The Rose and the Shield (Medieval 2)

He cursed silently, she had turned him into a lust-crazed fool! They were running for their lives, and here he was dreaming of a pretty future. And it was but a dream—it could never be real.

Gunnar came up over a rise and turned the laboring horse northward, heading for the place where the attackers had made their escape across the marshes.

The change in direction seemed to bring Rose out of her abstraction. She lifted her head, the scent of the salty Levels awakening her from her bad dream. “Where are we going?” she asked, and her voice was sharp, more alert than it had been. Good, that was good.

“The horse is lame.” Gunnar said it so matter-of-factly, she was momentarily deceived into thinking it was unimportant.

“Lame?”

He hesitated. “We have a chance on foot if we go into the Mere.”

She knew then the scope of the problem they faced. The lame horse was disastrous, but to escape on foot through the Mere!

Rose gazed out across the silvery marshes. On a clear night like this she could easily see the sparkle of water, the jagged rise and fall of reeds, and the lumpy shadows of the islands. But setting off into the Mere on foot? It was like another country, one unknown to her and therefore all the more frightening.

They would probably die.

As if reading her doubts, Gunnar said with his usual quiet confidence, “You will be safe with me, Rose.”

So easy to believe him, as she had believed him before. Well, she would not be fooled again. Rose gave a strained little laugh. “Will I? Will I be safe with you, Gunnar?”

“Aye, lady.” He sounded surprised by her doubt. Oh, he was clever, so clever…

Rose turned her head and looked up, meeting his calm gaze, seeing the shape of his head against the starry night, the breadth of his shoulders. He was so strong—he exuded strength! And she so wanted to feel safe with him. But how could she? How could she ever feel safe with him again?

“You killed Ivo.” The words were stark and unadorned.

His pale eyes gleamed silver, but she couldn’t read them. “Aye, so it appeared. Arno believes it, and so will Miles. They think him dead, or at least dying. Miles hates his brother—if Ivo had been alive, Miles would have killed him as soon as he knew I had escaped with you, lady. Maybe before.”

“So you killed him first?” she choked.

“I pretended to kill him. There was a bladder of pig’s blood under his shirt, strapped about his waist. I punctured it. Ivo did the rest. ’Tis an old trick, simple but effective. Reynard will see Ivo is placed somewhere out of the way, and then it is up to Ivo to make his own escape out of Somerford to safety. Probably while they are hunting us,” he added grimly.

Rose wondered if she were going mad. Was what he said now the truth? Ivo’s death had looked very real to her, but it could have been as he said…She remembered again the strange sense she had had that the scene she was witnessing was a play. And yet he had lied to her before.

Was there really a single word this man uttered that she could believe? She should insist he set her down. Now! She should insist on finding somewhere else to hide. Now! No one went into the Mere by choice—not unless they were merefolk—and even then it was generally believed they would rather be on safe dry land.

But Rose knew she had come too far to turn back. Even if she had a choice, even if he would have let her go. At Somerford Keep, Miles de Vessey was casting his greedy eyes on all that had been hers, and Arno, who had pretended to be her loyal knight, would be willing to tear her apart to get his share. And behind them all stood Fitzmorton, Radulf’s deadly enemy.

Fitzmorton, whom she hated most of all.

What was the point in struggling? She had no choice but to place her fate in Gunnar Olafson’s big scarred hands.

For now.

The ground sucked at Rose’s shoe, as if it had an insatiable hunger for calfskin. She tugged it out and took another step forward, lifting her skirts as high as she could, though they were already dripping and muddy at the hem, her stockings filthy to the knee. The air reeked with the smell of rotten vegetation and still water. In front of her Gunnar Olafson was a dark shape against a star-filled sky.

Rose followed him as if she had done so all her life.

Far ahead and to their left rose the sinister bulk of Burrow Mump. Although there was no moon tonight, the stars were very bright. Would the ghostly warriors rise from the earth? Or would they remain safe in their underworld home?

A loud splash and a curse interrupted her thoughts. Rose watched as Gunnar appeared to do a laborious dance on the quaking surface of the Mere, before he stumbled backward and sat down hard.

“Are you all right?” She stepped closer, feeling her shoe sink again.

“I can’t find the path.”

Until this moment there had been a path, of sorts. A narrow strip of solid ground that snaked its way through the unstable mud and water. Gunnar had followed it carefully, deep into the Mere. Far behind them was the distant shape of Somerford Keep and its encircling hills, but that was all.