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 whole, whilst those mashed would either nourish the soil or be rinsed in the river before being boiled into a pottage. She refused to waste anything. Everything here had been a gift to start her new life, and she would not treat poorly a single portion of it.
Behind her, deprived of her attention, Andrew squawked. Then squawked again. With a sigh, she turned in time to see Baron Stephen scoop the babe into his arms.
With a gasp, she leaped to her feet and snatched Andrew from the tall Norman’s grip. “Nay! He’s mine!” Then, with one free hand, she shoved him back with all her might. The hauberk’s chain mail bit into her palm.
Immediately, the guard burst forward to shield his lord. He pressed the point of a long Norman blade against her throat. She cried out, clutching her babe close as she stared at what could be the instrument of her death.
* * *
Stephen reacted swiftly, grabbing the blade and pulling it away from Rowena’s neck. In the same fluid movement, he drove the weapon into the soft, damp earth. “Stand down, soldier!” he ordered, planting himself between the guard and Rowena. He then turned to her.
Her arms protecting her child, Rowena flinched again. Terror flooded her expression. Stephen tightened his jaw. In the past, any fear he’d caused, especially due to his height, had pleased him. He’d even cultivated it occasionally, for intimidation alone often kept his king safe. As captain of the King’s Guard, Stephen had made William’s safety paramount. ’Twas the only reason the Good Lord had given him life.
But today, seeing Rowena’s fear, he found his belly souring. ’Twas obvious, based on the way she shied from him, that the man who’d fathered this child had done so using that same fear and intimidation Stephen employed in court. His belly churned further. She was hardly aligned with any Norman. ’Twas only a filthy rumor against her.
He glanced swiftly around him at the shambles. So someone in this village felt that she needed to be taught a lesson? Immediately, an idea blossomed. Tightening his jaw, Stephen turned to his guard. “Return to the horses.”
As the man reluctantly retreated, Stephen focused his attention on Rowena again. With no blade at her throat anymore, she should have been relieved, but fear still lit her eyes despite her uptilted chin and the squareness in her shoulders.
Father in heaven, take away her fear.
“’Tis all right, Rowena,” he stated calmly. “My guard thought I was threatened.”
Her eyes flared. “You were! By me! You grabbed my babe!”
Stephen shrugged mildly. “He was fussing.”
“I wasn’t paying attention to him, that’s all. He’d have stopped in a moment. ’Tis often so with babes. Sometimes, they want their mother and nothing else will do.”
She spoke with an accent Stephen didn’t recognize. But he’d learned that here in England, each tiny village had its own unique way of speaking. “I don’t remember fussing when my mother turned her back.”
Rowena flushed and shifted the boy in her arms. Away from Stephen. Again, she fixed the babe’s wayward cap.
“Please don’t mock me, my lord. You would not remember fussing.” Then, with a glance behind him, she added, “And please, if I have satisfied your curiosity, will you depart? Your presence here is rousing the interest of my neighbors, and I don’t wish to be seen in any Norman’s company.”
Stephen spun. The family living in the hut closest to the village fence was now standing by the gate, each person peering with unabashed interest. The father, a belligerent Saxon Stephen had met several times, scowled the worst. If there was ever a troublemaker, this man was it. But Stephen had no proof yet. However, with William’s new edict, Stephen didn’t need much evidence to arrest anyone. ’Twas only his personal integrity that he have adequate reason.
Like this attack on Rowena’s harvest? Stephen glanced back at her. He mentally counted the distance. Her home was closest to the forest, outside the wattle fencing and at least twenty long strides from her nearest neighbor. Hers was a hut set apart long ago for some unknown reason. And judging from the foul expressions on her neighbors’ faces, not far enough.
Noticing his return glare, the Saxons retreated from the fence. Stephen faced Rowena again. “Do you think those people vandalized your garden?”
She shook her head. “I cannot say. I heard no one last night.” She cleared her throat as she avoided his eyes. “My lord, I must return to my task and salvage what food is
