that it may have to come at the sacrifice of the agitators, Stephen now realized that giving this woman food would certainly rile up the locals enough to cause them to reveal themselves. But first, he had to get her to accept his offer.
“What, then, are your plans,” he asked, “since you don’t want this food? Have you considered the dead of winter? The snow can be quite harsh, and that babe will want solid food by then.”
If Rowena wouldn’t take the food, he knew he may have to force her. ’Twould do her good, for she would surely starve otherwise. ’Twas not a thought he liked, for some reason. And it certainly would not be good for his plans.
As Stephen watched her, Rowena wet her lips and swallowed. With that sword-straight spine of hers, he thought, she obviously had not considered winter at all.
Someone behind him broke into a heavy coughing fit, something caused by a mild fever that had started through the village. Stephen had to do something fast, for more villagers had begun to congregate. He caught a glimpse behind Rowena of Ellie, the essence of remorse for being unsuccessful in her task. “Take half the grain and roots to the larder,” he told his young maid. “Leave the cheese.”
Then, to the guard, he barked, “Since these villagers aren’t interested in doing their own work, they can work for the crown. Assemble them in the north forest. Have them begin cutting the trees. The palisade must be started before your king arrives. Oh,” he added, “save the saplings for the fence. It needs to be repaired.”
Stephen waited patiently until the guard and the villagers moved out of earshot, his gaze sealed on Rowena the whole time. She stood stock-still, with only her short breathing lightly rocking the drowsy child she carried. Her gaze stayed on his chest, not at his feet, where the servants kept theirs, nor in his eyes as a person of equal rank may look. Nay, she wanted to defy him, yet didn’t dare do so.
He unfolded his arms. “What is the real reason for this refusal, Rowena? You need food. We both know that.”
She blinked and sniffed. Still, she shook her head. “Nay, I refuse to accept any more charity from you Normans. I have taken quite enough, thank you.”
“And if I were Saxon?”
She didn’t answer, though a gentle shiver rippled her light frame as she glanced away. Would she not accept aid from her own people, either?
“’Tis just as well,” he finally said. “For I expect that he who vandalized your home last night would lay siege to it again should it be filled with provisions.” ’Twas exactly what he wanted, but he would not tell her that.
Rowena reacted with a wrinkled chin and tightened lips and yet added steel in her spine. “Aye, ’twould do nothing but ruin good food.”
“We wouldn’t want that,” he murmured.
But he would like to find who had done so last night. Stephen had discovered enemies of the king before, traitors who would sooner slit your throat than smile at you. Though William ruled with an iron fist, the king had to put his trust in someone. Sometimes that was Eudo, his steward, or that monk William de St. Calais, but for the most part, protection came from Stephen and his watchful eye and subtle machinations, guiding the people around him to work for, not against, the king. He may be captain of the King’s Guard, but he was also William’s best spymaster. ’Twould be more than easy to root out troublemakers here by using a simple maid.
Stephen extended his hand toward the front door. “Mayhap we can discuss this over some strong broth and a portion of good cheese?”
“Nay, there is nothing to discuss,” Rowena answered with a stubborn lip. “I won’t take your charity, my lord. And do not be concerned for me.”
“And when you get vandalized again?”
Finally, with brows lifted, her eyes met his. That remarkable pale color clouded with apprehension. “I will not, for there is nothing left to vandalize.”
Stephen paused. True.
Oddly, the thought of Rowena starving turned his stomach, a compassionate feeling so alien to him, it took him a moment to recognize it. He wasn’t used to reacting with emotion. His portion in life was to think with his head, not his heart.
But if he could get Rowena to take even some of the food, ’twould satisfy both his plan to stir the pot of dissention and his compassion.
However, he’d discovered two years ago that Saxons were not a logical people. They fought with their hearts, not their heads. Rowena was acting on her foolish pride in refusing this food.
Did you not already react with emotion to the thought of her being hurt? Or hungry? Or with another man?
Stephen stiffened. Nay, he was acting on his king’s orders, plain and simple.
“One small request, then?” he countered, thankful that only the two of them lingered at the door. “A bit of food, sold to you?”
“I have no money, milord.”
“Few have until the bills are collected at Michaelmas.”
“When the taxes take all?”
“Your taxes and rent have already been paid for this year. I have often sold food and wood, and not taken the payment until collection time.” He frowned, realizing that she probably had nothing to trade for coinage. “Is it not the way at your farm, where goods and livestock were bought and sold?”
At the mention of her home, her gaze hardened. He noticed it immediately. “I had nothing to do with such dealings,” she snapped. “I was to care for the livestock and weed the gardens. Because of that, I know I can forage for enough food to last all winter.”
He shouldn’t have, but still, Stephen laughed. “’Tis easy to say you won’t accept food when your belly isn’t crying out for it in the cold of winter.” He dropped his smile and softened, doing his best to make his tone mild. “Did you have a good evening meal last night? Was it so filling that you aren’t hungry even now?”
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
