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Gunnar could not hear what they were saying, but Eartha’s whispering went on and now the lady’s back had stiffened, her fingers turning white as she gripped her chair arm. Eartha stepped back and, with a sketchy curtsy, went on her way. Rose did not move, continuing to stare down at her plate, deep in thought. Now her fingers were tracing the carvings on the arm of her chair, and it was more like a caress than an idle touch.
Gunnar hid a smile. He had examined the chair himself the day after his arrival. It was Norse, he had no doubts about it, and very old. Maybe some enterprising Englishman had stolen it from a Viking invader, or one of those invaders had thought to set up his own little kingdom, and had this throne carved for himself. Whoever and wherever it had come from, it was not the sort of chair he would have expected the Lady Rose to be seated upon. Had she ever truly examined the carvings on it? Maybe he should enlighten her…
Abruptly she rose to her feet. Her smile was vague and strained—she was pretending all was well, but she didn’t fool him as she stepped down from the dais, saying, “Please, do not stop the celebration. I will be but a moment.”
Arno did not need any encouragement, it was debatable whether he even heard her. Brother Mark continued to stuff himself in a most ungodly manner, but Gunnar was not surprised, he had already concluded the good brother was no more a priest than he was. Only the old woman, Constance, was observing her lady. Here, at least, was someone with her wits about her. As Gunnar watched, Constance gathered together her wily strength, preparing to rise and follow Rose.
“Lady Constance.” Her head swung around at the sound of her name in his quiet voice. “Do not disturb yourself. Ivo will see that no harm comes to her.” Even as he spoke, the big man was rising from one of the tables below and ambling after Rose on her journey across the crowded room.
The woman Eartha was waiting by the door that led from the great hall into the bailey, and when Rose reached her they went out together. In a moment, Ivo had followed with a deceptively leisurely grace.
Constance looked at Gunnar and smiled, but her eyes were sharp. “I will keep her safe,” Gunnar heard himself saying, and the words made him go still with surprised dismay.
Did it matter so much to him that she was safe? His body was aching from last night, the memory of it like a whip to his flesh. He needed release, and he was well aware that he had only to glance about this hall and he could find it a dozen times over. But not from her, the one woman he really wanted. The ache in his body was for the Lady Rose, and no one else would do.
And what does that mean?
It means I lust after her, nothing more, he told himself reasonably. Gunnar knew he was very good at being reasonable.
Lust? Are these tender feelings for her really lust?
Desire, lust, it means the same. What do you call it?
The voice sniggered, and held its tongue.
Gunnar allowed that to go unanswered. What he felt, he told himself, was unimportant. What was important was that Lord Radulf be made aware of the situation here at Somerford Manor, before Lord Fitzmorton arrived and it was too late. What would having the land matter to him if the blood of the Somerford people was soaking into it, and the beautiful Lady of Somerford was dead or forcibly wed to a man like Miles de Vessey? Gunnar knew well enough what happened to women when Miles was weary of them.
Constance was smiling and nodding at him, as if he had spoken aloud. A burst of noise from down in the hall blotted out her words, but Gunnar saw her lips move. He thought she said, “You are the one,” but that made no sense. Aye, he must have been mistaken, decided Gunnar, and returned to his silent brooding.
Chapter 11
“Harold?”
A large hand clenched about the bars on the window in the door of the cell. A torch flickered in the draft, deepening the shadows. Harold the miller, pale and woebegone, peered out at them.
“Lady?” whispered Harold, seeing Rose. “You have come to free me?”
The hopeful spark in his eyes was tentative at best, and when she didn’t answer it died into dull acceptance. Harold had prepared himself for death. Rose knew then that Eartha had been right in insisting that she come to see the miller.
“Aye, how can you?” he was answering his own question. “I killed a Norman and I must hang. ’Tis the law.”
“Norman law!” spat Eartha, and gave Rose a half-frightened, half-defiant look.
“You forget yourself, Eartha,” reproved Harold. “Lady Rose is our lady. Norman or English, she has always taken care of us, watched over us. It is not her fault that I killed a man.”
“Yes, but it is why you killed him!” Eartha declared. “Should you die for saving your daughter, sweet Millisent?”
Rose came closer, meeting his gaze through the cell bars. “Eartha has spoken to me about letting you go free, Harold. She says that you promise, if I do, I will never see you again. Is that what you want? To run and hide for the rest of your life? Never to see your children again?”
Harold glanced into her eyes, and then sighed and shook his head. His own eyes filled with tears. “No, lady, it isn’t what I really want. But neither do I want my children to see their father hanged. To run and hide seemed to be best of a bad lot.”
Eartha shook her head. She had spoken long and eloquently in the great hall, asking Rose to set Harold free. He would vanish, she had said, he would hide. They could pretend he had escaped and no one need ever know, and no one would ever find him.
Rose knew of other escapees from Norman justice. Freedom might be a much lauded thing, but where
was the freedom in hiding in caves and forests, forever fearing that the next person you met could be there to drag you back to face your Norman masters?
She could not see Harold—thoughtful, careful Harold, who loved his children—living such a life. She could not reduce a decent, honest man to such a fate. But neither could she see him hanged.
