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Sheltered by the Warrior
Excerpt. ©
Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Kingstown, Cambridgeshire, England
Autumn, 1068 AD
She will surely starve this
winter.
The mists of the early morning
lingered as Rowena stepped from her hut and found herself staring at the
plunder around her. Little Andrew hadn't yet awakened, so she'd taken this time
to pray, as her friend, Clara, had once suggested.
Her shaking hand found the
door and she shut it quietly. Her other hand grasped the cut ends of the thin
thatch that reached from the roof peak almost to the ground. In this village,
'twas cheaper to grow thatch for roofs than to make daub for walls, so the
hut's walls were short, barely coming to her shoulders. Only those in the manor
house were rich enough to have fine, straight walls that reached two stories up
to the thick, warm thatch above.
Stepping forward, Rowena gaped
at the devastation around her. How could someone have ruined her harvest? And
in the middle of the night? Aye, the villagers gave her the cold shoulder, but
to move to such destruction? Why?
Gasping, she tossed off the
hood of her cloak and forced the crisp air into her lungs to conquer the wash
of panic. Last night, when she'd locked up for the evening, she'd wondered if
there would be a killing frost, but had remembered with gratitude that she had
a good amount of roots dug and neatly stored under mounds of straw, and enough
herbs drying to make strong pottages. With the pair of rabbits and the hen Lady
Ediva had given her, she'd truly believed that she and her babe would not just
survive the winter, but mayhap even flourish.
Nay, this cannot be
happening!
Rowena bit back tears as she
stepped toward what was left of her garden. The heavy dew soaked through her
thin shoes, and her heart hung like the wet hem of her cyrtel and cloak. All
her hard work of collecting herbs and gathering straw and burying roots in
frost-proof mounds was for naught.
As she looked to her right,
wisps of her pale hair danced across her cheek. Both the rabbit hutch and
henhouse had been torn apart, the animals long gone. Someone had wrenched off
the doors and crushed the early morning's egg beneath the hard heel of a heavy
boot. Chicken feathers flipped in the misty breeze.
She hadn't heard a thing, but
since her babe had begun to sleep through the night and her days were long, she
was oft so exhausted that sleep held her till morn. Hastily, she scanned her
garden, her eyes watchful for movement, her ears pinned to hear any soft
clucking of a distressed hen. Nothing, not a breath of life amid the shredded
vegetation.
"Nay," she whispered
in the cold air, "come back, little hen. You're safe now."
No answer. Just a ruined cage.
But that was fixable, at least. Clara, who'd left yesterday to return to her
own home, had shown her how to weave various plant stalks into strong netting.
Being a fisherman's daughter, Clara knew these things.
Rowena already knew how to
soak and shred the leftover stalks until the soft fibers could be spun into
threads. She'd seen her older sister weave cloth that way and looked forward to
making baby clothes this winter, for Andrew was growing fast and she had no one
to offer her their children's castoffs.
At the thought of her family,
a knot of bitterness choked her. Rowena tried to swallow it, for Clara had
warned that bitterness caused all measure of illness. But 'twas hard to forget
the fact that she had no kin willing to help her. 'Twas hard to forget that her
parents had sold her as a slave to a Norman baron, ridiculously boasting that
her pale hair and eyes were a promise of many strong sons within her.
Nay, she thought with watering
eyes, 'twas hard to forget that the baron had then tried to murder her and
steal the son she'd birthed, as part of a plot so villainous it still terrified
her.
And the men in Colchester, the
town to which she'd fled, had no wish to defend her. They'd wanted her along
with Clara to leave and take their troubles with them. So she'd left. Now here
in Kingstown, she knew that heartache and pain had followed her.
Rowena looked toward the sun
that strained to pierce the rising mists. Lord God, Clara says You're up
there. Why are You doing this to me? Are You making me suffer for not knowing
You all these years? I know You now.
When she received no answer,
Rowena set her shoulders and pursed her lips. She'd resettled in this village,
been given her freedom and a hut that had with it a decent, albeit overgrown,
garden. Clara had brought with her some provisions from Dunmow and had offered
Rowena a final prayer to start her new life. 'Twould be difficult for her as a
woman without a husband, and a babe too small to help, but Rowena had been
determined to succeed.
She'd thought she would do
well.
But now? She peered again at
the ruined henhouse. Each day she'd found that one egg brought joy, and she'd
offered thanks to God for it. A hope of a new life.
Not so anymore. The
fair-headed Saxon villagers here had taken one look at Andrew and his mixed
heritage and prejudged her. She'd heard the whispered words: "Traitor." "Spy." "Prostitute." They didn't even care
to ask for the truth.
Rowena stifled a cry as she
turned her gaze back to her garden. All the roots she'd stored in a
straw-covered mound were scattered, snapped or crushed to a useless pulp by
heavy boots. Nay, only one certainty settled over the awful, angry scene.
Someone wanted her to starve
this winter.
Stephen de Bretonne accepted
the reins of his courser and swung his leg up and over the saddle to mount the
large chestnut beast. The mail of his hauberk chinked as he settled down. The
horse stirred, expecting battle, or at least a good run, but Stephen kept the
reins tight as he turned around to survey his village. Kingstown looked
peaceful, very different from the politically charged dangers that flowed
through the court in London.
Ha! Despite the gentle morning
here at his holding, Stephen knew the lifting mist and soft dew masked the
day's intrigue. These villagers could rival even the suspicious courtiers in
Lon—"Milord?"
Stephen snapped his attention
to his young squire, a boy named Gaetan. The boy offered up a dagger.
Reluctantly, he took the extra weapon. Wasn't it bad enough that he needed to
carry his long sword each day? And now a dagger for extra measure? Beside him,
atop another stallion, one of his own guards also accepted a dagger from a
second young squire. With a scowl, Stephen led his mount from the stables.
Along with other villages, this estate had been his reward for his bravery at
Hastings, two years before.
Ha! What was bravery on the
field at Hastings, when a man could not even save his own brother? Corvin had
fought alongside him there, but one moment of distraction on Stephen's part and
suddenly Corvin was dead.
And shortly after, King
William had bestowed on Stephen many estates. Corvin should have been the one
to receive them. He'd fought boldly until the end.
Now Stephen had more than
enough land. With a tight jaw, he shoved the remorse back where it could not
sting him, for the work ahead required his full attention.
He kept the seat of his
holdings here in Kingstown, for none of the others had a manor house. Now he
put his home behind him as he trotted along the road leading through the
village, his sword scraping his saddle on one side, his dagger snug on the
other. His chain mail sat heavy on his shoulders, as if expecting a battle
instead of the quiet mists of morning.
Stephen was not afraid of
fighting, for such was a part of his soldiering life. But he was not here for
battle. His was a shrewder reason—to seek out those local agitators who would
defy the king.
When William had ordered the
task, Stephen had accepted it with a flick of his hand, but he'd soon learned
'twould not be easy. At court, he'd enjoyed the sly machinations of those who
would try to outmaneuver King William, but here, the Saxons were craftier,
feigning ignorance and hiding the troublemakers who oft taxed his soldiers to
exhaustion. He was sick of Saxons, each pale face hiding secrets. For all he
knew, one of these men had been the one to deal Corvin his fatal blow. Aye, the
chances were slim, but they still remained.
Stephen felt the expected wash
of terrible memory. 'Twas as if the moment Corvin died had been winked out,
replaced by a blur and then a stretch of time where all Stephen saw was Corvin
on the ground.
And in the weeks and months
after, word reached him of their mother's reaction. Her accusing words to him
still tore his heart. He'd lost both his brother and his mother that day at
Senlac.
Nay, enough! There were chores
to do.
And checking the defenses each
morning he was here in Kingstown had become a distasteful chore. But King
William was due to visit before winter, and Stephen knew his liege would order
an embankment and palisade be cut through the forest to the north. 'Twould not
be a popular command, and Stephen would not impose the task on the villagers
yet, for they needed to finish storing their provisions for winter. But 'twould
have to be started soon.
"Which way, milord?"
the guard asked, pulling his horse up beside Stephen.
"'Tis my first day back
and I must inspect it all." Stephen had been in London all summer, leaving
this estate in his sister's capable hands. "It makes no difference. To the
north, I suppose." Always the most unpleasant task first. There, the
village wrestled constantly with the encroaching forest. Beyond it, the land
dipped into the marshes and fens that reached all the way to Ely. Another
backwater full of dissidents.
As he and his guard walked the
horses, the mists rose to block the sun, and the day grew duller. Disgusted,
Stephen spurred his horse to a trot through the thinnest portion of Kingstown.
Ahead stood the village fence, the dilapidated weave of wattle designed to hold
back marauders from the north. It sagged, rotting where it flopped into low
spots. William would take one look at it and demand it be replaced immediately.
Mayhap the trees cut to create a palisade could be used to—
Movement beyond the fence
caught Stephen's eye, and he reined his horse back to a walk. Wisps of
silver-blond hair danced in the light breeze as a woman stooped to lift
something from her garden. With an almost forlorn air, her small hut stood
behind her. The woman dipped again and her pale hair flipped like a feather in
a breeze.
'Twas too early for anyone to
be roused. Stephen had already noted that these Saxons preferred to sleep in on
the misty days that hinted of winter. So what was the woman doing at this hour?
He halted his horse at the
gate as the guard leaned forward in his own saddle to flip open the latch. All
the while, Stephen remained stock-still, entranced by the woman's hair. 'Twas
so unique a color, he would not have believed it existed if he'd only been told
of it. But she was quite real, standing bareheaded in her garden, her whole
demeanor one of sadness, like one of those minstrel girls who visited the
king's court to entertain with songs of lost love.
"Milord?" his guard
prompted him quietly.
Something squeezed Stephen's
heart, but he ignored the odd sensation. He hadn't been given Kingstown and its
manor because he was an emotional clod. This village lay directly in the path
between London and the rebellious north. A calculating tactician was needed
here to draw out instigators who would bring down more from Ely. Extra troops
would help, aye, but such had been discussed already in London, to no avail.
They were still needed elsewhere.
Nay, until Stephen had
eliminated all malcontents who would threaten the king's sovereignty, any
softness of heart could get him murdered, and 'twas best ignored.
Still curious, though, he
swung off his horse and walked through the gate toward the woman. Ah, this must
be Rowena, the woman who'd taken this hut. His friend Lord Adrien had sent him
a missive asking if he could find a home for her here. Only the hut beyond the
fence had been vacant. Its proximity to the forest made it undesirable, for
everyone knew the woods harbored thieves and criminals, worse than those who
lived in the village.
Having been in London when
Adrien's request arrived, Stephen had dispatched his brother-in-law, Gilles, to
handle the issue of land and hut, and to set out the terms of tenancy. All he'd
heard of this Rowena was that she'd been a slave, made free by order of the
king himself, and that her rent for the next year had been paid in full by
Adrien.
As Stephen passed his guard,
the man dismounted, also. "'Tis the woman Rowena, milord."
"I know of her. I should
like to meet her."
"She is of ill repute,
sir," the guard warned.
Stopping, Stephen shot the man
a surprised look.
"Why?"
"The villagers say she's
allied herself with us Normans. Did not Lord Adrien pay for her to be
here?"
With a brief laugh, Stephen
rolled his eyes, remembering one short conversation he'd had with his friend
this past summer. "That means nothing. Lord Adrien is generous to all
Saxons because he's besotted with his Saxon wife." Stephen shook his head,
then peered again at the woman. "What is she doing?"
The guard stepped forward.
"I will find out, milord."
Hand raised, Stephen stopped
him. "Nay. I will. 'Tis time to introduce myself."
"Milord, she's Saxon and
not to be trusted. For all we know, she'll sink a dagger into your heart the
moment you speak to her."
Chuckling, Stephen touched his
chain mail. "Yet she allied herself with us? You make no sense, soldier.
Besides, the woman is barely out of girlhood and she's far too skinny to have
enough strength to pierce my mail. Ha, if I were fearful of every Saxon, I
would not leave my bedchamber. The king gave me this holding to—" He
stopped. 'Twould not do well to say the king's reasons for bringing him here.
He continued, "I should at least meet all of this village's
inhabitants."
Without waiting for an answer,
Stephen strode up the lane toward her. The guard led the horses, but Stephen
also heard the slow scrape of steel leaving a scabbard. The man had freed his
sword.
Stephen's courser whinnied
loudly at the sound so akin to war. And at both harsh noises, the woman ahead
spun. Again, Stephen was struck by her hair as it flowed with her movement. Aye,
Saxons were tow-headed, thanks to their northern ancestry, but never had he
seen hair so free and so pale. This Rowena hadn't even braided it yet,
something that would have appalled his mother.
She looked up at him and he
found her eyes were almost too light to look upon. A blue as delicate as in the
stained-glass window in his home church in Normandy. Stephen watched her body
tense. She twisted the broken root she held into a deadly grip one might
reserve for a dagger.
"Planning to bury that
parsnip in my chest?" asked Stephen as he opened the short gate of the
hut's small fence. Then he halted, shocked at the disarray. The pen at the far
end had been tossed on its side, its door hanging by one hinge. Roots and
vegetables were strewn about, some crushed as if a furious giant of lore had
turned his wrath upon this garden.
Rowena said nothing, only
keeping her grip on the parsnip tight as she backed away. Immediately, Stephen
regretted his sharp tongue. He had no desire to frighten her.
Still in English, he tried a
lighter tone. "'Tis not the best way to preserve your crops for winter, or
to keep your fowl from escaping."
She tossed the root onto the
ground. "You think I do not know this?"
"An animal in the
night?"
"Ha! Only one who wears
boots," she snapped. She quickly brushed the back of her hand across her
glistening cheek, leaving a smudge of tear-dampened dirt in its wake.
"Who did this? Did you
see them?" Stephen asked. "Nay. I heard nothing, so they must have
done this late into the night. Cowards!"
