by Sara Bennett
“Don’t!” she said sharply, and looked over her shoulder, as if afraid she would see the deep underground cavern, the waiting warriors.
Gunnar bit his lip. She was truly afraid. Who would have thought the indomitable Lady Rose would be frightened of old English bones? Her weakness gave him a sense of hope that perhaps she needed him after all. Gunnar had always thought of himself as a protector. It would please him greatly to be able to protect Rose. Even if it was only from evil fairy tales.
“I am not afraid,” he said in his measured way. “Fenrir is proof against any danger, be it flesh and blood or spirit. He fights in both worlds.”
“Fenrir,” she repeated, eyes huge and dark in her white face.
“The great black Norse wolf. No chain could hold him. He would soon scatter your ancient ones.”
She sighed and closed her eyes, but her body remained tense, unable to relax back into sleep.
“Come lady, you have more to fear from Miles than from this place,” he chided her gently.
She opened her eyes and peered at him, as if trying to make out his expression in the fading light of the fire. “Do you believe we will defeat him, Gunnar? Will our trap work?”
“Of course.”
“And Radulf will come and save my people?”
“He will.”
She nodded, as if she were satisfied rather than relieved. Her mouth turned down, surprising him. She looked sad.
“You are not happy to hear this?”
Rose shook her head. “Oh yes, of course I am. I am very happy. It is just that…Radulf will not want me as his vassal after this. I will have to leave. My father may take me in.”
She said it without expression, as if it meant nothing to her, but Gunnar felt the shiver beneath her pretense. Rose was terrified. The idea that someone, anyone, had hurt her, made her suffer, rose in him in a great wave. He could not contain it.
“Who has hurt you!” he burst out so loudly that she jumped.
“Shh, Gunnar, you will wake—”
He swallowed hard, but his fists were clenched on his knees and the muscles in his arms bunched and tightened. “Then what is wrong. Tell me, and I will be quiet.”
She eyed him uneasily, but he kept the fierce look on his face, and after a moment the stiffness went out of her back and shoulders, and she bowed her head. It was a sign of capitulation, but he didn’t understand what it was she had given up until she began to speak.
Her voice was soft and low. He had to lean forward to hear some of it, but he heard most, and it was enough. She told a tale not uncommon in those times, one he had heard before. Rose, the solemn little girl caught between the brutality of her father and the instability of her mother, suffering the taunts of a selfish brother. Never a child at all. Taking on adult responsibilities despite her tender years, willing to give away her own happiness for the sake of others, longing for love and never finding it. Edric, perhaps, had loved her, in his way. Arno had coveted her. Her people loved her, but that was the sort of love children felt for a parent.
She felt guilt, because she had tried to hold fast to Somerford when she should have gone at once to Radulf. Instead she had thought to hire mercenaries and buy herself time to escape her mess. She had feared that if Radulf was made aware of the situation he would replace her.
Probably she was right.
Radulf would replace her.
He looked up and found that she was watching him. She was regretting that she had opened herself up to this probing. Gunnar felt her unease and distrust shiver across his skin. And he felt the weight of the burden her words had laid upon him. She had not asked him to take it up, Rose would never do that, but he was willing. Gunnar was good at saving people, and if anyone needed saving at this moment, it was Lady Rose of Somerford Manor.
He was her man. He had told her so, and it was the truth. Now he had a chance to prove it.
But Gunnar had waited too long to give her his answer.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said abruptly, and lay down on her side by the fire, pulling her cloak over her. Containing herself, holding her emotion inside, curling tightly about it. “I can sleep now.”
After a moment Gunnar also lay down, but he did not close his eyes. A wry smile tugged at his lips. His mother would laugh at him if she knew that he was contemplating giving up everything for the sake of a woman. He, the big strong mercenary captain, to whom women were weak creatures put on the land so that he could keep them safe and, when the urge was there, take them to his bed.
But he would never allow them into his heart.
And now it seemed as if one had found her way in there after all. Aye, he loved her. He had been like Fenrir, his Norse wolf, never chained, running free. Rose had chained him with his love for her, and he was glad of it.
He would do as he had promised, he would return Somerford to her, and then it would be her decision whether he left to continue his wanderings, or stayed by her side.
“Gunnar Olafson?”
Gunnar lifted his head and met the eyes of the boy crouched beside him. Barely old enough to grow a beard, thought Gunnar with a sigh, and yet brave enough to come with him and fight the Normans.
“Come,” the boy said urgently, beckoning at him.
Gunnar climbed to his feet, careful not to disturb Rose. She lay in a heap, only the top of her head showing from beneath the cloak. The boy led him to a vantage point upon a rocky outcrop to one side of the knoll. From there they could see the Levels spread out before them in the early morning light.
Fitzmorton’s men had fanned out, a dozen of them, some on foot and some in boats.
This was it, then. The fight he had been anticipating. A low hum of excitement started up inside him, and he rested his hand on Fenrir’s hilt. Soon, my friend, he thought. Soon.
And by God and Odin, Miles would be sorry then that he had crossed Gunnar Olafson and the woman he loved.
“Rose?”
She blinked and looked up at him, smiling before she remembered herself. The smile became tentative, then faded altogether before his stern demeanor. She turned away from him and carefully eased her stiff and aching body from the hard ground, biting her lip so as not to groan aloud.
Who would have thought that she would miss her bed so much?
“Are you hungry?” he was asking her calmly, as if this were just another day. “There is salt fish and some bread and goat’s cheese. We have to move quickly, Rose. Miles’s men are out searching for us.”
Rose was trying to imagine salt fish on a stomach already queasy with nerves and weariness, but his last words brought her up sharply and the fish was forgotten.
“We have made a plan, Rose. Tonight you will sleep at Somerford, that I promise you.”
She tried to read him, but other than the fact that he believed what he said, she could see nothing. Last night, after her bad dream, she had been weak and foolish, and had told him about her father and mother. What had she hoped for? Sympathy? A pat on the head and a never-mind?
She wished now she had said nothing. Obviously it meant nothing to him, and why should it? He had pledged himself to her, but he did not love her. My heart is my own to give. Rose could understand why a man who must sell his sword for coin would want to keep his heart safe. Why he would need one thing at least to call his own.
Then why was there a wistful longing inside her, that somehow she could steal or beg or borrow his heart from him? If he loved her enough, would he stay by her always? Would he be Radulf to her Lily?
Rose tried to imagine a life where a man loved her like that. Despite her faults, or because of them. It made her dizzy, as if she had drunk too much strong mead.
Gunnar was watching her, waiting.
Miles’s men were coming and they had no time for foolishness.
She knew then that he did not want a weak and feeble woman. He wanted strength and authority. She must be the lady of the manor again. For him, just for him.
“Thank you, Gunnar,�
� she said at last, and lifted her chin proudly. “Now tell me what I must do.”
Their narrow boat slid out into the open stretch of water, within clear sight of the searching Normans. There was a shout, but Gunnar was already turning the boat, with Rose clinging to the bow, back the way they had come. She turned to look, her eyes wide and dark and gleaming with excitement.
“They are very slow,” she said, and a smile tugged at her mouth. “Ah, now they are in their boats, now they are following.”
Gunnar paddled harder, edging between the tall reeds, ignoring the angry squawk as a bird crashed out of its shelter and took flight, the beating wings all but brushing his shoulder. He looked grim, determined—the man he had been the day he came to Somerford.
Behind them Fitzmorton’s men huffed and puffed, paddling with more splash than finesse. Their loud and angry voices floated over the water. She looked again. Miles de Vessey was not there—of course not, he would not come on such a mission, he would send his henchmen to hunt his enemies down through the mud and water. Then, when they were tied and bound securely before him, he would finish them off.
“They are closing, Gunnar,” she said anxiously.
“We are almost there.” His chest was heaving with the effort of keeping up speed, one man against a dozen.
Burrow Mump flashed by on their left, and then they shot out into the wide, reed-fringed pond they had decided on for their trap. Gunnar speared the boat into a tall screen of reeds just as Fitzmorton’s men entered the smooth water behind them. They were still paddling furiously in pursuit, and were more than halfway across the pool before they realized their error.
The mere men stood up, above the reeds, spears raised, arrows aimed. Cursing, Fitzmorton’s men attempted to turn their boats, desperately trying to find a way through. There was none. They were covered on all sides, and were at a disadvantage, being in their fragile boats in the middle of a deep pool. To their credit, when they realized it, they still raised their own weapons, preparing to fight it out.
Gunnar stood up.
“Give up!” he shouted. “We have double your number and more. Give up. What are you fighting for? Lord Radulf will come soon and take Somerford back and then he will kill you all. Give up now and your lives will be spared.”
He was expecting some argument, a show of bravado at least, perhaps even a half-hearted fight. Instead the men looked about them at the strange merefolk and then back at Gunnar Olafson, confused, wavering.
“Gunnar!”
The voice came across the Levels, echoing against the rise of the island. It was a voice Gunnar knew well. Startled, he straightened and peered over the reeds. There was a man standing unsteadily in a boat, his head bare to the sunlight, a grin splitting his face.
Gunnar would have known that wild black hair anywhere.
“Ivo,” he murmured. Then, with a shout, “Ivo!”
Ivo laughed, a low chuckle. “What are you doing to Radulf’s men, Gunnar? I don’t think you should kill them—Radulf might not like it.”
Chapter 19
The gate was wide open.
Rose urged her horse forward, damping down the fear inside her, needing to see what was inside and yet frightened of what she would see. She hardly noticed the men riding with her. Ivo was close behind her and Gunnar was in front of her. The rest were strangers—Lord Radulf’s men.
Ivo had told her the story. Radulf had set out for Somerford as soon as Alfred had arrived at Crevitch with Harold the miller and Millisent and Will.
Lily, told the bare bones of the facts, had given her husband a long, cool look and told him to mend his mess. Radulf had glowered back at her, but set off for Somerford immediately.
He had taken back the keep that same day. The easy victory had been a combination of the small army Radulf had taken with him, and the fact that Arno and Miles had not counted on Rose’s people inside the keep working against them. Miles in particular had thought to conquer the English with fear and threats, but old Edward and his cohorts had used stealth, waiting until Radulf was close and then opening the gate to him.
After a brief and bloody battle, Somerford was won.
“Thank God for it,” Radulf had allegedly said, when it was over. “I could not have faced my lady wife if I had lost.”
Rose had smiled when Ivo told her that. “You are alive,” she had added, looking him up and down. “I saw you die.”
Ivo had laughed, his smile transforming his fierce features. “Aye, ’twas a trick. Didn’t Gunnar tell you? We have used it before. I have returned to life more than once, lady.”
Gunnar had told her, and she had said she believed him. Now, with the evidence before her eyes, she realized that she hadn’t really believed him, not truly. Not until now.
She felt shamed by her mistrust, even remembering all the untruths he had told her. And then, as they approached the Somerford ramparts, she tried very hard not to feel anything at all.
“How many of my people have died?” she asked quietly of no one in particular.
Gunnar glanced at her over his shoulder. She wondered what it was he saw, for his usual tranquil expression wavered at the edges, and for a moment she saw tenderness in his eyes. It nearly undid her.
“Rose…”
“Lady Rose,” she corrected him savagely, afraid he would make her cry. She could not cry, not when her people needed her strong.
His face stilled. Too late she wondered if her words might have stung his pride, made him feel the lesser man. And then he had turned away, and she was gazing at his broad back and the fall of his copper hair.
So it was they passed through the gate into the bailey.
It was quiet. Everywhere Rose looked there were armed men. But when her eyes had grown used to armor and helmets and grim expressions, she noticed that her own people were also there. They appeared a little shaken and unsure, but they had lived through other battles and they would heal.
They even managed a ragged cheer at the sight of her.
Rose felt tears sting her eyes and lifted a hand in salute. Turning her head, she searched for loved faces, praying that none was missing. There was old Edward, standing tall and proud, his wrinkled face grimy, a cut on his cheek, but still grinning.
“Lady Rose!” he shouted. “God bless our lady!”
Others took up the cry, and Rose bowed her head, tears trickling down her cheeks. If this was to be her last homecoming, it was surely special. One she would never forget no matter what came after.
The horses had drawn to a halt near the keep. Blindly, Rose tried to tug her foot from the stirrup, but a firm hand closed over her instep, freeing her. Warm fingers caught her about the waist, strong arms lifted her effortlessly to the ground. Through her tears and tangled hair she had a glimpse of searching blue eyes, but when she would have retained her clasp on his arm, Gunnar moved back, away from her.
Keeping his distance.
Rose swayed, momentarily distracted, lost in a way she had never felt before. It was not weakness, for she knew now she was strong. It was a sense of lack, as if a part of herself were now missing because he stood too far away.
Before she could grasp the significance of this, a cry shrilled through the noise and chatter about her.
“Lady! Dear lady!”
Constance was hobbling down the steps. Rose ran forward with open arms to hug her. It was only as she held those fragile bones in her strong arms that she realized the old woman had a black eye.
“They have hurt you,” she gasped, her voice shaking with anger.
Constance chuckled. “I have had worse,” she retorted with bravado, though her mouth trembled. “When that Miles found you had gone, he hit me, so I fell down and pretended to take a fit. They left me be after that, lady.”
Rose put a hand to her lips, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. “But you are all right, Constance? Nothing is broken or—”
“No, lady, nothing is broken. I will live to see you give Somerford Manor an heir,
you may be sure.”
Rose shook her head, smiling.
“You should have seen Miles’s face when he knew it was Lord Radulf coming,” Constance went on, eyes gleaming with grim enjoyment. “I thought he’d piss his breeches!”
“Miles is gone?” Gunnar came and frowned down at her, his anger and disappointment palpable.
“Aye, Captain,” Constance replied, eyeing him a little warily. “He escaped before Radulf took back the keep. Gone back to Fitzmorton his master, I’ll be bound.”
She glanced at Rose as she said it, and Rose saw the concern in her face. The old woman was probably wondering if her lady would also be riding in that direction, before the sun had set that night.
Sweyn had followed Constance, and Reynard hovered behind them. Ethelred, his arm tied up in a makeshift bandage, looked pale but determined not to show he was hurt. When he stumbled and grimaced with pain, Ivo gave him an exasperated look and shoved him down onto a mounting block before he fell.
Gunnar was looking around him. “Where are the rest of Miles’s men? There were at least twenty. Did they all escape?”
“Radulf trussed them up and sent them back to Crevitch. They are his proof, he says, when he sends word to the king. Fitzmorton will be out of favor when his treachery is known—Radulf is a king’s favorite, after all. They found Steven trussed up beyond the woods. The boy was bruised but alive, but probably only because they meant to ransom him.”
Gunnar nodded as if that made sense to him. “And Arno?” he added.
Ivo looked to Rose and away again. “Sir Arno was slain, Gunnar. There was courage in it. An honorable death. After Miles had left him, he fought like a berserker. ’Twas as if he preferred death to capture.”
“Aye.” Gunnar also looked at Rose, coolly assessing her expression. “He knew what awaited him if he was captured.”
Rose closed her eyes against them both. Arno, dead? It was inconceivable. As if one of her family had died. Even though he had betrayed her, was a traitor, she could still pity him. She knew, when she thought of him in the days and weeks to come, that she would mourn the man she had once believed him to be.