“My men and their beasts have traveled far and need to rest. Show us where to stable our horses, Sir Arno,” he said, forgetting in his haste to be away to make it sound more like a request and less like an order.
Arno’s dark eyes narrowed, but thankfully he did not quibble.
Gunnar could feel her staring at his back as he walked away. Shivering like an angry kitten with needle claws. If she flew at him she would do about as much damage, but he did not think that would stop her from making the attempt. There had been passion in her dark eyes. Women like the Lady Rose were not easily subdued, and she alone had held the reins of Somerford Manor for over a year now. She would not give them up easily.
She was not what he had expected.
Gunnar had imagined the Lady Rose to be like other Norman ladies. In his experience they were either cold, haughty creatures, quivering with good breeding and reluctant to get too close to him in case they were soiled by his lowly presence, or else they were weak and clinging, unable to stand, it seemed, without the assistance of a stronger will. Get too close to them and they were liable to faint or swoon about his person.
r /> In general, Norman ladies knew little to nothing of the practical details of guarding their property; they did not send their soldiers into the fields to work alongside the serfs and villeins, nor did they work alongside them; they did not dress their women up as men and order them to stand guard! In Gunnar’s opinion, this Norman lady’s ideas were quite remarkable, and although he did not agree with them, he found them…admirable? No. He did not want to admire her—that was not his mission.
His mission was to destroy her.
And yet from the first moment she walked—a simple word for such a heavenly movement—across the bailey toward him, he had sensed a serious breach in his defenses. An open gate in his wall. Maybe his men had sensed it, too, this ripple in his normally imperturbable calm, for he had felt them move instinctively closer, as if to cover his back.
She had been afraid of him—of them all, but of him in particular. Why else would she have stared at him when they first met as if she had been struck by a bolt loosed from a longbow? But fear had not stopped her from arguing over a few paltry marks. Why had he antagonized her? So that she would know from the first you are not one of her serfs, or a tame Norman knight like Sir Arno d’Alan.
And she had refused to pay—as if he were not worth the silver! He had felt his temper slip, surprising himself and Ivo—he never lost his temper. Ivo had had to remind him, quietly, the real reason they were there. Money was not the object—they would be well paid.
So you lost your temper over five marks?
No, not for that…Unwillingly, Gunnar recalled how she had grasped Arno’s arm, the familiar intimacy of the gesture, and jealousy twisted in his gut. He, Gunnar Olafson, was jealous! He was never jealous; he had no reason to be. Women came to him; it was they who were jealous—of one another! But now he pictured dark eyes so large and beautiful, skin so fine and soft, a mouth so moist and ripe, and a firm, full body. The possibility of another man possessing all that…He clenched his jaw, hard. It was as if, he thought in disgust, he had never had a woman before.
In other circumstances he would have wooed her with his considerable charm, won her over, and taken her until he had rid himself of his need for her. But he was there for a reason other than to serve her, a secret reason, and rumor had it that she was sharing her favors with the knight.
So it is good that she is afraid of you? Did you enjoy persuading her you would allow children to be slaughtered in battle?
No, Gunnar told himself. It was said for d’Alan’s benefit, to further convince him of our brutality. If it drove the beautiful lady further from me, then that is good, too. Except she hadn’t fluttered her hands and turned faint. Oh, she had paled, but then she had argued the point with him.
Gunnar smiled wryly at the memory. This was no weak and feeble lady. Strong, yet—he remembered the nibbled nails on her slender hand—vulnerable. He found the combination very appealing.
And then his smile died. He had been thinking as if Lady Rose were an innocent party in all this. He knew better than that. If there was a plot at work at Somerford Manor, then Lady Rose must surely be in the thick of it. It was she who had asked for mercenaries; d’Alan was only the messenger. The letter intercepted by Radulf’s men had definitely come from her, for it was she who had sealed the incriminating missive with the Somerford seal—no one but the lord or lady of the manor could use the seal. That letter was the reason Gunnar was there. No, Rose was no innocent victim, and next time he imagined bedding her he should remember that.
“One thing.”
It was Arno speaking, and Gunnar turned his head to look down at d’Alan’s thinning pate, wondering what the knight wanted now.
“The Lady Rose,” Arno said, as if he had read Gunnar’s mind. “She is a sweet lady, but she has no head for…practical matters. She does not understand the ways of men and the world, so she leaves such things to me. It is I who give the orders, Captain Olafson, no matter what she believes. Is that clear?”
There was implacability in his stare, a cold belligerence beneath the gruff, knightly veneer. Gunnar stared back and knew Arno was lying. The woman he had just faced was unlikely to appreciate Arno’s counter instructions one little bit. But if Arno was her lover, perhaps this was his way of concealing her treason? Protecting her?
Or himself.
“I understand you,” Gunnar said quietly.
Arno moved closer, until Gunnar smelled the sharp, sour sweat beneath his fine clothes. The knight’s voice was tinged with mockery. “Of course you do. We both seek the same end, after all.”
Satisfied, Arno strode on ahead, leading the way. The mercenaries followed, playing the game, grinning at one another, pretending docility totally foreign to their natures. Sweyn said, loudly, “Women fighting wars? It will never happen.”
Ivo stepped up beside Gunnar. “What did he mean?” he asked softly, dark eyes watchful. “Which ‘end’ does he speak of?”
Gunnar shook his head. They had gone from Radulf to Fitzmorton and there played their part well. Now Fitzmorton had sent them to Somerford. No one seemed to be making matters much clearer.
Ivo shifted restlessly. “Do you think there is a plot afoot here?”
Gunnar’s voice remained calm. “Time will tell.”
Behind them Sweyn told a joke, and the others laughed. Ivo leaned closer still. “How is your sword, Gunnar?”