Protected by the Warrior

She stilled, then swallowed. Aye, she’d pledged to keep Rowena safe, and her baby with her, and aye, she’d die in order to keep such a pledge, but what if Taurin was on his way? What would happen then? Her own people would have turned on her, leaving her to the mercy of Taurin and his men.

Her heart squeezed. Then the question would be, could she keep Rowena safe? What if Taurin attacked the keep? She’d pledged to save lives, not cause them to be lost in battle.

Dear Lord, guide me and keep Rowena and her babe safe.

Tears sprang to her eyes as she sank onto the bench. For a long moment, she just swallowed and thought and rethought all that was happening. Then she felt a soft hand on her shoulder and looked up to find not Kenneth offering sympathy, but Brindi. Through watery eyes, she saw Kenneth frown with curiosity behind the little girl.

“’Tis just her usual tears, sir,” Brindi said, sitting down and putting her arms around Clara as if she were the older sister. “Ever since she offered her life to our Lord and pledged to care for the sick, her heart has turned as soft as lamb’s wool. Our aunt often said ’tis the price of having a heart for God and people.”

Clara flushed. Enough of this. She wouldn’t be exposing her heart to the man who would see Rowena punished for running away. Clara bustled to her feet and quickly swiped the wetness from around her eyes. She had no desire to lay bare her woolly, foolish heart in front of Kenneth. He’d only make her regret all she’d done so far and twist it to make her reveal where Rowena was.

Nay, she would not do such a thing, and no amount of fear for the consequences would change that.

She smoothed the skirt of her cyrtel. ’Twas her best one, and she should keep it good. That meant no tears to stain the material at her lap. “Never mind me. We will deal with the day as it comes. And I see it has already started. Brindi, we need to break our fast before we weed the garden, and you—” she leveled as firm a stare as possible at Kenneth “—you have a door to fix.”

* * *

Kenneth tried the door one last time, satisfied that, finally, it closed firmly, without scraping or catching. And none too soon, for his patience with this expensive board was growing thin. He was a soldier, not a carpenter. Still, his handiwork was satisfactory.

Though Clara may find some fault in it. When he’d escorted her to Dunmow from Colchester, she’d corrected him several times on his equestrian abilities. Aye, she was skilled on a horse, more than most men, which was unusual, for she’d been a fisherman’s daughter and then a midwife. But he would not ask her how she’d learned such talent. He refused to risk hearing even more pointers on how to ride a big horse properly.

He bent to gather the tools he’d borrowed from the smithy, a man who lived at the end of the road, beside the forest.

Not the safest place to live, but the smithy could easily defend his family, he was that strong. Kenneth’s thoughts wandered to Rowena and her safety. Where had Clara hidden the young mother and her babe? There were leagues between here and Colchester, with few homes and even fewer inns. The fens to the east, where peat had once been cut and dried for fuel, were unlivable. And Clara would be a fool to hide her in the forest. Those Saxons who defied the law and lived in the king’s forests were hardened men, criminals some. Not the safest place to hide a mother and child. Surely Clara would choose a hiding spot wisely. Perhaps to the west? A few abandoned sheep pens lay scattered about, but they would be just as unlivable.

Mayhap Clara was not wise. She’d been plucked from Colchester for her stubbornness, and the day he’d escorted her here he’d have had to have been blind to miss the fact that Clara didn’t wish to leave the town. At the time, he’d assumed it was worry at the unknown, but could it have been she’d made a hasty and unwise decision as to where she’d hidden Rowena?

If only she could just see how foolish her ideas were. ’Twas clear she feared Taurin would mistreat Rowena, but on what did she base her fears? Rowena, a runaway slave, would likely have said anything to win Clara’s sympathy and aid. Lord Taurin was not a soft man, but there was no reason to believe him to be brutal toward the mother of the child he clearly valued. Nay, Rowena would come to no serious harm if restored to Taurin’s care.

Indeed, after her punishment was past, she would likely find herself better off than she was now, with a good roof over her head and steady meals on her table. As for her child, the young son would be raised in privilege to take over a peerage and enjoy the favor of royalty. King William and his future heirs would reward strong Norman lords and their sons, legitimate or otherwise.

As he stooped to retrieve the final tool, he noticed a small section of the cloth on which he’d wiped the splinter fragments when ministering to Clara’s hand.

It had been a nasty injury she’d had. She’d endured the pain of that festering wound with no tears, but at the mention of helping the sick, she had practically wept openly.

He paused as he shoved the tools into their leather pouch. She was as dedicated to what she saw as her duty as he was. And even more stubborn. Nay, she would never reveal where Rowena was.

Oddly, such determination sparked admiration in him. Lord Adrien would love to have such strength of character in his troops.

Nay, he needed to set aside all admiration. He’d pledged to find the slave woman and her child, and turn them over to Taurin.

Though some punishment was warranted, and ’twould be hard on the new mother, Taurin would be a fool to kill her. Who would feed the babe? It would cost him to hire a wet nurse.

Rolling closed the flap of the tool pouch, he tightened his jaw. Clara had to be exaggerating the danger. People lied when they tried to support a rash decision.

’Twas nearly suppertime when Kenneth returned to Clara’s hut, having returned the tools and asked those Clara had visited that day how long she’d stayed with them. Thankfully, he had earned the respect of most of the villagers, and thus discovered that Clara, with Brindi in tow, had not left the village all day.

Poor little Brindi. Like many a child, she was expected to work alongside her mother—or in this case, her sister—with never a moment to enjoy life.

Rowena’s babe would end up as such, or worse, since he had no father figure to mentor him. Kenneth paused at the compact garden beside the hut. At least he might be able to do something for Brindi. For starters, he could teach her to read, and mayhap...

Mayhap he could make her a doll. Aye, she’d like a doll, he was sure, a toy to relieve the drudgery of work. He was a satisfactory carver, and if he found a knot of wood, or better still, a large apple, he could carve a head. With the apple, ’twould dry to imitate the features of a wrinkled old lady. Then he could ask Lady Ediva’s maid, Margaret, if she could fashion a soft body for it, something filled with wool or fine straw and dressed like one of those princesses Clara scorned.

Aye, and such a gift would go a long way to changing Clara’s attitude toward him.

As he approached the midwife’s garden, the air offered the coaxing scents of supper. Evening meals were often just leftover broth and old bread, but this meal smelled rich and satisfying. He could hear Brindi singing softly inside the hut and, suddenly, the clear, stronger voice of Clara as she filled in the rest of the song.

He smiled. ’Twas good to hear. His sisters and mother often sang, especially when minstrels visited. They’d beg their visitors to teach them new songs, and one time his oldest sister even managed to convince their father to purchase a rebec from one of the minstrels. She did eventually master the strings on it, but it took years, and Kenneth had fled their home on more than one occasion when practice began.

He stepped into the hut, through the open door, for the day was warm. The song they sang carried on for a short time, allowing Kenneth to enjoy it.

Then Clara looked up at him, her song dying and her expression immediately turning guarded. He offered a controlled smile, but received only caution from her for the effort.

Brindi, however, smiled innocently. “Thank you for the new door, sir. It works better than the old one.”

“I oiled the hinges and planed the edges to make it fit properly.”

The girl brightened further. “’Tis good work, sir!”

“Enough chatter, Brindi. Set the table.” Clara shot Kenneth a sharp look. “If we are to have a guard, he’ll need to eat.”

She lifted up a large quarter of cheese. “Lord Adrien sent this over, along with some meat and honeyed pastries. We’ll eat well tonight.”

“I can’t wait for the pastries,” Brindi chimed in.

He smiled at her. She was a pretty little thing, though not the stunning beauty her sister was, with that fiery hair, clear, pale skin and perfectly even features. Brindi’s hair was light brown, a simple color, and braided deftly. Her nose was upturned and dusted with freckles. Clara’s hair was wildly curly and obviously refusing to be restrained into braids. She opted to tie it back with a simple leather thong, barely seen amid the unruliness. She owned a wimple and veil, so where were they? Probably tossed on a pallet, for they would be too hot with all that thick hair. Not unlike his heavy chain mail and the helmet, with its annoying nosepiece.

As she turned, a thick lock of that hair found freedom and danced to her shoulder. A stray thought flitted through his mind that he’d love to plunge his hands through her mane and see it cascade down his arms. But he’d need an extra arm to deflect what would surely be Clara’s firm fist from his face.

With a smile at his addled musing, Kenneth sat down. At the far end of the table sat a small leather-bound book. He looked up at Clara with a question on his face.

“I thought that since you said you can read, you could read this to me.”

“You say it was hidden in the floor?”

“Aye. An odd place to put a book, but ’twas there.”

Kenneth worked his jaw. The old midwife had been a crafty woman, and she’d always asked for payment in coin, instead of provisions. Was this where she kept her records? Did she hide this book so that when the king’s men came for taxes, they wouldn’t know what she’d earned? They would never know, now that she was gone.

He looked down at the script. “’Tis in English, which I don’t read as well as French.”

“I can help you pronounce the words if you start them off. I know all the medicines, but wish to know the old midwife’s records of what she did with them. She opted to be paid in coinage, and I also want to know how much her healings cost, if that information is recorded within.”

Kenneth opened the book carefully, as the stitches that held it together were old and fragile. “I can more than just read it to you. I can teach you how to read, if you like.” Earning this woman’s trust would go a long way to achieving his goal of finding the slave woman and her child.

Brindi gasped. “And me, too!”

“Hush, girl,” Clara admonished her. “We’ll decide that later. For now, I want to know what is written in this book.”