Chapter 18

“Gunnar Olafson?”

It was Godenere’s voice from beyond the doorway in the shadows.

Light was fading from the day, and Rose had been asleep in the smoky darkness, lying in Gunnar’s arms. They had not left the hut, and when food was brought to them, a crowd accompanied the meal and then faded away with the emptied dishes.

Rose’s villagers believed the merefolk had tails in place of legs. Now Rose understood how it felt to be looked on as a freak.

“This is all to do with you,”

she had told Gunnar.

But he had looked at her and, smiling, shaken his head. “No, lady. ’Tis you they come to look at. Your beauty holds them spellbound. The goddess from the castle, that is you.”

Rose had laughed, delighted with the compliment, even if she didn’t believe it. She stretched up to kiss his rough cheek. The stubble was turning into a young beard, but it was so fair it was barely noticeable unless she was close, unless she brushed her fingers across his skin.

What was it about him that made her chest ache? This feeling inside her, this swelling of happiness and pain, of longing…It wasn’t sensible to allow herself to be carried away on this wave of emotion. She would be much wiser to step back from him, hold herself aloof…

“Gunnar Olafson?”

Godenere’s voice came again, more insistent.

Rose sat up, just as Gunnar got to his feet. He was still bare chested from their last bout of lovemaking, although he had pulled on his breeches. He was like a dream come true, thought Rose, and felt a spurt of jealousy as she thought of all those mere women drooling over him.

Gunnar stooped beneath the roofline to save cracking his head as he went to the doorway. The door itself was made of withy sticks twisted into a thick mat and fastened to the jamb with leather straps. He pushed the door aside and there was Godenere, bathed in the golden light of the setting sun, patiently waiting. Behind him…

Rose sighed. It was as she had feared. Behind Godenere was gathered what looked like the entire village.

Nervous suddenly, Rose, too, quickly got to her feet. She twisted her long dark hair back over her shoulder, brushing down her gown, smoothing her sleeves. Her body still tingled from Gunnar’s touch, and ached pleasantly in places it had never ached before. She was untidy, her skin and clothing were salty, and she felt frighteningly vulnerable to the gaze of others.

She had always been quick before to hide that vulnerability under her lady-of-the-manor face, but here she had no authority. She might as well be a serf, a peasant at the whim of the great ones.

Coming up behind Gunnar, she placed her hand against his broad back. His skin was smooth, apart from the scars, the evidence of his dangerous life. She wanted to wrap her arms about him and breathe in his scent, press close and forget.

Gunnar glanced questioningly at her over his shoulder. Perhaps he read her need in her face, for he reached around and drew her to his side. She settled into the curve of his body, and his big hand came to rest on her hip as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Godenere was saying something about Normans in his quick tongue. Gunnar answered him, his own voice low and measured, but Rose felt his body tense and knew the news wasn’t good.

Behind Godenere, men, women, and children peered at the two of them, some curious, some stifling giggles, some suspicious. Rose couldn’t blame them for the last. If she and Gunnar were bringing danger to this island by being there, it was better they left now.

Gunnar nodded to what Godenere was saying, his fingers smoothing thoughtfully over Rose’s round hip. The warmth in her blood began to simmer. She kept herself still, trying to concentrate on the conversation between the two men, but the feel of his long fingers was distracting.

Suddenly Godenere nodded in Rose’s direction. “This lady belongs to you?” he asked.

Rose understood that. She froze and dared not look at Gunnar. Was that how it seemed to these people? she asked herself bleakly. Did it already appear that she was Gunnar’s woman, to do with as he pleased? As her father had made her mother his creature?

Gunnar was taking his time in replying, his hand had stilled on her hip. The crowd shifted forward curiously, the pretty serving girl to the front.

’Twas just as well she did not mean to cling to Gunnar Olafson forever, Rose thought crossly. How could she endure this every day? It would drive her to distraction…

“No.”

Gunnar smiled at the old man, and there was a hint of regret in his tone. “I am her man, that is all. But she does not belong to me, or any man.”

Godenere looked doubtful. He said something to the watching crowd, and there was a questioning murmur. Some of the women sighed in disappointment. Rose felt her face heating up under their continued scrutiny, and was glad when Godenere and Gunnar finished their conversation, and she was able to retreat into the hut.

“What did he say?”

she asked curiously, avoiding his eyes as she bent to warm her hands at the smoldering peat fire.

He crouched down beside her, the black breeches stretching deliciously over his thighs. His copper braids swung forward as he leaned toward her, and his voice was low. “They have seen Normans searching in the Mere. For us, they think—why else would they be here? Miles must have Somerford in his fist now, but he will not feel safe until he has killed me and taken you.”

She turned and met his gaze. There was something hot and angry in his storm-blue eyes, a sense of terrible danger. But it was not a threat to her—it was Miles whom Gunnar meant to hurt.

He reached out and touched her cheek, his fingers gentle—it always surprised her how gentle he was, as if because his hands were used to wielding a sword, they could not do anything else. He had proved her wrong in that, at least.

“We are no longer safe here,”

he went on, and dropped his hand. The peat fire shifted, a piece falling out onto the floor beyond the stone trough, and he used his boot to push it back to safety.

“Then what will we do?”

she ventured, watching the stirred peat flare before returning to its usual sulky smolder.

“Our presence puts these people in danger. If Miles and his men come upon us here, they will kill them for giving us shelter. Fitzmorton rules his lands by terror, Rose. He isn’t like Radulf, he isn’t like you.”

“I know what Fitzmorton is,”

she said quietly.

“Godenere wants to move us onto another island, a place where nobody lives. Then, if we are captured, no one can be punished for sheltering us.”

“I see.”

Rose felt herself shrink with disappointment. She had hoped that, somehow, they would be able to return to Somerford, regain what was lost. Now they must travel even farther into the bewildering Mere. Mayhap they would still be there when they were old and gray, traipsing from island to island, an old exiled couple…

Gunnar interrupted her bleak vision.

“Godenere and I have made a plan.”

“What sort of plan?”

Rose felt her stomach clench. Would she have to decide whether to trust him again? Jesu, why did it always come down to trust?

“Godenere will send some of his people to find the searching Normans. They will make up some tale about seeing us, and in the process let them know where we are hiding. When they come, we will be waiting for them. We will spring the trap and the victory will be ours.”

“We will spring the trap?”

she retorted, so close to him now that her breath stirred his hair. “I would very much like to fight Miles, but I cannot even lift your sword!”

He smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I swear you could wither them with one look, lady. But it will not be necessary. Godenere is willing to send a group of his men to fight with us.”

“Godenere is willing to do this? For us?”

“You promised to bring them peace and security when you regain Somerford. They will never get that if Fitzmorton takes your manor.”

That was true enough.

The idea had merit, but to deliberately set themselves up as bait in a snare…? Rose sat silent, steadying her jumping nerves.

You have been through worse. And if it means we can be free of this present threat, then it must be considered worth the attempt.

“When must we go?”

Gunnar knelt beside her, not touching her, but so close she could feel his warmth. It was comforting, like the sun shining on a cold day. ’Twas a pity that soon he would be gone, and she would be alone once more.

“We must go soon.”

Rose nodded. Suddenly she did not want to meet his eyes. The words came out of nowhere. “You said you were my man.”

“Aye. ’Tis the truth, whether you believe it or not. I have pledged myself to obey you, Rose.”

“I don’t want—”

“I will win Somerford back for you. I swear this.”

Suddenly he bowed his head before her. “I swear it. I make it my vow, lady. Please believe me.”

Reluctantly, Rose placed one shaking hand on his bowed head. His hair was as soft beneath her fingers as she had feared. There were hot tears on her cheeks, but she didn’t remember crying them. She wanted to believe him so much, so very much. She longed to give herself over to him, to let everything go—like a taut rope cut free. But she could not. She had held herself apart for too long.

“Gunnar, please…I do not want you to do this. I am not your lady. I cannot be your lady. Ever.”

“‘Ever’ is a long time, Rose.”

He looked at her through the fall of his copper hair, his blue eyes blazing. Surely he meant what he said, in this moment she almost believed him despite all she feared to the contrary.

And yet one part of her, stubborn and afraid, whispered caution.

“Aye,”

she said at last. “It is.”

The Mere glowed in the dusk, mirroring the pink and orange and azure of the sky. Birds flew dark above and dragonflies glided low. The water shone, the reeds were fringes of black, and the boats slipped like ghosts through the secret channels and wider ponds.

There were four boats, twelve young men, who had come with them to help them hide from Fitzmorton and, if it came to it, to fight. Shaggy-haired, bearded, and reserved, they moved their craft with a certainty that came of having lived their entire lives in the Mere.

Twilight was turning to darkness, and biting insects came out to feed on them. Rose pulled her cloak up over her head, covering her flesh as best she could. As she turned to see what lay ahead, she realized they were drawing closer to solid land. A knoll rose abruptly from the flat levels, towering above them.

Burrow Mump.

The place of her dreams.

Surely they could not be going there? And yet the boats moved relentlessly onward, closer and closer to that dark shape. The paddles so quiet, with only the softest splash. The air about them was warm, thick, the light was magical, and there before her lay the place of her dreams.

Was this a dream? Rose was no longer sure.

Suddenly the reeds seemed to stir around her, as if brushed by an unseen hand. She shivered.

“Rose?”

It was Gunnar’s voice.

“Is that where we are going?”

He glanced beyond her, at the rising bulk of the island. “Aye. Godenere said it was a place no one came to.”

“Why is that?”

She was whispering; somehow it seemed wrong not to whisper in this place. “Why does no one come here?”

“He said the ghosts of their ancient ones live here. The dead. It is their Valhalla. When Miles’s men find us, they will help us to victory.”

Rose held her breath as the boat came into the shore, brushing through the reeds in the shallows, bumping onto dry land. For a moment no one moved. There was no sound. Nothing.

The silence was inexpressibly eerie.

Gunnar climbed out and helped Rose to follow. As she stood, her cloak wrapped close about her, he pulled their boat high up onto the shore. The other men were also moving about, not speaking, quickly securing their boats and then moving off into the darkness.

Gunnar and Rose followed.

There was little that lived on Burrow Mump. A few small animals, perhaps. It felt deserted. The men lit a fire with the peat they had brought with them. It smoldered but soon grew hot. Rose sat within its comforting glow, leaning against Gunnar’s side, her eyes half closed.

Out there on the Mere it was very dark; even the stars did not seem to shine very bright. The reeds rustled in the occasional cool breeze, but other than that the strange stillness remained. A breathless feeling, a waiting feeling.

About her, the men spoke in soft voices, and sometimes Gunnar nodded and sometimes he said something in return. Their voices lulled her, took the edge off her fears, and after a time she slept.

Rose was all alone in the night. Above her the moon shone down, but it was small and insignificant and so far away. She turned around, trying to get her bearings, searching for some landmark. That was when she saw the steep shoulder of the knoll against the stars, and realized, with a quick thud of her heart, that she was standing on Burrow Mump.

Her blood turned to ice. She tried to run, but as was the way in dreams, her legs were slow and stiff and would not work. And then the ground was opening up around her, and she could see a chamber, a deep passageway, spearing into the heart of the hillside.

Far, far down Rose heard the rumble of something stirring.

She was running in earnest now. Somehow she had gotten beyond Burrow Mump, and was out on the Mere. Her feet slipped on the muddy path, a biting pain in her side. Behind her a great whooshing of air came howling across the Levels, and with it a sound like a hundred voices roaring all at once.

The warriors had arisen from their underground world.

Rose lost a shoe. Gasping, her breath sobbing, she abandoned it and ran on. Suddenly before her was the solid bulk of Somerford Keep. A single light flickered in the solar window, beckoning her to safety. Nearly there, nearly there…She knew she should not, but she could not help it.

Rose glanced over her shoulder.

They were close. Oh, so close.

Ghostly horses with flowing tails and manes were galloping above the water. Warriors, their arms and chests gleaming, their long hair tangled by the gust of the fierce wind that had followed them from their underground home. They were bearing down on her.

Rose turned her face to Somerford Keep and struggled forward, even knowing it was useless. They were coming too quickly; she would never make it.

Rose sat up with a jerk. Gunnar was above her, a frown in his eyes. “Lady? You were dreaming.”

Was she? Rose blinked up at him. It had seemed very real. The ghostly riders, the flight across the Mere. This time her warrior had not been there, just the ravening pack. Why was that? What did it mean?

She shivered and tried to sit up. She was, she realized, resting across his lap, and he was leaning back against the hull of one of the boats. Sleeping sitting up, if he was sleeping at all.

“What is it?”

he asked her, not trying to stop her, watching her with that stillness that made her even more edgy. “What frightens you?”

Rose pushed her hair out of her eyes and blinked against the smoke of the fire. Peat did not roar and crackle like wood, it was a low fire, hot and sullen, and it lasted a long time.

“’Tis this place,”

she said at last, her voice wavering despite her efforts to calm herself. Her skin was tingling with fright, the dream still very real. “Don’t you feel it?”

Gunnar glanced about him, then drew his knee up and wrapped his arms about it. He smiled. “The ancient ones, do you mean? Are you afraid they will steal you away—”

“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.”