Sheltered by the Warrior. Barbara Phinney
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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 towheaded, 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!”
Stephen