by Sara Bennett
“Believe me,” he said quietly. “The miller and his children are safe, for now. I have hidden them away from Arno and his friends. I thought I might have a use for them later, when Fitzmorton comes. He will pay well for them.”
The lie was more successful than his attempt at the truth had been.
Her face went white. “You monster, have you—”
“I agree,” he said abruptly.
She stopped, confused, her chest heaving. “You…agree?”
“I agree to your bargain,” he explained. “Fitzmorton would pay me with coin, but I prefer flesh. You were right, Rose, when you thought to tempt me with your body. I could take you now, but you would fight me, and I want you willing. I want you as you were before.”
She had nothing to say.
“I’ll be back tonight, lady,” and he came right up to her, looming over her. She flinched but stood her ground. He put his lips against her ear. “Be sure to let me in,” he whispered.
She nodded.
“But for now, give me a token of your honesty. Show me you mean what you say.”
“I…” Her eyes widened, glinted with anger.
“Quickly, or I may change my mind.”
She bit back the words she really wanted to say. Trembling, her hands clutching onto his tunic, Rose stretched up on her toes and fastened her mouth to his. He did not move, and with a frustrated groan, she began to kiss him, her lips soft and warm. It was enough. More than enough. Gunnar was suddenly kissing her back, hard and unstoppable, passion flaring like a lit torch inside him.
And then he was gone, the door slamming after him.
Rose staggered, hand to her bruised mouth, breath sobbing. How would she manage tonight? she asked herself, on the edge of hysteria. How would she play at lust, when she knew, to her despair, that she would not be pretending at all?
“Ethelred is here.”
Ivo’s voice was quiet beside him, but Gunnar hadn’t been sleeping. He sat up on his bed, and saw Reynard do the same. “And?”
“They are just beyond the woods. Miles and about twenty men. They are moving slowly, but even so we don’t have long, Gunnar.”
Not long, but long enough. Gunnar met his friend’s eyes and leaned closer. “Listen to me, Ivo. This is what we must do…”
He hadn’t come.
Rose had waited for hours, at first pacing in agitation, and then lying stiffly in her bed, eyes fastened on the door. Time after time she had imagined she heard him, her heart surging. But each time the door had stayed closed. He had not come, and now it was so late Rose doubted he would.
What did that mean?
Had he decided he did not want her after all? That Fitzmorton’s coins were more tempting than a woman he could take anyway? Had she not convinced him enough with her kiss? He had told her he wanted her willing, had she not been willing enough? Or had he sensed her true feelings?
And what are they?
That I loathe him!
Aye, that is obvious. Loathe him so much you can’t take your eyes off him. You want him, lady, don’t deny it. You want to reach out and undo the laces on his breeches and take his—
“No!”
Rose did not realize she had cried out aloud until the sound of her own voice echoed back to her. She swallowed hard, reining in her wild emotions. No. It would not do to think such things, even if she feared they might be true. Strange as it was, she had thrown in her lot once more with the mercenary. He might be a monster, but Rose knew deep in her secret heart she would rather bargain with him than either Miles de Vessey or Arno.
Was she mad to do so?
“Lady?”
Rose sat up, staring wide-eyed, her dark hair falling loose about her, the covers clutched to her chest.
“Lady? Open your door.”
There was a command in his voice—he was a man used to obedience. Rose was tempted to refuse or pretend she was still asleep, but what would be the point in that? He would probably smash down the door and then he would be angry with her. She had made a bargain with him, and if she went back on it then she would be compromising her own integrity, not his.
Rose climbed out of her bed, pulling her robe about her, and with her toes curling on the cold floor, walked to the door. He was a large shadow just outside it. The torch that usually burned on the wall had been doused—the smoke stung her nostrils. As she stood, confused, every sense suddenly alerted, another shadow joined Gunnar’s, and then another. Rose began to quickly close the door.
He caught it in his hand. Slowly, inexorably, he forced it back until, with a cry, Rose stumbled backwards into her chamber. Gunnar followed her and she squeaked, thinking he would strike her or—as she had once seen her father do to her mother—pick her up and shake her. He did neither. He walked right past her, to the window. The shutters creaked as he flung them open and peered out into the night.
Rose held her breath, watching him warily. Torches burned and flared by the gate, and in their light she could see Arno and Sweyn on guard duty. The Norman was strutting backward and forward, waving his arms and talking in an agitated manner. The Dane was standing with arms crossed over his chest, watching him steadily.
In the darkness of her chamber, Ivo had come up softly beside his captain. Behind them stood the one they called Reynard, with the swarthy good looks.
“What now?” Ivo’s voice was a deep hum.
“When Miles comes, you go down and play the part we agreed on.”
Ivo shifted as if he wasn’t happy.
Gunnar reached out and grasped his arm. “’Tis what Arno is expecting. I know you want to fight, Ivo. I know how you feel, for I feel it too, but remember there are more lives at risk here than yours and mine. If there is no fighting then no one will be hurt. These are innocents, Ivo, just as was your sister.”
Ivo nodded brusquely, but Rose could almost hear him grinding his teeth. “And you?” he asked Gunnar.
“I will take the lady.”
“They will want to see her—Miles is probably already dreaming about what he will do to her.”
Rose tried not to move, but the pictures they were conjuring were making her legs tremble. She grasped the curtained pole at the base of the bed.
“Find Constance, the old woman, and tell her to hold them off. Her lady is too frightened to speak or some such nonsense. And if they ask for me, then I am abed with some wench and you’re not brave enough to disturb me until I’m done.”
Ivo snorted a laugh. “It will be as you say, Gunnar.”
And he was gone.
Reynard handed something to Gunnar—a piece of clothing?—before he too turned and vanished into the darkness, leaving Gunnar and Rose alone. He was watching her, silhouetted against the faint light from the window. Rose had heard what they said, but she did not understand it.
I will take the lady.
Take her where? And why? Miles was coming—that was why Arno was waiting down there—and when he arrived all would be at an end. They would no longer pretend he was coming to oversee Norman justice. Fitzmorton wanted Somerford and Miles would take it for him.
The time for pretending was over.
“Do you think to gain ransom from my family for me?” she asked, and was pleased with the firmness of her voice. “There is only my father, and I fear he will think it a waste of good money. He was relieved to be rid of me to Edric, he will not want me back again, especially if he must pay for the privilege.”
He was silent. Rose did not like the silence, and she filled it, her voice not quite so steady this time.
“Do you mean to sell me to Lord Fitzmorton? What use will he have for me, when he has stolen my manor? Unless he wants to marry me to one of his men, so that he can tell the king the manor came into his hands justly. Is that it, Captain, is that what you mean to do?”
There were tears in her eyes but she would not let them fall. Her breathing sounded harsh in the darkness.
“Lady, we must go.”
Rose clenched
her fists and only just prevented herself from stamping her bare feet. “Answer me!”
“There is no time for answers. Your keep is about to be overrun by Fitzmorton’s men. You are not safe here. We must escape.”
Escape? Rose felt even more confused, but she put that aside and fastened onto another, more important matter. “I will not leave my people.”
“Your people will be safe enough if there is no fighting, and I have given those orders. It is you who are in danger, not your people. Get dressed now, lady. We have no time—”
“I will face them, not run,” she declared.
But he caught her arm and swung her around against him, her bare skin, only just covered by her thin robe, abraded by the coarse stuff of his breeches and tunic. His sword belt dug into her—she could feel every metal stud that decorated the leather.
“Miles de Vessey wants you,” Gunnar said with soft menace. “He will not wed you first, lady. And he is not like me—he will hurt you. And if you do not leave now, if you stay to face him, he will consider it an invitation to do as he likes with you. Ask Ivo. Ask him what Miles is capable of!”
He was angry. It took her by surprise. She wondered for the briefest of moments what it was Miles had done that was so shocking. And then the voice in her head was shrieking, drowning out all other thoughts.
Don’t believe what he says! Don’t trust him!
The truth was, she had no choice.
If she stayed she would surely die—or wish she had. If she left now with Gunnar Olafson she had a chance of escaping, even mayhap of finding her way to Lord Radulf. Saving Somerford and her people. Whatever the mercenary’s true plans for her, she might be able to outwit him, elude him, or, if worse came to worst, lull him with her body into believing she was no threat.
It came down to a simple choice. Leave now and take a chance. Stay and surely die.
“Very well,” she whispered, harsh pride overcoming her need to cry. “I will agree to come with you. Let me dress.”
He hesitated, as if he was not sure whether to believe her, and then with a brisk nod he released her. Rose hurried to her chest, taking out the first garments she touched and pulling them on. Her fingers trembled and fumbled with the ties, with the stockings. She moved to snatch up her hairbrush.
“Leave it,” he said sharply. “There is no time for more.” Beyond him, toward the woods, Rose could see movement. Shadows shifting beneath the starlight. Miles and his men.
She turned and would have swung her cloak about her shoulders, but he pushed the garment he already held in his hands toward her. “Put this on.”
Puzzled, Rose shook it out. It was a cloak, but older than her own, the cloth was thick and…She wrinkled her nose. There was an odor clinging to it that was familiar—grease, rancid meat, and incense? What did that remind her of?
“Put it on,” he said again, growing impatient.
Rose bit back her questions and slipped the cloak about her, trying not to shrink from its contact. At least it was thick and warm. Hastily she tucked her long hair inside as she pulled the hood lower over her face. She had barely finished when there was a soft tap on the door and Constance called for entry.
Gunnar went to let her in. When Rose turned, the old woman was behind her.
“Lady,” whispered Constance, her cold hand finding Rose’s. “They say Fitzmorton’s men are at the gate. You must flee.”
This was Constance, who sometimes annoyed her but more often had loved her throughout her years at Somerford. It occurred afresh to Rose just how dear the old woman was, and she returned the pressure of her clasp. “What if they hurt you? If my going will bring down their anger on you, Constance, I—”
Constance snorted with derision, as though her eyes were not shining with tears. “I am not afeared of them, lady! I have lived through some terrible times. Besides, I am old and can be stupid if ’tis necessary. I will make them think me half-witted, so they will let me be. Now hurry, go with the captain before ’tis too late.”
Gunnar’s hand pressed against her back. Rose found herself moving forward onto the darkened stairs. She glanced behind her, but Constance had already closed the door, and she heard the sound of the bar falling. Gunnar’s breath was warm against her ear. “Whatever happens, keep your head down, and say nothing.”
They started down the stairs.
Rose stumbled once, but he pulled her in against his body, holding her firm when she would have tried to wriggle out of his grip. His step was swift and sure, and they were soon at the entrance to the great hall. But they didn’t go that way, instead Gunnar turned down again, toward the kitchen.
The low room was dark and empty, apart from the gray kitchen cat and her kittens, curled by the oven. Gunnar moved silently through the room, to the door that led into the small garden. He unbarred and opened it and, after a brief glance outside, drew Rose after him.
Her head was immediately filled with the sweet and spicy scents of fresh herbs, and the earthy reek from the midden. Her cloak brushed against a rosemary bush, and then Gunnar was leading her onward again. They were close to the wall of the keep, moving in the direction of the bailey.
Beyond the gate, horses were clattering across the bridge. Miles and his men had made good time. “Open up!” The shout rang in the silence. “Open up in the name of Fitzmorton!”
“You, there! Help me!” Arno was beckoning to old Edward, who appeared too shocked to move. “Do as you are told, you dolt!”
Sweyn stepped forward, brushing by Edward and murmuring something to him at the same time. The old man stared at him a moment, and then slowly, sullenly, came to help unlatch and pull open the heavy wooden gate.
Rose turned to look up at Gunnar. His eyes were fastened on the stable, judging the distance, judging the chances of them reaching it unseen. And then what? How could they possibly ride out of Somerford Keep without being stopped?
“What will we do?” She was shivering. With cold or fear? Rose wasn’t certain.
Gunnar said nothing, but his arm tightened about her, drawing her in closer to his warmth.
Fitzmorton’s men hadn’t waited for the gate to be opened fully. They were already galloping in, the distinctive blue and yellow banner flapping at their head. Rose recognized Miles’s voice, carried eerily on the night air.
“Where is the lady?”
“She is in her chamber,” Arno replied promptly, destroying any hopes Rose might have had that he would stand up for her. “I have just now set a guard on her door.”
A guard at her door?
Rose shut her eyes with a dizzy wave of relief. She had escaped just in time.
“Good, good.” When she looked again, Miles had swung around and had begun shouting orders to his men. They were dismounting, some heading off across the bailey, others towards the keep. Edward and Sweyn remained side-by-side by the partly open gate, the old Englishman and the sturdy Dane.
Gunnar’s voice was so soft, it was like a thought against her ear. “Wait and watch. When you see me point to the gate, walk quickly toward it. Once you are outside it, run. I will catch you up.”
She stared at the shape of him, the glitter of his eyes. “They will know me!”
“But you are Brother Mark,” he said. “You are wearing his cloak. Keep your head down and walk as he does, and no one will ask you to stop. Why should they? Lady Rose is in her chamber with a guard at the door.”
Brother Mark! That explained the cloak—no wonder the smell had been familiar. “And if the real Brother Mark should come?”
“He won’t.” Gunnar’s voice didn’t change, but there was a coldness in it.
Rose opened her mouth to ask about Brother Mark, and then changed her mind. She didn’t want to know after all, she thought, hugging her arms about herself.
Gunnar stared down at her another moment, and then, seemingly satisfied that she would do as he had told her, he stepped away. But at the last moment she caught his arm.
“What of you?”
she whispered anxiously.
Something like triumph flared in his eyes, and Rose could have cut out her tongue. He thought she was concerned for his welfare! Worried for him! Even if that were so—which it was not—she would never have let him know it.
“If you are killed I will soon be recaptured,” she explained in a furious murmur. “So, Captain, answer me now. What of you?”
He smiled, that familiar tug at the corners of his mouth. “We need a horse,” he said patiently, and with that he was gone.
Chapter 16
She was alone.
Rose huddled back against the wall. The lack of his warm arm about her, his large comforting presence, left her empty. Jesu, what now? A sense of aloneness swept over her, and she realized with a sudden, deep sadness that she had always been alone. Her position and her past made it so.
Did it always have to be? There had been a moment, when Gunnar had held her in his arms. When Rose had almost believed she might have found someone who would stand by her. More than a dream, a real flesh-and-blood man.
She had learned her mistake, and it hurt.
Stop it, stop it at once! This is no time for self-pity, Rose!
The familiar scolding voice in her head was almost a relief. This was no time to lose what composure she had left. If there was ever a time for Rose to be the lady of her manor, it was now. She took a deep breath, and then another. Her body stopped shaking and her head cleared. After a moment she was able to lean forward and peep carefully around the corner of the garden wall.
Gunnar was walking across the bailey. The flaring torches turned his copper hair to gold and glowed on his tan tunic and black breeches. He moved as if he had all the time in the world, and nothing concerned him. How could he appear so? Rose asked herself. Why was he not as weak and terrified as any normal person would be in such a situation? Despite all that had happened, Rose could not help but feel admiration for him.