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 confident he could coax the names from her.

      Aye, ’twas a good plan forming. With Rowena as bait and Udella wanting peace and knowing that it may have to come at the sacrifice of the agitators, Stephen now realized that giving this woman food would certainly rile up the locals enough to cause them to reveal themselves. But first, he had to get her to accept his offer.

      “What, then, are your plans,” he asked, “since you don’t want this food? Have you considered the dead of winter? The snow can be quite harsh, and that babe will want solid food by then.”

      If Rowena wouldn’t take the food, he knew he may have to force her. ’Twould do her good, for she would surely starve otherwise. ’Twas not a thought he liked, for some reason. And it certainly would not be good for his plans.

      As Stephen watched her, Rowena wet her lips and swallowed. With that sword-straight spine of hers, he thought, she obviously had not considered winter at all.

      Someone behind him broke into a heavy coughing fit, something caused by a mild fever that had started through the village. Stephen had to do something fast, for more villagers had begun to congregate. He caught a glimpse behind Rowena of Ellie, the essence of remorse for being unsuccessful in her task. “Take half the grain and roots to the larder,” he told his young maid. “Leave the cheese.”

      Then, to the guard, he barked, “Since these villagers aren’t interested in doing their own work, they can work for the crown. Assemble them in the north forest. Have them begin cutting the trees. The palisade must be started before your king arrives. Oh,” he added, “save the saplings for the fence. It needs to be repaired.”

      Stephen waited patiently until the guard and the villagers moved out of earshot, his gaze sealed on Rowena the whole time. She stood stock-still, with only her short breathing lightly rocking the drowsy child she carried. Her gaze stayed on his chest, not at his feet, where the servants kept theirs, nor in his eyes as a person of equal rank may look. Nay, she wanted to defy him, yet didn’t dare do so.

      He unfolded his arms. “What is the real reason for this refusal, Rowena? You need food. We both know that.”

      She blinked and sniffed. Still, she shook her head. “Nay, I refuse to accept any more charity from you Normans. I have taken quite enough, thank you.”

      “And if I were Saxon?”

      She didn’t answer, though a gentle shiver rippled her light frame as she glanced away. Would she not accept aid from her own people, either?

      “’Tis just as well,” he finally said. “For I expect that he who vandalized your home last night would lay siege to it again should it be filled with provisions.” ’Twas exactly what he wanted, but he would not tell her that.

      Rowena reacted with a wrinkled chin and tightened lips and yet added steel in her spine. “Aye, ’twould do nothing but ruin good food.”

      “We wouldn’t want that,” he murmured.

      But he would like to find who had done so last night. Stephen had discovered enemies of the king before, traitors who would sooner slit your throat than smile at you. Though William ruled with an iron fist, the king had to put his trust in someone. Sometimes that was Eudo, his steward, or that monk William de St. Calais, but for the most part, protection came from Stephen and his watchful eye and subtle machinations, guiding the people around him to work for, not against, the king. He may be captain of the King’s Guard, but he was also William’s best spymaster. ’Twould be more than easy to root out troublemakers here by using a simple maid.

      Stephen extended his hand toward the front door. “Mayhap we can discuss this over some strong broth and a portion of good cheese?”

      “Nay, there is nothing to discuss,” Rowena answered with a stubborn lip. “I won’t take your charity, my lord. And do not be concerned for me.”

      “And when you get vandalized again?”

      Finally, with brows lifted, her eyes met his. That remarkable pale color clouded with apprehension. “I will not, for there is nothing left to vandalize.”

      Stephen paused. True.

      Oddly, the thought of Rowena starving turned his stomach, a compassionate feeling so alien to him, it took him a moment to recognize it. He wasn’t used to reacting with emotion. His portion in life was to think with his head, not his heart.

      But if he could get Rowena to take even some of the food, ’twould satisfy both his plan to stir the pot of dissention and his compassion.

      However, he’d discovered two years ago that Saxons were not a logical people. They fought with their hearts, not their heads. Rowena was acting on her foolish pride in refusing this food.

       Did you not already react with emotion to the thought of her being