Nineteen
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—
