today Stephen felt invigorated. Now he had a plan to root out the rebels he knew lived here. They hated Rowena, and he would use the young woman to lure them out. It was the only plan that didn’t include arresting every man.
But before he could use her, he had to do a quick investigation of the fire. It was probably an accident, but Stephen was not one to leave a stone unturned.
Though dawn had just begun, the day was light enough for him to start his investigation. Rowena’s home looked a sodden, useless shell now, he decided as he closed in on it. Thankfully, a tributary of the Cam River flowed east of the village, mere yards away, and the easy access to water had helped to save the building from far worse damage. Rowena’s garden, where she’d attempted to salvage her food stocks, had been trodden down even further.
Ordering his guard to remain out front, Stephen walked slowly around the small home, thinking one more time of what Rowena had said. She would never be so foolish to put her son’s life in danger. Hadn’t she been protective of the child when he’d picked him up? She’d given Stephen a shove for all she was worth, and she’d risked punishment for it. No Saxon would dare openly attack a Norman.
Although, Stephen recalled, she was also terrified of him. In London, he could make maidens shrink back in fear with one glower and it bothered him not one jot. Rowena had flinched when he’d raised his hand to open her door.
This kitten—aye, Rowena was a kitten, fearful and yet bold at the same time—had acted in a way that had made him feel compassion, which hindered him in the way he preferred to work.
Stephen’s tasks had always been to listen for dissension, coax those whose allegiances were faltering and maneuver the intrigue of court life to keep it safe for the king. He had allowed dissidents to form plans, caught them in their lies and manipulated their friends into turning them in. Stephen had drafted the Act of Surety of the King’s Person to assist in arresting those who would want William dead. He was good at his job and knew without forethought he was doing his Lord’s work.
So, why bother investigating a simple fire? Did Rowena need protection so much that he likened her to the king?
Nay, he needed Rowena to draw out troublemakers, and there were plenty of them around. Kingstown sat too close to Ely, which housed that unpleasant Saxon abbot who nursed an inconsequential grievance against Cambridgeshire’s new Norman sheriff, all the while encouraging Hereward the Wake to come fight for England’s sovereignty. ’Twould be best, Stephen thought, that he remove all rebels here. The least he could do for his brother’s memory was to keep this town safe. And if it took using one Saxon woman and her babe to arouse rebels and arrest them, he would do exactly that.
An insect buzzed about Stephen’s head, some late-season mosquito from the marshes around Kingstown. He swatted but missed it, and it annoyed him.
With his guard waiting patiently, Stephen finished his survey and circled back to what remained of the front of Rowena’s hut. The scent of smoke lingered. The fire had been hottest here, and most of the thatch was nothing but ashes spread out on the ground. The door was charred at the top, while the wattle and daub of the short walls showed only scorching. Very little repair would be needed.
Thank You, Father, for getting her out so quickly.
The prayer came unbidden to his forethought, for he usually reserved his prayers for the king alone. With a slight frown, Stephen opened the door beneath the bared roof. Dawn was now complete and the sun high enough that he could easily see into the single-room home. Mud pooled in slurries, and as he stepped into one, something between the puddles caught the sun’s first rays as they slipped through the open door.
The spark box, he noted as he picked it up. With all the water that had been tossed on the house, the box now gleamed. He weighed it in his palm. ’Twas still warm.
And fully closed. Snapped shut firmly.
Stephen’s heart chilled. With a single deft movement, he flicked open the lid. ’Twas exactly as Rowena had said. A small piece of bone glowed within.
Dry bone was good in a spark box. It burned far slower than a hunk of hardwood. With the sudden breath he streamed out in a sigh, the bone flared from its slumber. Jaw tight, Stephen snapped the lid closed. He looked back toward the small front door and the shelf beside it. Only for ease of access was the spark box shelf there at all. Now, as morning lit the sky, Stephen could see how the shelf, though charred, was still intact.
Rowena had been correct when she’d said that ’twere not possible for the spark box to have caused the fire, for surely the whole shelf would have burned and the wall scorched. Stephen set the box on the mantel above the small, crude hearth. His heart hammered at the truth before him.
’Twas arson, indeed. As he’d surmised last evening, Rowena’s enemy had struck two nights in a row. If he’d known that would happen, he’d have hid a guard beyond the village gate to ambush this troublemaker. But he’d thought that his presence yesterday morning would have deterred them for at least a day. His jaw tightened, his neck heated. Rowena had been vandalized and then attacked. More than attacked. Someone wanted her dead.
Aye, his plan to use Rowena would work well. ’Twas the only reason for his sudden interest in her, and nothing more, not a weakened heart or her fawn-like eyes, as Josane suggested. Not even that curious ability of hers to read people. ’Twas only how she’d fit into his plan. By openly assisting her as she convalesced, Stephen would be riling up this malcontent to attack again.
He left the hut shortly after. Movement caught his eye, and he noticed Alfred the Barrett pushing open the village gate to approach him. The guard stopped the old cottager, but Stephen motioned the man closer. Mayhap he knew something of value to this investigation.
However, Stephen doubted it. The man lived up to his Saxon family name, which meant “quarrelsome.” Stephen’s servants said Alfred’s father had been the same, as his grandfather before him, so the surname stuck like mud in the welt of a boot. Automatically stiffening, Stephen waited for the man to approach and speak.
“Milord,” he started, “you need not be concerned with this fire. ’Twas a simple accident. We will see to it that the girl has a new roof before long, let me assure you.”
Stephen felt the hairs on his neck rise but said nothing. Alfred Barrett was volunteering his village to help Rowena? Would they also give her food and lodging until she was able to manage on her own? Would they pay for a new roof, when they barely had two coins to rub together?
Stephen doubted that very much, for if such generosity existed, ’twould have been displayed last night. Aye, they saved the house, but not one villager except Ellie had even spoken to her.
“’Tis good of you to offer this. Rowena has hurt her ankle, so for the moment she will remain in my maids’ quarters under my care.”
The man’s mouth tightened, Stephen noticed. ’Twas as brief as a blink, but perceptible. And expected.
“Would you start the work immediately?” Stephen asked, though he knew the only thatcher in the village was currently employed.
Barrett’s eyes narrowed. “Mayhap with your lordship’s permission, we could gather the thatch today instead of working in your gardens or building the king’s palisade. We do have one thatcher in the village, but he’s busy.” Barrett’s tone turned sly. “Rethatching one of your barns, milord.”
Stephen nodded, pretending not to hear the
