The Rose and the Shield

by Sara Bennett

  Millisent had glanced up as Alfred came into the hall, but now she looked quickly away again. No one would have guessed by her action that she had been waiting for him.

  Alfred himself certainly did not.

  He hesitated a moment, on the verge of approaching her, but she was busy with some needlework. Instead he turned abruptly toward his companions, where they sat huddled together over a game of dice.

  Millisent stared down at her stitching, not seeing the uneven work. Since her father had been arrested she had thought only of him, of how she could help him. Then last night Eartha had whispered to her that all would be well, that Lady Rose had promised. Millisent trusted Lady Rose. If her lady said she would make all well, then so it would be.

  With the burden of her father removed from her, Millisent was free to think of other things. And, oddly, she had found her thoughts centering on the mercenary, Alfred. Before, blinded by her fear and her grief, she had not thought to question his constant presence, or his kindness and support when she most needed both. Now she wondered, and was a little embarrassed to recall how she had wept on his shoulder and clung to him that night in the bailey, when her father had been captured.

  Alfred’s face was scarred. It had been burned when the Normans killed his family, so the one called Ivo had told her. Previously Millisent had been so caught up in her own concerns she had not noticed it—well, except in a vague sort of way. But now she looked at him more carefully, and was…surprised. Not frightened, and not repelled, no, not that. Just a little surprised that she had not noticed before.

  Some of the other women shuddered and said the sight of him made them queasy. Millisent did not find that. She thought he must have been handsome once—the other side of his face was nice to look at. And even the scarred side wasn’t so bad, when you were used to it. Besides, it was his eyes she looked into most of the time, and they were brown, their expression sympathetic.

  It was his eyes she remembered when she lay in her narrow bed, tucked away in the curtained space that belonged to Eartha and her young son, and now must also accommodate Millisent and Will. His eyes, and his arms so firm and comforting about her as she had wept. For a man who had suffered much, he was generous in the giving of himself to others.

  Millisent had learned it was not always so. Some men grew harder, crueler, as if their suffering had eaten away what kindness once existed in them. Alfred was not like that. He watched over her—or had done until recently—and if she or Will needed him, then he was there. Except that Millisent had not really appreciated how much she had come to rely on him, until now.

  And that was her current dilemma. Now that she had finally noticed Alfred’s interest in her, he had withdrawn it.

  Did he think she didn’t need him anymore? Or had he become bored with her self-pity? She wanted to thank him, to express her earnest appreciation, but she felt suddenly too timid to approach him. A mercenary, a man who had traveled and seen much, would find tedious a girl who had never stepped outside Somerford Manor in all her life. He probably had a wife somewhere else.

  Millisent was surprised how much that thought upset her.

  The group of mercenaries were making loud conversation, absorbed in their game. Their captain had left abruptly after old Edward had come to speak with him, and they were awaiting his return. The messenger with the wary eyes, Steven, had gone back to Crevitch. He had given Millisent more than one passing look, but she had not returned them. He was just a boy—Alfred, he was a man.

  “Sweyn has won again!” Ivo bellowed it out as if he couldn’t believe it. He glanced at Alfred in disgust. “Keep your money safe in your belt, Alfred, if you wish to keep it. The Dane has the devil’s luck.”

  Blond, handsome Sweyn grinned and ignored him, warming the dice in his hand before throwing them again. A terrible groan went up from Reynard, his luckless opponent.

  Alfred smiled and glanced over his shoulder, to where Millisent sat. She was watching him, but she looked away again quickly. That was the second time she had done that, as if she didn’t want him to know she was looking. But now there was a flush in her cheeks and her movements seemed too studied to be natural.

  Apart from the faint color, she looked pale with the strain of the past days. Fragile. An unexpected tenderness filled him. Was he losing his mind to feel this way, and to allow it to take hold of him like this? She was a pretty girl, aye, but it was more than that. There was something about her that made him want to watch over her, protect her…love her. Idiotic, when he thought about it.

  What would Millisent, the pretty daughter of a prosperous miller, want with an English mercenary without a face? And why was she staring at him? A wave of misery darkened his mood.

  Of course, his face.

  Few women had ever been able to look at him without commenting upon it, and then either shrinking away from him in horror or else draping themselves over him in sickly sympathy. He didn’t want pity. He wanted to be treated just like anyone else. The Normans might have marked him—he could survive that—but it was the pity of so-called friends that threatened to destroy him utterly.

  He remembered, the night of the village fire, Lady Rose had treated him as if she had not even noticed there was anything wrong with him. She had not spoken to him as if he were simple, just because his face was marked. She had appreciated his help and told him so, and even laughed when he told her a humorous tale from his boyhood. ’Twas no wonder Gunnar Olafson couldn’t keep his eyes off her…

  Millisent was staring again, her amber eyes big in her small face, her unruly chestnut hair fanning out in wisps about her head. This time she didn’t turn away immediately, and…Alfred blinked. She was smiling. A shy glance upwards and with it a very definite smile.

  Bemused, Alfred murmured some excuse to his companions and stumbled over to her on legs that didn’t feel as if they belonged to him.

  She was sewing again, but from the trembling of her hands he didn’t think she would get very far with it. Did he frighten her?

  The dark misery washed over him again. Aye, probably he did frighten her. He should walk right past her, forget her, pretend she had not stirred something in him that had been deep-buried ever since the Normans came and took away everything that mattered to him. He had never thought to make a life of his own—his life had seemed over, but now he found himself thinking of beginning something new, something fresh.

  There it was! That smile again, a little uncertain now, beckoning him closer, like a rush-dip in a dark cellar. Alfred stood a yard or so from her, hesitating. She was stitching furiously now, and just as he had decided he was mistaken again, and half turned to go, she gasped and dropped the needle. A bead of scarlet blood was bright against her fingertip, and as she stared down in dismay a droplet fell onto the clean linen and soaked in.

  Millisent lifted wide eyes to him. “It will stain,” she whispered, sounding as if she had just committed a crime every bit as heinous as her father’s.

  Alfred tried not to smile, but she must have seen the laughter glint in his eyes, because she frowned and turned her face away. Suddenly he was beside her, without remembering closing the distance. He squatted down by the stool where she sat, and reached out to take her wounded hand in his.

  Millisent stiffened, her face still hidden, but she did not try to snatch her hand back. Alfred thought that was a good sign. Slowly, carefully watching for any hint that he might repulse her, Alfred lifted her finger and touched it gently to his tongue.

  The blood was salty.

  Her hand trembled, and then abruptly relaxed into his. She turned to gaze at him, her lips parting, soft color staining her pale face.

  Emboldened, Alfred drew her fingertip into his mouth, sucking gently. Her eyes grew wider, and they were full of wonder. And that was when he knew. She did not mind his ruined face, when she looked at him she did not see the scars as something apart from him. She saw him, and she liked what she saw.

  Alfred held the hurt finger in his, examin
ing it closely. The bleeding had stopped, not that it had ever been very great. He was almost sorry—he had enjoyed the feel of her in his mouth.

  “You have made it better,” she whispered, and tears filled her beautiful eyes. “Thank you, Alfred.”

  Alfred had a feeling she was thanking him for more than this, but he did not ask. He did not want to break the spell. Instead he smiled and gently released her, rising to his full height.

  “Will you walk with me in the kitchen garden?” he asked her quietly. And instantly he wanted to draw the words back, afraid she would say no.

  Millisent hesitated, glancing down at her stitching, and he was certain then she was going to refuse. Her laugh tingled over his skin. She laid the linen aside, and held out her hand toward him. “Aye, I will,” she said, and Alfred grew dizzy with the promises he saw dancing in her eyes.

  Rose had been watching the door for hours. Or so it seemed.

  The mercenaries had spent the afternoon helping rebuild the village. Rose knew they had little time left before the harvest would have to begin, for then they would need every available hand to work from dawn till dusk in the fields.

  Now the evening meal was ready to be served and most of the household had already assembled in the great hall. A couple of hounds tussled together by the fireplace, until the foot of a passing servant separated them.

  Millisent had been following on her heels like a shadow all afternoon, and although the girl had been too dreamy to be of much use, Rose had not had the heart to send her away. Harold still resided in his cell, and there he would stay until Radulf came. Rose had made certain he was cared for, and repeated her promise to Eartha that all would be well…but in her heart she was sick. And yet how could she watch Harold die, or stand by while Fitzmorton tore Somerford to pieces? No, this was the only way.

  The meal could not wait any longer.

  Rose moved to the table on the dais, and glanced over at the hovering serving wenches. Reading her correctly, they clattered out to fetch the meal.

  Brother Mark was approaching, rubbing his hands together in anticipation—Rose had never met such a greedy man. “The boy…the messenger went off safely?” he asked her, leaning close so that no one else could hear.

  “Aye, he did,” Rose said, trying to ignore the crawling-flesh feeling that being close to Brother Mark always gave her.

  “Good, good.” He laughed, and then, sensing her surprise, subdued himself and looked away.

  Sir Arno wasn’t there yet. He had been delayed by some unspecified matter, and had sent word for Rose not to wait. What matter could keep Arno from his meat and his wine? Rose wondered, for he was nearly as greedy as Brother Mark.

  She had not spoken to him, not properly, since the incident in the village. Rose knew it would need to be done soon, but she shied away from it. Soft-hearted as she was, Rose did not like to hurt people, and she feared that in Arno she had handled matters very ill. If she had only known of his love for her, she might have tread more carefully, refused him in a way he could accept without losing face. Now he was angry and his feelings wounded.

  Now he was dangerous.

  She glanced up at the door again, and promptly forgot Arno and Brother Mark and everyone else.

  Gunnar had come at last.

  He approached down the length of the great hall with his confident, ringing stride, and simply everyone turned to look at him. As he passed his mercenary band, he paused long enough to murmur something in Ivo’s ear. The big dark man nodded seriously, and then Gunnar had passed on, climbing the dais to Rose’s table.

  Without Arno there, there was no bolster between them. When he sat down he was looking directly at her, and Rose felt her insides curl. This was the man who last night had held her in his arms, covered her mouth with his, and taken her body with his in a way that she feared had spoiled her for all others.

  “My apologies, lady,” he was saying with his lips. “I had a matter to attend to.” His eyes were saying something else altogether.

  “Everyone has matters to attend this evening, so it seems.” Rose’s voice was chilly with nerves.

  Gunnar gave her a questioning smile.

  “Sir Arno is also late,” she explained, gesturing to the space.

  He looked startled, as if he had only just realized Arno wasn’t there. His narrowed blue gaze flicked about the hall, taking swift note of everything and everyone. Rose waited until he had turned that piercing look back onto her. “Is there something wrong, Captain?” she asked him softly.

  She had leaned closer, and he too bent toward her, so that their faces were almost touching. “I am hungry, lady, that is all,” his murmur was deep and soft. His gaze slid lower, brushing her mouth, her smooth throat, the curve of her breasts beneath her red gown.

  Rose tried to catch her breath. Suddenly her mind was again filled with memories of hot kisses and gasping cries, and his hard body moving inside hers. Jesu, what was wrong with her? Why could she not restrain herself as she used to? It was as if a riverbank had burst within her, and now it was impossible to hold back the tumbling water.

  “I am sure the meal will arrive soon, Captain,” she managed, glancing rather desperately at the door to the kitchen.

  Gunnar shook his head. Beneath the table his hand brushed hers. “But later…when I hunger in the night, lady? Will there be aught for me then?”

  “Do you often hunger in the night?” she asked him, her voice strange, her flesh tingling.

  “That depends.” He was stroking her palm with his finger. Rose shivered—how could a touch so simple feel so exquisite?

  “Upon what?”

  “On the repast available.”

  The laughter bubbled up inside her. Rose bit her lip on the image of herself naked upon a silver platter, but her eyes danced. He was teasing her, stirring to life her waking desire in a manner no man had ever done before. When she had thought of men and women mating it had never seemed to her a matter for lightheartedness, for laughter and joy. It was a task, just like any other, part of the bargain that was made between them when they wed, or the way to make children.

  Now Gunnar had shown her another side to it, and Rose was delighted, despite feeling uncomfortably hot all over. Was this a preliminary to later, to tonight? When he came to her? Aye, there were promises now in his eyes, and her fingers had turned over and were clinging to his.

  “I want…” she began, her voice a shaken whisper.

  “Forgive me, lady!” Arno had arrived, shouldering between them, his face flushed and his eyes bright.

  Rose pulled herself back, physically and mentally. Had Arno heard? Seen? He did not seem to have, although then again he was not quite his usual self…She eyed him curiously. Arno was excited. Something had happened. She opened her mouth to ask for an explanation, too late. The servants had arrived with the food, and the chance was lost in the familiar business of serving and eating.

  Rose took a dainty bite of the fish pie, washing down Eartha’s fine pastry with a sip of her wine. Constance slipped hastily into her own seat, with an apologetic glance at Rose. “I was taking Harold’s meal to him,” she explained.

  “Why bother?” Arno had heard her.

  Rose turned to look at him questioningly, though she feared she already knew what he would say.

  “Why bother wasting good food on a dying man?” Arno did not surprise her, but she was dismayed at the loud heartiness of his voice.

  Quickly she looked down into the body of the hall, hoping no one else had heard. Several unsmiling faces were turned in their direction, and one of them was Millisent’s. The girl had lost the blush that had looked so pretty on her cheeks earlier, and her eyes were wide and afraid. As Rose, dismayed by Arno’s brutality, wondered how she could undo his damage, Alfred rose from his place with the other mercenaries and set himself down beside Millisent.

  The girl turned towards him, and something in her expression, something in the tilt of her head, told Rose all she needed to know. They
were in love. It surprised her, and yet…it was not such a surprise, surely? They had been thrown much together since the night of the fire, and Rose had discovered for herself how kind and sensible was Alfred. A reliable man, yet one who had also suffered, the sort of man who would greatly appeal to a girl who, in an instant, finds her safe world turned upside down.

  As Rose watched, Millisent reached out her hand and touched Alfred’s mouth, a light brush of her fingers, but it was obvious she would have liked to kiss him instead. And by the look in his eyes Alfred was more than willing to reciprocate.

  Suddenly Rose felt like an interloper, and turned back to her fish pie. Was that how she looked, when she watched Gunnar? Were her own feelings as easy to read as those of Millisent? Jesu, she prayed not! The thought made her cringe. How could she keep the respect and obedience of her people, if she showed no more sense than to become besotted by a handsome-faced mercenary?

  They would laugh at her! And Rose would not blame them.

  She did not look in Gunnar’s direction again. The sight of Millisent and Alfred had sobered her, frightened her, and woken her out of her silly dream. Instead she thought of Lord Radulf in his stout castle at Crevitch, receiving the message from Steven and then calling for his men and setting out for Somerford to make all right. Of course, then he would discover that, far from being the strong and sensible woman she had thought herself, Rose had been far too interested in enjoying Gunnar Olafson to see disaster approaching.

  Constance drew the brush through her lady’s hair, candlelight gleaming on the dark, glossy strands. It tumbled about her, feeling heavy on her back and shoulders, pulling at her slender neck as she sat on the stool wearing her thin robe. The weight of her lady’s hair seemed symbolic to Constance, and she wished there was some way of lightening her mood.