The Rose and the Shield (Medieval 2)

“But you are Brother Mark,” he said. “You are wearing his cloak. Keep your head down and walk as he does, and no one will ask you to stop. Why should they? Lady Rose is in her chamber with a guard at the door.”

Brother Mark! That explained the cloak—no wonder the smell had been familiar. “And if the real Brother Mark should come?”

“He won’t.” Gunnar’s voice didn’t change, but there was a coldness in it.

Rose opened her mouth to ask about Brother Mark, and then changed her mind. She didn’t want to know after all, she thought, hugging her arms about herself.

Gunnar stared down at her another moment, and then, seemingly satisfied that she would do as he had told her, he stepped away. But at the last moment she caught his arm.

“What of you?”

she whispered anxiously.

Something like triumph flared in his eyes, and Rose could have cut out her tongue. He thought she was concerned for his welfare! Worried for him! Even if that were so—which it was not—she would never have let him know it.

“If you are killed I will soon be recaptured,” she explained in a furious murmur. “So, Captain, answer me now. What of you?”

He smiled, that familiar tug at the corners of his mouth. “We need a horse,” he said patiently, and with that he was gone.

Chapter 16

She was alone.

Rose huddled back against the wall. The lack of his warm arm about her, his large comforting presence, left her empty. Jesu, what now? A sense of aloneness swept over her, and she realized with a sudden, deep sadness that she had always been alone. Her position and her past made it so.

Did it always have to be? There had been a moment, when Gunnar had held her in his arms. When Rose had almost believed she might have found someone who would stand by her. More than a dream, a real flesh-and-blood man.

She had learned her mistake, and it hurt.

Stop it, stop it at once! This is no time for self-pity, Rose!

The familiar scolding voice in her head was almost a relief. This was no time to lose what composure she had left. If there was ever a time for Rose to be the lady of her manor, it was now. She took a deep breath, and then another. Her body stopped shaking and her head cleared. After a moment she was able to lean forward and peep carefully around the corner of the garden wall.

Gunnar was walking across the bailey. The flaring torches turned his copper hair to gold and glowed on his tan tunic and black breeches. He moved as if he had all the time in the world, and nothing concerned him. How could he appear so? Rose asked herself. Why was he not as weak and terrified as any normal person would be in such a situation? Despite all that had happened, Rose could not help but feel admiration for him.

“Olafson!” Arno had seen him approaching. “Where in the devil’s name have you been? What have you been doing?”

“There was a woman.” Gunnar shrugged, and a smile warmed his voice. “As for what we were doing…”

“I thought you were too honorable for such things,” Arno sneered.

“I am tired of being honorable.” The humor vanished. “You were right when you said I am getting old and tired, Arno. ’Tis time to try my hand at corruption.”

“Captain!” Ivo came running toward him out of the shadows.

Gunnar turned to face him—he appeared to brace himself. “What is it, Ivo?”

“They are taking the manor. We must stop—”

He got no further. Gunnar drew his sword from its sheath and took one step forward, burying the blade deep in Ivo’s side.

Rose felt her nails break on the stone wall, and yet there was no pain. Only a sort of light-headedness, as if she were watching a play. She could not seem to look away. As she watched, Ivo’s legs buckled and Gunnar caught him in his arms, as if he were embracing him, and then he simply let him fall. A dark stain spread and grew on Ivo’s white linen shirt. The big man gave a shudder and lay still.

Arno was staring at Gunnar as if he doubted his own eyes. He sidled uneasily around him as if he might bite, and dropped to his knees by Ivo’s side.

“He breathes,” he said, his voice devoid of expression, but in the torchlight his face was pale. “Just. You have sliced him through, Olafson. No one can live long after that.”

Gunnar glanced down at his former friend impatiently. “He wanted to fight Miles de Vessey—they are not the best of friends. I thought it best if I put him out of the way.” He caught the eye of Reynard, who was lounging nearby, as if he saw Gunnar kill one of his men every day. “Here, take this man away and find him somewhere to die!”