Sheltered by the Warrior Page 4

  Stephen watched Rowena’s eyes stray to the food on the flagstones. Ellie had secured the bundle to the cart with a worn, knotted rope. Good rope went to the various training pulleys his soldiers used to keep their muscles toned. Aye, this manor could use all the new rope it could get.

  But the issue wasn’t about rope. “’Tis good to break one’s fast in the morning with a thick slice of hard cheese and a cup of hot broth,” he coaxed companionably. “Such food lasts a body all day.”

  Again, Rowena glanced at the cheese resting between them. Her babe squealed. Finally, she offered, “Very well. I will take a small portion of food from you, but I will repay you in rope and netting.”

  Stephen nodded blandly. “Every estate needs them. Can you make enough?”

  “Aye, if I begin today. I have not taken charity from the Normans, and I won’t start now.”

  His brows shot up. Proud, indeed, but didn’t she just tell him she’d taken enough charity from the Normans? “What about Lord Adrien?”

  “Nay, that charity came from Dunmow Keep. ’Twas Saxon wealth.”

  Stephen smiled. Let her think that way if it justifies her decision. But his smile dropped as quickly as it came. Why would someone want to hurt her, when it could be argued that she had not aligned herself with the Normans?

  * * *

  Rowena fought back tears as she lay on her pallet in her dark hut that night. Her babe had finally drifted off to sleep, and she’d tucked away all the food she’d bought from Stephen. Tucked it from her sight and hopefully her thoughts in the coming days, for surely she would gobble it all down otherwise, she was that hungry.

  Instead, after collecting the weed stalks she needed for her rope making, she’d stirred to a slurry the pottage made from the salvaged roots in her garden. She’d hoped she’d rinsed away all the grit left behind by the boot prints, but on the first, crunchy bite, she knew ’twas not so. The meal had to do, however. She wouldn’t dip into those winter provisions. She would do that in the dark cold of a winter’s eve when once more, hunger won over her shame and trusting another Norman didn’t sour her empty belly.

  Lord God, strengthen me to survive the winter, to be able to make enough rope and nets to sell.

  Not for the first time since Rowena returned to her hut, Lord Stephen’s big frame and cool, impenetrable gaze visited her thoughts. He was too hard to read. She’d learned to decipher her father’s thoughts early on, his calculating dealings with other farmers or the way his mouth would tighten before he backhanded her for not moving quickly enough. She’d also learned Taurin’s subtle hints that his mood had shifted and her evening would become a frightening ordeal.

  Yet Lord Stephen’s face remained a mystery. Those dark eyes, smooth lips and broad shoulders revealed nothing. All she’d seen was the merest hint of compassion when she’d said there was nothing left to vandalize. But the softness was brief and darting, like a nighthawk at dusk.

  Kindness scared her as much as seeing her father’s lip curl or Taurin’s lustful squint before he took what he wanted. Nay, she didn’t dare even think on Lord Stephen’s generosity, for surely it came with a hefty price.

  In the dark of her hut, shameful tears pricked her eyes. She’d given in to her hunger, taken the food and had done exactly as Lord Stephen wished, despite her promise to refuse the gift.

  Lord, why am I so weak?

  She’d done much the same with Lord Taurin, when he’d held back food to ensure compliance. Only when he’d realized she was pregnant did he take better care of her, but ’twas just for his evil plan.

  Livestock, that was what she’d been to him. But what was she to Lord Stephen?

  Nay! Lord God, not the same thing!

  But nothing about him suggested he was like Lord Taurin. ’Twas not slyness or lust in his eyes. He gave her his full attention, and the way he moved his body did not alert her of evil to come.

  Still, he was a Norman. And a man.

  Ensuring her babe was warm and tucked into his sling close to her chest, Rowena curled around him on her pallet. She pulled the wool blanket and her cloak around them to stop up any drafts. Mayhap someday, she would put all the horrors of the past year and the shame of today behind her.

  But now, within the dark hut, she lay awake, eyes shut to tempt the elusive sleep, all the while refusing to move for fear of awakening Andrew.

  She’d let her small fire die, knowing that in her spark box was an ember that would glow all night, and with it she could rekindle her fire in the morning. ’Twas wise to conserve fuel before winter.

  Had the fire died? Rowena sniffed the cool air. Was that smoke she smelled? She opened her eyes and turned her head.

  A glow lit up the thatch above the door just as acrid smoke stung her eyes.

  Then, on the section above the door near where the spark box sat, a tendril of glowing smoke kindled and a flame burst upward.

  She gasped in horror.

  Chapter Four

  Rowena wrapped one hand around her babe and bolted upright. Her house was on fire!

  Despite the damp days, the old thatch burned readily. For one horrifying moment, she stared hypnotically at it, at how easily the fire consumed her roof while dancing provocatively in front of her.

  Then, as if shoved hard, Rowena reacted. She had but a moment to escape. Throwing open the door, she plowed head down under the flames and into the dark of the evening. With a series of stumbling steps, she ran beyond her garden before a spasm of pain tore through her ankle.

  She cried out as she sank onto all fours. Andrew, tucked safely in his sling, protested the sudden jerking. As she rose, a new spike of pain wrenched her ankle, but she ignored it enough to scream, “Fire!”

  ’Twas a farmer’s worst nightmare. Years ago, fire had destroyed her family’s barn, killing livestock and burning feed and foodstuffs. ’Twas Rowena who’d awakened and escaped the burning barn to rouse her family. Their home would have been consumed as well and all would have died otherwise.

  Several hut doors flew open, with one man calling out to another as they surged into action. Men poured through the village gate. A woman pulled Rowena out of the way. Within a short time, people were everywhere, soldiers, Saxons, even Lord Stephen himself passing forward buckets of water to toss on the small house.

  Someone raked the roof, pulling down the thatch for others to stamp out the fire that hit the dirt. Rowena could barely see them through her stinging tears. A woman beside her gripped her tightly, and at one point, when the fire flared into the night sky and the noise of men was the loudest, Rowena turned to see her companion’s face.

  ’Twas Ellie, the young maid who’d delivered food to her. She was blinking back tears herself, her arms tight around Rowena. Crushed between them, Andrew cried, and Rowena stepped back to bob him up and down.

  Finally, the glow of fire died. The last of the burning thatch was pulled away from the hut and extinguished, and a collective sigh raced through the villagers.

  “Are you all right? What happened?”

  Swiping her face, Rowena blinked. Lord Stephen stood in front of her. Someone nearby lifted a lantern to cast a light now that the wild flames were gone.

  Dressed only in light braes and a pale shirt, he was as soaked and muddied as the rest. His height and strength showed as fierce as in any Norman she’d met. Rowena stepped back, her arms tightening around Andrew. What did he ask her?

  Stephen caught her arm. “Rowena?” His voice softened. “Are you all right?”

  Mutely, she nodded, glancing around him. Aye, she was fine. But her home...gone?

  His tone still quiet, he asked, “Can you tell us what happened?”

  With a shake of her head to dispel the fog of shock, she tried her voice. “I—I don’t know. I was down for the night when I smelled smoke. I turned and s
aw the thatch above the door glowing.” Her voice caught a short hiccup. “Then it just burst into flames!”

  “Above the door? What is there to start a fire?”

  She shook her head. “The spark box. But I hadn’t done anything to it, except to ensure the piece of bone was still aglow.”

  Another male voice cut in, saying, “She must not have closed the lid properly, Stephen. A piece of dust probably dropped into it and caught fire.”

  Rowena squinted into the dark, smoky night. Who was this man, just beyond the circle of light, that he would call Lord Stephen by his Christian name? She could see only the outline of a fair-headed man. Master Gilles? For a moment, he looked like one of the villagers, his clothes soaked and muddied.

  “Mayhap,” Stephen answered him. “’Tis fortunate that we saved all but the front part of the roof. The thatch can be replaced. Less so the beams and braces.” He turned to one of his soldiers and ordered a fire picket for the remainder of the night.

  Then he turned again to Rowena. Even in the dim light of the lamp’s low flame, his dark eyes drilled into her, sending a shiver through her as cool as the night.

  What did he want?

  Oh, Lord God, please let it not be—

  “Come,” he said, breaking apart her thoughts. “You can finish this night with Ellie and the other maids. There is nothing more we can do until morn.”

  At the manor house? Rowena turned. A sharp pain stabbed at her ankle. “Oh!”

  Stephen grabbed her as she drooped. Ellie took the babe as Rowena grimaced down at her foot. “My ankle. I must have turned it running outside.” She cried again as she tried to put weight on it, and she gripped Stephen more tightly.

  Immediately she was lifted up. She started, catching the damp linen of Stephen’s simple shirt. She was in his arms! Hastily, with the other hand, she pushed her undertunic down to cover her legs.

  “Go ahead,” he ordered Ellie in French. “Prepare your pallet for Rowena.”

  “Nay, I can’t take her pallet,” Rowena answered in the same language.

  Stephen stopped and looked down at her. “Tu parle Français? You speak French?”

  Rowena clung to him, realizing how much she disliked being so high and putting her safety in this man’s arms. “Oui,” she whispered, peering over her shoulder at the ground that seemed too far away.

  “I thought you were a farm girl. Where does a farm girl learn French?”

  Heat flooded her face. Could she tell Stephen she’d learned French out of necessity? To answer him truthfully would be admitting too much. Would it give this Norman the same idea that Taurin once had?

  If only Lord Stephen could read her thoughts and save her the humility of an explanation. For as he stood there his frown deepened, his handsome face cut with moving shadows as the lantern that someone had raised swung about.

  She couldn’t speak the full truth. “You Normans invaded our land, remember?” she finally whispered. “’Tis how I learned. From a Norman.”

  * * *

  Stephen tightened his mouth. Aye, he and his fellow Normans had come to this land, but ’twas his king’s right to rule England. The crown had been promised to William. And in the two years since, had they not brought order to these unruly villages?

  But just because the Normans were scattered about did not mean that all Saxons had learned French, especially not a simple farm girl. Why her?

  The babe in Ellie’s arms fussed and then he remembered. Rowena had given birth to a Norman child. She must have learned the language during the course of her pregnancy. Or mayhap before. But one thing he was certain of, if given the choice, Rowena would not have learned a single word of French. And seeing the dark pleading in her eyes, Stephen would stake his life that Rowena’s heart did not belong to the child’s father.

  Still, ’twas an uncharacteristic emotion that ripped through him when he should be feeling nothing. He picked up his pace. Best not to think with his heart, he reminded himself. Without exception, it gave bad advice. He’d seen many fooled by it.

  “My lord,” Rowena whispered, her face so close to his that he could have stolen a kiss should he’d so desired. “Please put me down. You’re hurting me!”

  Stephen stopped. A guard approached and lifted a lantern again. Horror bled into him as he saw her pained expression.

  She blinked. “Your grip is too tight, my lord!”

  He relaxed. “My apologies. I...I didn’t want you to slip.”

  “I have my own good grip, milord.” She shook her head. “Please, let me try walking. We’re at the manor house now, anyway.”

  Stephen looked up, surprised to find he’d reached the grand entrance to his home. Inhaling, he set her down just as a woman opened the large oak door. It was his sister, Josane, who was also his chatelaine. Staring openly at the pair, she held the door back for him. “Ellie has just come in with a child, Stephen!” she exclaimed in French. “Have we lost a family? Was there a fire? I can smell the smoke—”

  “Oui, Josane, ’twas a fire, but no one was hurt. The child belongs to this woman, Rowena.”

  Josane peered at Rowena, her expression concerned but cool. “Oui, Gilles told me he’d given her a hut, as you’d requested.” She looked over Rowena’s shoulder at the villagers slowly filtering away. Then, lifting the skirt of her fine linen cyrtel, she swung out her arm impatiently. “Come in. Come in. ’Tis cold and damp out.”

  Stephen stepped forward to scoop up Rowena again, but she lifted her hand. “Nay, I’ll walk.”

  She tried one hobbling step, only to reach for the door. Impatient like his sister, Stephen lifted her again and carried her over the threshold into his manor house. “We’ll take you to the maids’ chamber. ’Tis small, but your son will be there with Ellie.”

  Josane hurried ahead of them, through the narrow corridor to where it opened into the great hall. Stephen listened to the sound of her shoes crunching the rushes strewn about. Josane’s cyrtel swayed back and forth in rhythm with her steps. She preferred a practical, shorter hem than what other ladies of the manor might wear. As chatelaine here, she was always busy, and the longer hems of ladies of leisure often snagged the rushes.

  Torches soaked in tallow lit the way down the far corridor, infusing the air not with the oily scent of animal fat, but with sweet herbs and dried flowers. Josane hated the smell of burning tallow and had concocted an infusion to mask the odor. Now it swept along with them as he carried Rowena the length of his home, deep into the servants’ end.

  Ahead, Josane opened a small door. Stephen ducked as he took Rowena inside the tiny room. Its floor was filled with pallets, except where a table, a chair and an old chest stood. Ellie had already moved a crude chair beside a pallet that held little Andrew. Stephen set Rowena down on it.

  For one brief moment she clung to him, her arms still locked about his neck. Whether ’twas because she could not feel the chair beneath her or because she wanted to remain in his arms, he didn’t know. But in the instant, he stilled.

  Two lamps lit the room, making it easy for him to see the apprehension swimming in her pale blue eyes. She wet her lower lip, then held it tight between her teeth.

  Sympathy—something he did not want to own—washed through him as he held her close. Immediately, the sermon from the previous Sabbath echoed within him. Be ye kind, one to another, tenderhearted. He felt his jaw tighten.

  Why this sudden piety? Stephen had never felt conflicted with his faith before, even when trapping plotters against the crown. His God-given duty allowed him to punish evildoers without so much as a blink of the eye. Was it because he’d erred here? He hadn’t expected that the malcontent bent on hurting Rowena would return so quickly.

  Stephen found himself saying “’Tis all right, Rowena. You’re safe here.” His whisper was for her ears only, and in response, she
nodded briefly and released him.

  “Thank you. And may God bless you, milord.” Her voice was as soft as her eyes as she spoke to him.

  Stephen straightened, regretting his warm, quiet words. They made him sound as if he cared. He didn’t. He wanted only for his newly formed plan to work. He needed those troublemakers to show themselves, because next time he would be ready.

  He cleared his throat. “Ellie will see to your care. I must ensure the fire is completely out.” With that cool statement, he left the chamber.

  In the corridor, Josane caught his arm. Speaking in French, she hissed, “You should not have brought that woman here. We know nothing about her.” Her expression bored into him, the torchlight reflecting in her dark eyes. “She could be a thief. And look at her babe. ’Tis obvious already she is a prostitute.”

  Stephen yanked back his arm. “She was a slave, given her freedom by the king himself.”

  “That’s ridiculous! King William banned the sale of Christian slaves three years ago. See? You know little of her! I’ve heard the rumors about her aligning herself with Normans. See what it got her? A life of shame. Stephen, she will bring us nothing but trouble!”

  Stephen said nothing in answer to her warning. They stared at each other, and after a long minute, Josane shook her head in disbelief. “Nay, Stephen,” she breathed out.

  He looked away. “’Tis necessary. The king has already ordered it.” Only Josane and Gilles knew of the king’s order to root out rebels and quell any unrest that could threaten the crown.

  King William, on his trek north shortly after Hastings, had found this village filled with sly Saxons. Although they had done nothing to warrant razing their land, they had pricked William’s suspicions enough for him to assign Stephen to the task of finding agitators. Such were in every village, and William was canny enough to know they abounded here. ’Twas the only way to control this village when most of William’s soldiers were fighting the Welsh.

  These villagers are just waiting for us to turn our backs, the king had told Stephen after he’d agreed to spare this village. I made a promise that I would not raze this land, but I will destroy any Saxon who defies my law. Arrest anyone suspicious. I will have no one rebel against me.