Sheltered by the Warrior Page 13

  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 far 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.

  Sharp voices reached her. Rowena ducked behind a large bush that sat against her fence, an instinctive action from the years she’d lived on the farm. ’Twas always wise to see who it was before revealing herself.

  “He will protect you,” a man said.

  “Trust a Norman? Are you addled? He sends reports to London.”

  “Barrett says ’twill be better than what we have.”

  The second man made a scoffing noise as they passed close to where she hid. “Barrett will say anything for the right coin.”

  “True, but he wants the same thing we do. He says there’s a good reason.”

  Their tired voices quieted as they walked away. “What is it?”

  “I don’t know, but I do know he will protect us. And his price is not high.”

  His voice growing more muffled, the second man asked, “Barrett?”

  “Nay...” The voice faded and Rowena couldn’t catch the rest of his words.

  She looked up, but all she saw were the stooped backs of two men. Who would protect them? What would be better than what they had now?

  Rowena shivered. The man they talked of could be bought and his price was not high? Who was that? Barrett? Aye, he was not to be trusted, but did they mean him? She didn’t know, for it didn’t sound as if they were discussing him.

  Several raindrops hit her in succession. A good downpour was coming. If she didn’t hurry, she’d be caught in it, and spending the eve in wet clothes wasn’t good for the health.

  * * *

  “Milord, Rowena has returned here for the night.”

  In the armory, Stephen looked up from his work of oiling his mail in preparation for tonight. He usually left the care of his armor to Gaetan, but Josane had asked that the boy run some errands for her, as the courier had been dispatched.

  Frowning, he allowed his mind to wander from the guard’s quick report. Yesterday, the courier had brought a missive from London, where Lord Adrien was, and he was out again today? He would speak to him, Stephen decided. Traveling too much wasn’t good for the stomach. And certainly he should be about Stephen’s business, not the business of the person who sent him. He would find that out, also.

  He refocused on the soldier. “Rowena did not stay in her hut?”

  “Nay, milord. It has begun to rain, and her hut has no roof. Will we still need to guard it?”

  The man had no desire to stand out in the wet weather. Stephen paused, silently thanking the Lord for Rowena’s good sense as he shoved away unintentional irritability. He turned to the small slit window behind him. “’Tis raining out?”

  “Aye, milord. Your squire ran an errand for Lady Josane. He could see rain approaching.”

  Stephen’s mouth twisted. The thatcher preferred drier days and could still work in a light rain, just not a heavy soaking. He looked back at the man. “Where did my squire go?”

  “Lady Josane sent him to the next village for some herbs. He told me that some who live to the west have joined the rebels in Ely.”

  Gaetan should have told him first, Stephen thought. He would correct that later. “Fools! They’re addled if they think they can best the king.” He stopped. “Herbs? For whom?”

  “Master Gilles has need of them.”

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  The soldier shook his head. “I don’t know, milord.”

  Stephen narrowed his eyes. “Where is my courier? ’Tis his duty to fetch things.”

  “He left early this morn, milord. On horseback.”

  “Headed where?”

  “On the road to London, milord. ’Tis all I know. I was beginning my sh
ift when he galloped out.”

  Obviously, he would not be returning this eve. Only a fool would travel alone at night, for there were still many Saxons who would ambush a Norman soldier alone.

  But who had sent the man to London? Stephen felt the hairs on his neck rise. The courier belonged to him. No one should be employing the man except the baron himself. And had the man not brought a missive from London recently? How did he know there was one?

  Regardless of those unanswered questions, ’twas more important that Rowena had shown some good sense and returned. But it also meant that whoever had attacked her would see she had not yet decided to return to her home overnight.

  Stephen dismissed the guard and rose gingerly from the armory’s only bench. He was stiff from the day on horseback, traveling to the various packets of workers he’d employed to erect the palisade per the king’s order. Between those times, he’d walked around with Gilles, checking on such tasks as the thatcher’s. He and his brother-in-law had also ridden to visit the fields from where the thatch was being cut.

  Stephen grimaced. He shouldn’t be stiff. And thinking that brought back his sister’s harsh words on his going soft.

  He wasn’t going soft, and to prove it, he would go back out on horseback every day for a month, dragging Gilles with him as they visited each of his holdings here in Cambridgeshire, if necessary.

  Stephen stopped. Gilles didn’t appear sick today.

  He called a young servant over and barked out, “Have you seen Master Gilles?”

  “He was in the hall a moment ago, milord.”

  Ignoring the stiffness, Stephen strode through to the hall. The room was not as large as in some castles, and ’twas not as tall, either, thus was easier to heat. Indeed, ’twas quite warm in the room, with several long torches lit on their mounts and a cheerful fire ablaze in the hearth. Only a light meal had been served tonight, and after that, Josane ordered a few more chores be done before anyone could retire. This was a working manor, he’d heard her say more than once. Any frivolity in the great hall would have to occur on special occasions. His guards had made themselves scarce, he noticed.

  Stephen looked again at the lights. Below where the torches sat, someone had brushed aside the rushes usually strewn about the floor and placed a pan under each one, lest a tallow-soaked light drop a burning ember before the chandler could trim it. Not one to see the need for extra light, Stephen looked across the room to the north wall. Rowena was bending over the lower hem of one of the fine tapestries that hung there to block any drafts.

  He noticed the burned hem of her cyrtel. She could easily have died yesterday. He glanced over at the hearth, where a strong blaze crackled. He would see to it that only the scullery maid emptied the hearth. She had more experience.

  For a moment, he watched Rowena in the bright torchlight. She must have asked for it to finish her mending. ’Twas a simple task, Josane had told him months ago, but to find someone who could weave a finish onto the frayed end, someone with young eyes and a steady hand, was difficult. There was always more work than servants, she’d often complained.

  Rowena straightened, then backed up to survey her work. Only then did Stephen notice Andrew at her feet, the edge of the fine tapestry just beyond his reach. He was playing again with polished bones in a toddler’s game of making noise. Beside him, the tapestry’s edge was almost completely mended.

  He walked over to her. “You do good work.”

  Rowena jumped. Immediately, he stretched out his arm to steady her. “I’m sorry. I thought you heard me.”

  “My mind was on my task.”

  “Josane must be grateful for finding you.”

  “I’m grateful for staying here.”

  He frowned. “You changed your mind about returning to your hut.”

  “’Twas starting to rain and my garden work was done.”

  Crestfallen now for some reason, she lowered her eyes. Had he said something wrong? “You didn’t fare as well as you had hoped?”

  She shook her head. “Nay.”

  He grimaced and for a moment as quick as lightning, he wished the weather had not turned and that Rowena might have stayed there for the night.

  He would have been there, also, and caught the filthy cur who wanted her dead. Killed two birds with one stone. An easy task—wasn’t it?

  Mayhap not so. You could not save Corvin, a seasoned warrior with his own weapon. How do you expect to save a simple maid?

  He swallowed. He’d asked Rowena for faith in him. Where was his own faith?

  As if sensing his mood changing, Rowena dared a glance into his face, searching it. Her hand reached forward, finding his arm and squeezing it. “Milord, nay. Don’t think like that.”

  He crushed his foolishness for not remembering Rowena’s intuition. Now her warm hand pressed against his forearm, her pale eyes pleaded, her lips parted as if hoping he might drop a kiss onto them...

  He stepped back, Corvin’s final expression of shock still in his mind’s eye. Shoving it away, Stephen surveyed the tapestry. It held a nice hunting scene, one worthy of a fine manor like this. He looked down at her again. “You said your sister taught you to weave. Is this how you learned to do such a fine finish?” he asked. “’Tis not a farmer’s trade.”

  “I studied how the finish was on the other tapestry. Did you know the weavers in Colchester create different checkering weaves? ’Tis amazing because ’tis not like tapestry, but on the same cloth.” She gazed up at him. And immediately his mouth went dry.

  “I’m glad you came back tonight,” he whispered.

  In the warm torchlight, her cheeks stained pink. “’Twould have been a waste of time tonight. But I cannot move on with my life whilst someone wants me dead.” With that last word, she quickly dipped her head and returned to her work.

  His gut tightened. Aye, someone wanted her dead. He should hurry this investigation along. But at the risk of losing Rowena, should her attacker be successful?

  He turned away. ’Twould not happen!

  At that moment, Gilles entered the hall, heading straight to the hearth as if not seeing them. Stephen strode over, noticing that his brother-in-law had been outside and ’twas apparently still raining lightly. “Josane needed herbs for you. Are you ill?”

  “Nay,” Gilles said, glancing up from the fire for just a moment as he warmed his hands. “’Twas a delicate matter, and ’tis healed.”

  “So, my squire has returned?”

  “Some time ago.” Gilles peered at Stephen, with only the shortest glance across the room at Rowena. Stephen turned to follow his brother-in-law’s gaze, but Rowena remained deep in her work and oblivious to the two men. The light bounced off what hair escaped her maid’s dust cap. She had discarded the veil for her meticulous task, and now the pale strands framed her like sunshine. Below her, Andrew gazed with curiosity at the two men, his youthful eyes not missing a thing.

  Stephen turned back to Gilles, noticing then that his brother-in-law’s hair also caught the lamps’ flickering glow. Though not as light, the color was still blond.

  “Tell Josane that Gaetan is not her personal servant. Who sent the courier to London?”

  Before Gilles could answer, Andrew began banging the polished bones together. Stephen turned to watch Rowena hastily end her work and scoop the babe into his sling. With a shy glance at him, she slipped from the hall. ’Twas obvious that she didn’t want to disturb them.

  The hairs rose again on Stephen’s neck curiously. Gilles snapped, “I will tell Josane what you said, but if you cannot manage your own servants, Stephen, mayhap you need Josane to take on more of the duties.”

  The man stalked away. Stephen crushed the urge to haul him back and remind him that he ran this manor house quite effectively with Josane as chatelaine.

  Nay. ’Twas a tense time for
them all. Reports of a growing population of rebels seemed a daily occurrence, and with someone in the village set on murder, everyone was on edge. Though his conversation with Gilles remained unfinished, ’twould have to do for now. Stephen would not act with a foolish outburst of pride. He strode out, spying Rowena at the turn of the corridor. “Rowena!”

  She stopped. When he reached her, he guided her away from any unseen ears. With a glance up the stairs in case someone hovered there, he said, “You will stay in this manor until I have found your attacker.”

  “Nay!” she flared up at him. “The roof will be repaired soon and I need to go home. I have a henhouse to mend, for my hen is alive and has returned.”

  She was concerned for her hen? “It will be fine. All the rest of the village’s poultry are loose.”

  “’Tis a gift I refuse to squander.” Her jaw jutted out. “Besides, milord, did you not want me to help you find this attacker?”

  He worked his jaw, hating that his own words were being used against him. “Stay here. I will employ you as a maid.”

  “As a maid! You have three already. One who works in the scullery at night, plus Ellie, who does the work during the day, and one who assists her. Lady Josane has her own maid, too, so you don’t need another!”

  “The tapestries need to be repaired.”

  “They are almost done, and I have already shown Ellie how to finish the edges. I am repaying your generosity. I’ve already made several long lengths of rope for you.” She looked up at him, her expression almost defiant. “Milord, this has to end.”

  “Rowena, you have more skills than rope making and tapestry mending. You can tell when a person is lying.”

  “Not all people all the time. Some keep their true feelings well hidden.”

  “Like who?”

  She paused, then answered, “You, milord.”

  She couldn’t read him? She’d guessed he was using her as bait, but not the true reason for it. Nay, she’d guessed only because Josane had hinted at it.

  Conviction gripped him, but he refused to acknowledge it. It helped her as much as it helped the king.