The Rose and the Shield (Medieval 2)

Arno was suspicious.

Gunnar widened his eyes in surprise. “Why shouldn’t I follow them?”

“You saved Eartha’s son—there are times when you seem altogether too tender for what you claim.”

“Tender?” he repeated coldly, and his laugh was pure disdain. “If I am tender then Miles is a saint, d’Alan, and we both know that is not the case.” He leaned closer. “Beware your friend de Vessey, he will kill you if he can.”

Arno gave him an unblinking stare.

Gunnar allowed himself a small smile before he walked away, out of the stable and into the bailey. “No one leaves the keep today, Edward!” his shout drifted back to them. “Bar the gate and do not open it until I say you so!”

In the cool shadows of the stable, Arno turned to Rose. She was clinging to the rough wood of one of the stalls, and wondering if she was about to faint. She stared back at him, numb and shaken, and thought he should have felt satisfaction to have hurt her so. But there must have been some trace of his love for her left, for his eyes were not gloating, only pitying. As Rose watched, trembling against the stall, passion rose up in him, the hopeless desire she had scorned all this time, and he seemed helpless to stop it.

“Fear not, Rose,” he said in a gruff voice. “I will not let the mercenary touch you again, him or Miles. You are mine, and soon you will know it!”

She thought then he would come and take her in his arms. The idea of him touching her threatened her stomach. Taking a deep breath, Rose pushed away from the stall. Ignoring him as if he weren’t there, she stumbled outside like one who had drunk too much wine. Reeling a little. Uncertain of her step. Arno watched her go, not stopping her, maybe seeing that she was beyond words.

She had been betrayed. She who had sworn never to be betrayed!

Arno who said he loved her and yet would give her to Fitzmorton. The thought of Fitzmorton was like a dark, deep pit, and she didn’t want to go there.

Gunnar.

Rose clenched her hands and kept walking. She had thought herself so careful, so wary, and all the time he had been using her, laughing at her. She had run to him for help, and he had given her betrayal.

Never again.

“I cannot believe it!”

Constance stood, white-faced, before her lady. Frantic, Rose had dragged her by sheer physical force up to the solar, and there they were now.

“You had best believe it because ’tis truth. They are in league with Lord Fitzmorton, and his…his creature, Miles de Vessey. Miles is on his way here now. He is supposedly coming to hear my judgment on Harold, but really they mean to take Somerford Manor for Fitzmorton. Then it will be between the three of them who will hold my land and me!”

Stubbornly, Constance shook her head at the wild look on her lady’s face, her eyes black pools. “But Gunnar Olafson is a hero, Rose! Remember?”

“He said he belonged to the highest bidder, Constance,” whispered Rose, and tears seeped through her lashes and began to run down her cheeks. “And he said it as if there were nothing wrong in it!”

Constance went even whiter, swaying as if she might faint. Reaching out blindly she clung to Rose, pressing her shaking lady hard against her own body. “Then I curse him,” she said in a high, furious voice. “I curse him, Rose!”

After a time, Rose’s sobs quieted and she straightened, wiping her face, gathering her strength about her once more. Her mind seemed to be stirring again, rising to the occasion, and she began to plot and plan. It did no good to think any more of the man who had held her in his arms and loved her…

Love?

Nay, Gunnar Olafson would not know the meaning of that! It was lust he had felt. Jesu, how could she have been so wrong about him? She had thought him to be one man and all the time he had been another. Rose felt seared and wounded, like her mother. Betrayed beyond healing. Never again, never ever again, would she give a man any sort of power over her. She had been warned since childhood and yet she had forgotten all that. Aye, but now she had learned her lesson well and truly.

“Constance,” she said, calmly enough for a woman whose heart had just been torn into rough

pieces. “Go down to the kitchen and send Eartha to Harold the miller. He must be gotten out of the keep. Tell her to take the keys and set him free—Edward will have them.”

Constance nodded jerkily and turned to the door, but glanced back before she reached it. “You will be all right, lady?”

Rose nodded. “I am all right.” Her delicate features grew hard. “Do not think I am beaten yet, Constance. There are things I can do before Miles comes and I am stopped.”

Constance nodded grimly, and left Rose to her silence. She was soon back, wide-eyed and shaking. “Lady, he is gone! Harold is gone! And so are Millisent and Will! I do not understand it…” She was wringing her hands, all but hopping up and down in her agitation.

Rose caught Constance’s hands, drawing her to a stool and pressing her down. “Constance, they are not—” she began, thinking the worst.

Constance shook her head violently. “No, no, lady, they are not killed! Eartha said that Alfred, the mercenary with the ruined face, came to fetch Millisent and Will a short time ago. And now they are gone. I went to Edward, but he was not on the gate. One of the other mercenaries was there—the Dane. He would tell me nothing, not even when I cursed him. He…he laughed! He said they were safe, but I have looked everywhere I can think of, and I cannot find them.” She was wringing her hands again, and Rose covered them to still her.