The Rose and the Shield (Medieval 2)

And now all appeared lost.

Ivo hurried off, intent on carrying out whatever orders he had been given. Constance turned her face away as he passed, so that she would not have to meet that fearsome black gaze. There was something even more frightening than usual about Ivo, he fairly shimmered with rage. In contrast, Gunnar had coolly lifted a mug of ale to his lips and was swallowing it down, his throat working. It was only when he had drained it to the very dregs and replaced his mug on the table that he noticed Constance, waiting. Cautiously, before he could send her away, she crept forward, keeping her eyes on the ground.

“Captain, I…my lady wishes to speak with you.” Constance was relieved her voice did not shake too much.

He did not move, though a quick glance upward showed a tightening of the muscles in his arms, the clenching of the hand resting upon the hilt of his sword.

“Can she not come herself?” he asked, but it was softly said, not the roar of a monster.

Constance shook her head.

And then she heard him sigh—there was a world of sadness in that sigh, a world of regret. It was the sigh of a man who has lost all hope.

Constance was thrown instantly into doubt and confusion.

Surely an evil monster would not sigh like that? And had she not seen him save a child from a possibly fatal fall when no one else would move to help? And had she not seen him show kindness to the silly wenches who gazed slack-jawed at him during mealtimes? And what of the manner in which he looked at the Lady Rose, as if she were all he had ever wanted in a woman and more?

Nay, this man was not evil! She had been right from the first. Constance dared a look up into a pair of wary blue eyes.

“Does she hate me as much as I think she does?” Gunnar asked her, and there was a wry twist to his lips Constance had never seen there before. As if he mocked himself for caring.

“Aye, at least that much.”

“I told her to trust me.”

“My lady does not trust men easily. Her experiences with them have not always been…agreeable.”

But still he was wounded by her mistrust—Constance sensed it. He had wanted Rose to cast all else aside on the promise of his word—barter with the lives of her people, her lands, her own life. And she had not known him above a week!

Gunnar must have read the amazed amusement in her face. He folded his arms, the muscles bulging, and gave her a frown.

“Lady Constance, do you recall what you said to me last night, when I came to her room?”

Constance thought back to the moment when she had opened the door—the look in the mercenary’s eyes as they met Rose’s, that blind blaze of emotion she recognized so well. They had already forgotten she was there, and Constance had slipped past Gunnar to the door, saying…

“I said, ‘Open your heart to her.’” Constance shifted uneasily before the intensity of his gaze. “My lady is tender-hearted, Captain,” she explained, choosing her words carefully. “I saw in that moment that you could hurt her badly. I wanted you to be honest with her, show her she had nothing to fear if she did the same.”

Again that wry smile. “’Tis not easy to open your heart when to do so could cost lives.”

“I understand that, Captain. I am not a fool. You have your work to do—whatever

that may be. But my lady will not easily come to trust you again, not fully, maybe not ever. She is gentle-hearted, but she is also strong and stubborn.”

He smiled.

Constance’s voice softened, and she returned his smile. “Aye, like the flower she is named after, my Rose has thorns.”

Gunnar glanced past her, and his gaze sharpened. Constance turned to look back, and saw Arno farther down the hall, partaking of his own ale.

“Can you look as if you’re afraid of me?” Gunnar Olafson asked her quietly, frowning all the time as if he meant to strike her dead on the spot.

Constance nodded jerkily.

“Then do it. Now.” He leaned into her face, glaring. His voice rose to a shout. “Get out of my way, you old witch!” And he brushed rudely past her, out of the great hall and toward the stairs. Constance cringed, pressing herself to the side of the hearth. The hand she clutched to her fluttering heart shook convincingly.

Arno guffawed, enjoying seeing the old woman bested, and poured himself another ale.

Rose was prepared. She was, so she told herself, tranquil in mind and body. This was simply something else that must be done for the sake of others, and Rose was always prepared to make such sacrifices. She would bargain with him just as she had done before. She knew he wanted her. She did not believe he could pretend such a thing, not so many times as he had taken her. No, he wanted her, and that could only work in her favor.