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“If he has rested, then a day or two, no more. I came as quickly as I could.”
Rose met the dark eyes of the peddler—Edric had always trusted him, and she had no reason not to. “Thank you, Olwan. I will not forget this. When you are finished here, be certain you eat and drink your fill. We are most grateful.”
Olwan bowed deeply, but still he hesitated. “Lady.” He sighed. “There is more. Miles de Vessey spoke of you in my hearing. He was not…respectful. He means to hurt you, though it will be pleasure for him.”
He looked afraid and worried, and Rose did not need to ask what Miles had said. Somehow she managed to maintain her composure, but her thoughts were running wild. What had Ivo said in the bailey, Do not trust him, ever? She remembered Miles’s cold gray eyes the day by the Mere with an involuntary shudder.
Olwan was still watching her.
“My gratitude, Olwan. I am well warned, thanks to you.”
Olwan bowed again. “Keep the brooch, lady, in remembrance of your husband, who was always kind to a poor peddler. Besides, it is said to be good luck, and you need it more than me, I think.” He smiled regretfully, and this time left her to her thoughts.
Rose closed her fingers on the bone brooch and felt it mark her flesh. Where was Radulf? she asked herself again. Had he received her message? Mayhap the babe had delayed him, but he should be here soon, striding about, glowering at her, demanding to know exactly what was happening. If Miles came first he would insist on the judgment being made at once. He would want to see Harold hanged as soon as possible, and when Rose set him free…Miles would hurt her, and without Arno’s support she would be powerless to stop him.
No!
Rose took a breath. Her mind collected itself and centered.
One word.
Gunnar.
It was like a balm, smoothing her jagged edges. What good luck had been smiling on her the day she decided she needed mercenaries at Somerford Manor? What happy coincidence had chosen these mercenaries over all those who might have come to her aid? Aye, Gunnar. He would know what to do; he would help her to decide on her course of action. She desperately needed his calm good sense, his unshakable strength.
Gunnar was more than a match for Miles de Vessey.
Rose hurried out of the hall, leaving behind her the women and Olwan’s patter. Any gladness she had felt only moments before at this unexpected treat had drained from her now, leaving her feeling alone and frightened. The blue sky and warm sun in the bailey seemed incongruous. Danger was everywhere—she could smell the scent of it on the breeze, as foul as the peddler’s unwashed body.
Old Edward, standing proudly on guard at the gate in his ancient tunic and helmet, had seen Gunnar Olafson go to the stable.
“Now there be a man who can take care of himself! He won’t let anything happen to S
omerford Manor, lady. We should all feel safer now Captain Olafson be here.”
“I agree with you wholeheartedly, Edward,” Rose said, and knew it for the truth.
The stable was on the far side of the bailey. To get to it she must pass the exercise yard, where Arno was busy training the young boys of Somerford Manor. She would have preferred not to encounter Arno just now. Mayhap, she thought hopefully, he would not be in a talkative mood. Mayhap he was still sullen from their encounter at the village.
As she drew closer, Rose glanced surreptitiously at her knight, noting that his fleshy face was puffy from drink and his eyes were circled. Her steps slowed. His body looked lax and portly, no longer fit and hard for battle, as he had boasted to her so often. Arno had been overindulging lately, and the excesses were beginning to stamp their mark on him.
Arno overindulged when he had a guilty conscience. But what could Arno feel guilty about? What had he done?
And suddenly the pieces fit together, and Rose thought she knew.
Lord Fitzmorton was sending Miles de Vessey to Somerford because Arno had betrayed her. He had sent to warn them that she meant to free Harold. Aye, Arno had betrayed her. Again! Gunnar had been right, as she had feared. Arno was in league with Fitzmorton.
Anger began to burn slowly through her, and she no longer wanted to avoid Arno. He looked up as she approached, and to her surprise his expression was dejected and miserable. Did his conscience trouble him? Did he dream of Edric’s accusing finger pointing at him from the grave? If his perfidy gave him no joy, Rose thought coldly, she would not pity him. Suddenly it seemed important to let Arno know she was not the soft and gullible fool he had constantly thought her.
“I have heard word that Miles de Vessey will be present at the miller’s trial,” she said in her most authoritative voice. “What say you to that, Sir Arno?”
To her surprise, Arno did not demur. Instead he nodded, and his misery gave way to a weak sort of bluff self-assurance. “Aye, that’s so, lady. It was I who suggested he come.”
Her voice shook with fright and anger. “Arno, do you know what you have done?”
He looked away, his mouth hard. “I have saved you from destroying yourself for the sake of an English murderer, Rose, that is what I have done.”
She shook her head at this self-justification.
