The Rose and the Shield (Medieval 2)

She looked at him with angry eyes. “Why do I find it so hard to believe you when you say that?”

Aye, she was angry! And the feeling was growing nicely as she fed it with images of his perfidy. He was like Arno, only worse. Even Edric, kind gentle Edric, had lied to her. He had promised Somerford to Arno and then perjured himself in Rose’s favor. What had he thought would happen? Rose supposed he had expected her to wed again, to someone strong enough to hold tight to her manor. He would have believed her too timid to stand alone.

But she had. She had kept Somerford safe…until now. Now, when Gunnar, who should have been the answer to her prayers, had instead become her nightmare.

He had betrayed her. Like all men, he was not to be trusted and certainly never, ever to be loved.

Love no man, for he will surely destroy you if you do.

And now what would become of her? Even if she could reach Radulf and save Somerford, her own life stretched before her, an exile at the whim of others.

Rose felt her lip tremble and turned her face away, staring in the direction of distant Burrow Mump, so that he could not see. She had dreamed again last night, dreamed of the ghostly warrior on his gray horse. This time as he lifted her onto his lap, he had bent and kissed her. And his mouth had been Gunnar’s mouth.

He had even taken her dream now, stolen even that small solace.

“I am a mercenary.” His voice sounded as usual, calm and controlled. But there was something more in it—a trace of urgency—that made her listen despite keeping her gaze fixed in the opposite direction.

“A mercenary has no land, Rose. He fights and is paid for it. I fight well—I am strong and well taught. I have my own band of loyal men who follow me. They trust me, and I do what I can to ease their lives.”

“Except that you killed one of them, although you tell me that was pretense. Am I to believe every word you say?”

He shot her a sideways glance, but otherwise pretended he had not heard her. “Being a mercenary is what I do best, but no mercenary can live forever. I see my death, Rose, and it does not make me happy. One day I will be too slow to see the blade swing down, and that will be my end. Buried by strangers in a strange place.”

She said nothing, but her body quivered with his words as if she, too, could see that final day. And sense the loss of him.

“This past year I have felt the painful need of something more. My own land, my own woman, and the children we can make together. I am tired of this mercenary life. I have much to give, Rose, and I want to give it for those who mean something to me, not some weak-chinned Norman baron, greedy for English land. When Radulf offered me Somerford, it seemed like the answer to my dreams.”

He sounded sincere. If she had not known better, Rose would have believed him, mayhap even sympathized with him. But Rose did know better.

“And it did n

ot occur to you, after Lord Radulf offered you Somerford Manor, that it already belonged to me? And that my people were perfectly happy with that arrangement?”

He hesitated. No doubt wondering whether to lie again, Rose supposed furiously. “The thought of having my own land tempted me. When I first came to Somerford Manor I could see myself biding there, and the people needed protecting—I could protect them. How was I to know whether you were to be trusted? You had sent for mercenaries behind Radulf’s back—or so he said. You appeared to be in league with your knight, plotting against him. At worst, Radulf thought you were tight in Fitzmorton’s hand, scheming with him to steal Crevitch. At best, you were a weak, easily led fool.”

Rose looked down into the water and saw it not at all. Her vision was blurred by tears of rage.

“Arno asked Brother Mark to write the letter,” she said through stiff lips. “I sealed it as he asked, when he told me what was in it. He lied about that, and then he must have sent the letter to Lord Fitzmorton. I suppose that makes me the ‘easily led fool.’”

“Rose…”

“No! Go on, tell me the remainder. I’d like to hear more of your fairy tales.”

His voice became even more matter-of-fact, as if he had set himself a task and meant to see it through. “One of Radulf’s men intercepted the letter. It bore your seal. He sent for me, and I went to Fitzmorton and made myself known—Miles was in the north then, or it never would have worked. When the letter arrived, I was given the job. I did not know what the plot consisted of at first, or even if there was a plot. But soon I understood it was Arno’s idea entirely, and that you were innocent.”

“And all this you kept to yourself and lied.” Rose wondered how she could sound so calm—she felt hot and cold with her anger.

“I am telling the truth now.”

She looked around sharply at that, hearing the smile in his voice. Jesu, he was smiling! A wry smile of self-mockery. Her anger turned icy, the extent of his betrayal growing larger with each remembered hurt. He had lied and lied again, he had taken her body and made her want him, he had let her begin to believe that she could trust him.

He had even promised to obey her—what were Gunnar Olafson’s promises worth?

They were like water, trickling through her fingers.

Rose lifted her chin and took a breath. She was going to hurt him. Just as he had hurt her.

“My people do not need a man like you. You are worse than Miles de Vessey—at least he fights for what he believes in, whether that be good or bad. You fight for coin, and now you tell me you would steal my land on a whim. I can smell the blood on your hands, Captain. Honor? You do not even know what it is! Whatever becomes of me now, I will make it my life’s ambition to stop you from becoming Somerford’s lord.”