Читать книгу Sheltered by the Warrior - Barbara Phinney - Страница 9

Chapter Two

Though not ashamed of her babe, for he brought such great joy to her, Rowena knew that his dark hair, bred into him from his father, gave away a parentage she’d have preferred to hide.

She sagged. She’d seen Lord Stephen’s surprise. Soon, suspicion would follow and then, distaste evident, he would walk away, putting the woman with no husband behind him. She’d seen it often enough in this village.

“Aye,” she muttered, tugging Andrew’s cap back on after he’d reached up to yank it off. With the other hand, he caught her rough wool cloak. “He’s my son.” She held back the urge to explain. Nay, ’twas no one’s business. She’d already learned that few people would believe her, anyway. To those scoffers, she was a simple farm girl with a wild tale of slavery and scheming, something unbelievable from a creature looking for sympathy because she’d found herself pregnant after a shameful tryst. She leveled her stare at him. “Aye, his father is Norman.”

Rowena looked away, not wanting to see the shadow of turning in his expression. This tall, strong man was just another Norman—untrustworthy. Lord Stephen may not be Taurin, who had been exiled to Normandy for his treacherous plan to use her babe to usurp the king, and, aye, that same king had agreed to her move here, but she would not trust this man one jot. Only Lord Adrien had shown her any kindness. He was the exception, having a Saxon wife of great influence, whom he loved very much.

Her friend, Clara, though, had taught her to hold her head up high. ’Twas not her fault she’d been an unwilling partner in the creation of her beautiful babe. With that reminder, Rowena straightened and lifted her chin.

The look of surprise on Stephen’s face dissolved like mist under a hot sun. “The boy’s paternity is of no concern to me.”

No concern? She wet her lips, suddenly perplexed by his calm reaction. Did it really not interest him? Or did he hide it well? She wasn’t sure.

He cleared his throat. “As you know, I am Baron Stephen de Bretonne. This village is my responsibility.”

“Then you are failing, sir,” Rowena replied softly, with a furtive glance to her ruined garden and with a measure of relief that he didn’t turn away in disgust.

“Apparently so,” he answered. “But in my defense, I have been in London for the summer and just arrived home last night.”

Rowena could hear only the slightest French accent in his English words. He was surprisingly fluent in her mother tongue. “And what exactly is your responsibility now that you’re here?” Despite her bold words, Rowena battled the sting of fearful tears. She walked to the garden, hoping in her survey of the damage that she might find some salvageable food, for surely this man would do little to help her, despite his promise. Setting Andrew on the ground, and making sure there was nothing around him he could choke on, for he was apt to put everything into his mouth, Rowena began the grim task of sorting through the disarray. She set aside the few roots that remained mostly whole, whilst those mashed would either nourish the soil or be rinsed in the river before being boiled into a pottage. She refused to waste anything. Everything here had been a gift to start her new life, and she would not treat poorly a single portion of it.

Behind her, deprived of her attention, Andrew squawked. Then squawked again. With a sigh, she turned in time to see Baron Stephen scoop the babe into his arms.

With a gasp, she leaped to her feet and snatched Andrew from the tall Norman’s grip. “Nay! He’s mine!” Then, with one free hand, she shoved him back with all her might. The hauberk’s chain mail bit into her palm.

Immediately, the guard burst forward to shield his lord. He pressed the point of a long Norman blade against her throat. She cried out, clutching her babe close as she stared at what could be the instrument of her death.

* * *

Stephen reacted swiftly, grabbing the blade and pulling it away from Rowena’s neck. In the same fluid movement, he drove the weapon into the soft, damp earth. “Stand down, soldier!” he ordered, planting himself between the guard and Rowena. He then turned to her.

Her arms protecting her child, Rowena flinched again. Terror flooded her expression. Stephen tightened his jaw. In the past, any fear he’d caused, especially due to his height, had pleased him. He’d even cultivated it occasionally, for intimidation alone often kept his king safe. As captain of the King’s Guard, Stephen had made William’s safety paramount. ’Twas the only reason the Good Lord had given him life.

But today, seeing Rowena’s fear, he found his belly souring. ’Twas obvious, based on the way she shied from him, that the man who’d fathered this child had done so using that same fear and intimidation Stephen employed in court. His belly churned further. She was hardly aligned with any Norman. ’Twas only a filthy rumor against her.

He glanced swiftly around him at the shambles. So someone in this village felt that she needed to be taught a lesson? Immediately, an idea blossomed. Tightening his jaw, Stephen turned to his guard. “Return to the horses.”

As the man reluctantly retreated, Stephen focused his attention on Rowena again. With no blade at her throat anymore, she should have been relieved, but fear still lit her eyes despite her uptilted chin and the squareness in her shoulders.

Father in heaven, take away her fear.

“’Tis all right, Rowena,” he stated calmly. “My guard thought I was threatened.”

Her eyes flared. “You were! By me! You grabbed my babe!”

Stephen shrugged mildly. “He was fussing.”

“I wasn’t paying attention to him, that’s all. He’d have stopped in a moment. ’Tis often so with babes. Sometimes, they want their mother and nothing else will do.”

She spoke with an accent Stephen didn’t recognize. But he’d learned that here in England, each tiny village had its own unique way of speaking. “I don’t remember fussing when my mother turned her back.”

Rowena flushed and shifted the boy in her arms. Away from Stephen. Again, she fixed the babe’s wayward cap.

“Please don’t mock me, my lord. You would not remember fussing.” Then, with a glance behind him, she added, “And please, if I have satisfied your curiosity, will you depart? Your presence here is rousing the interest of my neighbors, and I don’t wish to be seen in any Norman’s company.”

Stephen spun. The family living in the hut closest to the village fence was now standing by the gate, each person peering with unabashed interest. The father, a belligerent Saxon Stephen had met several times, scowled the worst. If there was ever a troublemaker, this man was it. But Stephen had no proof yet. However, with William’s new edict, Stephen didn’t need much evidence to arrest anyone. ’Twas only his personal integrity that he have adequate reason.

Like this attack on Rowena’s harvest? Stephen glanced back at her. He mentally counted the distance. Her home was closest to the forest, outside the wattle fencing and at least twenty long strides from her nearest neighbor. Hers was a hut set apart long ago for some unknown reason. And judging from the foul expressions on her neighbors’ faces, not far enough.

Noticing his return glare, the Saxons retreated from the fence. Stephen faced Rowena again. “Do you think those people vandalized your garden?”

She shook her head. “I cannot say. I heard no one last night.” She cleared her throat as she avoided his eyes. “My lord, I must return to my task and salvage what food is left. If you have no more questions, please excuse me.”

Her fearful expression shot up to him again, one that set his teeth on edge. Knowing he could do nothing about her reaction in the next few moments, Stephen nodded and strode back to the fence, sending the neighbors scurrying into their hut. As he mounted his courser, he noted several other Saxons, having been roused from their pallets, poking out heads and peering at the odd scene he’d created.

Deliberately swinging his horse and his harsh glare around that end of the village and being successful in forcing the curious back into their homes, Stephen returned his attention to Rowena. She, too, had retreated into her hut.

He sighed, the air leaking from his lungs like a pierced skin of cider. ’Twas for the best that everyone here remain intimidated and therefore subdued, but to have Rowena fall into that category left bitterness on his tongue, a taste he knew would linger until he broke his fast. And that would not happen until after he’d inspected the forest’s edge and made note of where to start the work on the embankment that would keep this village safe should those rebels at Ely attack.

At the gate, Stephen hauled in the reins of his courser and noticed that Rowena had once again slipped outside. Her soft, pale hair danced in the morning breeze as she stooped to return to her task.

She’ll find little food in that mess, and the two cages she’d owned are destroyed. She would have had a hen, but what else? Rabbits, maybe? ’Twas rare for a Saxon to own rabbits. Mayhap jealousy spurred the attack?

Stephen’s jaw clenched as he watched Rowena search around the pens for her livestock, all the while furtively sweeping tears off her cheeks. Once she dropped onto her knees and covered her face. He jerked forward, his fingers tightening on the wooden pommel of his saddle. The only reason he did not leap from his mount was because he knew she’d only ask him to leave again. Out of the corner of his eye, he spied his guard watching him closely, his eyes dark under the rim of his steel helmet.

Stephen turned his courser and the animal snorted and stamped its feet impatiently. He knew he could do nothing more until he completed a new task. ’Twould be one that, if employed properly, could serve both his needs and Rowena’s.

Aye. Then those Saxons who would make trouble for the king would think twice about supporting those fools at Ely in their losing cause.

Startling even his guard, Stephen galloped his horse back to his home to carry out his plan.

* * *

Slack-jawed, Rowena stared at the sight of the wrapped stalks of grain and the gunnysack of root vegetables. She blinked when the young woman in front of her set half a cheese round atop the load. Someone had wrapped the expensive treat in leaves and tied it snugly with thin vines. Everything was secured by a fraying rope that had been tied at many points.

Her visitor smiled expectantly at Rowena, but she couldn’t return it. She had seen this girl near the manor house, but had not approached her. Why should she? The rest of the village had scorned her and her babe. Why go looking for more of the same? Finally, words formed and Rowena muttered, “What is all this?”

“’Tis a gift from Lord Stephen,” the woman answered in English with an accent that told Rowena she was a local. “He said you have need of it.” Her smile increased.

Automatically, Rowena glanced to her right where she’d spent the better part of the day. So far, she’d recovered only a meager portion of her harvest. Her attempt to rinse the crushed roots had met with little success, for grit and dirt were imbedded deep in the mash of vegetables, and often the current in the nearby stream broke apart the delicate pieces. Tears choked her again but she fought them back.

The woman followed her gaze, and her hopeful expression fell into dismay. “What happened?”

“’Twould seem that I am not welcomed here.”

As if to remind her why, Andrew cried out from where he was seated nearby. The woman’s attention snapped to him and in that instant, her expression turned to joy. “Oh, such a beautiful child! Look at that lovely thick hair!”

About to answer that his hair came from his father, Rowena stopped her words. She’d be stating the obvious and adding the suggestion that she’d willingly partaken in Andrew’s creation. Was that not what the people here thought?

She smiled stiffly instead. “He’s a good boy, but hates it when I don’t heed him.”

The young woman abandoned the food to scoop up the boy. She fingered the curls that peeked out from the edges of his cap. “Aye, ’tis like all men.” She bounced him a bit. For her effort, she received a squeal and a giggle. Her smile broadened so much, Rowena was sure ’twould split her face in two.

“The villagers see this babe as the result of you conspiring with the Normans.” The girl’s expression turned compassionate as she glanced back at Rowena. “They are hated here. I know. I work at the manor and was also born in this village. Those who destroyed your winter provisions are probably my relatives, I’m ashamed to say. Sometimes, they even scorn me for working as a simple housemaid for Lord Stephen. They oppose everyone living at the manor. But we need the work and they forget the sacrifice that saved them from King William.”

Rowena shook her head. Who had saved them? What sacrifice? This woman’s? Or Lord Stephen’s? Immediately, she crushed her curiosity, for she would not get cozy with anyone here. This woman might be offering genuine friendship, or she might be a spy sent to see if more damage could be inflicted.

Still, the maid seemed kind and there was never any reason to be rude. Rowena walked over to the young servant and took Andrew from her. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Ellie. It’s short for Eleanor, but that was my grandmother’s name and I think it sounds old,” she answered cheerfully. “Your name is so pretty. But it doesn’t match your hair, I don’t think. To me, it sounds like a red-haired woman. You know, like the color of rowan berries.”

Rowena grimaced, and not because her name meant “white one.” Nay, ’twas because her hair had attracted Taurin, whose own wife was also fair-haired. Even Master Gilles, who’d set forth the terms of Rowena’s tenancy, had light hair, but ’twas uncommon among the Normans she’d seen. Most had medium to dark hair, and none as light as Saxons’.

Her hair was so fine, she could barely keep it braided, and she hated the way it would fly around at the slightest breeze. She may as well have duck down on her head. ’Twould be warmer at least. ’Twas why she hadn’t bothered to do anything with it this morning.

Forget the hair. She turned to the food that sat in a cart Ellie had towed here. From the corner of her eye, she noticed some villagers had gathered. Again. All stared her way. Oh, dear. ’Twas a repeat of earlier today, when Baron Stephen visited. And ’twould be easy enough for even a child to guess where this bounty came from.

Thankfully, no one appeared ready to reprimand Ellie for being there. Mayhap because she was on her master’s business. All well and good now, but what would happen tonight? Would those men return to destroy these gifts?

They, too, were gifts from a Norman, like what she’d brought with her from Dunmow, where Lord Adrien held his seat. He and Lady Ediva had given her livestock and the vegetables she’d stored in those destroyed mounds. Though she had convinced herself that ’twas Saxon wealth donated to her, Rowena couldn’t deny it was also in part Norman.

But today’s offerings were all Norman. They’d have to be taken into her hut for safekeeping. What would her attacker do then? Burst in? Rowena squared her shoulders. “Take them back, Ellie. I don’t want them.”

Ellie’s jaw fell. “Back? I can’t do that, Rowena! Lord Stephen himself ordered me here. He listed all the provisions I was to collect. ’Tis his gift to you!”

“I have had quite enough ‘gifts’ from Normans. I was bought by a Norman once, and I won’t be bought again.”

Confused, Ellie protested, “You’re not being bought!”

“But I am! First ’twas with coinage. Now ’tis with food. I won’t accept this.” To prove her point, she grabbed the sling Clara had fashioned for her and hoisted Andrew into it. Brushing past a dumbfounded Ellie, she wheeled the old, wobbly cart across the yard and through the village gate. Locals stepped out of her way as she bumped the cart over the dirt path that led to the manor house. It loomed tall, from its stone foundation to its thickly thatched roof. The entrance jutted from the end, with carved stone columns that forced her gaze up to the strong, straight chimneys high above the fine thatch. The front bore grand windows with panes of skin vellum thin enough to allow in much sunlight.

Forcing away hesitation at such grandeur, Rowena called out over her shoulder to Ellie, “Is Lord Stephen at home?”

Hiking up her cyrtel, the shocked maid hurried up beside her. “Aye. Rowena, you must reconsider! You’ll starve this winter without food!” As they approached the manor, Ellie glanced around and lowered her voice. “And you know my menfolk won’t help you.”

Babe bouncing in the sling, Rowena kept trudging, refusing to acknowledge the doubt pricking her decision. ’Twas a dangerous and bold move, one born of an impulse, but nay, she would not be owing to another Norman!

The guard lounging by the front door of the manor house straightened when she approached, but not for her. The solid arched front doors opened suddenly and out walked Stephen.

Before her courage drained away, Rowena rotated the cart toward him and handed him the well-worn handle. “I thank you for this gift, milord, but I cannot accept it.”

Stephen looked down at her. He’d exchanged the chain mail he’d worn earlier for a tunic of fine linen, dyed a rich blue. Dark leggings were secured with new leather thongs, revealing his powerful legs. The cloak he’d tossed over his shoulders was also made from a material finer even than what she’d seen in Colchester, which boasted good weavers. Its embroidered hem lifted a bit in the increasing breeze. He was an imposing figure, and Rowena battled the foolishness now creeping in. She stepped away from the temptation of relenting. “I will not take your gift, milord.”

“Why not?” he asked calmly.

“’Tis wrong for me to accept food from your house and your family.”

He lifted his brows. “My family won’t starve this winter.”

Rowena could see the brawny upper-arm muscles pressing against his sleeves. And the wind brought from him the scents of mint and meadowsweet, a mix that encouraged her to inhale deeply. She refused.

“I have already accepted a hut from you, and the gift of rent money from another Norman.” She clutched Andrew closer, smoothing his cap as if ’twould strengthen her. “Not to mention what the first Norman I met gave me. I’m seen as siding with your people, and I want the village here to know that I am not.”

“How will you do that? By starving to death?”

“You know nothing of me. I have always survived and I will do so this winter.”

Stephen appeared unimpressed by her boast. Galled, she wondered if he had any reactions at all within him. “How?” he asked finally.

Rowena shut her mouth, refusing to enlighten him. When she was younger, she’d been sent to the barn at mealtimes, to wait for crumbs and leftovers, whatever the dog rejected, because she wasn’t worth the food. She was too small, too weak, a runt best left to fend for itself. Eventually, she was told to sleep there, as well.

She shuddered. Nay, she would not linger on what her family had done to her simply because she’d had the misfortune to be born last and a female. And she would not allow that bitter memory to weaken her stance now.

With determination she answered, “There is still time to gather food. I know how. I am farm stock. We Saxons have weathered droughts and storms that destroyed our provisions, not to mention a Norman invasion. I will survive!”