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“Lady Rose, I have come bearing news of Lady Lily. She has been delivered of a fine son, an heir for Lord Radulf!”
The hall resounded to loud cheers, mingled with the drumming of heels on the floor and the slamming of palms on the trestle tables. Not everyone at Somerford was particularly fond of Lord Radulf, but they all admired his lady—besides, good news had been sparse of late.
Rose patiently allowed her people to show their pleasure, before holding up a slender hand to quiet them. The noise dropped away, and all was hushed once more. “This is wonderful!” she told Steven, her voice ringing with genuine relief and pleasure. “We will all give thanks that Lady Lily has been safely delivered of a son and heir. Lord Radulf must be mightily relieved.”
“Aye, lady, so he is.” Steven grimaced. “And so are we all at Crevitch, for he has been raging about for weeks, consumed with worry.”
Rose smiled. “Then I am doubly glad for your sake, Steven.”
Whatever she feared for herself from that mighty baron, she knew full well that he loved his wife, and treasured her beyond all else. Such marriages were rare and precious in King William’s England. An uncharacteristic spike of jealousy tore at her, and Rose was ashamed of herself. From what she knew of Lily, that lady richly deserved her good fortune. Had Rose really expected to find similar happiness to that of Lily and Radulf? She had never sought it, preferring to keep such dangerous emotion at a distance. Love was like the toss of a dice, too unpredictable to take a wager on.
“Lord Radulf commands all of his vassals, and all of their people, to give thanks and celebrate his good fortune.”
“There is no need to command,” Rose declared, raising her goblet. “To Lord Radulf and Lady Lily, and the heir to Crevitch!”
The toast was repeated throughout the great hall, and drinks were duly raised and drunk.
’Twas a relief to hear good news among all the bad, thought Rose once more. She glanced about her, and noticed that Arno was staring sullenly into his goblet. Her elation evaporated—it must be true, then. Arno was Fitzmorton’s man, and Fitzmorton coveted Somerford Manor. It appeared she now had no choice. Her situation was dangerous indeed. Before Steven left she would write him a message to take back with him to Crevitch. A request for help, and a plea for understanding. Perhaps, in his moment of great joy, Radulf would see fit to forgive her her lack of honesty and come to her aid. Mayhap he would not take Somerford from her, a weak woman, and hand it over to one of the strong and violent men who held difficult stretches of this country. Someone who would keep Fitzmorton on his side of the border, and treat her people abominably…
The messenger, Steven, was still standing before her, a goblet in his hand, but he was looking further along the table. With a jolt Rose wondered whether he might have taken note of Arno’s less than exuberant face and be preparing to report it back to his lord. But it wasn’t Arno he was staring at. It was Gunnar Olafson.
Even as Rose turned in his direction, they were breaking eye contact, pretending their attention was elsewhere. But not before she had seen Gunnar nod his head, just the barest of movements, and noted Steven’s half grimace in reply. It happened so swiftly she might have imagined it…but she hadn’t.
They knew each other.
She dared not begin to consider what that might mean. There were too many other problems consuming her. Later, she would think of it later, when she was alone in her solar.
“You must eat and drink, too, Steven.” Constance’s voice, full of innuendo, broke in on Rose’s silence. “I do not think this will be our last celebration—Lord Radulf is a virile man. His lady will have many chil
dren.”
“Is that a prediction, old witch?” Arno sneered. He was drunk, but not so drunk as the night of the attack, and his mood this time was corrosive. Rose wished he would drink enough so that he passed out under the table, and then they could all be more comfortable.
“I am not a witch.” Constance gave him a scornful look. “Anyone with the eyes to see knows it will be so. Lord Radulf is happy with what he has…he does not hunger for what he has not.”
Arno’s face flushed an unpleasant red. “Aye, well, old woman, we all hunger sometimes. Even you.” And he laughed as if he had made a joke, and elbowed Brother Mark into joining in. The priest smiled reluctantly, eyes flicking uneasily around the table.
Beyond Arno, Gunnar Olafson’s eyes met Rose’s. She found herself caught and held by their calm, still blue. All around them people shouted and celebrated, Arno and Constance argued, Brother Mark gorged, and the serving women ogled. None of it mattered. Rose felt that she and Gunnar had their own special silence, and they existed only within it.
And then Steven raised his goblet and spoke in a clear voice. “To my lord and lady. Long may they live.”
The special moment was broken.
As Rose turned away, Gunnar leaned back, feeling light-headed, his tired eyes stinging from the smoke that swirled about the hall. He was tired, aye, but not tired enough evidently. His body hardened, desire singing through him. She only had to look at him with those deep, dark eyes and he wanted her. And she wasn’t even aware of it.
One of the Somerford hounds slunk under a table, scrounging for scraps. It reminded him of Sir Arno—sly-eyed, groveling to the powerful, but always willing to turn on anything weaker. Like Arno, the creature would find little joy—food stocks at Somerford were low until the harvest was in and the animals that had been fattened over the summer could be killed in the autumn. Ivo would have to go out hunting again tomorrow.
His gaze followed the prettiest of the Somerford wenches, the cook, Eartha, as she made her way to Rose. Just now the woman’s ready smile was missing, as she bent and began murmuring in her lady’s ear with an intensity that spiked Gunnar’s interest.
The atmosphere in the hall had been merry verging on hysterical ever since Steven had come to share the good news. And it was good news. Gunnar was very glad to hear that Lily was well, and that Radulf and his wife now had a son to add to their little daughter. He had been puzzled at first as to why Radulf had sent Steven, his favorite young knight-in-training, but Steven’s steady gaze in his direction had made it clear enough. He was to let Steven know what was happening so that he could report back to Radulf. Even at such a moment as this, the King’s Sword was watching his enemies—maybe Lily’s safe delivery of an heir made him even more determined to keep the peace at Crevitch. Men like Fitzmorton and Miles de Vessey did not understand that—they lived for war.
And just as well, Gunnar told himself bracingly. If there were no wars and no squabbles between the great of this land, he would be without a job. And it seemed as if he would be needing work now that his dream of owning his own land was receding. Maybe Radulf could keep him permanently at Crevitch? Then he would be close by Somerford, if—Gunnar cut the thought off there. No, to stay would remind him of all he might have had. It would be better to get as far away from Somerford as possible, into the north, and forget he had ever seen the Lady Rose.
Eartha was still whispering. Rose nodded, head bent, her grave, beautiful face in shadow. Gunnar could not help but examine the graceful curve of her neck, the hollow near her jaw where he had kissed her last night—one of the many places he had kissed her last night. Was there a faint blue bruise against the pale honey of her skin? Had anyone else noticed? He would have to be more careful next time…
Gunnar almost groaned aloud. Next time! She had not spoken a word to him, and tried her best not to look at him, and he still believed there would be a next time. Was she ashamed of what they had done, or just ashamed that she had done it with him? Was he a complete fool, as Ivo had warned him, and was she playing a double game with him? Could she be planning to rid herself of Arno by using Gunnar? Was she that devious?
He did not think so—and he was usually a good judge of character—but he supposed it was possible. Anything was possible. And he was certainly not as clear-headed as he would have liked.
