Alfred released his breath. “No, Captain. No one I have asked in the village knows him, and yet there are none unaccounted for, apart from Harold the miller. I do not understand it.”
“So he must be one of the attackers?”
“He is not from the Mere, Captain. His clothing is wrong, and besides, the merefolk are small. This man does not seem to belong to either side.”
“I suppose if he was murdered, the villagers might be trying to hide it. His face and hands have been burned. Maybe he didn’t fall into the fire accidentally; maybe he was thrown into it so that we would not know who he was.”
As he spoke, Gunnar became aware of an inner ripple of unease. He had seen situations such as this before. In the England of William of Normandy, if a man was found dead, it was necessary for those in the vicinity to prove he was an Englishman. A dead Englishman was unimportant, and the villagers could deal with his death in their own way. But if the dead man should prove to be a Norman, then that was different. Then the truth must be ferreted out at all costs and the guilty one punished.
Normans were murdered by Englishmen, rightly or wrongly. If it was possible to disguise such a death, to make their overlords believe the body was in fact that of an Englishman, then it would be done. Gunnar had seen all manner of unpleasant acts performed to hide a clean-shaven Norman face or a short Norman haircut. Clothes were exchanged, boots were stolen, faces staved in…Sometimes the measures taken were successful, sometimes they were not, and then the Norman overlords would demand justice.
A life for a life.
If this man is not a villager and not from the Mere, then who is he? Why is his sword scabbard of Norman design, and why is it empty? And if he is a Norman soldier, what is he doing here on the very night of the merefolk’s attack?
A vision of Lady Rose’s luminous dark eyes blotted out the scene of fire and death before him. Was she behind this? Was this part of her plot? And if so, was she playing the game alone? And why, if that wasn’t the case, did she need to pay for lowly mercenaries like Gunnar Olafson?
Suddenly the chilly night vanished, and Gunnar was once more fresh from Wales and seated before the roaring fire in the great hall at Crevitch Castle. Replete with good food and wine, and good company. Opposite him sat Lord Radulf, for whom Gunnar’s father was armorer, and a man Gunnar knew and admired.
“I need a strong man at Somerford. A man I can trust.”
“And you do not trust Sir Arno d’Alan?” Gunnar asked bluntly, without need for prevarication, for they had long been friends.
“He appears loyal, and yet…He is Lady Rose’s man—he is loyal to her. I cannot believe he would act without her consent.” Radulf moved restlessly in his chair, a favorite hound at his feet. “Why would they be looking to hire mercenaries? Men whose only allegiance is to the coin they are paid and without any scruples about what they will do for that coin? Do they plan to start a war? And why send the letter to my enemy Fitzmorton, why ask Fitzmorton for help in the matter? Why not me, when I am Somerford’s overlord?”
“This letter that was intercepted on its way to Fitzmorton, was written for Lady Rose with d’Alan’s full knowledge? It mentions him? And sealed with the Somerford seal? It would seem as if they are in this together then. Surely he would not turn traitor against you for the sake of his lady?” Gunnar found such a notion strange and incomprehensible—but he had not then met Lady Rose.
“There are rumors he is her leman, though Lily does not believe them. I have…wondered, I admit it. He is very attentive.”
In Gunnar’s opinion, Radulf seemed unusually loath to act in a matter that had a simple solution. “Then replace her, and him, now! “’Tis your right to do so. Why send my men and me to Somerford to catch them out in their plotting? We will arrest them and bring them back to you, and you can throw both the lady and her knight into your dungeons.”
But Radulf fingered his clean-shaven jaw uneasily, the hawk ring on his finger flashing blood red. “’Tis not so simple, Gunnar. Lily has taken a liking to this Rose. She will hear naught against her, and now, when she is so near her time, I dare not upset her. I must satisfy my doubts cautiously.”
The puzzlement cleared from Gunnar’s face, and he grinned.
“I know, I know.” Radulf’s sigh was irritable. “You think me a fool. But if you had a wife, my Viking friend, you would not be so smug!”
Gunnar laughed, but he thought then—with surprise—that the King’s Sword had changed. The bitterness that before he had always worn like a second skin had vanished, and in its place had grown contentment.
Although contentment brought its own burdens. Gunnar had noted the concern darting through Radulf’s dark eyes.
Lord Radulf was worried for his wife, Lily, who was heavily pregnant with their second child. Here was a man, Gunnar thought in amazement, who had great estates, the king’s friendship and wealth beyond imagining, and yet it was none of those things he feared losing.
No, he was worried about a woman!
Gunnar recalled the scene now, and his bewildered amusement at Radulf’s predicament. His own way of life had never been suitable for a wife, or so he had always told himself. Would she traipse about the countryside with him while he hired himself out for war? Or would she wait at home for months at a time, never knowing whether he lived or died?
Land, my friend, Radulf had said. Yours for the taking, if you can prove that Lady Rose of Somerford is plotting against me. There are reasons why it would please me to be rid of her, though I cannot yet share them with you. Aye, give me the lady, and I will give you her manor. ’Tis a fair exchange, Gunnar, and I will have a man there who I know I can trust.
With the offer of land of his own, Gunnar’s vision of his future had begun to change. Was it possible there was a woman for him who would be as Lily was to Radulf? Someone who would fuel his deepest desires physically, emotionally, and intellectually. Who would fit against him as if she had been born to be there…
“Captain?”
Alfred was looking at him strangely. Gunnar frowned, as if his abstraction was all to do with the present situation, and silently cursed himself for his lack of concentration. A dead man lay before him, and he was dreaming of taking a wife!
“Did the miller’s family see this man before he died?”
While Gunnar had been occupied, the girl and the child had crept closer. Now Alfred beckoned them to join him, and Gunnar saw that the girl had long tangled hair and a slim body beneath her ruined clothes—the front of her gown was badly torn, and she held it in place with her hand. The child had the same tawny hair and eyes.