Sheltered by the Warrior. Barbara Phinney

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СКАЧАТЬ 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!”

       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 СКАЧАТЬ