The Rose and the Shield (Medieval 2)

Gunnar rolled over again on his thin mattress, and knew Ivo was right. He was a fool.

Rose squeezed her fingers hard against the carvings on the armrest of her chair. The lord’s chair, the Somerford chair. The serpents and twining vines, the little mocking faces and strange animals, they seemed to grow warm and come to life beneath her touch. Her head ached but she did not believe that anyone watching her would know that. She had on her cold and regal face, as she sat on the dais in the great hall, sat on the chair that had resided there at Somerford in stone keep and timber hall, and long before anyone could remember.

The meal was not sumptuous. Food stocks were low. If it were not that one of the mercenaries—Ivo, the big, dark one with the gauntlet—had had a successful hunting foray into the woods, they would have been dining tonight on salted fish. However, the lack did not appear to upset Brother Mark, who tucked into his meal, grease to his elbows, making noises Rose thought were made only by pigs.

“I did not think priests ate like beasts,” she said, and delicately sipped at her wine.

He looked up at her warily, dislike in his eyes. “I see no harm in enjoying my food,” he announced, licking his fingers.

“No, Brother, and nor is there,” called Arno from Rose’s other side. “Lady Rose is out of sorts and vents her spleen on others.”

“Shall I pray for you, lady?” Brother Mark asked slyly.

Rose forced back her anger. “I thank you, Brother Mark, but there are others more in need of your prayers, I am sure.”

Arno snorted laughter in a way designed to hurt her, while Brother Mark smirked and fell silent. Rose sipped her wine and ignored them both. Since yesterday, in the village, Arno’s friendship and loyalty had turned to hate—or at least, that was how it felt. It was as if he wanted to make her miserable, mayhap as miserable as himself.

Rose wished now that

she had sent a messenger to Lord Radulf, as she had planned to last night. But somehow, this morning, everything had appeared brighter and she had reestablished her confidence in her own ability to unravel this mess. No, no, she had thought, she would not throw herself upon Radulf’s mercy. That way lay the repossession of her lands. Instead she would hold her manor court and clear Harold of blame, and then if Lord Fitzmorton’s man dared question her judgment, she would send him off with a pithy but ladylike speech about honor and decency.

She must have been light-headed. She knew now that it was madness to believe she could drive off a man like Miles de Vessey with a few well chosen words. And what of Fitzmorton himself? She shivered. He was not some beardless boy who would simply stand and allow her to castigate him. He was a vicious and warlike baron, and one who was more likely to slam his fist into her face than listen to her carefully prepared speech.

Surely she knew that better than anybody?

It was all the fault of the mercenary, of Gunnar Olafson. He had made her as dizzy as a summer bee. He had made her believe the impossible was possible.

Rose was very aware of him, seated beyond Arno. Not once had she looked directly at him, and yet she knew that he wore a brown tunic over a white linen shirt, washed thin with age, and that both fit him very well. She had not looked at him, because she did not think she could meet his eyes without her face catching fire. The memory of last night had burned into her like a brand; she had been reliving those hot, sweet moments over and over again throughout the long day.

And he would know it if he gazed into her eyes.

Rose sipped her wine again, watching as her people ate. The women were as fascinated as ever with Gunnar Olafson. Eartha had already been to fill his goblet, and several of the other serving girls had arrived to make certain only the finest morsels were on his plate. As if he couldn’t do such things very well for himself!

Mayhap, incredible as it seemed, she was jealous.

She wanted Gunnar Olafson for herself.

And the awful thing was, how did she know for certain that he had not done the same to any one of them as he had done to her? She would be foolish indeed to think she was different in his eyes from any of the other women in this hall. The men Rose had known best, her father and brother, would not let the fact that she was a Norman lady bother them, or influence their actions. A woman was a woman, and a man did not care what was in her head or in her heart, only what was between her legs.

Her mother had come to believe that, just before she died. She had warned Rose again and again, full of remorse for her own blind actions, hoping her daughter could steer a safer course. Those had been days of bittersweet reconciliation between mother and daughter, and her death had been all the more unbearable because of it.

Remembering now those terrible times, Rose asked herself how she could be such a simpleton as to believe a word Gunnar told her. With such a warning as her mother’s misery before her, why had she allowed him to hold her in his arms like a lit candle in the darkness of the stairwell? And why had she been remembering it ever since?

“Lady?” Arno was staring at her curiously. Rose realized he had spoken to her several times and she had not heard him once. Now that he had her attention, Arno nodded into the body of the hall.

Following his direction, Rose saw that Edward was walking toward her, his old face beaming. People moved aside to allow him passage, their voices drifting to an uneasy silence. Behind Edward was another, younger man, and he was wearing Lord Radulf’s colors.

Dizziness swept over her, dimming her vision, making her skin prickle.

Lord Radulf has come to take Somerford from me.

And then, far worse, Lord Radulf has sent word that the Lady Lily is dead.

But, if that were so, why was Edward smiling as if King Alfred had returned from the Mere to lead the English once more to victory?

“Lady Rose, it be good news!” Edward cried, and then flushed at the loudness of his own voice in the hush. He turned to the other man, jabbing at him with his bony elbow. “Tell them then, Steven, tell them!”

The man—he was only just old enough to be graced with that title—stepped forward with a smile as broad as Edward’s. He was dust-stained from travel, and his brown hair was darkened with sweat. He had ridden swiftly to Somerford, and it was clear he bore only good tidings.