The Rose and the Shield (Medieval 2)

“Gunnar Olafson?”

Gunnar lifted his head and met the eyes of the boy crouched beside him. Barely old enough to grow a beard, thought Gunnar with a sigh, and yet brave enough to come with him and fight the Normans.

“Come,” the boy said urgently, beckoning at him.

Gunnar climbed to his feet, careful not to disturb Rose. She lay in a heap, only the top of her head showing from beneath the cloak. The boy led him to a vantage point upon a rocky outcrop to one side of the knoll. From there they could see the Levels spread out before them in the early morning light.

Fitzmorton’s men had fanned out, a dozen of them, some on foot and some in boats.

This was it, then. The fight he had been anticipating. A low hum of excitement started up inside him, and he rested his hand on Fenrir’s hilt. Soon, my friend, he thought. Soon.

And by God and Odin, Miles would be sorry then that he had crossed Gunnar Olafson and the woman he loved.

“Rose?”

She blinked and looked up at him, smiling before she remembered herself. The smile became tentative, then faded altogether before his stern demeanor. She turned away from him and carefully eased her stiff and aching body from the hard ground, biting her lip so as not to groan aloud.

Who would have thought that she would miss her bed so much?

“Are you hungry?” he was asking her calmly, as if this were just another day. “There is salt fish and some bread and goat’s cheese. We have to move quickly, Rose. Miles’s men are out searching for us.”

Rose was trying to imagine salt fish on a stomach already queasy with nerves and weariness, but his last words brought her up sharply and the fish was forgotten.

“We have made a plan, Rose. Tonight you will sleep at Somerford, that I promise you.”

She tried to read him, but other than the fact that he believed what he said, she could see nothing. Last night, after her bad dream, she had been weak and foolish, and had told him about her father and mother. What had she hoped for? Sympathy? A pat on the head and a never-mind?

She wished now she had said nothing. Obviously it meant nothing to him, and why should it? He had pledged himself to her, but he did not love her. My heart is my own to give. Rose could understand why a man who must sell his sword for coin would want to keep his heart safe. Why he would need one thing at least to call his own.

Then why was there a wistful longing inside her, that somehow she could steal or beg or borrow his heart from him? If he loved her enough, would he stay by her always? Would he be Radulf to her Lily?

Rose tried to imagine a life where a man loved her like that. Despite her faults, or because of them. It made her dizzy, as if she had drunk too much strong mead.

Gunnar was watching her, waiting.

Miles’s men were coming and they had no time for foolishness.

She knew then that he did not want a weak and feeble woman. He wanted strength and authority. She must be the lady of the manor again. For him, just for him.

“Thank you, Gunnar,?

? she said at last, and lifted her chin proudly. “Now tell me what I must do.”

Their narrow boat slid out into the open stretch of water, within clear sight of the searching Normans. There was a shout, but Gunnar was already turning the boat, with Rose clinging to the bow, back the way they had come. She turned to look, her eyes wide and dark and gleaming with excitement.

“They are very slow,” she said, and a smile tugged at her mouth. “Ah, now they are in their boats, now they are following.”

Gunnar paddled harder, edging between the tall reeds, ignoring the angry squawk as a bird crashed out of its shelter and took flight, the beating wings all but brushing his shoulder. He looked grim, determined—the man he had been the day he came to Somerford.

Behind them Fitzmorton’s men huffed and puffed, paddling with more splash than finesse. Their loud and angry voices floated over the water. She looked again. Miles de Vessey was not there—of course not, he would not come on such a mission, he would send his henchmen to hunt his enemies down through the mud and water. Then, when they were tied and bound securely before him, he would finish them off.

“They are closing, Gunnar,” she said anxiously.

“We are almost there.” His chest was heaving with the effort of keeping up speed, one man against a dozen.

Burrow Mump flashed by on their left, and then they shot out into the wide, reed-fringed pond they had decided on for their trap. Gunnar speared the boat into a tall screen of reeds just as Fitzmorton’s men entered the smooth water behind them. They were still paddling furiously in pursuit, and were more than halfway across the pool before they realized their error.

The mere men stood up, above the reeds, spears raised, arrows aimed. Cursing, Fitzmorton’s men attempted to turn their boats, desperately trying to find a way through. There was none. They were covered on all sides, and were at a disadvantage, being in their fragile boats in the middle of a deep pool. To their credit, when they realized it, they still raised their own weapons, preparing to fight it out.