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

by Barbara Phinney

  Stephen caught the old woman’s cunning tone. He’d prayed aloud here yesterday for wisdom where Rowena was concerned. Though her door was not open, the anchoress must’ve heard him.

  What had he been thinking, coming here? Surely he could have prayed just as effectively in his chamber? ’Twas unlike him to reveal his plans in such a foolish way.

  Until a few days ago, he’d been more than comfortable in his role as the king’s spymaster and perfectly unquestioning in his own ability to find and arrest those here who would rebel against the king. But something was changing, and it unnerved him. Was it Josane’s harsh criticism? Probably ’twas his fool reaction to Rowena. Aye, he admired that she’d taken immediately to wearing a veil, held in place by a simple metal diadem. She’d also tied her two braids together at her nape, so they would not be seen.

  Stephen opened his mouth to thank her but shut it again. Not while Udella sat there watching. ’Twould send the wrong message to the crafty old woman. He was interested in Rowena only to force out the would-be enemies of the kingdom.

  “I have heard of you, Rowena,” Udella said. Sighing, she added, “Oh, I wish I hadn’t been sick before now! I could have met you sooner. And met this lovely little boy.” With that, she tickled Andrew’s chin again. He laughed and turned away, his sparkling eyes meeting Stephen’s. The boy held out his hand to him, and suddenly, Stephen felt a smile burst onto his lips. Andrew’s toothless grin broadened. His arm stretched out, he pointed at Stephen.

  Being almost ten years older than Corvin, Stephen remembered him as a babe. A bright, happy thing like Andrew. His heart squeezed.

  Still looking at Udella, Rowena asked, “Are you still unwell? I have some herbs—” She stopped. “Well, I don’t know if they survived the fire, but my friend, Clara, taught me which herbs are good for warding off a fever.”

  Udella’s interest flared. She adjusted her wimple as she leaned forward. “I heard of this fire. I will pray that your home is repaired soon. But are you lame, also?”

  Stephen bristled. Rowena had not limped the short distance around the front pew to where she now stood. Had Udella already heard of Rowena’s injury? Did she know something about the attack? Had someone, in seeking advice, revealed his guilt? Stephen would speak to her later, in private.

  “Rowena,” he began, “Udella has her duties to complete. Let’s leave her to her prayers.”

  Her expression skeptical, Rowena looked once more at Udella. The anchoress waved to little Andrew, who watched her with big dark eyes. For an instant, Stephen wondered what a child of his might look like, for he was also dark-haired and dark-eyed. Would he resemble Andrew? Or would he show a fairer coloring like Rowena?

  Like Rowena? The questions mentally jolted him and he shoved them aside. “Come. Time to leave,” he told Rowena with more gruffness in his voice than he’d intended.

  Once they were outside and the arched door shut firmly, Rowena asked, “Were you here when she was walled in? It sounds so frightening.”

  Stephen tensed. His feelings were mixed about such a practice, but Udella had been adamant. “Aye, but I see to it that the maids care for her. She lacks nothing.”

  Rowena frowned. “Except her freedom.”

  “Should she change her mind, I would honor her request. But she won’t. Tell me, Rowena, what do you think of Udella?”

  He waited for her thoughts. With Rowena’s obvious talent for guessing people’s character, he wanted to see if he should be looking at Udella as a threat to his work here.

  With a slight frown and pursed lips, Rowena stopped. When she looked up at Stephen, her expression was serious. “She has a kind heart. She’s also sad and lonely. And a little scared, I think.”

  “’Tis hard to fathom. She was laughing.”

  “Only on the outside. But she likes you very much.”

  “I find her as sly as a vixen.”

  Rowena laughed. “Oh, she is that. She knew you were in the chapel when she invited me in.” She reddened. “Lady Udella did that on purpose, I think. ’Twas because she was curious.”

  Stephen said nothing. Instead, he watched Rowena. With pink cheeks, she looked away to fuss with Andrew’s skewed cap. In such a short span of time, she’d identified Udella’s personality amazingly well. Rowena was completely uneducated in the formal sense but spoke more than passable French and knew about people. What a benefit she could be to him, he realized again.

  Rowena shot him a furtive look, something that bordered on suspicious. “Don’t be harsh with her, milord. She trusts you to protect her.”

  “And you?” The words fell out of his mouth before he gave them thought.

  She looked away. Relief washed through him. He hadn’t meant to ask because she’d already told him she would not trust him to protect her.

  Good thing, he now realized with shock. He was the last person a simple, persecuted maid should have as a protector. Unlike Udella, who needed only the cook to provide her meals, Rowena needed far more. Nay, he was a failure there.

  They crossed the short lawn from the chapel to the main house. Halfway there, Rowena began to choose her steps more carefully. “Oh, I fear I have used my ankle too much. ’Tis starting to ache again.”

  Stephen, growing tired of the dragging pace after a few steps, stopped her. “’Tis harder for me to walk slowly than ’tis to run. Let me take Andrew, for he’s slowing you down further.”

  Rowena hesitated. “He’s no bother.”

  “Rowena, I won’t hurt him. Nor would I separate you two. You trusted me inside the chapel. Can you not trust me on this small matter?”

  She stiffened. “Where my son is concerned, ’tis never a small matter.” Though, after a few more limping steps, she tugged Andrew free of the sling.

  Stephen took the child. The boy was heavier than he looked but did not fuss when lifted from his mother.

  Abruptly, the babe reached up and smacked Stephen’s mouth. Stephen grimaced with great exaggeration, eliciting a laugh from the child. Satisfied that Andrew would not protest, Rowena began again her hobble toward the manor house. Stephen, still watching the boy closely, followed more slowly.

  “A cozy scene,” a male voice drawled in English.

  Stephen looked over Andrew’s head to the chaplain, who stood by the side entrance. The man frowned deeply at them as they approached.

  Stephen wondered, What did he mean by that comment? “Rowena has met our anchoress,” he said.

  At the mention of the old woman, the chaplain’s frown deepened. “I hope she didn’t disturb Lady Udella’s prayers.”

  Stephen straightened. “Nay. Udella is in a happy mood and invited Rowena inside to meet her.”

  “She is no longer the lady of the manor,” the chaplain grumbled. “She has retired from society and should not be so hospitable.”

  Stephen passed the man, whose long, coarse robe buffeted in the strengthening breeze that swirled around the corner of the manor. Then he turned back. “I would say you need to speak with her, then, for she is far too interested in our daily activities.”

  The chaplain’s eyes narrowed. Stephen felt the sudden rise of the hairs on his neck. ’Twas not too often that he and his chaplain agreed. He knew that the man disapproved of his choice of career, and of being born Norman. The man of God was not the first Saxon priest to rail against the invasion of his land. But to criticize Udella openly, who, until two years ago, had been his lady and patroness? Strange.

  Rowena had reached the back door to the manor house, where Ellie now stood holding it open for her. Still feeling suspicious, Stephen bounced Andrew one more time before walking up to the pair and handing him back to his mother.

  Rowena quietly thanked him, but her attention remained on the priest, who stood back a few feet. “I’m sorry for speaking with the anchoress, sir. I didn’t mean to disturb her. She called to me from a hole behind the roses.”

  “You’ve done nothing wrong, Rowena.” But still, Stephen clenched his teeth. “Go in
side. Ellie, Rowena needs another poultice on her ankle.”

  When the door closed on the two women, Stephen turned to the older man. “Do not be too harsh with Rowena or the anchoress, Chaplain. ’Twas a chance encounter. An accident I suspect won’t happen again.”

  The priest’s mouth tightened into a grimace. “I know what happened to that girl. This town is walking on eggshells. And that girl’s wild tale about being a slave doesn’t help.”

  Stephen folded his arms. Although he expected no confession from the man, he asked anyway, “Have you any idea who attacked her?”

  “Nay.” The chaplain averted his gaze, choosing instead to focus on the grass that brushed against the chapel walls. Sheep were often brought in to graze in the yard when it wasn’t required for training. “The people fear the king’s wrath.”

  “As they should, if they choose to defy him. What have you heard about Rowena?”

  “She is seen as collaborating with you Normans, my lord. We see the result in that babe of hers.”

  Frustration swelled in Stephen. “Has it not occurred to anyone here that she may have been an unwilling partner in that?”

  “Aye, it has, my lord. But that makes those who mistrust you Normans all the more suspicious. You Normans would use a simple maid, then discard her? Even if she were an unwilling partner, why then would the king grant her freedom? And why would a Norman baron pay her taxes and set her up here? See, ’tis not as simple a situation as it appears. But as you said, there is no reason anyone would want her dead. The girl is nothing, so we’re told. Should it happen, her death would be simply a tragic moment in our lives. Nothing would come of it.” The chaplain sighed. “And no one is speaking of the attack.”

  “’Twas a Saxon attack,” Stephen confirmed. “The men in this village know something.” Stephen drew up to his full height, hoping his stature would intimidate the chaplain. “Should you discover why someone would want her dead, I expect you to tell me.”

  “And you consider yourself Rowena’s protector against her own people? You could not protect your own brother.”

  “Watch your tongue, Chaplain. I told you that in confidence, and I can throw you in jail just as easily as I could Rowena’s attacker.”

  He spun, tamping down his sudden anger, for he didn’t want to argue with the man. And he didn’t need the man telling him what he already knew.

  The chaplain caught his arm. Irritated, he looked down at the rough, suntanned hand, for the chaplain worked the lands as everyone else did. His gaze moved up the older man’s plain brown sleeve to his weather-beaten face.

  “What is it?”

  “Two things. Be careful how you use Rowena. It will not go unnoticed.”

  Stephen tightened his jaw. Did the chaplain suspect his other reason for using Rowena? Stephen had told only Josane and Gilles that he was here in Kingstown to find rebels before they posed a threat to William. “If it serves the king, ’twill be done. What is your other concern?”

  The chaplain stood straighter. “Mayhap you’re asking the wrong question, my lord, as you seek who attacked Rowena.”

  “What is the right one?” Stephen asked.

  “What would happen should Rowena die? As her baron, you would face judgment for a death you could have prevented. I must ask this because as the chaplain, I must be concerned for all the souls here.”

  “Her child would be motherless.” The babe had few chances for success in life as ’twas, but should Rowena die—the thought fell heavy on his heart for some reason—what hope would the boy have then? None whatsoever.

  Stephen yanked his arm free of the chaplain’s firm grip and stalked into the manor house.

  Chapter Ten

  The moment Stephen stepped across the threshold of his home, the sound of galloping hooves reached him. He turned in time to see his courier pull a horse to a halt by the stable and leap down. The man was obviously glad to be home, and considering the danger Normans were in alone in the forests, Stephen couldn’t blame him.

  The man had taken Stephen’s letter to Adrien at Dunmow Keep but had returned the next day, saying Adrien was in London and that the letter would be forwarded along with Lady Ediva’s. Stephen hoped that Adrien would dispatch his reply straight from London, using his own courier rather than Stephen’s.

  Even from this distance, Stephen could see the horse’s girth heave with exhaustion, and when it danced fretfully about, he also saw foam at its mouth.

  Stephen had a standing order that the horses be kept in good shape, for having a weak mount was as bad as having a poorly conditioned soldier. ’Twas one of the courier’s jobs to help with that. He stepped into his home to leave the pair to the required grooming.

  Inside the dimness, Stephen drew in his breath. The smell of the next meal, mixed with Josane’s herb-and-flower-scented torches, reached him. He strode down the hall, finding the scents of meats and bread increasing with every footstep. At the maids’ chamber, he stopped. The tiny door was open, but he hesitated.

  Rowena sat at the table mending something. Beside her freshly wrapped ankle was a coil of thin rope and a rope maker’s tool, a wooden top similar to a child’s toy, only deeply grooved. Draped over a hook above her head were several lengths of fibers.

  Stephen recognized the garment she was mending. It was his undertunic. There was a certain intimacy about the moment, with her hands fingering the cloth that had lain next to his skin. He felt uncharacteristic heat flood his face and wished she were wrapping rope instead. He’d ripped that tunic the last time he’d trained with his men. They’d been fighting with maces, and though they were the weapon of choice for clerics, ’twas good practice, for their weight flexed the upper-arm muscles.

  Stephen watched Rowena bend forward, squinting at the tiny stitching. She’d have a sore back and eyes like fire in no time.

  “I will get you a proper light,” he announced.

  Rowena jumped. Then, seeing who stood at the door, she stood herself. “Nay, milord. I have a light.”

  “Not a good one, if your squinting is any indication.”

  She set down the sewing. “Please do not favor me. The lamp is fine.”

  “Not when you’re sewing my clothes. I cannot believe my sister would cloister you away and have you use good lamp oil when she has a perfectly bright solar upstairs in which a maid can mend.”

  He studied her reaction. Nay. ’Twas Rowena’s private choice not to sew in his sister’s solar. Not wanting to risk his sister’s caustic personality, he would choose this location, also.

  He quickly changed the subject. “For a maid who spent much of her life around animals, you’re doing well with the mending. How is that so?”

  “When my clothes were torn, who would sew them for me? No one. So one of my sisters taught me.”

  “Was she your champion? You had a difficult life.”

  Rowena looked perplexed. When Stephen realized they were speaking in French and that she did not understand his meaning, he switched to English and her expression fell. “Nay, for she was happy to have a small dowry and leave the farm for her marriage.”

  “Why didn’t she take you with her?”

  Rowena’s gaze slid to her babe as he rocked on his hands and knees. “She started her family immediately. I would have been an extra mouth to feed.”

  “’Tis a shame she didn’t know of your skill at twisting rope.”

  “Clara taught me rope making. I learned the basics at the farm, using my fingers to wrap and twist the fibers, but Clara gave me this top. When I have the thinner strands done, I will use it to make longer, thicker rope.”

  She frowned at him. “Is there something I can do for you, my lord? You didn’t come to watch me work.”

  Stephen stepped into the room, the question on his mind demanding an answer. “I have come to ask you if you have someone to care for Andrew should anything happen to you. The midwife, Clara, for instance. Have you arranged for her to adopt him?”

  With a stricken look,
Rowena sank into the battered chair behind her. “Am I in that much danger? What have you learned?”

  “Nothing. I’m only considering what would happen should you be injured or—” He refused to finish the sentence.

  “Killed.” Blinking, she looked down at Andrew as he continued his rocking, trying his best to figure out how to crawl. “My child would have nothing. He would be nothing.”

  “We don’t know what his life will be like. The king himself is illegitimate. But his father made him his heir. He had to fight to secure that right, but he was successful. ’Twas what made him the powerful man he is today.”

  Rowena looked up at Stephen, her eyes wide with horror. “Lord Taurin wanted to make Andrew his heir. That would have allowed Taurin to contest King William for control of Normandy, just on the amount of land he would have owned.” She gasped. “Is my son in danger?”

  Stephen shook his head as he sat in the other chair. He didn’t know for sure what the attacker wanted, but he couldn’t worry her. “Nay, he’s not. ’Twas a foolish dream and a great risk that Taurin took. He would have been a threat only if he’d been given the lands by his wife’s family, which he wasn’t. Now he’s in disgrace, stripped of all except for one small parcel on which he must farm.”

  “So no one will be threatened by Andrew? Not even the king himself? How can you be sure?”

  “The king has taken measures to stop Taurin or anyone who would use Taurin’s bloodline. Andrew is safe.”

  “Until something happens to me. I am his only champion.”

  Stephen shook his head. “’Tis why I am here. You must find someone to care for the boy should anything happen to you.”

  “I can’t assign anyone that responsibility! What if they take him from me immediately?”

  Stephen frowned. “What would that person gain?”

  “Mayhap that small parcel of land Lord Taurin has, after they kill him? Who knows its size? Nay, some say this village is small, but to me, ’tis enormous! How do I know someone won’t use Andrew the way Lord Taurin wanted to use him?”