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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.
