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.
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