The Rose and the Shield

  SARA BENNETT

  The Rose and The Shield

  Contents

  Prologue

  Rose leaned on the sill of her solar window and…

  Chapter 1

  The small band of mercenaries rode out of the shadows…

  Chapter 2

  “My lady!”

  Chapter 3

  Rose felt rattled; she needed time by herself.

  Chapter 4

  At least the mercenaries did not eat like wild…

  Chapter 5

  Shock gripped Rose, but almost immediately she had regained her…

  Chapter 6

  She was standing on the keep steps with the…

  Chapter 7

  Rose was pretending it hadn’t happened.

  Chapter 8

  Rose awoke, bleary-eyed, to begin her day. As she dressed…

  Chapter 9

  Miles de Vessey had finished viewing the body by the…

  Chapter 10

  The warmth of dawn was softening the harsh lines of…

  Chapter 11

  “Harold?”

  Chapter 12

  Someone was nuzzling against her nape, breathing in her…

  Chapter 13

  “Steven?”

  Chapter 14

  “Lady?”

  Chapter 15

  Constance found Gunnar Olafson in the great hall. He was…

  Chapter 16

  She was alone.

  Chapter 17

  Daylight brought birds. A great cloud of them wheeled up…

  Chapter 18

  “Gunnar Olafson?” It was Godenere’s voice from beyond the doorway…

  Chapter 19

  The gate was wide open.

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  Somerford Manor, the Southwest of England 1072

  Rose leaned on the sill of her solar window and gazed out into the darkness. Lonely and alone, four years the Lady of Somerford, one a widow, she stood in the night and felt the trappings of her position slip from her. Here, now, she was simply Rose, a woman waiting…

  There was no moon tonight, not even a hint of one, only the starlight to see by. Dreamily, Rose’s gaze followed the faint, silver curve of the river Somer, to the ford that had given her manor its name. Then on past the village, past the meadows and cultivated field strips to the woods that covered the hills curling in a protective arc around Somerford from south to west. But as usual on nights like this, Rose’s gaze soon strayed northward. Away from solid land, to the pale shimmer of water and the white breath of mist lying in the hollows and damp places.

  Somerford Manor was situated on the edge of the Mere—a vast salt marsh fed by the sea—which covered much of central Somerset. In some parts it was called Avalon, and in others the Levels, but around Somerford it was called, simply, the Mere. Here, sedge and rushes and furze thrived and the merefolk lived on low islands, growing their crops in the tenuous soil and traveling in boats. Sometimes they made trackways above the mud with stout poles and sods, hoping the winter floods would not wash away their efforts and isolate them once more.

  A strange, watery existence.

  When morning came across the Mere, Rose knew she would see the islands, but more particularly the high, mist-shrouded knoll of Burrow Mump, rising from the waters like some strange, mythical beast. It was rumored to be an old Briton burial place, although the Somerford villagers’ superstitions had furnished it with a far more romantic tale.

  On dark nights, they said, like this one, when the Mere lay still and quiet and mist swathed the land, on such nights as this a great legion of the old gods sprang up from Burrow Mump. From the earth itself they would rise up and ride out on their warhorses over the treacherous, marshy Levels. And they never sank in the mud or stumbled, for the hooves of their magical mounts never touched the ground. They rode in a great cloud, like a coming storm, and sometimes rumbling could be heard as they approached. On their heads they wore horned helmets, like the Viking raiders of old, and their chests were bare and gleaming, and their eyes were shining with a hot and frightening glow. And if, ’twas said, anyone should be so unwise as to peek out through the shutters to see them, then the old gods would swoop down with a great rush and snatch up that foolish and curious person.

  And carry him away.

  To what? Rose wondered, with the cold night air on her face. A life of slavery in their dark underground hall? A fearful death? Or a long captivity as wife to one of them? For, she reasoned, if they were all men, these wild creatures from Burrow Mump, might they not long for the soft arms of a woman? Just as Rose longed for the arms of such an imaginary man—a strong man, a man who would love her and none other.

  Real love, flesh-and-blood love, was something she never allowed herself. But she could pretend…

  Lady Rose, widowed, lonely, burdened by worry for her manor and people, often found herself thinking of Burrow Mump. She was not overly superstitious, but sometimes on dark nights like tonight she found herself opening her shutters and leaning out—as if daring the old gods to find her.

  And often, alone in her bed, she would dream of those ghostly warriors. Dream she was riding before one of them on his horse, the taste of the salty marsh wind on her lips. His strong arm would be hard about her waist, unrelenting, and yet comforting in its claim on her. Mine, he would say in a voice without words. And then, in her dream, if she turned and looked up she would see the cold shape of her captor. Only he had no face; it was always veiled as if by a mist. She strained to see beyond it, but she could never make out his features. Whoever the warrior was, his identity was forever hidden from her.

  Perhaps it was better so, she thought matter-of-factly. Perhaps in not knowing she was saved from disappointment.

  And yet… Rose leaned perilously far from her window, gazing out into nothing. And yet I long to see him, and I will never be happy until I know his face as if it were my own.

  Chapter 1

  The small band of mercenaries rode out of the shadows of the forest and drew to a halt. Their leader, Gunnar Olafson, narrowed his blue eyes against the June sun. He looked across the meadows of ripening wheat to the dark rise of keep and ramparts, and beyond that to the vast expanse of the marshes.

  This was Somerford Manor, and it was not as he had expected.

  Gunnar had seen so much waste in his travels about England, good country lying fallow for want of enough men, or the will, to plant it. Though he was no farmer, it hurt Gunnar bitterly, in some fundamental way, to see the land so abused.

  The coming of the Normans had meant more than a new system of government; in many cases it had meant an entirely new way of life. Such changes could not be wrought in a year, or even six. It would take a long time for prosperity to return to England.

  Gunnar had been prepared for similar chaos here at Somerford. Instead he gazed on a golden harvest so abundant the grain was almost bursting from the fields, and the soil beneath appeared well cherished and rich. He could not help but wonder if this was the Lady Rose’s doing.

  He did not want to think so.

  He did not want to think well of her.

  Gunnar rarely associated with Norman ladies, and this particular Norman lady was already his enemy. Although he had never met Lady Rose, he was prepared to wish her ill.

  “There are strong wooden ramparts around the bailey.” Ivo, his second-in-command, leaned closer and gestured across the fields with his black-gloved hand. “And within the wall there is a stone keep—there are not many stone keeps built on manors as small as this. Aye, their defenses look good, Captain. They are prepared.”

  “But prepared
for what?” Gunnar said in reply. “Are they hoping to keep out Lord Radulf’s enemies? Or Lord Radulf himself?”

  Somerford Manor straddled a corner of the great Lord Radulf’s Crevitch estates, and shared boundaries with the lands of Lord Fitzmorton and Lord Wolfson. Gunnar knew that neither of these latter two barons was an ally of Lord Radulf, the legendary King’s Sword, and both were wont to turn greedy eyes in his direction.

  Lord Radulf had sent to Wales for Gunnar and his men because he had a bad feeling about Somerford Manor. An itch, he had told Gunnar in his low, husky voice. The itch had begun when he accidentally intercepted a sealed letter from Somerford to Lord Fitzmorton, asking for help in obtaining mercenaries. He wanted Gunnar to scratch it, while at the same time not upsetting his wife, the Lady Lily, who had made Lady Rose her protégée…

  “You really believe this Lady Rose is in league with Lord Radulf’s enemies?”

  Gunnar shrugged off Ivo’s question. “This is what we have come to find out.”

  “They will not suspect us?”

  “They have sent for mercenaries and that is what we are. Why should they suspect us? They do not know it is Lord Radulf’s orders we obey.”

  “And if the job is done well, then Radulf will see you have Somerford Manor as reward, Captain.”

  “Aye. But for those of you who want to stay here with me, there is a welcome place. For those who want to go, there will be recompense.”

  The others murmured their agreement, but Ivo shot his captain an uncertain look. “We have never dealt with a woman before, Gunnar.”

  Gunnar shrugged off Ivo’s doubts. “A traitor is a traitor whether it be man, woman, or child. We will do our job, Ivo, as always. It may be our last.”

  Ivo nodded and scratched his chin. “Our last, aye. You know I am with you, Captain, as always.”

  Unsmiling, Gunnar turned to look at each of them, feeling the weight of their lives heavy in his hands, memorizing their faces. These five men had been with him for more years than he cared to remember: Ivo, Sweyn, Alfred, Reynard, and Ethelred. They trusted him, they relied on his steel strength and calm stillness, and they in turn gave him a reason to stay alive in a world he found increasingly lackluster.

  Their fellowship was coming to an end.

  “Follow me,” he said quietly, and knew they would.

  Gunnar led them from the shadowy forest and along the rough track in the direction of Somerford Keep. The meadows of wheat waved about them.

  What would it be like to be master of all this? To be lord of Somerford Manor? Certainly he would have no trouble protecting and fighting for the land and the people; being a mercenary had taught him well when it came to warfare. But a man, even a lord, could not be always fighting. Mayhap he would marry as his mother was always telling him he should.

  I am an old woman. I need grandchildren, my son. And you need a wife. If you remain alone you will grow bitter and nasty, and you do not want that, Gunnar, do you?

  He smiled at the memory of her voice, her pale eyes all but closed and yet seeing so much. He had made her wait a long time, but maybe at last the moment had come. Soon, if his future turned out the way he hoped, he would need a wife. Not a Norman lady—they were for the wealthy or the ambitious, and being neither, he had no use for them. No, give him a good earthy peasant woman. Someone he could hold without fearing she might shatter, or kiss without going down on his knees for permission. A plain, good woman to keep him warm at night; that was what he needed to cure this melancholy that had lately afflicted him.

  Aye, a woman in his bed and his own land beyond his door!

  “The gate is open.”

  It was Ivo who spoke, drawing him back to the matter at hand. Gunnar frowned. The gate was open. Wide open. Such a lack of caution or care was not good. If they had been a band of outlaws, they could have ridden straight in. Five minutes, and all who lived would have been dead.

  Had the Somerford garrison grown so careless that they had forgotten such simple precautions? Any lord or lady who neglected fundamental laws for the protection of people and property deserved nothing but contempt.

  Gunnar and his men clattered across the narrow bridge, its sturdy legs straddling the deep ditch outside the wooden ramparts. The bridge was approximately the width of a cart, and they were forced to ride in double file, therefore exposed to the dangerous fire of arrows and slingshots from the walls above—if there had been men there to loose them. Gunnar noted that there was not even a single guard to give warning.

  His face hardened.

  The Lady of Somerford had much for which to answer.

  “I will speak for us all,” he reminded them, as they followed him into the bailey. “Take my lead. And remember, we are men who will do anything for money…even change our loyalties.”

  Ivo nodded, and Gunnar felt a surge of affection and gratitude for the dark brooding strength of his friend and second-in-command. Many times in the past Ivo had been at his back, and now it would be so again. One last time.

  Inside the bailey there was plenty of activity, and for a moment no one seemed to notice them. A couple of oxen bellowed their resentment at being harnessed to a cart filled with wood. A smith was busy in his open forge, the smell of fire and metal so familiar to Gunnar that he breathed it in with pleasure. A trio of women were drawing water from a well, gossiping, laughing. One by one they stopped, gazing in alarm at the newcomers, though more particularly upon Gunnar himself—and now the women’s eyes widened in admiration.

  Gunnar didn’t pay any attention to the staring women. They had turned to look all his life—ever since he was old enough to be called a man. Not that there hadn’t been times when he enjoyed their bedazzlement to the full, but their admiration did not make him what he was.

  Tall and broad-shouldered, Gunnar was aware that his chain mail tunic made him seem more so, and as he removed his helmet, his hair caught the sun like a fortune in copper coin.

  Physically he was a big man, very much as he imagined his father Olaf the armorer must have been in his youth, his upper body grown muscular from wielding the swords and battle-axes made by his father, or working in the forge beside him when he was young. His dark red hair was worn long to his shoulders in the English fashion, and twisted into narrow braids either side of his face. His eyes were the dark blue of the oceans his ancestors had crossed so readily to raid unwary shores.

  Slowly, all around them, the comfortable bustle of the bailey had fallen silent. Now, each and every one of Lady Rose’s people was still and staring, totally focused on the new arrivals.

  Gunnar was aware of the picture he and his men presented—hardened warriors in rough coverings of wool and hide and metal, armed for battle. Men for whom no crime was too great, or too unspeakable.

  They were a pack of wolves set down in a dovecote.

  “Ah,” said Gunnar. “Now they are afraid. Now that it is too late.”

  “There are no guards,” Ivo added, glancing about. “A few men, but they are either unshaven boys or ancients. Maybe the gate was open because it required too much strength to close it.”

  Sweyn chuckled, and then the smile slid from his face. “Someone comes, Captain.”

  Gunnar looked up, wiping all expression from his own face. The approaching figure was that of an older man with close-cropped dark hair streaked with gray. He wore a sword at his hip, and beneath his well-made brown tunic and breeches his body appeared sturdy and strong. Clearly a Norman knight—it was there in the arrogant way he walked, the hard look he gave them. Gunnar’s information was that this man was probably Lady Rose’s lover—and her coconspirator in treason.

  “Sir Arno d’Alan,” Gunnar observed softly to his companions.

  Silently the band of mercenaries watched him approach. Gunnar’s men were used to being insulted by such as Sir Arno d’Alan, and from the expression on the knight’s face, today would be no exception.

  “State your business,” the Norman knight demanded, dark eyes narro
wed as he peered at them against the bright sky, taking in their disreputable appearance and the casual way they sat their horses. In fact he was at a disadvantage on foot, but he acted as if he were not.

  “I am Gunnar Olafson,” Gunnar replied in a measured voice that conveyed his thoughts not at all. “Captain Olafson. And these are my men. We have come in answer to your need for fighting men.”

  “Olafson…?” Sir Arno frowned, and then the lines on his brow cleared as he understood, his arrogant mask slipping into something more calculating. “The mercenaries. Ah, then, Captain, I am Sir Arno d’Alan, and this is Somerford Manor. I had heard that a troop of men was coming to our aid, but I did not expect anyone so soon.”

  “Your gate was open.”

  Gunnar stared down with expressionless blue eyes, one hand on the hilt of his sword. There was no criticism in his voice, but Sir Arno seemed to sense something. His lord-of-the-manor pose slipped.

  “Open, you say?” Arno glanced across the bailey as if he hadn’t noticed before. “Mayhap the Lady Rose gave the order. That need not concern you.”

  Gunnar considered whether to disabuse him of that fact, and decided against it. Arno would learn soon enough that any place where Gunnar Olafson was became his concern.

  “You know why you are here?” Arno’s voice was sharp, authorative, and all business. His eyes were sly, as watchful as a cornered fox.

  “You are paying us.”

  It was the literal truth. “Yes,” the Norman knight said slowly, “I am paying you. Therefore you will do exactly as I say.”

  Gunnar nodded, his blue eyes cold. “We will do most things for money, but if you want women and children killed you’ll have to pay us extra.”

  Sir Arno was nonplussed. Gunnar could see the questions in the man’s eyes: Is he jesting? Should I fear him? And then the mental shrugging of his shoulders, the reminding himself of his better blood and breeding, the unshakable confidence in his own authority.