The Rose and the Shield (Medieval 2)

I want you. I’m not one of your tame Normans.

No, Gunnar Olafson wasn’t tame, despite his still, calm demeanor. Beneath that unruffled surface was more passion than she knew what to do with.

Arno stepped into her line of vision, shooting Gunnar a narrowed look. “Maybe this man, this Norman, was passing and saw that there was trouble afoot. He went to help and this fool, mistaking the matter, killed him. Probably the girl led him to believe she was willing, and when her father arrived she pretended otherwise. The English are well known to be deceitful and—”

Arno stopped abruptly, realizing he was standing in the midst of those same deceitful Englishmen. He cleared his throat and went on briskly. “I did not understand all this man said—as you know, Lady Rose, English is not my language.” He made it sound as if this was a cause for celebration. “But I understand enough to have heard his confession. He killed the man and then tried to burn his body so no one would know. The law is clear.”

Arno was right. And yet, in her heart, Rose did not want to pass judgment on Harold the miller. She believed him. He had been protecting Millisent. She understood why he had killed. In his position would not all of them do the same? Jesu, if only he could have captured the man rather than killed him. If only he had not made things worse by trying to hide the evidence. Yet, even so, there must be a way out of this mess without another needless death.

As if he had reached inside her mind, Gunnar said, “Whether it was an accident or not does not matter now. He has confessed. He must be brought before the manor court to tell his story there, and be judged upon the evidence.”

Rose nodded unhappily. The cool night air felt very warm against her face, as if her flesh had lost all heat. Would she be able to sit in judgment on Harold? Give him over to the hangman? She swallowed—let it not come to that. He was defending himself; surely that allowed for leniency?

“Very well, Captain. See that Harold is locked up securely for tonight.”

Millisent made a high keening sound, and Harold said in a gruff voice, “Never mind, daughter, never mind,” as though he sought to comfort her.

Rose turned away before the tears in her eyes could fall, and began to walk quickly back to the keep. Behind her, a boy ran with a flaring torch, trying in vain to keep up. Rose ignored him, and ignored Constance hovering in the doorway. She wished herself suddenly far away. She knew that if Edric had still been alive he would have agreed with Arno, no matter that Harold had been justified in his actions, and that Edric was himself English—or maybe because of it. The law was the law, and Edric and Arno would have argued the miller’s fate between them over a good red wine, but in the end they would have agreed that he would have to die. Now Rose was the lord here at Somerford, and it was unlikely Arno would discuss anything with her over a goblet of wine, or that she would wish him to. They would never agree. She did not believe in such harsh justice, such black and white judgments. Why could there not be shades of gray?

“Slow your steps, my lady!”

She was standing in the great hall, and Constance, breath wheezing, had followed her.

“I have nothing to say, old woman.”

“Maybe not, but I do.”

Irritably Rose halted. “Then say it and be done, for I am very weary.”

Constance pressed a hand to her heart and gulped in air. “Let Arno sit in judgment on the miller.”

Rose shook her head slowly. “It is not his place, Constance, you know that. I am lady here and I make all decisions, good or bad. I have to sit in judgment on my people if I am to retain my power and their respect.”

“Lady,” she whispered, “it will wound you grievously!”

“Nevertheless, I will sit in judgment on Harold the miller, and no one will say I have not done as I ought.”

Constance muttered something under her breath about stubborn women, but Rose ignored her. “Send someone to the kitchens, Constance, and have food brought for the mercenaries. They will be hungry and it grows late.”

When Constance went, Rose stayed a moment. She felt a little as the miller must have, standing in the bailey while the noise and movement of life went on around him, and yet alone. Soon she must sit in judgment on a man she liked and admired, who in her heart she believed had been forced to do wrong, who had been defending his beloved daughter. Aye, a brave man. And he did not deserve to die for that.

Turning about, she sought Millisent in the crowd, but the girl was not to be seen. Probably she had followed after her father to the cell where he would spend the night. Blindly her gaze slid over dozens of faces…and was caught and drawn into the very eyes she most wished to avoid.

It was full darkness now, and Gunnar Olafson stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the bailey, watching her. Alfred, his head close, was murmuring at his side. There was something almost furtive about them—what secret did they have that they had not shared with her? Her interest captured now, Rose watched as Gunnar made one last brief comment to his comrade, and then Alfred nodded and was gone back into the night.

Gunnar Olafson began to make his way across the great hall toward her.

Rose wanted to back away—she even flicked a brief glance behind her—but she was too close to the dais, and a retreat would mean climbing on it. Lady Rose did not run from anyone. She set her shoulders and lifted her chin and faced him, forcing her features into a replica of the calm mask that seemed to come so easily to him.

Gunnar came to a halt, too close as usual, and Rose was forced to look up. She felt at a disadvantage, and angry because of it. Those surging emotions were stirring again inside her, but she forced them down and hung on to her equilibrium.

“My lady.” The dark blue gaze searched her own before sliding to her mouth and lingering there.

Rose took a shallow breath, refusing to let the memories of last night intrude. “What

is it, Captain? I am occupied.”

“Do you believe Harold the miller’s story? Or do you prefer Sir Arno d’Alan’s version?”