Читать книгу Sheltered by the Warrior - Barbara Phinney - Страница 11

Chapter Three

Stephen could hardly believe his ears. This arrow-thin girl was refusing his offer of food? And with a babe in her arms? If someone had told him yesterday this would happen, he’d have burst out laughing.

Then he saw one of the reasons for her addled answer. The villagers, whose names were harsh Saxon words nearly unpronounceable, had stopped their work to watch the conversation with more frost in their glares than a cold winter’s day.

One of them had vandalized Rowena’s home. For a heartbeat, vengeance scorched him, but Stephen was not given to acting on impulse, for in London, as well as in King William’s home in Normandy, doing so could lead to enemies. And when one had enemies, one tended to die mysteriously in the night.

“I can force you to take this food,” he countered coolly, his words providing the buffer of time needed to consider his options.

Her shoulders stiff, Rowena answered in the same cool tone, “Nay, you cannot, nor will you waste your provisions by leaving them out for wild animals to scavenge.” She gazed over at the villagers. “Or worse. Whoever saw fit to ruin mine may finish off yours.”

True, he thought. He would not waste food when winter was coming and mayhap also his king, with extra men for him. Dropping provisions into her lap may have been a misstep on his part, he added to himself.

Mayhap not. The idea that had budded in his mind earlier now returned ready to bloom. William couldn’t afford to put soldiers in every corner of this land, but he could put people like Stephen at strategic points to root out those who would want to stir up trouble for the new sovereign.

Arresting those persons would go far to subdue these Saxons. They’d soon learn to behave after seeing their loved ones who still defied the king thrown in jail, flogged or worse.

Stephen studied Rowena. She was hardly a traitor to her people, but her stubbornness refused to allow her to admit her true story to anyone. Aye, he told himself. She could be useful here. Using her to lure out the person who attacked her would be the same as luring out those who would defy the king. ’Twould be best for all here if he found that person, for the alternative was to raze this village, something no one wanted.

Stephen paused in his planning. The people knew their lands had not been razed because of the dowager baroness, whose family had had influence with King Edward. She’d requested an audience with William when he’d marched through. Stephen had watched the events unfold with interest, for her son had fought against William at Hastings. But the dowager had been charming and genteel, perhaps reminding William of his own mother, and she’d convinced the king to spare her village in return for her prayers and role here as anchoress.

Though not privy to the conversation, Stephen had later suggested Udella remain within the manor proper. She may prove helpful in finding the local troublemakers. Of course, the wily old vixen would not willingly reveal them, despite her pious promise to the king to work for peace here, but Stephen was confident he could coax the names from her.

Aye, ’twas a good plan forming. With Rowena as bait and Udella wanting peace and knowing that it may have to come at the sacrifice of the agitators, Stephen now realized that giving this woman food would certainly rile up the locals enough to cause them to reveal themselves. But first, he had to get her to accept his offer.

“What, then, are your plans,” he asked, “since you don’t want this food? Have you considered the dead of winter? The snow can be quite harsh, and that babe will want solid food by then.”

If Rowena wouldn’t take the food, he knew he may have to force her. ’Twould do her good, for she would surely starve otherwise. ’Twas not a thought he liked, for some reason. And it certainly would not be good for his plans.

As Stephen watched her, Rowena wet her lips and swallowed. With that sword-straight spine of hers, he thought, she obviously had not considered winter at all.

Someone behind him broke into a heavy coughing fit, something caused by a mild fever that had started through the village. Stephen had to do something fast, for more villagers had begun to congregate. He caught a glimpse behind Rowena of Ellie, the essence of remorse for being unsuccessful in her task. “Take half the grain and roots to the larder,” he told his young maid. “Leave the cheese.”

Then, to the guard, he barked, “Since these villagers aren’t interested in doing their own work, they can work for the crown. Assemble them in the north forest. Have them begin cutting the trees. The palisade must be started before your king arrives. Oh,” he added, “save the saplings for the fence. It needs to be repaired.”

Stephen waited patiently until the guard and the villagers moved out of earshot, his gaze sealed on Rowena the whole time. She stood stock-still, with only her short breathing lightly rocking the drowsy child she carried. Her gaze stayed on his chest, not at his feet, where the servants kept theirs, nor in his eyes as a person of equal rank may look. Nay, she wanted to defy him, yet didn’t dare do so.

He unfolded his arms. “What is the real reason for this refusal, Rowena? You need food. We both know that.”

She blinked and sniffed. Still, she shook her head. “Nay, I refuse to accept any more charity from you Normans. I have taken quite enough, thank you.”

“And if I were Saxon?”

She didn’t answer, though a gentle shiver rippled her light frame as she glanced away. Would she not accept aid from her own people, either?

“’Tis just as well,” he finally said. “For I expect that he who vandalized your home last night would lay siege to it again should it be filled with provisions.” ’Twas exactly what he wanted, but he would not tell her that.

Rowena reacted with a wrinkled chin and tightened lips and yet added steel in her spine. “Aye, ’twould do nothing but ruin good food.”

“We wouldn’t want that,” he murmured.

But he would like to find who had done so last night. Stephen had discovered enemies of the king before, traitors who would sooner slit your throat than smile at you. Though William ruled with an iron fist, the king had to put his trust in someone. Sometimes that was Eudo, his steward, or that monk William de St. Calais, but for the most part, protection came from Stephen and his watchful eye and subtle machinations, guiding the people around him to work for, not against, the king. He may be captain of the King’s Guard, but he was also William’s best spymaster. ’Twould be more than easy to root out troublemakers here by using a simple maid.

Stephen extended his hand toward the front door. “Mayhap we can discuss this over some strong broth and a portion of good cheese?”

“Nay, there is nothing to discuss,” Rowena answered with a stubborn lip. “I won’t take your charity, my lord. And do not be concerned for me.”

“And when you get vandalized again?”

Finally, with brows lifted, her eyes met his. That remarkable pale color clouded with apprehension. “I will not, for there is nothing left to vandalize.”

Stephen paused. True.

Oddly, the thought of Rowena starving turned his stomach, a compassionate feeling so alien to him, it took him a moment to recognize it. He wasn’t used to reacting with emotion. His portion in life was to think with his head, not his heart.

But if he could get Rowena to take even some of the food, ’twould satisfy both his plan to stir the pot of dissention and his compassion.

However, he’d discovered two years ago that Saxons were not a logical people. They fought with their hearts, not their heads. Rowena was acting on her foolish pride in refusing this food.

Did you not already react with emotion to the thought of her being hurt? Or hungry? Or with another man?

Stephen stiffened. Nay, he was acting on his king’s orders, plain and simple.

“One small request, then?” he countered, thankful that only the two of them lingered at the door. “A bit of food, sold to you?”

“I have no money, milord.”

“Few have until the bills are collected at Michaelmas.”

“When the taxes take all?”

“Your taxes and rent have already been paid for this year. I have often sold food and wood, and not taken the payment until collection time.” He frowned, realizing that she probably had nothing to trade for coinage. “Is it not the way at your farm, where goods and livestock were bought and sold?”

At the mention of her home, her gaze hardened. He noticed it immediately. “I had nothing to do with such dealings,” she snapped. “I was to care for the livestock and weed the gardens. Because of that, I know I can forage for enough food to last all winter.”

He shouldn’t have, but still, Stephen laughed. “’Tis easy to say you won’t accept food when your belly isn’t crying out for it in the cold of winter.” He dropped his smile and softened, doing his best to make his tone mild. “Did you have a good evening meal last night? Was it so filling that you aren’t hungry even now?”

Rowena’s throat constricted and she glanced once more at the corner of the manor, around which half the provisions had been carted. Her delicate eyes glistened. Stephen hated to reprimand her pride, however gently, but ’twas more necessary than simply working through his latest plan. This was her life and the life of her child at risk.

She glanced up at him. Don’t let your pride overrule your good sense, he pleaded silently. “You have no money now, but do you have a skill with which can earn you some?”

She paused. “Aye, milord. I can make rope. Good rope, strong enough for the North Sea.”

“The North Sea? I have not seen it, but I hear ’tis violent.”

“I was taught rope making by the daughter of a man who fished it.”

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.