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 narrowed 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.

“Good,”

said Sir Arno. “As long as you don’t kill anyone without orders.”

Ivo made a soft sound of disgust.

Gunnar’s hand clenched more firmly on the hilt of his sword, but otherwise he made no movement. So far Sir Arno had done nothing wrong. Arrogance and cruelty coupled with complacency weren’t treasonable offenses.

“Captain?”

Ivo’s voice was not raised or markedly different, and yet there was something in it, a hint of surprise or perhaps warning. Gunnar looked up quickly.

And felt his wits dissolve in a hot shower of lust.

She was walking toward them.

Her madder-red gown was made of fine wool, and it molded to her tall, shapely body. A plaited gold girdle clung about her hips, a purse and various keys and gewgaws fastened to it. He could see the shape of her, the long length of thigh, the curve of full breast. Her face was a pale oval within the soft fluttering folds of her white veil. Dark eyes, lush mouth, skin like milk with the slightest hint of honey.

He had thought his body jaded—there were always women wherever he went, too many, and when he was hungry for them he supped. And yet now that same body reacted like that of an untried youth, startling him, jerking him from his complacency. He wanted to reach out and lift her across his saddle. He wanted to fasten his mouth to hers, taste her, drink of her lips.

For a man of such rigid calm, he felt raw and wild and out of control in a way he had not felt for years.

Maybe ever.

Great Odin, let her not be the Lady Rose! But even as the prayer passed his lips, he knew Odin had denied him, for Sir Arno lifted his head and murmured, “’Tis Lady Rose. A word of warning, Captain. You will not mention who it was that sent you? The lady does not like to declare her business before strangers.”

Gunnar barely acknowledged the caution. His eyes were fixed on the approaching woman.

It was the last thing he needed at this time and in this place, with so much at stake. Gunnar groaned softly to himself. Had he really believed his final undertaking would be easy?

The vision of sweet beauty approaching them was none other than the wanton and treacherous Lady Rose of Somerford Manor—the woman he had come to destroy.

Rose had not seen the mercenaries arrive.

She had been down to the storeroom, looking over a suspect barrel of salted meat. The meat smelled, but Rose had learned caution in her four years at Somerford Manor, one of them as sole ruler. It was prudent to keep everything, even smelly meat, until better could replace it. Besides, there were ways of making bad good again. Washing the meat thoroughly in vinegar, for instance, or burying it in the earth for a day or two. Still, they would not eat it, not yet, not unless they had no option. And even then—Rose wrinkled her nose—the situation would need to be desperate!

And then she reminded herself that it was desperate. They were undermanned and therefore vulnerable to attack from anyone who had the will to do so. And of late someone wanted very much to see the people of Somerford brought low.

Their troubles had begun with some pilfering in the village and escalated to a woodpile burned, a hoe stolen, a pig slaughtered and the choice bits taken off. And then last month some strangers had appeared in the village in the night and frightened the villagers badly by throwing stones upon their thatches, shouting and laughing all the while.

The villagers blamed the merefolk. Rose knew her people were superstitious, and since the troubles had begun they had grown worse. Sullen, afraid, angry. Like a bubbling cauldron filled with centuries of animosity, the situation had become too volatile. Rose had realized it was time to do something more than talk.

It was she who had put forward the suggestion of employing mercenaries, persuading Sir Arno they had no other choice.

“If we had some experienced men, Sir Arno, or at least men who appear to be experienced, I am sure that would settle the matter. These mischief makers, be they merefolk or whoever, would vanish back to where they came from and we would never be troubled again.”

Arno looked pained. “I am training our men, my lady. They will be ready soon.”

“Yes, but they are raw troops, Sir Arno! Boys, most of them. We have barely enough soldiers to guard our gates; how can we frighten off an attack, if one should come?”

Sir Arno d’Alan had shrugged, clearly wounded by her lack of faith in him. Rose bit her lip, wondering how she could win this argument without hurting her knight’s feelings.

“It will be only for a short time. Until this problem is solved.”

“And Lord Radulf? Have you mentioned your plans to him?”

Rose had pretended to examine her nails. “Not yet, no.”

“My lady—”

Rose made an exasperated sound. “How can I tell Lord Radulf? He will think me incapable of managing Somerford. That I am too weak. A weak and feeble woman! You have warned me of that often enough, Sir Arno. He will take Somerford from me, and then what will become of me?”

She knew what would become of her. She would be thrown back into her father’s care—a burden. An unwanted burden. It was not something she could think of for long before cold beads of perspiration dampened her skin.

Arno had looked sympathetic but there had been a gleam in his eyes. Almost as if he were enjoying her discomfiture, though surely that was impossible. “You think Lord Radulf is watching you, judging you?”

Rose was sure of it. She could almost feel Radulf’s dark eyes fixed on her from five leagues away at Crevitch Castle. Although Radulf’s wife, Lady Lily, had always supported her, she was presently occupied with her own troubles. And besides, Rose could not be always begging for her assistance. She must manage on her own. If she could just have the use of some mercenaries for a short time, she could sort out the problems at Somerford and everything would be well again. And best of all, Lord Radulf need never know.

“Mercenaries are not tame cats,”

Arno had warned her. “They will not purr and do as you bid if you stroke their fur.”

Rose’s eyes flashed. “No, but they will learn to jump for their supper or else they will not be fed! Don’t worry, Sir Arno, I will manage the mercenaries, all you have to do is find me some.”

And so he had—once Brother Mark had written the letter and Rose had sealed it, Arno had sent it off. And now word had come that the mercenaries were on their way. Although Rose had thought the offer of five marks excessive, Arno had assured her that was the standard fee in such cases. Still, she resented paying out such a sum when financially they were so stretched. Even though this summer’s harvest looked to be a good one—the best in several years—and when the shearing was done there would be wool to sell, one never knew what might occur to upset one’s plans. In the four years she had lived at Somerford, Rose had learned that much. You just never knew what new catastrophe was ahead. That money could be needed for medicines, for food, for warm clothing, and she resented using it to pay for men with swords.

With problems like hers, it was no wonder she sometimes woke full of anxiety in the darkest part of the night.

The smell of the bad meat was turning her stomach—that barrel was most definitely off.

Rose locked the storeroom door firmly behind her with one of the keys hanging from her gold plaited girdle, and climbed the narrow twisting stairs from the cellars to the kitchen.

It was warm there, the smells of bread still mouthwateringly in evidence. Rose noted that the gray kitchen cat had had her kittens and was ensconced in a cozy corner by the oven. Surely there was time to check on them? Just a moment. Kittens were always so tempting…

But that was when Constance found her.

“Lady!”

Rose jumped like a guilty child and looked up. “Constance? What is it?”

“Those men are come, Lady Rose. Sir Arno is speaking with them now. If you want to be certain they understand it is you who is the master here, you’d best get yourself down to the castle yard right smartly.”

Frowning, Rose smoothed her red gown and settled her white veil so that it completely covered her dark hair. Constance, her wrinkled face and wizened body a disguise for her still sharp and youthful mind, shuffled closer and peered up at her. The old woman was tiny, but Rose was tall—it was a matter of wry amusement to her that her eyes were level with those of every one of the men on Somerford Manor.

“The mercenaries are here?”

Rose repeated nervously.

Reading her perfectly, Constance touched her arm for courage.

“You are right,”

Rose murmured, stiffening her back. “I must go and meet them. Who knows what Arno is saying to them, offering them? He has no sense where money is concerned. If he believes it due to his self-importance to offer them double the marks we have agreed upon, then he will do so!”

It was Rose’s aim to keep the mercenaries’ promised wages as low as possible.

“Then go, lady, and don’t dither,”

Constance chastised her. “You are master here, are you not?”

Rose raised her chin. “I am indeed, Constance.”

And taking a deep breath, she hurried from the kitchen into the bailey.

It was very quiet.

Why was the bailey, usually a bustle of activity, so quiet? And yet it was not empty; people stood about. The silence was very odd. Her eyes flicked over the pale and frightened faces, seeking a reason, and were captured by a group of mounted men who were clearly the center of attention.

Tough and dangerous.

Those were the words that occurred to Rose as she looked at them. As if they were used to facing death every day. Which, of course, if they were mercenaries, Rose reminded herself impatiently, they were. Their clothes were chosen for warmth and protection rather than for appearance; the men wore chain mail or heavy leather tunics studded with rings. The big dark one had a thick cloak made of animal pelts—wolf, probably. And they were armed with a veritable bristle of weapons. Swords, shields, and axes. And their leader…but there Rose’s thoughts lost all clear structure.

Her eyes widened in awe.

Their leader was like no man she had ever seen before. He was strange and exotic, and yet extraordinarily masculine. A dulled and shortened chain mail tunic covered his broad shoulders and chest; the metal was decorated with numerous dents as though he had lately fought hard for his life. A round shield hung across his back and one shoulder, the red background painted with the snarling form of a black wolf. His legs were encased in tight dark breeches, each powerful muscle of his thighs outlined as he gripped his big gray horse, forcing it to an unnatural stillness. Hair of dark copper fell long to his shoulders, two thin braids hanging either side of his face and giving him the look of a barbarian.

Or a Celtic warrior, or a…a…

“Viking.”

Rose whispered the word, her breath squeezed in her throat. His appearance was barbaric and savage, but—and this was the most surprising thing of all—he was also the most handsome man she had ever seen. The strong set of his jaw, the sun brown of his skin, the unflinching blue of his eyes. It seemed inconceivable that a man such as this should be so handsome. He should be scarred and ugly, and that he wasn’t must be a trick of nature, to dull the senses and bemuse the unwary, so that he could pounce. Or strike like a viper.

He is not like us.

Rose shivered. What had she been thinking to hire such men as this? To bring them onto her manor among the very people she was trying to protect!

Dear God, have I done the right thing?

“Sir Arno?”

Her voice was breathless, possibly from her hurry across the bailey, but she did not think so. Fear and apprehension had tightened like bands about her chest.

Arno smiled his usual smile, and Rose felt suddenly wildly disoriented. Arno was the same and yet he seemed to pale into insignificance beside the mercenary. This was Arno, unswervingly loyal Arno, her husband Edric’s friend, the man he had trusted completely—on his deathbed, and before witnesses, Edric had sought Arno’s promise to obey and protect Rose.

Then why didn’t Rose feel her usual confidence when she looked at him? Why did the familiar no longer seem so safe?

It was the fault of the mercenary leader.

He was so unfamiliar, this utterly foreign creature. He had turned her perceptions upside down, and, shockingly, his very strangeness drew her to him. It was an attraction against her will, but she knew it was there. Like, Rose told herself, a foolish fascination for an animal one knows is dangerous.

Rose took a long, slow breath, calming herself. Stop this! She was no silly wench thrown into a state by a handsome face; she never allowed men to rule her by her senses. She was Lady Rose of Somerford, a thoughtful woman, a practical woman, a woman of good sense. This nonsensical behavior had gone far enough.

After a brief pause, Rose felt collected enough to be able to meet the mercenary’s blue eyes.

A mistake.

They were the blue of summer seas with the hint of an approaching storm. Piercing in his hard, handsome face, they delved into hers. Despite her preparation, Rose felt her stomach plummet. She was drowned in a hot wave of feeling that until now she had always believed…hoped to be foreign to her. Shocked, her thoughts spiraled, and she lost her emotional footing for the first time in her life. The whisper in her head was one of startled disbelief.

Is this…can this be desire?