Thankfully, all was quiet, and once they had skirted the village, they hurried down the road to Colchester. Partway into the forest the road split. To the left, the road disappeared into the forest, down a new path. She had to be careful, as this was her route.
Where the path ended, she’d already created a narrow trail, marked with the occasional bow of wool to jog her memory. They hurried into the bushes and trees, following the tied-wool trail until it opened into a small peat bog and the moss-covered hut that must have once belonged to a long-dead peat cutter.
The cold scent of moist earth filled her as she gave the secret tap on the low door and then entered. No sound came in reply. Clara hurriedly struck a spark and lit the lamp she’d brought with her to find her friend curled up on the floor like an animal. Rowena opened her eyes and looked up at her. She was huddled in her cloak, her babe tight to her body to help conserve the babe’s body heat, for the night was cold. The child let out a weak whimper.
Clara’s heart sank. This situation could not go on much longer. Summer was still growing. ’Twould warm up the hut, but also dry the peat bog, thereby making it more accessible for harvesters hoping to further deplete it. The danger of being discovered increased.
When the danger lessened with colder weather, winter would come and surely mother and child would die. Tears sprang unbidden into Clara’s eyes. How had this situation become so dire?
Without a word, she hurried to the small hearth and lit a fire with some dry kindling she’d stacked earlier. Heat began to seep into the hut.
“Is it safe to light the fire?” Rowena whispered, standing and brushing off her dark cyrtel.
“’Tis night. No one will be harvesting peat now.” Clara bit her lip as she took the babe from the girl. Rowena was so young. Too young to have delivered a babe, and though lacking in some things, she seemed to understand so well other things, like what men might do. But she’d been the youngest of her family, probably ignored a lot, barely thirteen when her uncaring father sold her to Lord Taurin. Even now, as a mother, she seemed too fearful to have a fire in the night.
How could she be expected to raise her child alone? She was a babe with a babe. Heavenly Father, give her some sense.
Brindi began to lay out the foodstuffs they’d brought, thankfully not asking Clara for a taste herself. Immediately, Rowena dived into the meal, eating so swiftly that Clara feared she’d choke.
“Slow down, Rowena, or you’ll be sick. You will need to drink something. I’ve brought a good broth to wash it all down.”
“’Tis a wonderful pastry, Clara. Did you make it yourself?” she asked, slowing down.
“Nay. ’Tis a gift from Lady Ediva, who worries for your health.”
Rowena sagged. “How kind! Mayhap I can thank her someday. She bakes a wonderful meal.”
With Brindi’s knowing eyes on her, Clara pressed her lips into a thin line at the girl’s innocence. “Nay, Lady Ediva did not bake these. She has a cook.”
“Oh, how foolish of me.” Rowena’s eyes were wide and apologetic. “I feel like I know nothing.”
“You’re young, that’s all. Nor have you ever known a mistress of a keep and her ways.” Clara had asked once where Lord Taurin had kept the girl after he’d bought her, discovering that he’d kept her at his smaller estate, a manor house that knew no mistress save a surly old chatelaine brought from Normandy who treated Rowena like the dirt beneath her feet.
Recalling that difficult conversation, Clara quickly changed the subject, insisting on examining Rowena and the babe to see if the feeding was being done correctly. The cut on Clara’s hand was fully sealed now and ’twas easy to manage all her tasks.
Satisfied all was as well as possible, and thankful that Brindi had had the sense to put the broth into a pot and heat it further, Clara finished her task and insisted Rowena drink all of the warm liquid.
They stayed awhile longer, talking about babes and nappies and rashes. Clara offered advice on all she thought that Rowena could handle and saw that Rowena was managing to feed her babe well enough, despite her stick-thin appearance.
But soon, they could stay no longer. On their way back, Brindi spoke. “Is Rowena addled?”
“Nay! She’s just innocent.”
“She didn’t know that Lady Ediva was too important to cook her own meals.”
“True, but she was just a farm girl. How many baronesses do you think she’s met?”
Brindi shrugged. “I’m smarter than she is.”
“Don’t talk that way, Brindi. ’Tis rude and boasting, which is shameful.”
“I am, though.” There was a pout in her tone. Clara trudged on in front of her. Aye, Rowena was remarkably innocent. Mayhap the loneliness was attacking any good sense she’d had. Clara pushed further along the trail, hating that Brindi was correct. She did have more sense than Rowena. But only because Clara had seen to her sister’s education.
Was it safe, then, to keep the girl so thoroughly hidden away when she didn’t have a dram of good sense to see to her own care? And the babe? What of him? Was it healthy to keep him there with his mother, who could not fend for herself? Mayhap she could train the young woman. But when? How?
Tears sprang anew in her eyes and she slashed her hand across both of them so her vision would not blur in the darkness.
Keeping Rowena hidden wasn’t safe, but what else could Clara do? She couldn’t bring the girl home, certainly not with Kenneth there. Nor could she ask another family to take her, not when there were new soldiers from London who might be spies for Taurin. That would put the generous family at terrible risk.
All was quiet when she approached her home. With as much care as they’d used escaping, Clara eased Brindi back under the thatch first so she could guide Clara in as quietly as possible. She sighed when her feet hit the hardpan floor. Safe back home they were, though Clara knew that this night, sleep would elude her and guilt would keep her eyes wide open.
* * *
As Kenneth, Clara and Brindi left the chapel and walked slowly down toward the bailey gate, Kenneth followed the sisters, only half listening to Clara.
Something was amiss, he was sure of it. Just what it was, however, he wasn’t sure. He’d slept soundly last night on the table, as was his custom, but this morning, Clara looked as though she’d barely shut her eyes. And she’d allowed Brindi to sleep later than usual. Though it was Sunday, Clara didn’t seem the type to let Brindi avoid chores, especially the less strenuous chores left for the Sabbath.
He pulled in the sharp morning air. It carried with it the scent of moss and damp, although the days were growing warmer and they’d not had rain recently. He sniffed again. The scent came from Clara’s cloak, he was sure of it.
They couldn’t have slipped out to visit Rowena. As soundly as he’d slept, he still would have awakened if they’d tried to leave the hut. He’d shoved the table against the door, and neither of them would have been able to move it with his weight on it. So why the odd scent?
At the corner of his eye, Kenneth spied Margaret stepping out of the chapel. Lady Ediva was still confined to her bed, but had allowed the maid to attend services. The woman drew in a deep breath, as if pleased to be outside after many hours tending her mistress and the new babe.
Kenneth touched Clara’s arm. “Excuse me for a moment.” Then he hurried back toward the chapel to cut off Margaret before she reached the keep.
“Mistress,” he began politely, flattering her with a form of address not usually given to a lowly lady’s maid, in thanks for the favor she was performing for him. “May I have a word with you?”
Margaret smiled at him and pulled the sides of her lightweight cloak closer. She was comely in a rather ordinary way, though given to fluster when disturbed, not unlike one of Clara’s hens. She stepped up close to him, her gaze bright. “Aye?”
He cleared his throat, catching a glimpse of Clara frowning in his direction. He turned back to Margaret. “I had spoken to you about making a doll. D
o you remember?”
Margaret nodded. “Aye. Is the head ready?”
“Nay, not yet. But I was wondering if you could have the body done without the head, so that as soon as the head has dried I can attach it to the body.” He explained what he’d used and how he planned to attach the head to the body.
She nodded. “If milady rests all afternoon, I shall have time. We have some scraps of material and some wool to stuff it.”
“I was hoping for it to be an old-lady doll.” He smiled crookedly, feeling a bit foolish suddenly. “’Tis the only thing I can carve.”
Margaret’s own smile broadened. Unlike Clara’s simple clothing, Margaret’s was of good quality, probably cast off by her mistress. Scraps from her clothes would make for a fine doll indeed. The soft pink she wore today matched her cheeks. “Lady Ediva gave me an old shift of hers, in a pale blue.”
“I know you can make something pretty for young Brindi.”
Margaret beamed. “Aye, that I can. I’ll start on it today, sir, while milady rests. ’Twill be quiet in the solar then.” Her smile lingered on him a little too long, so clearing his throat, Kenneth bowed to her and took his leave.
* * *
Curiosity burned in Clara, and ’twas hard to rein it in as Kenneth stood speaking with Margaret. What were they discussing? Kenneth should have no need to speak with Lady Ediva’s maid.
She drew in a sharp breath. Did he suspect she’d mentioned Rowena in the solar? Kenneth would have no right to question milady, but he could easily ask Margaret, who, by the flush on the girl’s face, was thrilled with the attention.
Well, let him ask away! Margaret knew nothing.
“Ow! Clara, why are you squeezing my hand so hard? I wasn’t going anywhere!”
Clara snapped her attention to her sister. “I’m sorry!” She immediately released her grip. Pulling a face, Brindi rubbed her hand.
Pah, the girl was fine. Clara turned back to where Kenneth and Margaret spoke. The maid beamed like the sun, but with his back to Clara, Kenneth’s expression was hidden. Was he smiling, as well? What if it had nothing to do with her or Rowena?
What if Kenneth was courting Margaret?
Clara swallowed, trying to push away the accusations that danced in her head. Kenneth had the right to woo the maid. And she had no right to stop it. But he’d been ordered to protect her and, aye, find out where Rowena was. The longer that took, the longer Kenneth was away from the keep. Was he explaining that to the maid?
The urge to put an end to this duty of his surged through Clara. ’Twould save his relationship with Margaret, and mayhap Clara could sneak out more.
But Kenneth took his duty too seriously to abandon his post for a woman. Did he want to? she wondered. Did it sadden him to think of the hours wasted in Clara’s cottage that could have been spent with Margaret?
Tears sprang into Clara’s eyes as Kenneth turned. In the blurriness of the moment, she didn’t catch his expression, and with a wash of vulnerability, she turned and quickly swiped her eyes free of the tears.
Kenneth reached her. “My thanks, Clara, for waiting for me. ’Twas not necessary.”
“But,” she answered brusquely, “had I left, you’d have found me in short order.”
His answer was a short laugh. “Aye. Little Dunmow is too small to hide anyone, let alone a fiery redhead.”
As they walked, Clara considered his words. Aye, Little Dunmow lived up to its name, and should she have considered bringing Rowena here, everyone would have known soon enough. Nay, ’twas too dangerous.
After they stepped out of the bailey, Clara watched her sister run up ahead after a small butterfly. “Kenneth,” she began with a deep breath, “do you really believe that Lord Taurin would spare Rowena’s life should he find her?”
Kenneth looked at her somberly. “Are you considering revealing her location?”
She stiffened. “Nay. ’Twould end in her murder. Of that I am very sure.”
“Then why ask me?”
“Why won’t you answer my question?”
He said nothing as she watched him closely. Her strong reaction to seeing him speak with Margaret still lingered in her, leaving distaste on her tongue. Finally, he spoke. “The king abolished slavery of Christians.”
“You didn’t answer my question. What do you think Lord Taurin would do if he caught Rowena?”
“We’ve had this discussion. Aye, she would probably be beaten. But Lord Taurin must know he would need her to feed the child, and since neither of us know him, how can we say that he is cruel?”
“Rowena arrived with bruises from a beating—a harsh one, for the marks to linger so long.”
“She could be lying.”
Clara shook her head. “Nay. I believe ’tis not in her nature to lie. She is really quite innocent.”
“Then she shouldn’t be alone with a child, if only for the child’s sake.”
Clara swallowed. Kenneth didn’t know how close he was to the truth with that statement. She lifted her chin. “But if slavery is against the law, where would your duty lie? With Lord Taurin, who searches for the slave he shouldn’t have, or with the king, who has abolished it?”
Kenneth stopped and his gaze grew distant. The moment stretched between them with Clara barely breathing as she awaited his answer.
Then he tipped his head, his eyes softening. “I don’t have an answer for you, Clara. I serve the king, but the king is not here. And should Lord Taurin arrive with a writ from the king allowing him to take the slave, I would be bound by my oath of obedience to King William to help Lord Taurin.”
Clara felt new tears spring into her eyes. She’d posed an unanswerable question. It made her stomach ache. “What about your faith? What does it tell you?”
“The priests say we must obey the laws.”
“The law is clear about slavery.”
He sagged. “I pledged my life to King William, Clara. He makes the laws. These are laws of man, not of God.”
She looked away. Aye, what Kenneth said was true, and she knew in her heart that God wanted her to obey England’s laws. But they were made by a Norman who came as a conqueror with other Normans who bore far too much power. The power to murder.
“’Tis hard, isn’t it?” he whispered suddenly. “Sometimes there is no clear answer.”
She pulled herself to her full height, hoping that it was enough for him to see that such a dilemma wasn’t hard for her. Her faith was sound, she told herself sternly. So was her pledge.
“Nay. I know what is right to do. You may serve King William, but I am to help the sick and the women and children. I stand by my decision.”
She searched around for Brindi, who had stopped some distance off and was staring intently into her cupped hands. Obviously, she’d caught the butterfly. Around them, the people were dispersing, ignoring Clara and Kenneth as they returned to their homes for the noon meal. The villagers were so used to Norman soldiers now that the sight of one talking to a woman meant nothing to them. And the turmoil within Clara’s heart was lost on them, for they all had troubles of their own.
No one would have an answer for Clara’s impossible situation. Even as she glanced skyward, hoping for some whisper of an answer from the Lord Himself, nothing came.
Except the doubt that trickled into her.
Chapter Ten
Brindi spent the Sabbath after services playing with the other village children. She returned at suppertime grubby and sweaty and smelling of sheep and their distasteful manure.
“We played with the new lambs, Clara,” she announced brightly when she arrived home. “They are so pretty and soft, but their mothers don’t like us. They stamp their feet to scare us away.”
“It didn’t work, I see,” Clara said, her hands on her hips.
Behind her at the table, Kenneth chuckled. She turned to him, dark circles under her eyes as she snapped out, “You’d best leave so I can give this girl a good and proper scrubbing down.”
Smi
ling at the distress growing on the girl’s face, he took his leave. Outside, he sat on the bench, only half listening to what was going on inside. Since yesterday when Clara and Brindi had visited Lady Ediva, Clara had been far more quiet and pensive than usual. What had happened? He leaned back against the daub of the house. Should he use his influence with Margaret to discover what had been said? He frowned in distaste at the idea.
A small amount of daub crumbled around him. This house was old, in bad need of repair, and the daub on this side had seen many decades. He looked down to inspect the damage, wondering if there was anyone in the village able to redaub the wall.
There certainly was a lot of the plaster about. He looked up at the wall.
Then he stood and stepped back. Faint footprints and scuff marks painted a broad line from the low edge of the thatched roof to the dirt below. From inside the house, Brindi’s tired complaints told him Clara was scrubbing her sister hard. A moment later, the girl complained that the water was too cold. Kenneth stepped back farther to view the entire wall. Now Brindi could be heard complaining that the herbed paste was too smelly.
He focused back on the wall. It had been climbed, as evidenced by the muddied prints on it. It had happened recently, too, for they’d had no rain in the past week to wash the dirt away.
He reached out and fingered the larger of the prints. Both the dried mud and the wall crumbled as if they’d been given a scrubbing like Brindi was now receiving.
Footprints? Two sets. One slightly larger than the other, but both smaller than a man’s. His mouth pressed into a thin line.
He peered at the ground, then followed the line of prints up to the thatch that he could now see had been broken and bent, and showed a disturbance in one small area. The rest of the thatch remained cut and clean, the only oddity being the carved apple he’d shoved in there. Idly, he turned the apple to allow the other side to dry.
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