She looked up at him and he found her eyes were almost too light to look upon. A blue as delicate as in the stained-glass window in his home church in Normandy. Stephen watched her body tense. She twisted the broken root she held into a deadly grip one might reserve for a dagger.
“Planning to bury that parsnip in my chest?” asked Stephen as he opened the short gate of the hut’s small fence. Then he halted, shocked at the disarray. The pen at the far end had been tossed on its side, its door hanging by one hinge. Roots and vegetables were strewn about, some crushed as if a furious giant of lore had turned his wrath upon this garden.
Rowena said nothing, only keeping her grip on the parsnip tight as she backed away. Immediately, Stephen regretted his sharp tongue. He had no desire to frighten her.
Still in English, he tried a lighter tone. “’Tis not the best way to preserve your crops for winter, or to keep your fowl from escaping.”
She tossed the root onto the ground. “You think I do not know this?”
“An animal in the night?”
“Ha! Only one who wears boots,” she snapped. She quickly brushed the back of her hand across her glistening cheek, leaving a smudge of tear-dampened dirt in its wake.
“Who did this? Did you see them?” Stephen asked.
“Nay. I heard nothing, so they must have done this late into the night. Cowards!”
Stephen stepped gingerly around the garden, close to the door of her hut, to survey the mess. “Why would anyone do such a thing?”
Rowena said nothing. Stephen watched her. Though silent, she carried a wealth of information in the way she stood. She knew the reason for this vandalizing, he was sure. “Have you any enemies?” he asked.
She stiffened. “I should not have any! I have been here a month at best, and tried to speak with the other women, only to be treated like an outcast. That I can deal with, but this? I shall surely starve this winter because of their evil!” Her voice hitched slightly.
“I’ll see to it that doesn’t happen.”
“Who are you that—” Her gaze flew up and then narrowed. “You’re Baron Stephen.” Rowena’s cold whisper scratched like brambles, leaving it to feel more of an accusation than a statement.
“Aye. And you are Rowena, late of Dunmow.”
“I did not live in Dunmow. I came from a farm in the west, near Cambridge.”
Relatively close. Stephen pursed his lips. Most of this county had suffered greatly under William’s scorched-earth policies when he’d marched north to fight after taking London. But Cambridge had fared moderately better, for ’twas nothing but a backwater village as rude as any wild moor that lay to the south. Though the manor houses in the king’s path had been razed and the holdings would suffer much for years to come, the most isolated farmers, those with little contact with civilization, had escaped total destruction. Had she come from one of them?
Rowena threw her arms out to the mess around them. “We Saxons live hand to mouth here, barely affording a grain of barley. You offer food where you should be finding who did this!”
Aye, ’twas exactly his reason for being here. “’Twill be easy enough to discover. My experience in London has taught me several techniques of extracting the truth.”
She gasped. His calm answer was guileless, although he was not one to employ brutal punishment to acquire information. ’Twas better to keep one’s eyes and ears open and, for the most part, one’s mouth shut. A calm manner was more apt to lure out subterfuge than a harsh beating.
“So, tell me, how did you end up in Dunmow, as guest of my friend Lord Adrien?”
Rowena remained stiff. The breeze dropped and her hair fell, a single flaxen curtain of sword-straight locks. She went still, and if ’tweren’t for the light breath that streamed from her lips, he’d have thought she’d turned to stone. Finally, she said, “I was not his guest, milord.”
Stephen didn’t want to know what she wasn’t. Odd that she wouldn’t answer his question directly. Was there a hidden reason, or was he seeing intrigue where only shadows of Saxon distrust lay?
Then, from within the hut, a babe cried loudly. Lifting the damp hem of her cyrtel, Rowena swung past him, her chin tipped up and her mouth tight. Her eyes, too wide set and too large for her face, turned icy blue, adding to the chill of the morning. Yet, by their sheer size alone, they offered only innocence.
Stephen reached forward to open the door for her. ’Twas not required, but his mother’s training had been drilled into him long before his promotion to baron.
She flinched at his raised arm. ’Twas merely a blink and a slight jerk back, and so swift he would have missed it had his gaze not been sealed to her face.
Then ’twas gone, replaced by wariness. But he knew what he saw, and though not uncommon in a land where women had few rights, he disliked seeing fear in any woman’s eyes.
Aye, Rowena was scared. Hurt, also, but mostly frightened. Stephen stepped aside as she ducked into the hut, her cloak wafting out as she passed. The youthful screams within were soon replaced by soothing murmurs.
Wandering from the door, Stephen looked again at the vandal’s work. He bent several times to study and measure the boot prints he spied, while noticing their tread. The clear imprints of heavy boots all the same size told him that only one man had done this. The cur had crushed an egg, had laid waste to late-season herbs and had trampled the roots until they were completely inedible. Not just any man’s boots, Stephen noted as he straightened again. A Saxon man’s boots. The simple style was unmistakable.
Why would a Saxon destroy this young woman’s food stocks? Because she was rumored to have allied herself with the Normans? She was far too young for such subterfuge. It had been two years since William’s victory at Hastings. This Rowena would have been barely into womanhood back then. But still, a Saxon? One from the village, too, for the boot prints retreated toward the huts rather than disappearing into the forest to the north. This attack made no sense.
The door behind him opened again. Stephen turned to watch Rowena step outside with a babe in her arms.
The babe had dark hair and olive skin, and only one lineage with men of that complexion was in England right now. For some reason, his heart sank.
So that was how she was aligned with the Normans.
Chapter Two
Though not ashamed of her babe, for he brought such great joy to her, Rowena knew that his dark hair, bred into him from his father, gave away a parentage she’d have preferred to hide.
She sagged. She’d seen Lord Stephen’s surprise. Soon, suspicion would follow and then, distaste evident, he would walk away, putting the woman with no husband behind him. She’d seen it often enough in this village.
“Aye,” she muttered, tugging Andrew’s cap back on after he’d reached up to yank it off. With the other hand, he caught her rough wool cloak. “He’s my son.” She held back the urge to explain. Nay, ’twas no one’s business. She’d already learned that few people would believe her, anyway. To those scoffers, she was a simple farm girl with a wild tale of slavery and scheming, something unbelievable from a creature looking for sympathy because she’d found herself pregnant after a shameful tryst. She leveled her stare at him. “Aye, his father is Norman.”
Rowena looked away, not wanting to see the shadow of turning in his expression. This tall, strong man was just another Norman—untrustworthy. Lord Stephen may not be Taurin, who had been exiled to Normandy for his treacherous plan to use her babe to usurp the king, and, aye, that same king had agreed to her move here, but she would not trust this man one jot. Only Lord Adrien had shown her any kindness. He was the exception, having a Saxon wife of great influence, whom he loved very much.
Her friend, Clara, though, had taught her to hold her head up high. ’Twas not her fault she’d been an unwilling partner in the creation of her beautiful babe. With that reminder, Rowena straightened and lifted her chin.
The look of surprise on Stephen’s face dissolved like mist under a hot sun
. “The boy’s paternity is of no concern to me.”
No concern? She wet her lips, suddenly perplexed by his calm reaction. Did it really not interest him? Or did he hide it well? She wasn’t sure.
He cleared his throat. “As you know, I am Baron Stephen de Bretonne. This village is my responsibility.”
“Then you are failing, sir,” Rowena replied softly, with a furtive glance to her ruined garden and with a measure of relief that he didn’t turn away in disgust.
“Apparently so,” he answered. “But in my defense, I have been in London for the summer and just arrived home last night.”
Rowena could hear only the slightest French accent in his English words. He was surprisingly fluent in her mother tongue. “And what exactly is your responsibility now that you’re here?” Despite her bold words, Rowena battled the sting of fearful tears. She walked to the garden, hoping in her survey of the damage that she might find some salvageable food, for surely this man would do little to help her, despite his promise. Setting Andrew on the ground, and making sure there was nothing around him he could choke on, for he was apt to put everything into his mouth, Rowena began the grim task of sorting through the disarray. She set aside the few roots that remained mostly whole, whilst those mashed would either nourish the soil or be rinsed in the river before being boiled into a pottage. She refused to waste anything. Everything here had been a gift to start her new life, and she would not treat poorly a single portion of it.
Behind her, deprived of her attention, Andrew squawked. Then squawked again. With a sigh, she turned in time to see Baron Stephen scoop the babe into his arms.
With a gasp, she leaped to her feet and snatched Andrew from the tall Norman’s grip. “Nay! He’s mine!” Then, with one free hand, she shoved him back with all her might. The hauberk’s chain mail bit into her palm.
Immediately, the guard burst forward to shield his lord. He pressed the point of a long Norman blade against her throat. She cried out, clutching her babe close as she stared at what could be the instrument of her death.
* * *
Stephen reacted swiftly, grabbing the blade and pulling it away from Rowena’s neck. In the same fluid movement, he drove the weapon into the soft, damp earth. “Stand down, soldier!” he ordered, planting himself between the guard and Rowena. He then turned to her.
Her arms protecting her child, Rowena flinched again. Terror flooded her expression. Stephen tightened his jaw. In the past, any fear he’d caused, especially due to his height, had pleased him. He’d even cultivated it occasionally, for intimidation alone often kept his king safe. As captain of the King’s Guard, Stephen had made William’s safety paramount. ’Twas the only reason the Good Lord had given him life.
But today, seeing Rowena’s fear, he found his belly souring. ’Twas obvious, based on the way she shied from him, that the man who’d fathered this child had done so using that same fear and intimidation Stephen employed in court. His belly churned further. She was hardly aligned with any Norman. ’Twas only a filthy rumor against her.
He glanced swiftly around him at the shambles. So someone in this village felt that she needed to be taught a lesson? Immediately, an idea blossomed. Tightening his jaw, Stephen turned to his guard. “Return to the horses.”
As the man reluctantly retreated, Stephen focused his attention on Rowena again. With no blade at her throat anymore, she should have been relieved, but fear still lit her eyes despite her uptilted chin and the squareness in her shoulders.
Father in heaven, take away her fear.
“’Tis all right, Rowena,” he stated calmly. “My guard thought I was threatened.”
Her eyes flared. “You were! By me! You grabbed my babe!”
Stephen shrugged mildly. “He was fussing.”
“I wasn’t paying attention to him, that’s all. He’d have stopped in a moment. ’Tis often so with babes. Sometimes, they want their mother and nothing else will do.”
She spoke with an accent Stephen didn’t recognize. But he’d learned that here in England, each tiny village had its own unique way of speaking. “I don’t remember fussing when my mother turned her back.”
Rowena flushed and shifted the boy in her arms. Away from Stephen. Again, she fixed the babe’s wayward cap.
“Please don’t mock me, my lord. You would not remember fussing.” Then, with a glance behind him, she added, “And please, if I have satisfied your curiosity, will you depart? Your presence here is rousing the interest of my neighbors, and I don’t wish to be seen in any Norman’s company.”
Stephen spun. The family living in the hut closest to the village fence was now standing by the gate, each person peering with unabashed interest. The father, a belligerent Saxon Stephen had met several times, scowled the worst. If there was ever a troublemaker, this man was it. But Stephen had no proof yet. However, with William’s new edict, Stephen didn’t need much evidence to arrest anyone. ’Twas only his personal integrity that he have adequate reason.
Like this attack on Rowena’s harvest? Stephen glanced back at her. He mentally counted the distance. Her home was closest to the forest, outside the wattle fencing and at least twenty long strides from her nearest neighbor. Hers was a hut set apart long ago for some unknown reason. And judging from the foul expressions on her neighbors’ faces, not far enough.
Noticing his return glare, the Saxons retreated from the fence. Stephen faced Rowena again. “Do you think those people vandalized your garden?”
She shook her head. “I cannot say. I heard no one last night.” She cleared her throat as she avoided his eyes. “My lord, I must return to my task and salvage what food is left. If you have no more questions, please excuse me.”
Her fearful expression shot up to him again, one that set his teeth on edge. Knowing he could do nothing about her reaction in the next few moments, Stephen nodded and strode back to the fence, sending the neighbors scurrying into their hut. As he mounted his courser, he noted several other Saxons, having been roused from their pallets, poking out heads and peering at the odd scene he’d created.
Deliberately swinging his horse and his harsh glare around that end of the village and being successful in forcing the curious back into their homes, Stephen returned his attention to Rowena. She, too, had retreated into her hut.
He sighed, the air leaking from his lungs like a pierced skin of cider. ’Twas for the best that everyone here remain intimidated and therefore subdued, but to have Rowena fall into that category left bitterness on his tongue, a taste he knew would linger until he broke his fast. And that would not happen until after he’d inspected the forest’s edge and made note of where to start the work on the embankment that would keep this village safe should those rebels at Ely attack.
At the gate, Stephen hauled in the reins of his courser and noticed that Rowena had once again slipped outside. Her soft, pale hair danced in the morning breeze as she stooped to return to her task.
She’ll find little food in that mess, and the two cages she’d owned are destroyed. She would have had a hen, but what else? Rabbits, maybe? ’Twas rare for a Saxon to own rabbits. Mayhap jealousy spurred the attack?
Stephen’s jaw clenched as he watched Rowena search around the pens for her livestock, all the while furtively sweeping tears off her cheeks. Once she dropped onto her knees and covered her face. He jerked forward, his fingers tightening on the wooden pommel of his saddle. The only reason he did not leap from his mount was because he knew she’d only ask him to leave again. Out of the corner of his eye, he spied his guard watching him closely, his eyes dark under the rim of his steel helmet.
Stephen turned his courser and the animal snorted and stamped its feet impatiently. He knew he could do nothing more until he completed a new task. ’Twould be one that, if employed properly, could serve both his needs and Rowena’s.
Aye. Then those Saxons who would make trouble for the king would think twice about supporting those fools at Ely in their losing cause.
Startlin
g even his guard, Stephen galloped his horse back to his home to carry out his plan.
* * *
Slack-jawed, Rowena stared at the sight of the wrapped stalks of grain and the gunnysack of root vegetables. She blinked when the young woman in front of her set half a cheese round atop the load. Someone had wrapped the expensive treat in leaves and tied it snugly with thin vines. Everything was secured by a fraying rope that had been tied at many points.
Her visitor smiled expectantly at Rowena, but she couldn’t return it. She had seen this girl near the manor house, but had not approached her. Why should she? The rest of the village had scorned her and her babe. Why go looking for more of the same? Finally, words formed and Rowena muttered, “What is all this?”
“’Tis a gift from Lord Stephen,” the woman answered in English with an accent that told Rowena she was a local. “He said you have need of it.” Her smile increased.
Automatically, Rowena glanced to her right where she’d spent the better part of the day. So far, she’d recovered only a meager portion of her harvest. Her attempt to rinse the crushed roots had met with little success, for grit and dirt were imbedded deep in the mash of vegetables, and often the current in the nearby stream broke apart the delicate pieces. Tears choked her again but she fought them back.
The woman followed her gaze, and her hopeful expression fell into dismay. “What happened?”
“’Twould seem that I am not welcomed here.”
As if to remind her why, Andrew cried out from where he was seated nearby. The woman’s attention snapped to him and in that instant, her expression turned to joy. “Oh, such a beautiful child! Look at that lovely thick hair!”
About to answer that his hair came from his father, Rowena stopped her words. She’d be stating the obvious and adding the suggestion that she’d willingly partaken in Andrew’s creation. Was that not what the people here thought?
Sheltered by the Warrior (Viking Warriors Book 3) (Historical Romance) Page 2