The Rose and the Shield (Medieval 2)

The island seemed to be getting bigger, which meant they must be getting closer. The solid path had given way to reeds, the land had given way to watery marsh. Gunnar searched along the bank, sloshing through the cold saltwater that reached up to his thighs, but there was no alternative. They would have to cross the pond—a width of about twenty feet—to the island. Maybe they would be lucky and the water would not be too deep.

Rose was watching him, and again he had the odd impression she was reading his mind. Odd, because no woman apart from his mother had ever been able to do that.

“Can you swim, Rose?”

She shook her head. He saw the movement clearly enough, and realized the darkness was lightening. Soon it would be dawn.

“Take off your cloak.”

She cocked her head to the side, uncertain, but he gave her a tired smile meant to reassure her.

“I am going to throw your cloak over onto the island, so that you will have something dry to put on when we get there.”

Slowly she drew open the ties at her throat, slipping the cloak from her shoulders and handing it to him. Gunnar unsheathed his sword, ignoring the way she stiffened at the sight of the dark, deadly blade. He bound the wool about the sword’s hilt and blade as best he could, then he stepped back, hefted the weapon in his hand like a spear, and threw it with all his might. The throw was good, and it reached dry land with plenty to spare. Gunnar turned back to Rose.

“When I am in the water, I want you to put your arms around my neck and hold on to me. I can swim with you upon me. You will be safe.”

She looked as if she would like to dispute that, but whatever words were clamoring behind her lips, she held them back. Gunnar stepped down into the water, sinking up to his chest in reeds. He felt her behind him, and then her arms wound about him, fingers clutching his shoulders, careful not to strangle him with her grip. She was trembling, and he felt the tremors in her body as it pressed to his. Was she cold? Or, more likely, was she afraid of him?

Gunnar waded out into the dark pool, deeper. The surface rippled, blurring the reflection of the stars. He heard her gasp as her feet lost purchase, her arms clung closer. At first she floated behind him, her gown holding the air and rising up about her in the dark water like angels’ wings. And then, as the wool grew soaked, her clothing sank, dragging her down. The weighty pressure on Gunnar grew. He had walked as far as he could across the pond, but in the middle the bottom quickly dropped away, and he had no choice but to swim.

He was a reasonable swimmer—he had learned early. But he did not often swim with another person clinging to his back. The weight of her clothing was drawing them both down, and he struggled to keep his even breathing from turning into gasps. She had linked her hands about his neck, and he felt choked. He reached back with one arm, and tried to shift her further up onto his shoulders, adjusting her weight more comfortably.

“Do not let me go.”

Her voice was a frightened whisper through chattering teeth.

“I won’t let you go,” he said quietly, as calmly as he could. And then his feet touched the muddy bottom, and he was walking, throwing himself forward with every ounce of his great strength, dragging them both through the tall fringe of reeds to the relative safety of the low island.

Rose’s clothing wrapped about her legs, hampering her when she tried to walk. She fell to her knees, bedraggled and exhausted. Gunnar left her a moment, circling the small island, ignoring the tremor in his own legs and the aching weariness in his head.

When was the last time he slept well? First his lust had kept him wakeful, and then he had plundered his strength in the heady joy of Rose’s bed.

As he had thought, the island was small and had little enough to offer them. Except—Gunnar smiled with satisfaction—on the far side and hidden from the distant shore was an obviously manmade structure of close-packed sods and turf. A shelter of sorts. A stunted tree grew over it.

He went back to fetch Rose. She was huddled over his sword, her cloak still twisted around it. As he approached he saw her struggling desperately to lift it, murmuring what could only be curses under her breath.

“Rose?”

He’d startled her. With a gasp, she dropped the weapon back onto the ground and turned to stare at him. In the pearly dawn light her face was near gray with exhaustion. Her gown clung to every curve, molding over full breasts and rounded hips, following the long line of her legs to where her muddy, stockinged toes peeped out beneath the hem. Her hair was like black waterweed, sticking to her white face and arms and back, furthering his impression of a drowned woman.

“If you want to slay me with my own sword,” he informed her gently, “you will have to learn to lift it.” And with a negligence that caused her to clench her jaw in fury or misery, he bent and lifted the sword with one arm, carefully untangling the cloak from the blade. He tossed Rose the dry garment, and slid Fenrir safely back into its scabbard.

“There is a shelter on the far side of the island,” he said. “Go and take off your wet clothing and put on the cloak. You will be able to sleep more comfortably then.”

She gave him a long, cool look—difficult, Gunnar thought with some amusement, when she was shaking and shivering like that. He stared back at her. She was no match for him, and eventually she turned and stalked off in the direction he had indicated, fighting to keep herself upright and her legs from buckling.

Gunnar gave her a few minutes.

When he went to join her, Rose had done as he said. Her wet clothing was tossed on the stunted tree to dry, and she was curled up inside the sod shelter, the dry cloak wrapped tightly about her. Her eyes were closed, but he could see from the way she was still shivering that she wasn’t asleep.

Slowly, Gunnar unlaced his tunic, slipping it over his head, following it with his thin linen shirt. Next he removed his boots and his sword belt—this latter he set close to hand—then his breeches. Naked, he half crawled, half walked into the shelter. Clearly the place had been built for men much smaller than he.

Rose hadn’t opened her eyes, but he knew by the tight look around her mouth that she had been listening to the sounds he made and knew he was undressing. Gunnar smiled to himself. It was flattering, but if she expected him to take her after what they had been through that night, then she was mistaken.

“I am cold, too,” he said matter-of-factly. “It is warmer for two together than one alone.”

She opened one eye and stared at him balefully. He took that as an aye, or near enough to one, and tugging the cloak out from under her, lay down beside her, lifting her head onto his shoulder and wrapping an arm about her waist. Carefully, he spread the cloak over them both, tucking it in about them. It was only just big enough, but the heat of his body was better than any cloak.