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!”
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