Her unexpected guardian

Baron Stephen de Bretonne’s sworn duty is to serve the king—and that means finding the Saxons plotting against the throne by any means necessary. Protecting a Saxon woman and her half-Norman child? Merely a means to that end. But the lovely Rowena proves to be more than just a pawn in his plan. And his admiration for her could ruin everything if he can’t stifle his feelings.

While Rowena must begrudgingly accept Norman protection for herself and her baby, she knows better than to trust any man. Yet in the face of danger, can she also open her heart to her unlikely protector?

“So, tell me, how did you end up in Dunmow, as guest of my friend Lord Adrien?”

Rowena remained stiff. Finally, she said, “I was not his guest, milord.”

Then, from within the hut, a babe cried loudly. Lifting the damp hem of her cyrtel, Rowena swung past him, and Stephen reached forward to open the door for her.

She flinched at his raised arm. Rowena was scared. Hurt, also, but mostly frightened. Stephen stepped aside as she ducked into the hut.

Wandering from the door, Stephen looked again at the vandal’s work. The cur had crushed an egg, had laid waste to late season herbs and had trampled the roots under his boots. Saxon boots. The simple style was unmistakable.

Why would a Saxon destroy this young woman’s food stocks? Because she was rumored to have allied herself with the Normans? It had been two years since William’s victory at Hastings. This Rowena would have been barely into womanhood back then.

The door behind him opened again. Stephen turned to watch Rowena step outside with a babe in her arms.

The babe had dark hair and olive skin—the father could not possibly be Saxon.

His heart sank. So that was how she was aligned with the Normans.

BARBARA PHINNEY was born in England and raised in Canada. After she retired from the Canadian Armed Forces, Barbara turned her hand to romance writing. The thrill of adventure and the love of happy endings, coupled with a too-active imagination, have merged to help her create this and other wonderful stories. Barbara spends her days writing, building her dream home with her husband and enjoying their fast-growing children.

Sheltered by the Warrior

Barbara Phinney

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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And straightway the father of the child cried out, and said with tears, Lord, I believe; help thou mine unbelief.

—Mark 9:24

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

About the Author

Title Page

Bible Verse

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Dear Reader

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

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 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 stepped gingerly around the garden, close to the door of her hut, to survey the mess. “Why would anyone do such a thing?”

Rowena said nothing. Stephen watched her. Though silent, she carried a wealth of information in the way she stood. She knew the reason for this vandalizing, he was sure. “Have you any enemies?” he asked.

She stiffened. “I should not have any! I have been here a month at best, and tried to speak with the other women, only to be treated like an outcast. That I can deal with, but this? I shall surely starve this winter because of their evil!” Her voice hitched slightly.

“I’ll see to it that doesn’t happen.”

“Who are you that—” Her gaze flew up and then narrowed. “You’re Baron Stephen.” Rowena’s cold whisper scratched like brambles, leaving it to feel more of an accusation than a statement.

“Aye. And you are Rowena, late of Dunmow.”

“I did not live in Dunmow. I came from a farm in the west, near Cambridge.”

Relatively close. Stephen pursed his lips. Most of this county had suffered greatly under William’s scorched-earth policies when he’d marched north to fight after taking London. But Cambridge had fared moderately better, for ’twas nothing but a backwater village as rude as any wild moor that lay to the south. Though the manor houses in the king’s path had been razed and the holdings would suffer much for years to come, the most isolated farmers, those with little contact with civilization, had escaped total destruction. Had she come from one of them?

Rowena threw her arms out to the mess around them. “We Saxons live hand to mouth here, barely affording a grain of barley. You offer food where you should be finding who did this!”

Aye, ’twas exactly his reason for being here. “’Twill be easy enough to discover. My experience in London has taught me several techniques of extracting the truth.”

She gasped. His calm answer was guileless, although he was not one to employ brutal punishment to acquire information. ’Twas better to keep one’s eyes and ears open and, for the most part, one’s mouth shut. A calm manner was more apt to lure out subterfuge than a harsh beating.

“So, tell me, how did you end up in Dunmow, as guest of my friend Lord Adrien?”

Rowena remained stiff. The breeze dropped and her hair fell, a single flaxen curtain of sword-straight locks. She went still, and if ’tweren’t for the light breath that streamed from her lips, he’d have thought she’d turned to stone. Finally, she said, “I was not his guest, milord.”

Stephen didn’t want to know what she wasn’t. Odd that she wouldn’t answer his question directly. Was there a hidden reason, or was he seeing intrigue where only shadows of Saxon distrust lay?

Then, from within the hut, a babe cried loudly. Lifting the damp hem of her cyrtel, Rowena swung past him, her chin tipped up and her mouth tight. Her eyes, too wide set and too large for her face, turned icy blue, adding to the chill of the morning. Yet, by their sheer size alone, they offered only innocence.

Stephen reached forward to open the door for her. ’Twas not required, but his mother’s training had been drilled into him long before his promotion to baron.

She flinched at his raised arm. ’Twas merely a blink and a slight jerk back, and so swift he would have missed it had his gaze not been sealed to her face.

Then ’twas gone, replaced by wariness. But he knew what he saw, and though not uncommon in a land where women had few rights, he disliked seeing fear in any woman’s eyes.

Aye, Rowena was scared. Hurt, also, but mostly frightened. Stephen stepped aside as she ducked into the hut, her cloak wafting out as she passed. The youthful screams within were soon replaced by soothing murmurs.

Wandering from the door, Stephen looked again at the vandal’s work. He bent several times to study and measure the boot prints he spied, while noticing their tread. The clear imprints of heavy boots all the same size told him that only one man had done this. The cur had crushed an egg, had laid waste to late-season herbs and had trampled the roots until they were completely inedible. Not just any man’s boots, Stephen noted as he straightened again. A Saxon man’s boots. The simple style was unmistakable.

Why would a Saxon destroy this young woman’s food stocks? Because she was rumored to have allied herself with the Normans? She was far too young for such subterfuge. It had been two years since William’s victory at Hastings. This Rowena would have been barely into womanhood back then. But still, a Saxon? One from the village, too, for the boot prints retreated toward the huts rather than disappearing into the forest to the north. This attack made no sense.

The door behind him opened again. Stephen turned to watch Rowena step outside with a babe in her arms.

The babe had dark hair and olive skin, and only one lineage with men of that complexion was in England right now. For some reason, his heart sank.

So that was how she was aligned with the Normans.

Chapter Two

Though not ashamed of her babe, for he brought such great joy to her, Rowena knew that his dark hair, bred into him from his father, gave away a parentage she’d have preferred to hide.

She sagged. She’d seen Lord Stephen’s surprise. Soon, suspicion would follow and then, distaste evident, he would walk away, putting the woman with no husband behind him. She’d seen it often enough in this village.

“Aye,” she muttered, tugging Andrew’s cap back on after he’d reached up to yank it off. With the other hand, he caught her rough wool cloak. “He’s my son.” She held back the urge to explain. Nay, ’twas no one’s business. She’d already learned that few people would believe her, anyway. To those scoffers, she was a simple farm girl with a wild tale of slavery and scheming, something unbelievable from a creature looking for sympathy because she’d found herself pregnant after a shameful tryst. She leveled her stare at him. “Aye, his father is Norman.”

Rowena looked away, not wanting to see the shadow of turning in his expression. This tall, strong man was just another Norman—untrustworthy. Lord Stephen may not be Taurin, who had been exiled to Normandy for his treacherous plan to use her babe to usurp the king, and, aye, that same king had agreed to her move here, but she would not trust this man one jot. Only Lord Adrien had shown her any kindness. He was the exception, having a Saxon wife of great influence, whom he loved very much.

Her friend, Clara, though, had taught her to hold her head up high. ’Twas not her fault she’d been an unwilling partner in the creation of her beautiful babe. With that reminder, Rowena straightened and lifted her chin.

The look of surprise on Stephen’s face dissolved like mist under a hot sun. “The boy’s paternity is of no concern to me.”

No concern? She wet her lips, suddenly perplexed by his calm reaction. Did it really not interest him? Or did he hide it well? She wasn’t sure.

He cleared his throat. “As you know, I am Baron Stephen de Bretonne. This village is my responsibility.”

“Then you are failing, sir,” Rowena replied softly, with a furtive glance to her ruined garden and with a measure of relief that he didn’t turn away in disgust.

“Apparently so,” he answered. “But in my defense, I have been in London for the summer and just arrived home last night.”

Rowena could hear only the slightest French accent in his English words. He was surprisingly fluent in her mother tongue. “And what exactly is your responsibility now that you’re here?” Despite her bold words, Rowena battled the sting of fearful tears. She walked to the garden, hoping in her survey of the damage that she might find some salvageable food, for surely this man would do little to help her, despite his promise. Setting Andrew on the ground, and making sure there was nothing around him he could choke on, for he was apt to put everything into his mouth, Rowena began the grim task of sorting through the disarray. She set aside the few roots that remained mostly whole, whilst those mashed would either nourish the soil or be rinsed in the river before being boiled into a pottage. She refused to waste anything. Everything here had been a gift to start her new life, and she would not treat poorly a single portion of it.

Behind her, deprived of her attention, Andrew squawked. Then squawked again. With a sigh, she turned in time to see Baron Stephen scoop the babe into his arms.

With a gasp, she leaped to her feet and snatched Andrew from the tall Norman’s grip. “Nay! He’s mine!” Then, with one free hand, she shoved him back with all her might. The hauberk’s chain mail bit into her palm.

Immediately, the guard burst forward to shield his lord. He pressed the point of a long Norman blade against her throat. She cried out, clutching her babe close as she stared at what could be the instrument of her death.

* * *

Stephen reacted swiftly, grabbing the blade and pulling it away from Rowena’s neck. In the same fluid movement, he drove the weapon into the soft, damp earth. “Stand down, soldier!” he ordered, planting himself between the guard and Rowena. He then turned to her.

Her arms protecting her child, Rowena flinched again. Terror flooded her expression. Stephen tightened his jaw. In the past, any fear he’d caused, especially due to his height, had pleased him. He’d even cultivated it occasionally, for intimidation alone often kept his king safe. As captain of the King’s Guard, Stephen had made William’s safety paramount. ’Twas the only reason the Good Lord had given him life.

But today, seeing Rowena’s fear, he found his belly souring. ’Twas obvious, based on the way she shied from him, that the man who’d fathered this child had done so using that same fear and intimidation Stephen employed in court. His belly churned further. She was hardly aligned with any Norman. ’Twas only a filthy rumor against her.

He glanced swiftly around him at the shambles. So someone in this village felt that she needed to be taught a lesson? Immediately, an idea blossomed. Tightening his jaw, Stephen turned to his guard. “Return to the horses.”

As the man reluctantly retreated, Stephen focused his attention on Rowena again. With no blade at her throat anymore, she should have been relieved, but fear still lit her eyes despite her uptilted chin and the squareness in her shoulders.

Father in heaven, take away her fear.

“’Tis all right, Rowena,” he stated calmly. “My guard thought I was threatened.”

Her eyes flared. “You were! By me! You grabbed my babe!”

Stephen shrugged mildly. “He was fussing.”

“I wasn’t paying attention to him, that’s all. He’d have stopped in a moment. ’Tis often so with babes. Sometimes, they want their mother and nothing else will do.”

She spoke with an accent Stephen didn’t recognize. But he’d learned that here in England, each tiny village had its own unique way of speaking. “I don’t remember fussing when my mother turned her back.”

Rowena flushed and shifted the boy in her arms. Away from Stephen. Again, she fixed the babe’s wayward cap.

“Please don’t mock me, my lord. You would not remember fussing.” Then, with a glance behind him, she added, “And please, if I have satisfied your curiosity, will you depart? Your presence here is rousing the interest of my neighbors, and I don’t wish to be seen in any Norman’s company.”

Stephen spun. The family living in the hut closest to the village fence was now standing by the gate, each person peering with unabashed interest. The father, a belligerent Saxon Stephen had met several times, scowled the worst. If there was ever a troublemaker, this man was it. But Stephen had no proof yet. However, with William’s new edict, Stephen didn’t need much evidence to arrest anyone. ’Twas only his personal integrity that he have adequate reason.

Like this attack on Rowena’s harvest? Stephen glanced back at her. He mentally counted the distance. Her home was closest to the forest, outside the wattle fencing and at least twenty long strides from her nearest neighbor. Hers was a hut set apart long ago for some unknown reason. And judging from the foul expressions on her neighbors’ faces, not far enough.

Noticing his return glare, the Saxons retreated from the fence. Stephen faced Rowena again. “Do you think those people vandalized your garden?”

She shook her head. “I cannot say. I heard no one last night.” She cleared her throat as she avoided his eyes. “My lord, I must return to my task and salvage what food is left. If you have no more questions, please excuse me.”

Her fearful expression shot up to him again, one that set his teeth on edge. Knowing he could do nothing about her reaction in the next few moments, Stephen nodded and strode back to the fence, sending the neighbors scurrying into their hut. As he mounted his courser, he noted several other Saxons, having been roused from their pallets, poking out heads and peering at the odd scene he’d created.

Deliberately swinging his horse and his harsh glare around that end of the village and being successful in forcing the curious back into their homes, Stephen returned his attention to Rowena. She, too, had retreated into her hut.

He sighed, the air leaking from his lungs like a pierced skin of cider. ’Twas for the best that everyone here remain intimidated and therefore subdued, but to have Rowena fall into that category left bitterness on his tongue, a taste he knew would linger until he broke his fast. And that would not happen until after he’d inspected the forest’s edge and made note of where to start the work on the embankment that would keep this village safe should those rebels at Ely attack.

At the gate, Stephen hauled in the reins of his courser and noticed that Rowena had once again slipped outside. Her soft, pale hair danced in the morning breeze as she stooped to return to her task.

She’ll find little food in that mess, and the two cages she’d owned are destroyed. She would have had a hen, but what else? Rabbits, maybe? ’Twas rare for a Saxon to own rabbits. Mayhap jealousy spurred the attack?

Stephen’s jaw clenched as he watched Rowena search around the pens for her livestock, all the while furtively sweeping tears off her cheeks. Once she dropped onto her knees and covered her face. He jerked forward, his fingers tightening on the wooden pommel of his saddle. The only reason he did not leap from his mount was because he knew she’d only ask him to leave again. Out of the corner of his eye, he spied his guard watching him closely, his eyes dark under the rim of his steel helmet.

Stephen turned his courser and the animal snorted and stamped its feet impatiently. He knew he could do nothing more until he completed a new task. ’Twould be one that, if employed properly, could serve both his needs and Rowena’s.

Aye. Then those Saxons who would make trouble for the king would think twice about supporting those fools at Ely in their losing cause.

Startling even his guard, Stephen galloped his horse back to his home to carry out his plan.

* * *

Slack-jawed, Rowena stared at the sight of the wrapped stalks of grain and the gunnysack of root vegetables. She blinked when the young woman in front of her set half a cheese round atop the load. Someone had wrapped the expensive treat in leaves and tied it snugly with thin vines. Everything was secured by a fraying rope that had been tied at many points.

Her visitor smiled expectantly at Rowena, but she couldn’t return it. She had seen this girl near the manor house, but had not approached her. Why should she? The rest of the village had scorned her and her babe. Why go looking for more of the same? Finally, words formed and Rowena muttered, “What is all this?”

“’Tis a gift from Lord Stephen,” the woman answered in English with an accent that told Rowena she was a local. “He said you have need of it.” Her smile increased.

Automatically, Rowena glanced to her right where she’d spent the better part of the day. So far, she’d recovered only a meager portion of her harvest. Her attempt to rinse the crushed roots had met with little success, for grit and dirt were imbedded deep in the mash of vegetables, and often the current in the nearby stream broke apart the delicate pieces. Tears choked her again but she fought them back.

The woman followed her gaze, and her hopeful expression fell into dismay. “What happened?”

“’Twould seem that I am not welcomed here.”

As if to remind her why, Andrew cried out from where he was seated nearby. The woman’s attention snapped to him and in that instant, her expression turned to joy. “Oh, such a beautiful child! Look at that lovely thick hair!”

About to answer that his hair came from his father, Rowena stopped her words. She’d be stating the obvious and adding the suggestion that she’d willingly partaken in Andrew’s creation. Was that not what the people here thought?

She smiled stiffly instead. “He’s a good boy, but hates it when I don’t heed him.”

The young woman abandoned the food to scoop up the boy. She fingered the curls that peeked out from the edges of his cap. “Aye, ’tis like all men.” She bounced him a bit. For her effort, she received a squeal and a giggle. Her smile broadened so much, Rowena was sure ’twould split her face in two.

“The villagers see this babe as the result of you conspiring with the Normans.” The girl’s expression turned compassionate as she glanced back at Rowena. “They are hated here. I know. I work at the manor and was also born in this village. Those who destroyed your winter provisions are probably my relatives, I’m ashamed to say. Sometimes, they even scorn me for working as a simple housemaid for Lord Stephen. They oppose everyone living at the manor. But we need the work and they forget the sacrifice that saved them from King William.”

Rowena shook her head. Who had saved them? What sacrifice? This woman’s? Or Lord Stephen’s? Immediately, she crushed her curiosity, for she would not get cozy with anyone here. This woman might be offering genuine friendship, or she might be a spy sent to see if more damage could be inflicted.

Still, the maid seemed kind and there was never any reason to be rude. Rowena walked over to the young servant and took Andrew from her. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Ellie. It’s short for Eleanor, but that was my grandmother’s name and I think it sounds old,” she answered cheerfully. “Your name is so pretty. But it doesn’t match your hair, I don’t think. To me, it sounds like a red-haired woman. You know, like the color of rowan berries.”

Rowena grimaced, and not because her name meant “white one.” Nay, ’twas because her hair had attracted Taurin, whose own wife was also fair-haired. Even Master Gilles, who’d set forth the terms of Rowena’s tenancy, had light hair, but ’twas uncommon among the Normans she’d seen. Most had medium to dark hair, and none as light as Saxons’.

Her hair was so fine, she could barely keep it braided, and she hated the way it would fly around at the slightest breeze. She may as well have duck down on her head. ’Twould be warmer at least. ’Twas why she hadn’t bothered to do anything with it this morning.

Forget the hair. She turned to the food that sat in a cart Ellie had towed here. From the corner of her eye, she noticed some villagers had gathered. Again. All stared her way. Oh, dear. ’Twas a repeat of earlier today, when Baron Stephen visited. And ’twould be easy enough for even a child to guess where this bounty came from.

Thankfully, no one appeared ready to reprimand Ellie for being there. Mayhap because she was on her master’s business. All well and good now, but what would happen tonight? Would those men return to destroy these gifts?

They, too, were gifts from a Norman, like what she’d brought with her from Dunmow, where Lord Adrien held his seat. He and Lady Ediva had given her livestock and the vegetables she’d stored in those destroyed mounds. Though she had convinced herself that ’twas Saxon wealth donated to her, Rowena couldn’t deny it was also in part Norman.

But today’s offerings were all Norman. They’d have to be taken into her hut for safekeeping. What would her attacker do then? Burst in? Rowena squared her shoulders. “Take them back, Ellie. I don’t want them.”

Ellie’s jaw fell. “Back? I can’t 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 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 hurt? Or hungry? Or with another man?

Stephen stiffened. Nay, he was acting on his king’s orders, plain and simple.

“One small request, then?” he countered, thankful that only the two of them lingered at the door. “A bit of food, sold to you?”

“I have no money, milord.”

“Few have until the bills are collected at Michaelmas.”

“When the taxes take all?”

“Your taxes and rent have already been paid for this year. I have often sold food and wood, and not taken the payment until collection time.” He frowned, realizing that she probably had nothing to trade for coinage. “Is it not the way at your farm, where goods and livestock were bought and sold?”

At the mention of her home, her gaze hardened. He noticed it immediately. “I had nothing to do with such dealings,” she snapped. “I was to care for the livestock and weed the gardens. Because of that, I know I can forage for enough food to last all winter.”

He shouldn’t have, but still, Stephen laughed. “’Tis easy to say you won’t accept food when your belly isn’t crying out for it in the cold of winter.” He dropped his smile and softened, doing his best to make his tone mild. “Did you have a good evening meal last night? Was it so filling that you aren’t hungry even now?”

Rowena’s throat constricted and she glanced once more at the corner of the manor, around which half the provisions had been carted. Her delicate eyes glistened. Stephen hated to reprimand her pride, however gently, but ’twas more necessary than simply working through his latest plan. This was her life and the life of her child at risk.

She glanced up at him. Don’t let your pride overrule your good sense, he pleaded silently. “You have no money now, but do you have a skill with which can earn you some?”

She paused. “Aye, milord. I can make rope. Good rope, strong enough for the North Sea.”

“The North Sea? I have not seen it, but I hear ’tis violent.”

“I was taught rope making by the daughter of a man who fished it.”

Stephen watched Rowena’s eyes stray to the food on the flagstones. Ellie had secured the bundle to the cart with a worn, knotted rope. Good rope went to the various training pulleys his soldiers used to keep their muscles toned. Aye, this manor could use all the new rope it could get.

But the issue wasn’t about rope. “’Tis good to break one’s fast in the morning with a thick slice of hard cheese and a cup of hot broth,” he coaxed companionably. “Such food lasts a body all day.”

Again, Rowena glanced at the cheese resting between them. Her babe squealed. Finally, she offered, “Very well. I will take a small portion of food from you, but I will repay you in rope and netting.”

Stephen nodded blandly. “Every estate needs them. Can you make enough?”

“Aye, if I begin today. I have not taken charity from the Normans, and I won’t start now.”

His brows shot up. Proud, indeed, but didn’t she just tell him she’d taken enough charity from the Normans? “What about Lord Adrien?”

“Nay, that charity came from Dunmow Keep. ’Twas Saxon wealth.”

Stephen smiled. Let her think that way if it justifies her decision. But his smile dropped as quickly as it came. Why would someone want to hurt her, when it could be argued that she had not aligned herself with the Normans?

* * *

Rowena fought back tears as she lay on her pallet in her dark hut that night. Her babe had finally drifted off to sleep, and she’d tucked away all the food she’d bought from Stephen. Tucked it from her sight and hopefully her thoughts in the coming days, for surely she would gobble it all down otherwise, she was that hungry.

Instead, after collecting the weed stalks she needed for her rope making, she’d stirred to a slurry the pottage made from the salvaged roots in her garden. She’d hoped she’d rinsed away all the grit left behind by the boot prints, but on the first, crunchy bite, she knew ’twas not so. The meal had to do, however. She wouldn’t dip into those winter provisions. She would do that in the dark cold of a winter’s eve when once more, hunger won over her shame and trusting another Norman didn’t sour her empty belly.

Lord God, strengthen me to survive the winter, to be able to make enough rope and nets to sell.

Not for the first time since Rowena returned to her hut, Lord Stephen’s big frame and cool, impenetrable gaze visited her thoughts. He was too hard to read. She’d learned to decipher her father’s thoughts early on, his calculating dealings with other farmers or the way his mouth would tighten before he backhanded her for not moving quickly enough. She’d also learned Taurin’s subtle hints that his mood had shifted and her evening would become a frightening ordeal.

Yet Lord Stephen’s face remained a mystery. Those dark eyes, smooth lips and broad shoulders revealed nothing. All she’d seen was the merest hint of compassion when she’d said there was nothing left to vandalize. But the softness was brief and darting, like a nighthawk at dusk.

Kindness scared her as much as seeing her father’s lip curl or Taurin’s lustful squint before he took what he wanted. Nay, she didn’t dare even think on Lord Stephen’s generosity, for surely it came with a hefty price.

In the dark of her hut, shameful tears pricked her eyes. She’d given in to her hunger, taken the food and had done exactly as Lord Stephen wished, despite her promise to refuse the gift.

Lord, why am I so weak?

She’d done much the same with Lord Taurin, when he’d held back food to ensure compliance. Only when he’d realized she was pregnant did he take better care of her, but ’twas just for his evil plan.

Livestock, that was what she’d been to him. But what was she to Lord Stephen?

Nay! Lord God, not the same thing!

But nothing about him suggested he was like Lord Taurin. ’Twas not slyness or lust in his eyes. He gave her his full attention, and the way he moved his body did not alert her of evil to come.

Still, he was a Norman. And a man.

Ensuring her babe was warm and tucked into his sling close to her chest, Rowena curled around him on her pallet. She pulled the wool blanket and her cloak around them to stop up any drafts. Mayhap someday, she would put all the horrors of the past year and the shame of today behind her.

But now, within the dark hut, she lay awake, eyes shut to tempt the elusive sleep, all the while refusing to move for fear of awakening Andrew.

She’d let her small fire die, knowing that in her spark box was an ember that would glow all night, and with it she could rekindle her fire in the morning. ’Twas wise to conserve fuel before winter.

Had the fire died? Rowena sniffed the cool air. Was that smoke she smelled? She opened her eyes and turned her head.

A glow lit up the thatch above the door just as acrid smoke stung her eyes.

Then, on the section above the door near where the spark box sat, a tendril of glowing smoke kindled and a flame burst upward.

She gasped in horror.

Chapter Four

Rowena wrapped one hand around her babe and bolted upright. Her house was on fire!

Despite the damp days, the old thatch burned readily. For one horrifying moment, she stared hypnotically at it, at how easily the fire consumed her roof while dancing provocatively in front of her.

Then, as if shoved hard, Rowena reacted. She had but a moment to escape. Throwing open the door, she plowed head down under the flames and into the dark of the evening. With a series of stumbling steps, she ran beyond her garden before a spasm of pain tore through her ankle.

She cried out as she sank onto all fours. Andrew, tucked safely in his sling, protested the sudden jerking. As she rose, a new spike of pain wrenched her ankle, but she ignored it enough to scream, “Fire!”

’Twas a farmer’s worst nightmare. Years ago, fire had destroyed her family’s barn, killing livestock and burning feed and foodstuffs. ’Twas Rowena who’d awakened and escaped the burning barn to rouse her family. Their home would have been consumed as well and all would have died otherwise.

Several hut doors flew open, with one man calling out to another as they surged into action. Men poured through the village gate. A woman pulled Rowena out of the way. Within a short time, people were everywhere, soldiers, Saxons, even Lord Stephen himself passing forward buckets of water to toss on the small house.

Someone raked the roof, pulling down the thatch for others to stamp out the fire that hit the dirt. Rowena could barely see them through her stinging tears. A woman beside her gripped her tightly, and at one point, when the fire flared into the night sky and the noise of men was the loudest, Rowena turned to see her companion’s face.

’Twas Ellie, the young maid who’d delivered food to her. She was blinking back tears herself, her arms tight around Rowena. Crushed between them, Andrew cried, and Rowena stepped back to bob him up and down.

Finally, the glow of fire died. The last of the burning thatch was pulled away from the hut and extinguished, and a collective sigh raced through the villagers.

“Are you all right? What happened?”

Swiping her face, Rowena blinked. Lord Stephen stood in front of her. Someone nearby lifted a lantern to cast a light now that the wild flames were gone.

Dressed only in light braes and a pale shirt, he was as soaked and muddied as the rest. His height and strength showed as fierce as in any Norman she’d met. Rowena stepped back, her arms tightening around Andrew. What did he ask her?

Stephen caught her arm. “Rowena?” His voice softened. “Are you all right?”

Mutely, she nodded, glancing around him. Aye, she was fine. But her home...gone?

His tone still quiet, he asked, “Can you tell us what happened?”

With a shake of her head to dispel the fog of shock, she tried her voice. “I—I don’t know. I was down for the night when I smelled smoke. I turned and saw the thatch above the door glowing.” Her voice caught a short hiccup. “Then it just burst into flames!”

“Above the door? What is there to start a fire?”

She shook her head. “The spark box. But I hadn’t done anything to it, except to ensure the piece of bone was still aglow.”

Another male voice cut in, saying, “She must not have closed the lid properly, Stephen. A piece of dust probably dropped into it and caught fire.”

Rowena squinted into the dark, smoky night. Who was this man, just beyond the circle of light, that he would call Lord Stephen by his Christian name? She could see only the outline of a fair-headed man. Master Gilles? For a moment, he looked like one of the villagers, his clothes soaked and muddied.

“Mayhap,” Stephen answered him. “’Tis fortunate that we saved all but the front part of the roof. The thatch can be replaced. Less so the beams and braces.” He turned to one of his soldiers and ordered a fire picket for the remainder of the night.

Then he turned again to Rowena. Even in the dim light of the lamp’s low flame, his dark eyes drilled into her, sending a shiver through her as cool as the night.

What did he want?

Oh, Lord God, please let it not be—

“Come,” he said, breaking apart her thoughts. “You can finish this night with Ellie and the other maids. There is nothing more we can do until morn.”

At the manor house? Rowena turned. A sharp pain stabbed at her ankle. “Oh!”

Stephen grabbed her as she drooped. Ellie took the babe as Rowena grimaced down at her foot. “My ankle. I must have turned it running outside.” She cried again as she tried to put weight on it, and she gripped Stephen more tightly.

Immediately she was lifted up. She started, catching the damp linen of Stephen’s simple shirt. She was in his arms! Hastily, with the other hand, she pushed her undertunic down to cover her legs.

“Go ahead,” he ordered Ellie in French. “Prepare your pallet for Rowena.”

“Nay, I can’t take her pallet,” Rowena answered in the same language.

Stephen stopped and looked down at her. “Tu parle Français? You speak French?”

Rowena clung to him, realizing how much she disliked being so high and putting her safety in this man’s arms. “Oui,” she whispered, peering over her shoulder at the ground that seemed too far away.

“I thought you were a farm girl. Where does a farm girl learn French?”

Heat flooded her face. Could she tell Stephen she’d learned French out of necessity? To answer him truthfully would be admitting too much. Would it give this Norman the same idea that Taurin once had?

If only Lord Stephen could read her thoughts and save her the humility of an explanation. For as he stood there his frown deepened, his handsome face cut with moving shadows as the lantern that someone had raised swung about.

She couldn’t speak the full truth. “You Normans invaded our land, remember?” she finally whispered. “’Tis how I learned. From a Norman.”

* * *

Stephen tightened his mouth. Aye, he and his fellow Normans had come to this land, but ’twas his king’s right to rule England. The crown had been promised to William. And in the two years since, had they not brought order to these unruly villages?

But just because the Normans were scattered about did not mean that all Saxons had learned French, especially not a simple farm girl. Why her?

The babe in Ellie’s arms fussed and then he remembered. Rowena had given birth to a Norman child. She must have learned the language during the course of her pregnancy. Or mayhap before. But one thing he was certain of, if given the choice, Rowena would not have learned a single word of French. And seeing the dark pleading in her eyes, Stephen would stake his life that Rowena’s heart did not belong to the child’s father.

Still, ’twas an uncharacteristic emotion that ripped through him when he should be feeling nothing. He picked up his pace. Best not to think with his heart, he reminded himself. Without exception, it gave bad advice. He’d seen many fooled by it.

“My lord,” Rowena whispered, her face so close to his that he could have stolen a kiss should he’d so desired. “Please put me down. You’re hurting me!”

Stephen stopped. A guard approached and lifted a lantern again. Horror bled into him as he saw her pained expression.

She blinked. “Your grip is too tight, my lord!”

He relaxed. “My apologies. I...I didn’t want you to slip.”

“I have my own good grip, milord.” She shook her head. “Please, let me try walking. We’re at the manor house now, anyway.”

Stephen looked up, surprised to find he’d reached the grand entrance to his home. Inhaling, he set her down just as a woman opened the large oak door. It was his sister, Josane, who was also his chatelaine. Staring openly at the pair, she held the door back for him. “Ellie has just come in with a child, Stephen!” she exclaimed in French. “Have we lost a family? Was there a fire? I can smell the smoke—”

“Oui, Josane, ’twas a fire, but no one was hurt. The child belongs to this woman, Rowena.”

Josane peered at Rowena, her expression concerned but cool. “Oui, Gilles told me he’d given her a hut, as you’d requested.” She looked over Rowena’s shoulder at the villagers slowly filtering away. Then, lifting the skirt of her fine linen cyrtel, she swung out her arm impatiently. “Come in. Come in. ’Tis cold and damp out.”

Stephen stepped forward to scoop up Rowena again, but she lifted her hand. “Nay, I’ll walk.”

She tried one hobbling step, only to reach for the door. Impatient like his sister, Stephen lifted her again and carried her over the threshold into his manor house. “We’ll take you to the maids’ chamber. ’Tis small, but your son will be there with Ellie.”

Josane hurried ahead of them, through the narrow corridor to where it opened into the great hall. Stephen listened to the sound of her shoes crunching the rushes strewn about. Josane’s cyrtel swayed back and forth in rhythm with her steps. She preferred a practical, shorter hem than what other ladies of the manor might wear. As chatelaine here, she was always busy, and the longer hems of ladies of leisure often snagged the rushes.

Torches soaked in tallow lit the way down the far corridor, infusing the air not with the oily scent of animal fat, but with sweet herbs and dried flowers. Josane hated the smell of burning tallow and had concocted an infusion to mask the odor. Now it swept along with them as he carried Rowena the length of his home, deep into the servants’ end.

Ahead, Josane opened a small door. Stephen ducked as he took Rowena inside the tiny room. Its floor was filled with pallets, except where a table, a chair and an old chest stood. Ellie had already moved a crude chair beside a pallet that held little Andrew. Stephen set Rowena down on it.

For one brief moment she clung to him, her arms still locked about his neck. Whether ’twas because she could not feel the chair beneath her or because she wanted to remain in his arms, he didn’t know. But in the instant, he stilled.

Two lamps lit the room, making it easy for him to see the apprehension swimming in her pale blue eyes. She wet her lower lip, then held it tight between her teeth.

Sympathy—something he did not want to own—washed through him as he held her close. Immediately, the sermon from the previous Sabbath echoed within him. Be ye kind, one to another, tenderhearted. He felt his jaw tighten.

Why this sudden piety? Stephen had never felt conflicted with his faith before, even when trapping plotters against the crown. His God-given duty allowed him to punish evildoers without so much as a blink of the eye. Was it because he’d erred here? He hadn’t expected that the malcontent bent on hurting Rowena would return so quickly.

Stephen found himself saying “’Tis all right, Rowena. You’re safe here.” His whisper was for her ears only, and in response, she nodded briefly and released him.

“Thank you. And may God bless you, milord.” Her voice was as soft as her eyes as she spoke to him.

Stephen straightened, regretting his warm, quiet words. They made him sound as if he cared. He didn’t. He wanted only for his newly formed plan to work. He needed those troublemakers to show themselves, because next time he would be ready.

He cleared his throat. “Ellie will see to your care. I must ensure the fire is completely out.” With that cool statement, he left the chamber.

In the corridor, Josane caught his arm. Speaking in French, she hissed, “You should not have brought that woman here. We know nothing about her.” Her expression bored into him, the torchlight reflecting in her dark eyes. “She could be a thief. And look at her babe. ’Tis obvious already she is a prostitute.”

Stephen yanked back his arm. “She was a slave, given her freedom by the king himself.”

“That’s ridiculous! King William banned the sale of Christian slaves three years ago. See? You know little of her! I’ve heard the rumors about her aligning herself with Normans. See what it got her? A life of shame. Stephen, she will bring us nothing but trouble!”

Stephen said nothing in answer to her warning. They stared at each other, and after a long minute, Josane shook her head in disbelief. “Nay, Stephen,” she breathed out.

He looked away. “’Tis necessary. The king has already ordered it.” Only Josane and Gilles knew of the king’s order to root out rebels and quell any unrest that could threaten the crown.

King William, on his trek north shortly after Hastings, had found this village filled with sly Saxons. Although they had done nothing to warrant razing their land, they had pricked William’s suspicions enough for him to assign Stephen to the task of finding agitators. Such were in every village, and William was canny enough to know they abounded here. ’Twas the only way to control this village when most of William’s soldiers were fighting the Welsh.

These villagers are just waiting for us to turn our backs, the king had told Stephen after he’d agreed to spare this village. I made a promise that I would not raze this land, but I will destroy any Saxon who defies my law. Arrest anyone suspicious. I will have no one rebel against me.

Josane sliced into his memory. “All the more reason to foster Rowena somewhere else. You of all people know what Saxons can do. Did they not take our brother’s life at Hastings?”

He inwardly recoiled. Their younger brother, Corvin, had been a fine, dedicated soldier. He’d fought hard during that battle, but his life had ended when a Saxon blade pierced his heart moments before King Harold’s own death. ’Twas mayhap the reason William had bestowed so much honor on Stephen. He’d inherited his brother’s share, as well.

Such a hefty price. Immediately, he tried to harden himself against the inner pain. He would die to bring his younger brother back.

Josane folded her arms. “For all we know, these Saxons set that fire themselves in order to create dissent here. And with that girl already aligned with Normans, they would gladly rid the village of her.”

“’Twas an unfastened spark box that caused the fire,” he responded.

His sister shook her head in disgust as she continued in French, “You may be able to handle the intricacies of court in London, Stephen, but this village is totally different. Do not allow your heart to lead you because one maid looks at you with eyes like a fawn. I fear you’re getting soft away from the king.”

He darkened. “My heart does not rule me, woman!”

“The villagers—”

“Will obey me,” he snapped back in his mother tongue. “And you will obey, also! This is my estate, Josane, and you work as chatelaine for me. Remember that!” He tossed a look over his sister’s shoulder. The maids’ chamber door remained ajar, and he caught a glimpse of Rowena peering wide-eyed at him across the small room. Aye, with those great fawn eyes Josane had been kind enough to mention. He drove his attention back to his sister. “I may not be the best person to trust, especially after Hastings. But you will obey me!”

Josane went dead silent. He could feel her stare. “I will, but you’ve brought home a Saxon like ’twas a lost puppy. And I know you. You plan to—”

He pierced her with a harsh glare. “Be quiet! And be advised, Josane—Rowena speaks French.”

His sister suddenly recoiled. “So the Saxons do have good reason to suspect her. And you dragged her here. So typical of a man to see only to his wants.” With that, she stormed off.

Stewing at his sister’s accusation, Stephen turned his back on her, only to have his gaze meet Rowena’s again. Though her eyes were as round as bowls, they gave away nothing but innocent concern.

Was there such a thing in a Saxon dealing with a Norman? Doubting that, he was about to turn away when her voice reached him.

“Milord?”

Chapter Five

Lord Stephen turned, stretched out his arm to push the door open farther. At his sheer size, Rowena drew a long breath. Aye, this chamber’s door was smaller than the others she’d passed in the manor, and he had to duck just to enter, but to have him straighten up once again in the middle of this tiny room completely overwhelmed her.

“What is wrong?” he asked tightly.

Looking up at him, Rowena swallowed her sudden apprehension. “I—I couldn’t help but overhear, milord,” she began in English. “I did not start that fire, not even by accident. The spark-box lid was closed, I know it! The fire was started from outside and burned its way through the thatch. I could see it.” She paused. “Your sister is older than you. She expects you to respect her beliefs, but she’s wrong about me.”

“How do you know we are siblings?”

“She said ‘our brother’ when she mentioned Hastings. Milord, she doesn’t want to be here, and—”

“How do you know that?”

“I can tell. She’s not happy here. And angry at you. Not because of your brother, though his death haunts you.” She stopped and shrugged. How did she surmise all of this? ’Twas just by looking at Lady Josane that she knew. For years she’d been able to guess people’s motives. And she’d learned Taurin’s emotions easily. She did not catch all of the conversation between the siblings, but she knew something serious was stirring. “’Tis of no import right now. My home is. I did not leave the spark box open!”

Lord Stephen folded his arms. When he did not answer, she tried again. “You have to believe me! Why would I put my child at risk? Why would I set fire to the roof directly above the door, my only escape? If I didn’t care about my child’s life, would I have shoved you back when you reached for him yesterday morning? Would I have risked punishment?”

Rowena had no idea whether her earnest words convinced him. He did nothing but stand in the middle of the room, and the only sounds were of Ellie shifting as she stood over the pallet that held Andrew. The baby had dropped off to sleep, oblivious to the events around him. Rowena thought out a fast prayer. Lord God, help Lord Stephen to understand me. Help me to convince him.

Finally Stephen spoke. “What do you want me to do?”

Rowena hesitated. What did she want him to do? She didn’t want to stay in her hut, but she didn’t want to stay here, either. And she certainly did not want to be bound, albeit through gratitude only, to another Norman.

When Taurin had purchased her, ’twas as if she’d gone from the fry pan into the fire. Now it seemed as though she had been tossed back into the fry pan again.

Nay. She was a free woman, and in the time she’d spent with Clara, both in hiding from Taurin this summer past and here as the midwife had helped her settle into her new home, she had learned how to stand up for herself. Clara was a good teacher. ’Twas time to put the lessons to use and make her mentor proud.

Rowena straightened her shoulders. “I have been vandalized, milord, and my life put in jeopardy. Is there anyone here who can find out who is to blame? Your brother-in-law, mayhap? He assigned me my hut. He seems to run this village. Can he not help me?”

At the mention of his brother-in-law, Stephen’s mouth tightened. “Gilles is my bailiff, but he hears only civil cases. It is a bit complicated what is civil or criminal. But the major criminal cases are decided in London. We can convene a manorial court, which is a civil court, but the case must be compiled first and the culprit found. Gilles cannot investigate if he is to be the judge.”

Rowena sagged. “So, I have no one to help me?”

Stephen pulled up a chair and sank heavily into it. It creaked under his weight. The two small lamps flickered warm light onto his tired features, cutting sharp angles along his jaw and cheeks. It had been a long night, and Rowena wondered if they shouldn’t leave this until the morning.

But she couldn’t. Any desire to delay was caused by naught but fear and shame for asking. She leaned forward again. “Who could possibly help me? I have no relatives here.”

Stephen shook his head. “You are a villein here. Do you know what that means?”

“Aye. Master Gilles told me how I cannot leave without your permission and of my obligation to work your lands, milord, three days each week. I have started to do so! He also spelled out my right to protection. But if he cannot help me, who can?”

Stephen leaned back. After a moment when nothing was heard but the soft breaths of expectation, he said, “I will help you.”

Hearing Ellie’s short intake of breath, Rowena gaped at Stephen. “You will?”

“You say that you’re being persecuted but don’t know by whom. I will find out who it is and why.”

Hope surged in her, but there was something about his words that didn’t feel as open as they should. Or was it the look around his eyes?

Still, Rowena said, “Thank you.” For a brief moment, he’d shut his eyes, and when he opened them again, their gazes met. Even in the dimly lit chamber, for one lamp had just winked out, Rowena could see his eyes. The remaining lamp’s flame flickered in the dark brown circles, and when he parted his lips as if to speak, she found herself drawn toward him like a thirsty animal toward water. Her heart thundered in her chest and she quickly prayed that he would not renege on his offer.

“Bienvenue,” he finally murmured in French. “But ’tis not as simple as it sounds. You must trust me completely in this.”

Rowena stiffened. “What do you mean?”

“You will stay here out of harm’s way while I investigate these attacks.”

“But—”

“No buts. You will say and do nothing.” Those dark eyes hardened. “You must put all your faith in my ability to handle this situation. Do you understand?”

Indignation flared within her. Was she a dolt who needed everything spelled out? Did he expect her to trust blindly? Was he addled?

Still, Lord Stephen had promised to help her when no one else would. “I understand,” she murmured. “But I can—”

“Nay. I expect your complete obedience.”

Like the bone in her spark box receiving fresh air, she felt heat flare inside her. “Obedience? Am I a slave again, or mayhap a prisoner here? I know I am a villein and bound to the land, but why should I be punished for the suffering I’ve endured? I should be helping!”

Stephen stood. He towered over her like the keep at Dunmow when she’d finally met her sponsor, Lord Adrien. “You cannot! Nor are you being punished. I know exactly how to deal with this situation and these people. Nay, you are not a slave. But you will do as I say.”

Rowena folded her arms. “I will not live here owing you.”

He blew out an exasperated sigh. “Fine. You can be in my employ.”

“Doing what?”

He rolled his eyes. Then he paused, and Rowena could see his gaze turn calculating. Her heart chilled.

“Mayhap since you are so good at identifying people’s feelings, I can use you to read those who come to this manor looking for an end to their disputes.” He held up his finger. “Perhaps you can tell me when people are lying.”

Rowena shook her head. “Use me to read people? Am I a tool, like a pitchfork?” She stiffened. “Nay, milord. I have had my fill of intrigue. I will not be forced into the middle of it again.”

“Your fill of intrigue? How so?” His brows shot up in question, but she refused to enlighten him.

Instead she dropped her gaze, wondering if she had pushed her demand to earn her stay here too much. Would he turn her out to fend for herself?

Nay. There was a goodness in him, she was sure of it.

Lord, guide me.

“We had agreed that I could make rope in exchange for food. Mayhap I could make more to pay for my stay here?”

She craned her neck to see his face. Would he accept that instead? He met her searching gaze, but she couldn’t read it. He’d been in London, he’d said before, and from what she’d learned from Taurin, London was filled with conspiracy and danger. Stephen must have learned to hide his feelings there.

Finally he nodded, stirring up all scenarios. What were his plans for an investigation? Why was he willing to help locate her persecutor? No man had ever just volunteered anything. Would his plans involve punishing everyone here in order to extract a confession? How could that possibly help? She asked, “What will you do to find my attacker?”

“Did I not just demand faith in my abilities?” Lord Stephen snapped. Then, with a long sigh, he rubbed his forehead. “’Tis the middle of the night, Rowena, and we are both tired. I will speak to you on the morrow.”

He turned to Ellie, and her heart sinking, Rowena knew he was right. They were exhausted. “See to Rowena’s needs. Her ankle will need attention, and clearly she needs some clothes. I believe my sister has given you maids some old cyrtels. One should be suitable.”

Rowena drew the edges of her undertunic together at the neck as Ellie bobbed in obedience.

With a final glance around the tight quarters, Stephen bid her good-night and left.

Rowena slid her gaze over to Ellie. Still standing beside the pallet, the maid wrung her hands. “Rowena, you must not argue with Baron Stephen!”

“I didn’t argue with him. I asked for his help.”

The maid walked around the pallet to reach a crude wooden box in the corner. There were several pallets packed into the room, but Rowena had yet to meet the other maids who used them. Mayhap they were busy in the kitchen? Ellie dragged the box into the meager circle of lamplight. “Lord Stephen’s giving you his help, is he not?” she said, pulling out a dark blue cyrtel and holding it high to examine it. As if satisfied, she lowered it to peer pointedly at Rowena. “But you can’t tell him how he must help you!”

Rowena folded her arms. Her ankle had begun to throb, and she was in no mood to explain her reasoning. “You don’t know what you’re asking,” she responded testily. “I may be a foolish farm girl, but I have every right to ask how Lord Stephen plans to help me. What if his plans would hurt my son? Had I been asleep, Andrew would have died. I don’t care about my own life, but I do care for his!”

Ellie folded the cyrtel and set it on her pallet close to Andrew’s tiny feet. Clara had made him a warm bunting outfit, warning Rowena not to swaddle him too tightly for too long. By now, his feet pressed against the lower seam. Ellie tugged on it to help make more room for him, but ’twas a wasted effort. She then pulled up the chair Stephen had vacated to gently prop up Rowena’s injured foot and lift the hem of her undertunic to see the ankle.

While wincing, Rowena fought the urge to press her point of not trusting any Norman until he’d proved himself. Should she really rely upon Lord Stephen? “Do you think he will do as he promised?”

“Aye.” Ellie paused in her examination as she nodded to Rowena. The lamplight shone warmly on the girl’s earnest expression. Her cyrtel fit snugly, as if she had blossomed into womanhood too soon. She needed those secondhand cyrtels as much as Rowena did. Mayhap Lady Josane had passed them down to her because she’d seen the girl nearly busting from her own cyrtel. “I understand what you’re saying, Rowena. I, too, wonder what cost his promise will be to us Saxons.”

Was Ellie suggesting that this village would suffer punishment for Rowena’s misfortune? She wet her lips. Not a good start to living here when already the villagers distrusted her. “What do you mean?”

With a glance to the closed door, Ellie answered, “Lord Stephen is said to do the king’s...how do I put it? Filthy work? His dirty work that no one else can do.”

Rowena gasped. “Like murder?”

“Nay!” Ellie shook her head briskly. “Oh, I’m not explaining this right. How can I say it? The court in London is rife with intrigue, they claim. People switch allegiances as quickly as the weather turns. ’Tis said the king needs an ear to be where the schemes against him are plotted. He needs someone who can rid him of those against him.”

Rowena swallowed. That did not sound good. “So Lord Stephen is as sly as a fox?”

“’Twould be wise not to irritate him. His allegiance is to God and the king, and only them. Some say he is more ruthless than the king himself.”

“’Tis hardly Christian.”

Ellie pressed her knuckles against her mouth and thought a moment. “I heard Lady Josane say once that Lord Stephen has never done anything unbefitting of his duty to King William, and that since God put the king on the throne, Lord Stephen’s duty was also God-given.”

“God didn’t crown King William. Lord Taurin sa—The king crowned himself.”

Setting the hem gently over Rowena’s swollen ankle, Ellie went on, “’Tis a dangerous attitude, Rowena. Speak no more of it. Aye, milord is harsh, but he will keep this village safe for both Saxon and Norman. I have faith in him.”

“How? He hasn’t done a good job so far.”

“Beyond the forest and fens is Ely. Many here feared the king would destroy us if he marched through to fight the rebels there. Indeed, he would’ve razed our land two years ago had it not been for our anchoress, Lady Udella, who pleaded for our safety, and for Lord Stephen, who offered to keep her here. We should be grateful that milord took this holding, instead of one who cares not for anything but power.”

Rowena swallowed. Aye, she knew one baron who cared for nothing but power.

Ellie continued, “Some men in the village say that Baron Stephen is here to punish men who would try to be rid of a Norman king.” She shivered openly. “I have heard talk in this manor house that the king is moving north to harry the rebels there. I pray he bypasses Kingstown. ’Tis not a good time to live here. Some of the villagers would swear fealty, then break their promise as soon as the opportunity arises. ’Twill not bode well for our village should even one of us turn our allegiance from the king.”

With that, Ellie spun on her heel and left, adding a quick mutter that she would return with some knitbone leaves in which to wrap Rowena’s ankle. Alone and unable to move in the near dark, for the second lamp threatened to die, Rowena fought back fear. She was to trust Baron Stephen, a man whom his own servants said was harsh?

Nay. She’d be a fool to put her faith in him during this dangerous time. Baron Stephen’s sister, the chatelaine and obviously his equal, didn’t want Rowena here. Saxons shunned her. She couldn’t even go home to her parents’ farm, for she would surely be turned away, what with bringing another mouth to feed. Not that she would return. Not after her father had sold her.

She had no champion, save herself.

She stopped her thoughts. Wouldn’t God help her? Did she have so little faith? Forgive me, Lord.

Ellie returned with the leaves and a dark poultice to plaster carefully around Rowena’s ankle. Rowena sucked in her breath as Ellie pressed the cool remedy against the swollen flesh. She would be laid up for days, a prisoner trapped by her injury, obliged to let Baron Stephen act as he would. The baron’s priorities were not to find her attacker. They were to suppress a rebellion. He would hardly allow his promise to her to hinder that great task.

And, Rowena’s heart reminded her furiously, she would never trust a Norman. Taurin had done what no man should ever do and had even planned to kill her afterward, lest she reveal the truth about the babe.

Fury rose anew and she gritted her teeth to bottle it, leaving her shaking. As Ellie finished her ministrations on her ankle, Rowena finished her thoughts.

She had no choice but to stay here. But count on Lord Stephen to see to her best interests? Nay. Only a fool would stand behind the horse after it had kicked him.

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