Sheltered by the Warrior (Viking Warriors Book 3) (Historical Romance)

by Barbara Phinney

  The delicate parchment was stretched on a frame and difficult to write upon. After each missive, the skin was cleaned and restretched. Reusing these sheets thinned them more each time. He needed something more practical.

  Forcing calmness into himself, Stephen penned his questions again, all the while avoiding the niceties of good letter composition. His mother would be shocked.

  At the thought of his mother, Stephen stopped writing. He didn’t want his hand to shake again and break another quill. Was she still angry at him for not saving her youngest son’s life? He’d heard from a family friend how much she’d cursed him. Stephen was a middle child, the oldest son, and expected to do far more than had been expected from Corvin. He felt his face flush. If he could have, he’d have returned to Normandy, begged his mother’s forgiveness for not doing his duty. But he’d been needed in London, and later here, where he faced similar judgment from Josane.

  The vellum before him brightened when the sun broke from an errant cloud, as if reminding him why he was here. He wanted answers about Rowena immediately, and Adrien would appreciate the plainspoken words. Then, remembering Rowena’s suggestion, he penned a short postscript, asking for a minstrel troupe. Stephen may not know whether she was telling the truth about her life, but he did know a good suggestion when he heard it, especially considering how well it would work into his plan.

  After dispatching the courier with a guard, for Rowena’s reminder about Normans disappearing mysteriously also lingered, Stephen heard a tap on his door. Young Gaetan announced that the midday meal was ready.

  Indeed. The scents of roasted meat and onions, with freshly baked herb bread and soft trenchers, had wafted in around the young boy. But despite the distraction, Stephen’s thoughts remained on Rowena. He doubted she’d had a decent meal in days.

  And ’twould be good to put her on display in front of those who lived here at the manor. For surely they would report back to the village that Rowena was indeed in league with the Normans. Everyone knew there were few secrets in a manor house.

  “Bring the woman Rowena to me,” Stephen ordered his squire as he stood. “I should like to dine with her.” He paused. “You may have to carry her.”

  Gaetan shot him a look of horror but trotted off obediently. Stephen’s mouth twisted into a half smile. The boy could never handle the order, but with faith that his lord knew best, he dashed off. If only Rowena shared that kind of trust.

  He should rescue him, Stephen thought. There was no reason to subject the boy to Rowena’s fire. Gaetan had enough with Josane’s temper, for she was quite apt to employ him for all sorts of errands.

  * * *

  “Lord Stephen has ordered you to dine with him, Rowena,” Ellie announced hurriedly as she stood in the open doorway of the maids’ chamber. Having just fed Andrew, Rowena glanced at the other maid, a young woman whose responsibilities had her up before dawn to help the cook. Her eyebrows shot up.

  “In the hall?” Rowena asked, turning to Ellie.

  “Where else?” Ellie answered. “Milord even sent his squire to carry you.”

  With a glance at the anxious young boy peering around Ellie’s frame, Rowena laughed, though the sound carried a nervous ring. “Should that even be possible, I won’t be carried about like some fat overlord. Nay, I’ll walk.” She didn’t want the young boy to find himself in trouble when he could not fulfill his task.

  Looking at the door, Ellie handed Rowena the crutch she’d procured, took little Andrew from her and watched Rowena stand gingerly. “Well, the compresses and poultices have worked. Mayhap you can put weight on it. Just take your time.”

  “And risk Lord Stephen’s impatience? Not to mention the possibility of losing a hot meal.” Rowena smiled. “Nay, I couldn’t do that.”

  Ellie shook her head. “Don’t make light of this. You’ve already risked his temper once. Plus you returned his offer of food and practically demanded he find who torched your home.”

  “I didn’t demand anything. But Master Gilles spelled out that I am to be protected here.”

  After setting the babe on the pallet, Ellie took her hands and squeezed them. “Please, Rowena,” she pleaded quietly with a shake of her head and another fast look toward the door. “’Tis unwise to irk Lord Stephen. For he’s as cold as a winter wind and has the king’s ear. We could all suffer for your insolence.”

  “I have done nothing wrong!” Still, Rowena paused at the threshold, regret washing through her. True, she had annoyed Lord Stephen, and ’twould not be fair to others here if he was mad only at her. Even to the ones who wanted her dead, ’twould not be fair, as Clara had taught her to love everyone.

  Andrew let out a soft whine. Behind her, the other maid wisely distracted him, allowing Rowena to limp into the corridor. Facing away from the great hall, she paused. Was it wise to accept Stephen’s kindness in employing her, over and over? It certainly wouldn’t be teaching Andrew how to survive on his own, for she wouldn’t always be around.

  Her defiance would not teach him anything, either, for Andrew could end up dead should he become belligerent. Still, Rowena looked at Gaetan. “Lead the way, and I—”

  Abruptly she was scooped up, and as she had that morning outside of her burning home, she swiftly grabbed the clothing of the man carrying her. The crutch she’d taken from Ellie clattered to the floor. She gasped as she turned her head to find herself as close to Lord Stephen as before.

  “I want to eat whilst my food is still warm,” he announced. “So I don’t want to wait for you to hobble down to the hall like an old man.”

  “Then you shouldn’t have told your squire to carry me.”

  Stephen laughed, but to Rowena, it held little enjoyment. “That’s why I’m here. But you didn’t notice me, did you?”

  “Apparently neither did Ellie.”

  “I indicated to her not to tell you I was here because I wanted to see how you would react. You should trust that I know what I am doing.”

  Rowena stilled in his arms. “I have no choice right now, do I? I have to trust you.” Her stomach tightened, for as surely as she breathed, she knew Stephen wasn’t talking about his promise to find her attacker.

  She would never be able to eat the noonday meal now.

  Stephen halted. “You must have faith that I know what I’m doing.”

  She looked away, for he was altogether too close to her. When she turned her head to face him again, still too closely, she whispered, “Then let me help you, milord, and not as bait.”

  He stopped, a frown deepening as he studied her. Did he guess that she suspected he had other plans? “Nay. I have the experience, not you.” His lips tightened. “Say no more on that right now. I’m hungry, and I know you are, also. No one, even one as thin as you, can last for days without food, as I know you have.”

  Heat spread across her cheeks. Everyone ahead and behind them had stopped, obediently waiting for Stephen to resume his stride. She shut her eyes, unable to risk her gaze colliding with Stephen’s.

  “Rowena.” His voice had dropped so low, she could barely hear it. “Open your eyes. Look at me.”

  Her throat hurt, her breath stalled. “Nay. Put me down. Please.”

  “You were far more resistant when I carried you in last night,” he added as quietly as his previous words. “What has happened?”

  What had happened? Where was that independence she was sure she’d learned from Clara? Gone with the realization that one of her own people wanted her dead?

  Mayhap she was just weak from hunger. Mayhap she should consider her babe’s need for strong, healthy milk. Was she so selfish that she would starve her babe to stay proud? Oh, that should never be, but to be forced to deal with yet another Norman, another man she did not dare trust—

  “Rowena!”

  Her eyes flew open. “Nay, don’t tell me I must trust you. I cannot bear to think on that! And put me down. Please?”

  A pause stretched out before them. Then, with a heavy sigh, Stephe
n set her on her feet. Ellie rushed up with the crutch. Just as Rowena began to hobble down the torch-lit corridor, she glanced over her shoulder. Before she could stop her words, she added, “Do not carry me again, milord. I’m neither a babe in arms nor a crippled old woman. I’m only someone trying to start my life again.”

  Chapter Eight

  Josane sat stiffly to the left of Stephen’s grand chair, the expression she wore lethal as he followed the hobbling Rowena. Gilles arrived late, excusing his tardiness with a reason lost to everyone in his mutter. Stephen looked at his brother-in-law, noting suddenly that the man was growing his hair over his ears, mayhap to hide the way they stuck out. The inscrutable chaplain also arrived late but was far more flustered than Gilles. Stephen wasn’t sure if either man even noticed Rowena.

  He frowned and thought again of Rowena’s ability to read people. Mayhap she could tell what each man was thinking, for Stephen had learned in William’s court that no one save the king was above suspicion. Mayhap Stephen could sway the old priest to root out dissidents for him. Surely, he knew each man’s heart?

  Rowena sat quietly, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her stare on them forceful. Stephen burned with curiosity all through grace and the serving of the meal. He practically ached to ask her more questions but wondered if the answers would be lies, and hated that he wasn’t sure.

  Nay, they couldn’t be lies. Rowena would gain nothing from dishonesty, for she had already spurned any attempt at generosity on his part. All she wanted was to establish her life again.

  Now, without her realizing it, she was the crux of his plan to fulfill the king’s command to find and apprehend those who would threaten this new Norman land. What would she say if she knew?

  It shouldn’t make any difference. This was for her and her babe’s welfare as much as ’twas for the welfare of the crown.

  After glancing at Josane, a young servant set out two fine, fresh trenchers, each as thick as two fingers and still steamy from the oven. Another servant then scooped a healthy portion of meat onto each. Behind her, the cupbearer poured new cider into two goblets. Normally, he and his guest would share a goblet, good form in times when poisoning was apt to end the life of a guest or host. But not today. Had Josane ordered the separate servings without him noticing, as was her right as chatelaine? Probably. Her disgust lingered like smoke from an untrimmed wick.

  Stephen glanced furtively around the room, cataloging every subtle expression that revealed how each person felt having Rowena on the dais.

  The cupbearer appeared calm, but the server’s hands shook. Josane stared a hole in Stephen’s left temple, but he’d borne the brunt of her displeasure many times before and could allow this to slide from him.

  Gilles threw a fast glance at the chaplain, who peered down the table at Rowena as if just realizing she was there.

  As he gazed at her, Stephen caught Rowena staring wide-eyed at the food. She swallowed hard, then wet her lips.

  Remorse soured his tongue, but Stephen successfully swallowed it away with a generous gulp of cider. Every day of his life, he’d eaten well. Good fare, rich in flavor and heavy with meat. A huge platter of fine cheeses and pastries sat in the middle of the table, artfully decorated with late-season apples and the last of this year’s berries.

  Rowena furtively touched her belly, pushing on it as if to quell any hunger. He should tell her she was to take all her meals with him, lest her determination to owe him nothing curb her appetite. Foolish thought. Was she not making rope and mending clothes for him? He wished he could use her skill at reading people, but apart from her being uncooperative, there was the logistics of moving her around whilst her ankle healed. Nay, she would earn her meals with rope and mending.

  “Thank you for dining with me,” he stated loudly as he sliced off a portion of cheese and offered it to her.

  “I’m grateful, as well,” she muttered back, not looking at him and still pressing her belly with her left hand as she reached for the morsel of food.

  His fingers stilled over hers as she accepted it. “You’re a curious mix of fear and determination. I would prefer the latter.”

  “And you, milord, demand that I simply put my faith in you without any proof that you can find who wants me dead.”

  From the corner of his eye, Stephen ensured that none of the others at the table heard his private conversation. No one appeared to be listening, though. He said, “I will do as I promised, Rowena. You are my guest.”

  “I’ve been hired to work here, milord. I’m not a guest.”

  She blinked. Pale blue eyes, bright with tears, and her long tresses, as white as snow, gave her a delicate air. She wore nothing on her head today, and a few fine strands had escaped her braids to halo her face.

  The torches lit around the great hall warmed her skin. She was so beautiful. Had he not noticed that before? Gentle, yet determined to stand up for herself. If she’d ordered him never to speak to her again, in that single breath of time, he’d have obeyed her, for she bore such a look of purity and truth.

  He mentally stopped himself. Was he addled all of a sudden?

  “Rowena.” Josane split open any unwanted attraction with a single chilling slice of her sharp voice. Rowena’s attention flew down the length of the table.

  Josane leaned forward. “Next time you are invited to this table, I will expect you to at least wear a veil. ’Tis not proper to come bareheaded into this hall.”

  Rowena’s eyes widened and Stephen was sure she would have fled the room had her ankle allowed it. Lord in heaven, take away her terror. He needed her here.

  “Oui, milady,” Rowena whispered in French and English.

  “Et tu parle Français?” Josane asked.

  “Oui, madame,” she whispered back.

  “Est-ce Français convenable?”

  “Oui, madame. Un baron et son épouse m’a enseigné.”

  Stephen took note. Rowena had learned her French from both a baron and his wife? Had that baron been Lord Taurin, the father of her child? Rowena had known his wife at the same time?

  With his mouth tight, Stephen sat back with folded arms.

  “Then I expect you to speak only French to the maids,” Josane continued in her native tongue, her tone icy. “I may as well take advantage of your language skills while you’re here. Work on their pronunciation. Their accents are terrible.” With that, she resumed eating.

  The chaplain frowned. Stephen knew the man spoke only English, not understanding even the simple conversation that had just transpired. But only a fool would fail to note the foul expression on his sister’s face. Stephen shot her a warning look. Not even Josane, as chatelaine and his older sister, was allowed to bully his dinner guest, regardless of Rowena’s status as villein and now servant. He would speak to her later.

  The meal stretched on, with Gilles ignoring everyone except the chaplain. Josane ate efficiently and was the first to excuse herself. Rowena’s hand shook as she played with her food. Finally, when Gilles and the chaplain left, Stephen turned to Rowena. “That went well.”

  She looked up at him as if just realizing the ordeal was finally over. “Thank you for inviting me.”

  “Ha! You barely ate anything.”

  “My friend, Clara, who is also a healer, says if you eat when you’re nervous, your food will not digest.” She paused. “I was nervous.”

  Stephen smiled. “Really? I didn’t notice.”

  She looked skeptical. His smile widened. “Not all meals go this poorly. Josane is just protective of her position as chatelaine. She runs this manor for me. She keeps the keys and is in charge of hospitality. She’s usually very gracious.”

  “Really? I didn’t notice.”

  Stephen threw back his head and burst out laughing, causing several soldiers who still lingered over their noon meals to peer their way. Ah, ’twas good to see Rowena had a sense of humor, albeit a sarcastic one. As with many Saxons, her wit was as dry as the rushes on the floor. When his laugh di
ed to a chuckle, he focused on her.

  She was smiling back, a true, broad smile from unpainted lips, showing straight, white teeth. A dimple showed on each glowing, clear cheek. Her eyes sparkled.

  She was truly lovely. He felt his smile die away, and he quickly cleared his throat. He could not allow any feelings for her to sway him from his king’s command. The sooner he knew the truth about her life before, the easier ’twould be to deal with her. And if the truth was as bad as she’d said, he’d use that to his advantage, for surely she would agree he should root out Saxon dissidents who reminded her of the man who sold her into slavery.

  But the answering letter from Adrien could be weeks away.

  His hand shaking, he reached for his goblet, his other hand stopping the maid from taking away their food. “Eat your meal, Rowena. ’Tis wrong to waste it, and my sister is gone. I saw your smile, so I know you’re no longer nervous.”

  Rowena lifted her spoon and tried the tepid stew. Most of it had long since soaked into the trencher. They both knew the food would not go to waste, for someone would gladly finish it off should she decline. Still, Stephen held his breath as she tasted her first morsel. Then she smiled and took another bite.

  Again, he watched her. Around them, mounted on weighted clips on the wall, were blazing torches, for the narrow windows did not let in enough light. Grease pans below each one caught any drippings, which would be remelted for reuse. Now that the meal was over, the flames had turned long and lazy, offering a warm glow to her hair. Amazing hair.

  “Forgive Josane,” he said. “But ’twould be best if you found a veil for your hair. We are not used to bareheaded women.” ’Twas a distraction for sure, and since Norman women were more inclined to hide their hair, Rowena should, also.

  Mayhap a sturdy wimple, too, he thought. Anything to curb some of her beauty. The chaplain and Gilles may not have noticed, but he had. He’d also seen a few furtive looks cast from his soldiers.

  Her head shot up as if she’d heard his thoughts. Pink flooded her face. “I had a veil in my hut. But I suspect it has been ruined. Though I hadn’t worn one before I met Clara.”