by Sara Bennett
The mercenary barely glanced at him. Quite suddenly Rose’s anger cooled. These men might kill her loyal Arno without a second thought, and she could not allow that. She placed her hand on the knight’s sleeve, to press a warning. Captain Olafson’s eyes followed the gesture and, if it was possible, hardened even more. As they slid to her face, she read the scorn in them.
Does he think less of Arno for taking his orders from me?
He had already turned away from her, back to Sir Arno, who was still glowering.
“You have the makings of a fine harvest,” the mercenary said briskly, suddenly all business.
Rose noted Arno’s confusion—what did the knight know of harvests?—but he bluffed his way through it, nodding importantly and agreeing that it was the best he had seen for many years.
“That is good,” the mercenary went on, still ignoring Rose, “because the money you are offering is not enough.”
“Not enough?” Arno repeated.
Captain Olafson nodded. “Ten marks or we leave. There is plenty of work to be had elsewhere.”
“Ten marks!” Rose’s anger left her before this new challenge. Ten marks was a fortune. “That is too much.”
Captain Olafson’s eyes flicked toward her but only briefly, and he did not turn and face her, keeping his attention on Arno, as if it were his decision that counted. Rose seethed.
“We are neither serfs nor slaves,” he went on, his voice pleasantly deep but very chilly. “We do not have to agree to conditions that do not please us.”
Arno released an impatient breath. Rose could see he did not like this any more than she, but she also knew he felt it beneath his dignity to haggle. “I am sure that we can come to some—” he began.
Rose stepped around him, planting herself squarely in Captain Olafson’s line of sight. The blue eyes narrowed and there was actually a hint of some feeling in them—she didn’t have time to try and read what it was. Certainly he was a fearsome sight in his tunic of chain mail, the pagan-looking shield at his back, a vicious sword strapped low on his hip, his Viking hair reaching past his shoulders. Rose was used to men who looked more civilized, but there was much at stake here and she dared not back down. Those five extra marks would ruin Somerford Manor.
“Sir Arno has already offered you payment for one month’s work,” she said in a brittle voice. “Five marks, with food and lodging. I thought the deal was struck. Are you going to go back on your word now, Captain?”
He stared down at her—yes, down. Rose tried not to show her unease. “I am not negotiating with you, my lady. I am telling you what I want. There was no deal struck.”
He sounded cool and controlled, and completely inflexible. Rose narrowed her eyes, just as determined. “I do not like your answer, Captain. You have been offered a fair price. I will not be bullied into making you another.”
The big, dark-haired man in the wolf-pelt cloak tapped him on the shoulder with a hand gloved in a black leather gauntlet. Without taking his eyes from hers, the mercenary captain listened to what his man murmured into his ear. Judging by the frown that creased his brow, he didn’t appear to like it. Rose glared back, while her heart was threatening to batter its way out from inside her chest. Slowly his frown smoothed away and the emotion leached from his eyes, leaving them once more cold and dead.
He nodded sharply, once, and the other man stepped back.
“Very well. Six marks.”
Rose would not have allowed even that concession, but before she could intervene Arno quickly said, “Done!” and then avoided her eyes. “It is a good bargain, lady,” he added in a falsely jovial voice.
Rose bit her lip. Maybe it was a reasonable bargain in the circumstances. One they could afford, anyway, if the harvest was a good one. But that did not explain Arno’s unusual forbearance—was he so desperate to have the mercenaries there? Was he more worried than he had allowed her to see? It seemed the only possibility.
The mercenary said nothing to her, treating the matter as concluded. Arrogant, Rose told herself, as he looked again to Arno. The sort of man who could take orders only from another man. But what could one expect from a Viking savage?
“How many men-at-arms do you keep here?” he was asking. “I saw one, maybe two. Are there others elsewhere?”
His questions were peremptory. Sir Arno shifted uneasily, not prepared to answer him. That was because he felt the answer reflected badly on him, thought Rose, but the mercenary had a right to know.
She swallowed her own indignation and, her cheeks burning but her voice strong, gave him his reply. “We have three men who belong to the keep and are able-bodied, but they are presently working in the fields.”
“You set your soldiers to work in the fields, lady?” Astonishment shone clear in his eyes, before he quenched it.
“There are crops to be grown, Captain, or we will all starve. Soldiers have to eat, too. I myself helped during sowing time. Somerford Manor supports us all, so we must all work.”
He nodded indifferently, conceding the point. “Where are the rest of your garrison, lady? Shearing the sheep?”
Rose felt her back stiffen in response to his cool sarcasm, but refused to rise to it. Instead she told him the bald truth. “The rest of our garrison went off to Lord Fitzmorton.”
As she had expected, he wanted more—the lift of his eyebrow told her so.
“Lord Fitzmorton and Lord Wolfson are both powerful men, but they are always squabbling over who is the more powerful. At Christmas they clashed, and some of their men were killed. They were then both short of fighting men and sought to replace them. They do not care where they recruit…they turned their eyes in the direction of Somerford, and I could not pay as well as they. This is not the only manor to suffer—others also lost soldiers from their garrisons.
“However,” she went on briskly, “we do have twenty villeins who perform two days’ duty once a week.” Honesty made her add, not so briskly, “Although most of them are either very old or very young, and one is crippled.”
His mouth, already firm, tightened. “And why do you depend upon old and crippled villeins to guard Somerford Manor?” he asked in a deceptively calm voice. “Have your able-bodied villeins also gone to Fitzmorton?”
Rose was starting to feel like a child making feeble excuses to her guardian for some misdemeanor. Ridiculous, she told herself. You are lady here, and he is nothing but a hired soldier. A peasant in chain mail. A Viking savage with neither manners nor courtesy. Her voice lifted, growing in haughtiness as it always did when she was nervous, but in the circumstances this seemed no bad thing.
“Our able-bodied villeins are dead, Captain. Before I came to Somerford there was an English uprising against the king. My husband, Edric, stood with Lord Radulf against it, and many of our men went to fight. Lord Radulf won the day, but very few of Somerford Manor’s men returned. He presented Edric with a gold goblet in remembrance of his loyalty and sacrifice.” She remained emotionless for the mercenary’s benefit, pretending indifference she didn’t feel—death was always a waste. “Sir Arno has begun training some of the younger boys, though it will be some years yet before they are ready to fight. I have suggested to Sir Arno that the women might take up guard duty, until their sons are grown. Many of them are widows of the villeins who died in the uprising, and they are more than willing to take over their dead husbands’ duties.”
Eartha, the cook at Somerford Keep, had been particularly keen to don armor and stand guard, even to fight. Why could women not fight as well as men if the need was there? she had declared, and Rose had agreed there was no reason. Arno had thought differently.
“Sir Arno finds the idea of women garrisoning Somerford…” Unacceptable? Repugnant? Threatening? Rose wondered just how to put into words the expression on Arno’s face at the time. In any case, she didn’t have to find the right words because the mercenary cut her short.
“A garrison of women.” He said it straight-faced, but with a twist to his voic
e that was almost a smile. His men laughed. “There are better things to do with women than kill them.”
“Captain!” Rose’s anger was near boiling point; in a moment she would say something to put them all in danger.
“Better to send the boys to fight.”
Rose felt her anger fly out of her head. Briefly she struggled with his meaning, but there was really only one conclusion she could draw. Despite herself her reply was strained. “I don’t care what you do where you come from, Captain, but at Somerford we do not send our children out to die.”
The blue eyes narrowed, and then he shrugged as if such histrionics were of no interest to him. “You’d rather send out your women?” he asked with cool curiosity.
“If they want to go. It is for their homes and their children’s lives that they would fight.”
“Maybe that is so, lady.” His agreement pleased her, but his next words froze any pleasure. “Sometimes it is necessary for women and children to fight. And to die.”
There was something uncivilized in those eyes, thought Rose. Something wholly savage. Something soulless. Had she really felt desire for such a creature? Perhaps she had confused lust with fear.
He is not like us.
How could she think to control such a man? A man who would let children die in the wars of men? A shiver ran through her. Surely they would be better off facing their problems on their own, or begging Lord Radulf for help, whatever he might think of her for doing so? Even if he takes Somerford from you and sends you back to your father? Yes, even then! Rose looked toward Arno, sure that he, too, must have come to this conclusion, but to her consternation he refused to meet her glance.
“Women do not understand war,” he said, but in such a fond, patronizing voice Rose longed to scream. As it was she gritted her teeth and turned back to the mercenary. With a curt gesture of her hand she drew his attention to their surroundings.
“Our defenses are strong—after the English uprising, Lord Radulf helped my husband to increase our strength. If there is an attack, everyone will come and shelter inside. If there is a siege, we have a deep well for water and, after the harvest, we will have food enough to keep us for many months. Although I have no doubt that long before we ran out Lord Radulf would have heard of our plight and sent us help.”
“That may be so, Lady Rose, but—”
“Sir Arno should have explained to you that you are here for show, Captain Olafson. Nothing else. The people from the Mere have been stealing from the village, but they are more of a nuisance than a serious threat. At the moment they think us easy pickings, but when they have seen you and your men they will go elsewhere. That is all we require of you, Captain. To scare the merefolk away. And indeed, you are well qualified for that!”
He let that pass, replying dismissively, “If these merefolk are allowed to steal from your village then you have let your people grow fat and lazy.”
Once again Rose felt the color come stinging into her cheeks. It was an insult. As if he could do better. Despite her resolution to be calm, her dark eyes flashed up at him. “Somerford has been at peace for four years, and if we have used that time to remember what it is like not to guard our backs at every waking moment, then I say that is a good thing.”
“It is never a good thing to be unprepared. Death awaits at every man’s shoulder.”
“Mayhap death awaits at some shoulders more than others!” she retorted. “You have it wrong, Captain. You are mistaken. The merefolk are not vicious raiders. They have hurt no one”—well, apart from a pig—“and once they hear of your arrival, they will leave us be.”
Captain Olafson smiled, but there was no warmth in it. “If they are clever they will leave, if they are not they will die.”
A murmur of agreement rose from the creatures behind him. Like a pack of wolves barely held in check, they shuffled closer.
Rose wanted to tell them to leave; she wanted to declare that such men were not welcome at Somerford Manor. This was a peaceful place; there would be no fighting or slaughter. But they were here now, and however different she might wish things to be, in her heart she knew she needed them. So, instead of sending them on their way as she longed to do, Rose said quietly, “This is not war, Captain.”
He looked thoughtful, his gaze fixed on some point far beyond her. “Your gate was open.”
Frowning, Rose glanced to Arno and back again. “Open?” she repeated, puzzled. “But…the merefolk have been causing problems. It was necessary to leave the gate open in case the villagers needed to seek protection. There is no danger in it, surely?”
Arno had told her that and given the order, yet now, when she looked to him for confirmation, he carefully avoided her eye, uneasy again.
“If I am to stay here and protect you, lady, the gate will remain closed unless I give orders for it to be opened. Is that clear?”
“I don’t see—”
“If we had been enemies of Somerford you would all be dead now. We would have ridden in at a gallop with no one to stop us, my men would have killed everyone here in the bailey, Ivo would have taken care of Sir Arno before he could draw his sword, and I would have come for you…lady. Now do you see?”
Arno was blustering, but no one paid him any heed. The Viking savage was staring at her fixedly now, and as if he had placed it there, Rose saw the scene he described in unrelenting detail. People running, screaming…She, alone in her solar, hearing his approach up the stone stairs, the door crashing open…He filled the doorway, dazzling her frightened eyes with the vivid colors of his hair and eyes. And then he strode forward toward her, drawing that wicked sword from its sheath…
Although—and now confusion replaced fear—the sword part didn’t seem quite right. She could imagine him striding toward her, but after that it seemed much more natural that he should leave the sword where it was and pull her into his arms, claiming her mouth with his.
Rose found her head nodding of its own volition. She felt dizzy, every bit of her tingling…some bits more than others. Stop this, stop it now! She forced her voice out, forced it to obey her.
“Very well, Captain Olafson. The gate stays closed.”
Her reply was his cue to turn his back on her.
Again.
At least, thought Gunnar, he had won that point, although it was clearly difficult for her to concede to him. She had nearly choked on the words, but the gate would remain safely shut from now on. There were other questions he needed to ask, other points to be made, but he decided it was better to leave it there, since he had the advantage.
Standing face-to-face with her, staring into her eyes, Gunnar had found himself imagining things that had more to do with satisfaction than safety. Even with his back turned, he could smell her sweet scent. Almost, he could taste her on his tongue. Quite suddenly he did not trust his normally reliable self-control.
“My men and their beasts have traveled far and need to rest. Show us where to stable our horses, Sir Arno,” he said, forgetting in his haste to be away to make it sound more like a request and less like an order.
Arno’s dark eyes narrowed, but thankfully he did not quibble.
Gunnar could feel her staring at his back as he walked away. Shivering like an angry kitten with needle claws. If she flew at him she would do about as much damage, but he did not think that would stop her from making the attempt. There had been passion in her dark eyes. Women like the Lady Rose were not easily subdued, and she alone had held the reins of Somerford Manor for over a year now. She would not give them up easily.
She was not what he had expected.
Gunnar had imagined the Lady Rose to be like other Norman ladies. In his experience they were either cold, haughty creatures, quivering with good breeding and reluctant to get too close to him in case they were soiled by his lowly presence, or else they were weak and clinging, unable to stand, it seemed, without the assistance of a stronger will. Get too close to them and they were liable to faint or swoon about his person.
His mission was to destroy her.
And yet from the first moment she walked—a simple word for such a heavenly movement—across the bailey toward him, he had sensed a serious breach in his defenses. An open gate in his wall. Maybe his men had sensed it, too, this ripple in his normally imperturbable calm, for he had felt them move instinctively closer, as if to cover his back.
She had been afraid of him—of them all, but of him in particular. Why else would she have stared at him when they first met as if she had been struck by a bolt loosed from a longbow? But fear had not stopped her from arguing over a few paltry marks. Why had he antagonized her? So that she would know from the first you are not one of her serfs, or a tame Norman knight like Sir Arno d’Alan.
And she had refused to pay—as if he were not worth the silver! He had felt his temper slip, surprising himself and Ivo—he never lost his temper. Ivo had had to remind him, quietly, the real reason they were there. Money was not the object—they would be well paid.
So you lost your temper over five marks?
No, not for that…Unwillingly, Gunnar recalled how she had grasped Arno’s arm, the familiar intimacy of the gesture, and jealousy twisted in his gut. He, Gunnar Olafson, was jealous! He was never jealous; he had no reason to be. Women came to him; it was they who were jealous—of one another! But now he pictured dark eyes so large and beautiful, skin so fine and soft, a mouth so moist and ripe, and a firm, full body. The possibility of another man possessing all that…He clenched his jaw, hard. It was as if, he thought in disgust, he had never had a woman before.