The Rose and the Shield (Medieval 2)

The miller did not move. Now that Rose was near, she could see that there were scrapes and cuts upon him, one across his cheek where the blood had dried. His boots were sodden and muddy, and his wrists were tied together, the skin raw and bleeding.

Nausea fluttered in her stomach, but she forced herself to be still and restrained and not cry out in her distress. Her voice was curt. “Untie him.”

“Lady—” Ivo began the warning, but it was Gunnar who finished it.

“He may run if we untie him.”

Rose flung him a furious look. “He is hurt. Untie him. I order it.”

“Lady Rose, think what you are doing,” hissed Arno, but again she ignored him, her gaze clashing with that of the mercenary leader.

Gunnar lifted his brows quizzically, as if he questioned her good sense, but came without further argument and, raising Harold the miller’s hands, slid his knife between them. The bindings fell away.

Arno drew his sword. There was an audible gasp from the crowd around them. But Harold did not try to run; he simply stood with his hands dangling limply at his sides. Gently, Rose placed her hand upon his arm. The cloth of his sleeve was cold and damp.

“Harold? You must tell us what happened.”

He looked up at her then, his eyes huge in the torchlight, and she saw that his dirty face was streaked clean where the tears had run. His voice was a hoarse whisper she strained to catch. “I did not mean it, my lady. I did not mean to kill him…and yet I am glad I did.”

There was an anguished cry. Rose felt her heart jump violently, and then Millisent brushed past her, running to her father. At the last moment Alfred caught her, holding her firmly as she struggled, his scarred face grim. Millisent pushed at his arms, squirming to be free, but Alfred bent his head, murmuring words too low for anyone else to hear, and after a moment the girl went limp. She hung in his arms as if all life had left her. Alfred did not let her go, instead he tightened his hold, turning her so that her face rested against his shoulder. Millisent lifted one pale hand and clung to his tunic.

“Are you saying you killed the man whose body was found beside your cottage?” Rose asked, keeping her voice steady with an effort.

But Harold wouldn’t answer her, setting his mouth into a thin, stubborn line. Sick fear coiled in Rose’s stomach.

“Harold?” she whispered. “You must talk to me of this. There may be a way around it, if you will give me a reason.”

“There’s no way around it, lady,” he said bleakly, staring down at the ground. “I killed him. He had set the cottage alight and when Millisent ran out screaming, he grabbed her and pulled her to the ground. I stuck him in the leg before he could do more than rip her gown. I didn’t know he was a Norman until he turned and drew his sword on me and shouted some French rubbish. I killed him then and took his sword and threw it into the Mere. We…I thought to burn the body, but God was against me and the fire went out before it could finish its work.”

Pale but resolute, Harold looked up into her eyes. “It was me did it, lady. Me and only me. Millisent did nothing and Will is but a child. I killed the Norman and I will pay for it.”

Millisent began to sob into Alfred’s shoul

der as if her heart was broken.

The girl must have helped her father drag the body into the fire, but what use was there in forcing her to admit it? Harold had protected his daughter; he would do so now.

And by Norman law he would die for it.

Slowly, unable to resist, Rose turned and met Gunnar’s eyes. She had known he would be watching her, had felt it. He looked calm and still—a waveless sea while all about railed the storm. His solid tranquillity soothed her, and when she spoke it was in a surprisingly steady voice.

“Has he said more than this to you, captain?”

“No, lady. We came upon him in the woods. He said nothing to us, only turned and tried to run through a thicket. We caught him and bound him to stop him from hurting himself. He has said far more to you than he did to us.”

“And you found no one else?”

“There were signs of a group of men entering the Mere. We followed their track a little way but they must have had a boat waiting—the water was soon too deep without one. It would seem that we must believe it was the merefolk who burned your village.”

He put his answer in a way that puzzled her, but Rose did not have time now to solve puzzles. She turned again to the miller.

“Why was he burning your cottage? Are you sure he was a Norman? Did you see any of the merefolk with him?”

“A Norman burning a cottage?” Arno retorted indignantly. All this time he had stood near Rose, impatient and struggling to understand while Harold gave his explanation in English, and suspiciously watchful every time she turned to Gunnar. Now he was frowning and keen to take part. “No, lady! ’Tis clear to me that this lout killed the Norman in a rage and then ran off to hide his own guilt.”

“I don’t understand why a Norman would be present at the attack on the village, Sir Arno.” Rose looked at Gunnar as she spoke.

Big and quiet, he stood with his arms folded over his chest, his legs set apart, and his eyes on hers. At the back of her mind she could feel heat and passion, beating. Last night he had held her in his arms, anchoring her to solid ground as she soared and, almost, took flight to the stars.