by Sara Bennett
“Is he?” Rose replied, pretending disinterest. To her dismay she felt blood heat her cheeks.
“Oh, aye, lady!” she was assured. “Every woman in this keep would welcome him under her blankets! But maybe ’tis not the same for the nobility…?” The old one bowed her head and coughed, disguising a chuckle.
Rose straightened, well aware of her flaming face and rigid bearing. Thankfully, before she had to think of a reply, one of her servants approached, eyes lowered respectfully. Or mayhap, Rose thought in mortification, she was chuckling, too!
“My lady, we are in sore need of more clothing.”
Relieved at the chance to escape, Rose answered swiftly. “Constance will know what we can spare. I will go and ask her.”
Once again Rose set off in search of the inner quiet she seemed to have lost since Gunnar Olafson came to Somerford. This time she climbed the stairs to the solar, where she knew Constance would be at this hour.
The ancient crone’s insolence had been unbearable! And yet it was not normal for her to be so upset at what was only a bit of risqué joking. Life in the keep was close lived and there were few secrets between its walls. Men and women were attracted to one another, and were rarely coy about it or the subsequent couplings. Why had she not laughed back, made a jest about Gunnar’s handsome looks? Joined in? It was true enough that all the Somerford women were enamored of the mercenary. Why could she not have pretended that she was, too?
Because for her it was no jest.
Slowly she continued up the stairs, wondering once again how she was going to face Gunnar Olafson. Perhaps she could hide herself away in her chamber? she thought feverishly. Pretend she was ill? But her people were depending on her in this time of hardship, and Rose had never been a coward.
Bleakly, she glanced from one of the arrow slits that had been built into the thick wall of the keep. The day beyond looked a fair one, and as expected, Arno’s young recruits were training. The boys, stripped to their waists, thin chests shining with sweat, were practicing with wooden swords and shields. Arno was striding up and down, shouting instructions. By the gate, Edward stood on guard duty in his antiquated helmet and padded vest.
All was as normal; it was almost as if last night had never happened.
If only that were so, thought Rose with a sigh, and continued on her way.
It was near to darkness when the mercenaries finally rode back to Somerford Keep. As the gate was heaved open for them, the cry went up that they had a prisoner, and soon news spread from the bailey to Rose, sewing by the light of one of her own candles. She hurried out to see for herself.
The mercenaries’ horses drew to a tired, clattering halt. The animals were dusty, their coats flecked with sweat; the mercenaries were not much better. Gunnar Olafson dismounted from his gray stallion, spoke briefly to Ivo, and then turned toward Rose. The dusk gave him an eerie look. With his pale face and dark eyes, he was a creature of dreams, not flesh and blood at all.
He stopped within two feet of her, so close she could feel him. Just as she had when he came upon her last night.
His gaze was like the thrust of a sword, intent and unswerving. Even had she wanted to avoid it, he would not have allowed her to.
At some point during the long day, Rose had finally managed to find peace. She had done it by convincing herself that the feelings she had experienced when he kissed her, looked at her, touched her, were naught but the fantasies of a weary and worried widow. He was very handsome, and such an attraction was to be expected. She had simply allowed her loneliness to turn that attraction into something that didn’t really exist.
Like her dream warrior.
But now, one look from Gunnar and the harsh truth stripped bare every lie she had worked so hard to make herself believe. This was no fantasy, this was real. Rose wanted to close the small distance between them, to lean into him and feel the hard heat of his body against hers. To lift her face and close her eyes, and feel the eager press of his mouth on hers. Her breathing quickened, her skin felt as if it were too tight, her clothing abraded her breasts and thighs.
Pretense was pointless. Whether this feeling was lust or desire or simply bedazzlement, Rose wanted Gunnar Olafson.
Stop it, stop it now!
The voice came to her rescue again. Resolutely, Rose forced her eyes away from the mercenary, and instead turned to the figure that had been lifted down from one of the horses. Harold the miller, his clothing stained and dirty, had his head bowed in despair. He stood as if he were all alone and not at the center of such a noisy crowd. If he was not a guilty man, Rose thought in dismay, then he was certainly giving a good impression of one.
She approached, ignoring the warning murmur from Arno, who was following behind her. “Harold?” She spoke his name quietly, gently.
The miller did not move. Now that Rose was near, she could see that there were scrapes and cuts upon him, one across his cheek where the blood had dried. His boots were sodden and muddy, and his wrists were tied together, the skin raw and bleeding.
Nausea fluttered in her stomach, but she forced herself to be still and restrained and not cry out in her distress. Her voice was curt. “Untie him.”
“Lady—” Ivo began the warning, but it was Gunnar who finished it.
“He may run if we untie him.”
Rose flung him a furious look. “He is hurt. Untie him. I order it.”
“Lady Rose, think what you are doing,” hissed Arno, but again she ignored him, her gaze clashing with that of the mercenary leader.
Gunnar lifted his brows quizzically, as if he questioned her good sense, but came without further argument and, raising Harold the miller’s hands, slid his knife between them. The bindings fell away.
Arno drew his sword. There was an audible gasp from the crowd around them. But Harold did not try to run; he simply stood with his hands dangling limply at his sides. Gently, Rose placed her hand upon his arm. The cloth of his sleeve was cold and damp.
“Harold? You must tell us what happened.”
He looked up at her then, his eyes huge in the torchlight, and she saw that his dirty face was streaked clean where the tears had run. His voice was a hoarse whisper she strained to catch. “I did not mean it, my lady. I did not mean to kill him…and yet I am glad I did.”
There was an anguished cry. Rose felt her heart jump violently, and then Millisent brushed past her, running to her father. At the last moment Alfred caught her, holding her firmly as she struggled, his scarred face grim. Millisent pushed at his arms, squirming to be free, but Alfred bent his head, murmuring words too low for anyone else to hear, and after a moment the girl went limp. She hung in his arms as if all life had left her. Alfred did not let her go, instead he tightened his hold, turning her so that her face rested against his shoulder. Millisent lifted one pale hand and clung to his tunic.
“Are you saying you killed the man whose body was found beside your cottage?” Rose asked, keeping her voice steady with an effort.
But Harold wouldn’t answer her, setting his mouth into a thin, stubborn line. Sick fear coiled in Rose’s stomach.
“Harold?” she whispered. “You must talk to me of this. There may be a way around it, if you will give me a reason.”
“There’s no way around it, lady,” he said bleakly, staring down at the ground. “I killed him. He had set the cottage alight and when Millisent ran out screaming, he grabbed her and pulled her to the ground. I stuck him in the leg before he could do more than rip her gown. I didn’t know he was a Norman until he turned and drew his sword on me and shouted some French rubbish. I killed him then and took his sword and threw it into the Mere. We…I thought to burn the body, but God was against me and the fire went out before it could finish its work.”
Pale but resolute, Harold looked up into her eyes. “It was me did it, lady. Me and only me. Millisent did nothing and Will is but a child. I killed the Norman and I will pay for it.”
Millisent began to sob into Alfred’s shoul
der as if her heart was broken.
The girl must have helped her father drag the body into the fire, but what use was there in forcing her to admit it? Harold had protected his daughter; he would do so now.
And by Norman law he would die for it.
Slowly, unable to resist, Rose turned and met Gunnar’s eyes. She had known he would be watching her, had felt it. He looked calm and still—a waveless sea while all about railed the storm. His solid tranquillity soothed her, and when she spoke it was in a surprisingly steady voice.
“Has he said more than this to you, captain?”
“No, lady. We came upon him in the woods. He said nothing to us, only turned and tried to run through a thicket. We caught him and bound him to stop him from hurting himself. He has said far more to you than he did to us.”
“And you found no one else?”
“There were signs of a group of men entering the Mere. We followed their track a little way but they must have had a boat waiting—the water was soon too deep without one. It would seem that we must believe it was the merefolk who burned your village.”
He put his answer in a way that puzzled her, but Rose did not have time now to solve puzzles. She turned again to the miller.
“Why was he burning your cottage? Are you sure he was a Norman? Did you see any of the merefolk with him?”
“A Norman burning a cottage?” Arno retorted indignantly. All this time he had stood near Rose, impatient and struggling to understand while Harold gave his explanation in English, and suspiciously watchful every time she turned to Gunnar. Now he was frowning and keen to take part. “No, lady! ’Tis clear to me that this lout killed the Norman in a rage and then ran off to hide his own guilt.”
“I don’t understand why a Norman would be present at the attack on the village, Sir Arno.” Rose looked at Gunnar as she spoke.
Big and quiet, he stood with his arms folded over his chest, his legs set apart, and his eyes on hers. At the back of her mind she could feel heat and passion, beating. Last night he had held her in his arms, anchoring her to solid ground as she soared and, almost, took flight to the stars.
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?”
The mockery in his voice surprised her. He appeared so unruffled, and yet his voice was anything but.
“Why should it matter to you what I believe?” She spoke hastily, angry with him, herself, and Arno. But even as the words were spoken she was wondering if it did matter to him, if, like herself, Gunnar Olafson did not think Harold the miller should be hanged for what he had done. Curiously, she went on, “What is it that troubles you, Captain Olafson? Do you doubt what you have heard? Or is it just that you trust no one?”
Something gleamed in his eyes and was gone. He smiled coldly. “It is true I trust no one, lady.”
“I can see that a man who takes coin to kill would find trust difficult.”
She thought for a moment he might speak up for himself, tell her that she was wrong, but instead he shrugged in a manner designed to let her know her opinions were nothing to him.
“Do you know Lord Fitzmorton well, lady?”
He had surprised Rose. Did she know Lord Fitzmorton well? Now there was a question.
For a moment time slipped and she was a child again, gazing up, defiantly, into that brutal, handsome face.
Do as you are told, girl!
And then the stinging blow across her cheek, and her mother flying out of the shadows to her side. Angry, clutching arms, her face turned in quivering fury to the man.
Don’t touch her! Don’t you touch her, ever!
But he had.
Rose’s gaze refocused, and somehow she managed an indifferent shrug to accompany the lie. “I do not know him well, Captain. Lord Radulf is my overlord, and Lord Fitzmorton is no friend of his.”
Gunnar’s face still showed nothing and yet she felt the full intensity of his interest. Had he read her secrets in her face?
“If Lord Radulf is your overlord, why did you not go to him when your village was first attacked? Why did you not ask him for extra men to help you guard your manor?”
Because Arno advised me not to! Because he said Radulf would consider me weak and incapable.