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May all his father’s pagan gods help him.
Alfred stood in the alcove near the fireplace. He knew he should be elsewhere—there was work to be done—but he could not seem to pull himself away from her. Millisent. Her red-brown hair was plaited and hung in a long rope over her shoulder, while her too-large gown of homespun was girdled in bulky folds about her small waist. She looked younger, alone and woebegone, as she sat on one of the stools, a length of cloth in her hand. Supposedly she was mending a rent in the castle bed linen, but in fact she did nothing but sit and stare. At nothing.
An old woman sat beside her, crooning to a spotted piglet in a willow basket, but the girl took no notice of her. She was too deep in her own thoughts.
Alfred wondered if it were possible to fall in love in a single instant. A single breath. For that was all it had taken. The swing of a sword, the blink of an eye. He had seen the girl, hurt and afraid, by the burned cottage, and suddenly the urge to comfort had overwhelmed him—the need to help another, which he had thought vanished from his heart. For too long he had felt sorry for himself—there had been the losing of his family, and then the ruin of his face, bad enough now with its puckered scar, but before…Children had run screaming from him, and grown men had held up their hands to shield their eyes.
And now here was someone who needed him, who had turned to him without a second thought. He had felt his own pain melt like frost in the sun.
There was more to it than that, of course. The burnished color of her hair in the firelight, the soft feel of her skin against his hand, the soothing murmur of her voice, her courage in the face of such adversity. All these things combined to make his heart sing whenever he saw her, and for a moment he would forget what he looked like. He was able to pretend he was just the same as everyone else.
Alfred stood in the alcove by the fireplace and watched Millisent, knowing she was presently unaware of him, too caught up in her own travails to recognize his feelings for her. Or to want them. But he was ready; the next time she wanted him he would be there. And as long as she needed his strength he would give it. Soon, he knew, she would blink and wake up, and see him as he really was.
Alfred did not expect forever; he was grateful for just one more day.
Rose tried to close her eyes, but the darkness was not soothing to her. The stillness of the solar was not a balm. Instead of gentle, rocking sleep, she saw again Millisent’s face, when she had told the young girl what Miles de Vessey had said. Pain had etched lines about a mouth still soft and young, and Millisent had cried out in her agony.
“Oh please, please, do not punish my father! He meant only to save me! You cannot punish him for that?”
Rose had felt the tears in her eyes. “If ’tis so, Millisent, he must plead mercy. I will listen. The law will not punish an innocent man…”
“The Norman law?” the girl had retorted, forgetting herself in her despair. “My father has killed a Norman; how can any Norman justice be fair?”
Rose tossed and turned in her bed, the girl’s desperate voice ringing in her head. Millisent had been
right; what could Rose reply that was not a platitude or a lie? Harold had killed a Norman, and Lord Fitzmorton would not believe—did not care—that Gilbert had been involved in something reprehensible. He believed the murderer must be punished, or else chaos would reign in the land.
Mayhap it amused him to cause Rose as much trouble as he could. For old time’s sake.
She felt so alone! And now she could not even trust Arno, because she had begun to wonder whether he was in league with Lord Fitzmorton—unthinkable, and yet the seed of doubt that Gunnar had planted was growing. If she told Arno she had no intention of ordering Harold to be hanged, what would he do? Tell Fitzmorton’s man, Miles de Vessey? And then Miles would come to Somerford and enforce Fitzmorton’s kind of justice. She dared not give them cause to do that. Rose knew she must now tread very carefully indeed.
Distraught as she was, Millisent must have seen in her lady’s eyes that Rose was as helpless as Millisent herself when it came to the question of Harold’s punishment. The girl had turned and run sobbing from the hall. Rose had felt so wretched, she had even contemplated turning to Brother Mark for advice. But one glance into his cold eyes, and she had thought better of it. Brother Mark would tell her she must listen to the advice of the men about her—Arno in particular—to bow to their will. Men, he would tell her, were rational creatures, whereas women were irrational and emotional beings and required a steady male hand.
Even Constance was not available to listen to her fears, and inform her, “I told you ’twas so,” in a gloating voice. Constance was too busy with the villagers, and had nodded off to sleep over her meal in the great hall. Rose had put aside her own urgent need to talk, and had ordered the old woman to bed.
The night felt airless, so still. Heavy cloud covered the stars, trapping warmth close to the earth, bringing the humid promise of rain. Her edginess increased. Much had happened today, most of it bad. And yet…she remembered the look in Gunnar Olafson’s eyes with a tightening low in her belly. He wanted her. She could not mistake such a thing, surely? Or was it a trick he played on all women, making them think he desired them? How could she trust him, believe him?
Restlessly, Rose turned again, gazing at the narrow dark shape of her window. She had opened the shutters earlier, hoping for a breath of air. Now lightning flickered, startling her into sitting up. Wearily, she climbed out of her bed, pulling a robe about her naked shoulders, tossing back the long braid of her hair as she leaned on the sill.
The air beyond the window seemed cooler, but not much. A light breeze teased her hot skin and molded the thin cloth of her robe against her body. She felt a stirring inside her, a tremor that increased her unease. Lightning came again, illuminating the Mere and its islands. Burrow Mump loomed up in silent reminder of all she longed for and could not have. Rose knew she should be worried for the harvest—storms could flatten the crops—but what could she do? Order Gunnar Olafson to ride out there with his men, and shield the wheat with their outstretched arms?
Rose smiled as she imagined them standing in the fields like big, nightmarish scarecrows. Then memories of the day returned to haunt her, and her smile faded. It was true she could do little about dead Gilbert and the threat of Lord Fitzmorton’s justice, or about the coming storm. But she could offer some comfort to Millisent. Mayhap the girl was still awake, mayhap they could talk…
Rose knew then that she would never allow Harold to hang. The solution was simple after all. She would go to Lord Radulf and lay all before him. He would probably remove her from Somerford Manor forthwith—send her back to her father and all that that meant—but at least she would have saved Harold’s life, for Rose was certain Radulf would not hang Harold for what he had done. Not when he learned that Fitzmorton was involved.
Aye, tomorrow she would send word to Lord Radulf, throw herself upon his mercy, and pray that Lady Lily eased his anger.
Silently, Rose slipped from her solar and began her journey down the stairs, determined to offer this comfort to Millisent. One of the torches on the wall flared up against the darkness, making the shadows jump and jiggle. She pressed her hand to the cold, familiar stones as she made her way carefully downward to the great hall, where Millisent slept behind a curtain with Will and Eartha and her little son.
So intent was Rose upon the curving, uneven steps, she did not see him until she was almost upon him.
He was standing directly before her. A huge dark shape that came up out of the blackness so suddenly her heart leaped in her breast. She opened her mouth to cry out in fear and surprise. No sound came forth, frightening her even more. She turned to flee, her thin robe tangling about her legs. But he caught her easily, gripping her arm and swinging her in a dizzying arc. Rose collided with an extremely large and hard chest, and then a pair of big, muscular arms closed about her. It was like being in a warm, dark cave of male flesh.
Rose opened her mouth, drawing in breath.
“Do not scream, lady.” Gunnar Olafson’s warning voice was soft and deep, part of the warm night.
Rose doubted whether she could have screamed, for he was holding her so tight. Her heart was knocking inside her, fast and shallow, while, against her cheek, his heartbeat was solid and sure. I should be afraid. He is a stranger, a violent man who hires out death for coin. I should be frightened of him.
