Protected by the Warrior. Barbara Phinney

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СКАЧАТЬ be hard on the new mother, Taurin would be a fool to kill her. Who would feed the babe? It would cost him to hire a wet nurse.

      Rolling closed the flap of the tool pouch, he tightened his jaw. Clara had to be exaggerating the danger. People lied when they tried to support a rash decision.

      ’Twas nearly suppertime when Kenneth returned to Clara’s hut, having returned the tools and asked those Clara had visited that day how long she’d stayed with them. Thankfully, he had earned the respect of most of the villagers, and thus discovered that Clara, with Brindi in tow, had not left the village all day.

      Poor little Brindi. Like many a child, she was expected to work alongside her mother—or in this case, her sister—with never a moment to enjoy life.

      Rowena’s babe would end up as such, or worse, since he had no father figure to mentor him. Kenneth paused at the compact garden beside the hut. At least he might be able to do something for Brindi. For starters, he could teach her to read, and mayhap...

      Mayhap he could make her a doll. Aye, she’d like a doll, he was sure, a toy to relieve the drudgery of work. He was a satisfactory carver, and if he found a knot of wood, or better still, a large apple, he could carve a head. With the apple, ’twould dry to imitate the features of a wrinkled old lady. Then he could ask Lady Ediva’s maid, Margaret, if she could fashion a soft body for it, something filled with wool or fine straw and dressed like one of those princesses Clara scorned.

      Aye, and such a gift would go a long way to changing Clara’s attitude toward him.

      As he approached the midwife’s garden, the air offered the coaxing scents of supper. Evening meals were often just leftover broth and old bread, but this meal smelled rich and satisfying. He could hear Brindi singing softly inside the hut and, suddenly, the clear, stronger voice of Clara as she filled in the rest of the song.

      He smiled. ’Twas good to hear. His sisters and mother often sang, especially when minstrels visited. They’d beg their visitors to teach them new songs, and one time his oldest sister even managed to convince their father to purchase a rebec from one of the minstrels. She did eventually master the strings on it, but it took years, and Kenneth had fled their home on more than one occasion when practice began.

      He stepped into the hut, through the open door, for the day was warm. The song they sang carried on for a short time, allowing Kenneth to enjoy it.

      Then Clara looked up at him, her song dying and her expression immediately turning guarded. He offered a controlled smile, but received only caution from her for the effort.

      Brindi, however, smiled innocently. “Thank you for the new door, sir. It works better than the old one.”

      “I oiled the hinges and planed the edges to make it fit properly.”

      The girl brightened further. “’Tis good work, sir!”

      “Enough chatter, Brindi. Set the table.” Clara shot Kenneth a sharp look. “If we are to have a guard, he’ll need to eat.”

      She lifted up a large quarter of cheese. “Lord Adrien sent this over, along with some meat and honeyed pastries. We’ll eat well tonight.”

      “I can’t wait for the pastries,” Brindi chimed in.

      He smiled at her. She was a pretty little thing, though not the stunning beauty her sister was, with that fiery hair, clear, pale skin and perfectly even features. Brindi’s hair was light brown, a simple color, and braided deftly. Her nose was upturned and dusted with freckles. Clara’s hair was wildly curly and obviously refusing to be restrained into braids. She opted to tie it back with a simple leather thong, barely seen amid the unruliness. She owned a wimple and veil, so where were they? Probably tossed on a pallet, for they would be too hot with all that thick hair. Not unlike his heavy chain mail and the helmet, with its annoying nosepiece.

      As she turned, a thick lock of that hair found freedom and danced to her shoulder. A stray thought flitted through his mind that he’d love to plunge his hands through her mane and see it cascade down his arms. But he’d need an extra arm to deflect what would surely be Clara’s firm fist from his face.

      With a smile at his addled musing, Kenneth sat down. At the far end of the table sat a small leather-bound book. He looked up at Clara with a question on his face.

      “I thought that since you said you can read, you could read this to me.”

      “You say it was hidden in the floor?”

      “Aye. An odd place to put a book, but ’twas there.”

      Kenneth worked his jaw. The old midwife had been a crafty woman, and she’d always asked for payment in coin, instead of provisions. Was this where she kept her records? Did she hide this book so that when the king’s men came for taxes, they wouldn’t know what she’d earned? They would never know, now that she was gone.

      He looked down at the script. “’Tis in English, which I don’t read as well as French.”

      “I can help you pronounce the words if you start them off. I know all the medicines, but wish to know the old midwife’s records of what she did with them. She opted to be paid in coinage, and I also want to know how much her healings cost, if that information is recorded within.”

      Kenneth opened the book carefully, as the stitches that held it together were old and fragile. “I can more than just read it to you. I can teach you how to read, if you like.” Earning this woman’s trust would go a long way to achieving his goal of finding the slave woman and her child.

      Brindi gasped. “And me, too!”

      “Hush, girl,” Clara admonished her. “We’ll decide that later. For now, I want to know what is written in this book.”

      Kenneth skimmed the earlier entries, dated many years ago. He turned the pages and found the few months leading up to the old midwife’s death. Several in the keep had been poisoned last year, including both Lord Adrien and Lady Ediva. The midwife had been murdered in order to cover up the identity of the man who had committed the crime. It had been a terrible blow to everyone in Dunmow. Even now, there were still questions unanswered. Perhaps this book held the key.

      ’Twould be good to have this record opened and hopefully find the truth.

      And then destroy the book. It served as a reminder of a dark and painful memory that still roamed through the rooms of the keep like a hungry wolf.

      “Why not start reading now?” he suggested. “We can begin with a few simple words just to get you used to seeing them.” He smiled at her hopefully. ’Twould be good to begin a lesson, not just for learning the secrets of this book, but to earn Clara’s trust. Aye, that would be needed, for the sideways look she had just shot him spoke of her suspicion more than anything else.

      He shoved the book to his right and then dusted off the bench beside him, inviting her to sit. Her cyrtel today was soft green and a lovely color, the color of moss in autumn, complementing her pale skin. But her vibrant hair demanded something more daring. Briefly, he considered what colors she should wear.

      A smile hovered on his lips. Red. Aye, a bold red that no modest woman should wear and no redhead would consider. But she would never own a cyrtel like that, for the color was far too expensive, and if nothing else, Clara was practical.

      Discarding his silly thoughts, СКАЧАТЬ