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

by Barbara Phinney

  “I could not bring back my son,” Udella said softly. “But I could save the people who looked to me for help. Nay, I wasn’t bitter, for the Lord gives me peace.”

  “Peace? How? Every day you see the men who could have killed your son. Doesn’t that hurt you?”

  Udella paused and leaned forward. “It did for a time, but when I saw Master Gilles, I knew ’twas meant to be.”

  Rowena frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  Udella’s voice dropped. “Gilles is my nephew.”

  “Nephew? He’s Norman.”

  “Only half-Norman. He’s half-Saxon, too. Come closer, for what I will tell you, very few know.”

  Suspicious, Rowena did not move. “Why, then, tell me?”

  “You are searching for the Lord. This may encourage you. And I can see that you keep your own counsel. I know I can trust you. Come, lean closer, so that only you can hear.”

  After a short hesitation, Rowena leaned forward.

  “I saw Gilles when King William passed through this way two years ago. I recognized him immediately as being my brother’s son. You see, long before the battle at Hastings, we were wealthy and ’twas proper for a good family to send a son away for his education. My brother and our cousin went to Normandy to learn French and how to be a proper aristocrat. My cousin returned a few years later, for he missed his family too much. My brother stayed.”

  “Is he still there?”

  “Aye, but buried there. But not before falling for a young woman in the family where he stayed. My cousin said when the family learned that my brother and this woman cared for each other, she was married off to another Norman family. But not before she became pregnant. Gilles is that child.”

  “How do you know this? Does Gilles know who his father is?”

  “I have never discussed it with him, but he bears the same looks as my brother and the same golden hair. And the same ears.”

  “Ears?”

  “Aye, a unique shape to them.” Udella peered hard at her. “Don’t you believe me that such oddities are born into families?”

  Taken aback, Rowena blinked. “Cows give birth to calves that share their colors. I’ve seen it.” She paused. “Why haven’t you told Master Gilles that you are his aunt?”

  “I can’t, though ’tis not an easy decision. When King William came, I saw an opportunity to bring Gilles here to be our baron, as would have been his right. But the king chose Lord Stephen instead, and I feared for Gilles’s safety should I ask the king for him and be forced to say why.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “What if the king became afraid that Gilles would support his father’s family and village? Nay, I could not take that risk. I made the older ones here who remembered Gilles’s father take an oath never to mention it. Besides, when Lord Stephen came and brought his family, which included Gilles, I had no need to petition the king anymore. ’Twas an incredible blessing and I would not turn my back on it.” She sighed. “I had planned, though, to tell Gilles who he was, for I believed that his mother may never have told him. Mayhap to preserve his life and position because not all men are kind to those who are not their offspring.”

  Rowena hugged herself. “And you are telling me all of this to show me the Lord?”

  “Nay, I can see that you need to learn to forgive. Did the Normans kill someone you love?”

  “Nay. But one Norman was brutal to me.”

  “Ah, ’tis that bitterness I sense. Let it go, lest it eat you alive.”

  Hadn’t Clara said that bitterness caused all manner of illness? Rowena squinted against the sun as she saw Stephen and Gilles in the distance, speaking with a man who carried a huge bundle of thatch. What life would her son have had if Taurin had been successful? A life of privilege, as Gilles experienced? What would she tell her son when he asked about his father? She drew in her breath as she spied several villagers make their way home for the noonday meal. Someone wanted her dead, so ’twas possible she would never get to tell her son the truth.

  She thought again of what Stephen had said to her. She needed to get word to Clara to ask if she would raise Andrew should something happen to her.

  Because I am bait for Stephen’s trap.

  She’d told Stephen she would not be used again. Even now, resentment rose in her and she struggled to tamp it down. How could he so coldly use her that way? He’d even mentioned that something could happen to her. So he knew that he planned to risk her life and wanted her to sort out a future adoption.

  So cold and unfeeling.

  Again, her heart wrenched. Why? Because she could die? Or because he didn’t think there was anything wrong with using her? Or because ’twas Stephen who did this?

  If she agreed, ’twould put an end to this terror and she could return to her home and be done with Lord Stephen. But she’d have to trust him first.

  Put my faith in another Norman.

  A few moments of dislike in exchange for a chance to live free. Aye, she would do it. She could draw her attacker into her home.

  Rowena looked at Udella. “I must return to my work.”

  “What are you planning? Is it something I can pray for?”

  “Nay. Now that I am healed, I must see to returning to my home.”

  Udella looked doubtful. But before she could remind her that her home was still without a roof, Rowena stepped away from the wall, out of the circle of rose scent and back to work.

  And straight back into danger. She wasn’t one who would allow a horse to kick her twice, but in this case, she may need to be.

  She would return to her home and act as bait.

  Chapter Twelve

  Stephen strode into the great hall looking for Gilles, who’d taken several of the soldiers for an unnecessary task. He had far more important work for them than anything Gilles wanted done.

  The only person there was Rowena. She was bent over the hearth with a short metal rake and flat pan, cleaning the ashes. He saw Andrew on a mat near her, playing with polished bones.

  ’Twas a good thing he didn’t sit directly on the rushes, for as much as Josane changed them monthly, they harbored ills of every kind.

  A cry shot through the room and Stephen spun.

  Rowena was dancing around, the hem of her cyrtel smoking as she beat on it with the rake.

  With a gasp, Stephen rushed forward, ripping off his cloak as he went. He threw it around her and feverishly patted her down, in his haste shoving her to the floor.

  Within a few moments, the smoldering had stopped. Stephen sagged forward next to Rowena, who grabbed him with relief.

  “My thanks, milord. I thought the ashes were cold, but there were hot ones deep within.”

  “Who ordered you to clean this hearth?”

  “Lady Josane. I asked for extra chores.”

  “Have you done it before?”

  Rowena hesitated.

  “Have you?” he barked.

  She looked away. “Only a few times. At my family home, I spent most of my days in the barn. The animals gave off enough heat. When I was hiding from Lord Taurin, I was too scared to light a fire in case it lured someone to investigate.”

  Feeling his mouth tighten, Stephen said through gritted teeth, “Always stir ashes, even cold ones. And do not refer to Taurin as ‘lord.’”

  She peered up at him, her pale eyes wide and watery, and tendrils of white-blond hair stuck to the perspiration on her brow. Her lips had parted and she bore a look of compelling innocence. “Aye, my lord,” she whispered.

  “I do not want you to hurt yourself.”

  A shadow fell over her face. “Mayhap, but you need to. I have decided to let you use me as bait.”

  He pulled himself up short. What had he been thinking?

  On his knees before Rowena as she, too, knelt, he saw her look of willing expectation that her agreement would be accepted without question.

  “My lord,” she whispered, “I will help you find my attacker. I want to end this and re
turn home.”

  He drew back mentally. He’d actually considered setting her as bait for her own attacker? Aye, and he’d felt disappointment earlier when she’d refused. But at this moment, all of his reasons seemed as wispy as the thin lines of dying smoke from the hot coals that lingered in the hearth.

  What had changed his mind since he’d made that addled decision? Nothing. He’d spent the day checking the thatcher’s work and seeing about his usual duties. Then as he’d entered his great hall, he’d spied her. She was wearing a wimple that was a tad too big for her, and a veil he recognized as one of Josane’s old ones. When he inhaled, carried on the scents of supper was another fainter, softer one of roses. He peered down at Rowena. Had she visited the anchoress today? What had they discussed? Had the woman encouraged Rowena to tell Stephen she had decided to help him with his investigation?

  He rose. “Nay, you will not help. I have chosen a tactic of keeping the men so busy that they are exhausted at the end of each day. And watching who might slip away or who complained too much will help me discover who has been staying up at night.”

  “Many people rise at midnight for services,” she countered, standing. “I have heard them. They even visit each other. But whoever attacked me won’t bother doing anything suspicious without a reason. So I need to return to my home to be that reason.”

  “The thatcher will not be starting your home until the morrow, for his work is taking longer than expected. ’Twould be unwise to stay there tonight. Your attacker will see right through the plan.”

  Deep in thought, she nodded. “On the morrow, and I will spend that time repairing my garden. I need to start that, and ’twould lead my attacker to think I am returning because I need to prepare my land for winter.”

  “What about your son? Don’t tell me he’ll join you.”

  “Ellie will mind him. She can give him barley and water with a spoon.”

  They stood silently for a moment. Rowena leaned slightly forward. “Please, milord, consider my request. I have done all your bidding here and will leave Andrew in the care of the maids. Surely you have a guard roaming the village. We must resolve this. You cannot continue to work the villagers to the bone. That solves nothing.”

  Rowena was right. So why was he so reluctant? ’Twas not his nature to refuse an opportunity like this. He used soldiers all the time.

  “Fine,” he muttered. “On the morrow.”

  Suppertime came and Stephen felt as if Rowena’s decision had remained like a bad fever all afternoon. He sank heavily into his chair on the dais. Everyone, including Rowena, had stood as he’d entered. When his eyes snagged hers, he looked away.

  He motioned to the cupbearer to offer cider and to the young servant to bring the first flat trenchers of bread, loaded with thick meat stew and sided with slices of firm cheese. Although Rowena had been at the manor a few short weeks, he could already see the difference. Her face no longer looked gaunt, and color had returned to her cheeks. She was finally getting the food she needed.

  But she won’t get it on the morrow, or the days after. Why had he agreed to allow her to return home? He opened his mouth to speak his change of mind but hesitated. Rowena would refuse, and should they discuss it here in this hall, the wrong ears may hear their plans. He could force her to obey him, but ’twas not completely what he wanted.

  What did he want?

  Stephen chewed his food as he mulled over possible answers. He wanted to serve his king. ’Twas why the Good Lord gave him life. If it meant Rowena would be in danger, he could minimize that risk easily enough. He would order a guard to watch her during the night and arrest anyone who approached.

  When he caught Rowena’s cautious look, he felt his gut tighten. She’d decided in some odd, small way to trust him this once. But fear also lingered in her eyes.

  Nay, he amended. The guard and he would do their duty the next night.

  “My lord?”

  Stephen looked toward the doorway. His courier stood with his sword dangling at his side and a rolled missive in his hand. Setting down his cider, Stephen waved him over. When the man reached him, he handed over the parchment.

  Unrolling it, Stephen ordered a meal for the courier, for too much travel was hard on a body and soul. The missive was from Adrien.

  Stephen frowned. He had not dispatched his courier to collect Adrien’s letter, so how had the man known? “Did you come from London or Dunmow?”

  “London, milord.”

  “What is it, Stephen?” Josane asked.

  Not wanting to explain too much, Stephen shoved aside the questions and unrolled the parchment. “Just a letter from another baron. ’Tis of no concern.” He quickly read the missive.

  My friend in Christ,

  I greet you in our Savior’s name and hope all is well with you. I will answer your questions, but I fear you will not like them. I know of no reason why anyone would want Rowena dead. There are few here who knew her, and those who did were sympathetic. In Colchester, they worried only that the king would punish them for hiding her from Taurin, but since that issue has been resolved, there is no reason for them to be concerned anymore.

  Taurin had plotted against the king for control of Normandy. He had hoped to pass off the Saxon girl’s child as his legitimate heir, the son of his wealthy wife, whom he’d planned to murder and thus receive land from his in-laws for giving them a grandson. Now that his plot has been found out, he has had to forfeit his lands both here and in Normandy and remains there in disgrace.

  I cannot offer you anything more of use, except that mayhap you should search for a different reason why she has been targeted, for I also wish that she not die. She has suffered enough. Mayhap the child is the target?

  ’Tis a shame that such strife comes your way, for we both know the real intrigue lies in London.

  I wish you well, dear friend, and I have met with a minstrel troupe and dispatched it to you forthwith.

  Adrien de Ries

  Stephen rolled the parchment again. Aye, intrigue did lie in London. Apart from saying that entertainers were on their way, all Adrien had done was confirm part of Rowena’s curious tale. Even his suggestion that ’twas the child who might be the target seemed absurd. Who would profit from the boy’s death? Stephen’s grip on the missive tightened until he could hear the stiff skin crinkle.

  The morrow’s night would be the turning point, for surely they would learn the truth then.

  * * *

  Rowena spent the entire next day sifting through her mangled vegetables and finishing the collection of what roots survived the trampling the villagers had given it. As she suspected, precious few remained. She kept on looking, hoping that she’d find something. She felt almost foolish doing this almost-wasted work while Lord Stephen’s guard watched from his hidden position.

  Then, from the corner of her eye, she spied movement in the long burdocks. Much of that weed had been trampled underfoot like the roots, but some still stood tall. Now they rustled.

  A soft cluck and her hen parted the weeds. She peered at Rowena with dark, beady eyes as she pecked the ground. Rowena froze. She’d thought her chicken had not survived the first night’s attack, let alone the next one when her hut burned. The hen strutted cautiously around the damaged cage, before jumping up to turn into the nesting area.

  Heart pounding, Rowena wanted to kick herself for not checking the battered henhouse. Why, there could be several eggs there!

  But she wouldn’t peek now and risk disturbing the hen as she mayhap laid an egg.

  “What am I going to do?” she whispered to the bird. “You need a decent cage, for I won’t risk you running off again.” But the door had been ripped from its rope hinges, and someone had taken a knife to one side of the netting. She would need to weave more.

  Standing, she searched her yard for suitable material, catching sight of the soldier Lord Stephen had ordered to guard her. Quickly, she averted her eyes so as not to give him away should someone be looking. At the fa
r side, away from where they could bother people, stood the end of the season’s nettles. Clara had used them to flavor tea and cheese. She’d also given the leaves to Rowena just before she gave birth to Andrew, for ’twas said to ease the pains and help with feeding.

  But Rowena knew of another purpose. With her hands wrapped around her cyrtel for protection, she pulled on the stalks. She’d watched her mother ret them. This stripping and soaking could be done with a teasel in the old feed trough rammed against the back of her hut. It could take a few days, but Rowena would have strong fibers to weave into rope.

  Thankfully, the damp days had half rotted the stalks and they had already split to reveal the short, useless tow fibers inside. Working quickly, Rowena smeared them up the sides of the trough and out of the way. She wanted only the outer fibers.

  A fat raindrop hit her arm and she looked up at the darkening sky. Hearing some noises, she peeked around the corner of her hut. The villagers were only now returning from the forest. The men looked exhausted, shuffling heavily toward their individual homes, with only a few, such as Barrett, bothering to glance her way. She thought again of how Stephen had wanted her to be like a morsel in a trap, or a portion of grain at the far end of the pen to lure a stubborn pig inside.

  Her heart stalled. Nay, no fear! She needed to end this business.

  Another raindrop fell and she sank against the short wall of her hut. Staying inside would be foolhardy and easily seen as the ploy it was. Nay, she would return to the manor.

  And to Lord Stephen. She hesitated for a moment. Nay, she would not be so addled to think he would prefer she return tonight. He was a man, and men didn’t care what women thought. They were tools, like those the village men carried home. She would not allow herself to think it different.

  She slipped free of the eaves and walked over to the mangled henhouse. The hen was gone, and her breath hitched at the sight of several eggs! She quickly scooped them up so she could hide them away in a far corner of her hut, safe from predators.