The Rose and the Shield (Medieval 2)

He narrowed his blue eyes. Did she imagine the watchful look that crept into them? “Wait,” he said harshly and, jerking his head at a boy who had been shoveling straw, waited until he had gone. “Now, lady, what is this bad news?”

“Miles de Vessey is coming to oversee the trial of Harold the miller. To see that justice is done,” she added bitterly. “Arno told me that he has told Miles that if Lord Fitzmorton is not represented I will set Harold free.”

Gunnar moved closer, reaching out. Rose stepped back, away from him, knowing if he touched her she would not be able to say what needed to be said.

“And I was going to set him free, of course I was! I do not think he is guilty. I even sent word to Lord Radulf, with Steven. I asked Brother Mark to write a message for me, and now Arno tells me that Brother Mark did not write it—instead Arno sent his own message to Miles. And they have hidden Steven away somewhere, taken him prisoner! They mean to take Somerford for Fitzmorton between them!”

Gunnar stiffened, as if her words startled him in some way, but his steady gaze did not leave her face. She sensed movement behind all that cold calm, a shiver in the surface, as though something powerful were happening beneath.

Doubt grew inside her, but she held it back, denying it.

“Now Arno tells me that this is all my fault, because I would not let him subdue me. My fault!” Tears stung her eyes, but she wouldn’t let them fall. “Captain Olafson…Gunnar, I ask you now, remembering the promise that you gave to obey me. I ask you to prevent this terrible thing from occurring. Save Somerford from Fitzmorton, for he is behind all this, I know it! Save my people from Miles de Vessey and Arno. Save me.”

This time he clasped her shoulders, his big hands warm and firm. The dust motes danced about his copper hair. “Trust me, Rose,” he said, his soft urgency slicing through her agitation. “I will do what I must.”

It was not what she had hoped he would say.

Rose tried to read the answer she wanted in his eyes, but they were hot with the same need that had been in them last night, confusing her. He bent his head, slanting his mouth to cover hers, and her resistance melted.

With a soft groan she pressed into him, all that hard flesh and muscle. Her warrior, her man. Even in such a moment as this she could give herself completely over to wanting him. Rose knew to her dismay that if he had lifted her now and carried her into one of the stalls she would have gone willingly.

A hard, bitter laugh sounded from the doorway. Arno had followed her after all. Rose felt Gunnar still, and then he pulled back from her, giving her space. His eyes were fixed on hers.

“I knew it. You are the same as all the rest of them, Rose. Panting over a handsome face,” Arno sneered, and there was hurt and jealousy in his voice, mingling with the fury. “I hoped you were better than Eartha and the other kitchen sluts, but you are worse. They must rely upon their smiles and their pretty faces, they have no real power. But you can order him to

your bed, and so you have.”

Rose blanched.

“And all along he fooled you,” Arno went on with a sort of perverse satisfaction. “He is Fitzmorton’s man. He is worse than I, because it is whoever pays the most who secures his loyalty. You have given yourself to a soulless monster, Rose.” He turned and cocked his head at Gunnar. “Do I lie, Captain?”

Gunnar’s face had gone grim. He looked at her a moment more, as if he were trying to tell her something with his eyes. Whatever it was she could not read it, felt incapable of reading it. Her mind and body were numb, as if she had suffered a tremendous shock. At any moment she knew it would wear off and the pain would come. Even now it was hurtling toward her like a black wall…

Gunnar offered Arno a shrug. “Aye, you’re right, ’tis payment that seals my loyalty. I am a mercenary, Sir Arno, I do not ply my trade for the love of it.”

Gunnar heard her gasp, as if he had slid his sword beneath her ribs, but he did not look at her. He dared not. He had already seen the expression on her pale face and it would haunt him forever. But he had a part to play if they were to come out of this alive. Aye, he was playing his part, and at the same time he was watching Arno, testing him, judging him…hating him.

Arno nodded as if the answer was what he had expected. “Sir Miles does not trust you, Captain. He has said so to me and his master. Lord Fitzmorton has reserved his judgment—he will trust you until he sees no more use in you. But I believe Miles is wrong. You see, I can read you, Gunnar Olafson. You are a simple man, and you are no longer young. Time has worked on you. There is a point when a man wants to stop fighting and settle. Is that not so?”

Gunnar wondered if his genuine shock was clear on his face.

“’Tis the land you want,” Arno went on, enjoying himself. His eyes slid to Rose, soaking up her pain as if it gave him great satisfaction. “He, too, wants Somerford, lady,” he explained in a gleeful voice. “Isn’t that so, Captain?”

His throat felt dry but he knew what he had to do. If she was to survive, then so must he, and with Miles only a short ride from the gates, Arno must believe him to be as evil as the rest of them. He made himself cold, killed all feeling. Gunnar turned and let his eyes run over her, much as Miles had done when he came upon them at the Mere’s edge. Her beautiful face colorless with betrayal, her dark eyes wide and teary, her stubborn chin held tight to stop the trembling of her mouth. The madder-red gown, the same one she had worn when he first saw her, clung to body, and even now he wanted her.

Would she remember his words? Trust me, Rose. I will do what I must.

Gunnar looked at Rose and deliberately destroyed any lingering belief in him she might have had. And felt as if he destroyed himself at the same time.

“Aye, I want the land,” he agreed. “I am tired of this roving life. ’Tis time I settled, took a woman, and stayed in one place long enough to see her swell with my seed. Somerford is as good a place as any, and I have already plowed the lady.”

“Oh very good, Gunnar, very good. I will enjoy watching you die when Lord Fitzmorton no longer needs you.”

The hatred in Arno’s voice was a palpable thing, but Gunnar did not hear it. Rose had tears on her cheeks, and they burned him. She had forgotten trust, if she had ever felt it for him. She truly believed he meant what he said—Gunnar cursed his ability to lie so well.

But he could not let his emotion show through the cold, hard shell he had drawn about himself. Arno was looking between them, his jealousy feeding on Rose’s misery and Gunnar’s brutishness. Well, let him! There would be time for Arno later, and Gunnar would relish his vengeance.

“No one will leave Somerford until Miles de Vessey is come,” Arno said now, his voice gaining an authority that had been missing for a time but was now back tenfold. “Follow my orders, Captain, if you want to stay alive.”