Millisent was free to think of other things. And, oddly, she had found her thoughts centering on the mercenary, Alfred. Before, blinded by her fear and her grief, she had not thought to question his constant presence, or his kindness and support when she most needed both. Now she wondered, and was a little embarrassed to recall how she had wept on his shoulder and clung to him that night in the bailey, when her father had been captured.

Alfred’s face was scarred. It had been burned when the Normans killed his family, so the one called Ivo had told her. Previously Millisent had been so caught up in her own concerns she had not noticed it—well, except in a vague sort of way. But now she looked at him more carefully, and was…surprised. Not frightened, and not repelled, no, not that. Just a little surprised that she had not noticed before.

Some of the other women shuddered and said the sight of him made them queasy. Millisent did not find that. She thought he must have been handsome once—the other side of his face was nice to look at. And even the scarred side wasn’t so bad, when you were used to it. Besides, it was his eyes she looked into most of the time, and they were brown, their expression sympathetic.

It was his eyes she remembered when she lay in her narrow bed, tucked away in the curtained space that belonged to Eartha and her young son, and now must also accommodate Millisent and Will. His eyes, and his arms so firm and comforting about her as she had wept. For a man who had suffered much, he was generous in the giving of himself to others.

Millisent had learned it was not always so. Some men grew harder, crueler, as if their suffering had eaten away what kindness once existed in them. Alfred was not like that. He watched over her—or had done until recently—and if she or Will needed him, then he was there. Except that Millisent had not really appreciated how much she had come to rely on him, until now.

And that was her current dilemma. Now that she had finally noticed Alfred’s interest in her, he had withdrawn it.

Did he think she didn’t need him anymore? Or had he become bored with her self-pity? She wanted to thank him, to express her earnest appreciation, but she felt suddenly too timid to approach him. A mercenary, a man who had traveled and seen much, would find tedious a girl who had never stepped outside Somerford Manor in all her life. He probably had a wife somewhere else.

Millisent was surprised how much that thought upset her.

The group of mercenaries were making loud conversation, absorbed in their game. Their captain had left abruptly after old Edward had come to speak with him, and they were awaiting his return. The messenger with the wary eyes, Steven, had gone back to Crevitch. He had given Millisent more than one passing look, but she had not returned them. He was just a boy—Alfred, he was a man.

“Sweyn has won again!” Ivo bellowed it out as if he couldn’t believe it. He glanced at Alfred in disgust. “Keep your money safe in your belt, Alfred, if you wish to keep it. The Dane has the devil’s luck.”

Blond, handsome Sweyn grinned and ignored him, warming the dice in his hand before throwing them again. A terrible groan went up from Reynard, his luckless opponent.

Alfred smiled and glanced over his shoulder, to where Millisent sat. She was watching him, but she looked away again quickly. That was the second time she had done that, as if she didn’t want him to know she was looking. But now there was a flush in her cheeks and her movements seemed too studied to be natural.

Apart from the faint color, she looked pale with the strain of the past days. Fragile. An unexpected tenderness filled him. Was he losing his mind to feel this way, and to allow it to take hold of him like this? She was a pretty girl, aye, but it was more than that. There was something about her that made him want to watch over her, protect her…love her. Idiotic, when he thought about it.

What would Millisent, the pretty daughter of a prosperous miller, want with an English mercenary without a face? And why was she staring at him? A wave of misery darkened his mood.

Of course, his face.

Few women had ever been able to look at him without commenting upon it, and then either shrinking away from him in horror or else draping themselves over him in sickly sympathy. He didn’t want pity. He wanted to be treated just like anyone else. The Normans might have marked him—he could survive that—but it was the pity of so-called friends that threatened to destroy him utterly.

He remembered, the night of the village fire, Lady Rose had treated him as if she had not even noticed there was anything wrong with him. She had not spoken to him as if he were simple, just because his face was marked. She had appreciated his help and told him so, and even laughed when he told her a humorous tale from his boyhood. ’Twas no wonder Gunnar Olafson couldn’t keep his eyes off her…

Millisent was staring again, her amber eyes big in her small face, her unruly chestnut hair fanning out in wisps about her head. This time she didn’t turn away immediately, and…Alfred blinked. She was smiling. A shy glance upwards and with it a very definite smile.

Bemused, Alfred murmured some excuse to his companions and stumbled over to her on legs that didn’t feel as if they belonged to him.

She was sewing again, but from the trembling of her hands he didn’t think she would get very far with it. Did he frighten her?

The dark misery washed over him again. Aye, probably he did frighten her. He should walk right past her, forget her, pretend she had not stirred something in him that had been deep-buried ever since the Normans came and took away everything that mattered to him. He had never thought to make a life of his own—his life had seemed over, but now he found himself thinking of beginning something new, something fresh.

There it was! That smile again, a little uncertain now, beckoning him closer, like a rush-dip in a dark cellar. Alfred stood a yard or so from her, hesitating. She was stitching furiously now, and just as he had decided he was mistaken again, and half turned to go, she gasped and dropped the needle. A bead of scarlet blood was bright against her fingertip, and as she stared down in dismay a droplet fell onto the clean linen and soaked in.

Millisent lifted wide eyes to him. “It will stain,” she whispered, sounding as if she had just committed a crime every bit as heinous as her father’s.

Alfred tried not to smile, but she must have seen the laughter glint in his eyes, because she frowned and turned her face away. Suddenly he was beside her, without remembering closing the distance. He squatted down by the stool where she sat, and reached out to take her wounded hand in his.

Millisent stiffened, her face still hidden, but she did not try to snatch her hand back. Alfred thought that was a good sign. Slowly, carefully watching for any hint that he might repulse her, Alfred lifted her finger and touched it gently to his tongue.

The blood was salty.

Her hand trembled, and then abruptly relaxed into his. She turned to gaze at him, her lips parting, soft color staining her pale face.

Emboldened, Alfred drew her fingertip into his mouth, sucking gently. Her eyes grew wider, and they were full of wonder. And that was when he knew. She did not mind his ruined face, when she looked at him she did not see the scars as something apart from him. She saw him, and she liked what she saw.

Alfred held the hurt finger in his, examin

ing it closely. The bleeding had stopped, not that it had ever been very great. He was almost sorry—he had enjoyed the feel of her in his mouth.