The Rose and the Shield (Medieval 2)

He said nothing to that. His face was cold and closed, the line of his mouth straight and grim. He looked as if he had been carved from rock. Her words had struck home, then—good! Rose told herself she was very pleased. Perhaps he would finally realize how pointless it was to try and excuse himself to her—if that was what he was doing. She would never forgive him, never trust him, ever again. Aye, she was very pleased indeed…

Rose sank down further in the boat, and drearily watched as the island drew nearer.

Gunnar wondered what she was thinking, and then told himself he did not care. He would not care. Why did he need to regain her trust anyway? Believing in himself had always been enough before. Why did he need her to believe in him, too? It was childish, and Gunnar had never been that. He was a man, and a natural leader. She was right, there was blood on his hands, but in that he was no different from all the other fighting men in King William’s England. She had said it to diminish him, set him on a level lower than her own.

It had worked.

He had felt diminished, for a brief time. Until he reminded himself that women were nothing more than a diversion from life’s more serious pursuits. They gave his body release, nothing more.

Why should he care if Rose was hurt and embittered by what he had done?

Because her pain affected him.

It was as if she were sunlight, and she touched everything in his life. Without her, he knew his world would slip back into perpetual shadow.

Aye, well, you’d best get used to the darkness, for she does not want you and will never forgive you!

Gunnar was not vain, but neither could he play at false modesty and pretend women weren’t attracted to him. He had never found himself in a situation where the woman he wanted didn’t want him.

Until now.

By Odin, why did he have to choose the one woman who denied him!

“Gunnar.”

Rose’s soft voice saying his name brought him back with a jolt. He followed her gaze. They were much closer to the island now, and it looked as if they had a welcome. A dozen or more merefolk stood down upon the shore, some with weapons in hand, awaiting their arrival.

“When we touch land stay in the boat,” Gunnar said calmly. “Do not be afraid. I can protect you.”

“I am not afraid,” she retorted, but her dark eyes were enormous. She was playing a part because she did not want to appear weak before him. He could understand that, he even admired her for it…as long as she did exactly as he told her.

The merefolk were small and wiry in stature, their hair very dark and their skin tanned and lined by the hard life they led on the island. These were the remnants of the old peoples, the Britons and the Celts, who had been driven into these marshes long ago by the arrival of the land hungry Angles and Saxons. The men carried spears, longbows and arrows, and the occasional sword. Nothing as well wrought as Fenrir—Gunnar knew he could kill half of them before they brought him down, and the rest after that.

A cluster of women and children were huddled farther up the gentle slope, on top of which stood rows of turf and sod huts. Smoke rose low over the flat rooftops, wafting down to the shore, and with it came the smell of food cooking.

Their boat bumped into the thin strip of reeds on the bank. Gunnar stepped out, giving a brief glance to Rose. “Stay there until I tell you so,” he commanded. He did not wait for her answer—as with his men, he expected her unquestioning obedience—but turned to the merefolk. His stance was easy and relaxed, legs apart, one hand resting on his sword hilt and the other loosely at his side. They were not to know, but it was his battle stance.

“We are from Somerford Manor,” he said in English.

Their faces didn’t change. Apart from the differences of situation and lifestyle, they were just as unfriendly and suspicious as the villagers of Somerford. Gunnar could not blame them for being distrustful, but he hoped that—unlike Rose—he would be able to persuade them to believe differently.

“This is Lady Rose.” He nodded toward the boat. “Somerford was her manor, but now her lands have been stolen.”

An older-looking man stepped forward. His dark eyes were mere slits through skin folded with wrinkles, his gray hair was long and straggly, and he had a strong presence despite his stooped shoulders. “Who has stolen her land? Is it the King’s Sword? I had thought he claimed the land in the first place.”

His English was strangely accented, but Gunnar, who had traveled far, had no trouble understanding it. “No, not Radulf, ’tis Fitzmorton who has stolen Somerford.”

No one said a word, and yet it was as if a breeze had rippled through them. The elder alone spoke. “Lately Fitzmorton’s men have come into our Mere and eaten our fish and frightened our people,” he said. “They stayed on some of the uninhabited islands, and then spread tales about us that are not true.” The black eyes watched him expectantly, full of wily cunning.

Gunnar wondered what was expected of him. Disbelieving laughter? That was probably what Arno would have done; Gunnar knew better.

“There have been attacks made on Somerford village, and although your people have been blamed we know it was Fitzmorton’s doing.”

He smiled, and again Gunnar had the sensation of a silent wind stirring the group.

“What is he saying? His English is strange.”

Gunnar came close to jumping with surprise. Her voice was right behind him, which meant that she was right behind him. He felt her hand press into his back, the touch of it impossibly cool.