by Sara Bennett
Gunnar wondered if Ivo had escaped by now, following after Alfred and the miller’s family, to Crevitch. Had he found the messenger, Steven? Sweyn, Reynard, and Ethelred could take care of themselves. They would know how to read the situation and what action to take when and if it became necessary. Ivo had been the one he had been most worried about, Ivo whom Miles hated and would have killed for the flimsiest of reasons. ’Twas a shame Ivo had not dealt with his elder brother years ago, but to Ivo blood-family was sacred. In essence, Gunnar supposed, that was the difference between Ivo and Miles.
The island seemed to be getting bigger, which meant they must be getting closer. The solid path had given way to reeds, the land had given way to watery marsh. Gunnar searched along the bank, sloshing through the cold saltwater that reached up to his thighs, but there was no alternative. They would have to cross the pond—a width of about twenty feet—to the island. Maybe they would be lucky and the water would not be too deep.
Rose was watching him, and again he had the odd impression she was reading his mind. Odd, because no woman apart from his mother had ever been able to do that.
“Can you swim, Rose?”
She shook her head. He saw the movement clearly enough, and realized the darkness was lightening. Soon it would be dawn.
“Take off your cloak.”
She cocked her head to the side, uncertain, but he gave her a tired smile meant to reassure her.
“I am going to throw your cloak over onto the island, so that you will have something dry to put on when we get there.”
Slowly she drew open the ties at her throat, slipping the cloak from her shoulders and handing it to him. Gunnar unsheathed his sword, ignoring the way she stiffened at the sight of the dark, deadly blade. He bound the wool about the sword’s hilt and blade as best he could, then he stepped back, hefted the weapon in his hand like a spear, and threw it with all his might. The throw was good, and it reached dry land with plenty to spare. Gunnar turned back to Rose.
“When I am in the water, I want you to put your arms around my neck and hold on to me. I can swim with you upon me. You will be safe.”
She looked as if she would like to dispute that, but whatever words were clamoring behind her lips, she held them back. Gunnar stepped down into the water, sinking up to his chest in reeds. He felt her behind him, and then her arms wound about him, fingers clutching his shoulders, careful not to strangle him with her grip. She was trembling, and he felt the tremors in her body as it pressed to his. Was she cold? Or, more likely, was she afraid of him?
Gunnar waded out into the dark pool, deeper. The surface rippled, blurring the reflection of the stars. He heard her gasp as her feet lost purchase, her arms clung closer. At first she floated behind him, her gown holding the air and rising up about her in the dark water like angels’ wings. And then, as the wool grew soaked, her clothing sank, dragging her down. The weighty pressure on Gunnar grew. He had walked as far as he could across the pond, but in the middle the bottom quickly dropped away, and he had no choice but to swim.
He was a reasonable swimmer—he had learned early. But he did not often swim with another person clinging to his back. The weight of her clothing was drawing them both down, and he struggled to keep his even breathing from turning into gasps. She had linked her hands about his neck, and he felt choked. He reached back with one arm, and tried to shift her further up onto his shoulders, adjusting her weight more comfortably.
“Do not let me go.”
Her voice was a frightened whisper through chattering teeth.
“I won’t let you go,” he said quietly, as calmly as he could. And then his feet touched the muddy bottom, and he was walking, throwing himself forward with every ounce of his great strength, dragging them both through the tall fringe of reeds to the relative safety of the low island.
Rose’s clothing wrapped about her legs, hampering her when she tried to walk. She fell to her knees, bedraggled and exhausted. Gunnar left her a moment, circling the small island, ignoring the tremor in his own legs and the aching weariness in his head.
When was the last time he slept well? First his lust had kept him wakeful, and then he had plundered his strength in the heady joy of Rose’s bed.
As he had thought, the island was small and had little enough to offer them. Except—Gunnar smiled with satisfaction—on the far side and hidden from the distant shore was an obviously manmade structure of close-packed sods and turf. A shelter of sorts. A stunted tree grew over it.
He went back to fetch Rose. She was huddled over his sword, her cloak still twisted around it. As he approached he saw her struggling desperately to lift it, murmuring what could only be curses under her breath.
“Rose?”
He’d startled her. With a gasp, she dropped the weapon back onto the ground and turned to stare at him. In the pearly dawn light her face was near gray with exhaustion. Her gown clung to every curve, molding over full breasts and rounded hips, following the long line of her legs to where her muddy, stockinged toes peeped out beneath the hem. Her hair was like black waterweed, sticking to her white face and arms and back, furthering his impression of a drowned woman.
“If you want to slay me with my own sword,” he informed her gently, “you will have to learn to lift it.” And with a negligence that caused her to clench her jaw in fury or misery, he bent and lifted the sword with one arm, carefully untangling the cloak from the blade. He tossed Rose the dry garment, and slid Fenrir safely back into its scabbard.
“There is a shelter on the far side of the island,” he said. “Go and take off your wet clothing and put on the cloak. You will be able to sleep more comfortably then.”
She gave him a long, cool look—difficult, Gunnar thought with some amusement, when she was shaking and shivering like that. He stared back at her. She was no match for him, and eventually she turned and stalked off in the direction he had indicated, fighting to keep herself upright and her legs from buckling.
Gunnar gave her a few minutes.
When he went to join her, Rose had done as he said. Her wet clothing was tossed on the stunted tree to dry, and she was curled up inside the sod shelter, the dry cloak wrapped tightly about her. Her eyes were closed, but he could see from the way she was still shivering that she wasn’t asleep.
Slowly, Gunnar unlaced his tunic, slipping it over his head, following it with his thin linen shirt. Next he removed his boots and his sword belt—this latter he set close to hand—then his breeches. Naked, he half crawled, half walked into the shelter. Clearly the place had been built for men much smaller than he.
Rose hadn’t opened her eyes, but he knew by the tight look around her mouth that she had been listening to the sounds he made and knew he was undressing. Gunnar smiled to himself. It was flattering, but if she expected him to take her after what they had been through that night, then she was mistaken.
“I am cold, too,” he said matter-of-factly. “It is warmer for two together than one alone.”
She opened one eye and stared at him balefully. He took that as an aye, or near enough to one, and tugging the cloak out from under her, lay down beside her, lifting her head onto his shoulder and wrapping an arm about her waist. Carefully, he spread the cloak over them both, tucking it in about them. It was only just big enough, but the heat of his body was better than any cloak.
She shivered a little longer. Her skin was cold and damp, and although it appeared as if she had wrung out her long hair and twisted it loosely into one long rope, it was still sticky with saltwater. Slowly, as his heat enveloped her, Rose’s body began to relax. Instead of holding herself stiff and aloof, she snuggled closer in against him, her breasts squashed up against his chest. When he lifted his thigh over hers, drawing her in even further, she groaned softly.
Maybe he wasn’t so tired after all, Gunnar thought, as he felt himself become half aroused. But there was no urgency. It was a good feeling, a comfortable feeling, and he didn’t need to do anything about it. Oddly, there wa
s comfort in simply lying with her in his arms.
Gunnar lay watching the dawn break through the low doorway of the shelter, watching the rising sun cast long shadows over the Mere. In front of them was more of the same—water and islands, stretching on and on. But there was also something else, something well worth seeing. A boat, a small narrow craft, lay half hidden in the reeds on this side of the island. At least from now on they would not have to get their feet wet.
Gunnar smiled with satisfaction as he closed his eyes at last.
Chapter 17
Daylight brought birds. A great cloud of them wheeled up over the Mere, crying out raucously. They splashed and dived into the glistening water, hunting out their first meal of the day. Fish jumped or darted silver in the dark water, and the insects fluttered and buzzed, intent on making the most of their short, busy lives.
There was such abundance here—Rose had not expected it to be like this. Looking from her keep window she had seen the mystery of the Mere at night, the flat stretches of mud and water channels during the day. Her people caught fish and eels at its edges and made salt by evaporating away the water in shallow troughs. But here, in the midst of it all, Rose experienced a sense of wonder.
Gunnar had left her to dress in her still-damp clothing, and when she had finished she went in search of him. He was standing in the reeds with a boat. It was narrow and made of timber, and he seemed to be inspecting it for any rotten patches or holes. Sensing her presence, he glanced up at her with a grin.
Like a boy who has surprised even himself with his cleverness.
Rose felt her stomach lodge in her shoes. Desperately she tried not to stare as his wrinkled, salt-stained clothing clung to his muscular body. His copper hair was stiff and tangled into ringlets from his swim in the pool, and golden stubble softened the strong line of his jaw. Only moments before she had been lying in his arms, completely enclosed within his hard strength, soaking in his body heat to the marrow of her bones.
Her feelings confused her.
And frightened her.
When he had killed Ivo, she had hated him, although she was tied to him by their escape. And then—and she still wasn’t certain of the truth of this—he had told her Ivo’s death was a trick, and he was not Fitzmorton’s man after all, but Radulf’s man. He was a spy for Lord Radulf, and his reward for rooting out Arno’s plot was Somerford itself. Her lands, her manor, her people.
She should hate him for that.
Why couldn’t it be that simple?
The boat must have been in good order. Gunnar was holding out his hand toward her. “Come, lady. We must go now. Miles is probably fast closing in.”
Miles de Vessey was the demon that was driving them farther into the Mere, and farther away from her home. If she should hate anyone, then it was Miles de Vessey.
Rose gave Gunnar her hand. He helped her over the tangle of reeds and into the narrow boat. Then, when she was settled, hands clinging to the sides, he climbed in himself. The boat was very small, and their combined weight made it low in the water. Gunnar had no oar, but he used his sword, using the broad blade to propel them across the next wide stretch of water.
The waterways of the Mere were interconnecting. Small channels ran through reed beds and more solid looking marsh, and they followed these, sometimes needing to backtrack, on and on toward the farther islands. Rose grew used to the ever present screech and squabble of birds, and the creatures themselves seemed hardly to notice them, apart from dodging cannily out of their path. As their boat slid along, a mother duck paddled furiously away from them, its half-grown ducklings following in an erratic line.
Rose smiled in delight at the picture they made, and before she remembered, had glanced at Gunnar to share her pleasure.
He was watching her.
Her smile faded and she turned back hastily to her previous occupation of staring straight ahead and trying not to notice the movement of the muscles in his arms as he piloted the boat, or the way he narrowed his blue eyes against the brilliance of the day. He truly looked the part of a Viking now. One of those raiders who sailed over the seas intent on carnage, Rose told herself angrily. A thief and a murderer and a liar, that was Gunnar Olafson.
Then why did her heart feel sore in her breast? Why did she long for things to go back to what they had been before, when he held her in his arms? When he looked at her with heat and longing in his face?
Before she learned the truth. Whatever that was!
“See over there?”
Rose looked up. He was pointing to a larger island; it appeared green, almost lush. There were even trees growing in a copse at one end, and wisps of dirty mist rose from the middle. Or was that smoke? Rose sat up straighter. Smoke meant people, a village. Smoke meant food, and Rose realized suddenly that she was very, very hungry.
“I think there are buildings.” Gunnar spoke her thoughts aloud. “We need food and shelter, Rose.”
“Merefolk?” Her voice was uneasy, and she clutched the sides of their fragile craft and ignored the rumbling in her stomach. “But will they harm us?”
“I’ll protect you.”
She looked at him with angry eyes. “Why do I find it so hard to believe you when you say that?”
Aye, she was angry! And the feeling was growing nicely as she fed it with images of his perfidy. He was like Arno, only worse. Even Edric, kind gentle Edric, had lied to her. He had promised Somerford to Arno and then perjured himself in Rose’s favor. What had he thought would happen? Rose supposed he had expected her to wed again, to someone strong enough to hold tight to her manor. He would have believed her too timid to stand alone.
But she had. She had kept Somerford safe…until now. Now, when Gunnar, who should have been the answer to her prayers, had instead become her nightmare.
He had betrayed her. Like all men, he was not to be trusted and certainly never, ever to be loved.
Love no man, for he will surely destroy you if you do.
And now what would become of her? Even if she could reach Radulf and save Somerford, her own life stretched before her, an exile at the whim of others.
Rose felt her lip tremble and turned her face away, staring in the direction of distant Burrow Mump, so that he could not see. She had dreamed again last night, dreamed of the ghostly warrior on his gray horse. This time as he lifted her onto his lap, he had bent and kissed her. And his mouth had been Gunnar’s mouth.
He had even taken her dream now, stolen even that small solace.
“I am a mercenary.” His voice sounded as usual, calm and controlled. But there was something more in it—a trace of urgency—that made her listen despite keeping her gaze fixed in the opposite direction.
“A mercenary has no land, Rose. He fights and is paid for it. I fight well—I am strong and well taught. I have my own band of loyal men who follow me. They trust me, and I do what I can to ease their lives.”
“Except that you killed one of them, although you tell me that was pretense. Am I to believe every word you say?”
He shot her a sideways glance, but otherwise pretended he had not heard her. “Being a mercenary is what I do best, but no mercenary can live forever. I see my death, Rose, and it does not make me happy. One day I will be too slow to see the blade swing down, and that will be my end. Buried by strangers in a strange place.”
She said nothing, but her body quivered with his words as if she, too, could see that final day. And sense the loss of him.
“This past year I have felt the painful need of something more. My own land, my own woman, and the children we can make together. I am tired of this mercenary life. I have much to give, Rose, and I want to give it for those who mean something to me, not some weak-chinned Norman baron, greedy for English land. When Radulf offered me Somerford, it seemed like the answer to my dreams.”
He sounded sincere. If she had not known better, Rose would have believed him, mayhap even sympathized with him. But Rose did know better.
“And it did n
ot occur to you, after Lord Radulf offered you Somerford Manor, that it already belonged to me? And that my people were perfectly happy with that arrangement?”
He hesitated. No doubt wondering whether to lie again, Rose supposed furiously. “The thought of having my own land tempted me. When I first came to Somerford Manor I could see myself biding there, and the people needed protecting—I could protect them. How was I to know whether you were to be trusted? You had sent for mercenaries behind Radulf’s back—or so he said. You appeared to be in league with your knight, plotting against him. At worst, Radulf thought you were tight in Fitzmorton’s hand, scheming with him to steal Crevitch. At best, you were a weak, easily led fool.”
Rose looked down into the water and saw it not at all. Her vision was blurred by tears of rage.
“Arno asked Brother Mark to write the letter,” she said through stiff lips. “I sealed it as he asked, when he told me what was in it. He lied about that, and then he must have sent the letter to Lord Fitzmorton. I suppose that makes me the ‘easily led fool.’”
“Rose…”
“No! Go on, tell me the remainder. I’d like to hear more of your fairy tales.”
His voice became even more matter-of-fact, as if he had set himself a task and meant to see it through. “One of Radulf’s men intercepted the letter. It bore your seal. He sent for me, and I went to Fitzmorton and made myself known—Miles was in the north then, or it never would have worked. When the letter arrived, I was given the job. I did not know what the plot consisted of at first, or even if there was a plot. But soon I understood it was Arno’s idea entirely, and that you were innocent.”
“And all this you kept to yourself and lied.” Rose wondered how she could sound so calm—she felt hot and cold with her anger.