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.
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