As Clara stoked the fire, Kenneth considered the countryside. To the west, villages dotted what was left of this county, while meandering streams fed the Colne River. But between the fields, there were many tiny woolsheds that could easily be fashioned to hide a woman and her child.
Or were they to the east, where fens and bogs made travel nearly impossible? To the south, where rebels and Saxon curs filled the king’s forest? ’Twas closest to Colchester, but a dangerous choice.
“Come, sit, Clara. You’re dead on your feet. Let me make you some tea.”
Following her instructions on what herbs to use, Kenneth brewed a tea for her. Years ago, as a squire, he’d hated having to learn to cook for Lord Adrien, who could barely boil water, but it had been part of Kenneth’s duty when they’d camped before battles. Now he was glad for it. At least he could manage to create a decent meal.
Kenneth pulled a short, wry smile. Should they go to battle again, young Harry would have to learn that duty quickly. Or Adrien might have to learn to boil water after all.
When he’d finished preparing the tea, he sat down in Brindi’s seat across from Clara. He watched as she sipped and nodded to himself when she visibly relaxed.
“Tell me about yourself. I know you lived near the shore, a league from Colchester.”
“And you promised to teach me more letters,” she reminded him.
“Aye, I will, but not tonight. You’re too tired. Now, where were you born?”
“There, by the shore, but not directly on the sea. I grew up at Wiunhou. ’Tis a village at the mouth of the Colne.” She smiled suddenly, a small but wondering smile. “’Tis odd that the river behind the keep is the same one. Ours is filled with brackish water, reeds, greens and all kinds of fish life. At high tide, my father would take out a boat and fish as close to the sea as possible. At low tide, he would gather oysters while my mother would scoop winkles to sell in Colchester.”
“They would go into Colchester?”
She shook her head. “My uncle did, and when he married, my aunt stayed in Colchester. She was a midwife there.”
“That’s how you became a midwife. But that doesn’t explain your ability to ride a horse.”
“When I was young, I would travel with my uncle on horseback. My mother was not well and had a houseful of children. Getting one out for the day eased her burden.” Her smile grew. “And I was one of the bigger burdens. So I would ride with him. Beside their home in Colchester stood a blacksmith’s shop. The smithy would let me ride the horses that were brought there. The blacksmith taught me the correct way of riding.”
“A smithy wouldn’t have the best riding skills.”
“True,” Clara answered. “But he told me to watch the nobility ride. My aunt agreed and encouraged me to learn to ride properly. Poor riding posture leads to aches and pains later.”
“You learned to be observant.”
“And I also learned to deal with all kinds of horses at the smithy’s. Gentle ponies all the way up to difficult coursers.”
Kenneth lifted one brow. “It doesn’t explain why, when we first met, you felt the need to correct my riding skills.”
“They were terrible.” She shrugged. “’Tis said that those who live by the sea are critical of anything bigger than a mosquito. My mother said my outspokenness was because of my red hair. My brains were too hot, she told me. But to me, our disposition comes from having the stench of fish and seaweed always in our lungs.”
Laughing, Kenneth leaned back and watched Clara as she wrapped her small, chapped hands around the earthenware mug that still steamed slightly. Relaxation seeped into him, and he could think of nothing better than to listen to Clara talk about her life.
“So you eventually moved to Colchester to learn midwifery from your aunt.”
“Aye. And to be a decent healer. ’Twas needed, not only in Wiunhou, but also in Colchester. Yet, despite all that, ’tis still scorned by the guild members.”
“Are there a lot of them there?”
“Too many!” she scoffed. “You can’t swing a wet nappy without hitting one of them! Those high-and-mighty so-and-sos.” Suddenly, she leaned forward, her eyes flashing. “But mark my words, healers like me will have their own guild someday. One as powerful as the goldsmiths or the weavers.”
“Women with their own guild? What did I put in that tea, woman, for you to talk so foolishly?”
She straightened. “’Twill be true. Healers will become very important. Everyone gets sick sooner or later. Women will always have babes that need care.”
He knitted his brows together. “Is Rowena’s babe sick?”
“Nay, but Rowena was when she came to Colchester. And full of bruises.” Clara wet her lips and swallowed. “She’d been traveling for days. When she reached me, Rowena was almost dead on her feet. Her babe had sapped her strength and had taken all nourishment from her.”
“You said she had bruises.”
“Aye. Bruises on her body and her soul. She was terrified of Taurin, and yet, she could not return to her family! They’d sold her into slavery.”
Kenneth shook his head at her exaggeration. “Slavery has been abolished, Clara.”
“It has?”
“Aye. ’Twas one of the first laws King William signed. The girl would be protected from being sold.”
“Protected? He would have taken her anyway, and then she’d get beaten for running away, or returned to her family, who care so little for her that they sold her in the first place.”
Her gaze pleaded as it roamed up his frame to meet his eyes. “I could no more ignore her need than I could refuse my next breath. I had to help her. Then when the babe was barely a week old, we could see it was not thriving. At first, she stayed with me. My aunt and uncle have passed away, and I had their home. But when I heard that Lord Taurin’s men were there, I feared that they would take her away, so I hid her. ’Twas when the babe sickened further.”
“That’s why the guild masters demanded you tell Lord Eudo where she was?”
“Nay, you have it wrong! They wanted me to tell them where I’d hidden Rowena, for Lord Taurin’s men had come looking for her. I refused. I couldn’t turn her over to Lord Taurin. He would kill her!”
“Kill her? I doubt he’d go that far.”
“We’ve been through that. The punishment for running away is a beating, but she would never survive one.”
Kenneth said nothing for a moment, then redirected the conversation. “Sold into slavery by her own parents,” he murmured.
“Aye. Rowena’s mother had many girls, and Rowena the last child. Her sisters all have strong male babes, so her father promised Lord Taurin that Rowena could provide him one, as well. Aye, she was sold as a slave, plain and simple, for her family could no longer afford to keep her.” She shook her head. “I could not allow the guild masters of Colchester to begin events that would strip Rowena of her babe and return her to a man who would surely beat her to death. I couldn’t!”
Clara furtively wiped her eyes, as if hoping he would not notice. For a woman so stubborn and sly, her heart was quite soft.
Abruptly, she stood. Her voice broke slightly when she spoke again. “I will take my leave for a moment.” She threw open the door and disappeared into the night.
“She’s like that, you know.”
Following the sound of the voice, Kenneth bent down to peer through the hearth. On the other side, Brindi lay prone on her bed, but far too wide-eyed and interested. “You should be asleep,” he said.
The girl shrugged.
“You said that she was softhearted. When did that start?”
“When King Harold was crowned. We had a celebration service at the church, and after that service, Clara decided ’twas time she put her life in God’s care.”
“’Twas two years ago that Harold stole the crown. You remember?”
“Aye.” Her expression saddened. “M’maw always says ’twas a double-blessing day, for we got a new king, and she go
t a new daughter who could care for me instead of M’maw doing it herself. Since then, Clara has helped the poor and cried a lot for them. I hope I don’t cry like that when I get older.” With that, she turned and put her back to the fire.
Kenneth straightened. Almost two years since Clara had declared her love for the Lord.
He’d always had faith. His family was devoted to God, and he couldn’t imagine living any other way. He’d grown up with the belief that his family was always right with God and always in His will. When he’d taken on this task of watching Clara, in the hopes of discovering where she’d hidden Rowena, he’d known he was doing what was right.
He hadn’t had all the facts, though.
Kenneth pulled in a sharp breath. Nay, now that he did, it didn’t change his mind, despite the turmoil within him and the challenge she’d slyly offered him. The babe still would be better off with his Norman father. And as for Rowena, if she was truly in danger from Lord Taurin, then ’twas not unheard of to buy a slave’s freedom. Benevolent souls, or even a wise priest, had done so. Mayhap he could ask Lord Adrien.
Couldn’t Clara see that? Taurin would be reasonable, despite his supposed reputation. To Saxons, all Normans had dangerous reputations.
Slowly, Kenneth walked to the door and opened it. Bathed in moonlight as she stood in the middle of her herb garden, Clara stiffened her shoulders. She’d heard him step into the night.
He closed the door quietly. The breeze had died, easing the chill in the air.
“Don’t tell me again how much better off the child will be with his father,” she said, her voice as cool as the evening.
Kenneth stopped. How did she know what he was thinking? She turned to face him. Surprisingly, the moon’s glow hit her eyes and he could see tears still glistening.
He wasn’t sure how to convince her. The boy would never starve if given to his father. Rowena had no resources to care for him on her own, especially with her need to stay hidden. How could he make Clara see that?
Mayhap ’twas best to say nothing at all.
He stepped forward. She held up her hand. “Please, Kenneth, can I not have a moment of peace to pray and weep for my friend? You want her to hand over her only child, mayhap the only one she will ever have, and ’twould break her heart. Can’t I have this moment to ask God for a blessing?”
“We can find someone to buy her freedom. Rowena is young and has obviously caught the eye of Lord Taurin. She will catch another man’s eye, as well.”
Clara shook her head in disbelief. “Who? A drunkard at an inn, mayhap the only place she can find work and a roof over her head? She was little more than a child when her father rid himself of her, and it twists in me like a knife to think she was sold off like a bale of hay. And what of her son? Would he stay with her?” She spun to set her back to him, her shoulders stiff.
His heart went cold and his gut tightened. He had no desire to see Clara suffer, and even now, as she prayed and wept for her friend’s troubles, he hated to see her steeled spine and hear her smothered sobs.
What could he do? Even as he asked that question, he found his hand circling hers and his feet leading her to the bench where he’d repaired his mail this morning.
He ran a hand along the bench’s seat, discovering the dew had already fallen and dampened it. He pulled off his outer tunic and laid it across the wood. Wordlessly, she sat beside him. He then set his cloak to cover her shoulders.
His eyes roamed upward to where the apple was tucked into the thatch. With this dew, ’twould take a while for the head to dry and turn into something that looked like a shriveled old woman’s head. He should bring it inside to dry more quickly. But for now, his attention was needed by the woman beside him.
He sat down, took her hand and held it. They said nothing for a long time.
“Brindi says you have become softer since putting your life in God’s care.”
“Brindi is repeating our mother’s comment. She can hardly remember a time before I decided to trust God.”
“She also hopes she doesn’t cry like you do when she gets older.”
Clara laughed. “Our priest says ’tis the Lord working in me, but she need not worry. ’Twill not be the same for her. I was the one with the temper to match my hair, so naturally, any change would be noticeable. But not all redheads are like me! Father had red hair but was far more mild in manner.”
“How did he die?”
She nodded. “One day, as the tide rose, he went out to fish. When the tide receded, only the boat remained. ’Twas found by some men on the far shore of Mersea Island. The wind was high that day, so I expect he was knocked overboard. He could not swim.”
“I’m sorry. They didn’t find him?”
“Nay.” She sighed. “’Twas a long time ago, and one of the reasons I went to work with my aunt and ended up staying in Colchester.” She looked up and studied him in the dim light of the nearly full moon, but said nothing as she dipped her head again.
Compassion had fueled his apology, compassion for a difficult situation. Back in Normandy, he had both a mother and father. They’d been given a portion of good land and lived well, free landholders whose children had all survived childhood. He, their youngest son, had been strong enough to be sent as squire to Lord Adrien when Kenneth was barely fourteen and Adrien just given his knighthood.
Yet, war and soldiering had not taught him compassion. No, his Lord had, as He had taught it to Clara. Could He also teach her wisdom in this difficult situation?
Kenneth reached up and touched her hair. She turned to look up at him again. “You have compassion, Clara. Something the Lord gave you. Now trust that He will protect Rowena. We don’t always know the wisest things to do. Sometimes it’s our own stubbornness that masquerades as God’s decisions.”
She slapped his hand away. “’Tis not stubbornness! ’Tis knowing the right thing to do!” Her eyes suddenly narrowed. “You’re as silver-tongued as the keep’s chaplain with his smooth words about trusting God and obeying those over us. I do trust the Good Lord, and He has given me the strength to help!” She jumped to her feet. “You are the one being stubborn. Nay, you’re being a fool thinking that I will simply hand over Rowena to you because you say that God will think it wise to do so. Are you in such good stead with the Lord that He will tell you that and not me?”
His own temper flared. “Aye, I do believe that! ’Tis as obvious as the nose on my face that Taurin can provide for the child far better than a slave with not even two coins to rub together!”
She strode away, and he jumped to his feet to cut off her path to the door.
He felt something furry dash between his legs and started quickly. Already slickened by the dew, the wet stones on the path offered no resistance to the smooth soles of his shoes. In his next breath, which was knocked from his lungs, his back met the hard flagstones of her path through the garden and his head smacked them with the force of a galloping courser.
Chapter Eight
Clara gasped. She could see the moon reflected in Kenneth’s eyes, wide between his swift blinks of stunned shock. She hurried over to him. “Are you all right?”
He groaned as he tested each limb and found them all working. “Aye. I’m not badly hurt. What was that thing?”
“A cat, I think. At night, they slip into the village from the keep to prowl.” Then, ensuring that he could see her intense expression as clearly as possible in the moonlight, she leaned close and planted her hands on either side of his shoulders. “Since you are unhurt, allow me to continue our conversation. You may believe you have the wisdom of God at your disposal, sir, but rest assured, I believe the same. Only time will tell whose wisdom prevails, but I have the advantage. Only I know where Rowena is and I plan to keep it that way.”
When she realized her proximity, she pushed away from him and watched, ready to help as he stood. “I also have the advantage of being able to awaken on the morrow without any aches and pains. But do not worry. I have an excellen
t tea should you require something to ease your soreness. And I’d be happy to make it for you.”
With that, she spun and marched into the hut, going straight through the small main room and into the tiny bedchamber.
Brindi bounced back onto the pallet and under the covers. “You should be asleep,” she told the girl sharply.
“You and Kenneth made a lot of noise. And I can’t sleep without you. You usually come to bed at the same time I do.”
“You were on your own for a month, Brindi.” But what she said was true when they were together. In Colchester, the days were busy, but the nights were quiet, each person still too concerned with staying out of the Norman soldiers’ ways. Sometimes, though, after Brindi had fallen asleep, Clara would slip out and visit Rowena. The trip into the woods was dangerous, but not too far. All she’d had to do was follow a small stream upward to its bend and step into the thicket a few feet. A small, man-made warren, probably used to hide a thief at one time, had been Rowena’s temporary home after the baby was born.
When Clara had discovered that she was to come to Little Dunmow, she’d moved Rowena to a hut she’d discovered, deep in the woods, that skirted a small, nearly depleted peat bog. ’Twas why Rowena was so reluctant to have a fire there, for sometimes a Saxon would pilfer the scraps of peat for fuel.
After that moment of silent thought, Brindi spoke. “Shouldn’t you pray for forgiveness for tripping Kenneth?”
“I did not trip him! A stray cat darted out of our garden and he slipped on the flagstones.”
“He could have died.”
Clara groaned. “No, he couldn’t have. People don’t die from falling, unless they are very old.”
“He could have hit his head and then died. You should have prayed for God to forgive you.”
“He didn’t die. He’s fine and ’twas his slippery shoes on the wet stones that caused his fall, not me.”
“You made him jump up. You were arguing with him.”
“Like you are arguing with me?” Clara sighed. “I will pray, but sometimes we have to fight for what we believe in. And you shouldn’t have been listening at the door. Now go to sleep.”
Protected by the Warrior Page 8
