“Very well,” she whispered, harsh pride overcoming her need to cry. “I will agree to come with you. Let me dress.”
He hesitated, as if he was not sure whether to believe her, and then with a brisk nod he released her. Rose hurried to her chest, taking out the first garments she touched and pulling them on. Her fingers trembled and fumbled with the ties, with the stockings. She moved to snatch up her hairbrush.
“Leave it,” he said sharply. “There is no time for more.” Beyond him, toward the woods, Rose could see movement. Shadows shifting beneath the starlight. Miles and his men.
She turned and would have swung her cloak about her shoulders, but he pushed the garment he already held in his hands toward her. “Put this on.”
Puzzled, Rose shook it out. It was a cloak, but older than her own, the cloth was thick and…She wrinkled her nose. There was an odor clinging to it that was familiar—grease, rancid meat, and incense? What did that remind her of?
“Put it on,” he said again, growing impatient.
Rose bit back her questions and slipped the cloak about her, trying not to shrink from its contact. At least it was thick and warm. Hastily she tucked her long hair inside as she pulled the hood lower over her face. She had barely finished when there was a soft tap on the door and Constance called for entry.
Gunnar went to let her in. When Rose turned, the old woman was behind her.
“Lady,” whispered Constance, her cold hand finding Rose’s. “They say Fitzmorton’s men are at the gate. You must flee.”
This was Constance, who sometimes annoyed her but more often had loved her throughout her years at Somerford. It occurred afresh to Rose just how dear the old woman was, and she returned the pressure of her clasp. “What if they hurt you? If my going will bring down their anger on you, Constance, I—”
Constance snorted with derision, as though her eyes were not shining with tears. “I am not afeared of them, lady! I have lived through some terrible times. Besides, I am old and can be stupid if ’tis necessary. I will make them think me half-witted, so they will let me be. Now hurry, go with the captain before ’tis too late.”
Gunnar’s hand pressed against her back. Rose found herself moving forward onto the darkened stairs. She glanced behind her, but Constance had already closed the door, and she heard the sound of the bar falling. Gunnar’s breath was warm against her ear. “Whatever happens, keep your head down, and say nothing.”
They started down the stairs.
Rose stumbled once, but he pulled her in against his body, holding her firm when she would have tried to wriggle out of his grip. His step was swift and sure, and they were soon at the entrance to the great hall. But they didn’t go that way, instead Gunnar turned down again, toward the kitchen.
The low room was dark and empty, apart from the gray kitchen cat and her kittens, curled by the oven. Gunnar moved silently through the room, to the door that led into the small garden. He unbarred and opened it and, after a brief glance outside, drew Rose after him.
Her head was immediately filled with the sweet and spicy scents of fresh herbs, and the earthy reek from the midden. Her cloak brushed against a rosemary bush, and then Gunnar was leading her onward again. They were close to the wall of the keep, moving in the direction of the bailey.
Beyond the gate, horses were clattering across the bridge. Miles and his men had made good time. “Open up!” The shout rang in the silence. “Open up in the name of Fitzmorton!”
“You, there! Help me!” Arno was beckoning to old Edward, who appeared too shocked to move. “Do as you are told, you dolt!”
Sweyn stepped forward, brushing by Edward and murmuring something to him at the same time. The old man stared at him a moment, and then slowly, sullenly, came to help unlatch and pull open the heavy wooden gate.
Rose turned to look up at Gunnar. His eyes were fastened on the stable, judging the distance, judging the chances of them reaching it unseen. And then what? How could they possibly ride out of Somerford Keep without being stopped?
“What will we do?” She was shivering. With cold or fear? Rose wasn’t certain.
Gunnar said nothing, but his arm tightened about her, drawing her in closer to his warmth.
Fitzmorton’s men hadn’t waited for the gate to be opened fully. They were already galloping in, the distinctive blue and yellow banner flapping at their head. Rose recognized Miles’s voice, carried eerily on the night air.
“Where is the lady?”
“She is in her chamber,” Arno replied promptly, destroying any hopes Rose might have had that he would stand up for her. “I have just now set a guard on her door.”
A guard at her door?
Rose shut her eyes with a dizzy wave of relief. She had escaped just in time.
“Good, good.” When she looked again, Miles had swung around and had begun shouting orders to his men. They were dismounting, some heading off across the bailey, others towards the keep. Edward and Sweyn remained side-by-side by the partly open gate, the old Englishman and the sturdy Dane.
Gunnar’s voice was so soft, it was like a thought against her ear. “Wait and watch. When you see me point to the gate, walk quickly toward it. Once you are outside it, run. I will catch you up.”
She stared at the shape of him, the glitter of his eyes. “They will know me!”