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.

“Olafson!”

Arno had seen him approaching. “Where in the devil’s name have you been? What have you been doing?”

“There was a woman.”

Gunnar shrugged, and a smile warmed his voice. “As for what we were doing…”

“I thought you were too honorable for such things,”

Arno sneered.

“I am tired of being honorable.”

The humor vanished. “You were right when you said I am getting old and tired, Arno. ’Tis time to try my hand at corruption.”

“Captain!”

Ivo came running toward him out of the shadows.

Gunnar turned to face him—he appeared to brace himself. “What is it, Ivo?”

“They are taking the manor. We must stop—”

He got no further. Gunnar drew his sword from its sheath and took one step forward, burying the blade deep in Ivo’s side.

Rose felt her nails break on the stone wall, and yet there was no pain. Only a sort of light-headedness, as if she were watching a play. She could not seem to look away. As she watched, Ivo’s legs buckled and Gunnar caught him in his arms, as if he were embracing him, and then he simply let him fall. A dark stain spread and grew on Ivo’s white linen shirt. The big man gave a shudder and lay still.

Arno was staring at Gunnar as if he doubted his own eyes. He sidled uneasily around him as if he might bite, and dropped to his knees by Ivo’s side.

“He breathes,”

he said, his voice devoid of expression, but in the torchlight his face was pale. “Just. You have sliced him through, Olafson. No one can live long after that.”

Gunnar glanced down at his former friend impatiently. “He wanted to fight Miles de Vessey—they are not the best of friends. I thought it best if I put him out of the way.”

He caught the eye of Reynard, who was lounging nearby, as if he saw Gunnar kill one of his men every day. “Here, take this man away and find him somewhere to die!”

Rose watched as Reynard and another man came and lifted Ivo between them, awkwardly carrying him away. Gunnar did not even watch them go.

The sense of watching a play continued. She shook her head in disbelief, swallowing the queasy feeling clenching in her stomach. She should turn and run, back into the keep, find somewhere to hide. But where could she conceal herself so well that Miles and Arno would not find her? And besides…she doubted she could walk very far without collapsing on the ground. Her cheek was pressed so hard to the stones, the tender skin felt raw.

Rose took a shallow breath, blinking back tears. Why would Gunnar kill Ivo? Why do that, when he was in the process of rescuing her? It made no sense, nothing made sense…Gunnar and Arno were still in conversation. When the buzzing in her head had faded, Rose was able to listen again.

“We are taking Somerford for Lord Fitzmorton.”

Arno seemed to have forgotten Ivo already. “No point in waiting any longer, now Lady Rose knows the truth.”

“I see that.”

Arno shifted uncomfortably, as if he noticed something in the other man’s eyes. Or perhaps he just needed to justify himself. “It was always mine! Edric swore an oath it would be mine when he brought me here—he owed me a debt he could not pay. But then when he died he made me swear allegiance to his wife, made me swear another oath before them all! Where is the honor in that? Edric deserved to lose Somerford, but I waited, I hoped I could win it through fair means. Well, I am tired of waiting! Somerford is mine, and Fitzmorton is eager to help me claim it.”

“Or claim it for himself,”

said Gunnar softly.

Arno frowned. “Why so? I am his man, and I will serve him well. He knows when to value loyalty. I will rule Somerford, and he will be a step closer to taking Crevitch.”

“Where is Miles now?”

“I have sent him to fetch Lady Rose.”

“Sent him? I’ll wager he volunteered.”

“Sir Arno!”

The shout came from the keep. One of the original Somerford garrison was peering toward them, looking shocked and uncertain. “The lady has barricaded herself inside her chamber and refuses to let us in. Sir Miles is going to break down the door.” Arno swore and started toward him, pausing only to call over his shoulder, “Close the gate and set a guard on it!”

Gunnar turned and stabbed a finger at the gate. “Close that gate!”

he shouted. “Brother Mark? Come here and help them!”

Now was the moment. Now was when she must step out and make her escape. I cannot do it, I cannot do it…

“Brother Mark!”

he roared.

Rose pushed herself away from the wall and walked on wobbling legs into deadly danger.

Gunnar saw “Brother Mark”

appear from the shadows and more or less glide across the bailey. The figure passed by several of Fitzmorton’s men. None of them looked up. Arno half turned again, no doubt puzzled by his friend’s sudden appearance, but then a loud crash and a scream from inside the keep claimed his attention once more.

Gunnar shouted again, urging the men at the gate to hurry, and quickened his own stride. One of the soldiers’ horses was tied loosely to the handle of a cart, as if the rider could not be bothered to see the animal properly stabled. Gunnar grabbed the reins and tugged it after him; it was done so smoothly his action appeared perfectly normal.

Ahead of him he could see that Edward had stopped trying to close the unusually stubborn gate and was gaping at the approaching “Brother Mark.”

Sweyn, who had been using his own strength against Edward’s to hold the gate open, was trying to hide a smile. As the brother reached them, they closed around him, their bodies sheltering him from anyone watching. All three began to tug at the gate, and then suddenly there were only two. Brother Mark had slipped around the gate and vanished into the night.

In a moment Gunnar, too, had reached them. With perfect timing he swung himself up onto the horse and, with a telling glance at Sweyn, was also gone into the darkness. The gate closed with a dull thud behind him. He was safe…for the moment, but Gunnar did not pretend to himself that he had very long.

Rose had already reached the far end of the bridge, running, her skirts kilted up to her knees. Her pale undergown shone like moth’s wings in the darkness—he should have told her to wear dark colors. Gunnar didn’t even slow his pace a fraction, he simply reached down with one arm and snatched her up. She cried out and clung, and then he had her tucked safely before him.

Her hands, clutching at his forearm where it was wrapped about her, were icy. Her cloak hood had fallen back, and her dark hair blew into his face in a sweet scented cloud. “Did they see?”

she gasped, when she was able to speak.

“Aye, but they don’t believe it. Yet.”

Gunnar turned the stolen horse off the village road, heading across the pale fields toward the darker woods, and at the same time realized what he should have known before. The horse was lame. That was why its master had left it unattended—the animal was useless. It would not get them far.

Urgently he scanned the dark trees before them. It was possible they could hide out there for a time, but Miles would eventually find them with his hounds and his men. He looked toward the village, but there would be no help there, and the villagers could be killed simply for sheltering them. Crevitch was safe, and Radulf was probably even now waiting for word from him, but it was too far on foot with Miles snapping at their backs.

That left the Mere.

Why hadn’t he noticed that the horse was lame? Why hadn’t he noticed that Rose’s undergown was white? Why hadn’t he realized what Arno was up to and gotten her to safety long before now? Once such details would never have slipped by him. Since he had come to Somerford it was as if his mind had lost something of its alertness, its capacity for anticipating his enemies, its ability to think clearly.

Wryly, Gunnar admitted why that might be: he was more concerned with getting between the Lady Rose’s thighs than carrying out his mission.

There had been women before, plenty of them, but none had wound him up in a spell like this one. Suddenly he understood what his mother, Gudren, had meant when she said that he had not asked any woman to wait for him because he had not yet found the right one. There was something different about Rose, something unique and special. When he held her in his arms she just felt right.

He cursed silently, she had turned him into a lust-crazed fool! They were running for their lives, and here he was dreaming of a pretty future. And it was but a dream—it could never be real.

Gunnar came up over a rise and turned the laboring horse northward, heading for the place where the attackers had made their escape across the marshes.

The change in direction seemed to bring Rose out of her abstraction. She lifted her head, the scent of the salty Levels awakening her from her bad dream. “Where are we going?”

she asked, and her voice was sharp, more alert than it had been. Good, that was good.

“The horse is lame.”

Gunnar said it so matter-of-factly, she was momentarily deceived into thinking it was unimportant.

“Lame?”

He hesitated. “We have a chance on foot if we go into the Mere.”

She knew then the scope of the problem they faced. The lame horse was disastrous, but to escape on foot through the Mere!

Rose gazed out across the silvery marshes. On a clear night like this she could easily see the sparkle of water, the jagged rise and fall of reeds, and the lumpy shadows of the islands. But setting off into the Mere on foot? It was like another country, one unknown to her and therefore all the more frightening.

They would probably die.

As if reading her doubts, Gunnar said with his usual quiet confidence, “You will be safe with me, Rose.”

So easy to believe him, as she had believed him before. Well, she would not be fooled again. Rose gave a strained little laugh. “Will I? Will I be safe with you, Gunnar?”

“Aye, lady.”

He sounded surprised by her doubt. Oh, he was clever, so clever…

Rose turned her head and looked up, meeting his calm gaze, seeing the shape of his head against the starry night, the breadth of his shoulders. He was so strong—he exuded strength! And she so wanted to feel safe with him. But how could she? How could she ever feel safe with him again?

“You killed Ivo.”

The words were stark and unadorned.

His pale eyes gleamed silver, but she couldn’t read them. “Aye, so it appeared. Arno believes it, and so will Miles. They think him dead, or at least dying. Miles hates his brother—if Ivo had been alive, Miles would have killed him as soon as he knew I had escaped with you, lady. Maybe before.”

“So you killed him first?”

she choked.

“I pretended to kill him. There was a bladder of pig’s blood under his shirt, strapped about his waist. I punctured it. Ivo did the rest. ’Tis an old trick, simple but effective. Reynard will see Ivo is placed somewhere out of the way, and then it is up to Ivo to make his own escape out of Somerford to safety. Probably while they are hunting us,”

he added grimly.

Rose wondered if she were going mad. Was what he said now the truth? Ivo’s death had looked very real to her, but it could have been as he said…She remembered again the strange sense she had had that the scene she was witnessing was a play. And yet he had lied to her before.

Was there really a single word this man uttered that she could believe? She should insist he set her down. Now! She should insist on finding somewhere else to hide. Now! No one went into the Mere by choice—not unless they were merefolk—and even then it was generally believed they would rather be on safe dry land.

But Rose knew she had come too far to turn back. Even if she had a choice, even if he would have let her go. At Somerford Keep, Miles de Vessey was casting his greedy eyes on all that had been hers, and Arno, who had pretended to be her loyal knight, would be willing to tear her apart to get his share. And behind them all stood Fitzmorton, Radulf’s deadly enemy.

Fitzmorton, whom she hated most of all.

What was the point in struggling? She had no choice but to place her fate in Gunnar Olafson’s big scarred hands.

For now.

The ground sucked at Rose’s shoe, as if it had an insatiable hunger for calfskin. She tugged it out and took another step forward, lifting her skirts as high as she could, though they were already dripping and muddy at the hem, her stockings filthy to the knee. The air reeked with the smell of rotten vegetation and still water. In front of her Gunnar Olafson was a dark shape against a star-filled sky.

Rose followed him as if she had done so all her life.

Far ahead and to their left rose the sinister bulk of Burrow Mump. Although there was no moon tonight, the stars were very bright. Would the ghostly warriors rise from the earth? Or would they remain safe in their underworld home?

A loud splash and a curse interrupted her thoughts. Rose watched as Gunnar appeared to do a laborious dance on the quaking surface of the Mere, before he stumbled backward and sat down hard.

“Are you all right?”

She stepped closer, feeling her shoe sink again.

“I can’t find the path.”

Until this moment there had been a path, of sorts. A narrow strip of solid ground that snaked its way through the unstable mud and water. Gunnar had followed it carefully, deep into the Mere. Far behind them was the distant shape of Somerford Keep and its encircling hills, but that was all.

Rose sat down, too, no longer caring about her skirts, suddenly just too weary to be standing.

“They won’t find us now, will they?”

“We need to get to one of those islands,”

he replied. “Find somewhere to hide. When the sun rises they’ll see us out here, and they’ll get to us. Miles won’t let me have you if he can help it.”

She thought about that. “So this is a game between the two of you? Like tug-of-war? And I am the prize.”

“Maybe. But be sure of one thing, lady. I do not mean to give you up.”

He was staring at her earnestly in the starlight, but Rose refused to believe in him.

She made her voice chilly—why not, it matched her poor frozen toes. “You and Miles know each other well, don’t you?”

He straightened up, wiping his dirty hands across his tunic. “We have fought together from time to time, but his way of fighting was never mine. He has no honor.”

Honor. Aye, it was something Gunnar Olafson appeared to set great store by. But as Rose had learned to her cost, appearances could be deceptive. He was a liar and a brute, and yet still he spoke of honor. Well, why not put his honor to the test?

“Will you take me to Crevitch, to Lord Radulf?”

He seemed to be observing her in the darkness. Was he waiting for an explanation?

Rose turned her face away, staring at nothing, her voice struggling to be as emotionless as she wanted it. “I know Lord Radulf sees me as a weak counter in his game, something to be used and then discarded when it has lost its importance. But I must think of Somerford now, and he is the only one who can right the wrong. He has the men to fight Fitzmorton; I do not.”

“Radulf will listen to you, lady.”

Surprised, Rose turned again to face him. “You sound as if you know him.”

Her face was open, puzzled. She waited.

Gunnar was tempted to tell her the truth. Would she believe it? Earlier, in her chamber, she had preferred to believe him a murdering monster, and he had played along with her, making their bargain of the flesh. Now he wanted her to look through the pretense and see him. Even though it was probably already too late.

He took a chance.

“My father, Olaf, is Radulf’s armorer, my mother, Gudren, is midwife to Lady Lily.”

He spoke softly, in the matter-of-fact way that robbed the words of their power to surprise. “They are loyal to him and have been for many years. I have made my own way in the world, but Radulf is a good man, strong and true. When he asked me to come to Somerford in answer to your request for mercenaries, to play at being Fitzmorton’s man, I agreed. I was in Wales when his message came and I was glad to leave. I was tired of petty squabbles between barons who wanted more than they deserved, and this seemed like a chance to do something important, something that needed doing. Radulf was very…concerned.”

She was no fool. She understood what part of the tale he was leaving out. “You mean he didn’t trust me. Aye, well, ’tis to be expected. A woman, alone. The Normans think women are useful for breeding and no more.”

She flashed him a glittering look, and Gunnar knew she was remembering what he had said in the stable at Somerford.

The words had been for Arno’s benefit, but he chose to let it pass. Instead he laughed and said, “If Radulf was ever a typical Norman, then Lily has put him right! He sent me because he dared not upset her so near her time by coming down on you himself and demanding an explanation! Aye, it was underhand perhaps, but—”

“If all this is true, what did he offer you in return?”

Her quiet voice stopped him dead.

How did she know? Gunnar wondered. Again she had cut through his clever words and found the truth. Was she a witch? She looked mysterious and secretive in the night shadows, her face a pale oval, her eyes large dark hollows, her hair a black cloud brushed by starlight. And yet if he touched her skin, Gunnar knew she would be soft and warm, if he kissed her mouth she would be hot and needy.

She already suspected the truth, and it was a time to be honest, so he told it to her.

“He offered me Somerford Manor.”

She was silent a moment. “Ah,” she said.

Nothing more. No screams of hurt and anger, no agonized weeping, no recriminations. Gunnar would have known how to deal with all of those. But that soft “ah”

as if she had known all along that he was only after her land. He could say more, try and make her understand…There was no time.

First he must save her life. Then he could think about winning back her trust.

Gunnar stood up. Grimly, he looked about him. “I think I see where I went wrong,”

he said confidently. “Come. It will be dawn soon, and we have far to go.”

He reached down to help her to her feet.

Rose gave him her hand, but removed it as soon as she was up. He sensed her cool withdrawal and could not blame her for it. Gunnar sighed, and concentrated on the here and now. He moved forward again, finding solid ground, cautiously pressing on into the Mere. Ahead of them lay one of the many islands, this one a low, flat-topped mound silhouetted against the stars. If they could reach it before the sun rose, they might be safe for a little while.

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 was 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.