But was he capable of delivering on that promise?
Constance sat, thoughtful, as the fire spluttered and distant sounds drifted up through the open window. Whoever and whatever he was, if this man would save a child when no one else seemed capable of it, then it was plain he was a better man than Sir Arno. Surely that was all that really mattered in the struggle to come? And, aye, there would be a struggle. Constance might not be able to see into the future, but she knew that much.
There was trouble brewing, and whoever won the battle would take Somerford Manor.
And the Lady Rose.
Ivo downed his ale in one gulp, but his dark eyes were watchful over the rim. Gunnar sat on the bench in the corner while around him his men laughed and shoved and claimed their own sleeping spots. And yet he was very much alone.
Their captain had been much subdued of late. Not that he lacked as their leader—there was a solid core of steel strength inside Gunnar, a calm stillness. If Gunnar told them he would do something, then he would. He was utterly dependable.
Before Somerford, Gunnar and his men had been on the Welsh border, the Marches, where they had fought in the name of some chinless Norman baron. They had earned their money that time, Ivo thought grimly.
The Welsh had been hidden in the hills and the forests, waylaying the unwary, silent and deadly with their longbows and arrows. Gunnar’s men had proved their worth again and again, but Ivo had sensed Gunnar’s distraction.
The chinless baron was greedy, stealing land that was not his own.
“Why,” Gunnar had said, “should we support a man such as this? Give our lives so that he can look out at the view from his window and say, ‘This is all mine’?”
“It is our job,” Ivo had retorted. “Do not think beyond the doing, Gunnar. It is dangerous for a mercenary to question too hard.”
Aye, Wales had been a dangerous place. More than once Gunnar’s warrior instincts had kept them from being skewered like pigs. And with each close call, Gunnar’s melancholy had seemed to deepen. One night they had drunk deep, and it was as if the silent, calm Gunnar had sprung a leak.
“I do not want to end with an arrow bolt in my eye like Harold Godwineson,” he’d said. “I don’t want to die where no one knows me or cares.”
“What other course is open to you?” Ivo had joked uneasily, hoping to jolly him up a bit. This was not the Gunnar he was used to. He, Ivo, was the emotional one; Gunnar was always so tranquil, so untouched by the turmoil about him. “Can you become a farmer with a plow? I do not see you rising, shivering in the dawn light, to plant barley and peas. Though I can see you cuddling against a plump lusty woman, plowing between her thighs.”
But Gunnar didn’t laugh.
“Maybe you could be a weapon maker like your sire,” Ivo went on quickly, “forging great swords for great warriors and weaving chain mail for Lord Radulf.”
Gunnar blinked like an owl.
“But the truth is, my friend,” Ivo had told him softly, encouragingly, “you are so good at being what you already are.”
“Aye, you have the right of it, Ivo. I am no use for anything but fighting and killing. Where does a mercenary go in his old age? Better I die now, here, and get it over with.” And then he had murmured beneath his breath, the slurred words meant for him alone. “Is there a place for such as me, where I can be valued, honored, and loved?”
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Ivo had clapped him hard on the shoulder. “You’re not old yet, Gunnar! Plenty of work and women left in you!” And eventually, after a few more drinks, Gunnar had agreed that he was right.
Now Ivo poured himself more ale, watching Gunnar pretending to listen to Sweyn’s jokes, and remembering that drunken night. The next morning, as if wishing had made it truth, there had been a message from Radulf. They were needed at Crevitch—there was treachery afoot. Gunnar had been exhilarated ever since—or as exhilarated as a man like Gunnar could get.
Land. Somerford Manor. It was Gunnar’s to take when he had accomplished Radulf’s mission—proved the lady was in cohorts with his enemies as her letter suggested. Once that was accomplished the rest of them could stay on with Gunnar, or take their share in coin and move on.
From a distance it had sounded so simple.
But nothing was easy and despite his profession and his ability to lie seamlessly, Gunnar was a deeply honorable man.
Ivo said a silent prayer: Let Lady Rose be an evil, treacherous bitch. If that were only the case, then all would be well. Gunnar would take Somerford with a clear conscience and make his life there, live to a ripe old age a happy man. The warrior would have found the haven he had been secretly longing for.
But Ivo feared the lady was not quite as they had believed. She was beautiful for a start, although Gunnar had had beautiful women before. She was a Norman lady, but there had been a few well-bred ladies who couldn’t keep their hands off Gunnar, and they had never slid under his guard. In fact, Ivo could not remember a single woman who had meant more to him than a warm body or a pleasant few hours.
Unwilling, he let the memories of the more recent past well up in his mind. The look on Gunnar’s face as Lady Rose walked across the bailey toward them, as if he’d been struck by a bolt of lightning; how she had stepped around the Norman knight, placing herself directly in Gunnar’s line of sight while Gunnar had been trying very hard not to look at her; and just now, when he looked up at her window—Ivo had felt the heat coming off him in waves.
Aye, Gunnar wanted her. ’Twas a pity she had come along at this time, when there was so much more at stake. Just when Gunnar was at his most vulnerable. When she could quite possibly destroy his whole happiness.
Chapter 4